Deadly Focus

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Most people had gone home. All the Harrowfield players and supporters left, shouting and whistling to Christopher as they passed. Mr Meredith pulled alongside.

  ‘Do you need a lift, Chris?’

  ‘No thanks, sir, my dad’s picking me up.’

  When Martin Spencer arrived fifteen minutes later, there was no sign of his son. He tried ringing his mobile, but it was out of service. Where can he be, he wondered? It was totally out of character for Chris not to be where he said he would be. Martin got out of his car and wandered around the sports field, checked the changing rooms. The doors were locked and bolted. He drove around the area, looking for his son. He telephoned home, just in case. The area leading to the football pitch used by the school was off a small, unmade road. There were a few houses at the end but it was mainly an area where people exercised their dogs. Martin returned home and paced the house.

  Where is he, where the hell is he? he asked himself over and over again, scratching his head. ‘What was Chris thinking of, going off somewhere? That’s why we got the bloody mobile, so he could keep in touch with us,’ he said as he pressed re-dial for the umpteenth time.

  When Sarah Spencer got home with her shopping, she rang round Chris’s friends, but all they could tell her was that the last time they had seen him he was waiting for his dad. Martin and Sarah were worried sick. They reported their son missing to the police at twenty to six.

  Dylan and Jen had just arrived at the Farrington Restaurant for dinner. It was a lovely place in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of town, far away from prying eyes. Dylan had been promising Jen a night out for ages. Feeling much brighter, he had taken the bull by the horns and booked the table as a surprise. Jen looked gorgeous in a short, floral-print, silk dress and high sling back shoes. She was wearing Jack’s favourite perfume; she knew she smelled good too.

  It was blustery outside and they had practically blown into the place. The flames of the candles on the tables flickered as the heavy, wooden door closed behind them, but once seated, the room felt warm and cosy.

  ‘Miss Jones, you look good enough to eat,’ remarked Jack.

  The candles in the brass candlesticks and their soft, warm light gave the surroundings a romantic radiance. The cream damask tablecloth and napkins were perfect for the china, glass, and cutlery set out on them. A fire blazed in the open fireplace, which added to the comfortable glow: its sooty fragrance could hardly be noticed. It was quiet and intimate with only one other couple dining. They were both looking forward to the evening. Jack for once looked relaxed, and handsome in his white shirt and tie, Jen thought, as the maitre’d’ pulled out their chairs. They smiled, content with each other as Jack reached for Jen’s hand across the table.

  ‘This is lovely. Thank you for bringing me here, Jack,’ she said as they were handed the menu and wine list. Jack didn’t hesitate to order a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Jen’s favourite wine.

  She looked coy. ‘I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, Mr Dylan.’

  ‘And what if I am? I’ll drive. You can have a drink for once. Mmm, I think I’ll have a sixteen ounce sirloin,’ he said, his eyes dancing with delight as he looked at the menu.

  ‘I might have known you’d pick that, but such a big one?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m starving. What about you?’ he grinned.

  ‘A big one, but I think I’ll have the monk fish,’ she teased, looking deep into his eyes.

  The dulcet tones of Dylan’s mobile cut short the banter. No, not now, he thought as he took a few steps over to the reception area. Jen nodded her thanks to the waiter, who looked at her sympathetically and asked if they would like to wait until the gentleman had finished his call before ordering. Jen could see Jack’s face from where she sat. She knew in her heart that they wouldn’t be eating at the lovely restaurant with the pretty candles. She blew them out in defiance. She could tell by the way he cocked his head and held the mobile to his ear with his shoulder to free his right hand, the way he wrote in his pocket notebook, and the way he listened intently to what he was being told that he would be going back to work soon. His expression was serious as he passed the bottle of red wine that the understanding waiter had corked, to Jen. He opened the car door for her in silence and got into the driving seat. He looked at her and laid his head back.

  ‘I’ve just got to make another call. I’m so sorry, love.’

