Consequences (18 page)

‘Boss.’ Half an hour later John stuck his head round Dylan’s office door. Dylan looked up and saw his smiling face. ‘Liz’s dentist has been spoken to and officers are on their way to get her dental records.

‘Fantastic. Get them to take them straight to the dental laboratory in Sheffield, to the odontologist. Hopefully we’ll get an identification.’

‘Already sorted boss. I haven’t jumped the gun have I? I just thought the sooner …?’

‘Gosh no, you’re right. Excellent. Fingers crossed.’ Dylan beamed.

‘The prison visit’s arranged for tomorrow. We’ll get some background from Malcolm Reynolds and let him know about his wife. Hopefully, before we go, we’ll have confirmation that the body is Liz. Being the SIO, John, is all about being the bearer of bad news.’

‘Yeah, well someone has to do it sir, don’t they? I’ve told the team the debrief is at 6 pm if that’s okay with you?’

‘That’s great. I’m doing little Charlie’s debrief at five downstairs then I’ll be with you.’ Dylan realised at that moment he’d been referring to the job as ‘little Charlie’s’ from the outset, not the Sharpe murder or the incident name; this one had touched him. Maybe he should have let Chubby jump that day.

‘Susan Sharpe is charged,’ Dawn informed the group at the debrief. ‘She’ll be up before the court tomorrow and hopefully remanded. I’ll be there.’

‘Priority enquiries are to visit anyone who’s had the slightest connection with Alan ‘Chubby’ Connor and Jason Todd, tomorrow. You all have your targets,’ Patrick told them. ’Search the homes, don’t accept people’s word. They should consent to you looking around, if not, let me know straight away.’

‘I want you Pat, and the SOCO supervisor at the meeting I’ve arranged with forensics, to discuss their approach to the exhibits,’ said Dylan.

‘The Charlie Sharpe enquiry is ticking over nicely,’ thought Dylan, as he walked up the staircase to the Reynolds’ debrief. He dialled the press office to give them a brief update. ’Michelle can you put this out on the news line:

‘A 21 year old woman will be appearing before Harrowfield Magistrates Court tomorrow, charged with wounding and neglect in connection with the death of a three, year old boy. Two men are also being sought in connection with the boy’s murder.’

‘Can we name the boy yet?’ she said.

‘Sorry, DS Finch and DS Farren are still trying to see if they can confirm paternity of the child at the moment, before the young lad can be named I’m afraid’.

Sitting with DS John Benjamin and the team from the Reynolds’ enquiry, he soon realised that they would be in the debrief for some time. The information was coming in thick and fast. Luckily for them, in the Reynolds’ morning post they had got details of Liz’s bank account, showing that she had withdrawn five hundred thousand pounds the day before her murder. There was no sign of cash at the house, so it was an obvious priority enquiry. Her mobile phone was also the subject of one too. Fingerprints had been lifted off the wine glasses, and also such items as her hairbrush, make-up and jewellery boxes, and they were hoping to match up and identify Liz via the partial fingerprint lifted at the scene of the fire, the DNA from the hair root taken at the post-mortem and her dental records. Fingerprints had also been lifted from the beer cans. Early indications using ultra violet light suggested semen staining on bedding taken from her bed, and on clothing recovered from the laundry basket. It was a positive start; a lot to go on, to unravel the background. Was the motive money, sex or both? Only time would tell.

‘Nice one team,’ said Dylan as he thanked them for their hard work. Another long day, but progress is being made with positive lines of enquiry.’ The meeting had lifted him. He took out his mobile as he strolled into the back yard of the police station and he could see his breath in the night air. The sky was clear and in the darkness the brighter stars were lost amongst the myriads visible. He leaned on his car as he called the press office. For once Dylan noticed that the stars twinkled, but the nearer planets didn’t.

‘Michelle,’ Dylan turned to unlock his car door. ‘Another update for you.’

‘Go ahead, I’ve got my pen poised.’

‘In respect of the burnt body at St Peter’s Park; Police are making some positive progress and believe they may have identified the woman who if confirmed, they’ll be able to name in the next forty eight-hours, when relatives have been informed. Thanks. You on the graveyard shift?’

‘Yeah, it’s a bummer, I hate late shift,’ she groaned. ‘But this will keep me busy for a while,’ she said.

‘I hope it’s a quiet one for you then. I’m off home to a nice meal and a warm bed.’

