Consequences

Caffeine Nights Publishing

Fiction aimed at the heart and the head…

Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2012

Copyright © RC Bridgestock 2012

RC Bridgestock has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

CONDITIONS OF SALE

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

www. caffeine-nights com

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-907565-17-5

Cover design by

Mark (Wills) Williams

Everything else by

Default, Luck and Accident

Aknowledgements

Thank you to Margaret Emsley, Gemma Beckwith and Ray Jordan for the reading of early drafts and subsequent support and contributions.

Also to our publisher Darren Laws for his continued hard work, dedication and belief in Jack Dylan's career.

For those who strive daily to bring to justice the lawbreakers.

The victims will always come first.

Consequences

‘Enough,’ Detective Inspector Jack Dylan sighed as he slid his chair away from the desk. He had spent a good few hours with his nose to the grindstone
but at last he had reached the base of the paper mountain that had greeted him at the start of his day.

He studied for a moment the last letter in his pile, yet another solicitor’s request for a hard copy of a police file. Why in the age of electronic messaging did they, along with the courts and
Uncle Tom Cobley and all
still demand them? It wasn’t as if they didn’t have computer terminals or a network set up; so it had to be down to people being afraid of change, or their lack of trust in today’s technology. The prosecution file against the child murderer of Daisy Charlotte Hind and Christopher Spencer he’d recently dealt with would fill two transit vans; yet another rain forest turned to dust. He’d already received copious letters from the defence solicitors Perfect & Best who had a reputation for being ruthless. Their business had recently moved to the larger premises of the old Co-Op buildings in Harrowfield as their popularity increased amongst the criminal fraternity. They condemned police action at every opportunity and ensured the press were there to report it. Nonetheless, their clients still got sent down, but not without a courtroom drama. Dylan knew they would have a team ready to spend hours, days, weeks scrutinizing the case, searching for that weak link, a break of continuity in the line of evidence or a failure to disclose something to the defence; anything to drive a stake right through the heart of the prosecution case. The defence had it easy in his eyes everything was delivered to their door on a platter. The main evidence was received by them a matter of days after an arrest and once they knew what the police evidence was they could then put forward a defence. Dylan smirked to himself as he packed documents into his briefcase, a case for the
three monkeys
perhaps for the defence could
see everything, hear everything and say nowt
. There were only four defences to murder: diminished responsibility, insanity, provocation or a suicide pact. Who knows, Perfect & Best might advise their client to plead guilty on this one - Nah, that wouldn’t be a money-maker for them now would it?

Dylan jumped as his leg cramped and he frantically rubbed it. It was time to go home. He was looking forward to a weekend away on the Isle of Wight with his partner Jen, far from the madding crowd.

‘On my way love, just crossing the yard to the car,’ Dylan spoke into his mobile.

‘Brilliant. We’re all ready and waiting...aren’t we?’ she said, as he heard Max their golden retriever start barking loudly in the background.

‘Let’s set straight off to miss the teatime traffic, eh? We can grab a sandwich on the way. I’ll drive.’ she shouted over the noise.

‘Sounds good to me,’ he said, smiling. ’I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.’ He put his briefcase in the boot of the car. He knew a couple of hours start on the rush hour traffic would make such a difference to the lengthy journey. Throwing his suit jacket on the back seat of car he pulled off his tie and opened his shirt collar. Dropping his shoulders, he sighed dramatically and could instantly feel himself relaxing as he relished the thought of time off after the pressure he’d been under, recently. The radio bellowed out an Abba song and he found himself singing along, badly. He chuckled; thank goodness no one could hear. A mile from home he joined a queue of slow moving traffic. At the approach to Stan Bridge the traffic came to a standstill. Dylan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Come on…places to go, people to see,’ he muttered. Winding down the window and leaning out as far as he could he saw a flashing blue beacon ahead. Was it police, ambulance? ‘Not an accident …please,’ he groaned. He turned up the radio. The local news was just about to start. In his experience local radio was always fantastic at keeping people up to date with traffic news. There was no alternative route though, whatever the problem, so he’d no choice but to wait. And he did; what could have been only minutes seemed like an eternity.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dylan as he banged his hand hard on the steering wheel, accidentally causing his horn to blare out which triggered a chain reaction from the other drivers.

‘Damn.’ That wasn’t his intention. He knew only too well car horns did nothing to ease a situation such as this and he immediately felt embarrassed.

