Updating his policy book, Dylan had to state the reasons for his decisions and outline the lines of the enquiry. Although laborious, he always completed the policy logbook in his own style. Succinct, but the reader could see what had taken place and how the investigation had progressed, what decisions had been made to establish what had happened and boy, were they like the Bible when defence barristers like pit bulls tried to rip the evidence or procedures to pieces. He walked over to get his mug topped up from the counter and felt a light touch like an electric shock on his hand from behind. It was Jen: he knew it without looking.
‘Hello, sir,’ she breezed as she asked for some milk. He turned and smiled.
‘If you’ve any trouble with the murder team’s travel and subsistence forms you let me know, Miss Jones,’ he said loudly for observers to hear. ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he whispered. He slowly walked back to his table watching her leave. Her long blonde hair spilled over the shoulders of her clingy blue shift dress. As she reached the door she turned. He was transfixed. She looked at him and gave him a smile. It wasn’t a game; it was their relationship, which no one else could feed off.
‘Have you looked at the contents of the envelope?’ Dawn asked on her return as she leaned on the back of his chair. He pulled the envelope from his briefcase. ‘You’ll need that,’ she said, pointing to the strong coffee on the table. ‘Call of nature, be back in a min,’ she said and disappeared.
Glancing over his shoulder he was puzzled as he saw her rush out of the canteen. He pulled the photocopied paper from the envelope and saw, in large letters across the page: ‘VIOLENT, APPROACH WITH CAUTION, WEAPONS’. Dylan looked at the passport-sized picture of his attacker. He had two black eyes, a shaven head and a tattoo on his neck. Michael James Moorhouse, thirty-one years old, six feet one inch tall with twenty previous convictions for assaults, robbery and firearms. He’d been released from prison six weeks earlier after doing five of a nine-year sentence and was already on bail for an assault on a taxi driver. The file had been updated recently and now read: ‘Bailed pending further enquiries re: wounding of a police officer – Detective Inspector Dylan’.
‘Fucking piece of shit shouldn’t even be walking the streets. Bloody Watkins. Why do we fucking bother?’ he said out loud slamming the papers on the table. Although he had heard of Moorhouse, their paths had never crossed. Great. Local psycho, that’s all I need, he thought as he felt his blood pressure rising. If I see him first I’ll be in there with a fucking pickaxe.
Dawn strolled back and stood against the table. ‘Is it safe to come back yet?’ she asked before sitting down. Dylan stared at her. ‘You always have to pick on the biggest twat don’t you? I’ve had a word with the Serious Crime Squad and he ought to be under surveillance. You got away reasonably lightly; the next person might not survive. Apparently he saw you come out of a court building and thought you were the one who’d sent him down last time. That’s his story, anyway, according to the detective who interviewed him.’
Dylan sat staring at the paper in front of him. ‘Bailed for six fucking weeks. Don’t they have any common sense?’ He gently touched his swollen lip and flinched. ‘Honestly, is he gonna turn up at court? Is he, hell,’ he said as he stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope. He thought about it for all of a minute. ‘He can wait. Let’s get on with this job. We have a murderer to find.’
Down two flights of stairs to the incident room, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES) team were setting up their computers.
Dylan and Dawn’s next call was to the Hind family to tell them about Daisy. There would have to be a formal identification. He couldn’t save them from that and there was no easy way to tell them. Dylan would never let anyone else inform the families. Not all senior investigators felt the same, but even though it was one of the hardest parts of his job, he wouldn’t sidestep it. So many times before he’d had to tell loved ones of a death and about the deceased’s horrific injuries, and he often needed to tell them again at a later date for it to sink in. Dylan knew he couldn’t shield them from the pain and he never tried. That was all part of the grieving process. It never got any easier; he was the bearer of the worst possible news. They would cling to his every word and rely on him, trust him to find the killer, and eventually, when it was all over he would have to break the bond he’d forged. What did they call it at HQ, an ‘exit strategy’? Like the opening and closing of a door. How simple they made it all sound. His was the knock at the door that no one wanted or believed. Dylan never knew how anyone would react because everyone reacted differently. He wondered what he had to face this afternoon. How does anyone react when they’re told their worst nightmare has come true?
