***
Detective Sergeant Jon Summers and Detective Constable Andy Wormald had caught up with the decorator in the process of painting the exterior of a detached property called ‘The Norland’, in Tandem Bridge.
Alan Painter was a silver haired gent, balding and bespectacled. In his late sixties, in white overalls that were splashed with every colour paint under the sun, or so it seemed. He had a paint brush in his hand. He looked like he had the world on his shoulders, but he had a friendly if not a tired smile. He shook his head in despair at his sons who were chasing around after each other. ‘I don’t think they’ll ever grow up,’ he said.
‘How many times do I have to tell you; you can have your fun when the work’s done!’
The two younger men laughed and took their fathers telling off with good-nature.
The family-oriented decorator told the officers how he had been thrilled to hear that Leah Isaac was pregnant, and excited to be asked to help her create the nursery. Their involvement at the Manor however, some seven days prior to the fire, was finally over and they had left Leah to add her own personal touch to her much wanted unborn child’s room.
‘We left some turps, and a couple of brushes,’ Alan said.
‘What were the couple like to work for?’ asked Andy.
‘Leah brought us sandwiches and homemade cakes,’ said George.
‘Did they have any visitors whilst you were there?’
Alan scowled. ‘Not that I recall,’ said Alan scratching his head.
‘Have you spoken to their gardener? He was the only person who we saw on a regular basis. He was forever pottering around the place doing odd jobs.’
The two Painter boys came to sit on the bottom platform of the scaffolding.
‘Those the two vehicles you’ve been using?’ said Jon noting the registration plate numbers, make and model in his pocket book.
‘We need new ones but dad won’t hear of it,’ said George.
Andy walked around the vehicles observing closely every scratch and slight dent.
‘What you looking for?’ said Patrick who was close behind him.
Andy turned to see his inquisitive face. He smiled. ‘Just making sure you’ve not had an argument with anything lately.
‘Always wanted to be a police officer did our Pat,’ said Alan.
‘Ey too bad he’s as thick as pig shit,’ shouted George.
Patrick screwed his face up at his brother. ‘Why don’t you go for a long run on a short pier!’ he said, throwing the briefest of threatening glances in his direction.
‘Do you work out of the county?’ Andy asked Alan.
‘Sometimes, but the cost of the fuel and travelling time doesn’t usually mean it’s viable these days.’
‘Where else have you worked before?’
‘North Yorkshire, South Yorkshire, East Yorkshire, Lancashire.’
‘Recently?’
‘No,’ said Alan. ‘Not in a long while.’
***
The afternoon was filled with telephone calls and scrutinising automatic number plate retrieval information. Any vehicle recorded in both areas would be flagged up to the enquiry and registered on the databases. All the personal details, along with vehicles used by the people being seen by the team of detectives were being fed into the HOLMES system.
All the people spoken to so far had alibis for the day of the fire, including the tree surgeon Nigel Earley. Him and his gang had been on an emergency call-out working in Marsden, twenty-five miles from the scene, where two large fallen trees were threatening the main trans-Pennine train line and all trains had been stopped until they had been removed.
Dylan looked around the briefing room and he felt for the team. They looked dead beat and with no positive lines of enquiry on either murder investigation moral was getting low.
‘Don’t forget every phone call made, every enquiry completed means we are a step closer to the killers. I know from experience that sooner or later we will get a breakthrough and the investigations will become more focussed. However, for the time being the nets have to remain wide-spread.’
Dylan had questions for the Merton Manor murder enquiry team: ‘Did the Isaacs have any connection with North Yorkshire? Did Jake and Leah know Cedric Oakley? Had they got the telephone analysis? Was there anything forthcoming from it?’ Dylan’s eagerness was met by a lot of blank faces. ‘Our killers will have made mistakes and it’s our job to find them. We know the same gun was used to murder the Isaac family and Mr Oakley, if it was the same person, people then I feel sure they are not going to stop killing until they are caught.’
