When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel

by RC Bridgestock

  ‘We’re just trying to build a picture of Freddie’s movements,’ added Shelagh.

  ‘Come in.’ Mrs Cabe beckoned the officers into the kitchen and they followed the woman, unsteady as she was on her feet, into the dining area. ‘Tara! Get your pretty ass down here pronto! The police are here to see you.’

  Mrs Cabe moved a stack of newspapers from one chair and various items of clothing from another, and invited the police officers to sit. ‘She’s still in bed,’ she said with a shake of her head and a click of her tongue. ‘I’ll go get her. She should be out looking for a job,’ she said as she left the room.

  ‘Do you think she’s been drinking?’ whispered Shelagh.

  ‘I don’t think. I know,’ said Ned nodding in the direction of a bottle of vodka with its cap missing and a half empty bottle of lemonade on the table directly in front of him.

  Other than the overflowing ironing basket on the floor and the table scattered with cups and boxes from the nearby Indian takeaway, the room was not in bad order.

  Tara Cabe was a tall, slim, attractive girl, who appeared before them dressed in an overlarge tiger-skin print, fluffy onesie. She looked considerably older than her age. ‘Farah texted me.’ She held her mobile phone at shoulder height. ‘You’ve just been to her flat.’

  ‘Farah Ruwal?’ Mrs Cabe turned on her daughter. ‘What have I told you about knocking around with her?’

  Tara looked bored. ‘What does Auntie Joanie say mam? Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’ She turned to the police officers. ‘Living on this estate it’s better to have her as a friend than an enemy.’

  ‘Did you know Freddy Knapton?’ asked Shelagh.

  ‘Tell me someone around here who didn’t? Him and his dog, they terrified me. Another reason for having Farah as a friend, she’s twice the size of him. You don’t argue with her.’

  ‘She tells us you were one of the group who used to meet in Groggs Park. Tell me, why don’t they hang-out there anymore?’

  Tara shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. They’re just a bunch of losers anyway. Dean McIntyre, he’s top dog. Farah fancies him,’ she said with a little smirk.

  Mrs Cabe turned on her daughter. ‘You’ve not started going around with him too? God, give me strength Tara. You know he was the one who robbed your gran’s flat.’ She turned to the police officers. ‘Another that was at the back of the queue when the brains were being handed out.’

  ‘It’s called survival mam. Don’t you know?’ Tara rolled he eyes.

  ‘Who else is in this gang?’ Mrs Cabe demanded.

  ‘Harry Withers, Martin Lister, Joe Grayson, I don’t know them all, they’re all older than me.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  ‘Oh, mam.’

  ‘What did the group get up to in the park?’ asked Shelagh.

  Tara’s eyes flew to the ceiling. She pondered a moment or two. ‘They just hang around.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Smoke, drink, climb trees, mess about, talk. There’s always one of them up there to hang out with if you’re bored.’

  ‘Did you see Freddy Knapton often in the park?’

  ‘Quite often,’ she said with a little chuckle. ‘Freddy used to come through Groggs with Satan, screaming and shouting, throwing stones at us. One day they decided to bombard him with used bags, from the dog bin.’ Her lips formed a smile that immediately turned to a frown. ‘His dog attacked Courtney though. Luckily he managed to free himself, get through the park gate, shut it and leave the bloody lunatic attacking the gate. Courtney stopped coming up after that.’

  ‘Did the gang and Freddy ever come to blows?’ asked Ned.

  Tara shook her head and screwed up her face. ‘Not actually blows.’

  ‘Okay put it this way, do you know of anyone who has been physically attacked or had any reason to attack Freddy Knapton?’ responded Shelagh.

  ‘No.’ Tara sighed.

  Ned took a deep breath. ‘Who’s the artist?’

  ‘Artist?’

  ‘The graffiti in the park?’

  She took a bit of time to consider her answer. ‘I don’t know.’

  Ned bent his head towards Tara, ‘Well perhaps you might know why the gang are known for wearing hoodies – is it so that people can’t recognise them when they’re up to no good?’

