Dylan didn’t sleep for long. He slipped out of bed and went to sit on the easy chair where he remained restless, his eyes wide and to the ceiling until the sun came up. He crawled back into bed where he fell into a shallow, unsettled slumber and he dreamt of being a child again and his earliest memory of coming face to face with his grand-father’s bull and staring into the murky depths of its big brown eyes.
He woke with a start. Maisy was standing silently by his side of the bed and it was her soft, smiling eyes that he saw when he opened his.
‘Wake up! Wake up sleepyhead,’ she shouted. As she did so, she did a little jig. Jen was up and dressed and just about to leave the bedroom.
‘Come on Maisy, let’s get Daddy his breakfast before he goes to work.’ She gave Dylan a faint smile.
Maisy dropped a kiss on Dylan’s cheek and ran from the room. He heard her small, steadying footsteps on the stairs and her counting of them down. Max was waiting for the little girl at the bottom and she squealed with delight as she jumped over him with a bang.
For a few moments, his semi-lucid state allowed his childhood memories to return. When he was a child, the highlight of his year was going to his grandparents’ farm. Those carefree days of summer when he would ride on the back of granddad’s open cart to feed the cattle, herd the sheep off the moors, return from the haymaking to cheese and pickle sandwiches in homemade bread. Those times were among the happiest of his life. His eyes were still closed but his mind once again was brought back to the present on waking, and the job in hand, the recent brutal killings.
The little girl’s endless chatter took Dylan’s mind briefly off the day ahead, and he ate a hearty breakfast. The eating over, Maisy was soon restless, and Jen chastised her.
With military precision the pots were tidied and the dog was about to be walked as Dylan put on his suit jacket. He picked up his briefcase, gave Jen and Maisy a peck on the cheek and they walked to the door together.
‘I’ll see you at work,’ he said to Jen giving her a parting wink. ‘You be a good girl for Chantall,’ he said to Maisy.
‘I will,’ she said rolling her little eyes up to the ceiling, a trick she had just learnt to do that she knew made Dylan laugh.
Chapter Eight
It wasn’t unusual for him to be the first person in the office. He looked at the documents that lay on his desk and used the quiet time to write down some of the necessary actions he wanted carrying out. These would be the priority for the day utilising the notes he had written during the night. He wanted to know about the workmen who had worked on the recent renovations of the house. There was bound to be more intelligence gained by now on the history of the Isaac’s.
Once he had confirmation from the coroner’s officer of the times for the pending post-mortems of the murdered victims, including Freddy Knapton, and then he could arrange his diary accordingly. Dylan would never send another officer to the mortuary on his behalf. He knew other senior officers that would and did, but being at the mortuary for the post-mortem of a victim, he felt was priceless. To be able to speak and ask probing questions and to see first-hand, the evidence that the dead body gave them. He wanted to be there to understand the injuries and have the exact cause of death explained to him. The images he would take away with him from the examination, he knew, would speak a thousand words more than a report written by someone else.
The family history of the owners of Merton Manor would take many man hours of investigation. Dylan had already identified Detective Sergeant Jon Summers to champion this, and selected a small team to assist. While it was obvious that the Isaacs had been targeted, it was not known by whom or why? He wrote a list of questions he wanted answering. How many people carried out the murders? Why did they need to kill the occupants? Did the Isaacs know their attackers? Who was the heir to their assets and, was this a possible motive? ‘Early days,’ thought Dylan as he considered his suspect strategy. The investigative net would be cast far and wide. He penned another media release for the daily newspapers, morning television and radio. His mind circled like an aeroplane awaiting permission to land. The information he would give press officer Connie Seabourne to release would still be limited, which would enable him to drip-feed more information periodically throughout the day, in the hope that this would keep the incidents in the public eye. The recent killing of a wealthy couple would overshadow the Knapton murder.
‘Emergency services responded to a report of a fire at Merton Manor yesterday. This resulted in numerous fire officers and tenders responding. To their credit, they managed to bring the fire under control quite quickly and subsequently it was extinguished.