The working copy of the disc for York Races had arrived on his desk while he had been in the debriefs. It was six o’clock when he opened the brown envelope that contained the stills of those identified. It felt like something positive. Being given something visual to look at brought the murdered victim to life for him. He was now real. He saw for the first time footage of the deceased Cedric Oakley. Instead of going home he put the disc in his computer and sat down. Sitting on the edge of his chair, he fast forwarded every image hoping something would catch his eye.
Race courses had somehow withstood the passage of time and still drew in massive crowds. With the stills available to him he was quickly able to recognise the victim Cedric Oakley in the VIP lounge. To say he was one who was known for being a lady’s man there was only one lady that he appeared to have eyes for. He raised a glass to the stunning young woman sometime later. The young woman who hadn’t been identified was with a man and another couple. The men could have been twins.
He stretched his back, loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. Turning off his computer he was in the process of locking his desk draw when his phone rang. He considered letting it ring but thought better of it. He snatched the phone, ‘Dylan,’ he said abruptly.
‘Boss, thought you’d like to know we’ve had some success with the drains. Some four streets back from the park, they’ve found a knife. CSI Mark Hamilton is photographing the exhibit in situ as we speak.’
‘That’s great news Vicky,’ he said. Adrenalin rushed through his veins awakening his senses. ‘That’s got to be more than a coincidence hasn’t it?’
‘Hopefully. It’s a hell of a weapon from what I can see, a real nasty looking blade.’
‘Thanks for the call, let’s get it examined forensically as a priority.’
‘Will do boss, speak later.’
Dylan butted in. ‘Unless it’s urgent Vicky, leave it until morning will you. I’m going home and Jen and I need to talk.’
‘Of course,’ she said quietly.
It was eight o’clock when he looked up at his office clock. It was dark outside. Dylan picked up the phone and rung his home number.
‘Hello?’ Jen’s voice was weak and hesitant.
‘I’m coming home,’ Dylan said. ‘I think we need to talk?’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No, you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll make something.’
‘I’ll pick something up?’
‘You can for you, if you want but I’m not hungry,’ said Jen.
‘Me neither.’
‘Don’t bother then, just come home.’ Jen’s voice was almost inaudible to him.
***
The house looked cold and uninviting as Dylan pulled up in the driveway. The curtains were not drawn, but there were none of the usual welcoming lights shining from within. He let himself in the house and, putting his head around the lounge door, he saw Jen sitting in the dark, her face lit only by the flames of the log fire. Max flapped his tail slowly and it brushed rhythmically against the wall, but he didn’t move from where he was at Jen’s side. She was huddled in his sweater amongst cushions and Maisy’s toys. His eyes found hers, words were unnecessary as tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. Dylan dropped to his knees. She went gladly into his open arms and they cried, but this time together.
Chapter F
ifteen
CSI Mark Hamilton had a see-through plastic tube in his hand, it contained the knife recovered from the drain in Curzon Drive. He brought it to Dylan.
‘That is one hell of a weapon.’
‘It’s cleanliness suggests it hasn’t been down there for long and fortunately the drain was dry,’ said Mark.
Dylan studied the large sturdy knife which had a yellow handle and jagged blade of, he guessed, around fourteen centimetres, seven inches.
‘That blade would cut through flesh like butter,’ said Mark.
‘Why something so sinister is available to the public at large is beyond belief. It’s an instrument of death,’ said Dylan.
‘Let’s hope they find something on it when it’s examined, linking it to Freddy Knapton, or his dog,’ said Vicky.
***
The teaching staff at Groggs school were helpful and accommodating, providing opportunities for officers to speak with pupils in attendance. The Head was very concerned that a brutal killing had taken place so near to the school and appalled that someone had beheaded a dog, and displayed it in the adjacent park. Apparently he telephoned Chief Superintendent Hugo-Watkins office and asked what the police were doing about it.’
