When The Killing Starts Read online

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  When the Killing Starts

  RC Bridgestock

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head..

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2016

  Copyright © RC Bridgestock 2016

  RC Bridgestock has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental

  Published in Great Britain by

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  4 Eton Close

  Walderslade

  Chatham

  Kent

  ME5 9AT

  www. caffeinenights com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-910720-52-3

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Contents

  When the Killing Starts

  RC Bridgestock

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Also by RC Bridgestock

  The D.I. Dylan Series

  Deadly Focus

  Consequences

  White Lilies

  Snow Kills

  Reprobates

  Killer Smile

  All available in paperback and eBook

  Deadly Focus is available on MP3 CD audiobook and as a downloadable audiobook

  Consequences is available to download as an

  audiobook

  White Lilies is available to download as an

  audiobook

  Acknowledgements

  We both feel very privileged that our police and writing careers have both been eventful and fulfilling. We couldn’t have done either without so many kind, dedicated and professional individuals who have walked into our lives and left footprints on our hearts...

  Our special thanks go to our publisher Darren Laws, Caffeine Nights Publishing and our literary agent David H. Headley, DHH Literary Agency for their continued support and encouragement.

  Thanks too, to Lisa Rothwell, Tactical Flight Officer (TFO), West Yorkshire Police and Sarah Dodsworth, West Yorkshire police mounted section for their advice in this novel. Factual knowledge that can only be told by someone who does the job, helps us to give our readers the most realistic experience possible in our fictional tales.

  To those who bid at charity auctions to name a character in this book, we can’t thank you enough. We hope you enjoy how we have utilised the information that you supplied about your character.

  We will be forever thankful for the love and support of Betty and Ray Jordan (Carol’s Mum and Dad) who have looked after us when we ‘forget’ to eat, the ironing pile is growing or Belle and Vegas need walking whilst we endeavour to reach a deadline.

  And to our children and grandchildren who remain in our thoughts every hour of everyday for their love and support in what we do, even though this means we get less time with them...

  Finally, but by no way least to our followers #TeamDylan

  Thank you all from the bottom of our hearts...

  To

  All emergency service personnel and first responders around the world for putting us all before themselves to make the world a much safer place.

  A special mention to charities that we support in the hope that in a small way this gives them the exposure they need for much needed promotion and funds.

  We are proud to be Patrons for: -

  B.A.S.H Local

  www.bashwy.co.uk

  B.A.S.H provides an outreach service that connects those in need with the charities and services they may not have otherwise known about whilst offering food, clothing and friendly faces, located in Brighouse, West Yorkshire.

  Isle of Wight Society for the Blind -

  www.iwsightconcern.org.uk

  The Isle of Wight Society for the Blind provides information, practical help and emotional support to approximately 1,000 people living on the Isle of Wight.

  The Red Lipstick Foundation –

  www.theredlipstickfoundation.org

  The Red Lipstick Foundation offers support and links for those whose lives have been affected by suicide, located in Southampton

  We are proud to be Ambassadors for: -

  Bethany Smile

  www.bethanyssmile.org

  Bethany’s Smile - aim to raise a minimum of £300,000 to build Smile Cottage – a holiday/respite home, in Yorkshire, where families can go and spend quality time plus build happy memories, when they are faced with the news that their child has a very short life expectancy.

  Supporters of: -

  Sunshine & Smiles

  www.sunshineandsmiles.org.uk

  Who organise groups and events to improve the lives and opportunities of children and families living with Down Syndrome in Leeds, UK.

  Last but not least a charity that is close to our hearts.

  Forget Me Not Children’s Hospice, Huddersfield is a special place that supports children with life shortening conditions and their families throughout West Yorkshire.

  www.forgetmenotchild.co.uk

  When the Killing Starts

  Chapter One

  Jack Dylan’s daughter Maisy draped a chubby little arm around his neck and put the tip of a finger under his chin, to gain his attention. The shopping centre was busy and Jen was constantly reminded that her husband was on-call because of the habitual checking of his mobile phone. His tour of duty didn’t stop their normal routine, as long as Jack stayed in the Force area. However, from past experience she knew if a call came in she could be abandoned – anywhere, anytime. After all, Detective Inspector Jack Dylan was the man in charge of Harrowfield CID and the responsibility for serious crime in the area fell firmly at his feet.

