Deadly Focus

by R. C. Bridgestock

  Dylan gulped. A stroke. His heart sank. Fucking hell, he thought.

  He was pushed on a trolley to the X-ray department, following the yellow line marked on the floor.

  ‘It’s like the Wizard of Oz,’ the porter said cheerfully.

  Dylan was transferred from the trolley to a bed. At the press of a button it moved in slow motion and Dylan felt himself going backwards into the hollow of the circular scanner.

  ‘Try to relax, Mr Dylan,’ said the radiographer.

  Dylan was trying to relax; after all, he kept telling himself, what is the point of getting worked up? Easier said than done, though.

  ‘Think of nice things,’ the radiographer said, and visions of the sea rolling onto a sunny beach filled his mind while soothing music played around him. By association it hit him then. Jen’s mum: what had happened to Jen’s mum? What did the text say? What was he doing here when he should be with her? He struggled to raise himself off the bed.

  ‘Steady, Mr Dylan, nearly finished,’ said the radiographer. Thank god, thought Dylan, flopping back on the bed. He had to speak to Jen.

  ‘My girlfriend … she needs me,’ he said.

  ‘The doctor will be with you in a minute,’ said the radiographer. ‘Try not to get upset.’

  Dylan’s mobile was dead, so he replaced it in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t even read the text.

  Fifteen minutes later, a nurse carrying a large envelope wheeled him into Dr Roebuck’s office. The doctor took the negatives from the envelope and placed them on a light board. He cleared his throat as his eyes scoured the negatives.

  ‘Clear, clear, clear. Nothing untoward here,’ he said, bringing his glasses to the end of his nose as he turned to face Dylan. Dylan hadn’t realised he had been holding his breath until he exhaled.

  ‘So tell me,’ said the doctor, ‘What’ve you been doing recently? Working hard, no doubt. I’ve heard you on the radio, read about you in the papers, and seen you on the news. How many hours a week does that entail?’

  ‘I need to go to my girlfriend right now.’ Dylan started to get out of the wheelchair.

  ‘Hold on there,’ said the doctor, placing his hand on Dylan’s arm. ‘Answer my questions first, then you can go to your girlfriend.’

  Dylan relented. ‘Dealing with murders,’ he mused. ’About eighty hours a week, I should think.’

  The doctor held his hands in the air. ‘Enough. Enough. Neither you, I, nor any other mortal being, is superhuman, even if we like to think we are. I think your mind is just jamming with the amount of plates you are trying to spin. I don’t need to tell you this, though. You’re an intelligent man. Slow down. Say “no” and cut down the hours. Oh, and make sure you eat properly. Knowing you lot, you live off caffeine.’

  Dylan looked sheepish.

  ‘If you don’t follow my advice, you’re going to make yourself ill. Today’s a warning. Next time, who knows?’

  Talk about feeling he’d had his hands truly slapped; all Dylan could do was agree with him. He shook the doctor’s hand, gratefully. Even though he didn’t feel great, at least he knew he wasn’t dying.

  Penny Sanderson was waiting for him in Casualty.

  ‘Don’t worry about an ambulance,’ she told the nurse. ‘I’ve got my car. I’ll take him home.’

  ‘You’re going to ‘ave to put a lead on your fella to stop him from doing too much,’ laughed the nurse, making the assumption the girlfriend he spoke about was Penny. Dylan shook his head, there was no point in going into detail, and Penny took the hint and smiled sweetly.

  ‘This is really kind of you, Mrs Sanderson. I’m very grateful,’ said Dylan as they walked to the car park.

  ‘It’s nothing after what you’ve done for us today,’ she replied.

  ‘If I hadn’t been taking Max out, goodness knows how long you’d have been there. Isn’t it a small world, eh? Jen didn’t mention she was seeing anybody special.’

  ‘We agreed … I thought it best to keep the relationship quiet until we saw how it went. It sounds daft now. Have you heard from her?’

  ‘Yes, she phoned me. Her mum’s critical. They don’t expect her to live.’

  Dylan held his head in his hands. ‘Oh my god. The missed calls,’ he groaned. ‘Please don’t tell her about this. She’s enough on her plate at the moment. I’ll ring her as soon as I can. Dying.’ Dylan shook his mobile in his hand.