‘The school are not aware of any of their pupils using graffiti similar to that daubed on the wall in the park, boss,’ said Vicky in the morning briefing.
‘They’ve developed good intelligence about those using graffiti as an art form, which fortunately has become less of a problem recently I’m told, due to the students being given supervised allocated places to display their art without causing offence,’ added Ned.
‘The art teacher knows the tags used by his pupils because most of them can’t resist using the same logo to identify their work books,’ said Shelagh
‘With regard to the group of hoodies that have been hanging around the park, we have a name of two ex-pupils, two girls, who have been seen there. It is believed they have been hanging around with some older lads and those have yet to be identified,’ confirmed Vicky.
‘The art teacher told me that the school was aware of the group and were intending to make a report of nuisance to the police because of their behaviour, that had become abusive and intimidating, with recent threats directed towards younger children as they passed to and from school. There had also been demands made for cash. However, since the finding of the dog they appear to have moved on, and the report hadn’t been deemed necessary,’ said Ned.
‘Do we have the names of two girls?’ asked Dylan.
‘Farah Ruwal, who’s eighteen and her friend Tara Cabe sixteen. Both live on the Meadow Estate,’ said Vicky.
‘Farah has previously been cautioned for possession of a small amount of cannabis and both her and Tara have been recently caught shoplifting, which is still pending process,’ said Ned.
‘We have got them on our list to see as a priority,’ said Vicky.
***
It wasn’t long before DC Ned Granger and PC Shelagh MacPhee were knocking at the door of flat 4, Pan House, Meadows Estate.
‘Fuck off! I ain’t got no money!’ came the hurried reply.
‘Well, at least we know somebody’s in,’ said Ned quietly.
‘It’s the Police,’ called Shelagh through the letter box. ‘We’d like a word.’
‘You’ve had a word, now fuck off,’ came the reply from a girl within.
‘Allow me,’ said Ned. Raising his arm and pulling back his jacket sleeve. He made a fist and bringing it down hard on the door he hammered three times. His booted foot made contact with the wood and it cracked.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming! Don’t smash the fucker. Council will go ape,’ the girl shouted.
All was quite in the concrete clad corridor but for the key being turned in the lock. The door opened slowly, an inch at a time and stood before them, shadowed by the dingy hallway, was a large, heavily tattooed, obese young woman. With red rimmed eyes, she looked into PC MacPhee’s face as if searching for something. She pushed her hoodie sleeves back to her elbows as if up for a fight when her eyes found DC Granger’s.
‘What do you want?’ she said scratching the back of her lank black shoulder length, mattered hair. ‘Should be a law against people waking folk up at this time of day.’ She yawned.
‘It’s nearly lunch time,’ said Shelagh pushing past her.
‘Exactly,’ she said. Her hand still on the door her eyes followed the police officers up the corridor. ‘I don't think I invited you in but, come in why don’t you?’
Farah stood with her back to the door, her eyes now alive with anger as she stared at the police officers.
‘We’re here about Freddy Knapton’s murder,’ said Ned.
There was no reaction.
‘You knew Freddy Knapton didn’t you?’
‘Might ’ave,’ said Farah, head down, kicking the carpet with her grubby, bare, stumpy toes.
‘Do you live here alone?’ said Shelagh.
‘Did you say you were from t’police or social?’ Farah said, with a sideways glance.
‘Police,’ Ned said as he held out his warrant card for her to see.
A sly smile crossed her lips. ‘I know who you are. I was joking.’ she said throwing herself down on the mattress which lay on the floor. ‘I live on me own, me mates just stop over for a sesh now and then.’
Farah sprawled out and reached for a cigarette packet at the side of her bed. ‘I’d offer you a seat but, well, you can see there’s nowhere to sit,’ she said with the unlit cigarette bobbing up and down in her mouth. She propped herself up against the wall and lit the cigarette, puffed on it once and threw the match across the room where it lay on the carpet. ‘Unless you want to sit on the floor?’
