When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel

by RC Bridgestock

  Damien raised an eyebrow at his brother and his lips were pursed. ‘What the fuck?’ he growled. ‘Are you trying to kill us?’

  ‘Lack of concentration our kid. It won’t happen again,’ Declan said.

  ‘Jack arse - you’ve been snorting?’ Damien grabbed hold of his brother’s chin and turned his face towards him. This time Declan’s eye’s remained on the road ahead. White power residue was apparent on his upper lip. He ripped his face from his brother’s grasp and started coughing. ‘That’ll teach you, you fucking smack head.’

  Sirens could be heard in the distance as Declan drove faster and more erratically along the country road towards Saddleworth moor.

  An explosion in the distance sounded like one almighty crack of thunder. Declan pulled the car into a small lay-by at the side of the road, at the top of a hill. ‘We can watch the circus arrive from here,’ he said pulling out of his pocket a small, see-through bag containing white powder. He threw it at Damien and in exchange took scraps of food from the plate. Through drugged crazed eyes the brothers watched the ball of fire that was surrounded by torrid plumes of smoke. ‘Always finish what you start, that’s what the Guv used to say didn’t he?’ Declan said.

  Damien blindly ran his flaccid fingertips over the grease on the plate. The feast done, he opened his window and threw the plate out, just as a fire engine whizzed past.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Damien. ‘There are Dennis’s coming from all fucking directions.’ His laughter was loud and uncontrollable. ‘They’ll put it out.’

  ‘You’re paranoid – they’re not quick enough,’ said Declan with a lazy smirk. Morton Manor could not be seen for the dense blanket of black smoke.

  Damien wrinkled his nose and sniffed loudly at his fingers.

  ‘Turpentine?’ Declan said. His head lolled to one side.

  Damien sniffed the other hand sharply this time. ‘I can smell her.’ His neck twitched repeatedly. As he watched the blaze from afar he could barely keep his red eyes open. ‘I wish I could fly right up to the sky, but I can’t.’

  Neither brother mentioned the kill, or the child that would never be born as they travelled southbound: job done.

  Chapter Five

  On a tree stump, in a cool, shadowy corner but clearly visible to anyone entering Groggs Park was the decapitated, scorched head of a dog on a pole.

  Vicky cringed. ‘I’ve been to some pretty horrendous barbie’s but that takes the biscuit.’

  ‘Worryingly, whoever did that appears to have taken great pleasure in also displaying their handy work,’ said Dylan.

  ‘I feel sick. Whatever we thought about Freddy Knapton, whoever did this to his dog is severely disturbed. He wasn’t a murderer.’

  Dylan took a moment. ‘As far as we know.’

  Vicky’s expression hardened. ‘I always thought the scroat would end up dead by the hands of someone with a short fuse. He could be a vile git. He’d spit in people’s faces and tell them he had AIDS you know.’

  Dylan shrugged. ‘A good egg then?’ he said sarcastically with a nod of his head.

  Vicky didn’t answer. Her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Who do you know that is capable of this?’

  Dylan’s face was optimistic. ‘We can’t count anyone out; it could be a long list of suspects.’

  Vicky gave Dylan a knowing look.

  ‘Make a note. In the first instance we need to dig deep into Knapton’s background and look at his recent movements and acquaintances. Look at any reported incident that involved him. Take hair samples from the dog,’ he said with a nod of his head towards the decapitated head on the spike. ‘As well as swabs from its mouth.’

  ‘Mmm. You never know the poor animal might have managed to bite it’s killer I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly, and what we do know from experience is that most dogs only need brush past us and they’ll leave hair on our clothing. That evidence might just tip the balance of the case when we find the culprit.’

  Vicky appeared to be weighing up what Dylan had said. ‘Do you think he was born evil?’ she said.

  ‘What the dog?’

  ‘No stupid! Knapton? As long as I’ve been in the job he’s kept turning up like a bad penny. Any hint of trouble and you can bet Freddy Knapton would be involved in one way or other and those vile tattoos of his, they’ve given me bloody nightmares.’

  ‘Nightmares?’ said Dylan with a furrowed brow. On seeing the question linger, in his eyes, she quickly went on.

