Deadly Focus

by R. C. Bridgestock

  ‘Right, let’s have a hot drink. I think we all need it,’ said Judith.

  Dylan knew her well enough to know that the sight of this little girl on the mortuary table had touched her.

  Out of their protective clothing and back in the office, Professor Judith Cockroft completed her notes. As she sipped steaming black coffee, she remarked how unusual the case was. ‘The blow to the head was a massive one and in my professional opinion would have caused death instantly.’

  Thank god for small mercies, Dylan thought.

  ‘A round, heavy object with a diameter of two inches was used. Daisy’s left little fingertip has been severed cleanly and her eyebrows have been roughly shaved with a razor or perhaps a craft knife,’ she continued. ‘Two marks to her buttocks are indeed burn marks, probably caused by a cigarette after she died,’ she concluded. Although Judith spoke to everyone in the room, her comments were addressed to Dylan. As Senior Investigating Officer, he would have assistance from a number of experts throughout the enquiry, but it was his personal responsibility to find the killer.

  ‘I must go. I’ve got a meeting at the hospital in ten minutes,’ Judith said as she rose from her chair. ‘Let me know how you get on won’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dylan. ‘Thank you.’

  She picked up her bag, threw her coat over her arm and bade the team goodbye; then, with a wave of her hand, she was gone.

  ‘Okay everyone, we’ll run this one from Harrowfield HQ. Number one: Dawn, rally up the staff that’s on duty. Whoever we need, bring them in. Number two: arrange a briefing for two-fifteen this afternoon. I’ll speak to the Press Office. Number three: conference at five. That’ll give them the chance to get it out on the evening news. Right, see you back at the nick.’

  The officers slid their chairs back on the tiled floor and prepared to leave. Dylan walked over to Les. ‘Thanks for the hospitality once again, mate.’

  ‘Hope I don’t see you too soon,’ Les smiled.

  Dylan pressed a five pound note into his hand. ‘For the tea fund.’

  ‘No. No, it’s all right.’ Les pushed Dylan’s hand away. ‘Nobody else from your lot bothers. It’s only a couple of cups of coffee.’

  ‘I’m not bothered what they do. That coffee’s a lifesaver and I don’t want there to come a time when there’s no caffeine available,’ Dylan laughed.

  John and Vicky were busily collating and discussing with Dawn the exhibits that were to be taken back to the station when Dylan returned to the group.

  ‘Dawn, I know you’re still on the Johnson murder, but I want you as deputy SIO on this one. Have you any problem with that?’ he asked.

  ‘No, none thanks. I want to nail the bastard as much as you,’ she replied. ‘Look I’ll help with the exhibits and cadge a lift back with Vicky and John. See you at the station eh?’

  Dylan knew she was a bit narked at him but he also knew she’d get over it. He didn’t do apologies.

  Dylan walked slowly back to his car, pondering over the post mortem. Using the phone hands-free, he had a chance to ring Jen as he travelled back to the station. He wanted to let her know he was leaving the mortuary and that he was dealing with another murder.

  ‘How’s the lip and are you coming to mine tonight?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he laughed, amused by her rush of questions. It was lovely just to hear her voice. If he closed his eyes he could smell her scent and see her smiling face. She was his sanctuary, his lifeline and his normal. Without her he could never maintain the pace and the workload he’d had to endure lately. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the challenge, but each murder took a little bit of something from him. He saw the worst side of life, man’s inhumanity to man, and the arrogant, evil bastards that caused mass trauma twenty-four seven, but was clever enough to know it was bound to eat away at anyone.

  ‘Will you be coming for tea? I’m cooking your favourite, liver and onions,’ she said. Her joviality brought a wry smile to Dylan’s face. Although he saw some awful sights he never lost his appetite and she knew he’d enjoy the meal if she made it for him.

  ‘Yeah, that would be great.’

  ‘Make sure you have some fruit. There’s a banana and an apple in your briefcase if you get hungry. Oh, and if you need it after being at the mortuary there’s a clean shirt hung with your blue suit in the wardrobe. Keep in touch and remember I love you.’

