Reprobates

by Bridgestock, RC

  ‘Yes, but we could have still been charged for murder. We were all decorated firearms officers, we all knew the killing was lawful. The man was an armed robber in a team who had been under surveillance by air and on the ground for months. The intel was that they were all wearing body armour and armed. We had no choice but to shoot at his head. He was a high-risk suspect. He was holding one gun and another loaded revolver was found in his pocket. One bullet went in his shoulder, one in his ear, the other in his head.’

  ‘You could justify the shot?’

  ‘Yes, we all could. I could be a killer, Jen. ‘Forensically it’s known which weapon each bullet came from, and at the post-mortem they would know which bullet caused his death. That to me only means that one of us is a better shot than the other two firearms officers. We were all responsible for his death. Even if the court, which they did, deemed it was a lawful killing.’

  ‘But you’re not a murderer, Jack. You did what you had to do, like the others. You had to kill him or risk being killed.’

  ‘It was still taking someone’s life, or being party to it.’

  ‘Lawful though, a lawful execution.’

  ‘Words. That doesn’t make it feel any better.’

  ‘Maybe not, but when it came down to it, you did the job that you were trained to do.’

  Dylan was silent, his head bowed.

  ‘And that’s why the details are not on your file,’ Jen said.

  ‘There should be no details on mine or any of the other’s personal files. The identity of those involved remains anonymous except for the hierarchy who needed to know for obvious reasons, and the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the IPCC investigated it fully. It was a massive enquiry.’

  A lone tear escaped from Jen’s eye and ran down her face.

  ‘You’re crying,’ said Dylan reaching out to wipe it from her cheek.

  ‘Not for him. For you. Is that why you came out of the unit?’ she said with a sob.

  ‘Yes, I don’t know if I could react the same again.’

  ‘He was evil.’

  ‘He was a bastard. His family talk about him as if he was a bloody angel too. In their eyes we murdered their son, brother, uncle, cousin...’

  ‘So there is no mystery?’

  ‘No, no mystery,’ he said with a weak smile.

  ‘Just a piece of you I didn’t know about?’

  ‘And Avril knows. Well, she knows something. She hints at it often. Some paperwork I understand initially came through under confidential cover. Hugo-Watkins took it off her, sent it back to HQ and created hell. It was sent in error apparently.’

  ‘It just hurts that she knew something about you that you didn’t feel you could share with me. Her of all people.’

  ‘It’s past, Jen and that’s where it has to remain, buried.’

  She looked away from him. Maisy’s red coat, hat and gloves were hanging on the peg. She shuddered at the redness... What shocked her was her reaction to it. ‘It could have been you that had died, couldn’t it?’ Suddenly something broke in her and she burst into tears. ‘We might never have met... we wouldn’t have Maisy.’

  Dylan found Jen sitting at the pillow end of the bed sometime later. She looked dishevelled. Her cheeks were red and tear stained. He was hesitant but lay on the bed next to her and she turned into his arms. As Jen slept he lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, barely visible in the darkness of the room. He was sweating. Telling Jen about the incident had opened up old wounds and in his mind he relived the events of that fateful day. Sleep eluded him for a long time. He had survived but it could have turned out so different.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The team were all present at Harrowfield Police Station as instructed. They stood in the basement of the police station, a large expanse of space known as the Void, waiting for last minute instructions. Glancing around, a few of those present looked as if they hadn’t been to bed, Dylan felt the same, but hoped his restless night didn’t show. Dylan expected his team to be able to work hard and play hard and he expected nothing less of himself. Work was their priority. The role of a police officer demanded one hundred per cent commitment. The job description didn’t allow for shirkers. There was no room for laziness and no ability to carry such on a homicide investigation. Carelessness cost lives and evidence. Of course mistakes were made but if they were done through conscious neglect, Dylan would deal with it quickly and effectively. He wouldn’t allow anyone to intentionally or otherwise bring disrepute to the investigation. His officers knew where they stood with him, and were aware that should they overstep the line they would be ousted from the team.

