When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel

by RC Bridgestock

  ‘Assuming his murder was dog related...’ Ned’s voice was a slow, low drawl. Elbow on the desk he looked down and combed his fingers through his thick, greasy hair. When he sat back in his chair he looked like he’d been dragged through a wind tunnel.

  ‘Ah, but we never assume do we boss?’ said Vicky with a cock of her head.

  ‘No, and Ned, you should know better,’ Dylan said, collecting his paperwork together. He stood to leave. ‘Ned, my office, now.’ Ned looked up at Dylan his hooded eyes widened.

  ‘What?’ he mouthed as Dylan walked away. He dropped his pen and stood, dragging his feet as he made the lonely walk to the boss’s office.

  Dylan was sitting behind his desk. ‘Shut the door behind you and sit down,’ he said sternly. Momentarily he was distracted by papers that had been left on his desk. He signed them and cast them into his out tray before he turned his attention to Ned. He leaned towards him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing sir,’ Ned stuttered. His red rimmed eyes looked down at his hands.

  ‘Nothing?’ Dylan nodded and pursed his lips. ‘Okay, let me rephrase that. Look at yourself? No-one’s denying you’re a bloody good detective. But, just look at the state of you?’

  Ned glanced up to the ceiling, took a deep breath, and looked back at Dylan with puppy dog eyes. He slouched in his chair, sighing.

  ‘You’ve a choice, you either tell me what’s going on so that I can try to help, or carry on as you are and you’ll be off the enquiry and out of CID before you can say Sir Robert Peel!’

  Ned’s eyes stared at Dylan, unblinking, he looked as if he might cry. Knowing he was in a mess was one thing, but having the reality of the consequences of his actions spelt out to him, shocked him. ‘Sir, I need your help. I’m in a bit of bother.’

  Dylan eyed him suspiciously. ‘What kind of bother?’

  ‘Women trouble.’ Ned leaned forward and shuffling about on his seat he produced the envelope he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He withdrew a piece of paper, unfolded it and handed it to Dylan.

  When Dylan had finished reading the letter he looked directly at Ned, questioningly.

  ‘A policewoman I slept with, she sent it to my wife,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Is what serious?’ Ned looked puzzled.

  ‘The affair?’

  ‘God no! A drunken grope in a car park one night.’ He looked sheepish at Dylan’s raised eyebrow. ‘Well, you get the picture.’

  ‘And this, policewoman, she’s obviously read more into this coupling?’

  ‘She’s bloody obsessive. Rings constantly. The calling at the Freddie Knapton murder scene that you witnessed, that was her. She wants me to leave my wife.’ Ned had a look of desperation. ‘I’ve told her. I love my wife. I love my kids. I have no intention of leaving ‘em.’

  ‘Okay okay, look,’ Dylan said looking down at the piece of paper that told Ned’s wife her husband was playing away from home. ‘You need to go see this woman.’

  Ned opened his mouth as if he was about to say something but Dylan silenced him.

  ‘I want you to go see her and tell her what she has done by sending this to your wife. This is misconduct in a public office.’ Dylan told him flatly. ‘Tell her if this harassment continues,’ he said shaking the letter in mid-air. ‘If she doesn’t stop playing with fire, let her know you’ve told me and you’ll also tell her supervisor if it doesn’t stop.’ Dylan’s voice thickened with anger. ‘Then go and see your wife; get down on your bloody knees if need be, and ask her for her forgiveness.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Ned said. He stood to take the letter that Dylan offered. ‘What shall I do with it?’

  Dylan considered the detectives question then shrugged his shoulders ‘Whatever you like.’

  Ned seemed reluctant to take it from Dylan’s hand. His eyes went to the filing cabinet.

  ‘Do you want me to keep it locked away, just in case this doesn’t go away?’

  Ned nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. Standing to leave he smiled wearily. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Dylan waved a hand. ‘Get out and don’t come back until you can give me one hundred and ten percent. I’ve two major investigations on the go and I could well do without the added drama.’

  ‘Right sir. Er... Thanks.’

