Consequences (24 page)

‘If he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, then why did he do a runner?’

‘Says he doesn’t like the police, and they’d blame him, even though he’d done nothing wrong because he’s known to them.’

‘How was the solicitor?’

‘Fine, appalled at what had gone on. Off the record at Chubby Connors request she gave us an address in Blackpool where Jason Todd might be. She says she believes he’s our main offender, not Chubby Connor. She asked Connor if he knew where Todd might be. He gave her a name of an associate in Blackpool so we’ve liaised with Blackpool police, and Dennis and the team will be going over there early tomorrow morning.’

‘Thanks for that Pat. We’ll see what he says tomorrow and meet up after the interview. I’m going with John to the prison to see Reynolds first thing so I’ll come find you when I get back.’

‘Come on tiger.’ Dylan said, slapping Jen’s thigh as she stretched out on the settee. Yawning, he put the phone down. ‘Time for bed.’ She reached out. He drew her up into his arms and she looked up into his face.

Dylan looked thoughtful.

‘Stop thinking about work,’ she said. ‘As if he would,’ she thought, as she got up and started plumping up the cushions. ‘Do you know you live and breathe the bloody job when it’s running? It takes over quicker than a Russian Vine in a garden.’

Dylan stumbled into the kitchen and Jen followed, clicking off the lights as she juggled with the cups and newspapers he’d left in his wake.

‘Hello Jack, I’m Jen, remember me?’ she called, as he stomped up the stairs zombie like, in silence. It made him smile. ‘And don’t you work Dawn too hard either,’ she said catching up with him on the landing to the bedroom.

‘No, boss,’ he whispered in her ear as he cuddled her close.

It was very windy on the west coast. Six fifteen a.m was early enough for a dawn raid at the house the police had surrounded. 28 Tower Street was a rent paid, council semi, occupied by the Marsh family, who were well known to the Lancashire Constabulary as one of the boils on the backside of Blackpool.

The door ram’s thunder vibrated through the nearby houses. Three attempts and they still hadn’t gained access. A radio message from an officer at the back of the house told Detective Sergeant Dennis Dors from West Yorkshire Police that a man had come out with a knife and was holding officers at bay. Dennis’s stocky, brutish body ran like a gazelle to help them, whilst his other officers carried on battering the front door.

‘A knife?’ yelled Dennis to his colleagues. His square, strong jaw under the frame of his jet black unruly hair and crooked nose gave him the appearance of a Boxer. It’s a bloody machete,’ he shouted.

The occupant of the house was swinging it round like a sword that he held firmly with both hands. There was no doubt in Dennis’s mind that this was Jason Todd; he could clearly see the tattoo beneath his eye.

‘Put it down mate. Don’t be stupid; you’re going nowhere,’ Dennis shouted the instruction at him.

‘If I’m going down I’m taking you fuckers with me.’ Todd yelled.

Dennis looked around him, and placing his hands round a rotting fence post in the garden he pulled it out of the ground in one fell swoop. Stepping forward, he swung it head height with a roar reminiscent of an animal. Because of his build his clothing always looked tight, and the top button of his shirt never quite fastened; but he looked as though he was going to burst out of his uniform like ‘the hulk’ to those with a view of the fight.

‘Put it down,’ he warned

‘Fucking make me, copper,’ screamed Todd, as he lashed out in Dennis’s direction. Dennis blocked the machete with the fence post, Todd’s threats turning immediately into an action. Momentarily, the machete stuck in the wood. It gave Dennis sufficient time to land an almighty left hook that Henry Cooper would have been proud of, straight on Todd’s nose; sending him reeling backwards to the floor. Dennis placed a foot on his arm. The officers moved forward, quickly pinning him to the ground. Dennis pulled the machete from Todd’s hand turned him, over and forcefully pulled his arms behind his back. Handcuffed at last, he was under control and arrested.

‘Thank God for the fence post,’ thought Dennis, as they ungraciously dragged Todd up onto his feet. His nose had spread across his face, obviously broken. He shook his head in a daze, subdued but they knew that wouldn’t last.

‘Get him to hospital but make sure he remains cuffed to one of you at all times,’ DS Dennis Dors instructed.

Dennis was sat panting, on his knees, as Todd was dragged away. ‘I think I’ll have to go too,’ he said, in a deep laboured tone, holding up his left hand that looked deformed, swollen and bruised.