At the first opportunity officers with breathing apparatus entered the building and found the badly burnt bodies of two people on the upper floor. A major investigation is underway led by Detective Inspector Jack Dylan, as it was apparent from the outset that the two occupants had been murdered. Once the identities of the victims’ are confirmed, further details will be released. The manor house itself is severely damaged. Anyone with any information, no matter how slight, should contact the incident room at Harrowfield. It is believed that the deceased are husband and wife, Jake and Leah Isaac, who are the owners of the Isaac Art Emporium, Harrowfield. Visual identification is not an option to the investigation team, therefore formal identification will be done by other means. The victims, we can confirm, were shot prior to the house being set alight. Another update will be released after the post-mortems.’
NB: NOT FOR RELEASE AT THIS STAGE (Connie, I’ll call you once we know for sure to give you the green light).
Dylan’s experience meant he wouldn’t second guess anything. He wanted to be accurate about the injuries to both parties and wanted confirmation that the bodies were those of Jake and Leah Isaac before that information was released to the public. Dylan was thoughtful, ‘Was there any significance in them being found in separate rooms?’
Dipping into his in-tray he found confirmation that the post-mortems for the Merton Manor victims would commence at one o’clock, he immediately sent an e mail to DC Andy Wormald, the exhibit officer, Senior CSI Sarah Jarvis and CSI Mark Hamilton to inform them that they would be required to attend.
Dylan read on. Immediately after the conclusion of these post-mortems there would be a short break followed by the post-mortem of Freddy Knapton. Dylan sighed. It was going to be a long day without daylight for company.
At 1 p.m. Dylan arrived at the mortuary and was greeted by his team. Professor Bernard Stow was also present. The detectives knew him well. As a would-be comedian, he made an exceptionally good pathologist.
‘Good afternoon everyone,’ he said with a hearty slap to Dylan’s back and a theatrical bow to the ladies. Stow was partly gowned. ‘Smile,’ he said as he watched the others prepare to gown-up. ‘It could be worse; it might be one of us on the slab.’ Stow laughed heartily.
Dylan looked at the rotund figure of the pathologist, his thick brown wool pullover looked extremely worn and it hung over his midriff.
He completed his dress for the post-mortem by putting an apron over a gown and pulling on his stocking feet, waterproof short boots. Then with his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and his unkempt curly hair tucked into his head cover he tugged on his plastic gloves letting them twang dramatically against his wrists. ‘Right shall we get straight on with it?’ he said.
‘Ready?’ said Dylan to the team. With a nod of the head and the rise of the face masks they followed Professor Stow into the mortuary theatre.
The professor stood at the head of the corpse on the mortuary slab. ‘We’ll deal with the male first,’ he said as his eyes took in the uncovering of the body. ‘Did I tell you the story about our local vicar who was in charge of the barbecue at the village fete this year?’ Dylan slowly shook his head. Stow looked over his glasses at the rest of the team. His eyes were sparkling with mischief. ‘He served up burnt sacrifices.’ Professor Stow chuckled heartily, at his own joke. Unfazed by the l
ack of reaction his face became serious, he looked back at the corpse and stopped to consider, ‘He’s one bad cook alright. Saying that he’s not much cop as a vicar either.’ The tools of Professor Stow’s trade were handed to his outstretched hand. Dylan smiled beneath his mask. He was a kindly soul, and his joviality was his way of coping with his job, no doubt. It also put the team at ease, stopping them being sucked into the sadness of the event.
The mangled charred remains of what was believed to be Jake Isaac’s body didn’t resemble a human being. It was a blackened mass that lay out on the stainless steel table. Black skeletal bones with a few areas of pink flesh stuck to them, along with fragments of cloth. A clump of singed hair was visible on one side of the head. It looked idiotic. Dylan outlined the circumstances of the discovery of the bodies, before offering everyone extra strong mints that he quickly withdrew from his pocket when the smell became too much for him. He filled his own mouth with the sweets to try to eradicate the putrid odour that travelled up his nostrils and formed a distinct foul taste in his mouth.