  ‘Well, as long as you promise to look after yourself,’ Penny said.

  ‘Yeah, and thanks I really mean it,’ was all there was time for as he got out of her car.

  He walked in the house, clicked on the kettle, and plugged in his mobile to recharge. No sooner had he turned his back to get a cup out of the cupboard than it bleeped and then rang.

  ‘Boss? Boss, where the hell ‘ave you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Thought you were going straight home,’ said Dawn.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘Dawn, just give me five minutes, will you? I’ve a personal call to make.’

  ‘No, wait. Don’t hang up. I’ve had a call from forensic. We’ve a full DNA match for Christopher Spencer with the blood on the cane from Little’s van,’ she told him.

  Dylan looked up to the ceiling. ‘Thank you, god,’ he whispered.

  ‘Boss, you still there?’

  ‘Yeah, Dawn. Fantastic, just the news I needed. At last they’ve given it priority.’

  ‘I rang Little’s home and he picked up, so we know he’s in. Larry’s chomping at the bit to go lock him up.’

  ‘Tell him to stay put. Do you want to go with me?’ He smiled as he imagined the glee on her face.

  ‘I wouldn’t have spoken to you again if you’d done it without me,’ she said.

  ‘Pick you up at the nick in fifteen minutes,’ Dylan said, looking at his watch as he turned the key in the door. ‘You arrange the uniform car with two officers to come with us. I’m not having that murdering little shit in my car,’ he said as he threw his mobile on the passenger seat beside him and sped off.

  Dylan knocked at the door. Harold Little opened it cautiously.

  ‘Not you again. This is harassment,’ he said, boredom in his voice as he tried to shut Dylan out.

  Dylan put his size ten in between the door and the jamb and pushed the door open wide. Dawn followed him into the hallway. Dylan grabbed hold of Little by his cardigan and threw him against the wall. With his face almost touching Little’s, he growled, ‘I am re-arresting you for the murders of Daisy Charlotte Hind and Christopher Francis Spencer.’

  Little’s feet hardly touched the ground as Dylan cautioned him and then dragged him outside to the waiting officers.

  ‘Cuff him and take him to the cells,’ he ordered.

  An officer handcuffed Little, then placed the palm of his hand on the crown of the prisoner’s head as he lowered him into the police car.

  ‘For a minute there I thought you were going to punch him,’ Dawn said, as she dropped the house door latch and they headed for Dylan’s car.

  ‘Tempted. I was very tempted, Dawn,’ said Dylan, throwing the gear stick into first.

  ‘We should get at least one interview this evening, shouldn’t we?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Definitely. How was Larry when you told him we were going to arrest?’

  ‘Sulking. He still thinks Meredith’s the murderer. He says he doesn’t think Little is strong enough. When the call came in from the ice rink today, I think he really thought that he was going to sort it without you.’

  ‘You don’t have to be strong if you’ve got a weapon,’ Dylan said smugly. The news of the DNA hit had lifted him, there was no doubt, and although Dylan didn’t feel a hundred per cent, at least he felt as though there was some progress in the investigation at last. Maybe just a few more interviews Maybe by this time tomorrow, Little would have admitted to the murders. He had to ring Jen. His mobile phone beeped: low battery.

  This interview was different. This time they had solid evidence and, two
hours after Little’s arrest, Harold Wilkinson-Little sat in the interview room again next to Brenda Cotton.

  ‘You have been re-arrested, Mr Little, due to fresh evidence,’ Dylan said. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember from the last interviews that we’d recovered a cane from your van.’

  Little listened intently but made no sound.

  ‘If I recall correctly you said you’d borrowed it from the police station stores to deal with rats at your home, remember that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Little’s whisper could hardly be heard.

  ‘Was that a “yes”? Could you speak up for the tape, please.’

  ‘Yes,’ Little barked.

  ‘Thank you. It’s now been examined forensically and the blood of Christopher Spencer was found on it.’ Dylan paused. ‘How do you explain that, Harold?’ Dylan leaned forward across the table. ‘Well, Harold?’

  ‘I told you. It’s not my fault,’ Harold replied. He screwed his hands tightly on his lap.