  ‘Is it a bad one?’ she asked through gritted teeth, a lump in her throat.

  ‘Yeah, a young lad’s gone missing.’

  She cuddled up to his arm, leaning towards him from the passenger seat of the car while he keyed the number of force control into his mobile. She was angry, upset, sad, and annoyed with herself for being so selfish. She didn’t want him to see.

  ‘I hope you find him, safe,’ she whispered, as tears of disappointment stung her eyes. She wouldn’t let him see her cry; she knew he felt guilty enough.

  Jack was in work mode and at once became a different person. He talked on his mobile and Jen knew she had already faded into the background, forgotten for the time being. She hated his job for what it did to their lives.

  ‘Who’s the on-call DS? Call them out. On-call CID? All to the CID office for briefing, please. I want the helicopter up and a full search team to the CID office. Close the street where he was last seen,’ Dylan instructed.

  He marched ahead of Jen into the house when they arrived home. Changed his suit and tie in silence and was on his way with a quick kiss on her cheek, but without a backward glance. She watched as usual as the tail lights of his car disappeared. She drew the curtains to shut out the world and clambered into her pyjamas. Taking her make-up off slowly whilst seated at her dressing table, she picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her hair. She hung up her pretty dress and, with dressing gown and slippers on, she padded down the stairs.

  ‘Hi fella, looks like it’s you and me for dinner again. Beans on toast?’ She groaned as she looked in the cupboard and remembered the lovely food that had been on the menu. Sitting at the kitchen table, she stroked Max’s head, rubbing behind his ears as the microwave whirred. He snuggled up to her leg and placed his head on her knee, appreciating the attention. Food, glass and bottle of wine on the tray, she was followed by Max into the lounge, where she lit the fire and flicked on the TV, mainly for the background noise. The house was so quiet without Jack. The last thing he needs is another child missing, she thought as she uncorked the bottle of wine from the restaurant and filled the large glass to the brim.

  ‘To the police service. Thanks again for ruining my evening,’ she toasted.

  Jen had never been a drinker, but planned to have another glass as an anaesthetic to her heartache. The job was hurting both of them. How long could she keep on worrying about Jack and being left alone, disappointed? If she stayed with Jack she knew her life would be being available for him … when he wasn’t working. Did she want it to be like this? She didn’t want to be forever watching his car lights disappearing away from her; she knew that. There would always be a murder, always someone going missing, but did that mean she had to suffer because of it?

  ‘One day, Max. One day it’ll all change. Do you think?’ She pulled Max closer to her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The enquiries into missing persons, or ‘mispers’ as they are known, are well-rehearsed approaches, and although each one is dealt with on its own merits, there is a routine to follow. The tried and tested plan is intended to ensure thoroughness, so that nothing is overlooked.

  Two uniformed officers had attended at the home of the Spencers, a male and female, the available unit. They had recorded what had happened and obtained a recent photograph of Christopher and a description of what he had been wearing.

  Christopher Francis Spencer was four feet tall, of average build, with very short light brown hair. He was wearing a navy blue tracksuit that advertised Adidas on the right breast, white T-shirt, and size six blue Adidas trainers. He had with him an Adidas
navy blue sports bag, which would have in it a blue towel, his football kit, and maybe a juice drink. Christopher was a normal kid. His only distinctive, identifying accessory was the newly fitted, navy blue brace on his top teeth. It was totally out of character for him to go off, he had just spoken to his dad, and was elated about the football result. Instinctively the duty inspector wasn’t happy. This boy going missing felt totally wrong. Christopher’s description went out immediately. Searches using dogs would take place and the helicopter would be up within the hour. CID was requested along with a DS who’d called out a DI. It wouldn’t be long before the Press were out like vultures, asking questions because of the police activity.

