Caffeine Nights Publishing
KILLER SMILE
RC Bridgestock
Fiction aimed at the heart
and the head..
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015
Copyright © RC Bridgestock 2015
RC Bridgestock has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
www. caffeine-nights com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-910720-07-3
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Also by RC Bridgestock
The D.I. Dylan Series
Deadly Focus
Consequences
White Lilies
Snow Kills
Reprobates
All available in paperback and eBook
Deadly Focus is available on MP3 CD audiobook and as a downloadable audiobook
Consequences is available to download as an
audiobook
Acknowledgements
Our police and writing careers have both been eventful and fulfilling. We couldn’t have done either without so many kind, dedicated and professional individuals who have walked into our lives and left footprints on our hearts... Our special thanks go to our publisher Darren Laws, Caffeine Nights Publishing for seeing the potential in us and our writing in the first instance and his continued loyalty and support. David H. Headley our new literary agent from DHH Literary Agency, London who in a short time has already has made such an impact on us and our work as you will see in this 6th DI Dylan, 'Killer Smile'. And to Sarah Jarvis, co-owner of The Gate Manchester for settling the option to hopefully turn the Dylan crime novels into a TV series. We are very excited to be presently working with The Gate along with Claire Lewis and Mervyn Watson, both of whom are BAFTA award winning TV Producers.
Thanks, too, to Yin & Phil Johnson, JJ Associates for sharing in-depth knowledge of International Private Investigative work and Claire Booth, Leeds Dental Nurse, who educated us in oral health and dental instruments and practices. All this factual knowledge helps us to give our readers the most realistic experience possible in our fictional tales.
To all those who bid to The Forget Me Not Children’s Hospice to name a character in the book we can’t thank you enough and hope you enjoy how we have portrayed your character(s) in ‘Killer Smile’.
We will be forever thankful for the love and support of Betty and Ray Jordan (Carol’s Mum and Dad) who have looked after us when we have ‘forgotten’ to eat or Belle and Vegas needed walking whilst we work to a deadline.
And to our children and grandchildren who remain in our thoughts every hour of everyday for their love and support in what we do even though this means we get less time with them...
Finally, but by no way least to our followers #TeamDylan and Kath Bainbridge-Keith, Jeannette Bainbridge-Steinson whose idea it was to knit the DI Dylan dolls we now auction to raise funds for The Forget Me Not Children’s Hospice.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts...
To
Our family for their love, support and patience when we constantly disappear into ‘Dylan’s’ world...
All emergency service personnel around the world for putting us all before themselves to make the world a much safer place.
And last but not least a charity that is close to our hearts. Forget Me Not Children’s Hospice, Huddersfield a special place that supports children with life shortening conditions and their families throughout West Yorkshire.
‘Teeth are nice and white when new.
They make a smile and help you chew.
In your skull long after you’re dead,
I’d like to remove them from your head...’
Killer Smile
Chapter One
The month of June had been a hot one. However, rain had spread from the north-west for the fifth consecutive day in July, windless rain, straight and heavy. So, it was no surprise for Detective Inspector Jack Dylan to see the mandatory amber flood warning at Tandem Bridge, on the Chief Constable’s daily Log. Crime had been relatively quiet across the Division but for the Senior Investigative Officer who had worked the previous weekend it had nevertheless been an eventful one, in the CID department at Harrowfield Police Station.
A domestic incident had dominated Dylan’s Sunday. The deceased was found slumped back in a dining chair at the kitchen table and to all intents and purposes looked asleep. The only telltale sign to the fatal stabbing, through the heart, was an old bone-handled carving knife hanging from the old man’s chest. There was nothing but a speck of blood on his pristine long-sleeved white shirt that was finished off with a smart blue tie.
‘After sixty years you’d think I’d feel something, wouldn’t you?’ said his wife with a look on her face that told the experienced SIO a different story. ‘Truth be known, I never was more than his cook and bottle washer. And those teeth… He would insist on displaying his bloody dentures, like precious ornaments, in my finest crystal. Look, over there… ’ The lady pointed her arthritic index finger towards the bonbon dish on the mantelpiece. ‘They grin at me like they possess a smugness of their own,’ she said glaring at the offending objects over her glasses. ‘His dinner was dried up,’ she said matter of factly as she turned to Dylan. ‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? He never did know when to come home from the pub,’ she said with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.
‘Thank God for the microwave,’ Dylan thought as he addressed his own lifestyle. A police officer’s life was an unpredictable one, and getting home on time was not one of his priorities, especially when he was dealing with a murder. Being a civilian worker with Harrowfield Police Station’s administration department helped his wife, Jen, understand the need for flexibility of his job.
