Deadly Focus

by R. C. Bridgestock

  The ripple of laughter was like a Mexican wave around the room.

  ‘Thank you for that, Terry. If you have second thoughts, let me know, you might need back up,’ Dylan said.

  Dylan walked back to the incident room. There was a note on his desk. He showed it to Dawn and Larry.

  ACC’s secretary rang regarding the review team meeting – everyone can make it tomorrow morning. 11.30 a.m., divisional conference room, Harrowfield Police Station. Lisa.

  Jen had a meal ready for him when he arrived home. ‘I can hear your mind ticking over. Relax, it’ll sort its self out, you’ll see, love,’ she soothed, patting his hand,. ‘Go and put your feet up for once. Read the paper while I wash up.’

  The Harrowfield Times headline read CHILD SERIAL KILLER STILL AT LARGE. He threw it down on the floor at the side of the chair, lifted his feet onto the pouffe and rested his head back on the headrest, hands folded on his lap as he sighed heavily.

  Jen knew he would be asleep before he finished reading the paper. She’d watched him so many times open the first page: his arms would drop to his lap, the paper still in his hands; his eyes would close, then his head would fall to his chest. The predictability of his actions always made her smile.

  But she was wrong this time; he’d not even started reading it.

  Another day, he told himself, as he drove into work the next morning. He had the radio on and Terry Wogan was on good form. He always made him laugh. The meeting with the team was first on the agenda; they needed to go through the format of the review. It had already been decided that he’d cover the summary and the background, and Dawn would cover the issues regarding the family and lines of enquiry. They would play the DVD and show the relevant photographs. The exhibits officer would be present to cover what exhibits they had and tell them what was still outstanding. The DS from the HOLMES team would be there for logistics and to comment on actions that still needed to be done. If you fail to plan then you plan to fail was one of the sayings at training school, and it had stuck with him. The divisional commander should be there, but whether he would turn up or not only time would tell. Finally, they’d prepared a detailed document, some twenty pages in length. There was one for each of the review team members to take away, but they had to be returned for security reasons. Each numbered document and to whom it had been given was recorded. To avoid disclosure of information, no further copies could be made and all numbered originals had to be returned.

  A buffet lunch was to be served at approximately half past twelve. Lovely, thought Dylan, how the other half live.

  Assistant Chief Constable Edward Thornton was the review team leader. Previously he’d been known as ‘Eddie’ Thornton, until he made the rank of Chief Superintendent, at which time he’d sent an internal message, via e-mail, to everyone in the force announcing that he now wished to be known as ‘Edward’. In his opinion, that was more fitting for the rank. Edward was tall with a very large stomach that hung over his belted uniform trousers. Silver-grey hair was swept across his balding head. Dylan had known him for a number of years, and boy did he love his buffets. His chief superintendent was Jackie Swindon, a rather slim woman in her late forties with a neat blonde bob. He knew little of her other than she was destined for a higher rank. The SIO was Jim Taylor. Dylan and Jim got on well. Jim had been an SIO for two years. Detective Inspector Tim Fixby, Detective Sergeant Barry Light, and Jenny Cooper completed the team.

  Dylan was pleased with the chosen review team and he hoped that they would identify a line of enquiry that would lead to the killer. He wasn’t bothered if it was something he’d overlooked that would embarrass him at this stage; he just wanted the murderer caught. His shoulders were broad enough.

  Once the introductions were over, they commenced with the DVD. Firstly, it showed the moorland and the reservoir where Daisy’s body had been found. Dylan took them through the findings and the document they’d been given. It took him back to his detective training school days where he’d spent almost four years teaching law, interview techniques, and the skills required of future SIOs.

  There came a welcome break; lunch was being carried in and there was friendly chatter around the room. Dylan caught up with Jim on the things that were happening around the force.

  ‘Time for a quick pee. Hey, listen to this, Jim,’ Dylan said mischievously, as he walked past the ACC, whose plate was straining under the weight of numerous pies and sandwiches, topped off with his favourite: a family-sized custard tart.