  ‘You’ve no idea how many times I’ve had to count them tattoos and list them to update his personal record,’ she said. ‘Every one of them related to hate, killing or something evil.’

  ‘What his past arrest history tells me is that he was put up for adoption at birth. His adopted parents, they couldn’t cope and he was put into care. Where he remained until the state deemed him old enough to go-it-alone. Who are we to judge? Being violent, a bully, might be the only way he survived.’

  ‘Or a reaction to the way he was treated?’

  Dylan tutted. ‘Life certainly wouldn’t have been easy for the young Freddy Knapton. But, that doesn’t justify the way he went on to treat people as a grown-up.’

  ‘Any relatives still alive do you know?’

  ‘No. There is no information to suggest there is.’

  Vicky’s eyes looked downcast. ‘He’ll have a pauper’s funeral. A simple service, conducted in a vacant slot, probably early one morning; transported in a van, not a hearse, and his ashes will be scattered across the crematoriums grounds. Vicky raised her eyes to Dylan. ‘Could we at least ask them to put his dog in with him. In the cheap box?’

  ‘You big softie?’ said Dylan, turning to her.

  Vicky’s heart and her head were at odds, ‘Well, what harm would it do?’

  ‘Ask if you want. They can only say no,’ Dylan said with a wink of his eye. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the nick; get the incident room up and running and I’ll let the press office know what we’ve got so far. Take this down.’

  Without words Vicky flipped over the cover of her pocket book and her pen was poised.

  ‘I want any CCTV in the area collated and those car park ticket machines,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the entrance to the park. Dylan looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder how many vehicles were in the car park at the time? Let’s see if the pay stations can prove useful, for once. And, we will need Knapton’s last known address.’

  Vicky was subdued. ‘I’m sure that’s not going to be hard considering how frequently we had him in for questioning.’

  ‘Let’s hope his killer or killers aren’t hard to get hold of either,’ said Dylan abruptly. The fact that the attack was violent, planned and the perpetrators appeared to have taken pleasure in it concerned him deeply.

  As they walked together back towards the car a glance at the park wall showed Dylan some graffiti which grabbed his attention. Vicky followed his gaze. ‘Kids with spray paint in this park, a problem do you know?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I’ve never heard anything to suggest that it’s a problem.’ Vicky showed Dylan her bottom lip.

  The spray painting was of a bald headed man looking over a fence. He knew from school that the cartoon had become prominent during the second world war in America, before it came to England. ‘It was known as Chad and it appeared all over the place when I was a kid. It had several tags, the word what, spelt W O T. Like “WOT NO CIGS” or “WOT NO SPUDS” or any commodity that was scarce at the time.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ Vicky’s face looked puzzled.

  ‘You’re too young.’ Dylan carried on walking.

  ‘You’re not that old surely,’ she said as she caught up.

  Dylan couldn’t help but raise a smile. ‘I don’t actually remember it being used. But I know it stopped being used as soon as things were no longer rationed.’

  He strode towards the wall, across the grass, and Vicky followed close behind.

  ‘Look at this one it’s not been here
since the war,’ he said. ‘Could this be the killer’s tag do you think?’

  ‘Cool bananas. That’s good. Whoever’s done that spray painting is pretty damn talented.’

  ‘Let’s have it photographed and paint samples taken.’ Dylan looked around him. ‘Get the bins checked in case there is any discarded aerosols that we might get prints from.’

  ‘You must have been reading my mind,’ said Vicky looking amused.

  ‘God forbid that should ever happen.’

  The setting up of an incident room was routine for the head of a major incident team. The main focus was to be moving the investigation forward at all times. Dylan drafted the press release to be given out by Harrowfield Headquarters press office for immediate release:

  ‘A murder investigation has been launched in Harrowfield after the discovery of a young man’s body in Union Street, close to the multi-storey car park, in the town centre, this morning. The deceased who is known to the police suffered a serious wound to his neck. The man’s pet dog was also found dead in the nearby Groggs park. It had been subjected to a sustained brutal attack. Police are appealing for witnesses who may have seen anything or anyone acting suspicious in, or around these areas. The deceased’s identity will not be released until family members have been traced and notified. Detective Inspector Jack Dylan is leading the investigation and he said, “The attacker or attacker’s clothing would be heavily bloodstained and I urge anyone with any information to contact me or a member of my team at Harrowfield police station, in confidence.” A post-mortem will be carried out and further information will be released in due course.’

