Deadly Focus

by R. C. Bridgestock

  As he put the shopping in the boot of his car, his mind turned to the families who he knew wouldn’t be relishing the festive season. It would be a horrendous time for the Hinds. A time of loneliness and tears, even though family would surround them. Their hurt would be even more acute because of the time of year, if that was at all possible.

  Back at the office he put Jen’s present into an empty printer-paper box and wrapped it again. She’ll never guess what it is now, he thought, smiling as he rang her office number.

  ‘Jennifer Jones, can I help you?’

  ‘You certainly can, Miss Jones,’ Dylan grinned. ‘I’m sitting in the office quietly for a change, and thought of you.’ She was silent, so he knew someone was nearby and she couldn’t talk. ‘I’ve arranged a drink with the team at six o’clock in the bar. Just buying them a beer to say thank you for their work on the Johnson murder enquiry. You remember the robbery that went wrong? The young father that got stabbed?’

  ‘Fantastic, result, yes. I’ll see you there.’ He could hear the happiness in her voice.

  Waiting to go, he started to read over the papers regarding the position of the enquiry into the Daisy Hind murder. It was so warm in the office he could have happily laid his head on the desk and fallen asleep. He noticed the map of the town on his wall was exactly the same as the one on the dentist’s ceiling and he tore it down, screwed it up and threw it in the bin. He didn’t need a constant reminder of the dentist.

  The Lounge buzzed as he approached. The team’s triumph was tangible and he felt the pats on his back as he walked to the bar and ordered a drink.

  ‘Ladies and gents, your attention please.’ Dylan shouted to be heard. The drone became a murmur and then no more. ‘Thank you for all your efforts in getting two murderers sentenced to life today. You’ve given the family the best present they could’ve hoped for this Christmas, in the circumstances. This is what the job’s all about and you can feel proud of yourselves. A chain is only as good as its weakest link and we didn’t have one.’ He held his glass high. ‘Well done everyone. There is money behind the bar, so have a drink on me.’ A raucous cheer went up.

  Dylan made sure he passed Jen on the way to the toilet. She was standing in the corridor speaking to DS Larry Banks. He always felt a twinge of jealousy when he saw her talking to other men. He saw her laugh, throwing her hair back as she did when she laughed with him.

  ‘Think I’m in there, Jack,’ Larry said as he joined Dylan at the urinal.

  ‘You think so, mate?’ was all he could think of to reply, as they both headed to find her at the bar.

  ‘Let me get that, Jen,’ Larry said hurrying forward to take Jen’s empty glass from her. Dawn walked in his path and Larry stepped over, kissing her on the cheek, which enabled Dylan to catch Jen’s arm.

  ‘Leaving at eight?’ he whispered. She nodded silently in agreement.

  Dylan left and paced the kitchen of her home waiting for her return. That bloody letch. How dare he think he’d a cat in hell’s chance with Jen? Of all the conceited … he raged. Her key turned in the lock and he realised seeing her that Larry had every right to fancy Miss Jones. Dylan’s Miss Jones. He walked towards her and held her in his arms.

  ‘Larry thought he was in with a shot. I was jealous,’ he told her with his best little boy wounded look.

  She leaned back, laughing. ‘As if,’ she said, but didn’t break the embrace.

  ‘I’m rather proud of myself today, actually,’ he said as he stepped back so he could look into her eyes. ‘I managed to get your Christmas present.’

  ‘How the hell did you ‘ave time for that?’ She giggled. ‘I haven’t even thought about yours yet.’ But he could tell she was pleased by his act.

  ‘Ah ha. I made time for my girl. Now, Miss Jones, I think it’s time for bed,’ Dylan said, slapping her backside as she took off her coat and hung it behind the door.

  ‘Now that is the best decision you’ve made today,’ was her reply as she ran up the stairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  There is always a review of detected and undetected murders: the detected ones to see if there is anything that would assist in future investigations, the undetected to identify areas that may assist the present enquiry ensuring nothing has been overlooked.

