Consequences (26 page)

Patrick shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir, I’m sure, but if it’s the law?’

‘Don’t quote the law to me Pat, sometimes I think the law is an ass. Think about it: In a year’s time there’ll be a trial. The defence barristers will argue about how unfortunate Susan Sharpe, Chubby Connor and Jason Todd are; uneducated, unloved, no experience in looking after a child. Why on earth do we need a six week trial do you think? Don’t tell me they didn’t know the difference between right and wrong? They knew exactly what they were doing to Charlie. He was the unfortunate one. He didn’t ask to be born. There, by the grace of God as they say. We can’t choose our parents or where we are born. I wish I had a penny for every time a person said they were sorry after they’d been caught for committing a crime.’ Dylan sighed. ’I need to concentrate on Liz Reynolds’ murder this morning Pat, for a while. Can I leave this one with you?’

‘Please sir, it’s Patrick,’ he said. Dylan nodded.

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll update you, sir.’

Dylan grunted.

‘Will you be interviewing Todd with me, since Dawn’s not here, sir?’ Patrick said.

Dylan looked up. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why the hell not? I’m just in the mood for the likes of Jason Todd.’

Patrick smiled. He liked Dylan, he liked Dylan a lot. He might turn a blind eye to staff making unacceptable comments, but he’d challenge him about his concerns regarding the issues he had with political correctness on his team later. No, it wasn’t the right place or time now.

‘Where on earth was Larry Banks?’ Dylan thought, as he ran up the steps two at a time. No matter where he was he must have seen a paper, the news, ‘Sky’, something to alert him of Liz Reynolds’ murder, and the circumstances, or had he indeed been aware of it before any of them? Why hadn’t he rung and talked to him, to profess his innocence, to explain what he knew? Dylan was beginning to think he was not only a thief, but a murderer too.

Larry had seen the Sun newspaper, and its coverage of the murder whilst basking in the sunshine on the French Riviera. His days were far different from policing Harrowfield. He strolled around Antibes between the azure sea and the snow-capped mountains during the day, and his nights were spent watching bats and fireflies as he drank at the bars. The food was great, the alleyways picturesque and the banking system absolutely bloody appalling he was told, but he could change his English notes to Euros, and that was all he needed a bank for. He told his newfound drinking friends that he was making a personal attempt to drink the vineyards dry, and he was even more determined to achieve that ambition since reading about Liz Reynolds’ demise. One night, sitting in his favourite little laundrette near the campsite, he looked towards Fort Carre, where Napoleon was imprisoned, and contemplated his future.

He’d tried to write a letter to Dylan professing his innocence; or at least he thought he had. Yes, he had he remembered he’d given it to the nice barmaid at the campsite restaurant to post; it was the night he’d got home to find a hedgehog at his door.

Dylan and John were sitting in a meeting at the Greater Manchester Police HQ with officers dealing with the shooting of Frankie Miller. It was agreed that Frankie’s clothing and footwear would be examined for any connection to Liz Reynolds and her vehicle. Dylan looked at the photos of the items, which had been seized. Gary Warner told the men that they were hoping soon for details of Frankie’s mobile phone usage. The stolen vehicle he’d used was to be checked to see if its number plate had been recognised on the ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition System), that the Vehicle Crime Unit in the West Yorkshire Police was trialling. Dylan and John would have to be patient, as Greater Manchester Police had a lot to do and those investigating the shooting of Frankie would be under the scrutiny of the Independent Police Complaints Commission, to show to the public that the police action had been lawful. It was frustrating. Dylan and John exchanged with GMP information and photos allowing them to raise lines of enquiry or actions, which hopefully would connect Frankie to Liz’s murder.

A pint with the GMP officers, just to be sociable, was a welcome breather after the meeting. Knowing they were also interested in Frankie Miller brought new life; new sparks to their inquiry and for this Dylan was grateful. Also, meeting the officers gave Dylan and John contacts they didn’t have before and it was nice to put names to people who’d only been voices on the phone before.

On the way back, over the dank moorland via the M62, Dylan and John discussed the arguments ‘for and against’ Larry or Frankie being the murderer.

‘Well it could’ve been either,’ said John. ‘Both were definitely in the same predicament of needing cash, and money was missing.’