  Dylan knew full well that the little, young blue-eyed, blonde Connie Seabourne from the press office would be on the phone for more information as soon as she received the update. For now, that would have to do, to help her keep the media happy while the team gathered more information they could share with the press.

  ‘Boss, according to Shooter...’ Dylan’s look caused Ned to offer an explanation, ‘Community Bobby, PC Sharpe – sharp-shooter, he used to be in Firearms’ Dylan’s blank expression didn’t change. ‘Well, he tells me that Knapton was squatting in the semi-derelict Old School House, less than a mile from where he was found.’

  Vicky watched Dylan who was still looking at Ned.

  ‘What are you standing around for?’ said Dylan, ‘Go!’

  Ned was heading for his jacket draped over the back of his office chair.

  ‘Uniform are already en route to seal the area off, and I’m arranging for Sergeant Clegg and his search team from the support unit to attend,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Well done. Don’t forget the risk assessments.’

  ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘As if we haven’t enough to do!’

  ‘Your job, your shout Sarge.’ Dylan’s manner was abrupt.

  ‘Don’t you just love Health & Safety? What’s wrong with plain and simple common bloody sense?’ Vicky muttered under her breath as she followed him into his office.

  ‘It’s no use moaning. Litigation is the last thing any police force needs, risk assessments have to be carried out, recorded and retained as part of everyday policing nowadays, and you know it.’ He sat behind his desk.

  ‘No wonder Stonestreet talks so fondly of the good old days,’ she said sitting down opposite Dylan. He picked up his pen and put his head down as if to write, but the pen only hovered over the blank piece of paper. After a moment or two he sat back in his chair and appeared deep in thought. ‘Yes, well it wasn’t a bed of roses then either, believe me,’ he said solemnly. Dylan sat up swiftly and leaned forward towards her pointing his finger. ‘Those forms,’ he said nodding in her direction. ‘They won’t fill themselves in.’

  Dylan picked up his mobile to ring Jen, it was the first opportunity he’d had to see how she was. There wasn’t a cat in hells chance he was going to be home in time for tea, just as DS Jon Summers walked in to his office. ‘Boss, Control have been trying to contact you over the radio. I’ve informed them you’re in the station.’ The words had hardly tumbled from Jon’s mouth before the office phone started to ring; Dylan picked up.

  ‘Jack Dylan, just give me a moment.’ He placed his hand over the receiver. ‘Put the kettle on Jon will you, we need to discuss staffing levels for the Knapton murder.’

  Vicky stood up as if to leave.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Dylan said. ‘I might need you to get things off the ground with the Knapton murder if I’m required elsewhere.’

  Jon left the room in haste. Vicky sat back down.

  ‘Sorry, I’m back with you now,’ said Dylan his eyes still on Vicky’s face.

  ‘Force Control Sir, Duty Inspector is requesting your attendance at a double fatal house fire at Merton Manor. Apparently all early indications confirm that we have an arson attack.’

  ‘Okay, let those in attendance know I’m en route.’

  ‘For your information Sir, the fire brigade are still on site.’

  Dylan texted Jen as they waited for Jon’s return. ‘Picked up a murder and en route to what appears to be another. I’ll be in touch, love you. Are you feeling any better?’

  Jen clutched onto the fact that the test taken after the bleed told her she was still pregnant. However, she had a niggling feeling that something wasn’t right.

  ‘We’re fine. Make sure you get something to eat. Love you too,’ she texted back.

  Jen, in Sibden Park was distracted by her daughters cry. ‘More! More!’ the child was shouting as the swing slowed to a stop. Affording herself a smile Jen pushed her once more. A warm breeze was playing with the hem of her skirt. ‘Just a few more minutes, then we really must go.’