‘Lucky you,’ Michelle moaned. ’It’ll be another six hours before I see my pit.’

‘But at least once you’re in it you won’t be called out.’

‘Too right I won’t.’ she said.

Jen walked out of the front door after Dylan. The glimpses of early morning sun were bright through the black clouds. Max barked around Dylan’s feet.

‘No boy, I’m off to work. Your mum’s taking you walking on her own today mate,’ he said, patting Max’s golden coloured, silky head. ‘Although I must admit, the last thing I want to do is go on a prison visit.’

‘Never mind. One day, when you whisk me off to the Isle of Wight, we won’t be going to the park but the beach for walkies,’ Jen said, laughing. Max barked furiously. ‘Come on you, before you wake the neighbours,’ she said, lassoing Max with his lead. ’Bye love, have a nice day,’ she called to Jack, as he put his brief case in the boot and slammed it shut.

‘Will do. I’ll keep in touch.’ Dylan shouted. He watched Jen and Max walk up the road in his rear view mirror. What he’d give to be going with them. To be inconvenienced by Max’s persistence to go out in the freezing cold this morning, would be a treat. The car felt chilly and he shivered as he turned the heater on full.

Dawn had left for court by the time Dylan arrived at the office. He wondered if today would be the day they’d positively identify the father of Charlie Sharpe or find Chubby Connor and Jason Todd.

Dylan was pleased with Patrick Finch so far; he could tell he was enjoying being in a detective role again on a high profile case too. He was a good replacement for Larry, precise to the point of annoying though sometimes. He had an eye for detail and was as keen as mustard. He wondered briefly what Larry was doing, and how Fred White was; but as no one had updated him, he presumed Fred was stable, and as for Larry...God only knew.

‘Behave at court you. I hope you’ve remembered to switch your phone off, otherwise this will get you into bother,’ read the text message he sent to Dawn. He smiled as his mobile bleeped send.

‘I’ll remember, don’t worry, my names not Jack Dylan,’ she texted back.

The morning meetings were over at last.

‘I’ll be ready to set off for the prison in five minutes, John,’ Dylan shouted across the incident room.

 ‘Okay.’ he shouted back, from the computer station he was working at. Dylan saw him pick up the phone as it rang. He listened, put the phone down and walked over to stand at Dylan’s door.

‘It’s Sheffield sir, confirming a positive ident on the dental records.’

‘And?’

‘It’s Liz Reynolds.’

Dylan breathed in deeply. Malcolm Reynolds would be getting the worst news he could possibly hear today, and Dylan had to give it to him.

The prison car park was heaving.

‘Spare one over there, boss.’ John pointed to a parking space.

‘You’ve got to have eyes like a hawk. It’s worst than bloody B&Q on pensioner’s day,’ Dylan muttered to himself, rummaging on the back seat for his suit jacket. John opened his door and stood outside. Rolling down his shirtsleeves, he checked his tie was straight before collecting his paperwork from his seat. Slamming the door, Dylan turned and looked at the austere Victorian architectural style building. Built with local quarried stone, it used to be a fortress; a castle where the brave used to fight to save the hamlet. Now criminals were sent there to protect the community.

‘How bizarre,’ he thought. Walking up to the stone flagged entrance they stopped between two turrets. John pointed up to holes in the wall.

‘At one time they used to pour boiling oil down from them, to keep people out,’ he said.

 ‘Perhaps they should pour it on the people within now’ Dylan replied.

 ‘Did you know they still used to execute and hang prisoners here until 1961?’

‘No, but I hear it has its own healthcare facility.’

‘I suppose they need it with 550 cells full of prisoners; all Cat. B prisoners at that,’ said John.

‘Yeah, they need to make it difficult for this calibre of prisoner to escape and a trip to the hospital is all it takes for some. Not the friendliest of places to be eh?’ Dylan laughed half-heartedly.

A uniformed guard came towards them, offering his hand. ‘DI Dylan?’

‘Yes and DS Benjamin. You’ve got our visiting orders here I understand?’

‘You’ve just hit visiting time, unfortunately. It’s a ‘Special’ if I’m right? Come straight through,’ said the guard as he motioned them to follow him into the new gate complex. As they turned the corner, the queue of people lining the walls reminded Dylan of a shop at the start of a sale. Men, women, old, young, children and babes in arms; you name it, they were there. Dylan knew some would be putting themselves at risk, trying to smuggle things into the prison, and he also knew some would succeed. This prison was named as having the highest recorded drug use amongst prisoners and the second highest suicide rates of prisoners in England and Wales.