Dylan picked up the portrait photograph from his desk and a little sigh escaped his lips. He felt a lucky man. He’d never known a woman like Jennifer Jones before. As much as he loathed Avril (Beaky) Summerfield-Preston the pretentious, devious Divisional Administrator who was also Jen’s boss, she had indirectly been responsible for bringing them together and for this he would be eternally grateful, although he’d never dream of telling her.
‘Beaky’ continued to make life difficult for her staff, goodness only knew why... In Dylan’s experience a happy office was a productive one.
Jen, sensitive and trusting, struggled to be supervised by someone like her and Dylan put that down to her being brought up on a small Island, within a close village community and in a loving home. He’d recognised immediately that she needed prote
cting soon after she’d arrived in Harrowfield. It was pretty obvious to him, in those early days that Jen was vulnerable and naive because her supervisors used her like a dogsbody. How different the two women were. You wouldn’t catch Jen wearing sloppy high-heels, tight ill-fitting clothing or smelling of heady nauseous scent. Dylan coughed as the thought of the pungent smell caught in his throat. Jen wouldn’t dream of wearing fake eyelashes and big jewellery. What attracted him to Jen was not only the calming way she had about her but her bubbly personality, bouncing blonde ponytail and her sing song tone of her southern accent, and that was before he was ever the recipient of her kind, caring nature. He remembered how grateful he had been to Jen when he walked into the station after a particularly busy week of ‘call outs’, albeit only from his bachelor cell at the divisional police flats that were named ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, which provided a roof over the heads of single and separated officers. Jen had brought him hot coffee and a plateful of warm toast into his office. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with this leggy blonde. Spending time with her and getting to know her had made him realise that after all the knockbacks of promotion he’d had in recent years and the pressure he was under being a Senior Investigative Officer he’d been melting into the shadows, and he didn’t recognise himself anymore. He had been living to work, not working to live...
It came as a complete and utter shock to Dylan that Jen singled out the rugged Yorkshire detective inspector, nine years her senior. The attention she gave him made him feel sharper and more alive than he’d done in years. ‘Where did the time go when you were enjoying yourself?’ It would be Maisy, their daughter’s third birthday very soon and she was growing fast. The only ‘fly’ in the domestic ‘ointment’ was Jen’s worry for her dad, Ralph. His living alone in the large family home on the Isle of Wight, since her mum’s untimely death, often gave her cause for concern. However, recently he had acquired a lady friend to occupy his time and they heard from him less and less. The parent child thing appeared to be on the other foot for Jen and Ralph, and Dylan knew she wouldn’t settle until she had met Thelma Moore.
There was a gentle knock on his office door and Detective Sergeant Vicky Hardacre popped her head around it. ‘Sorry to disturb you boss but our attendance is being requested on the cycle path behind the Anchor Inn, Tandem Bridge. The only information I have at the moment is that a female has been found dead, and her bike has been located a few feet away. Initially, her death was thought to be as a result of a fall. However, the paramedics in attendance are concerned about an injury to her neck that they’re pretty satisfied is non-accidental.’
‘Sounds ominous,’ said Dylan. ‘Get HQ control to speak to uniform to ensure that access to the area is stopped so the scene remains sterile. Tell them we’ll be with them in about fifteen minutes?’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘We’ll need a Crime Scene Supervisor, the body tent and some weights to hold it down should the wind pick up like it’s forecast. Otherwise it could be blown into Lancashire,’ he said as he rose from his chair. Vicky withdrew from the doorway, back into the CID office.
Dylan took his suit jacket from the back of his chair and reached for his old leather coat. Standing in front of his office window showed him a world of wet, grey, gloom, dripping drainpipes and soaked tarmac of the police yard. So low was the sky it seemed to rest on the rooftops of the town beyond. Fingers of grey mist trailed across the car park. ‘British summer?’ he murmured.
‘All done boss!’ said Vicky as she re-entered the office, breaking his reverie. ‘The couple of cyclists who discovered her, are still at the scene. The taking of their witness statements is in progress.’
‘I hope they’re sheltering somewhere,’ he said with an explanatory nod over his shoulder towards the window pane.
‘The landlord has opened The Anchor for us. I’ve got DC Ned Granger coming with us as exhibits officer.’
‘Well, in that case what are we hanging about for, let’s get the show on the road.’ Dylan pulled up his collar and like a racehorse wearing blinkers he marched out through the office with one focus in mind. His CID entourage in tow.