  Acting Detective Sergeant Vicky Hardacre was ‘on her toes,’ checking the uniform units were ready, then the two cars set off in the semi-darkness from the police station yard. Daylight hadn’t quite arrived in Harrowfield. The air conditioning in Dylan’s car was activated to maximum ensuring the windows were clear of condensation. It was drizzling and the windscreen wipers rocked to and fro intermittently. Once they left Harrowfield town centre behind, the road lighting along the country lanes became intermittent. High hawthorn hedges made the single track roads appear much darker. The lead car’s main beam illuminated the way forward and the other found it easier to ride on its tail lights.

  At their destination of Midgley Court the officers re-grouped in the car park.

  ‘Looks like he’s here, boss,’ Vicky said pointing to his transit van in the designated parking bay.

  Swiftly they made their way to the suspect’s door. The loud knocks with a baton handle, echoed along the corridor. A light could be seen from within and was accompanied by angered shouting. ‘Alright. Alright.’

  ‘And I was hoping to use the door ram,’ Vicky said to Dylan quietly as they heard the locks being retracted.

  ‘Hopefully with more effect than they portray the act on TV,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been on the course,’ she said as the door swung open. The occupier stood in nothing more than a pair of black boxer shorts. He was a tanned, middle-aged man with a six-pack. ‘What the fuck do you lot want?’ he asked, screwing his eyes up at the light outside his door. The odour from the flat was of spent whisky.

  ‘Richard Bryant?’ Vicky said.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Acting Detective Sergeant Hardacre, Harrowfield CID. Can we come in?’

  His fists that were by his side clenched, Bryant stuck out his chest and his nostrils flared. The non-verbal signs to the officers that suggested he was going to kick off.

  ‘You are being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Billy Simpson,’ Vicky said.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked as he stepped forward towards Dylan.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dylan,’ he said, flashing his warrant card. Dylan didn’t back away. ‘And you’d better get some clothes on or you’ll be coming with us like that.’

  Seeing the back-up that uniform supplied he wisely backed down and the two detectives followed him into the bedroom. He pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a cut away T-shirt. Sitting on the bed he looked up at Dylan with cold blue eyes as if contemplating something but Dylan couldn’t tell what. Whatever it was he decided against it. Standing up he put his arms out at Vicky’s request and was handcuffed without any problems, before being led out to the police car by uniform. The search could now begin in earnest on his flat for evidence that would connect him to the murder of Billy Simpson.

  ‘Good job he didn’t kick off, he looks a strong lad,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Yeah, he’s fit,’ Vicky said with a quick raising of an eyebrow.

  Dylan looked at her and shook his head.

  ‘What I mean is he keeps himself fit,’ she said rolling her eyes. ‘Do you ever get the feeling when you’re speaking to someone that the wheel’s turning but the hamster’s not present?’

  ‘Yeah, know what you mean,’ he said with a snigger. ‘I don’t want to burst the bubble but the muscle’s more than likely steroid enhanc
ed looking at all the tablets and containers of protein powders in his kitchen. Did you see his thick yellow toenails?’

  ‘No, but then I wasn’t looking at his feet,’ she said.

  ‘Calm yourself. He could be a bloody murderer,’ said Dylan. ‘I’m off back for breakfast. Find me some evidence and then be ready to interview your would-be Adonis. Don’t forget to have his van searched and examined by CSI.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she said.

  ***

  Jen woke with a cracking headache. She was on the verge of nausea. She held two painkillers in the hollow of her hot hand, and filled a small glass of water from the sink. Maisy was still asleep. Opening the door to the kitchen she felt the full force of last night’s declaration again as she faced the dinner plates that sat, food mostly untouched, on the kitchen table. She opened the window. The coffee she poured smelt strong to her sensitive nose. Her heart felt heavy. An optimistic sparrow hopped onto the window ledge, it’s eye on her, hoping for a scrap or two. Its feathers all fluffed up. She shut the window quickly. The sparrow flew away. ‘Wild birds in the house are unlucky,’ Jen could hear her mum say.