  ‘Hoodies are fashionable didn’t you know?’

  ‘Farah told us it was you who had a bit of a thing for Dean McIntyre?’ Shelagh said. ‘That true?’

  ‘No way! It’s her that’s trying to get his kegs off. She’ll catch a dose one of these days the way she puts it about.’

  ‘Tara! I won’t have you talk like that,’ Mrs Cabe interrupted. ‘Not even about Farah Ruwal.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ said Tara sulkily.

  ***

  The officers drove back to the incident room for the debrief. ‘There’s no accounting for taste. Seems to me like the girls are vying for Dean McIntyre’s attention,’ said Ned to Dylan.

  ‘We asked Tara why the group stopped going up the park. But the only explanation she could give us was that it might have been because they knew the police would be all over it,’ said Shelagh.

  ‘Let’s face it we know Farah Ruwal is two sandwiches short of a picnic but I got the feeling that Tara Cabe was also telling us what she thought her mum wanted to hear,’ added Ned.

  ‘The soldiers weren’t all marching in line then?’ remarked Dylan when he heard.

  ‘Huh?’ said Shelagh.

  He smiled. ‘My dad used to say that when we were kids if we didn’t all sing from the same hymn sheet.’

  Shelagh still looked blank.

  ‘Telling the same story to get them out of a fix,’ said Vicky. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what Dean McIntyre and the others Tara named have to say to us.’

  ‘Gather the intelligence we have on this Dean McIntyre and let’s put these named others in or out of the enquiry as soon as we can. I wonder where they’re congregating now? Speak to the local support officers, they should know,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Or the PCSO. They’re getting paid overtime these days. And what do we get?’ mumbled Vicky.

  ‘Fuck all,’ said Ned.

  ‘My mate earned nearly twice as much as I did last month,’ said Shelagh. ‘Tell me what’s the point of a PCSO getting more overtime than a PC when they don’t have the powers that we do? It just doesn’t make sense.’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘The Government are bloody colour blind? How else can they justify not seeing the Thin Blue Line disappearing?’

  ‘I’ve heard we’re getting a lot of nuisance reports from Tandem Bridge railway station that began shortly after Freddy Knapton’s murder, so I made some enquiries while you guys were out and Dean McIntyre features among others known to us,’ said DS Raj. ‘The usual, bad language, rowdy youths, broken bottles and rubbish bins fired. My suggested plan would be some discreet observations there for a couple of evenings, which may see the majority of the group together. Then with the assistance of uniform we do some stop checks and find out exactly who they are, and what they were doing on the day Freddy Knapton was murdered?’

  Dylan didn’t hesitate. ‘Do it!’

  ‘I also took the initiative to do a bit more digging into Dean McIntyre.’ said Vicky. ‘He’s got previous for robbery at knifepoint and, as luck would have it, at present he is the main suspect for a robbery where a knife was used at the Elf Filling Station, about two miles from Groggs Park. The one witness we have for this attack is waiting to do a visual ID.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can get that accelerated by the VIPER unit. It shouldn't be difficult for the computer suite to facilitate it, they don't have to go out and get volunteers to stand on an identification parade anymore now they’re computerised. When I think back, the number of times we turned a whole office out, to find look-a-likes for a parade. If I heard a prisoner say, “It’s not me. Put me on a ID parade,” my heart would sink. Their
solicitors knew how hard it was to get look-a-likes and therefore we usually had to bail their client to a suitable date when we could pull one together. Hence the defendant had more time to come up with a likely story. We only had a fiver to give to a member of the general public that we could find to stand on the parade. Students and pensioners loved us, but for the others we’d have to go stand outside the benefits office. Any problems with the computer suite let me know.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘From our point of view if McIntyre is already in it makes it much easier for us to speak to him,’ said Dylan.

  ‘And once other members of the group know he’s out of the way, we may just find some of them with squeaky bums,’ Vicky said with a grin.