The professor began his examination by taking samples of flesh and hair for DNA purposes before he moved onto the skull. Two clear and perfectly rounded holes at the back and side of the head were photographed and measured. Impressions were taken of the victim’s teeth with the hope that this would give a further chance of identification.
Using both hands, he stood behind the body and shook the skull. He looked at Dylan with raised eyebrows. ‘You might be lucky inspector. There appears to be something...’ He turned his head as he peered inside. ‘I’m sure I heard a little rattle. A bullet? Didn’t you? The death rattle,’ he growled. Again his eyes danced above his mask mischievously before they turned serious. ‘Death would have been instant. Two shots to the head when actually one would have been sufficient to kill him. Someone was making doubly sure this guy was dead as a door nail.’ With little that remained of the victim, Stow quickly examined the rest, before asking the mortuary attendant to remove the skull cap, even though it was already fragmented.
‘Tweezers please,’ he asked his assistant. With camera in place to capture a picture of the exhibit, a spent bullet was plucked from inside the skull and dropped in a tray. ‘That’s one bullet for ballistics to examine for you Dylan,’ Stow said.
Dylan’s eyes widened. ‘It’s surprising what they’ll be able to tell me from that,’ he said as he eagerly popped another mint in his mouth.
‘Right let’s see if we can find the other little blighter, just a minute,’ Stow said, as he tentatively probed about inside the skull. ‘I think I may have located it wedged in the spine at the top of the neck.’
Dylan could see beads of perspiration forming at the professor’s temples. He paused for a moment when he turned, and located a saw. A knife in the hand of his assistant was considered. He looked back at the skull and finally accepted the knife to help him ease the ammunition from its lodging place. He gingerly poked and cautiously probed. Stretching his aching neck, he took a moment to nudge his head cover upwards from his sweating brow. It seemed to Dylan that everyone around the table was holding their breath. The tension was culpable until suddenly he turned sharply towards Jarv and her camera was instantly pointed in the direction of the bullet. Snap! There was an audible group exhale.
‘Take as many shots as you like, if you pardon the pun,’ he said before pulling the second bullet from the corpse. ‘I say, two-for-one even in the mortuary. Two-for-one,’ he said smearing the moisture from his pink cheeks with the wrist of a gloved hand. He adjusted his glasses on his nose with the tip of his finger, paused and looked at Dylan with satisfaction in his eyes.
‘Excellent,’ said Dylan. ‘Now we will be able to find out if the shots were from the same weapon.’
To everyone’s relief Professor Stow called for a break to outline his findings.
‘The victim was shot twice, once at the side of the head and once in the back.’ Stow stopped and appeared to be collating his thoughts. ‘And, while the bullet hole at the side of the head...’ He pointed to his temple, ‘Could have quite easily been done by the individual himself - the bullet to the rear, because of its positioning and the direction of entry, would have been impossible to self-inflict. This death, in my opinion, was nothing short of an execution. The bullet administered to the side of the head may well have been the first bullet and when the victim fell flat, the gunman took a further pop at him to ensure he was dead. Death, caused by a massive fracture to the skull by a firearm. In simple terms he was shot! Now...’ Stow looked around him, put his hands flat on the table and eased himself from his sitting position. ‘Comfort break I think, and time for a cuppa before the next?’ he said, motioning towards his assistants. ‘It’ll give them a chance to clear away,’ said lowering his voice.
‘Any chance of a slice of toast with that tea?’ he said a little louder.
‘Of course,’ said the mortuary assistant. ‘And I’ll put a broom up m’arse and sweep the floor at the same time, if y’like,’ he said.
‘Just make sure you don’t burn mine like you did last time Bert,’ Stow called over his shoulder. He walked towards the door as Bert headed in the other direction to the kitchenette mumbling. Stow chuckled to himself, his stomach moving beneath his gown in unison with his chin. ‘Such is life,’ he muttered. ‘Such is life...’
