When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel

by RC Bridgestock

  As it happened, when he reached the house he couldn’t have been more surprised to see from the driveway the bedroom curtains had been rehung, the lights inside were welcoming. He let himself in with a cheery call. Dylan hung his jacket up at the bottom of the stairs and put down his briefcase. There was a wonderful smell emanating from the kitchen. The house was unusually quiet, but as he peered around the living room door he could only see Maisy bathed and dressed for bed, lying on the rug enthralled in her favourite movie that she’d seen a million times before. It was as if, however, he was invisible to her. She didn’t turn to greet him, or run to give him a hug. He watched his daughter for a minute or two in silence. The stove in the lounge radiated a pleasant heat. She tittered at the movie characters’ antics, sung along to the words of her favourite tune, threw her head back in spontaneous laughter and when she sat up and reached for her glass of milk her eyes remained fixed on the TV screen.

  Max came wandering out of the kitchen, licking his lips. There was only one thing that would stop the Retriever from greeting him at the door, he must have been eating his dinner. Walking the few steps to greet him, Dylan bent down and ruffled his soft, tan fur and was rewarded by a slobbery lick with his tongue. When Dylan stood up he was greeted by Jen wielding a knife in her hand. Shocked for an instant he stepped backwards, lost his footing and stumbled into the bannister. Jen’s eyes looked surprise but, pulling himself upright, Dylan was relieved to catch the makings of a smile cross her face. ‘I thought I heard the door,’ she said abruptly, before turning back into the kitchen. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’ Dylan followed her wondering if he should be so bold as to kiss her on the cheek, but seeing her upright stance at the worktop as she pumped the knife up and down on the chopping board with an overeager fever, he decided against it.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ he said.

  ‘You can pour me a drink, and then tell me what you think about that letter on the table,’ she said without turning to face him.

  Dylan picked up an envelope with the police logo on it. Before he had chance to read it Jen stopped him in his tracks. ‘Avril, she wants to know when I’ll be back at work.’

  ‘Ah, Vicky said she’d been chasing an update. But, I didn’t think...’

  ‘Well, why would you think about me? You’ve got Vicky running errands for you these days?’

  ‘That’s not... I only... It was just today... I didn’t get chance to...’ Dylan filled two glasses with wine from the fridge. His eyes caught sight of a large bunch of flowers still in their polythene wrap, all ribbons and bows, in the utility room basin. He gave a little sigh, At least they weren’t in the bin. He took the wine glass to Jen and popped it next to her on the worktop before sitting down at the table. A small glass vase was at the table’s centre that held a few wild flowers.

  ‘The flowers,’ said Dylan. ‘They’re lovely.’

  Jen turned her head sharply in his direction. She saw him touching the delicate yellow petals that were already wilting. ‘Yes, aren’t they? Maisy picked them for me on our walk in the park.’

  Dylan didn’t mention those he had sent and neither did she, but she reverted to silently stirring the white sauce in the pan. Moving from work top to table the clanging of the cutlery she took from the utensil drawer made the silence in the room more profound. Jen continued to prepare dinner. Now satisfied that the sauce was sufficiently thickened she took the wooden spoon out of the pan and looked back at the plate of parsley on the worktop that was just out of her reach. Dylan, watching his wife’s every move, saw where her eyes lay. He jumped up and took the chopped herbs to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said swiftly taking the plate from him.

  ‘Smell’s lovely,’ said Dylan appreciatively as he hovered over her. He stared down at the sauce, his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten lunch. He took a gulp of his wine.

  Jen frowned. ‘You hate fish, and even more you hate parsley sauce.’ she said turning to face him. They were skating around each other as if on thin ice, and they both knew it.

  ‘Are you ready to go back to work do you think?’ Dylan said with trepidation in his voice but his steps were more confident as he walked back to sit down in his chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she said curtly. She stopped and turned around. ‘I wish Avril Summerfield-Preston had the decency to speak to me instead of chasing you, or sending me a letter. I know she’s stupid but that’s absolutely ridiculous and a waste of public money!’ Briefly sounding agitated, she turned back to what she was doing, putting the sauce on the fish in the ovenproof dish. The potatoes were ready to mash and the green beans on the boil.

