Consequences (11 page)

There were no other vehicles in the car park. Liz stopped her car near the woods. The silence was deafening. Tentatively she looked around, but there was no one to be seen. She wound down her window slightly and felt the welcome rush of a cool breeze. A siren’s whine was loud and clear, the brakes of a lorry screeched nosily in the distance; all surprisingly comforting to her. She leaned over to the back seat and struggled to heave the case onto the passenger seat next to her, as she had been told. Pressing the button to unlock the passenger door, she followed the blackmailer’s instructions to the letter. Then she remembered Larry telling her to keep the door locked. What should she do? She flipped the button again feeling her heart hammering in her chest as she gripped the steering wheel tight and realised her shoulders were raised, her arms rigid. Shaking her head to relieve the fuzziness within, she craned her neck to and from side to side, and it cracked loudly like a stick snapping. All was now still. Two pigeons strutted on the grass in front of the car cooing happily. She could hear the low drone of distant traffic but above that birds singing and an aircraft overhead. Liz concentrated on the new shoots on the branches of the willow tree, which dangled before her; new life. A bee hovered before her eyes. Suddenly birds took flight. A shadow fell on the windscreen. She gasped, but it was only a black cloud covering the sun, weak as it was. Her mouth grew dry as she waited; she attempted to swallow and her parched throat made her cough. She shuffled in her seat. Peering behind her through the rear window she expected to see a car approaching down the driveway. As she turned she saw, stood before her at the front of her car a man wearing a black balaclava. In what seemed like a flash he’d made his way round to the passenger door and tried the handle. She screamed. He ran to the driver’s side, brandishing a weapon in the air. Without warning, there was a loud crash and her window came smashing through. She turned away and ducked instinctively as the tiny glass particles showered her.

‘No, please no,’ she screamed, hiding her face in her hands, ‘take the money.’ The man pulled at the handle and opening the door, yanked her crumpled body by the neck, from her seat to the gravel floor. Repeatedly he kicked her.

‘I told you to leave the fucking doors unlocked,’ he yelled, panting aggressively.

Liz was only semi-conscious as she lay motionless. She could feel warm urine run between her legs. She heard the man retrieve the case from within car and she saw its wheels bounce on the floor beside her. ’Please Larry, please help me,’ came the gasp from her lips. ’Where was he?’ She thought. ’The police, where were they?’ She caught sight of the case springing open.

‘You stupid bitch, you’ve tried to trick me,’ the hooded man shrieked at her as he tipped the contents over her prone body. Books rained on her from above and she cried out. He lashed out at her foetus like, postured frame with the empty case.

‘What? No, no please,’ she cried through her sobs. The taste of blood filled her mouth and she spat it out with saliva.

Suddenly there was silence. Then Liz heard the scrunch of his shoes on gravel which made a crunching sound. He was walking away. What was happening? Was he leaving her like this? She opened her eyes and could faintly see his outline by her car, through a fuzzy haze. Her boot ‘popped’ open, her senses were heightened. Hearing his footsteps marching towards her, she curled up as tight as she could, sensing him standing over her. All she could see clearly was his white training shoes. Again, silence. Was he opening a bottle? She dare hardly breathe, but gasped involuntarily as cold liquid trickled over the trunk of her body. Petrol fumes engulfed her lungs. Coughs ravaged her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath ’Quick.’ She shouted. Her mind raced. ’Stop him.’

‘Your husband won’t think you’re beautiful now will he Lizzie?’ he sniggered. ‘Banging on about you day after day he did. I looked after him you know, and for what? Nothing.’ He jumped. The gravel sprayed. There was a flash, made by the ignition of the petrol. Both Liz and her car almost instantly became a fireball. Flames rushed towards him, lapping at his feet and he jumped backwards.

Frankie Miller was no stranger to murder. Money was his priority, money and drugs. He owed it, he owed lots of it and his supplier wouldn’t wait any longer. Liz had been his ticket but she’d failed him. He’d warned her what would happen, the stupid bitch.

Liz’s murderer ran out of the park and through the woods, to the main road, discarding his headgear to the bushes. The scorched sole of his trainer flapped annoyingly, catching on each step up the snicket. Sweat ran off him. Reaching his stolen car, he was met with pandemonium, as emergency vehicle sirens alerted his fellow road users of their presence. Moving vehicles stopped and pulled over in front of him to let them pass.

