Consequences (21 page)

Dylan lifted his eyes from the letter and scanned the bedroom. A brief search found a rental agreement from Harrowfield Estate Agents, which revealed the body was that of Gordon Blake.

‘Another sad one for the coroner’s officer; how tragic. Bright enough to go to university but not wise enough to value his life,’ he whispered. Although he was relieved it wasn’t Larry, he felt saddened that anyone could take their own life over something that could have easily have been sorted. If only he’d talked to his parents and told them how he’d felt. He stared hopelessly at the small white tablets and plastic container near the body.

A lot of information was exchanged in the evening briefing and the team looked tired and hungry. It was late. Mr Ian Beckwith from Barclays Bank had come forward to say that Liz had withdrawn money; and a member of his staff had told him he had put it directly into a suitcase for her, the day before the murder.

‘Vicky, go and see Mr Beckwith tomorrow will you. We need a statement from anyone who saw or spoke to Liz,’ said Dylan.

‘It’s been confirmed that the Frank Miller shot in Manchester was  the same Frankie Miller who’d been locked up with Malcolm Reynolds,’ said Natalie. ‘Seemingly, he walked into the bank with a shotgun and demanded cash. The panic alarm was activated and the shutters sprung up. He fired at the armed response team as he left the bank. They didn’t hesitate. Frankie died instantly, from rapid fire from trained firearms officers who aimed at Frankie’s philtrum, the point under his nose, which rendered Frankie incapable of pulling the trigger, or any other action, so they tell me.’

‘And,’ said John, ‘I can now confirm, Larry had been involved in Malcolm Reynolds’ arrest and conviction. Also, enquires at the Harrowfield Estate Agency revealed that Larry had commenced an agreement with Gordon Blake, via them, after he’d left the area.’

‘So, where’s the money? Did Larry have it?’ said Dylan.

‘It’s not in his flat.’

‘There are still a lot of questions to be answered. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll move things forward again. I’ll be speaking with the chief constable and command team, letting them know, that on the evidence available at this time, we have no alternative but to arrest Larry Banks on suspicion of murder. And it seems likely that Interpol will have to be involved. Thank you everyone for your efforts today. I’ll see you here again tomorrow morning. ’There was a knock at the door.

‘Can I come in?’ said Jen, hesitantly. ‘I’ve brought jam doughnuts; they’re still warm,’ she grinned, as she handed them around to the team.

‘Thank you,’ Dylan mouthed to her, as he watched his team, licking the sugar off their fingers. They were smiling again; her gesture lifting their spirits.

Dylan’s head ached; it was late. ‘Time for home, my good woman,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing her tight, as everyone filed out, thanking Jen for her kind thought. She smiled, and looking up at Dylan thought how well he’d sleep tonight. He looked all in.

‘I’ll just finish up here and I’ll be home shortly,’ he said yawning.

‘I’ll see you in bed then,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s past ten now.’

Dylan had spent his entire working life thinking himself a good judge of character, but now he had to admit to himself, in Larry and Chubby’s case, that tried and tested ability, had let him down badly. The only thing he could do now was make sure they were both caught and put before the courts.

The house was almost in darkness, apart from the light from the lamp in the hallway that Jen had left on for him. Max lay at the foot of the stairs. His tail flapped in acknowledgement of Dylan’s arrival but he didn’t bother raising his head.

‘Good boy.’ Dylan knelt down to pat him. have you bin looking after your mam again for me mate?’ he whispered.

Jen was fast asleep. Curled up under the duvet, she looked so content he didn’t want to wake her, but he knew he would as soon as he put the light on. He touched her face and she stirred.

‘Let’s rewind the clock to last night, eh love?’ he whispered.

‘You want me to get up and make you a warm drink?’ she murmured, sleepily without opening her eyes.

‘Nah, I’ll just crawl into bed next to you. I’m knackered,’ he said before he went into the bathroom to undress.

Jen lay awake, waiting for him to get into bed, rolling to his side to warm it, best she could. Ah, it was freezing. She shivered. She wished he’d put in for a transfer to detective training; he’d work nine-to-five days, get every weekend off, never be on call. Jack had such a lot of experience to share with would-be detectives. The CID aides seemed to like him. He’d do a good job. She smiled to herself; a plan in the making she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

They were woken by the phone. Jen looked at the clock, it was four fifteen. Dylan’s hand, robot-like, reached out to get it. He managed a grunt as he picked it up.