  ‘And remember,’ Dylan told him when Ned put his hand on the door handle. ‘If you can’t cut it, I have officers only too willing to step into your shoes.’

  The Knapton investigation was up and running smoothly. Dylan needed to concentrate on the shootings at Merton Manor and bring some urgency to the investigation. It had been the headline story on the front page of every national newspaper.

  ***

  ‘Come on Firepower!’ Damien screamed at the top of his drunken voice. His face was almost the colour purple. His eyes bulging.

  The commentator was shouting five words a second over the tannoy, and Firepower was in the lead; one furlong from home. Arms raised, sweating profusely and waving frantically with the abandonment that comes with great excitement, Damien hurled himself through the crowd, who seemed only too pleased to step out of the lunatic’s way. Finally, he was at the front of the enclosure.

  Amid the jostling of the five thousand-strong crowd, moving forward upon a wave, trying to get closer to the track, Declan glanced down at the betting slip in his hand and held it even tighter. Then there was one almighty cry. A Mexican wave of a groan, amongst an almighty cheer.

  Firepower had been pulled up two lengths ahead of the others and Declan could only listen to the verbal diarrhoea of the commentator relaying the facts. Annoyed and angry, Declan looked towards the club lounge balcony to see Cedric Oakley looking down on him. Eyes brimming full of cheer the old man raised his glass. Declan knew he’d been had. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with,’ he mouthed at Cedric Oakley.

  Declan was unsmiling. Damien noticed his brother’s anger but he wouldn’t let it spoil his day. ‘Come on bro,’ he said swinging his arm around Declan’s neck. ‘You’d already chosen that horse. You win some, you lose some.’ Damien lowered his voice. ‘Let’s face it, it’s the manor house money, not ours. We’re at the races and he’s taken you for a ride.’

  Declan appeared to process the information and his mouth turned up at the edges. ‘You’re right. We’ll sort him later.’ His eyes raised towards the balcony. Cedric Oakley had disappeared inside.

  ‘Which horse shall we bet on in the next race?’ Damien said digging his newspaper out of his pocket with a sweaty hand. ‘Did m’laddo give you another tip?’

  Nancy’s face blanched at the cold look on Declan’s serious face.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Firepower, he definitely told me to put money on Firepower – I know I didn’t mishear him.’

  Declan put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief squeeze. ‘Hey don’t apologise. I’m a patient man me.’

  ‘It was a lot of money,’ she said her eyes wide brimming with tears.

  ‘Doesn’t matter Nancy,’ said Damien. ‘Win or lose we’ll have some booze.’ And with that he grabbed Nancy around the waist and, lifting her off the ground, he spun around and around until dizzy they fell onto a heap on the grass laughing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dylan was on the telephone being updated with regard to the ballistics findings; the science that deals with the motion of projectiles - not just bullets but also shells, rockets and aerial bombs. For now, he was only interested in certain bullets, the ones recovered in connection with the murders of Jake and Leah Isaacs and their unborn child.

  ‘All the ammunition was nine millimetre,’ said Clancy Mason. ‘The rifling, however, on the recovered casings, was different which shows us that two different semi-automatic weapons were used to fire the shells. Both weapons are believed to be Smith and Wesson though, and enquires are in progress to see if there is a match on the national database.’

  ‘Which may tell us if either of the guns have been used o
n any other crimes,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Clancy.

  ‘Well, that’s a step in the right direction and it makes me believe that at least two people were involved.’

  ‘Looks that way Dylan,’ said Clancy.

  For a few minutes after he had put the phone down to Clancy, Dylan considered the implications of more than one murderer and proving who had done what.’

  There was a tap at his door and seeing his Detective Sergeant through the glass he motioned for Jon Summers to enter.

  ‘Doctors have just confirmed to us that Leah Isaac was thirty-six weeks pregnant, sir.’

  Dylan made the comparison with his and Jen’s babies gestation. Vicky came to stand at Jon’s side.