  Dylan arrived at Harrowfield Police Station at seven o’clock. He was sure he’d heard the name of the missing boy before, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to him. Dylan looked at the lines of enquiry to see if they were sufficient. What contingency planning had been put into place for the search to continue overnight? Had they already cleared the ground beneath their feet? Dylan swore by the golden rule. Had the detectives already searched Christopher’s bedroom? Did he have a computer? Dylan knew how important it was to try to understand the family and get a background for Christopher himself. What sort of family were they? Which school did he attend? What did the school know about him? Who took him for football? Where is that person? Dylan tried to keep an open mind as he worked through what was already known about Christopher, but his mind was racing at a hundred miles per hour. He needed answers to lots of questions and the night was drawing in. He sent his detective sergeant and two detective constables, one a specially trained family liaison officer, to the family home, having first briefed them that the purpose of their visit was to gather information.

  The on-call detective sergeant was Larry Banks, and he joined Dylan in the office. Dylan had worked on a number of occasions with Larry the lad, as he was known. A lot of police officers had nicknames; it went with the job. He was six feet tall with neatly combed back, jet black hair. Some thought it was dyed, but Dylan wasn’t sure and frankly didn’t care. What he did know about Larry was he was always impeccably turned out, he was forty-five-ish and divorced twice with no children, and he somehow managed to afford a luxury riverside apartment and a bright blue Audi sports car. He always wore slip-on leather shoes without socks; the rumour being that, as his socks had once been his downfall when he’d to leave some married lady’s bedroom in a hurry, not wearing them meant he had less to worry about if he needed to make a quick exit. If he wasn’t on the pull or in the gym he was in his favourite haunt, the pub.

  Children, in Dylan’s experience, were found in all kinds of places. A small girl who went missing had only gone to the bottom of the garden, climbed into her pet rabbit’s hutch and fallen asleep, much to her parents’ relief. Others he could remember had done much the same thing in attics, cellars, sheds and garages. However, experience was telling Dylan that this one felt different.

  In the darkness enquiries progressed, but there had been no sign of Christopher since the match. The cold night and the thought of hypothermia concerned Dylan. Some of the team were still with the family. The enquiry was ongoing and arrangements were made for them to stagger their contact throughout the night. Cell site analysis of activity from Christopher’s mobile was instigated, which Dylan hoped would lead to a possible location. The area around the football pitch was sealed, and a tent was erected around the entry where Christopher had waited. Rain was forecast.

  Initial searches were negative. The Spencers’ house showed nothing untoward, they were just an ordinary family who were out of their minds with worry. Dylan returned home in the early hours knowing that he personally couldn’t do any more until first light. Jen was lying awake in the dark as he crept into the bedroom. She didn’t turn to face him.

  ‘Hi, love, I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he whispered as he pulled back the covers and slid into the nice warm bed.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ she squealed as Dylan snuggled up behind her. ‘You want to talk about it?’ she asked turning to give him a cuddle.

  ‘It’s a ten-year-old boy, gone missing from a school football match earlier. I saw him score a goal, Jen. I stopped at the school to watch the match for a few minutes.’ Was the murderer watching too? Dylan wondered. He put his face in Jen’s shoulder. There was no more to say.

  ‘Let’s hope he turns up, eh?’ she said as she held him tight. She was just pleased he was home with her.

  Dylan didn’t sleep much; his mind was racing. Many times he woke with questions or ideas, and jotted them down on the pad on his bedside table. Contact the Press Office. Keep a lid on panic in the community. Search sites? The thoughts went around and around in his head.

  The alarm clock read ‘05:30’ in big, red numbers when he opened his eyes. As they were adjusting to the darkness, the phone rang. It was police control. A security night watchman walking home by torchlight had come across a body hung from a bridge over the canal at Lowergate.

  ‘Is it the boy?’ Jen asked tentatively, her mouth dry.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Dylan said as he climbed out of bed. He turned and leaned over to kiss her. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ he stopped and cupped her face in his hand, looking into her eyes. ‘That’s all I seem to be saying these days, isn’t it? Remember I do love you. I know I keep saying it, but I never want you to forget.’