Chapter Seven
They arrived at 3.15 p.m. The house was quiet and the atmosphere heavy as Janice, the police family liaison officer, let them in. Wendy and Trevor stood to greet them, anxiety etched into their faces as Dylan and Dawn entered the room.
‘You’ve found her haven’t you? She’s dead isn’t she? She’s dead. Oh, my god she is dead.’ Wendy held a hankie to her mouth suffocating the sound of sobs. Trevor stood behind his wife protectively, cradling the back of her head against his shoulder. Tears ran from his eyes and dripped from his chin.
‘Tell us,’ he whispered.
‘Please sit down,’ Dylan said. They immediately did, as if the quicker they sat, the sooner they would know. ‘Earlier today, the body of a young girl was found near Dean Reservoir. We have recovered her to the hospital mortuary. She appears very similar to the description of Daisy. I believe it is her, but I’m afraid I’ll need you to formally identify her.’
The couple sat shaking, holding hands. They looked dazed and numb.
‘What’re we waiting for? Let’s go. I want to be sure. I need to know. I want to see Daisy one more time,’ sobbed Wendy, hugging a cushion to her, as she stood.
‘Can we both see her?’ asked Trevor softly.
Dylan nodded; he’d already made the arrangements. The reaction was expected. They hadn’t asked what had happened, how their little girl had died. It was as though they didn’t need to know, and they didn’t want to hear.
Jack Dylan and his officers were regular visitors to the mortuary. For Wendy and Trevor, it was a place they never wanted to have to visit or even to imagine visiting, even in their deepest nightmares.
The drive took only twelve minutes without rush hour traffic. Wendy crumpled a pack of paper tissues in her hand. Her tears were silent but her pain was tangible. The silence made the journey seem like an eternity to Dylan. As they reached the mortuary doors, Trevor and Wendy hesitated for a moment. She gasped as she stumbled. Trevor tried to hold her. He was doing his best to comfort her. Dylan could see he was in fear of collapsing himself and stayed close to them just in case he was needed.
‘Please don’t let it be Daisy,’ muttered Trevor.
‘Let me wake up. Now, please,’ Wendy quietly begged. Dylan knew they would be reunited with Daisy soon, if only for a short while. She would no longer be lost to them. Dylan wished there was something he could do to ease their pain. He knew there wasn’t.
Dylan remembered every inch of the viewing room. Scrutinizing the décor was his way of distracting himself from the bodies. He knew it was a similar size to a box room and had an entry and exit at opposite ends so that you could walk through and pass the body. It was sparsely decorated with an odd bunch of plastic flowers in a vase in one corner and a dark wooden cross on the back wall. The smell of potpourri wafted in the air. There was nothing else but a trolley upon which Daisy’s little body would be draped in a starched white blanket, her face exposed. The room would feel peaceful, even religious, as choral music played quietly in the background. On another wall there were three windows at about waist height and from where they stood in the corridor outside, they could only see the drawn black curtains. Pulling the drapes back allowed them to see the body.
‘Are you ready?’ the attendant asked Wendy and Trev
or.
On a nod, the curtains were pulled back slowly with a sash cord, similar to unveiling a plaque. Dylan didn’t know whether that was done as a matter of respect or whether it was to lessen the shock. Nothing could have prepared Trevor and Wendy for what they saw inside. They gasped sharply.
The room was dimly lit, which helped sometimes to hide any deterioration or bruising to the body, in an attempt to minimise the trauma. Some bodies had to have make-up applied to reduce the shock to the loved ones. Dylan knew of a mortuary attendant who knitted clothes for toddlers and babies, so that their parents would have a lasting memory of the child in peace and tranquillity, rather than being dressed in a hospital robe. Marjorie, another mortuary attendant, took hand prints and footprints of babies for the bereaved parents as a keepsake, something extra for them to cling to. Everything possible was done, and with sincerity and respect.