‘Fucking hell.’ He punched the car’s console and revved the engine wildly. Yanking the steering wheel to the right, he put his foot to the floor and flew around the stationary cars, clipping the wing mirror of one. Without stopping, he glanced at the blonde woman within and flashed one angry finger.

Dazed, but with disregard for the glass that had shot into the car along with the wing mirror, Jen stared frantically at the number plate G470 RSR.

‘G470 RSR. Oh, God...what was it?’ she rhythmically repeated the registration number over and over in her mind, and pulling a receipt and a pen out of her bag, with shaking hands she scribbled it down. Her heart beat frantically. She scrawled over the letters to make them as clear and bold as she could. It was red; the car was red. What was the make? It was no good, she was useless with makes and models. It was big. What an idiot she thought, how dare he poke one finger at her. It was his bloody fault. Tears sprang into her eyes but she knew it was shock and anger that brought them.

Detective Sergeant Patrick Finch left Dylan’s office, pleased that at last he’d not only been given a DS’s post but he was also looking forward to working with Jack Dylan. He’d heard a lot about him.

‘Tracy, the Detective Inspector says he would love a cuppa. I didn’t know he was sexist,’ he said.

‘He’s not, the kettles over there Sarge. I’m sure he’ll enjoy a drink made by you just as much as Tracy,’ Vicky said, temporarily stopping typing a report.

‘Okay, worth a try though,’ he laughed. ‘Do you two want one?’

Vicky pushed her chair back on its wheels and stood up, ‘Oh, go on, I’ll make ’em Pat,’ she yawned, as she stretched lazily and shook her long blonde hair. She stuck out her expansive chest. ’I don’t want you upsetting the boss with your bloody awful coffee.’ DS Finch wasn’t looking at her face, she clocked him and smiled. Her breast enlargements were the best, she knew, thanks to the money she managed to save from working overtime, and even Patrick ‘perfect’ Finch as he was known in the Met, she’d been told, couldn’t resist breaching his own politically correct code of conduct.

‘I’d rather you call me Sergeant or Patrick,’ he said.

‘Whatever,’ she replied, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.

An outside line was ringing on Dylan’s phone. He was just picking it up when John tapped at his office door and entered. Dylan smiled and beckoned him to sit in the chair opposite.

‘Hi Jen …’ he started, ‘calm down...what on earth’s happened?’ Dylan said, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

‘Some idiot nearly wrote me off,’ Jen sobbed. ‘He smashed into the wing mirror of my car and he never even stopped. He was driving like a maniac.’ Jen’s voice was shaking.

Dylan’s mobile nearly leapt off the desk with the vibration, and it made John jump. Dylan pointed at it for John to answer.

‘Boss it’s a job, it’s urgent,’ John said, quietly.

‘Look love...I’ve gotta go...an urgent job’s just come in. As long as you’re okay and the car is driveable, go home and ring the traffic office to report it...I’ll ring you as soon as I can.’

‘But Jack, I’m …’ Jen cried. It was no good, Dylan had hung up. His lack of empathy broke Jen’s heart...what would it take for him to make her his priority?

‘Inspector Dylan,’ he said, as he replaced one phone and took the mobile from John.

‘Hello Sir, Force Control. Your attendance is being requested at the bottom car park of St Peter’s Park. Uniform personnel and fire brigade have attended at the scene of a car on fire and they have found a woman’s body nearby, they’re sealing the scene. There’s a strong smell of accelerants and it appears suspicious.’

‘Thank you. Inform them I’m en route. I’ll be approximately thirty minutes,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

He stood up, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and threw it over his shoulder. ’Come on John, job on. Vicky, grab an exhibits bag and bring Tracy with you,’ he called from his doorway. ’See you later Pat.’

‘Sir, I’d rather be called Patrick...’ Patrick Finch said, to the back of Dylan’s coat tails.

‘Baptism by fire, John,’ Dylan said, as they screeched out of the yard. He could see John’s young, large, athletic, black frame fill with nerves as he sat beside him and remembered how he’d felt on his first job as a DS, heading for an unknown death scene, whilst being under the spotlight of the boss, his every move being watched.