  ‘Can you get any more on that plate, Eddie?’ Dylan spoke loudly. The room went quiet. Jim nearly choked on his cup of tea as Dylan left the room, not daring to look back as he was bursting to laugh. He knew he would get some glares over the table in round two of the review, but he couldn’t resist.

  The review came to an end; it had taken the best part of a day. If nothing else, it had given Dylan the opportunity to review events himself. It would be a month before he’d get feedback.

  Back in the incident room, he wanted to know if locally there had been any prison releases, if so, who, and if there were any old cases of a similar nature. He was going over old ground and previous thoughts just to ensure that nothing had been overlooked. He was still in review mode, but was confident after talking to Dawn and the team and checking the computer system himself that all was being done that could be. It was just becoming more and more frustrating that nothing shed any light on the investigation. It was stagnating. The Hinds and Spencers must have bloody upset someone. The answer must lie there.

  ‘What about the “Class of 75”? Have we seen them all yet?’ Dylan asked Dawn.

  ‘Not yet, but it’s a priority.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dylan went straight to the property store. It was chilly, dimly lit, and austere with a musty smell that reminded Dylan of a second hand shop. It had a cold, stone-flagged floor and row upon row of battened wooden shelves from floor to ceiling holding hundreds of sealed bags. Boxes of all shapes and sizes, as well as larger, heavier items, stood on the floor in one corner. An old, padlocked, grey, metal cabinet similar to a wardrobe stood at the back of the desk that housed valuable items and the drugs from crime-related offences. Another long, thin, sturdy, and securely locked cabinet held crime-related firearms and ammunition. Each item was tagged with its own consecutive number. Detective Constables John Benjamin and Vicky Hardacre were rummaging through the ‘Miscellaneous and Connected’ property area.

  ‘Now then, you two,’ he called out loudly, startling them both.

  ‘Hiya. Just checking the murder exhibits and files against the lists registered on the property forms. I bet these are some of your old jobs.’

  ‘What you trying to say, Vicky. I’m getting on?’ he joked.

  ‘Never, boss. In fact, I like older men,’ she flirted.

  ‘Where’re you thinking of moving these to?’ asked John, ignoring Vicky.

  ‘I know you said there was room in the void, but I’ve decided I want them to go to the attic at Tandem Bridge. Then at least they’ll be out of the way of prying eyes. We could do an audit at the same time. Knowing Harold’s obsession with record-keeping, it shouldn’t be such a big job. Just wish he wasn’t off sick,’ Dylan said, moving a chair to one side so that he could get past.

  ‘Don’t know what these are or what they’re doing ‘ere,’ said Vicky moving a cradle like an umbrella stand, filled with polished canes. The canes were beautifully made out of rosewood and had silver handles, but had no identification tag attached.

  ‘They’re old inspectors’ canes, used long before your time. Probably stuck there because they are no longer needed and maybe even of value these days. Uniform Inspectors carried them round when I first started. They walked their beat with them under their arm, a bit like a sergeant major,’ explained Dylan.

  ‘They’re beautiful but really heavy,’ Vicky said, admiring the one in her hand.

  ‘Now I do feel old, talking about the good old days,’ Dylan mused. ‘
I can see lots of detected murder files, but how many undetected files are there in here, do you think?’

  ‘There are only about six, boss. They’re stacked by the desk. Reckon old Harold has been reading them,’ said John.

  Dylan stared at the cane that Vicky was placing back in its rightful place.

  ‘Something similar to that would actually fit the type of weapon used for the murders,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘There’s a bag at the back of the canes. “R V Wilkinson”,’ Vicky read from the packet. ‘No crime reference or anything.’

  ‘It’s a good thing Harold isn’t here. He’d have blown a fuse. I wonder who’s looking after the store in his absence?’ said Dylan.

  ‘What shall I do with it boss?’ Vicky stood holding the bag in her hand as if it were contaminated. ‘Put it on his desk for when he gets back?’

  ‘Wilkinson? I’ve heard that name twice in the last hour. Give it to me and I’ll open it. It’s only taped. Pass me a glove, will you please, John?’