  Headquarters select personnel for major incidents so the ratio is the same for each Division, thereby least affecting their performance and ultimately the force as a whole. SIOs have to fight for staff in the first instance and carry on fighting to keep them, as divisions constantly demand to have them back. This murder was no different. Divisions consistently send their lazy bastards first; why send your best? On the other side of the coin, an SIO won’t return first those who are doing a great job, the ones with the energy and desire to be on the murder. Dylan silently thanked the gods for Dawn. He realised how lucky he was to be working with such a professional. It took at least some of the burden off his shoulders.

  Daisy’s review would take place four days before Christmas, a week away. The timescales didn’t concern Jack Dylan; with the help of the computerised systems, the preparation of a review file in the established format didn’t take long to produce. It consisted of a written summary of what had occurred, accompanied by photographs and a DVD. He would use these props to set the scene. A document averaging some twenty pages in length would be copied for each member of the review team and cover all aspects of the enquiry. After the presentation, the review team would take their copies away and, alongside the murder team, would sift and search through what had been done and consider what else could be done, if anything, to aid the investigation. Dylan would wait for the comments and ideas. He never thought of feedback as negative; he didn’t care who came up with an idea as long as it helped to catch the killer.

  An assistant chief constable, a chief superintendent and an SIO, along with another four officers with specialist knowledge, would be on the review team. The positive side of this was that for a short time at least, an ACC would take an interest in the murder. The chief superintendent would probably just be getting a tick in a box for the next round of promotions. They didn’t experience the demands of a murder enquiry.

  It was a few days to Christmas, but he wasn’t in the mood for celebration. He knew he was being totally unfair to Jen. She loved Christmas; decorating the tree, the smell of pine cones, the shopping, wrapping the presents, writing out the cards. She loved just about everything that surrounded it. For the first time she wasn’t going home to the Isle of Wight to be with her parents, and that was because of him. She’d made her first Christmas cake, and the mince pies. Dylan wanted to make it special for her. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy Christmas, but this year, if Daisy’s murderer wasn’t detected, he knew he wouldn’t relax. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

  Dr Francis Boscombe, the offender profiler, worked for the Home Office and had travelled up from London on the train. He was a clean-shaven, balding, plump man in his fifties, about five feet ten inches tall and dressed in baggy cord trousers, a blue shirt and a dark brown battered tweed jacket that was obviously comfortable to wear. He listened intently to what Dylan and Dawn told him and visited the scene with them. He pored over the mortuary photographs, made notes at the scene, and studied the limited background information. He now knew as much as the officers on the case. In his opinion, the offender was male, possibly a local, and had a good knowledge of the area. He considered him an opportunist. He thought it possible that this type of murderer would take away items as trophies. It was also clear to him that the killer had displayed Daisy’s body. By not hiding her, it was obvious that the killer wanted her found.

  ‘What’s he trying to tell us?’ he said to himself out loud, obviously puzzled. ‘He certainly wanted her seen.’ This concerned him. ‘Just my first impressions, Dylan, you understand. I can’t be sure this is a one-off. He could kill again. Only time will tell, I’m afraid. Please keep me updated; any little occurrence could change everything and I might be a
ble to help you further. It’s a strange one, this,’ he said, scratching his cheek with his weather-worn hand. He had stated some obvious things to the officers but he had also re-confirmed Dylan’s own views. ‘The murderer appears to have been methodical and organised in his approach, an orderly person. Now I’ve a train to catch.’

  Dylan answered his mobile as he and Dawn watched Boscombe’s train leave the station.

  ‘Boss, Janice. The Hinds have received a Christmas card. It says in capital letters, “HAVE A GOOD ONE”, but inside is something like a small piece of flesh wrapped in clingfilm. It’s possibly Daisy’s fingertip. I can just make out what seems to be a finger-nail.’