  ‘Tell you what? Shall I put Maisy to bed and then we can eat dinner, in peace, together for once?’ said Dylan as he drained his wine glass. Jen raised her eyebrows at him. Her expression remained the same.

  ‘Come on, give me a break, I know I don’t deserve forgiveness but I just don’t know how to.’ Dylan’s eyes were pleading. In that moment Jen felt sorry for him. He’d lost a baby too.

  ‘She’ll need a wee before she gets into bed and just one story mind - she’ll keep you upstairs all night if you let her.’ Jen’s voice was softer and Dylan took that as a good sign.

  When Dylan finally came downstairs he noticed that Jen had put the flowers he had sent her in a vase on the dresser and lit the candles in the lounge. She had laid two places on the dining room table and the feeling of unease that he had felt before started to ebb away.

  Dylan sat at the table and watched Jen as she went to and fro with food and drinks. Eventually she sat. There was still an uneasiness in the air and the lack of conversation was more obvious as they spooned their own food out of the serving dishes, onto warm plates. Jen looked hot and tired as he watched her looking around the table for the salt pot and, realising she had forgotten to put it out, she made to stand. Dylan put his hand on her arm and went into the kitchen, returning with it. Their fingers briefly touched, they both flinched as if electricity had passed between them, but each chose to ignore it. Jen didn’t recoil from him but as their eyes met she didn’t allow the contact to linger. Picking up her glass of wine she put it to her lips and, downing it in one, her shoulders dropped and she put her head back and gave a big sigh. When she looked at Dylan he saw she was smiling but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. He reached for her hand and she let him take it in his and when their eyes met he gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I know I don’t always get it right. I’m only human,’ he said.

  ‘It would have been nice if you’d sent the flowers,’ she said sadly.

  ‘What do you mean,’ he said. ‘I did.’

  Jen shook her head. ‘Okay then. What did the card say?’

  Dylan’s face flushed. He opened his mouth as if to answer. ‘I... I...’

  Again there was silence. Jen picked up her knife and fork. ‘Why did you get Vicky to send them?’

  Dylan looked bemused.

  ‘You did ask Vicky to send them for you didn’t you?’

  Dylan was clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Even if you’d dictated the words for the card to the florist, a stranger, but for Vicky to write those words, words that came from her not you. For goodness sake Jack.’

  He looked wounded. ‘When have you ever called me sweetheart?’ she said.

  Dylan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sweetheart?’

  ‘I know I’ve been all over the place,’ she said. ‘One minute I feel angry, the next I’m in tears. I’m not daft. I understand you’re busy. I knew what your job entailed when we met. I’m under no illusion. It’s easy for you to ask someone to do something for you. You and your team, you can rely on each other, help each other, cover each other’s back but remember I’ve only got you and Maisy.’

  Dylan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand how I feel but I don’t want grand gestures, you know that’s not me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just thought flowers might c
heer you up. And I’ve ended up upsetting you more. It was my idea to send you flowers, honestly, I couldn’t work out how to order them on the website, and if I’m being honest I didn’t know what to say. Joe was my son too,’ he said with tears in his eyes, and I have to carry on.

  ‘You didn’t carry him, he lived in me. He was part of me.’ Jen pleaded understanding. ‘Why won’t you open up to me? Do I mean so little to you that you can’t trust me with your feelings?’

  Dylan put down his knife and looked straight into Jen’s eyes.

  ‘Do you want to know how I felt when Joe was being taken from us?’ Dylan eyes were red haunted looking. ‘I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. These hands…’ he said showing her his palms. ‘These hands are supposed to look after you and our children. His open hand became a tight fist that he banged on the table. ‘And yet there was nothing on this earth that I could do to save him, or you from the pain you went through. I might catch murderers, which in turn might bring closure for others, but I could do nothing. Do you know how that makes me feel?’