  ‘I love you more. You might see me sooner than that. I’ll be at Harrowfield nick shortly.’

  Twenty minutes later he pulled up outside the main entrance of Harrowfield HQ. His reserved parking space was taken.

  ‘Fucking hell, not again,’ Dylan said, slamming the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. He knew the Peugeot parked there belonged to Detective Constable Hornby. He was going to get the biggest bollocking of his life when Dylan got hold of him. Dylan reckoned if Hornby had been as committed to police work as he was to football he’d have made a good officer. He had lost count of how many times he had warned him before about parking in the DI’s spot. The bay was allocated for an easy exit and access to the police station for Dylan, DI and force hostage negotiator. He could be called upon at any time to a life or death situation, so it was important that he could get in and out of the station quickly. Dylan parked behind the Peugeot, stepped out of his vehicle, put on his coat, and collected his briefcase from the boot. It was so full it wouldn’t close, but the sturdy handle held firm. It was always with him wherever he went. Like Dr Who’s TARDIS, the space inside seemed to go on forever.

  He walked through the foyer of the police station and today, for some unknown reason he noticed how shabby it looked, with its battered and scraped walls. Due to modern day culture and the lack of respect some people had for the police, the seats were fastened to the floor, not discreetly, but with large metal brackets and ugly bolts, and there was a protective screen surrounding the front counter. Progress? He mused.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he shouted to the front counter staff as he swiped his warrant card in the lock, allowing him access. Just through the door on the left was a stable door, which was the property store.

  ‘Afternoon, Harold,’ shouted Dylan in his deep, authoritative voice.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Dylan, sir,’ Harold replied in his high-pitched whine. ‘Always nice to see you,’ said the property clerk, his head popping over the bottom half of the door. ‘It usually means something serious has happened and I’ll be getting a lot of property for my store though,’ he moaned.

  ‘And no different this time, Harold.’ Dylan smiled. ‘Nasty murder overnight. You’d better make some space for the exhibits and be sure they’ve all got labels on before you accept them. You know what policemen are like when they’re rushing.’

  ‘I will, Mr Dylan, sir. You know you can rely on me,’ said Harold. His last name was Little. A little man in size as well as name, he’s no bigger than a jockey, thought Dylan.

  Dylan’s aim was the cells as he strode out down the corridor, a man on a mission. Eventually he was going to solve the mystery of who had hit him and why. Nobody hit Jack Dylan and got away with it. He wanted answers, he wanted them now, and someone was going to feel the force of his anger. He would soon come face to face with his attacker and he couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Six

  Dylan swung through the double doors of the custody suite and they flapped wildly behind him.

  ‘Morning sir,’ the sergeant said, throwing his legs off the desk as he jumped out of his chair. ‘Shit, boss, he didn’t half give you a whack, didn’t he?’

  Dylan instinctively put his hand to his face ‘Who the hell is he?’ he asked as he romped into the cell area. The sergeant ran to keep up. ‘I hope you haven’t given him a fucking cooked breakfast. Let me see if I know the bastard,’ he said searching the names of those chalked on the custody board.

  ‘No can do, boss.’ The sergeant shook his head.

  ‘Come on. I only want to look. I’m hardly gonna smack him here now, am I?’


  ‘I would if I could, boss, honest, but he got bailed on the instruction of him upstairs. The superintendent must be obeyed,’ he said, rolling his eyes. Dylan turned and vanished before the sergeant had time to blink. He ran up the stairs in a blind rage, ignoring everything and anyone he passed. Dylan could feel the steam coming out of his ears. Superintendent Walter Hugo-Watkins, the divisional commander, was going to feel the full force of his anger.