‘Oh, no,’ said Wendy, bringing her hand to her throat. Her knees gave way and her face crumpled in pain. Dylan and Janice reached out together instinctively to catch her.
‘What have they done to her? Why? Why? Why?’ she wailed, as uncontrollable tears rushed down her cheeks like a waterfall. She turned into Trevor and buried her face in his chest, beating him softly with her clenched fist. He held her. Janice put her arms around them as the onslaught of emotion poured from them. From beneath the brilliant white sheet that adorned Daisy’s body peeped a few strands of unmistakable red hair. She looked angelic.
‘She was so happy … she’ll never, never be a bridesmaid now, will she? Please can I touch her?’ Wendy sobbed, turning to Dylan.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure she’d want you to, don’t you?’ He tried to smile as he suppressed his own emotions. Janice held Wendy’s hand as she led them into the room. Trevor followed cautiously, as if his feet were walking through treacle. Wendy looked waxy as if every ounce of life had been sucked out of her.
Jack Dylan had lost his parents when he was in his twenties, through illness. He wished they were alive, but he was so glad for the time he’d had with them. These days murders were inevitable, with a society less respectful and more violent. Nowadays, sadly, it was simply a talking point like any other occurrence. Life was cheap.
The officers stood outside, watching. Wendy and Trevor needed space, a few moments alone with their little girl. Dylan saw Wendy drop to her knees; she leant her head against her daughter’s arm, clasped the child’s hand in hers.
‘Mummy’s here, darling,’ she wept. ‘You’re safe now; everything will be okay. Don’t you worry.’
Trevor’s hand was on Wendy’s shoulder as he stroked Daisy’s head. He was rooted to the spot.
‘You would have been a beautiful bridesmaid, darling. Mummy and Daddy love you so, so much,’ he said, almost zombie-like. The atmosphere was chilled and the smell of rose petals was strong in the air. Dylan didn’t dare look at Janice and Dawn; the tears swimming in his eyes threatened to overspill. The death of a young child rocked him to the very core. To do his job he needed to be in control, to be focused.
Dylan disliked his bosses. With few exceptions, they neither saw nor wanted to know about this side of a homicide investigation. He simply wanted the bosses to show some interest and support for the officers who had the arduous task of dealing with the horrifying remnants of violent crime. Just turning up at the briefing or even debriefing would have been enough for him.
‘I need the toilet.’ Wendy suddenly rose from the floor, and ran to the door. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ Janice chased after her as she rushed down the short corridor and steered her to the toilets. Frantically she ran into the sanctuary of the cubicle. She was retching violently. The foul-smelling liquid sprayed the bowl and beyond as she fell to her knees on the cold, tiled floor. A hand slowly and gently held her damp fringe from her face. Janice’s other hand stroked her back.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’ Wendy coughed into the bowl.
‘It’s okay, it’s alright,’ Janice soothed as she stretched over her to get her some toilet paper to wipe her mouth. She turned her around, put the seat down for Wendy to sit on and helped her from the floor. Her breathing gradually slowed down and her face regained some colour.
‘Oh, god. I’m so sorry; it’s on your suit as well.’ Wendy attempted to brush the lapel on Janice’s coat.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve had a lot worse than that, believe me. Are you feeling okay now?’ she asked bending over her, still gently rubbing her back. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and get this over with, eh?’ Wendy splashed her face with cold water in the worn basin as Janice cleaned the front of her coat as best she could. ‘Are you ready now, love?’ Wendy stared into space, looking into the old speckled mirror above the sink, and nodded.
Later, hands firmly clasped around cups as they drank hot, sweet tea, Jack Dylan promised them, ‘We’ll find the person who did this no matter how long it takes. You have my word. Daisy died from a head wound, she was hit with something once, and was killed instantly. Her body was found on grassland near to Dean Reservoir.’ He spoke slowly and clearly. It was so quiet he could hear the sound of the group breathing. ‘She wasn’t hidden, but she was naked,’ he continued.
