When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel

by RC Bridgestock

  Dylan was in no mood for talking. His office door firmly shut, a sign that staff knew meant he didn’t want to be disturbed. He looked up from his computer screen to see through the glass in the door, DC Wormald hovering. He beckoned him in. ‘Did you want to speak?’

  ‘Yes, sir but I didn’t want to disturb you,’ Andy said noticing Dylan tapping his desk with his fingertips. He looked wary. Dylan reassured him. ‘The closed door is because I won’t be in this afternoon and I have a lot of work to get through before I go. Jon will be taking the debrief. Will it wait?’

  ‘DS Summer’s is working lates sir and we’ve just had a call into the incident room from a motorist who had been driving past Merton Manor at the time of the fire. I thought you might like to know about it?’

  ‘Go on.’

  The caller tells us she saw a blue Mercedes pull out of the driveway. She remembered the car for two reasons, one because it was clean, bright, new looking, and the other because she had to slow down as it pulled out in front of her, in haste. She was one of a number of people who telephoned the fire-brigade.’ In Andy’s eyes Dylan could see a glimmer of excitement. He quickly moved on. ‘Another caller tells us that they saw a vehicle in a lay-by overlooking the manor house from the top road. He remembered the car because the fire came into view below in the distance, as he passed it. This vehicle was described as a blue Mercedes saloon.’

  ‘Both positive lines of enquiry. The lay-by where the car was seen. I want it searched. A sighting of the car leaving the scene at the time of the fire – Excellent! Which way did the witness say the vehicle turned on exiting Merton Manor?’

  ‘To the right sir, towards the moors and the motorway network.’

  Dylan’s spirits were lifted. ‘So the car in the lay-by could have been one and the same. There will be cameras on the approach to the motorway. Find me a blue Mercedes with a showroom finish and get me that witness statement to read asap. Ask both witnesses if there is anything else they can remember, no matter how trivial it may seem.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Andy turned to leave.

  ‘While you’re on it, is someone checking to see if there have been any reports of a Mercedes being found burnt out, or stolen? If so where, when and what colour?’

  On Andy’s exit, Dylan could hear the buzz of the incident room outside, Vicky had just walked in with Shelagh. The familiar banter brought him out of his despair for a brief moment. ‘Leave the door open, and thanks Andy,’ he said, needing normality.

  ‘Fancy a brew?’ called out Vicky. Dylan couldn’t help but smile as he watched her throw down her shopping bags and sit at her desk.’

  ‘That would be great,’ he shouted back.

  ‘Ned!’ Dylan saw her calling over her shoulder. ‘Put kettle on. Boss wants a brew and mine’s a black coffee. Two sugars. No make that three,’ she added. ‘I need the energy.’

  Vicky staggered into Dylan’s office. ‘Andy called me about the Mercedes so I’ve been to the garage off the slip road to the MI on my way in.’ Vicky dropped down onto a chair. ‘The girl behind the counter, she can’t half talk. And, I’ve got a throat like bloody sandpaper.’

  ‘Have they got CCTV?’

  ‘Yes, requested,’ she said, with a grin. ‘We’re hoping we might pick up the blue Merc refuelling or the occupants using the loo.’

  Dylan smiled.

  ‘Why are you smiling? I always stop there to use their loo before I go onto the MI.’

  ‘You remind me of Jen. She plans our journeys around the toilets en route, especially when she’s preg...’ Dylan stopped, his face saddened.

  ‘When’s it happening?’ Vicky’s voice lowered. Her eyes were downcast.

  ‘This afternoon.’ Dylan’s voice cracked with emotion. Ned walked in with two cups of coffee and put them down on the corner of Dylan’s desk.

  ‘Milk?’ Vicky turned abruptly to her colleague.

  Dylan immediately picked up his cup and put it to his trembling lip.

  ‘You said black?’ said Ned. ‘Make up yer mind.’

  ‘Women’s prerogative to change her mind, especially when that woman is your boss,’ she said winking at him.

  Ned stamped out of the office grumbling under his breath.