  Watkins was a graduate entry. A cloak and dagger Freemason, or so he thought, but everyone knew of his ambition to become a Grand Master. He was a thin, lanky man, with a matching moustache. His short, dark hair was always groomed to perfection. Watkins was a self-important man who only had twelve years in the job and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t a chief constable already

  Dylan saw him as soon as he flung open the door, morning paper open in his hands behind his power desk. Before he could lift his head to see who or what had the audacity to enter his office without an appointment, Dylan threw down his briefcase and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him into his adjoining en-suite. Watkins’ Grecian 2000 smashed on the pristine white tiled floor and the liquid trickled along the grout.

  ‘You fucking piece of useless shit. Some low life wounds one of your officers and you fucking bail them. I should fucking deck you.’ Dylan released him, throwing him forward, and stood back. Watkins wasn’t worth losing his pension for.

  ‘You can’t speak t … to … to me like that. You’ll be … er … disciplined,’ Watkins stuttered as he tried to regain his composure, brushing his shirtfront and adjusting his tie.

  Dylan glared at him. ‘Fucking do it.’

  ‘My hands were tied,’ Watkins protested. ‘Force policy states that … er …. What about the murder? What’s happening?’ He picked up the papers that Dylan’s briefcase had caused to slide to the floor.

  ‘Come to the fucking briefings if you want to find out. Don’t think this is finished. Wanker.’ Dylan stormed out, intentionally knocking the china cup and saucer that was Watkins’ pride and joy to the floor as he pushed past him.

  Dawn sat in the SIO’s office next to the briefing room, coffee waiting, as Dylan stomped in, slamming the door behind him. ‘Before I retire I’ll have that supercilious, useless bastard,’ he said slumping down noisily in his chair. ‘Can you believe that tosser bailed him?’ he said picking up his mug and gulping his coffee. The hot coffee burnt his lips. ‘He bailed the twat that attacked me to make space for container prisoners. “Force fucking policy” he said.’ Dylan grimaced. ‘Can you believe that?’ Unable to sit still, he paced the office. Gulping more coffee, he confessed, ‘I’ve just had him up against his office wall.’

  Dawn’s mouth fell open. ‘You haven’t chinned him?’

  ‘No, I stopped, fortunately for him. He asked about the murder. When’s he ever done that before? So I told him to come to the fucking briefing.’ Dylan took off his jacket and flopped in his chair, elbows on the desk. He sipped his coffee more slowly, holding the mug with both hands.

  Dawn stood. ‘I’ve an idea. Be back in a minute. I’ll find out about the bloke who attacked you,’ she said tapping his shoulder soothingly as she passed. ‘Briefing in ten, boss, try to compose yourself whilst I’m gone,’ she called with a backward glance.

  The hot drink helped to soothe him. He’d enjoy telling Jen about what had happened tonight. He smiled. Although he knew she would worry, she did understand how the likes of Watkins and a few of the other hierarchy created havoc for everyday policing, simply because they had never worked at street level. He couldn’t remember seeing one of the top brass at any of his incident rooms showing an interest, and it disappointed him greatly. Dylan had been awarded numerous commendations from the courts for outstanding police work, and he ensured the deserving members of his team, including the civilian support staff, were also rewarded. When serious crime was occurring, the bosses disappeared into the woodwork. When the awards were being presented they reappeared like returning migratory birds for the photo call, dressed in their best uniform, shiny buttons and crowns. Then again, he thought, on the positive side if they stay out of the way they can’t meddle. He didn’t know which was worse. The thought satisfied him for the moment. He rang and gave a report to the Press Office, not to be released until deceased’s family informed.

  The body of a young girl was found earlier today at around 6.20 a.m. near to Dean Reservoir. Although similar to the missing girl from Rochester Road, she has yet to be positively identified. Enquiries are ongoing. End press release.

  ‘All you need to know about your attacker is in here, boss,’ Dawn said as she entered the office, handing him an envelope. ‘After the briefing,’ Dawn said as he made to break the seal. She was right. Briefings were of paramount importance to the investigation, and he needed to be focused. He placed the envelope in his briefcase. Like scene attendance, some people thought naively that briefings were unnecessary, but he knew different.

  The conference room doubled as a briefing room; there was no separate facility at Harrowfield Police Station.