  ‘Bloody hell, how gruesome’s that? Look we’re on our way. I want SOCO there as soon as possible,’ he said as he looked at a puzzled Dawn.

  ‘Consider it done, sir.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Twenty minutes later Dylan and Dawn were at the Hinds’ home. Although it was a horrible thing for the family, from an inquiry point of view it was a positive one. The killer was giving them a chance to identify him. Trevor and Wendy were grey and their eyes were hooded and dark. Wendy was visibly shaking.

  ‘The card, the envelope, postmark, and stamp all will be forensically examined. It’s another opportunity to trace whoever’s responsible,’ Dylan said as he tried to reassure them. ‘Somebody, for some reason, wants to cause you more pain.’ Dylan only had to look into their faces to see how much they were hurting.

  ‘I want you to both think very hard. Have either of you upset or argued with anyone, no matter how slight or trivial you may think it was? Absolutely anyone? Someone out there wants to kick you when you’re down. We need to find out who and why.’

  ‘We’ve done nothing to anyone. We haven’t, honestly, have we, Trevor?’

  Trevor shook his head. ‘We don’t deserve this,’ he said, quietly.

  A short time later, as Dylan and Dawn wandered down the Hinds’ path back to the car, Dylan turned to a deflated Dawn. ‘Think positive. We have another chance to find some evidence. Let’s just hope forensic turns something up from the card. Mind you, we won’t get anything until after the Christmas holidays, which is a flaming nuisance.’

  Back at HQ, Dylan was informed that the Assistant Chief Constable would now not be available on the morning of the review. Whilst no explanation was given, his apologetic secretary told him that she would try to re-schedule the ACC’s January appointments, to meet at his earliest convenience. Dylan wondered what could be more important than a child’s murder. He had learnt his lesson in the past, cursing and swearing when someone had let him down only to find out later they had been involved in a serious road accident. Since then he had always bitten his tongue unless he was aware of the facts. If there was no good reason however, it was time to watch out and pin your ears back.

  Staffing levels over the Christmas period had been staggered to give everyone time with their families, although officers would continue working round the clock to find Daisy’s killer. Other agencies closed for seven days, therefore forensic inquiries and the like would remain static throughout. Dylan reassured the Hinds that none of them, including himself, would rest until Daisy’s killer was found. They would have on-call staff at all times and whilst Dylan planned to take Christmas Day off, he would still be contactable.

  It was hard to get into the Christmas spirit after the last few weeks and with nothing, not even a glimmer of hope, in the investigation into Daisy Charlotte Hind’s murder, Dylan was at an all time low. He was tired. He wasn’t sleeping properly, waking up at four in the morning and tossing and turning, wishing for morning. He hoped Christmas would re-charge his batteries.

  Dylan left the office. It was early, but he was useless to anyone in his current frame of mind, so he decided to have a drive to try to clear his head. Feeling irritable and needing to let off steam, he put the car in reverse, put his foot down, and sped out of the police yard. At the very last second he saw the van and braked suddenly.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Dylan gasped, as the skid brought his car to an abrupt halt without the anticipated ‘bang’. The property clerk driving past the entrance to the gated yard had nearly been annihilated.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Dylan said as he wound down his window to apologise to Harold. ‘My fault entirely, my mind was elsewhere.’

  ‘It’s okay, Mr. Dylan. Don’t you worry yourself. No one’s hurt,’ said Harold. His voice quivered and his face was flushed. ‘You’re a lot busier than me. You … you go first, sir.’ He waved Dylan on and slumped against his steering wheel.

  Dylan’s heart rate finally found its equilibrium and he realised he was driving towards Harrowfield Middle School. On the sports field he could see a soccer match taking place. He stopped, shivering as he got out of his warm car to watch. The cold, fresh air felt good and he breathed it deep into his lungs as he stood on the touchline near the penalty box. It was a fast game between Harrowfield and Bradley School. Both teams looked exhausted, socks rolled down, 1 – 1 on the scoreboard. Someone shouted, ‘Five minutes remaining.’ Dylan felt quite excited. The sound of the referee’s whistle pierced the air. He was pointing to the penalty spot.