‘Do you think they knew each other? They both knew Malcolm Reynolds. If you were a gambling man who would you bet your money on being the murderer, and is that the same person that’s got the money?’ Dylan said to John.

‘That’s a bit like asking me to predict the winner of the Grand National.’

‘What you’re telling me, John is that you wouldn’t put your money on anyone yet, eh?’ said Dylan. ‘I don’t blame you, but my gut instinct tells me it’s Larry. Although I must admit saying that brings a bitter taste to my mouth. Frankie didn’t need to do the robbery did he, if he had the money? I can tell by your face you don’t agree.’

‘No it’s not that. I suppose anyone is capable of murder in difficult circumstances. Larry was always one for the ladies. A bit of a ‘jack the lad’. But he’s not a murderer, surely, is he?’

‘Who else would have had the law books; definitely not Frankie. Maybe they planned it together and Larry had intended to take Liz with him?’ contemplated Dylan.

Back at the office, Dylan unpacked his briefcase and mulled over the meeting. He had finally got an agreement to circulate a description of Larry Banks to Interpol on suspicion of murder, so it got the attention it deserved, although he knew the evidence for murder was flimsy, to say the least. It had taken him ages to get the Command Team to consider and agree to it, and it had worn him down. Why did SIOs always have to fight with the hierarchy to get their approval for decisions they had ultimately made as the head of the enquiry? Because most of them were gutless, that’s why, he conceded. He opened an envelope that had been left on his desk, and Larry’s warrant card fell out. His mouth dropped open - As he picked up the ringing phone.

‘Sir, a Mrs Day is here to see you.’

‘What’s it about?’ Dylan said, as he picked up the card and stared at the picture of Larry.

‘She’s been notified that she may be called as a witness in a child murder case you dealt with that’s up shortly and is wanting to speak with you about her attendance in court, sir.’

‘She asked for me?’

‘By name, sir.’

‘Bring her through to my office will you please, but not through the incident room. I don’t want her to be able to see the white board with all the information that’s on it.’

A uniformed officer held Dylan’s office door open for Mrs Day to enter. Dylan rose to greet her. Shaking her cold, bony hand, he noticed she was shaking.

‘Now then Mrs Day, please take a seat. What can I do for you?’ he said, with a smile.

‘I’m sorry to bother you Mr Dylan. I know you’re a very busy man,’ Mrs Day’s voice quivered.

‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. How can I help?’

‘This is going to sound really silly to a man in your position,’ she said, sniffling as she wiped her nose with a tissue. ’But I’m worried. You see I’ve been summonsed to give evidence in the Crown Court. I found the girl’s body on the moorland, if you remember. I...I want to let you into a little secret. I’ve never been in a courtroom before and the man who murdered the two children is on trial.’

Dylan smiled at Mrs Day, sympathetically.

‘I understand perfectly. If it’ll help, I can arrange for you to go to the court beforehand and meet the ushers, even sit in on another trial. Now how does that sound?’

‘Oh, Mr Dylan, I would be ever so grateful. It’s causing me sleepless nights.’

‘Mrs Day, you don’t have to worry, my officers will be there to look after you and although you’ve been asked to attend, if the defence don’t call you then you won’t have to take the stand. They might accept what you saw, from your statement that you gave to us at the time. If you wish you could still come and see him sentenced though, even if your evidence isn’t required. If that’s something that you feel you would like to do?’

‘Oh, thank you Mr Dylan that makes me feel so much better. I can’t thank you enough.’ Mrs Day said, hesitantly. ‘I hate this sort of thing. I’m just happy minding my own business, you know.’

‘We are very grateful to you. Now that’s settled, can I get you a cup of tea or something to calm your nerves?’ Dylan smiled.

‘Oh, goodness no. I’ve wasted enough of your time,’ she pointed to the mountain of paperwork on his desk. ’Your wife isn’t going to see you tonight if I sit here nattering to you, now is she?’ She smiled gratefully.

Dylan reached out to shake her hand as she stood up to leave.

‘Mr Dylan?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m being nosey now, but I can’t help but notice that man’s photograph on your desk. Who is he if you don’t mind me asking?’ Mrs Day pointed to the warrant card.