Fifteen minutes later the team were back in the mortuary. It felt cooler this time, but the smell of burnt skin was just as overpowering.
‘The body is believed to be that of Leah Isaac,’ said Stow.
The almost skeletal, burnt carcass was a lot smaller than the first corpse. Stow automatically obtained the relevant samples for identification purposes before moving onto the more detailed examination stage.
‘Well, this one is very obviously female to me Dylan. The lady wife you think?’
Dylan nodded.
‘Did you know she was with child?’ Stow looked at Dylan over his half-rimmed glasses.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Dylan said sombrely. His jawline tensed and twitched, immediately thinking of Jen and the baby. He put his hand into his pocket pulled out a bottle of water, flipped the lid and put the nozzle to his mouth. He drank heartily, relishing the cold liquid, the action taking his mind off the feeling of being kicked in the stomach.
‘There seems to be excessive burning around the groin and lower abdomen,’ Stow continued totally unaware of how Dylan was feeling. ‘Was someone wanting to destroy the evidence of the child, I ask myself? Why would accelerants have been deliberately used in this area?’ Stow looked up. ‘I’m just speaking my thoughts aloud. What remains of the unborn child, due to the intensity of the heat, means that the foetus has fused with the mother’s pelvis.’ Stow’s gloved hand spanned the skeletal stomach, ‘I’ll have to do some further tests to determine the age of the foetus. You may have a feticide on your hands too.’
‘Child destruction: The crime of killing a child capable of being born alive, before it has a separate existence.’ said Dylan. ‘Crime Act 1958 deemed that to be twenty-eight weeks’ gestation, later reduced to twenty-four.’ Dylan’s mood had changed, as had Professor Stow’s – no longer the comedian.
‘Never had a chance, this little one...’ Stow said with a sigh. ‘I’ll do the necessary tests but I’m sure your enquiries will confirm that Mrs Isaac was over two-thirds of the way through her pregnancy.’ Stow took the samples in silence. Jarv was close at hand taking photographs.
Stow moved to the skull. ‘Two shots to the head,’ he said. ‘The one here,’ he said pointing to the side of the head. ‘I suggest this long groove, is a slight skirmish. Then, as with her husband, the killer directed a bullet into the back of the head. The pathologist searched within the skull but this time he could only locate one bullet. The female skull was badly damaged - broken like a boiled egg shell being forcefully hit with a spoon. ‘The second bullet could easily be in the debris at the house but I guess searching for that really would be like searching for
the proverbial needle in the haystack.’
Dylan took another mouthful of water. He stooped to rub his calf muscle.
Stow looked at Dylan, who had gone decidedly pale. ‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Dylan. ‘The cold tiles, they give me cramp.’
Stow continued. ‘The only reason we found this bullet.’ Stow held the offending item aloft. ‘Was because it was lodged in her upper jaw bone.’ Stow tutted. ‘Another execution.’ Stow looked puzzled. ‘One thing I don’t understand is that there are no remnants of clothing. That tells me that she must have been wearing very little, or been naked. The couple; they were found in separate rooms you say?’
Dylan nodded. ‘No clothing, intense burning to the groin area and she was discovered in a different room from her husband. Could Stow be right, had there been an intention to destroy the unborn child?
Waiting for Dylan in the kitchenette at the mortuary was DS Vicky Hardace whose attendance was required for the third post-mortem which Dylan was also to attend that day - the post-mortem of Freddy Knapton. She was sitting at the table with her head resting on her arms. She looked up blurry-eyed and her face broke into a wide sleepy smile. As he sat, she stood and without speaking filled the kettle. Opening the cupboard, she retrieved two mugs off the shelf. ‘Drink?’ she said, yawning. Her hand hovered over the coffee jar. He looked across at her. ‘As if you need to ask?’ he said. ‘Make it a strong one.’
‘That bad?’ she asked, with a grimace as she poured milk into the cups and spooned sugar into Dylan’s mug. She slid into the wooden chair opposite him and pushed the hot drink towards him.
When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel Page 9