‘Morning sir. I hope I haven’t woken you?’

Why did people always say that? Did they truly expect you to be sat up twenty-for/seven?

‘You did,’ he said grumpily. He felt for Jen, as she wasn’t on call, but she was always woken up too. Hang on a minute, he wasn’t on call either.

‘Night shift have disturbed a burglar at the bakery on Greenhead Road. The officers chased him into the yard, and now he’s threatening to jump from the rooftops. They’ve asked for a negotiator and I understand …’

‘But I’m not on call.’

‘I know sir, but the on-call is halfway up the A1, en route to the Regional Crime Conference in Newcastle, and recommended you as the nearest, trained …’

‘Remind me to thank them. have you started a log? It’ll take me at least twenty minutes to get there.’

Jen was already pulling clothes out of his wardrobe for him. ‘Not another body Jack, surely?’ she groaned.

‘Uniform’s disturbed a burglar and he’s threatening to jump off a building.’

She turned, hankie in hand. ‘But …’

‘I know, I’m not on call,’ he said, tying his shoelaces. ‘I’ll have to sort it later.’ He took the hankie off her and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. ‘I was having such a lovely sleep,’ he whispered, as he kissed her lips.

‘Me - too. Look, there’s some fruit, a cereal bar and water in that bag,’ she said pointing to his briefcase. ‘Please be careful and let me know what’s happening when you can. Love you.’

Dylan reached out for a cuddle. ‘That, you can be sure of, Miss Jones. I wish people would just leave us alone,’ he moaned.

‘You better go,’ she said, biting her bottom lip. ‘Don’t forget to grab your scarf and gloves; it’ll be cold out there at this time of the morning.’

‘If they were going to do it, they’ll have done it by the time I get there, love. Hopefully they’ll have realised before then, that being smashed to pieces isn’t as attractive as being locked up and I’ll be back home soon.’ Dylan had seen the bodies of jumpers that had landed feet first, ending up inches shorter than they once had been and he had also seen them land head first; leaving an absolute mess for some poor bugger to clean up.

Driving over the moorland to Greenhead Road, Dylan thought how prisons had changed over the past twenty-five years, not always for the better. A lot of the suicides he’d been called to, or threats of suicides, were people with long police records. The ones that really needed help didn’t hesitate to kill themselves; it was done without a backward glance. How could anyone face such terror head on? He couldn’t comprehend what must go through the mind of someone about to end their own life, and the different ways they’d resort to, to do it. He would always remember going to the body of a young woman who’d slit her wrists; the deep red blood bath that met him when he opened the bathroom door. Her pale grey lifeless body lay in a few inches of water in the moisture-filled room as if she had fallen asleep; her eyes closed as if at peace. A razor blade lay in her upturned hand, her arm draped over the side of the bath, and a pool of blood that had dripped from her wrist, lay on the cream tiled floor, seeping into the lines of grout. The memory of the smell made his nostrils swell and bile rise in his throat. He was making good time along the quiet streets now. Then there was a sudden bright pink flash of a speed camera...Oh God; that was all he needed. Endless reports to prove that he was indeed en route to an emergency. He looked at his Speedo 38 mph in a 30mph area.

A police car with flashing blue lights blocked the road ahead. Dylan drove towards it. An officer held up his hand indicating for Dylan to stop. Dylan took his foot off the accelerator and drove at a crawl. The officer drew his truncheon, seemingly threatening to put it through Dylan’s windscreen. It had the desired effect. Dylan stopped.

The officer stormed over to the driver side and wrenched the door open.

‘Can’t you see the bloody road is closed …’ he started to say.

‘Put that away,’ Dylan said angrily, flashing his warrant card in his face.

‘I’m your on-call flaming negotiator.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t recognise …’ he said, fumbling as he put the truncheon back in the pocket in his trousers. ’He’s gone into the yard over there and up the old fire escape,’ the officer said, pointing.

The building was semi-derelict. Sitting on the edge of its roof was the cause of all the commotion. One, two, three, four. Dylan counted the storeys and moaned. How the chuff was he going to get up there to speak to this twat? His legs went weak; shook at the thought. The male figure silhouetted against the dawn light looked ant sized from where Dylan stood. There was a loud crash making Dylan jump.