  Dylan and Dawn sat perfectly still. Dylan’s eyes bored into Little’s as if he could pierce his subconscious for a reaction.

  ‘It’s their …,’ Little stuttered slowly, quietly.

  ‘Whose, Harold?’ asked Dawn, with compassion. ‘Whose?’

  ‘Nobody knows what I’ve been through. Nobody knows what I’ve suffered. Nobody,’ whispered Little.

  Dylan instinctively knew he was talking about his schooldays, but needed him to tell them on the tape.

  ‘Who’re you talking about, Harold?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘People just don’t realise how bad it was,’ Little said solemnly. ‘I could be sick just thinking about it.’ His face was expressionless; trance-like, thought Dylan.

  ‘They called me names. They pushed me down. I still have nightmares. I wet the bed. My mother hit me … she said I was dirty.’ He turned to look at Dawn. ‘I wasn’t really, I wasn’t.’ A tear trickled down Harold’s cheek, but he didn’t attempt to brush it away. Dawn handed him her hankie.

  ‘Thank you,’ was all he said as he dabbed his eyes. He composed himself.

  ‘The memories don’t vanish, you know. Just like that.’ Little clicked his fingers. ‘They’ve ruined my life. Sometimes ….’ He stopped, struggling with his emotions. He swallowed. ‘Sometimes I wished they’d ‘ave killed me. It would’ve been better than living with this pain.’ Little held his fist to his solar plexus. His head was bent. He was pale and pitiful, thought Dylan but he wasn’t fooled. He knew Little was still a vicious child killer.

  ‘What sort of things happened to you, Harold? Can you tell us? Can you talk about it?’ Dawn spoke softly so as to prompt, not disturb him. His eyes were lifeless.

  ‘Didn’t you tell anyone?’ she asked supportively, her voice reassuring.

  ‘I once tried to tell my teacher, Mr Whittaker. I thought I could trust him.’ He swallowed again. ‘They called him “peg leg”. He knew what it was like to be called names, to be ridiculed, but it was a mistake. He laughed in my face … he told me not to be soft.’ Little shook his head. ‘After that,’ he said, ‘I never listened to anything he told me because he didn’t know anything. I was their plaything to do as they wanted, when they wanted. I was trapped.’

  ‘Did your parents not help you, Harold? Didn’t they speak to the teachers at school for you? Did you tell them how bad it was?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘You’re joking.’ He smirked, shaking his head. ‘They were busy, always out. Mum worked in the corner shop during the day and cleaned in an office at night. Dad worked in a factory all day, called at the pub on the way home until Mum finished her cleaning job. Usually by the time they got in I’d be in bed.’ Dylan and Dawn continued to listen. There was no need for questions. He was talking to them. ‘I was the original “latch key kid”. I didn’t see a lot of anyone and that was the way I liked it. I stopped telling them anything and they didn’t ask. Mum would say, “Oh, dear, dear”.’ Little mimicked his mother’s whining voice. ’And dad would call me a wimp and give me a clip round the ear. If my clothes got torn, he’d hit me harder, saying I should stick up for myself and fight back.’ There was a long silence, but just when Dylan opened his mouth to speak, Little spoke, so he shut it again and let him talk.

  ‘We didn’t have a lot of money and what we did have Dad drank away. They wouldn’t spend money buying me clothes. You’ve really no idea have you?’ Little asked. ‘No idea at all. I’m not your murderer, Inspector.’

  ‘Who are these people at school you talk about?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Bullies, Inspector, bullies.’ He raised his voice and Dylan raised his eyebrows. ‘They were twice my size. I used to think they’d done their worst, that they couldn’t do anything else to me, but then they found something more horrible, more disgusting. When I screamed, they laughed, so I learnt how to keep silent as I cried.’ As if to prove he could do this, tears ran down his face and Little cried without making a sound. It was eerie.

  ‘Tell me, like I asked before, what sort of thing did they do, Harold, so we can perhaps try to understand?’ Dawn used every ounce of compassion in her voice to try and get to the bottom of what had happened. But it was like pulling teeth. The room was still and quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the tape whirring as it continued recording. They waited in silence for a reply.