  ‘When I close my eyes I can see Joe’s little face, his eyes that were nothing more than a blue ink spot on blotting paper. The bloodied transparent threads of flesh that would have been his limbs.’ Jen’s voice cracked. ‘The shape of a bow of his lips. His tiny ears.’

  ‘And you think I don’t have them same thoughts? He was our son.’ Dylan pushed away his plate and he reached out for her hands. They sat with tears running down their faces, but this time was different in as much as they clung to each other.

  ***

  ‘The two independent witnesses have confirmed that the Mercedes was this royal blue paint colour,’ said Jon. ‘I have been speaking with the North Yorkshire team this morning and they tell me that the escort girls both confirm in their statements that the men who hired them, they believed, were staying at the Wellington Hotel.’

  ‘Get your coat,’ said Dylan. ‘We’re going round there now.’

  Dylan and Jon parked in the hotel car park that was quickly filling up with coaches full of visitors to the picturesque location. Jon’s face was etched with grim determination.

  ‘Let’s hope someone can shed light on the two men.’

  ***

  ‘And there is no doubt that the two men that stayed at the hotel were called Devlin?’ Jon directed his question to the hotel receptionist.

  ‘No doubt whatsoever sir, brothers, and they did look alike. They caused a bit of a stir, two big tattooed men like that bringing two young leggy blondes back to the hotel. The manager was away so, not wanting any trouble, we decided to turn a blind eye when they took them to their rooms. Not only that, but we had two coach parties of posh people staying for the Festival. The hotel was busy, the last thing we wanted was a fuss, hence I am absolutely certain that on that day the only two men who booked in together were the two Mr Devlin’s.’

  ‘Is it possible that you took a registration number from them when they booked in?’

  ‘I am sure we would have as it’s mandatory for our booking in procedure if the guests are leaving a vehicle in our car park.’

  ‘Is the manager here now?’

  ‘No, he’s on later today. But if you’d like to make an appointment to see him I can gather all the information available for you by the time you return?’

  ‘We need the registered number urgently. Do you think you would recognise the men again?’

  The receptionist grimaced. ‘Probably, but I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘Anything else that you can tell us about the men?’

  The receptionist started to chuckle. ‘Our doorman, bless him, he’s not got two pennies to rub together, those two, bad as they looked, made his day by giving him a substantial tip for getting their car brought around to the front of the hotel. It paid his rent for a month, he said. I’m sure he won’t ever forget them. He’s off for the next three days.’

  Jon made a note for someone from the incident room to see him later to get statements.

  ***

  ‘Declan and Damian Devlin have previous convictions as long as my arm boss,’ said Shelagh. ‘Nothing as serious as murder but they had a good teacher in their errant father.’

  ‘PNC shows them both with a warning for violence,’ said Andy Wormald.

  ‘Are they flagged for being known to carry weapons?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘No,’ said Andy.

  ‘Have we got any reference to them being connected to a blue Mercedes?’

  ‘No sir, nothing as grand as that.’

  ‘We need to house them, as soon as we can,’ Dylan said with grim determination.

  Sitting alone, Dylan was busily typing the Devlin brothers details into his computer while listening to the dial tone of the phone.

  ‘What do you want?’ came the angry growl of a voice on the line.

  Dylan scooped the telephone off the desk and put it to his ear, relaxing back in his chair as he did so. ‘That’s it Terry, what did the bosses used to tell us? If you’re officious enough you’ll have a quiet life?’

  ‘Ah, it’s you?’ said Terry cheerily. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘We can now confirm that the name of the men wasn’t Debbin it was Devlin, they are brothers. Declan and Damien stayed at the Wellington Hotel and it would appear the car they were using was the car they took the escort girls in to the races. Let’s get our HOLMES supervisors to talk to each other so we don’t duplicate enquiries. What baffles me is why they’d used their own names at the hotel if they had intentions to kill Oakley?’