‘Police are advising motorists to avoid the Stan Bridge area of the A581 as they are dealing with an incident of a man threatening to jump off the bridge. There could be long delays.’
The words came from the rich, calm voice of the broadcaster who was obviously sat in his cosy office. The last thing Dylan wanted was to get involved, but what could he do? Sit tight and hope a police negotiator was on the way or the person jumped? He, like the rest in the queue, simply wanted to continue on his journey. He picked up his mobile. Their phone was engaged. If he knew her, Jen would be ringing her dad with an estimated time of arrival. This message from him he knew was going to go down like a lead balloon.

‘Slight delay love...I’ve got a jumper. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ He switched his mobile off, threw it on the passenger seat, retrieved his jacket and eased himself out of the car. Dylan locked the car and set off to walk past the stationary vehicles and their frustrated occupants.

Jen picked up his message smiling and ended listening to it in tears of frustration, kicking the suitcases that stood like sentries on the doorstep.

‘Ouch,’ she screamed as she stubbed her toe. Max cowered. Jen hopped up and down the hallway, moaning.’ Flaming work, why do I bloody bother?’ She seethed, flopping dramatically down on the sofa in the lounge. She looked towards the ceiling pulling her hand through her hair in frustration. Max settled amongst the bags in the hall like a brindle suitcase – to be sure he wouldn’t be forgotten. She picked up the pamphlet of the beautiful, picture postcard thatched cottage in Luccombe she had rented. The pictures showed far-reaching sea views but it was nearly three hundred miles away and they were now not going to see them today, it would be dark by the time they arrived. Although the few days away was a chance to escape the rat race, it was also an opportunity to check up on her dad and see how he was coping since her mum had been tragically killed as a result of a road accident a few months earlier and she couldn’t wait to see him. His neighbours had been kind, keeping an eye on him and updating her, but she was desperate to see how he was for herself. Although her Dad had always seemed the stronger of the two, in fact it was her mum who had always been the housekeeper and his rock. Jen couldn’t believe he was cooking for himself these days, since he’d never so much as made a cup of tea when her mum was alive. She shook her head and sighed, poor dad. She felt so guilty leaving him after the funeral but he had insisted that his life was on the Isle of Wight and he had no intention of leaving. It had been her home too until a few years ago when she’d felt she had no alternative but to move away.

‘Please hurry Jack,’ she said, and Max barked as he rose and came to her side. She was never surer he understood everything she said as she stroked his strong, soft head.

DI Dylan’s pace quickened as he passed the toll booth. ‘Of all the bridges in all the world, why did it have to be this one, kid?’ The bridge he knew was no stranger to disasters. The present structure, built from Yorkshire stone, had two semi-elliptical arch ribs that were supported by stone piers. An earlier stone bridge on the site had collapsed on Rogation Day in the seventeen hundreds, during a beating of the bounds ceremony, causing many injuries. It had partly collapsed in a flash flood in recent years and was a place that Dylan had become a regular visitor to as a Negotiator where he attempted to talk people out of jumping to their deaths. Dylan reached the police car and beyond it at its highest point he could see the would-be
flyer
. The fragile figure of a young man stood like an Olympic diver, peering over the edge.

Dylan recognised the young policewoman heading towards him.

‘Do we know who he is, Tracy?’

‘No sir,’ she said, surprised he remembered her name. He looked upwards… ‘Why’s he up there?’

‘Er. . . he’s threatening to jump.’

Dylan raised his eyebrows.

 ‘Oh, sorry sir, that’s a bit obvious…’ she said, blushing so intensely that her cheeks, brow and neck were suffused in crimson.

‘Supervision is on its way and I’ve just been asked to stop traffic at this end. We’ve got another car at the Sibden end.’

Dylan nodded. ’Okay, let Control know there’s a negotiator here, that’s me. Now who’s stating the obvious?’ he said, as he smiled at her. ’Get them to divert traffic further back and make sure everything is stopped under the bridge. We could do with an ambulance down below, nearby. We’ll also need HQ to mobilise the Operational Support Unit in case he goes in the river.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tracy looked relieved to be given a purposeful task.

‘I’m gonna try and talk some sense into him. When you’ve done, walk to within ten yards of me so I don’t have to shout if we need to pass a message to Control. At the same time I don’t want him to be able to hear your radio transmitting.’