‘Confirm with Control that the Scenes of Crime Supervisor is on their way, will you please, John?’ Dylan instructed.

‘Your first murder maybe, Tracy?’ Vicky grinned, excitement in her voice as they drove to the scene in the CID car. ‘This is what all the training’s for, girl.’

‘Yeah,’ Tracy said holding her stomach. They whizzed past cars going in the opposite direction. Her mind was racing as their sirens wailed. What would it be like? How would she cope? Would she show herself up and be sick at the sight of the body?

‘Don’t look so worried love, I’ll look after you,’ Vicky said kindly. ’I’ve told you before, Dylan’s a good boss. Think yourself lucky it’s not one of the others.’

‘Thanks,’ was all Tracy could manage to say; words were no comfort. Nerves seemingly forgotten on their arrival she ran to keep up with Vicky, who was striding out as she headed towards what looked like their rendezvous point at the scene. She’d cope no matter how bad it was. Wouldn’t she?

St Peter’s Park was a large and rambling estate, just off the A518, which lead from Harrowfield towards its neighbouring town of Bradford, and the M62 motorway network. Although there were numerous entrances for pedestrians, there were only two means of access for vehicles; one to the Manor House and its car park at the top, and one directly to the lower car park. The acres of lawns from Sibden Manor and its fortress walls sloped down in a steep gradient to include the park, its boating lake and children’s play area. Rough wooded terrain steeply sloped back up to the main road on one side. The park was well used during the summer months but in the winter dog walkers were the main occupants. In fact it was a place Dylan and Jen quite often walked Max.

A fire engine stood shrouded by trees. Its lights turned as the water pipes hung from it and snaked along the ground. The fire tender was masking the burnt shell of a vehicle, and a police car alongside. Dylan tentatively stepped into the water that had been discharged to dampen the flames. It looked like there had been a torrential downpour, ‘evidence washed away’. He reached in the boot of his car and opened the packaging of a protective coverall, handing another one to John as he did so.

‘You’ll end up with a boot full of these John, one for every scene, don’t rely on SOCO to have your size, mate.’

Dylan noticed a small area around the car that had been sealed off with cones and rope, and a uniformed Inspector came towards them.

‘Hello Jack,’ Dylan nodded as he joined him. He turned back to the scene. ‘We were called to a report of a vehicle on fire,’ he explained, as Dylan, now suited up, walked beside him, John close behind. ‘We arrived about the same time as the Brigade. They quickly extinguished the fire but you’ll see the vehicle is just a shell, and there’s a body...or what’s left of it on the floor, at the driver’s side. I’ve kept the Fire Officers here just in case you need to speak to them.’

‘Good, have they also pronounced life extinct because of the state of the body?’

‘Yes,’ the inspector replied.

‘Thank-you.’ Dylan raised his eyebrow at the young officer. ’We’ll need their details and a copy of their report. Can you get a unit to the entrance to stop anyone coming in? I’m expecting the Scenes of Crime Supervisor. Can you also arrange for a dog man to attend?’ Dylan directed. He made notes in his pocket book and noticed John doing the same. There was an overwhelming smell of fuel, and the remains of a petrol canister and a suitcase lay next to the body. ‘I hope the fire officer in the cab pressed the record button to capture video footage. The recording of the route to the scene may have recorded a car or a person leaving the scene that we can focus on for further enquires. We’ll also need it for disclosure purposes.’ Dylan called to the uniformed inspector.

With the movement of the fire engine, the devastation could be seen more clearly. Dylan squatted as close as he could to the burnt corpse, without touching it. He had always been taught to keep his hands in his pockets at a scene; that way he would never instinctively touch anything and he never broke the rule.

It was a mangled black skeleton with little flesh left on its frame. Fragments of clothing and flesh still clung to it. The jaw bone was dropped, as though the person had been screaming or shouting. The smell filled his nostrils, it was acrid, like hair burning or burning plastic. The smell of burning flesh was not a smell anyone forgot in a hurry. Dylan kept himself busy, scanning what was before him; the sight of other burned bodies etched on his mind. It never got any easier. In fact he seemed to get more sensitive, the older he got. Or was it the accumulation of tortured souls he’d witnessed. Corpses burnt or hung were always the worst for him.