  Shopping was finished and they had achieved a quick look round the shops that sold prams; happily with no interruptions. Dylan planted a fleeting kiss on his daughter’s forehead and he was rewarded with a loving smile as he carried the tired three-year-old back to the car. Jen hooked loosely on to his arm.
They had almost reached their destination when she felt a cramp grip her stomach. Doubling up she halted and Dylan turned to see his wife’s panic-stricken face look up at him. The hot street ahead appeared to waver in the sun and the feeling of nausea came over her.

  ‘You okay?’ Dylan said. Jen’s lips were pale.

  ‘Give me a minute, I will be.’

  Jen climbed into the passenger seat of the car and Dylan put Maisy in the rear. Jen’s chin was to her chest when he climbed in next to her and it was apparent she was breathing through the pain.

  Dylan opened her a small bottle of water and she gratefully took it from him. Putting the vessel to her lips she took a few sips of the cool liquid. Her eyes stared at him in a colourless face. ‘Get me home,’ she said.

  Dylan started the car engine. Jen wound down the passenger door window. ‘Oh, no.’ she whispered as she felt a warm gush of liquid between her legs.

  ‘Promise you’d tell me if you weren’t okay?’ Dylan said as he parked the car in the driveway. Scooping Maisy deftly up in his arms, he hurried to open the house door. Jen went directly to the bathroom. Dylan settled Maisy at the kitchen table with her new sticker book and put the kettle on.

  ‘I knew I should have eaten something,’ Jen said more cheerily when she joined them. Her colour had returned.

  Dylan’s face was one of relief. ‘You frightened me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jen gave him a brief kiss on the cheek as his mobile rang. He snatched it up from where it lay on the table.

  Dylan and Jen’s eyes locked as he listened intently to the caller.

  ‘Yeah, okay, I’ll turn out. I’m about half an hour away from you. Will you ensure they preserve the scene?’ Dylan put his phone in his pocket.

  ‘You’ve got to go?’ said Jen.

  Dylan nodded his head. ‘It looks like someone’s either been thrown off a building, or they’ve jumped.’

  ***

  Crime was their way of life; Declan and Damien Devlin’s loyalty was to each other.

  At a glance, the twenty something-year-old steroid enhanced, muscle bound, shaven headed, tattooed bodied brothers could quite easily be mistaken for twins and often were, but Declan was the elder, and the aggressor.

  The brothers hadn’t had much of a childhood. The stolen video of Oliver Twist was constantly played on the stolen TV because their father proudly likened himself to Fagin. They, their father said were in ‘Fagin’s gang’ and every woman he took up with was known to them as Nancy. It made their unusual existence seem somewhat normal and fun, to two small boys, who, as they grew up favoured a relatively nomadic lifestyle.

  Unlike their late father; well known to the police as a petty thief and brace and bit burglar, entering premises as a trespasser, quietly, and to the best of his belief when they were unoccupied, his boys acquired a liking for creating fear, ensuring compliance of the victim by being armed.

  The pair had one macabre pact; arrested, to be caged like an animal, was not an option.

  The mundane pick pocketing and robberies the two had cut their teeth on, no longer fed their addiction. Nor did it satisfy their hunger, or bring in the coveted bounty that enabled them to live the lifestyle they had come to enjoy. But, would the crime they had spent all summer planning have been a step too far for their good-for-nothing wrong-un of a Dad; more often in prison than not when they were growing up, and dead from alcoholism before Declan’s eighteenth birthday?

  ***

  Rich, golden flora, various shades of red and brown littered the car park. The dappled early morning sunlight spotlighted those leaves on the branches of the Ash tree that dominated the central reservation of the busy trading estate. It was warmer than of late, especially for September.

  The Mercedes-Benz alloy wheels crunched their way on the gravelled driveway as it exited Redchester Regal Hire Cars. The man acknowledged the owner with a slight nod of the head, as he closed the huge metal gates behind them. It was eight-thirty on Monday morning as the brothers headed out of the city towards the M65.

  One might say a hire vehicle was an unnecessary expense. But Declan, the brighter of the two, knew it was far better to be legit on the road. They didn’t need some eagled-eyed cop pulling them over because of a dodgy light when they were tooled-up.

  Vandalism was apparent in the town, graffiti dominated the walls, floor and ceilings of the buildings in the notorious red-light area, where drug pushers and pimps were known associates. Rubbish, mostly disregarded junk mail, takeaway boxes, flyers and newspaper, blew carelessly in between parked vehicles and into the royal blue Mercedes’ path.

