Snow Kills

by Bridgestock, RC

  Maisy’s murmurings became a cry that increased in volume.

  Dylan silently watched Jen walk from the room and heard her singing to Maisy a few seconds later in a soft, calming, reassuring tone. He knew he would need every bit of energy he could muster over the next forty eight hours – this was no time for distractions. The pressure today would be intense and any mistakes would be put down to him, no one else. It was a relief to feel everything appeared okay between the two of them, which meant he could focus on the task ahead.

  ‘I’ll be back to take you both to the station, I promise,’ he called from the nursery door.

  Jen looked up, her eyes searching his face for a clue as to why he was sending her away, but she couldn’t find one.

  The office was a noisy place. So much so, that Dylan had to close his office door to answer his telephone. Claire Rose from the Force press office was being harassed by journalists to confirm or otherwise the arrest of someone on suspicion of the murder of Kayleigh Harwood, and that the perpetrator was under police guard at the hospital.

  ‘I’m sorry Claire,’ Dylan said. ‘You’re going have to hold them off for a little while longer, but I’ll give you a full update later today. The family are unaware of the Police activities, so they will have to be updated before we divulge any information to the media.’

  As the clock struck 7 am everyone was ready. Dylan had made arrangements for uniform to remove the prisoner from the scene, assuming of course he was at the address, and once the arrest had been made he had told the cell area staff at the police station to expect another prisoner in for murder. Arrangements had also been made for Barrowclough to be placed in the female cell block away from Regan, ensuring there could be no contact between them.

  Vicky travelled with Dylan.

  ‘They’re calling me sir’s pet, because I’m travelling with you,’ she said.

  Dylan smiled at his companion. ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘Nah, if they’re talking about me, they’re leaving some other poor bugger alone,’ she said.

  ‘That’s true.’ Dylan nodded. ‘You’re interviewing with me, so I need to make sure you don’t get bogged down with anyone else’s work.’

  It was cold and there had been a sharp frost overnight. Slowly, the police vehicles crunched down the unmade track to Railway House, avoiding the pot holes where possible. The house was enclosed by a rotting fence. Alighting from his car, Dylan pulled back the catch of the gate – even though he could have easily walked through the broken boundary, he took the preferred route. He closed it behind him before walking down the cracked and uneven flagstone path. He could see the cows in the adjacent field and smell wood smoke. The officers passed a dog handler, stood with his hand against the trunk of a big old oak tree with branches that appeared to penetrate an open upstairs window of the residence and emerge some feet later through a hole in the tiled roof. Tiles lay on the ground. The dog handler gave Dylan a wincing smile as Bite leapt forward on his chain. Dylan and Vicky stood still. Bite’s owner brandished a pole and a noose – there would be no risks taken with vicious dogs that were reported to live here. An old ramshackle kennel stood empty in the yard. All was silent, expect for the odd bird trill.

  ‘Where’s his German Shepherd?’ Vicky whispered.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Dylan said with the shrug as he scoured the rest of the cluttered courtyard with keen eyes.

  A uniformed officer could be seen in the marked police car out of sight of the house, and another stood beside the door. A rush of OSU officers rolled quietly through the wood and around the house in sequence, hidden in the shadow of the trees. There was a raw north-easterly wind blowing up. Soil that had been mud and sludge not so long ago bore the scars of heavy vehicles being recently driven over it.

  The house itself looked very forlorn. Up close, Dylan could see the peeling wall, and the woodwork of the windows showed through the perished paint. There was a greenish-brown streak down the corner of the building where a gutter had been blocked, with leaves and rainwater spilling over. Slates were loose and hung over the guttering. If the house had blinds or curtains, they were drawn. A dim light could be seen and a dog began to bark.

  Dylan turned at the old weather-beaten stable door to see his officers in position. His blood pumped and he felt breathless as adrenaline raced through his veins. There was nothing like feeling a collar.

  He knocked, and the door was answered almost immediately by Paul Barrowclough. He was fully dressed in long-worn, unwashed clothes. The house smelled of old cooking fat and heavy smoke. He held the German Shepherd dog by a thick, worn, leather collar.