  Dylan’s eye’s met Vicky’s over the rim of his cup. ‘Thanks,’ he said, appearing more composed.

  ‘The woman witness recalling a Merc coming out of the driveway at the time of the fire... Isn’t it strange how some people recall something like that happening well after the event?’ said Vicky.

  ‘Yes, but she might have noted it at the time and thought little of it, a minor detail, until we asked if she remembered anything else. Now to us, that minor detail could be of significant importance, but to her it was just a car leaving the driveway of Merton Manor that she may have seen happen a hundred times before.’

  ‘Or it could have been something in particular that triggered her memory, like the speed?’

  ‘I remember a job some years ago when a woman was the subject of a vicious cash point robbery, she gave us a great description of her attacker and we did an e-fit. On the same day we locked someone up. Officers went to inform her of the arrest and tell her that they had recovered her credit card. They also wanted to inform her of the fact that he had a tattoo on his face which was readily visible and ask her why she hadn’t mentioned it? Would you believe that her immediate response on answering the door to the officers was, “He’s got a swallow tattoo on his right cheek. I remembered seeing it when I saw you at the door.”’

  ‘I’ve taken statements to similar effect. In that instance was the guy found guilty?’

  ‘Yes, but the defence claimed he had found the woman’s credit card and they went overboard about the fact that she hadn’t mentioned the tattoo at the time of making her initial statement, and in fact not until their client was arrested. The defence alleged that the witness was shown a picture of the offender. Therefore, they wanted the judge to exclude her evidence, but he wouldn’t, and he left it to the jury to make their mind up as to whether she was telling the truth or not.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘She certainly was and he was proved to have previous. Although that couldn’t be revealed to the jury at the time. He got put away for four and half years.’

  ‘And that’s why we interview witnesses more than once.’

  ‘In my experience it appears people remember all sorts of things when we, the interviewers start talking about sounds, feelings on the day, the weather, how they think other people would describe what had happened and getting them to start at the end of the incident and work back.’

  ‘Cognitive interviewing; let’s hope she suddenly remembers the registered number,’ Vicky smirked.

  ‘And then where would the challenge be for us?’ Dylan cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘It appears, according to her statement, that the only other thing the witness could tell us about the Mercedes was that the blue was a royal blue,’ said Vicky, wafting a single piece of paper in her hand. ‘And we are lucky because she was more aware then most, having previously worked in a car showroom.’

  ‘And we’re sure she doesn’t suffer from colour blindness?’

  Vicky looked puzzled.

  ‘It doesn’t occur often these days but Faulty Trichromatic Vision is the technical terminology. Reduced sensitivity to green light is the most common, followed by red, and blue being the rarest. So if you ever get major discrepancies between witnesses on a colour, that could be the reason.’

  ‘That could be so unintentionally misleading.’ Vicky’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Talking of what they saw, neither witness can say anything about the occupants of the car,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Not unusual, but what I think needs to be done now is for them both to point out a car which is the exact same colour, don’t you?’ added Dylan.

  ‘And the model they had seen if they are confident in doing so?’

  ‘Yes agreed. I
want to be absolutely sure about the description of the vehicle before we appeal to the public for more information. I’ve asked Andy to get the lay-by searched where the car was seen by the second witness, any waste paper, cigarette butts, cans, bottles collected. If we are lucky enough to get a registration number from the CCTV available in the area...’

  ‘Then our task is to locate it.’ Vicky said matter-of-factly.

  Dylan was pleased with the progress on both enquiries, each had started gathering momentum and were focussed. Vicky updated him on the Knapton enquiry.

  ‘By the way, the witness from the Elf filling station is coming in to the VIPER Unit tomorrow to view the suspects. Wonder if she’ll pick out Dean McIntyre?’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  ‘At least the poor woman won’t have to go through the dreadful scenario of having to walk down a line-up and touch the shoulder of the one she recognises as the person she saw committing the crime. Can you imagine what that must have been like for a rape or an attempted murder victim in the past?’

  ‘No, the computerisation of identification parades, with its visual suspects, really does test the witnesses but in a safe and none intimidating environment.’