  ‘Would you like a coffee boss?’ she said holding up a mug in her hand. Her presence broke Dylan’s reverie. At his nod she walked in and put the drink on the corner of his desk.

  ‘Also, I am told the Isaacs didn’t want to be told the sex of their child but her recent scan confirmed it was a boy,’ Jon continued.

  Vicky stopped as she walked back towards the door and looked from Jon, back at Dylan.

  ‘The child was capable of being born alive and to be independent of its mother.’ Dylan said softly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said in a quiet voice.

  ‘So, we now do have a triple murder investigation on our hands.’

  ‘Not that it will make a difference to the determination of the team sir,’ said Jon.

  ‘You’re right there. But whoever they are they’ve stepped up into a different league. I fear we won’t have heard the last of them. By the way did we manage to get any uniform seconded to any of the teams?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jon.

  ‘Without an argument?’ Dylan asked with a look of surprise.

  ‘Inspector Stonestreet let us have PC Shelagh MacPhee, sir. He thought it would be good for her development as she has shown an interest in joining CID – he rates her.’

  ‘Shelagh MacPhee?’ said Vicky. The tone of her voice sounded unusually high to Dylan’s ears.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with MacPhee?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Vicky, a big grin appeared on her face. ‘She’s a canny wee thing is our Shelagh.’

  ‘You’ve worked with her before?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Yes, she hadn’t been in Harrowfield long when I was called to the address of a suspected sudden death. You know the usual,’ she said, her head swaying to and fro. ‘An old lady hadn’t been seen for a number of days. It was early turn, seven o’clock and Shelagh was in the company of a police cadet.’ Vicky chuckled.

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Dylan, leaning back in his chair. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  Jon leaned on the door jamb and Vicky quickly sat down.

  ‘It was hilarious. The house was a terraced. There were no lights on and all the curtains were closed - basically, there were no signs of life. The milk on the doorstep had stacked up for days and the post could be seen on the door mat, through the letter box. The only option, as Shelagh saw it, was to break in. So, using the mighty rubber torch,’ Vicky said, raising her arm, ‘Shelagh smashes the kitchen window and gets a leg-up from the cadet. Shelagh, by the way happens to have stockings on at the time, according to the cadet’s version of events. She told him to cover his eyes.’ Vicky giggled. ‘She climbed in at the window and put her foot straight into the kitchen sink.’ Vicky looked at her audience’s blank faces. ‘Come on! Imagine the scene, we’ve all been there. It’s pitch black, shards of glass everywhere. Next thing Shelagh jumps down onto the kitchen floor and she hears a low, deep, groan.’ Vicky put her hand to her mouth to stop herself laughing out loud. ‘She’s only landed on top of the poor woman hadn’t she?’ she laughed out loud before becoming more serious. ‘Fortunately for Shelagh, the woman was dead and it was the air trapped in her body that she had disturbed. The smell in the house was horrendous.’ A grimace crossed her face and she gagged. ‘I can still smell it now.’ Vicky’s eyes lit up again. ‘Anyway, it gets worse. Shelagh opens the door to the cadet and they call CID, me, out. This old lady turns out to be a hoarder and Shelagh and the Cadet are there for a couple of days counting over two thousand pounds in cash that she has neatly folded and put into crisp packets.’ Vicky appeared to reflect. ‘Good things sure come in small bulk, as Shelagh would say. You’ll like her – she’s top bollocks, as Ned’d say.’

  ***

  For Dylan to be satisfied that they were on top of things there was a lot of information that he required. He sat opposite Jon Summers, DC Wormald and PC Shelagh MacPhee.