  ‘One time, lunchtime, we’d just had Spam fritters for dinner … I liked them,’ Little reminisced. ‘They for no reason tripped me up in the playground and dragged me across the football pitch by my ankles, like a horse rider with his leg stuck in a stirrup.’ Little nodded as though liking the simile. ‘My head banged on the ground ‘til my forehead bled. I remember passing people who were laughing and jeering … they pulled my shoes and socks off … then my trousers … they … stripped me naked. I was left cut and bruised … when they’d had their fun. I curled up on the grass and they … they came back and … urinated on me. I had to search for my clothes that they’d thrown. The teacher shouted at me for being late back for class. He said boys would be boys.’ Little grimaced and swallowed hard, as though reliving the nightmare, a memory that was still raw. ‘A note was slipped onto my desk. The teacher’s back was to the class as he wrote on the blackboard. It said “you smell of piss”. As I looked around, all eyes were on me. The boys grinned. The girls giggled. They all knew.’

  ‘It must have been a horrible time for you. Harold, how old were you then?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘So, Harold, that was about … thirty years ago?’ Dylan said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

  Harold threw his head back. ‘It feels like yesterday,’ he hissed, as he jutted his head forward. His eyes stared into Dylan’s with pure hatred. Dylan didn’t react, but held his stare.

  Softly, Dawn spoke to him, although her heart must have been racing at the verbal attack, Dylan thought. He could see her breathing heavily. ‘There’s no need to shout, Harold. Was this a one off?’

  The Walter Mitty character turned his glare away from Dylan and his face softened as he looked at Dawn.

  ‘That was just one occasion … just one.’ He’d dismissed Dylan as if he didn’t exist, but it didn’t bother Dylan; he would bide his time. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t let Little take over the interview.

  ‘Where are your parents now, Harold?’ Dawn asked, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Dead. Died in a fire. Friday the thirteenth,’ he shrugged. ‘Unlucky for some,’ he smirked.

  ‘Parents and teenagers, eh?’ said Dawn. ‘Did you get on with them any better as you grew up?’ It was obvious to Dylan that Dawn had been taken aback by his response.

  He made no reply. Did he start the fire? wondered Dylan.

  ‘I know it’s upsetting for you, Harold, but could you please tell us more about your dreadful treatment at school. You know, specific things,’ coaxed Dawn.

  Little studied for a moment or two. He was motionless, as though he was going to clam up once more, but suddenly he lifted his head as if he’d
just remembered something. ‘On the way home they grabbed me, pushed my face to the floor into dog shit. Then they prised my mouth open and put some in my mouth. Once, they stood me on a wall and put rope around my neck, saying they were going to hang me. They kept hitting me behind my knees.’ Little put his hand to his mouth and retched. ‘Oh, my god, I think I’m going to be sick,’ he said, suppressing the secretion. He clasped his hand tighter and gulped. His hand still hovered around his mouth.

  ‘Do you want a drink of water, Harold?’ asked Dylan, as he leaned back, half expecting Little to vomit on the table. Some details he was describing were undeniably similar to Christopher’s death; the last thing Dylan wanted was for the interview to be interrupted now.

  Little shook his head and within a moment appeared calmer. ‘No,’ he said, swallowing repeatedly. ‘They just laughed. To them it was fun. I never did anything … I’m okay.’ He waved his hand in protest as he coughed. ‘It’s like this all the time … I can still feel them hitting and burning me.’ Harold was sweating; beads of perspiration trickled down the sides of his head. He patted his brow with Dawn’s hankie.

  ‘Burning you?’ quizzed Dawn.

  ‘They used to forcibly hold out my hand and use a cigarette lighter to burn me, or stub cigarettes out on me.’ He held his right hand out as if being instructed now to do so, palm up.

  ‘Were there a lot that involved themselves with this, or just one or two? Who were these bad children? Who did this to you?’ Dawn’s questions came fast and furious.

  Dylan sat in silence although the voice in his head was urging Dawn to slow down.

  ‘I know them … I see them … I do … I see their faces. They still laugh at me …. Why did they do that to me?’ Little asked Dylan and Dawn. ‘It’s their fault. It’s all their fault.’ The dam broke quite suddenly. Great, tearless sobs rattled in Little’s chest. Slumping in his chair, he struggled to speak. He lay his head in the crook of his arm on the desk and wept.