‘Is that wise? You could start a fire,’ said Ned.
Farah raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s okay, landlord’s insured,’ she said putting a lager can to her mouth and taking a gulp of it. She screwed her face up. ‘Flat,’ she said by way of an explanation.
‘Freddy Knapton was murdered. This is serious,’ Ned said.
‘Good fucking riddance to bad rubbish is what I say.’
‘Okay, we get it. You didn’t like him?’ Shelagh retorted.
‘Like him,’ she squealed. ‘I fuckin’ hated him,’ she said, labouring on her words. ‘He were a complete Twat. Look, if we saw him coming down the street me and me mates would cross over and then he’d shout and spit at us. He’d even started setting that vile dog of his on us.’
‘When did you last see him?’ asked Shelagh.
‘Jesus, I don’t know, maybe a week, ten days before he got what he deserved.’ Farah stubbed her cigarette out on the wall beside her that was already full of round, burn marks. She continued to play with the stub, rolling it around in her fingers and eventually peeling the paper from its filter. Tossing the filter paper, she reached over her head put the tip on the windowsill.
‘Can you remember where that was?’ asked Ned.
‘I think it might have been in Groggs Park. I don’t remember.’
‘Were you with anybody at the time?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said shrugging her shoulders.
‘Take your time. It’s important,’ Shelagh asked.
‘It could’ve been Tara. Yeah, me and me mate Tara. I remember, she fancies this lad who hangs about in Groggs Park and we were waiting for him when Knapton went in t’park.’
‘Good, that’s good. So who else was there?’ Ned’s voice was more urgent.
‘There were a few people there because I remember Tara...’ Farah’s face broke out in a wide grin. ‘Tara’d promised this bloke, the one she fancies a blow job.’
If she was trying to shock the officers she was disappointed.
‘So, who is this bloke then, does he ‘ave a name?’
‘You’ll know him, Macca, Dean McIntyre.’
***
When Shelagh and Ned reached the car park leading to the semi- detached that was 256, Gregory Aven
ue, Meadow Estate, they sat for a moment to evaluate. Farah Ruwal hadn’t enlightened them much but they now had the name of Dean McIntyre, a local robber, burglar, drug user and scourge of the community. They sat looking directly at Tara Cabe’s home where she apparently lived with her mother.
‘I hope Farah hasn’t spoken to her,’ said Shelagh as she climbed out of the car.
‘If she hasn’t, you can bet your bottom dollar she’ll have texted her.’
The exterior of the property gave them a clue as to what mess they were to encounter inside.
Shelagh was on pins. ‘We’re going to need a responsible adult present, she’s only sixteen. Fingers crossed mum’s in.’
Ned put his foot up onto the broken decking and taking Shelagh’s hand he helped her up onto the platform, guided her past the raised planks of wood and finally they stood side by side at the back door. He knocked on the hardboard that covered the broken pane of glass.
Mrs Cabe’s willowy figure was wrapped in an expensive looking cardigan with a fur collar and deep fur trimmed pockets. Her face made up, her hair held three large strategically placed rollers, one either side of her head, and the other in her platinum dyed fringe. She clutched an e-cigarette in a Gatsby-style holder between the second and third finger of her right hand and held a tumbler in the other, on her feet were fluffy mules.
‘We’re investigating the murder of Freddy Knapton and we’d like to speak to your daughter please,’ said Ned, smiling pleasantly at the woman.
Mrs Cabe looked dubious.
‘And, of course because of her age we’ll need you to be present.’
‘I’ve always told my kids to give him a wide birth. He wasn’t all there you know,’ she said tapping her nose. ‘Tara!’ she shouted. Her eyes never left the officer’s face. ‘Why do you want to speak to her?’
‘We are led to believe she belongs to a group that hangs around in Groggs Park?’
When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel Page 16