  ‘DI Jack Dylan, Harrowfield CID,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘Put the dog in another room.’

  ‘What the fuck’s this?’ Barrowclough demanded. The dog lunged forward, barking and baring its teeth at Dylan. He didn’t flinch. Vicky came from behind and bent down, talking to the dog in a friendly manner. He quietened, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. Barrowclough pulled back the choker and the dog growled, but its eyes had lost their mistrust.

  ‘Move the dog and I’ll tell you, or we’ll remove it for you,’ said Dylan, in a calm voice. The Police dog man, with a padded sleeve on his arm and a pole in his hand, was prepared to move in at Dylan’s nod. He walked slowly into view.

  ‘Why the fuck should I? Tell me what I’m supposed to have done, or piss off,’ Barrowclough shouted.

  Dylan stepped forward and pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, with such force that the handle stuck into the wall. The dog was ripped from Barrowclough’s grasp and Dylan could hear the floorboards complain as Barrowclough was knocked to the floor by four uniformed officers. His large frame blocked the hallway as he swore and cursed.

  ‘Now then, where was I?’ said Dylan. ‘Oh yes, you wanted to know what all this is about, didn’t you?’ he added, as the officers unceremoniously pulled Barrowclough to his feet and secured the handcuffs on his wrists.

  ‘You’re under arrest for the abduction and murder of Kayleigh Harwood. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Barrowclough said, spitting in the direction of Dylan’s face. The spittle landed at his feet. Dylan looked down at the floor and then at Barrowclough, his face expressionless.

  ‘Your little mate from Ivy Cottage is already locked up.’ Paul Barrowclough gave him a hostile look. ‘Take him away.’ Dylan told the officers holding him. A struggle ensued and it took six officers to get him into the waiting van. Once he and his dog were out of the way, the team could start the meticulous planned search.

  ‘Protective clothing,’ Dylan shouted. Jasmine held open the SOCO van doors and threw Dylan a plastic bag containing suit, boots and mask.

  ‘Not sure we’ll both fit in the interview room with him boss,’ Vicky said, as she shrugged into her gear.

  ‘With all that grease on him, he should bloody slide in,’ he said.

  ‘First impressions?’

  ‘We’re on the right track Vicky, I can feel it,’ he said, excitement rising like bile in his throat.

  The visual check of the house to ensure that no one else was inside was made easy by the fact that many rooms were relatively unused except for the odd empty cardboard box or wooden crate. These rooms smelt of damp, mothballs and mildew. Footsteps echoed nosily throughout as officers trampled the uncarpeted wooden floorboards. There were no curtains or blinds, but old threadbare cotton blankets and towels were draped untidily at the side of the decaying box sash windows. A pattern stained the aged wallpaper at the foot of the stairs where a clock or barometer had once hung, and likewise in the lounge where mirrors and pictures had once been on display. What had happened to them all? An old oil stove stood in the kitchen with a drum of paraffin, a funnel stuck in its pourer. A clock perched on the high old mantelpiece and there was a mug, a dirty plate wit
h cold potatoes in congealed butter on it and assorted crockery on a little square card table that was covered in chequered plastic, standing on a filthy, antique Persian rug. A milk bottle with sour milk solidified at the bottom was on the metal drainer. It didn't look as if anyone had been there for days, perhaps even weeks. The flagstone floor downstairs held a dampness that sent a chill through the footwear and up to the knees.

  Suddenly there was a loud clang as the clock struck half past seven. Vicky looked as if she was about to jump out of her skin. Dylan laughed.

  ‘What the fuck?’ she said, as she raised her hand to her chest. Ned sniggered. She stuck a finger in the air at him and moved on to the next room.

  The rooms that were used were full of stuff that looked as if it came from a car boot sale. Clothing and rubbish adorned every inch of floor space in the room Barrowclough obviously used as his bedsit. There was a double bed settee in front of a large TV, at the side of which were piles of videos and DVDs. Closer examination showed they were pornography, depicting all kinds of sexual activities and behaviour.