  ‘Perhaps Oakley upset them that day?’

  ‘There’s no denying we’ve got two bad bastards driving an identifiable royal blue Mercedes, stopping in a top notch hotel, flush with cash - they’ve had a pay day from somewhere, haven’t they, and what worries me is what plans have they got for getting their next fix?’ said Dylan.

  ‘As for using their own names, I think we can put that down to arrogance and the fact that they knew they were in a different county, relying on the police forces communication being like it was in bygone years.’

  ‘We need hard evidence, but it does feel like a giant step forward. It smells right,’ added Dylan.

  The call ended and Dylan looked at the duty roster to see which officers were working that would be available to assist him with his enquiries. He was more than aware that Vicky needed staff to round up the group seen hanging around in the park about the time of the Freddy Knapton murder. After liaising with the community officers, the team had identified seven who, after subsequent monitoring, were known to be the gang that had previously been frequently meeting in Groggs Park. But he also needed to make headway with the Merton Manor enquiry.

  ‘Vicky,’ he called to his Detective Sergeant in the outer office. Vicky came and stood leaning on the door frame of his office.

  ‘You okay?’

  Vicky raised her eyebrows. ‘course, why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I’ll be contactable at all times tomorrow morning you know.’

  Vicky nodded her head.

  ‘Make sure you’re tooled up, stab vests on, baton’s, spray. I don’t want you taking any risks.’

  ‘Would I?’ she rewarded him with a little nervous smile.

  Dylan cocked his head and gave her one of his best serious looks.

  ‘Don’t call me Woodeye.’ Vicky mimicked Dylan as she backed away. She turned and waved her hand above her head. ‘Laters boss.’

  Dylan saw her clip Ned Granger about the head as she passed him. ‘You coming for a mucky curry?’

  He got up without a word, threw his jacket over his sleeveless arm and followed her out of the door.

  Dylan was shaking his head as Jon entered his office.

  ‘You wouldn’t want them two waking you up at half-five tomorrow morning would you?’ The gang have no idea what they’ve got coming,’ said Jon laughing.

  ‘She’ll not back off until she’s got them all under lock and key, that’s for sure. To
o much pride at stake. What worries me is that she thinks she’s got something to prove, and she couldn’t be more wrong.’

  Dylan’s mind was instantly distracted by Jon as he sat down opposite him. He seemed eager to talk. ‘I’ve just spoken to the manager at The Wellington,’ he said, waving an envelope in front of him which he passed over the desk to Dylan.

  ‘Did he say how the Devlin’s paid?’ said Dylan.

  ‘Cash, they paid everything in notes.’

  ‘Damn!’ Dylan slapped the flat of his hand on his desk. ‘I was hoping they might have used a credit card so we could trace its use. Do we know if the notes have been paid into the bank?’

  ‘No boss, I’ve just got a breakdown of their bill,’ Jon said, passing Dylan a copy of the invoice.

  ‘Just a thought, if the hotel cashier hasn't paid the money into the bank, if there is a god, which I am doubting very much these days, we might get Jake Isaac’s finger prints on it. Give them a quick call Jon will you…to check?’

  Dylan, head down, studied the copy of the brother’s hotel invoice as Jon put the call in. ‘Bottle upon bottle of Bollinger champagne? Is there CCTV in the hotel?’ he asked Jon as he ended the call.

  ‘Yes, the vestibule. It’s secreted in the oak panelling above the fireplace where a priest hole still exists. Also you’ll be pleased to know they haven’t paid the money into the bank and they will retain the remainder for us to collect. They couldn’t tell me the amount at this time.’

  ‘Good.’ Dylan looked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘So, to clarify that means for security purposes the CCTV most probably faces the reception desk?’

  ‘Yes, and they have another camera that covers the entrance to the hotel.’

  ‘Please tell me they’re working?’ Dylan held his breath momentarily.’