  Maisy woke and Jen found comfort in her smile and playfulness. As she threw back the curtains of the nursery, with Maisy in her arms she discovered the sun and the fresh day seemed to touch the wound of what had happened last night. The room was peaceful in colour and scent. Jen would check on Dylan today at work to see if he was okay. They could face anything together, she knew that deep down. The coffee and drugs seemed to soothe her headache. Maisy played happily with her toys and Jen lay curled up on the sofa ignoring the room’s unusual state of untidiness. Poor Jack, she felt she had somehow let him down by making him relive the events of the fatal shooting. She caught a tear as it spilled onto her cheek and Maisy looking up at her held out her hand with gentleness. She held her daughter’s hand for a brief moment and smiled at her. At least Max appeared to be alright, that had to be a positive.

  ***

  In the CID office, Paul was diligently going through the enquiries into Operation Pullman. He had news for Dylan when he returned. He believed now that Richard Bryant was the plumber that had been in attendance at Kirsty Gallagher’s home.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Dylan. ‘Fancy the same name coming into both enquiries. What are we missing?’

  ‘I don’t know. What could the connection be? Women? Sex?’ Paul wondered aloud.

  ‘We’ll see what his reaction is to the questions we put to him about Billy Simpson’s murder first. Then we’ll drop it on his toes about his link with Kirsty Gallagher.’

  ***

  The detectives were ready to go into interview. The local solicitors from the old Co-op buildings had been contacted on the suspect’s behalf by the custody officer. Lin Perfect was on her way, Dylan had been informed. ‘Those two must be making a packet,’ thought Dylan, with the frequent requests they got for their services at Harrowfield Police Station alone. Having said that he couldn’t complain, they were straight and attended in person rather than sent ‘runners’ – untrained staff to attend at the police station. If a ‘runner’ was sent to the station to speak to a client on behalf of a solicitor they would write down the details and tell the suspect not to reply to any questions until they had reported back to the office. That didn’t help the suspect or the police on many occasions in Dylan’s experience. A simple explanation could mean an early release for their client, which should in fact be the solicitor’s priority although that was not always the case.

  As Dylan waited for Richard Bryant and Lin Perfect in the interview room he sat wondering how Bryant would react. Some prisoners wanted to fight. No doubt these were the ones that were annoyed with themselves for being caught for the crime they had committed. Some prisoners were talkers and would try to dominate the interview. Others remained silent throughout and avoided eye contact with the interviewer by looking at the floor or the ceiling, whichever took their fancy. There was nothing on display or of interest in an interview room. Intentionally it was left with bare walls so that suspects had nothing to focus on other than those speaking. It would only be a matter of minutes before Dylan’s question were put to this prisoner.

  It would be boring if all interviews were the same. Each held a new challenge for Dylan in his search of the truth. The importance for Dylan was to take control in interview and remain in control throughout, using his body language to get a reaction even when there was silence.

  Lin Perfect he knew, would be pleasant as always but when the case got to court there was always a show for the gallery from her and her partner Mrs Best.

  Dylan heard the heavy fire doors on the corridor open and close, and getting up to stand at the entrance to the interview room, he could see Richard Bryant strutting down the corridor from his cell. He gave Dylan the evil eye as he passed. Dylan stepped out into the corridor. The door closed behind him and Lin Perfect.

  Twenty minutes later, after private consultation with his solicitor, Dylan and Vicky went in to the interview room and took their seats across the table from the two. Silently Mr Bryant shook his head from side to side suggesting to Dylan that he felt aggrieved to be there. He ground his teeth annoyingly, tutted and sighed.

  Dylan was going to enjoy the next forty-five minutes.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dylan leaned forward towards Richard Bryant and he reacted by lounging back in his chair just as Dylan expected. ‘You understand why you have been arrested?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. He tapped his fingers under the table, his eyes downcast.