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Larry Banks. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I just saw him filling up one of those large mobile homes at the garage the other day. His face seemed familiar at the time. I think he came to take the statement from me, but you all look different out of your suits.’

‘He was? He did? Sit down Mrs Day. Let me arrange that cup of tea for you, you might be able to help me.’ Mrs Day seemed puzzled, but did as she was asked. Dylan got up opened his office door and shouted into the incident room. ‘Tracy, could you get me a cup of tea for Mrs Day, please?’ He sat back down behind his desk and looked at Mrs Day intently.

‘Now where was I? This man.’ Dylan held up Larry’s warrant card. ’Did you speak to him? He didn’t say where he was going by any chance did he?’

‘No, but I did say a few words to him. Belle, my dog, wouldn’t stop barking at him. Why?’

‘We’re trying to find out his whereabouts.’

‘Is he in trouble?’

‘We don’t know that yet. Would you speak to one of my officers about the day you saw him at the garage? The information might be very helpful to us. I’ll get them to do it straight away.’

‘Well, if I can help in anyway… then I must get back to Belle. Do you have a dog?’ she said as he walked her to the office door.

‘Yes, a retriever called Max.’

‘Much more agreeable than some people, don’t you find, Mr Dylan?’ she chuckled.

‘I can’t disagree with you there,’ said Dylan, smiling. ‘Tracy, can you take a statement for me from Mrs Day please whilst she’s drinking her tea?’

Mrs Day shook Dylan’s hand and Tracy led her down the corridor to an interview room.

It seemed a reasonable ID by Mrs Day for Larry, but Dylan knew only too well how sometimes witnesses although extremely emphatic – could get it wrong. It was certainly a positive line of enquiry though. Had anyone heard Larry talking about a mobile home? He didn’t own one, Dylan was sure. He must have borrowed it from somewhere. Where was he heading? Dylan would hopefully know, by the time the statement was taken, what day Mrs Day saw him, at what time, and also at what garage. Was it before Liz’s death or after he wondered? There may be CCTV at the garage. Could he even dare wish that that would give him a registration number? There can’t be many mobile home hire companies locally. ‘What are the chances of Mrs Day being a witness in two murder enquiries? Unbelievable, thought Dylan - a real life, although reluctant, Miss Marple.

Dylan had a spring in his step as he threw his suit jacket on to go home. Luck, he knew, was always important in solving a case, and maybe Mrs Day calling in to see him was just that.

Whistling, he opened the front door and Max bounded towards him.

‘Max, I’ve got my best suit on,’ he said chuckling, ‘I’m home,’ Dylan shouted, as he ran straight up the stairs to change. Max bounded after him. Jen heard the bedroom door slam and Max’s excited bark outside it.

‘It’s worse than having two flaming kids about the place,’ she said, raising her eyebrows, as Max hurtled back down the stairs and along the hallway, skidding around the kitchen door, on the tiles.

‘Steady, you silly boy, you’ll hurt yourself,’ Jen scolded, as his legs splayed so he came to rest on his belly, panting furiously.

Dylan walked in, carrying his shirt for the wash. His mobile vibrated in his tracksuit trousers pocket, just as he stood before her and held her face in his hands. ‘’What now?’ He groaned, as he reached for it with one hand and held her hand in the other.

‘DI Dylan?’ asked the caller.

‘Yes, speaking, whom am I speaking to?’ he replied, pulling a face and hunching his shoulders at Jen.

‘Boss, sorry it’s a bad line. It’s Gary Warner. Good news for you. Thought I’d ring you rather than wait till tomorrow.’

‘Information from Frankie Miller’s mobile,’ said Gary. ‘It appears he or somebody using his mobile called the Reynolds’ home before and on the day Liz was murdered. The tech guys, using geographic mapping, can site the phone in St Peter’s Park that morning, and on checking other incidents in the area it seems, there had been a slight accident on the main road above the park; him trying to get away quickly, perhaps?’ The phone crackled. Dylan straining to hear all Gary was saying, let go of Jen’s hand, and walking to the window put a finger in his ear.

‘The driver in the offending car failed to stop, I’m told the accident report says,’ Gary continued.

‘Bloody hell, Gary, that gives us the connection with the park and with her home. Do you want my job?’ Jen’s hope-filled eyes looked up from chopping the cabbage. Dylan grinned at her.