‘Looks like at least two broken fingers, argh.’ he cried. ‘Better than being caught with that bloody thing though,’ he thought, as he collected the machete for evidence.

The rest of the team were now searching the house, having overcome the obstinacy of the front door. The Marsh family were surprisingly compliant when they were told the reason Todd was arrested. Clothing and other items were seized from the floor of a room where Jason had put his head down for the last few days.

It was 9. 40 a.m by the time DS Patrick Finch was informed of the full facts, and excitedly he went straight through to Dylan’s office to pass them on.

‘I’ve just heard from the team in Blackpool. Good and bad news.’ Patrick was buzzing.

‘Go on give me the good news,’ Dylan said.

‘Jason Todd’s in custody.’

‘Fantastic...and the bad news,’ Dylan said, cringing.

‘They won’t be back with him until this evening.’

Dylan sat back in his chair and sighed. ‘Tell them from me, we haven’t got time to go to the Pleasure Beach. It’s a bleeding murder enquiry,’ he said.

‘Yes sir.’ Patrick said. ‘But Todd’s being treated for a broken nose and fractured cheekbone at the Blackpool Victoria Hospital.’

‘And don’t tell me Dennis?’ asked Dylan.

‘Yes sir and Dors possibly has some broken fingers. But in his defence, Todd did come out threatening them with a machete.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dylan. ‘You don’t argue with Dennis that’s for sure. He’s one you want on your side if there’s trouble.’

Dylan was glad Jason Todd had come off worse. Dennis had done well and he’d tell him so when he returned.

‘That gives you and Dawn all day to continue interviewing Chubby Connor. We’ll get the superintendent’s extension now with no problem.’

‘Yeah,’ Patrick sighed.

‘Just to remind you, I’ve got to go to the prison with John to see Malcolm Reynolds. I should be back just after lunch.’

‘By the way, Susan Sharpe was remanded on the wounding charge, sir.’

‘She’ll no doubt be charged with murder later, but I’ll speak to CPS first. I’m looking at charging all three with joint enterprise. So you managed to level the score, one prisoner each, Pat.’ Dylan smiled.

‘I would prefer you to call me Patrick, sir.’

‘Okay. Keep an eye on Dawn for me will you? I don’t want her to get exhausted. No doubt I’ll have HQ on at me for letting her interview and they’re probably right. Catch up with you later mate.’

Patrick shook his head as he left Dylan’s office to prepare for the first interview of the day with Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor.

Malcolm Reynolds’ previous facial stubble had grown into a silver beard since their last visit. His predominantly greying hair looked longer, greasy and bedraggled. The clothes he was wearing hung from his much slimmer frame, and his bloodshot eyes were overshadowed with red hooded eyelids and dark rings.

‘I hope you’ve got some news for me,’ he said. have you any idea what it’s like to be in ‘ere and, not be able to do ‘ought about your wife being murdered? Can you imagine just how fucking useless I feel? Sometimes I think I’m gonna go fucking mad.’ Malcolm cried, as he leaned forward in his chair, in a submissive way this time; searching their faces for answers, clues as to what was happening, desperate for some information. Was he on the verge of a mental breakdown, Dylan feared?

‘You heard the news about your old cellmate?’ Dylan said, knowing full well that he would have heard about Frankie Miller’s death.

‘Yeah… well that’s Frankie isn’t it; that’s how he’d want to go. There never was much evidence of much between his lug’oles, so it doesn’t surprise me. He was daft as a brush. But, what’s that to do with Lizzie’s murder? Do you know who’s done it yet?’

‘How long were you and Frankie Miller celled up for?’ asked John.

‘Long enough.’

John took notes in his pocket book.

‘Let’s stop pissing about, eh? Have you come to tell me who murdered Lizzie, and if not, why not? What the fuck’s going on?’

 ‘We think Frankie might’ve had something to do with it,’ said Dylan, matter-of-factly.

‘Frankie? He’s a fucking robber, a crackhead, he doesn’t murder women. That’s not his scene...no...no I can’t believe that.’ Malcolm said, shaking his head. ‘That’s nonsense. Nah, he wouldn’t kill...a woman?’

‘Approximately five hundred yards from Liz’s body we found a balaclava.’

‘And?’

‘We have positively identified it as belonging to Frankie Miller...One hundred per cent Malcolm.’