  Dylan picked at the tape. ‘Nothing else for “Wilkinson”? You sure?’ he continued as he carefully tore off the tape so it could be replaced easily. The contents of the plain, brown-paper evidence bag, no bigger than a carrier bag and no heavier than a feather, froze his body. His mouth went dry. His heart started to pump fast. ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Boss, boss, are you okay?’ Vicky grabbed his arm. He looked first at Vicky then at John in total disbelief. ‘Fucking hell,’ was all he heard himself say again, quieter. He was rooted to the spot with the bag open in his hand.

  ‘What is it? You’re freaking me out now,’ said Vicky anxiously.

  ‘I’ve just seen the yellow and white striped football sock. I can see the name on the tag: “C. SPENCER”.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ John and Vicky said almost in unison. Adrenaline pumped blood around Dylan’s body more quickly and for a moment he felt faint. He put his gloved hand into the bag.

  ‘There is some cloth underneath it,’ he said. ‘And if I was a gambling man I’d bet it’s something of Daisy’s. John and Vicky stood like statues. Time stood still.

  ‘Get scenes of crime here now. I’ll call Dawn and Larry. We need to seal this store. In fact we’ll also change the locks.’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Dawn sounded concerned at the tone of Dylan’s voice.

  ‘We’ve just accidentally unearthed Christopher’s football sock and some material from Daisy’s dress, I think, in the property store.’

  ‘Bloody hell. We’re on our way.’

  ‘What do you want us to do, boss?’ John asked as Dylan hung up.

  ‘Keep your hands in your pockets, mate. Let’s go back to the door and make sure no one comes in here. We’ll treat this as a crime scene, but I want to keep it under wraps for as long as we can so that we don’t cause alarm.’ Dylan was speaking his thoughts aloud. He dialled Jasmine’s number. ‘I need you at Harrowfield property store urgently.’ Dylan didn’t remember hearing her answer. He replaced the phone.

  ‘Vicky or John, here.’ He held out a five-pound note. ‘Don’t care which one of you goes, but get some coffee from the canteen will you? I think better with an intake of caffeine.’

  ‘I’ll go, boss.’ Vicky took the money and headed off.

  ‘What a turn up, eh? Somebody’s got some nerve.’ John whistled in amazement. ‘A copper? One of us?’

  Dylan shrugged his shoulders as if to say, let’s face it, who knows? He took a few steps over the stone slabs to the canes. The store was deathly quiet and the air so full of expectancy that he could hear his shoes making a crunching sound on the gritty floor. The canes were lined up like soldiers on parade. There were five of them, but he’d not noticed until now that one was missing. The cradle held six.

  Dylan and John hovered. ‘You don’t really think it’s a copper, do you, boss?’

  ‘Well, it’s got to be someone with access, John. Someone close.’

  Vicky returned to the entrance of the store with a tray of steaming mugs. Dawn and Larry arrived and John let them in before locking it from the inside. A light tap told them that Jasmine had arrived.

  ‘The divisional administrator was on my back regarding the lack of space in here,’ Dylan told them. ‘We looked at Cage C to see how many murder files and exhibits there were, with the intention of cataloguing and moving them to Tandem Bridge. Vicky came across a brown-paper exhibits bag that wasn’t tagged. Inside was a striped sock labelled “C. SPENCER” and material that could be from Daisy’s bridesmaid dress.’

  ‘Shit, pardon my French,’ said Jasmine.

  ‘I haven’t taken anything out of the bag yet, but look over there.’ Dylan pointed to the canes. ‘Old inspector canes with two inch spherical knobs on the end. Any one of them could match the murder weapon. One seems to be missing. I want us suited up, and then the room photographed along with Cage C, the canes, and the bag.’