  Dylan shook his head and a smile crossed his face.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, it’s true.’ She wagged a finger at Dylan. ‘If the group think he might be talking to save his own skin then they might speak to us too. Going back to our attendance at the murder scene though, you said you thought someone had pre-planned the attack. Do you really think the likes of Dean McIntyre, Farah and Tara are capable of being so clever?’

  ‘We’ll only know that when we’ve interviewed them won’t we? One thing’s for sure, there won’t be any short cuts, the interviewing and elimination of suspects will need structure. The usual attention needs to be set on clearing the ground beneath our feet before moving on.’

  ***

  ‘Tomorrow is another day’ – Dylan read out the wording on the sign in his office. He turned off the light and headed home.

  Jen awaited Dylan with the news that she had been to see the consultant at the hospital. Her voice was shaking.

  His mood changed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going. I’d have gone with you?’

  ‘Don’t be cross. It was something I needed to do on my own.’ She reached out for the leaflets she had been given, gathered them together in her hands and dropped them like a hot potato in front of him. ‘I will be given medication that will trigger off my labour. I will deliver our child naturally.’

  Jen saw Dylan’s face pale and she know it was more than he could take in. Sitting down with a thump on the chair, he put his briefcase down on the floor and put his hands to his face.

  ‘There is no room for discussion,’ said Jen softly. ‘We can’t hide from it anymore. We’ve talked about it. There is nothing else to say. We’ve spoken to doctors, nurses, the charity who supports couples like us and we both know there is nothing else to be done.’

  Dylan nodded his head sadly. ‘I know, you’re right. What’s next?’ He looked defeated.

  ‘I would like to name our son.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes, and I want to hold him in my arms, I want to know what he looks like, I want to feel close to him even if it’s only for a while. I want him to know we love him and we will never forget him. I want to say hello; I want to say goodbye.’ Tears streamed down Jen’s face.

  ‘And when can this happen?’ Dylan was resigned to the fact.

  ‘Tomorrow. Unless.’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘Unless you can’t make it.’

  Dylan shook his head and reached out to hold her hand. ‘I’m sorry. If I seem to have been pre-occupied. I didn’t know what to say to you. How to say it. In true Dylan style I’ve been keeping myself busy, on purpose, so I didn’t have to think about, the inevitable. I would like to do all the things that you want to do. I’d like to call him Joe, after my dad.’

  ‘Joe, that’s nice. Joe it is then.’ Jen touched her stomach.

  For the first time in days he saw a brief glimpse of a smile pass Jen’s lips. ‘Joe Dylan,’ she said softly. ‘I like that.’

  Bone-tired, Jen washed up the pots and said good night to Dylan who she left staring at the TV screen in the lounge. The room was silent. Dylan often watched TV without the sound to detach his mind from recalling terrible images that he had witnessed during the day but she knew this time it was different. Jen climbed the stairs with a heaviness in her heart that she had never felt before but the weight on her shoulders was lesser. She stood at Maisy’s bedroom window, looking at the night sky and she prayed. Where was her mum when she needed her? The brightest star in the sky twinkled brightly and with tears in her eyes she sat down beside Maisy’s bed and put her hand on her little girl, feeling her warm body through the sheet. She listened to her rhythmic, shallow breathing. Sleepily, she put her head upon the duvet and softly cried herself to sleep.

  When Dylan went to bed some time later, he saw by the light of Maisy’s night light that Jen lay there. Softly, he padded in his stocking feet across the little girl’s bedroom carpet and gently lifted Jen up into his arms. In her sleepy state she didn’t object but allowed him to take her to their room and lay her down on the bed. She was cold to his touch. He climbed into bed fully clothed and drew Jen towards him. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After a couple of fitful hours Dylan woke to hear the handle of the bedroom door being turned. Jen looked to see Dylan rise up on his elbow. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she whispered. ‘It’s only half past five. I’ll bring you a coffee in an hour.’ With that she crept out of the door. He heard her footsteps on the landing. Max greeted her at the foot of the stairs with a low, gruff bark. Following her into the kitchen he stood by the back door. She opened it and let him out. Dylan lay still for a while but his mind was active. He went to the bathroom, got dressed and went downstairs. There was a pleasant aroma of baking.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Dylan wearily noting the scones and buns covering the worktops. Jen turned suddenly, her hands full of dough. She wiped her cheek with a floury hand and went back to the job in hand without speaking, threw the dough on the worktop and kneaded it with her knuckles as fiercely as she could.