  In a holster tied about Damien’s torso he felt the hardness of a handgun. This morning the Devlin brothers had business to attend to and nothing nor no one would be allowed to get in their way. The plan was to travel a hundred miles across two counties, their intended destination was Merton Manor, Harrowfield.

  Several visits by the pair to recce the site over the last few months had seen it transformed from a partially renovated building, into a family home. Most recently it had been painted a distinguished Olde English white and before the present owners of the artwork empire moved in, the front door, lovingly restored by traditional craftsman had been given a coat of black gloss paint and adorned with period door furnishings.

  It was easy to see what had drawn the wealthy couple to the countryside location. But they didn’t need an estate agent to disclose the property’s history as it was well documented. It was often said to the new owners. ‘A good job you’re not superstitious!’

  The house held a tragic past. Sir Edward Crowther (Teddy), who had commissioned the house, died before it was finished. His son completed the project his father had started; after which William (Bill) Crowther and his eighteen-year-old bride Isabel commissioned the ornamental gardens in a Capability Brown style. At the time it was reported that the most eminent figures of the age were entertained in the then fifty acres of adjoining land. However, the couple’s marriage didn’t last long when a child, a boy died suddenly in infancy.

  Troops were billeted in the house during both world wars. In more recent times, the house had been subject to several renovation projects but for one reason or another, other than the opulent bespoke kitchen and dining room, commissioned by Jake’s father, the rest had never seen completion. It had long since been rumoured by villagers to be cursed with several ghosts running amok - rumours probably started by Jake’s father to keep unwanted opportunists away. Jake told Leah he was unsure how his family had come to own the property, although his father had confided it was by way of a gambling debt. He’d had hours of fun playing in the grounds in his youth, and he’d never seen a ghost.

  The house stood on the lower slopes of Beacon Hill, facing south west, which meant it caught the best of the sun. It had tall period sash windows to the front with a paved terrace wide enough to house a small pond. The veranda was edged with plants and bushes and giant wreaths of rhododendrons stood aside patio doors which, when opened, announced the dining room.

  Beyond the terrace there were two lawns of bowling-green grass, joined in the middle by way of a newly laid asphalt driveway.

  Near the Freemantle Gate, adding grandeur to the entrance, stood eight weathered staddlestones.

  ***

  Jake Isaac walked up behind his wife as she stood at their bedroom window, looking idly out at the beautiful view. ‘There you are Leah,’ he said softly, before laying his hand gently on her shoulder. Without turning around, she put her hand over his and their fingers entwined. Silently, they appeared deep in thought. Jake’s eyes found an old Ford Popular car travelling gaily along the meandering lane which led from Merton Village into Harrowfield passing the entrance to the manor house. The quiet road was used mostly by the locals or the odd lost Sunday driver who stumbled on it unwittingly.

  ‘We could be lucky enough to be stuck here for weeks during the winter.’ said Leah, with a contented sigh.

  ‘What a lovely thought,’ he said.
‘Just you, our baby and me hostages to the elements.’ For a moment or two they were content to be still until Jake broke his wife’s reverie. ‘Are you glad we decided to take on the old place, even with its torrid past?’ he said.

  Eyes fixed on the view, Leah took a slow, deep breath, rested her head back on his firm chest and closed her eyes, she nodded. ‘Yes of course. How could anyone in their right mind believe this beautiful house is cursed?’

  Jake chuckled. ‘Me and our kid used to spend hours making up ghost stories to scare our friends. I don’t believe we could have found a more idyllic spot if we’d chosen it ourselves do you?’

  ‘All the plans to make the house into our home,’ she said, tilting her head backwards to receive his feather-light kiss, ‘is all I dreamed it would be. Thank you.’ Leah turned her head slightly to look up into his face. Jake bent down to kiss his wife, this time firmer on her parted lips.

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank my father for leaving it to me in his will. I always thought he favoured my brother. How wrong could I have been? Leslie is more than welcome to the penthouse in the big city. I love it here. Saying that, with my father gone now my love, the family empire does rests heavily on our shoulders,’ he said with a grave expression that held a tender smile. ‘I just hope this little one,’ he said, as he patted Leah’s tummy, ‘likes art!’