‘We need to speak to the Duty Officer or the Wing Officer if that’s at all possible,’ John shouted above the noise.

They entered a vestibule and with the closing of the door, the noise suddenly cut dead.

‘That’s me. What’s up?’ The duty officer seemed genuinely concerned.

‘We’ve just found out the burnt body in St Peter’s Park, that’s been in the papers recently, is Malcolm Reynolds’ wife,’ Dylan said.

‘Blimey.’

The duty officer opened the door to the waiting room and they strode through with a purpose. There were so many young girls dressed in their posh dresses, wearing make-up. Mothers and fathers stood quietly; sombre, subdued. Why oh, why in God’s name had the men inside risked getting themselves locked up, when they had people outside who clearly cared about them so much? Dylan would never understand.

‘We believe it may be murder,’ Dylan said, as he turned out his pockets into a shell like container to be checked.

‘Poor bloke, he’s a model prisoner,’ said the guard, as he frisked him and moved on to John.

The meeting rooms were always cold and sparsely furnished painted with a pale grey gloss. They reminded Dylan of hospital waiting rooms. Windows at the ceiling were fitted with thick steel bars. Malcolm Reynolds was slouching in his chair, as they approached the table where he was sat with his feet up. His white t-shirt showed off his ample muscles, which no doubt had been toned in the prison gym. He chewed gum. The guard closed the door behind them and stood, centurion-like, indicating a seat for Dylan and John opposite the prisoner. John’s eyes were fixed on Malcolm’s trainers, his eyes dancing around the red snake like pattern that was carved into the soles, so he could avoid looking at Malcolm’s face.

Dylan looked into Malcolm’s eyes, ‘DI Dylan and DS Benjamin.’

Malcolm took his feet off the table and leaned forward to greet them.

‘Right, now you’re here I’ll tell you to your faces, I’ve nothing more to say to you. I’m keeping my head down and I’m doing my stretch. Now piss off and leave me alone.’ He got up, walked to the door and nodded at the guard to let him out.

‘Malcolm, sit down. We’ve some bad news for you and there is no easy way to tell you.’ Malcolm’s eyes fixed on Dylan and he sat down. Suddenly Dylan felt guilty; Malcolm wasn’t the first to know about their investigation into the death of his wife.

‘We were called to a burnt out car in St Peter’s Park; a Renault. There was a body, burnt beyond recognition at the side of the car. We’ve now identified that body as your wife, Elizabeth Reynolds.’

‘What?’ Dylan watched Malcolm’s hands clench and his brow furrow.

‘Malcolm, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. We are doing everything possible to trace the killer. I promise.’

‘Lizzie, my Lizzie? It can’t be. ’Malcolm’s eyes swelled with tears.

‘Where’s Gemma? Where’s my daughter?’

‘She’s with Connie and Ken.’

‘Hold on, I can’t get my head round this. Why are you sure? If the body can’t be identified? How? Why would she be in the park?’ he shrieked.

‘We’re trying to find out why, Malcolm. But we’re positive it’s Liz; dental records have confirmed it to us this morning. She had withdrawn half a million pounds from the bank the day before the incident. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No, no. I’ve no idea...that’s straight up. I wouldn’t let her handle that sort of money, no way. Who the fuck would do that to Lizzie?’

‘I’ve got to ask you. It’s got nothing to do with you being in here has it?’

‘I wouldn’t leave anything...knowing I was coming in here and leaving her and Gemma alone. You need to find out what’s gone on. I want to know; otherwise you’ll have another murder on your hands when I get out. What the fuck’s happening?’ he said, running his hand through his hair.

‘Then what does Gemma do without her mum or dad, eh? Come on Malcolm what else can you tell us?’

It took a moment for him to answer.

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing.’ Malcolm sat rubbing his head in his hands. ’I’ve had no hassle in here, you can ask them,’ he nodded at the guard.

‘We’re trying to contact your mum but her neighbour tells us she’s in France.’

‘Let me tell her...I’ll ring her from ’ere.’

‘Okay. Whatever you want.’

Malcolm’s head was down. He nodded, and then turned to Dylan, biting his lip. ’So what happens now? I’ll put some feelers out see if anyone can tell me anything,’ he said.