  ‘Bread, I’m baking bread,’ she said eventually.

  ‘But you don’t need to make bread Jen, today of all days.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, I do!’ she said clapping her hands together to release a flurry of flour. Jen went to the tap and filled the kettle. She noticed Dylan’s strained face. He gave her a knowing smile. ‘Eggs and bacon for breakfast?’ she said.

  ‘Whatever you want to give me,’ he replied. When Jen had made her mind up he knew there was no stopping her. If this was how she was to cope with what was facing her today he would not interfere. ‘You okay?’

  ‘If you mean do I feel okay?’ she said sitting down next to him as he drank his coffee. ‘Yes.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What choice do I have?’

  Saddened, Dylan didn’t taste the hearty breakfast but was thankful for the sustenance. ‘If it’s okay with you I’ll go in to work this morning, see what’s happening and pick you up at lunchtime to take you to the hospital?’

  Jen looked across at his attire. ‘Well I didn’t think you’d be wearing a shirt and tie if not,’ she said, as a sleepy Maisy, teddy under her arm walked through the door. Jen rose to pick her up. She sat her on her knee and cuddled her tight. Maisy wiggled in her mother’s arms. ‘And you little lady are going to stay at Chantall’s for a sleepover.’ She tickled her daughter. ‘How exciting is that?’ she said to the now giggling little girl.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Dylan.

  ‘I’m certain. When Maisy comes home, it’ll all be over and we will be back to normal.’ Jen was busily preparing Maisy’s breakfast.

  ‘And you’re sure you don’t want me to get your Dad and Thelma to come up from the Isle of Wight for a few days? They’d be here like a shot if we asked them.’

  Jen came to stand at the foot of the table. ‘I know they would.’ She expelled air from pursed lips. ‘But how many times do I have to tell you I want as few people as possible to know about the baby and most definitely not my Dad.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Dylan held his hands up in the air. Jen gave him a gentle shove.

  ‘Now get off to work and out from under our feet while we get
Maisy’s overnight bag ready. ‘What do you say Maisy?’

  Maisy nodded her head and with a squeal ran towards the stairs.

  ***

  Dylan walked like a man on a mission as he entered his office. The phone was ringing. He answered it.

  ‘Dylan, it’s Terry Hawk,’ the North Yorkshire DI said. ‘I want to release some stills of the people we’ve got on CCTV seen talking to Cedric Oakley at York Races. Have you got a problem with that?’

  Still standing Dylan flipped through the paperwork in his tray and pulled out the stills of the race meeting. ‘No, that sounds like a good idea to me.’

  ‘We’ve got some information from a friend of Oakley’s who tells us the girl at the bar, seen flirting with the old man is believed to be from an escort agency. Any intelligence on your enquiry that suggests any involvement with escort girls?’

  Dylan scowled. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Didn’t think so but I thought I’d check. We’re scrutinising Oakley’s bank records, credit card usage and his mobile, but as you know only too well, to get results takes time.’

  One of the problems with the investigation at Merton Manor was that the fire had been so intense and destructive that Dylan and his team didn’t have the luxury of documents to seize and examine as did their colleagues in North Yorkshire. All that remained at the home of Jake and Leah Isaac was a pile of blackened debris. The majority of which was ash. Even the Isaac’s cars, housed at the time in the attached double garage were burnt out shells. The fire had done what the perpetrators had hoped it would do – destroyed evidence but, thankfully, not all the evidence.

  They were in the process of creating a pen picture of the couple from knowledge gathered from work colleagues, accountants, solicitors, doctors, dentists. The list was seemingly endless as the officers would ask questions of anyone they felt could assist in the enquiry, whether they wished to speak to them or not.’