‘The dirty, evil bastard. I’ll kill him when you find him. God help me, I’ll kill him.’ Trevor spoke through clenched teeth, his face growing red and contorted in anger, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘Please god, tell me he didn’t do that to her. Tell me he didn’t,’ he cried.
‘No. No. Give me time to finish, she was not, and I repeat not, sexually interfered with in any way.’
Their sigh of relief was audible and rippled around the small office at the mortuary.
‘She had a few other small injuries which were caused after she died. The tip of the little finger of her left hand was removed, it looks like someone attempted to shave off her eyebrows, and what looks like two cigarette burns have been made, one on each of her buttocks.’
‘What? In god’s name.’ Trevor’s eyes were red, wide and staring. Dylan could see he couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. ‘Why the hell would anyone do that? He tortured her? I’ll kill him. Find him. I’ll do the rest.’
Wendy was quiet, still, and she just stared. She had withdrawn into her innermost thoughts as if she couldn’t take any more. Dylan explained about the Press and that sometime tomorrow he would give out Daisy’s details, but not until he had heard from them that all their relatives had been informed. It was time for Janice to take them home. Daisy’s death, the death of their only child, had damaged them, perhaps beyond repair. Their lives had been changed forever.
Dylan drove Dawn back to the nick to collect her car. ‘You’re quiet, you okay?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I was just thinking. Imagine your only child being taken from you in such a savage way. Life can be so cruel,’ she sighed.
‘And without warning. You never know what’s around the corner, eh?’ he said thoughtfully.
He pulled up at the side of her Suzuki Swift, both of them submerged in their own thoughts.
‘You keep smiling,’ he said as she got out of the car, leaving the door open as she walked to her car. He reached over the passenger seat for the door handle to pull it shut. For the first time ever he was worried how a murder was affecting Dawn. ‘Hey, and don’t be bloody late in the morning. I need a top deputy on this one,’ he shouted after her. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, managing a brief smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Dylan felt for the Hinds, but he also felt for his team. They were human after all. They had feelings and this one hurt. He wondered, like Dawn had said on so many occasions, how people found the strength to cope with such personal devastation. ‘Somehow evil walks amongst us,’ he had once read. Very poignant, he thought. He was tired, but strangely pleased that Daisy had been found. At least it wouldn’t be a case of the family searching for years. He was frustrated and concerned that nobody was locked up or even in the frame, but Dylan wasn’t a quitter. He was determined to find the mu
rdering bastard. The pressure on him over the next few days and weeks would be immense.
His thoughts turned to Jen. She had a lot to put up with. He never seemed to see her these days. She ran to meet him at the door with Max when she heard his key in the lock. He didn’t know how he’d coped going home to an empty flat before he’d met Jen, and he held her tightly. Knowing how lucky he was made all the difference. He savoured every minute with her.
‘I’ll run you a bath, love. My mortuary man,’ she screwed her nose up, smelling the rot on him as she reached up for a kiss. She had already showered, and had on her light pink silk dressing gown, her hair clipped back. She smelled of Rive Gauche and looked beautiful to Dylan. Clothes dumped; sat in the bath, coffee in hand, Jen sponged his aching back. He lay back, closed his eyes, and purred like a contented cat.
‘I worry about you. How do you work at the pace you do? See the things that you see and not be affected by it?’ she asked, her head in the crook of her arm rested on the bath’s edge, as she continued to sponge his body.
‘I don’t think about it a lot,’ he whispered contentedly, guarded.
‘But how does a man as gentle and kind as you turn into the hard-faced detective? It’s unnerving, as though you just flick a switch. Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all when we’re at work, you’re so … different.’
He opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘Okay, you want to know how I felt inside today? It was awful, really bloody awful. Daisy’s parents collapsed on us. The poor little girl had been stripped, her eyebrows shaved, she’d been burned. I saw how it affected the whole team.’
‘And you?’ She sighed, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘I can’t let the team see, can I? Superhuman Jack Dylan, I think not. The sight of her tore me apart; she could’ve been a child of my own.’
Deadly Focus Page 5