  Shit, shave, cuddle, and he was off, while Jen rolled over in bed stuffing her head under her pillow and groaned. Why, why, why was it always Dylan that was called out? ‘Urgh, she growled in between clenched teeth, crying in anger into the mattress.

  ‘Larry, meet me at the scene as soon as you can.’ Dylan spoke on the hands-free phone in his car, anxious to hit the ground running. ‘I need the scene sealed. SOCO are on their way, I’m told, and I need an exhibit officer identifying. Do you know if preliminary examinations have been carried out by paramedics?’

  Larry yawned. ‘Um, yes. Okay, okay and don’t know,’ he said trying to keep up with Dylan’s requests while still trying to see through the fog of last night’s ale.

  Once suited up, the group led by Dylan walked along the towpath to the bridge, then along the twenty or so footplates that SOCO had laid so no one would trample over any evidence that may be there. There was no sign of Larry, but to be fair he’d got the scene sealed and an exhibits officer on site. A searchlight enabled them to see the hanging body. A shuffle along the footplates told Dylan that Larry was walking in haste towards them.

  ‘Larry, arrange me some canvas screening on poles, would you? The last thing we need is prying eyes,’ he shouted not turning to look in his direction.

  ‘Will do, boss,’ Larry replied.

  He could see the body of a young boy, bright blue nylon rope around his neck. A smearing of something dark was around his mouth and about his face, like mud. He turned away. The body looked like something from another planet. The boy’s face was distorted and purple in colour. His dark blue tongue protruded from his mouth. It was elongated and swollen to probably three times its normal size. The boy’s eyes bulged out of their sockets: even from a distance; it was a nauseating sight. Dylan could quite understand the shock and reaction of the man who found him.

  The occasional splash of the slow-moving water of the canal disturbed the silence, making the quietness of the moment seem eerie. Even though they were fifteen feet away from the body, Dylan could see the boy’s head flopped to the right like a rag doll. He shivered. He had seen a few hangings in his time. All had been horrific, but this was by far the worst. Another child’s body.

  The team walked slowly and carefully onto the bridge itself. It was only about four feet wide. Not big enough for a large vehicle, Dylan noticed. He could see that the rope came up over the stone wall and was fastened to a lamppost at the opposite side.

  ‘The child’s got an injury to the top right hand side of his head,’ the officer from SOCO pointed out. ‘Look, you can see where it’s bled.’


  ‘It’s not consistent with a fall,’ observed Dylan. ‘Not suicide. Murder? Someone has taken the time and effort to leave the child’s body like this. We’re going to have to somehow lift him onto the bridge or lower him into a dinghy.’ Dylan pondered. ‘And as soon as possible.’ He was sure it was just one of many problems that lay ahead.

  ‘The canal is only about two feet six deep here, so we can examine the body in situ using a scaffolding tower then lower it by cutting the rope,’ an officer from operational support informed Dylan.

  ‘We’ll need two people to lower the body into a dinghy and paddle it to the canal side.’ Dylan thought out loud, considering the option. It bothered him, the extent to which the murderer had gone to display the young lad’s form. Evil didn’t begin to describe it. This was not simply a dump site. Dylan knew the killer had planned everything before he struck and left the body on display in this way, but why?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Daylight crept upon them, nobody noticed. Christopher’s sports bag could now be seen at the opposite side of the bridge. Scenes of crime officers worked busily securing evidence. Dylan told them to cut the rope a couple of feet above the body for closer inspection of the knot and possible DNA.

  The suits of those worn would be retained just in case they were required by anyone for evidence at a later stage. Everything had to be recorded, retained and revealed for disclosure to any future defence team, should they wish to examine it. Once the sports bag had been photographed, its contents would also be photographed individually, item after item carefully examined. Dylan left Larry to oversee the recovery of Christopher’s body and went to meet the liaison officers outside the Spencers’ home, after which he planned to go inside to meet the family and break the sad news. He saw Detective Clive Merton, the FLO for the incident, and PC Frances Hope, who was new in post, just having returned from her FLO training.