  ‘Do you remember the two way mirror they used at one time?’

  ‘I remember it well. At that time the witness or victim could view the suspect on the line-up without them being able to see them.’

  ‘Trouble is nowadays the computer images available are so strikingly similar I don’t think I could pick out the real Ned.’ Vicky leaned forward and looked out of the window in the office door. She waved at Ned Granger from where she sat. She turned to Dylan and screwed up her nose. ‘Oh, I don’t know though. There could never be another Ned Granger, could there?’ she said with a laugh. ‘More?’ she said lifting her cup. Ned stuck a middle finger in the air. Dylan and Vicky shared a smile.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jen sat nervously waiting for Dylan to arrive home, clutching the forever baby blanket she had made to wrap their son in. She looked down at the closely knit wool. Oh, how she had never wanted it to be finished, for as long as she was making it her baby was still alive. She rubbed her finger gently over the delicate sky blue, silk stitching of his initials and lifted it to her cheek to feel it’s softness. How many tears had fallen on it she did not know, and could not tell, but they were there woven into the fabric as was her love.

  Her eyes were drawn to her small suitcase that stood upright at the front door.

  Max lay beside her on the sofa, his sleepy head rested on her lap. She ruffled the fur behind his ears and his big, brown, trusting eyes opened wide, rewarding her with a look of unconditional love.

  The sound of silence that ensued was calming and with it she was lulled into a sense of peace. She sat back, put her hand on her stomach and closed her eyes. Suddenly Max flinched, his’s ears shot up at the sound of a vehicle approaching and Jen leaned forward to see out of the window. Was it Dylan? Her heart began racing. This was it. But it was the red post van that pulled up outside. She saw the postman get out of the van and stroll across the front lawn. She heard a knock. Max barked twice but didn’t bother to get up. The milkman parked up when the postman drew away from the curb and, jumping off his milk cart whistling, she heard the patter of his feet that quickened to a run down the path to the back door. A clink of bottles meant he had taken the empties. Everyone around her was going about their usual business but her day was far from normal.

  Jen sat on the edge of the seat and looked around the room -she took a deep breath. Her very first home of her own. The place where she had found sanctuary, fleeing the Isle of Wight after being dumped by her childhood sweetheart. Shaun had decided he couldn’t live with a woman who had been told she would never have children. She had thought at the time she would never feel happy again. But this house held so many happy memories. In this room she and Dylan had shared their first kiss. There had been love, laughter, Christmases, and birthday celebrations shared. And then Maisy had come along quite unexpectedly; Maisy filled Dylan and Jen’s lives with insurmountable joy. Swallowing a sob, she leaned forward and puffed up the cushion behind her ready to leave everything in its rightful place when she left for the hospital.

  Although she had told Dylan that she was okay, he needn’t worry about her, inside her heart was breaking.

  Dylan gazed across at Jen’s pale face when he entered the lounge. Feeling her pain, he walked across to her, she stood as if in slow motion, not a scrap of emotion on her face. He opened his arms and she walked into them. His heart swelled with love for her. He so badly wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay, that he could make it all better. But he couldn’t. Instead his expression stiffened and he found the strength as he always did behind the mask of the detective. Without speaking, Jen pulled herself away from him and picking up her coat that lay on the arm of the settee, next to the door, she walked into the hall. She bent down to pick up the suitcase but Dylan, coming up silently behind her, snatched it up. He opened the front door for her and she stepped over the threshold. She heard her own footsteps clip, clip, on the paving stones and the rhythm was somewhat soothing. Then she heard the slam of the front door behind her; she flinched, the key was turned in the lock, she stopped, Dylan’s footsteps came behind her, and then she felt his encouraging hand in the small of her back push her towards the car.