  ‘Enough to make you puke,’ said Vicky. ‘The thought of that grotesque man laid there watching these things...’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ said Dylan. ‘Come on. Leave it with you guys, Ned, Jackie.’

  The rest of the team moved from the house to the overgrown garden and then to the wagon-shed. The doors were heavily padlocked.

  ‘Get the bolt croppers over here, will you?’ Dylan yelled. He stood patiently waiting for someone to respond. Roses that hadn’t been pruned for several years had taken over the south wall, and a water-butt was buried inside a blackberry bush to the left of the doors. Dylan stood and looked at the green moss that covered most of the roof. The officers designated to search this building stood eagerly waiting alongside him.

  Once inside, Dylan scanned the makeshift garage, searching for anything that would help the investigation. The soft morning light illuminated the dark room.

  A wagon filled most of the floor space. Although it was old, it still had much of the original paint and lettering. To their surprise, the vehicle’s doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition.

  ‘Kind of him.’ said Andy. Dylan nodded and continued his tour. The workshop beyond was covered in debris of a thousand old motors: gearboxes, wheels, wire spokes and mudguards lay piled on top of one another. Dust and cobwebs coated the roof and the high wall beams.

  Hard hats, dirty overalls and fluorescent jackets were hung on pegs neatly behind a door. Paperwork and maps littered the floor and there were tools left here and there. Oil and grease residue had been splashed on the walls and ingrained black, thick patches on the floor. It was a mess but amid the rubble of wire, screws and bolts there was also a pile of wagon tyres. It was obvious the shed had a further room beyond. How deep were these tyres and why were they not outside?

  ‘Sarg,’ Dylan shouted, to Simon Clegg, ‘Get someone from OSU to clamber up and see what’s at the back will you?’

  A clean, tall, fair haired lad in overalls and boots gingerly scaled the tyres and Dylan heard him drop to the other side.

  Dylan stood beside a shelf with jars on it. Old nail, screws, bolts, metal, they were labelled, neat and tidily, totally out of place in this disorganised building. He picked up one and screwed off the lid, ‘Gold & Silver/Jewellery’.

  ‘There’s two old chest freezers here,’ came a shout.

  Dylan handed the jar to Vicky who took a look and gave it to Louisa.

  ‘Can you open them and have a look inside?’ he called back.

  ‘I’ll have a go.’

  ‘Never mind trying Goddamn it, just do it,’ said Dylan, holding his breath.

  They listened as the officer pulled and pushed at the lid, but it wasn’t for shifting.

  ‘Can someone pass me a wrench?’ he shouted.

  With the aid of the tool, a seal was heard to pop. All was still. ‘I need some light,’ he shouted. A torch was passed over the wall of tyres. Again, all was silent for a moment or two as a ray of light flickered from one side of the garage ceiling to the other.

  ‘Well?’ shouted Dylan.

  ‘Bits of scrap metal, boss, and rubbish as far as I can see,’ he said. His voice echoed. ‘Looks like no one’s been in here for donkey’s years.’

  Dylan breathed a sigh of relief but also felt a sense of disappointment. He heard the lid slamming shut. Dylan could see the ray of the torch moving.

  ‘I can’t open the other, it’s solid,’ the officer panted.

  ‘Do you think it’s working?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Yes, yes it is, there’s a light.’

  Dylan looked up to the ceiling. ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?’ he said to Vicky. ‘Come out,’ he shouted.

  The young officer climbed back over the tyres and dropped with a thud at Dylan’s feet.

  ‘We need to move the tyres, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, listen up,’ Dylan said to the small team. ‘Firstly, I want everything photographing in situ before we disturb anything. If the wagon starts, let’s carefully drive it outside, then I want the interior searching and printing. Our priority is to see what’s inside those freezers.’

  Dylan was conscious of movement around him as Jasmine put her team to work. Dylan had to wait ’til they were finished before the next phase of the operation could start.

  ‘It’s at times like these, I wish I still smoked,’ said Vicky pacing the yard. Dylan tossed her a mint.