‘A slate sir,’ called a uniformed officer. ‘He’s keeping us awake by throwing them off.’

‘You could have bloody warned me.’ Dylan yelled.

‘Tell control I’ve arrived will you, and ask for an ambulance in case he does jump.’

‘Or I faint,’ Dylan thought.

‘Ask for the fire brigade as well; we might need their turntable and ladders.’ Dylan swallowed hard as he looked skyward. Should he try the megaphone first? He had it in the boot of his car with his scarf and gloves.

‘What’s he nicked?’ asked Dylan.

‘Bit of cash, some food, but we think he probably just wanted a place to get his head down for the night, and when he got disturbed he freaked out.’

Dylan inhaled deeply as he inspected the fire escape. He could smell Thomas’s bakery. The staff were inside grafting away as usual at this time of day, getting their orders ready. Was there anything nicer than the smell of baking bread he wondered, and his stomach rumbled as if in response to his thoughts. Rusty metal crumbled in his hand as he fingered the ladder’s rungs. He grimaced at the health and safety nightmare, but what choice did he have? Dylan could hear Jen’s voice clearly as he began to climb. ’What the hell did you go up for? Are you stark raving mad?’

Two flights up and his head began to spin. The ground looked blurred beneath him and the noise of another slate hitting the ground echoed in his ears. Should he go up or back down? The fire brigade would be rescuing him at this rate. Dylan couldn’t make out the facial features on the raised faces of the uniformed officers below. His throat was dry, his heart raced and he could hear his chest wheezing, as he climbed the next ladder. Dylan stood on the platform like a statue. His stomach clenched. His legs were like jelly. He leaned back to the wall. His fingers spanned the cool stone that he desperately tried to get a grip on. He closed his eyes. ‘God help me,’ he whispered. ‘Why do I do this? I must be crazy...and for the love of the job,’ he griped, breathing heavily.

‘If you come any further,’ a man’s voice screamed, ‘I’ll...I’ll jump… I mean it.’

Dylan stayed perfectly still. The air was blowing cool on his skin and the sky was black directly above him. Gasping for breath, he looked up. A dull pounding began at the top of his spine. He couldn’t hold the position long. It was hard to see the Jumper’s face in the little light the early morning was bringing. He glanced up again. It was as if someone below had read his mind, as they threw a switch on a lamp and directed the fierce light into his face. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ he yelled, shielding his eyes with his arm.

The lamp moved in awkward jolts until it caught the Jumper’s face.

‘Chubby Connor,’ Dylan said, under his breath. Was this deja vu? He could feel the blood running cold through his veins. This was one evil, murdering bastard who didn’t deserve saving, and what made it even worse was Dylan was risking his own life for him. The sight of Charlie’s little body on the mortuary table flashed through his mind. What the hell was he doing trying to save the bastard?

‘Is that you Alan? Chubby?’ he said calmly. His heart raced. There was no reply.

‘It’s not long since you were on the bridge. What’s up now? Can’t we try sort it like we did last time? It’s Inspector Dylan.’

Was this his second chance with Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor? Fate was a funny thing. Be careful what you wish for son, his dad used to say.

Chubby had disappeared from Dylan’s line of vision. Dylan’s mind was fighting with his conscience; his head was saying one thing and his heart was screaming another. Dylan slid his back down the factory wall and sat on the landing of the fire escape. Chubby must have heard him. He came to the roof steps. The lamp now focused on them both, and ‘Chubby’ Connor was clearly lit, holding a roof slate.

‘Were you starving son? Is that why you went into the bakery?’ Dylan said. Chubby was silent.

‘I bet you’re bloody freezing, your bollocks will drop off up there. Come down,’ Dylan shivered, but got his hankie out to mop his nose and his brow. Suddenly, debris flew past him and he heard a shout. Had Chubby fallen? Dylan’s stomach flipped. He looked below. All was still.

‘Bloody hell Chubby, why won’t you come on down, or do you want to end up like that slate?’

There was no answer.

‘Let’s talk about it eh? Let’s face it; you’ve nowhere to run to and nobody’s going away.’

In the distance, sirens wailed, getting louder and louder as they got nearer. The blue lights whirred as the ambulance followed the fire engine that had raced into the yard. Oh my God, Dylan thought, what’re they doing?