  ***

  Joe Dylan was fifteen weeks and four days when he was delivered naturally. His tiny, lifeless body was the same weight as a classic bar of chocolate, he measured the length of ball point pen. He was surprisingly well formed. Dylan looked into Jen’s teary eyes and shook his head. He swallowed hard. For the longest, deepest moment, the silence was awesome. Jen tenderly took her baby from the midwife. Half blinded by her own tears, Jen gazed at the small face then she put him to her bare chest and, digging her head back in her pillow, her heart-wrenching cry bounced off the walls of the small delivery room, striking fear into Dylan’s heart. This long serving police officer, negotiator, hadn’t got the words of comfort for his wife – he had never felt so inept. Half an hour later Dylan took their son from his wife, in his strong, safe hands and, saying goodbye, he handed Joe back to the nurse who tenderly took him away. Dylan lay on the bed and held his wife in his arms. Sobbing, she clutched at his shirt as if she would never let it go until she was exhausted. When he pulled away from her and tilted her red, tearstained face up to his he looked into her stricken eyes. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said. She raised her clenched hand and laid it open on his face.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said, as a little sob that sounded more like a hiccup escaped from her lips.

  Dylan put his hand over hers and squeezed it tightly. He shut his eyes for one brief moment and felt her warm breath on his face. Kissing her forehead, he brushed away damp tendrils of hair. ‘Try to rest for a while. I promise we will never, ever forget our little Joe.’

  Jen smiled at him wistfully. ‘I know we won’t. I love you,’ she said closing her eyes.

  ‘I love you more,’ he said softly.

  ***

  As Dylan walked in the office early the next morning Vicky walked in behind him. ‘Am I dreaming,’ he said. Then he looked her up and down. ‘Or haven’t you been home?’

  ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. Actually, I thought I’d come in early and make you a morning cuppa, make sure you’re okay?’ her voice trailed into nothing but a whisper. ‘Talk to me?’

  ‘There is nothing to say,’ he said. His lips formed a straight line. ‘It’s over. He was a beautiful little baby boy.’ Dylan dismissed her sympathy to keep his self-control. ‘So, I know why I’m in early.’ With suspicion written on his face he said, ‘What’s the real reason you are?’

  Vicky took a deep breath. There was no point in pushing him, Dylan didn’t want to talk. ‘Dean McIntyre, we got a positive identification for the robbery at the garage. So I want to make sure everyone is doing their bit, myself included, so he
can be locked up this morning.’

  The briefest smile crossed his lips. ‘Good news,’ he said, his words punching the air. ‘That’s a positive.’

  ‘Too right. Am I right in presuming that you’re going to switch the kettle on then?’

  ‘Why not, I called in at the butchers and got some pork dripping.’

  ‘By ‘eck you know how to treat a man. When I were a young detective it was common place at briefings, a plate full of toast and dripping. Even the local pubs used to have it on the bar alongside black pudding.’

  Vicky pulled a face. ‘Black pudding? Pig’s blood and fat. That must be a real artery clogger. I don’t know how you’re still here.’

  ‘And then there was the salt... No doubt to ensure we ordered plenty to drink to quench the thirst.’

  ‘As if detectives needed an excuse to drink.’

  ‘True, it’s a good job you weren’t born earlier. We lived off tripe and elder, pigs trotters, sheep’s eyes and brains on the farm when I was young. Pigs ears were for the dogs as well as all the bits we didn’t eat, and that fed the cats too. There was no waste; not with a family of seven and the grandparents living with us at one time.’

  ‘My dog would have been obese.’ Vicky laughed out loud.

  ‘Yeah, well people do say that dogs look like their owners.’

  ‘And some people might get burnt toast if they’re not careful.’

  Ned Granger threw open the door from the outer office. ‘Get a move on Sarge, we’re about ready for morning briefing. Are you making that dripping and toast or not?’

  ‘Not, you are.’ Vicky proffered a fake smile.

  Ned shuffled off towards the kitchen mumbling to himself as he did so.

  Vicky turned to Dylan, took the papers from under her arm and hurriedly slid them across the desk to him. ‘I’ve done you a précis of events that took place yesterday.’

  There was a pause. When he looked up his face was pained. Dylan nodded his appreciation. He sat back in his big old leather chair and picked them up. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve read through them.’