  The atmosphere was tense and fifteen minutes seemed an eternity. Vicky looked at her watch. A video camera was placed on a tripod and a 360 degree scan was started by Jasmine.

  She gave the nod. They could begin.

  ‘We’re going to need someone to drive the wagon out,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Sergeant Wilson’s working in Traffic sir?’ said Andy.

  ‘Oh, no,’ groaned Vicky. ‘That’s all I bloody need.’

  ‘I’ve got my HGV licence sir,’ said Stewart.

  ‘You have? You’ve just saved the day, son,’ said Dylan.

  Dylan watched Stewart climb into the wagon’s cab. He walked to the rear with the rest of the team. There was stillness; a moment of anticipation. Stewart turned the key and waited for the start light to come on and go off. He turned the key again and revved furiously as the engine started up. It was imperative that he kept it going. The team stood watching at the rear and were rewarded with a cloud of thick, grey smoke from the exhaust. So many thoughts were flashing through Dylan’s mind. As soon as it was moved, anything under the wheel arches would be dislodged. Samples would be needed from the tyres. A low loader was an option to take it to the garage but, due to its size, work might have to be done in situ – a delay they didn’t want. Coughing and spluttering, the team were deployed around the yard, their backs turned to the vehicle as it was steadily brought out of the garage with the expertise of someone who knew the importance of creating as little disruption to the scene as possible.

  Stewart jumped down, job well done. Dylan patted him on the back.

  ‘In the cab, Louisa,’ said Jasmine. ‘You do the necessary on the interior.’ Louisa climbed in, her tiny frame disappearing into the scruffy compartment.

  ‘Form a line,’ said Dylan. ‘We need to move the tyres from the garage to the yard.’

  ‘That’s going to take some time.’

  ‘And time is what we haven’t got, Vicky, so roll your sleeves up.’

  The support team were fit and seeing them relish their work with a shared goal was impressive. Photographs were taken at intervals.

  The chest freezers became visible as tyres were removed one by one. Further photographs were taken. A light could now be seen on the second freezer, indicating there was power to it from an electric socket.

  ‘I think we are going to need to move the first freezer slightly to get better lighting into the scene sir,’ said Jasmine.

  ‘Agreed, let’s empty the first freezer and move it
to the side.’

  ‘What do you want us to do with the contents?’ said PS Clegg.

  ‘We don’t know what we might find, or how relevant it might be yet,’ Dylan said.

  ‘We’ve got some protective sheeting in the van. We can spread it out and throw everything on that,’ suggested Stewart.

  ‘Be careful, just in case, eh? We might have to record and retain it all yet,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘Vicky, we’ll need tea and coffee flasks brought in. Can you arrange? It’s going to be a long and painstaking search.’

  The process of unloading the first freezer began. Dylan strolled to look at the big wagon where the SOCO officers were working away.

  Vicky appeared glued to the spot, mobile in her hand, staring at the unopened freezer. ‘Hey, Dolly Daydream, you done that bit of a job for me yet?’

  Vicky nodded the affirmative but didn’t speak.

  ‘There is a hell of a lot of lead and copper pipe boss in this one. Ouch! And bloody sharp some of it is too,’ yelled Andy.

  ‘Just be careful I don’t want any injuries. I’ve enough bloody paperwork to do.’

  Dylan looked at the huge pile of metal, ‘You sure all that’s coming out of one freezer?’

  ‘Yes – and there’s still some debris inside, but if we put those two planks of wood against it we can slide it over to get into the second freezer easier and get direct lighting into both.’

  ‘Okay, Stewart? Can you get your back behind it? Carefully!’ he yelled.

  Collectively they managed to push it and without much effort it slid, jerkily, to enable them to move forward.

  Andy and Stewart carried the planks back. Dylan peered inside. It was scattered with bits of rusty, dirty metal garbage. Jasmine turned the spotlights that she’d erected on tripods to the ON position.

  ‘Sir, look, bones?’ said Andy.

  Dylan looked more carefully as his eyes became accustomed to the light – and yes, in among the residue of metal were what appeared to be slivers of smashed and powdering bone.