‘But St Peter’s Park is nowhere near...his patch. Manchester’s his area.’

‘Money? Malcolm, Liz had withdrawn money out of your joint account the day before she was murdered. Tell me, did he know Liz? Or where you lived?’

‘You’re doing my fucking head in,’ he yelled, and the guard stepped forward.

‘Did he know Liz?’ pushed Dylan.

‘No, no, they never met...he’ll have seen her picture. I’ve talked a lot about her, our lives, Gemma and that...what else can you do when you’re locked up in this fucking hole; twenty-four hours a day, but talk? No...he wouldn’t hurt my Lizzie...he wouldn’t cross me. He wouldn’t …’ Malcolm sat deep in thought. ’Hold on a minute. Why would he wear a balaclava if he was going to kill someone? There’d be no point, would there?’

‘What about your house, your home address...would he know that?’

‘I suppose he could have seen it on letters. There’s not much privacy in a cell.’

‘Telephone number?’ said John.

‘Maybe...but I still can’t believe …’ Malcolm shook his head. ’No, never, I know he owed a lot of money on the outside, but he’d just go into a fucking bank like he did. He wouldn’t kill Lizzie for it.’

‘Malcolm, he was in St Peter’s Park...we can prove that. He’d been with you. You’re telling us you knew he owed money. Is there something else you want to tell us, Malcolm?’ Malcolm shook his head again.

‘Look, she drew half a million quid out of your joint bank account. Tell us, was she paying off a debt for you?’

‘No fucking way. I would never put Lizzie or Gemma in danger. God, I worship the ground they walk on. I wouldn’t do anything to risk their necks …’ He swallowed, determined not to show any weakness in front of the two men, although tears were close. ‘I don’t owe anyone...this is fucking stupid’ Tears filled Malcolm’s swollen eyes and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

‘Could she have been an easy touch for him? Did he know you had money? The money’s definitely disappeared. We know it wasn’t burnt at the scene.’

‘Not burnt? Then who’s got it?’

Dylan stared into the pits of his haunted eyes.

‘If Frankie had got his hands on the money, then why the fuck would he be robbing a bank? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me? For God’s sake be straight with us.’ said Dylan.

‘I’m not keeping anything from you. I want her bloody killer more than you do, believe me. Is it right I can’t even bury Liz yet? That’s what the screws tell me.’

‘Yes, that’s true. There’ll have to be a second PM in a few weeks, or if we lock someone up for her murder, whichever comes first. The coroner will have to open and close the inquest and then he’ll release Liz’s body to you for the funeral. Malcolm, think please, is there anything else you think we should know about, no matter how trivial?’

Malcolm slammed his hands flat on the table but the men didn’t flinch. Once again the prison officer took a pace forward, but Dylan raised his hand to gesture to him that they were okay.

‘I’ve told you everything I can think of. Do you think I’ve thought about anything else since you told me about the...fire?’ More tears sprung into Malcolm’s puffy already watery eyes and tumbled down his face. He let them flow. Was it sadness? Was it anger? Was it both?

‘Malcolm, you’re not going to like this, but I have to ask you, did you know Liz was seeing someone else?’

‘What the fuck are you trying to do to me? Isn’t it enough she’s dead, without trying to mess with my fucking ’ead.’ he screamed, as he stood and thumped the table with all his might. The prison officer came reaching out to hold Malcolm back by his shoulders. ‘What are you trying to make out my lass is a tart?’ he said, sitting down. The prison officer rested his hand on Malcolm Reynolds shoulder for an instant, before he resumed his position next to the door.

Dylan took a deep breath. ‘Malcolm, evidence proves that someone shared your wife’s bed the night before she was murdered.’

‘What!’ Malcolm screamed, jumping to his feet once more. His chair flew out from under him and landed on its side. He prowled around the room like a caged animal, grunting loudly.

‘Sit down, Malcolm,’ the prison officer shouted. ‘Last warning,’ he said.

Dylan turned his chair to face him. ‘Look, Malcolm, I said we’d be honest with you and that’s what we’re trying to be,’ he said. ’I’m telling you what we know; I think you deserve to know the truth.’

Malcolm picked up his chair and sat back down, his elbows resting on the table as he gripped his head in his hands. He whimpered as he stared at the floor.

‘No...no...no,’ he moaned, shaking his head to and fro. ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ he wailed.