  ‘Would you explain to us what your relationship is with Jane Simpson?’

  Bryant shuffled in his seat. He raised his head and his eyes met Dylan’s. ‘That’s her in the papers, that topped her old man, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is or what was your relationship with her?’ Dylan wasn’t going to be distracted that easy.

  ‘I know now that she’s got a gob on her like the Mersey Tunnel.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dylan.

  Bryant seemed to ponder over the question.

  Dylan and Vicky remained silent expecting him to continue. He did.

  ‘Okay, look I’ll be straight with you. I met Jane at this fancy dress party. And I’ve spent the odd night at hers, but she told me her and her hubby had split.’ Bryant sat up straight and leaned in towards Dylan. ‘She did all the running. She said it turned her on, me wearing the mask.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘The usual. She got clingy. Wanted me to get serious. Look, it was a bit of fun while it lasted. I’m not going to go bragging about it, especially now she’s locked up, am I? It’s not good for my reputation, know what I mean? That’s me, I can’t tell you anything else,’ he said holding his hands up before resting them palms down on the table. ‘Why didn’t I come forward? Because I didn’t think me spending a few nights with her was relevant.’ His head lowered and his voice with it. ‘The rumour that’s going around is her ex broke in and attacked her. Is that right?’

  ‘How old are you, Richard?’ Dylan asked ignoring his question.

  ‘Thirty-two,’ he said. He gave a sudden jerk of his head.

  ‘Do you go for the older woman?’

  ‘I didn’t know how old she was and she didn’t know how old I was under that mask, did she? Know what I mean?’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ Dylan continued well aware Bryant had mentioned the mask twice.

  ‘Not sure,’ he said.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘A month or two, I guess.’

  ‘Lucky you weren’t staying over that night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well yeah, but if I had I might have been able to stop her getting hurt.’

  ‘We’ll be checking your mobile and home phone numbers to check your contact with her. What are we likely to find?’ Vicky was very matter of fact. Her manner was composed, her facial expression impassive.

  Bryant looked sideways at his solicitor
.

  Vicky glanced at Dylan. His scrutiny of the prisoner was almost tangible. He wasn’t happy with Bryant and she knew why, he was far too confident and he appeared to have all the answers at his fingertips – was it all rehearsed?

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah she was always ringing me, asking me to go round, missing me like you know what. You know what women are like.’

  Vicky looked at him half-questioningly, as though she might have misheard. Bryant’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’, ‘I mean...’

  ‘I know what you mean. When did you last speak to her?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘Not sure. She carried on sending me messages and ringing me long after... Wouldn’t take the hint.’

  ‘You seem to remember a lot of things about your relationship with Jane Simpson, Richard, why not when you last spoke? ’

  ‘Hey, I don’t remember exactly what was said on what date for every phone call, do you?’

  Vicky looked at his greasy, alcoholic face and his messy hair.

  ‘Where’s the mask now?’

  Bryant shook his head. ‘I don’t know. What would I want it for? She kept it on the coat hooks at the bottom of the stairs; said it would scare people off...’ He stopped. Jerked his head, that looked like it had been hung out to dry on a stalk. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I know what this is all about. It said in the papers something about the dead man wearing a mask. THE mask, was it? You don’t think she thought it was me do you?’ Richard Bryant’s eyes grew wide and round.

  ‘Your DNA was found inside the mask along with Billy Simpson’s. And according to her recollection of the event she never said she gave it a thought that it could have been you wearing it. Strange that, don’t you think?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘And that’s why you think I’m involved because of the mask. No way,’ he said jumping up. ‘You’re trying to set me up? I want out of here,’ he said looking towards Lin Perfect.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Bryant,’ said Dylan. ‘Did you know Billy Simpson?’

  Bryant hesitated then sat down. ‘Did I know Billy Simpson?’ he asked.