So large were the drops of water that Dylan could feel their individual impact on his face and hands as he ran towards his car. He hugged his coat to him. The deluge soaked his hair and ran down into his eyes. Solace was found in his vehicle, but not for long he feared. He turned on the windscreen wipers and switched on the blower to clear the condensation from the windows. Vicky opened the passenger door and flopped down beside him.
‘Jesus wept,’ she said, shaking her long blonde hair.
‘Is Ned taking the CID car?’ he asked.
She pointed to the dashboard. ‘Yes, you’d better turn on your lights, boss.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dylan said with a raised eyebrow and a nod of his head.
***
Dylan drove off the main road and into the pub car park. An ambulance, its doors wide open, blocked the intended route. Paramedics could be seen scurrying around inside the vehicle. One indicated to him that they knew he was waiting. Dylan tapped on his steering wheel and waited. Outwardly he appeared patient, inwardly a thousand questions regarding the scene he was about to witness whirred though his mind.
‘It probably isn't unreasonable to expect to see a pub named Anchor on the coast,’ said Vicky looking quizzically up at the swaying pub sign. ‘But, why do you think they’d name a pub in Tandem Bridge The Anchor Inn?’ she said.
‘I don’t know, it may have been named by a sailor who wanted to attract sailors to use it?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought there’d be many sailors in Tandem Bridge would you?’ she said turning to look at him with knitted brows.
Dylan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Come to think of it I once read an article about the emergence of the canal network in the early days of the industrial revolution which led to a growth of pubs named Anchor further inland...’
‘Is that another gem from the encyclopedia of Dylan? Mind you, my grandpa did use to tell me that on a clear day you can see Blackpool Tower from our very own formidable Wainhouse Tower.’
Yeah, I heard that myth too,’ he said.
The ambulance driver jumped down from the back of the vehicle, secured the doors, waved a hand at Dylan and proceeded to climb into the cab. He drove forward to allow Dylan access. Dylan steered his car slowly into a vacant parking space. He was pleased, not only because the rain had abated but because he could see that the scene had been protected by the copious amounts of crime scene tape. When he emerged from the car he could hear it also flapping noisily in the wind. Dylan was pleased someone had taken the initiative to preserve the area and any evidence.
A rendezvous point had been established and a uniformed police officer with a clipboard, albeit a soggy one, was checking the identity and recording the names of everyone attending and leaving.
As he looked past the uniformed staff at the entrance of the taped cordon he could see the high level, fast flowing canal beyond the cycle path.
‘If the rain continues to fall at the pace it has over the last few hours,’ Vicky said tilting her head up towards the threatening dark clouds, ‘our crime scene will be underwater before much longer.’
‘We’re going to have to act fast on the inner cordon, just in case,’ Dylan said. With his trained eye he scanned the wider taped outer cordon, an area to search later should the inclement weather allow.
Now he knew the outer cordon was already sealed he could concentrate on the inner scene. This wasn’t always possible at some murder investigations and preparatory work had to be started on his instruction, when he arrived. This care to detail was something he was very thankful for and there was no doubt in his mind that Inspector Peter Reginald Stonestreet must be working. He smiled to himself – there was nothing like having an old timer on your shout.
Dylan ripped open the polythene packet that contained his protective clothing feeling a little relieved. Vicky gave the Police Loggist her details. DC D
uncan ‘Ned’ Granger joined them carrying the major incident holdall. Booted and suited the three trudged, heads bowed, against the wind along the tarmac track towards the area where the body lay. They were feet away but Dylan was still conscious that behind them other members of the team were arriving and preparing to follow their route.
The rural cycle path was used on a daily basis for pleasure, exercise and getting to and from work as it led directly to Harrowfield town centre from outlying villages and hamlets. The Anchor Inn was an old established pub, known locally for its good food in more recent times rather than its ales; frequented by locals and visitors alike.
The group passed a light blue coloured Dawes Mountain bike which was in disarray on a wet, muddy, grass verge.
‘That’s a serious piece of kit,’ Vicky said with a slight tilt of her head in Dylan’s direction.
‘Nothing like the Hercules Jeep bike I had as a lad. That hard saddle, crunchy gears...’
‘Remember those awkward handlebars?’ said Ned. ‘I went over them a time or two.’
Approximately ten yards away lay the body of the female rider. She could quite clearly be seen laid on her back, dressed in a black and white cycling jersey.
‘ASSOS,’ said Vicky.
Ned gave a long low whistle. ‘She takes her sport seriously by the look of that gear.’
‘And she’s not short of a bob or two if she can afford it,’ said Vicky.
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