  She turned at the sound of their Golden Retriever barking, and in doing so only just stood clear of her daughters kicking legs. Max ran excitedly from the nearby copse. Reaching her he leaped up and down nuzzling her leg. She greeted him with a stroke of his soft, honey coloured head but he continued to jump up and down. ‘Look out, you daft animal. You’re slobbering all over my trousers.’ Max had been chasing around all the while they had been at the park and his tongue was hanging out, saliva running from his jowls. Jen walked grinning towards Maisy, whose smile had turned into a frown at her mother’s cross tone. Jen put out her arms when she reached her daughter and scooped her out of the swing. Popping the tired little girl in her pushchair with a kiss on her cheek, Jen put the dog on his lead and headed homeward.

  Before the three reached the gate at Sibden Park she saw Maisy’s head flop to her chest and a few seconds later to one side and she knew she was asleep. Taking the bridle path Jen found the going hard; one minute she was pushing the pram and the next pulling it over the uneven pathway. As she struggled on, her arms hurt from shoulder to wrist. Tired as she was her eyes began to sting with unspent tears of her growing frustration. Once at the top of the hill she stopped to catch her breath and admire the view. Far enough from the road she could hear the sound of the birds. Below her, she could see the river flowing over the boulders jutting out of the water. Only in the distance could she hear the hum of the traffic. Max sat down at her feet. The wooden bench beckoned her. Her quick bright smile at the dog belied her feelings inside. She sat. Her thoughts deepened. As if sensing her sadness Max moved closer to her and rested his body comfortingly against her leg. Tears threatened. She stroked Max around his ears and bit her lip hard. The disappointment of Dylan was still in her and, for all she was worth, she could not let it go. The more she thought about Dylan’s commitment to his work, the police promotion system, and how it had let her husband down once again, the more upset she became. There was no doubt about it, the Police promotion system stank nearly as much as the lip service given to the grievance procedure and the equal opportunities they boasted about.

  Those who presided over these things never took into account the demands and pressures of the individual’s daily role. It wasn't about how good a police officer you were, but the courses you had been on and the company you ke
pt. What she found hard to understand was why an intelligent man like Dylan believed otherwise? And he did. ‘Why are you bothered?’ he would say to her. ‘The higher up the tree they go the more of their arse they show.’ And he’d laugh. A sob caught in Jen’s throat and she choked back her tears. She presumed that after being a member of the establishment for so many years he had been hoodwinked and brainwashed by those that he took his orders from; for she could only assume that if he didn’t believe in their integrity how could he possible put his life in their hands on a daily basis? Her present role as personnel clerk had truly opened her eyes. The likes of Chief Superintendent Walter Hugo-Watkins and her own supervisor Avril Summerfield-Preston spent their time openly courting the people they thought could give them a leg up in their careers. They didn’t care one jot about the public or the victims of crime, they only cared about themselves, for the higher up the pecking order they got before they retired meant they’d get a bigger pension. Jen took a deep invigorating breath that filled her lungs as she stood up. She shook her head and wiped her eyes whilst considering her descent. The path ahead was well worn by dog walkers and travellers alike.

  ‘We’ll be off now,’ she told the curious magpie who had been watching her for the past five minutes. She took the brake off the pram and, pushing it towards the bird, watched it take to the skies. ‘Fly away you coward,’ she said though gritted teeth. ‘Although,’ she sighed as she pushed the pram down the hill. ‘If I had wings, I’d be off too.’ She looked down at Max and he looked up at her with his big, brown, sad eyes. ‘Don’t worry fella,’ she said. I wouldn’t want to go it alone, not without Maisy, Dylan and you.’ Max forged ahead as if consoled. She pushed the pram faster down the hill after him, until she was almost running. Feeling the sweat forming on her face she stopped at the river to wipe her brow. She let out a deep breath through pursed lips. Luckily for the public, the majority of officers got on with the job they were paid to do. The only status she wanted Dylan to achieve now was retired; if the workload didn’t retire him first. She was angry, she was emotional, what the hell was wrong with her? Oh, yes, she was pregnant, she was anxious, she was frightened; why in god’s name did her mum have to die so young? And why did Dylan have to work such long hours; she felt alone, very alone.