  A murder was a major disruption to any police division, affecting resources, staffing levels, budgets, and performance. Because of this, SIOs were despised and murders were just a nuisance: they produced only one crime for the monthly figures, which didn’t aid performance, that being all that mattered for Home Office targets.

  Dylan and Dawn walked into the room and took their seats at the front. The hum and chatter ceased. Jasmine followed, out of her unflattering protective clothing and in tight jeans, long dark hair trailing down her back. She caused heads to turn. Dylan looked around the room noticing experienced officers. He knew they liked to cherry pick what they dealt with, but not on Dylan’s enquiries. There were also officers who were new to major investigations and he knew they would require guidance. These officers would have to be paired with someone with a required level of knowledge.

  Dylan stood and introduced himself and Dawn for the benefit of the few who didn’t know them. The room was full. He was about to start when uniformed Chief Inspector Fleet hurriedly entered and stood with her back to the door. Moira Fleet was a stocky woman in her forties with short, dark hair that made her look masculine.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve only just been asked by Mr Watkins to attend on his behalf,’ she said. Ruddiness flecked her complexion. ‘He had an urgent appointment at HQ. Divisional Commanders or something.’ Dylan nodded and glanced at Dawn who smiled knowingly.

  ‘Can everyone hear at the back?’ he called. Heads nodded to reassure him people could. ‘There’s an evil killer out there. I want him or them to be found quickly. I don’t want people dragging their feet. Neither do I want anyone holding back. If you’ve any ideas or concerns, speak to us. I don’t bite so don’t be shy. Jasmine, will you please start the DVD of the scene where little Daisy was found.’ While the DVD played, Dylan emphasised the important parts for the audience, pausing the DVD every now and then. In most murder enquiries, not everything was disclosed to the officers, especially at the first briefing. Some things were held back that only the killer would know. On this occasion, however, Dylan gave them all he had.

  ‘I’ve given you one hundred per cent of what we know. Your working days will be twelve hours long until you’re told differently. Any questions?’ he asked. There was silence. The room emptied quickly. Dawn dabbed her mouth, he glanced at his watch, and saw it was two-fifteen.

  ‘Canteen, Dawn? Then we’ll make sure all the priority lines are ongoing.’ As they walked towards the door he saw DC Hornby out of the corner of his eye, lurking in the corridor.

  ‘I’ll see you up there in a minute, Dawn. Hornby: a word,’ Dylan shouted, grabbing the man’s collar and ushering him into the empty snooker room. ‘I’ve warned you before. Not only will your balls hurt if I have to tell you again but you’ll be back pounding the beat before you can say “Jack the Ripper”. Do I make myself clear?’ DC Hornby nodded. ‘Fucking move it then.’

 
‘Sorry, boss.’ A red-faced Hornby scuttled out of the room. He knew full well where he had left his car.

  Dylan had a reputation for being a hard man on the streets as a young detective; perhaps foolishly, he’d backed away from nothing and nobody. He hadn’t changed; he wouldn’t let anyone get one over him and he wouldn’t stand for any nonsense either.

  Dawn had finished her meal when Dylan reached the table in the canteen, with his briefcase full of work by his side. He discussed the imperative lines of enquiry he wanted so Dawn could brief the investigation teams; CCTV and house-to-house enquiries were an obvious priority. Dawn returned to the briefing room. The canteen was busy. He sipped his coffee and nibbled at his ham sandwich while he updated his policy log and read a few reports. He saw the banana and apple Jen had somehow managed to squeeze in and it made him smile. The canteen table was now a makeshift desk. He picked up his mobile.

  ‘Hiya, love, just a quickie,’ he whispered.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said, a smile in her voice.

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ he said. ‘Just touching base. I’m only in the canteen if you’re passing?’ he said hopefully. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll get to yours tonight, maybe half-ten or so.’

  ‘That’s fine. Just let me know when you leave and I’ll have something ready for you to eat,’ she said. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’ He put the phone down on the table and nodded across to the property clerk who was leaving the canteen, iced finger in hand. How mouse-like he is, Dylan thought.