  ‘Come on, Harrowfield,’ came the shout of a supporter. There was a lot of booing from the Bradley School end, as Malcolm Meredith, Harrowfield’s PE teacher and coach, walked on the pitch to speak to his team. He looked calm and confident. He pointed to a little thin lad with a red, elfin face, who stood shaking on the periphery of the group. ‘Chris, you take it. Goalie’s left,’ he advised.

  Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, showing the navy blue brace on his teeth.

  ‘Your best striker?’ Dylan asked Meredith, who had come to stand beside him on the touchline.

  ‘Spencer? Nah, he’s been off injured most of this year. Plays centre forward and never scored.’

  ‘Poor lad. Why’d you give him the pressure shot then?’

  ‘He’s a capable player. It’ll give him confidence, if he scores,’ Meredith answered as he clasped his hands together and jogged on the spot. ‘Come on, Chris,’ he cried through gloved, cupped hands.

  Christopher Spencer pulled his socks up over his thin, mottled legs. The referee called him forward. There were shouts and screams from the crowd.

  He put his head down and ran forward, blasting the ball to the left of the goalkeeper. The keeper dived the wrong way. The teacher was right. It was like slow motion. The ball went in.

  ‘Yes.’ Dylan threw up his clenched fist and cheered along with the crowd.

  Chris turned and ran back towards his teammates, who mobbed him. The coach ran on to the pitch with other spectators and lifted Chris high, swinging him around and round. Dylan smiled. Great kick, well-done lad, he thought. That took ‘bottle’.

  Christopher Francis Spencer, aged ten, scoring a goal, a penalty, maybe the winner, it was surreal. This was a dream come true. He couldn’t wait to tell his mum and dad. A few minutes to go and the team were on a high. Christopher couldn’t stop smiling; he didn’t ache or feel the cold anymore. He didn’t even mind the brace he’d recently had fitted and was still getting used to.

  The final few kicks of the game, and it was a corner for Harrowfield, safe at Bradley’s end. The ball was crossed, a hard kick. Up went Christopher and it hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.

  That hurt, he thought, turning his face from the mud as he fell. He heard a loud cheer and raised his head. The ball had gone in the back of the net. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was dragged up from the ground by many pairs of arms. The referee blew his whistle. They were in the final. Two goals for Spencer. He was a hero. He was lifted to shoulder height and chaired around the pitch.

  Dylan got into his car and drove, feeling guilty all of a sudden. He was never going to catch Daisy’s killer watching a football match now, was he?

  Chapter Thirteen

  This is the very best day ever, thought Christopher. He was bursti
ng to tell his dad. How he wished he’d been there to see it. The changing rooms were noisier than he had ever heard before.

  ‘Great game Chris, well played,’ said Meredith, picking him up in a bear hug.

  Dylan drove to Jen’s, switching his car radio on for the first time in as long as he could remember. He felt relaxed, positive.

  Chris collected his kit and stood at the entrance to the ground, wishing he had some credit on his mobile so he could ring his dad. No sooner had he thought it than his mobile started vibrating.

  ‘Dad, guess what? We’re in the final and I scored,’ Christopher shrieked down the phone, shaking with excitement. He grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘That’s fantastic, son, gosh, I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘You should have seen me.’

  ‘Listen, Christopher, I’ve got a flat tyre and I can’t get hold of Mum, so I’m going to be late picking you up. I’ll be there as soon as I can, stay at the usual place.’ Christopher heard his dad chuckle, knew he was smiling. ‘What a player, eh, son?’

  Christopher stood and daydreamed. Would his name be in the papers? He imagined the headlines. SPENCER PUTS HARROWFIELD MIDDLE SCHOOL INTO THE CUP FINAL or CHRISTOPHER FRANCIS SPENCER A HERO. He wasn’t bothered which they used.