  ‘Take this down. We need to chase up who the Isaac’s contracted to do the renovation work and that means, builders, joiners, painters and decorators. You get my drift?’ Dylan counted on his fingers. ‘Number one, what do we know about them? Number two, have we traced them and if not why not? Number three, when were they last at the house?’ Dylan’s hand fell to his lap. ‘I’ve been told the crime prevention officer visited the Isaac’s. I want to know why and what advice he gave them.’ Eagerness, and the need to move the enquiry forward thickened his voice. ‘These are basic enquiries in these early stages of the murder and they need completing quickly. My advice to you is never assume anything -rely only on fact. For instance, while it appears that Jake Isaac is the father of the child; and there is absolutely nothing at this time that suggested otherwise, we need to be a hundred per cent sure he is. DNA for comparison has been taken from the remains. Of course if it turns out that the baby isn’t his then we must consider whether his wife had an affair. Is there anything else?’ The rest of the group shook their heads and got up to leave. ‘Close the door behind you,’ he said. Dylan picked up his telephone, ‘Dylan, I want to speak to crime prevention officer DC Rupert Charles as a matter of urgency.’

  Within thirty minutes Detective Constable Rupert Charles appeared at Dylan’s office door. He was in his late forties, dressed in a custom made suit, Windsor knot to his striped tie, a tip-up matching handkerchief in his breast pocket, and engraved cufflinks to finish off his dapper attire.

  ‘Good morning sir. Frightfully sorry for the delay. A meeting with the crown.’

  ‘The Crown?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, not royalty sir, the dentist. I’ve become what they call “long in the tooth.”’ Rupert laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Better late than never,’ said Dylan taking a sip of his drink. He looked at Rupert curiously over the rim of the mug. ‘Take a seat.’ Dylan gestured towards the chair opposite and when Rupert sat he rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about the Isaac’s.’

  Rupert took a deep invigorating breath. ‘Just over two months ago I was contacted by Jake Isaac who asked me if I would could call to see him at his home address.’ He looked away momentarily as though remembering the visit. ‘Beautiful, beautiful property it was. He and his wife had recently finished the renovation of the manor house and they were excited about the birth of their first child, which had prompted them to review their security.’ His eyebrows knitted together.

  ‘So what were they looking for?’

  ‘Jake Isaac showed me around the property, his wife left more or less as soon as I arrived for a hair appointment. He pointed out to me two safe deposit boxes. One concealed, using the facade of books on a shelf near the fireplace in the dining room area that his father had had installed some time ago. He was thinking of electronic gates, and cameras at the bottom of the driveway. They were looking at CCTV around the exterior of the house. He also wanted a panic room and was quite willing to forgo a bedroom to accommodate it.’

  Dylan blew a slow, low whistle through his teeth. ‘Pretty serious stuff then? Was there any reason given that would make him need to go to such lengths for their safety?’

  ‘No, not that he made me aware. But, he was striving to have the work completed before the baby was born. I’m surprised that the work was not in progress.’

  �
�Do we know what security consultancy he was instructing?’

  ‘No, unfortunately I don’t. However, the document I’d prepared does include a few local companies that I recommended. Now, whether the local contractors might have found one or two of their requests a bit ambitious I don’t know.’

  ‘I guess there isn’t much call for panic rooms in Merton,’ said Dylan.

  ‘No sir,’ he said popping the paperwork he had prepared on the edge of Dylan’s desk.

  ‘Thank you. They will all be subject of a call from us.’

  ‘In the document I have also included a copy of my report to them and advice given.’

  ‘Did you take any photographs?’ said Dylan.

  He gave Dylan a self-satisfying smile. ‘In the appendix,’ Rupert Charles said. ‘Two dozen to be exact. These include images of the exterior and interior of the house which I have marked with suggested possible locations for the alarms, cameras etcetera.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Dylan, picking up the file. He flicked through it before looking up at Rupert. ‘This may be the most up-to-date imaging record we get prior to the fire.’

  ‘In all honesty sir I cannot understand why the Isaac’s hadn’t moved forward on the security plans. Money didn’t appear to be an issue.’ His eyes grew round. ‘The interior of the property was awash with luxury fittings and antiques.’ Rupert’s face suddenly paled. ‘If only they’d acted sooner.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t their fault. Maybe they had agreed the work with contractors with a future date to proceed?’

  ‘Of course that’s a possibility,’ said Rupert studiously. ‘Mr Isaac didn’t give me the impression that he would sit on the project. His mind was most definitely made-up. If only...’