  Jasmine and Vicky set up the camera on its tripod. John got the exhibit bags out of the case Jasmine had brought with her. For onlookers the activity would not raise concern, because it’s usual for scenes of crime officers to photograph and examine items in a property store. The store was filled with nervous excitement, but it went as quiet as the grave when everyone went into professional mode. Jasmine photographed the bag marked ‘R. V. Wilkinson’. Then very carefully, with gloved hands, she took the yellow and white football sock from it. The tag was visible. Dylan heard everyone take in a deep breath at the sight. The sock was placed in an exhibit bag, sealed and labelled for future identification. Next, Jasmine plucked out a piece of jade green silk cloth; wrapped inside it she found a white lace heart. The mood was sombre but elated at the same time. Items were systematically photographed, labelled and bagged.

  ‘Photograph the canes. I’d like them seized as exhibits, please,’ Dylan said.

  Dylan, Dawn, and Larry went over to the property clerk’s desk. This was where Harold Little sat. At the side of the desk were murder files and their attached summaries. Without disturbing them, they each looked at the top pages. One was for a hanging, another for a hostage demand that went wrong. The items also needed photographing in situ.

  ‘Liz Green was adamant that the man in the picture is called Harold Wilkinson, not Little. She described him as a bit of a loner,’ Dawn reminded Dylan and Larry.

  ‘Harold’s not a murderer,’ said Larry.

  ‘What does a murderer look like? The bloody exhibits have been in the store, his bloody store all the time. Dawn, we need to go through every file that’s here. It may have some bearing on the murders. Harold’s computer will need checking and we’ll have to force these drawers on the desk by the look of it. They appear to be locked and I can’t see any keys, can you?’ The occupants of the store looked around the room, searching for the keys, but they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Harold is off sick at the moment and I don’t know when he’s due back, but just remember, other civilians and police have access to this store. It could be that someone has taken this exhibit, not labelled it, and left it for someone else to book in. We’ll seal the store now, though, which means that people are going to start asking questions. Can I leave that with you?’

  Dawn nodded.

  ‘I’ll go and see Beaky in admin and get what I can from Harold’s personal file. See if that tells us anything about him.’

  ‘No problem. I can’t believe it. Right under our noses all the time,’ Dawn said through clenched teeth.

  ‘One of the team should be seeing Barry Sanderson about now,’ Dylan reminded the team as he walked out of the store.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There was a spring in Dylan’s step as he took the stairs two at a time on his way to the administration department. It was a small office with five desks. The girls were laughing, passing round a tin of chocolates, and they offered them to Dylan when he walked into the room. He scanned the room for Jen, but she was nowhere to be seen. The administrator’s office was situated at the far
side of the room. The door was furnished with a brass plaque bearing her name, AVRIL SUMMERFIELD-PRESTON, and was closed as usual. Through the little, head-height window, Dylan could see her with her feet up on the desk, laughing, as she spoke on the telephone.

  He knocked on the door and walked straight in. The strong smell of perfume hit him, and he coughed. His immediate entrance took her aback.

  ‘I’ll have to go. Someone very rudely just barged in,’ Avril told her caller. ‘I’ll get back to you in a minute.’ she hung up. ‘Waiting to be called in would have been nice,’ she remarked.

  ‘The call obviously wasn’t work, then,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come about the property store.’ He spoke directly, the only way he knew for dealing with a person like Avril.

  ‘Actually, it was Chief Superintendent Hugo-Watkins on the phone.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You might know, the amount of extra exhibits is causing me no end of trouble and affecting the running of the station. The clerk is off sick. Allegedly he tripped over one of the bags down there. Now there’ll be form-filling, an accident report, and no doubt a personal injury claim. This is a big health and safety issue for me.’

  ‘What’s the clerk’s name?’ he said, ignoring her speech.

  ‘Harold.’

  ‘Full name?’

  ‘Harold Little,’ she said, looking curiously at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘About five years. Why?’

  ‘Do you have his personal file?’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with you, Inspector. Harold is a civilian. My staff, not yours. I myself interviewed and appointed him.’

  That’s no endorsement, thought Dylan. ‘I don’t want this to go any further than this office. The property store will be closed for the next few days as it’s a potential crime scene. There’s evidence connecting the two child murders in there, and I need to eliminate Harold and anyone else who’s had access in his absence. Now, do you have his file please, and do you know any other details that may assist the enquiry?’