When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel Page 14

  ‘Good man.’ Dylan knew only too well that if anyone had discovered a link, as the head of the enquiry, they would be telling him as a matter of course. But he was frustrated and he wanted to remind them he was on their case, he was feeling starved of any new developments and the clock was ticking.

  The suspect criteria for the Isaac murders was wide open. Dylan needed something, anything that would make enquiries more focussed, to reduce the parameters but, although it wasn’t ideal for the team, the net had to remain stretched to its limits for now.

  Dylan’s phone was ringing and he moved quickly into his office and slid swiftly back behind his desk to answer it. A press conference was to be held at Harrowfield HQ at eight o’clock the following morning Connie told him and he agreed that he would confirm the identities of the deceased at that time. Dylan sat with his head in his hands.

  Jon knocked at his office door and walked in. ‘We have DNA confirmation that Jake Isaac was the father of the unborn child.’

  Dylan breathed in deeply. ‘Well, I guess that answers one question.’

  Since enquiries didn’t seem to be moving forward at a pace he decided to finish work on time for once.

  ***

  The welcome he got from Jen, Maisy and Max when he walked through the door made up for all the trudging through paperwork he’d done, the repetitive phone calls and frustrations of the investigations. Maisy launched herself into his arms before he had time to put down his briefcase. Max fussed around his legs vying for his attention and Jen’s face looked more relaxed than of late.

  ‘Lovely, you’re home early,’ she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘The day was going nowhere. You know the sort, when you can’t cross anything off your job list but yet you’re working flat out?’

  ‘Great, so we’re second choice?’ she said flatly, but her eyes danced playfully.

  ‘Never,’ he said with a smile. ‘You look a lot brighter? Had a good day?’

  ‘I met with Dawn and well, like she does, she put everything in perspective, and we had cream buns.’

  ‘Cream buns? Cream buns?’ Dylan squealed turning his attention to Maisy. ‘Your mummy had cream buns Maisy. I hope she brought some home for us!’ He put Maisy on the floor and she ran into the kitchen.

  ‘I wish cream buns could solve my problems.’

  ‘You just need a break. It’ll come. It always does.’ Jen gave Dylan a fleeting smile.

  Suddenly there was a scream from the kitchen and Dylan and Jen rushed towards the door to see Maisy with an empty plate upturned in her hand and Max lapping cream from the floor. Dylan reached out to grab Max’s collar and Jen bent down to scoop up the remaining crumbs. Max barked his disapproval.

  Maisy’s tears soon turned to laughter and her giggles were infectious. ‘Well, we will never know if cream buns could help although Dawn swears they solve everything.’ Jen was on her hands and knees wiping the floor. ‘It was Dawn’s present for you.’

  Jen winced and Dylan noticed her put her hand to her side when a stitch caught her breath as she stood.

  ‘You okay?’ said Dylan, just as the phone rang. Jen nodded reassuringly and hobbled towards the hallway to answer it. Her voice was stilted and serious. ‘Yes. Thank you. We will be there tomorrow,’ she said looking at Dylan who stood at the kitchen door with their daughter in his arms. Maisy had her finger on his lips as if to quieten him. She giggled. Dylan nodded unsmiling at Jen.

  ***

  The room where the press conference was to be held was buzzing, with standing room only. Dylan looked at the microphones which adorned one side of the desk where he was sitting. They reminded him of snakes ready to pounce. Connie was present, looking radiant as ever. At 8 a.m. sharp the clicks and flashes of cameras commenced and broke his reverie. Momentarily he was blinded.

  After outlining the circumstances of the Merton Manor murders, he told the audience that he was satisfied that the house had been targeted and at least two armed and dangerous criminals remained at large. He reassured them that there had been an increase in the number of trained firearms officers drafted into the area. He appealed for help from members of the public, who may have passed the house on the day of the fire, or for anyone with any knowledge of those who may be responsible for the crime to contact him by way of the incident room, or Crimestoppers.

  After he had finished speaking, the questions from the floor came thick and fast. They covered all aspect of the incident. Dylan answered them as truthfully as he could. There were questions he couldn’t answer because enquiries were ongoing. If he was unable to comment he explained this to the audience.

  The conference over but the pressure was not off as he was immediately escorted by Connie, to undertake one-to-one interviews with the various television, radio and news team presenters who were all clambering for that bit of extra information, or another angle on which to write their story. He told them that Mrs Isaac had been carrying their first child which had also been killed. He revealed this in the hope that it would keep the investigation at the forefront of people’s minds and hopefully tug at someone’s heartstrings, and encourage them to come forward with information that they were presently withholding.

  Two hours out of his day had passed by the time he returned to the incident room. Dylan knew the power of the media and was grateful for the attention that both enquiries were getting. He was very aware how short their attention span might be, should another incident occur. Hence Dylan always tried to be accommodating. They had brought him rich rewards in the past and he knew how much the reach of an appeal could suddenly move an enquiry forward.

  Back in his office a cup of coffee was put before him on his desk. Detective Sergeant Jon Summers was ready with an update. Sitting quietly, sipping the hot drink, Dylan listened with interest.

  ‘I’ve been talking to the Isaac’s gardener. He came to see us directly he returned from holiday and was told about the fire. His name is Phillip Munroe, he’s fifty-five years old and he has worked for the family for a long time, previously at the gallery. On average he spends two days a week at the Manor. He tells me that the Isaacs were a pleasure to work for and a genuinely nice couple.’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary that he picked up on recently?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘No, absolutely not. He says he remembers DC Charles going to the house to offer them crime prevention advice because he spoke to him on his arrival, saw him taking pictures of the house and the grounds, and waved goodbye to him on his departure. Mr Isaac spoke to Phillip after DC Charles left and told him of their plans.’

  ‘Funny, DC Charles never mentioned speaking to him,’ Dylan said.

  ‘Maybe, he didn’t think it was relevant?’

  Dylan appeared thoughtful.

  ‘Mr Munroe told me that apart from the decorators, Mr Isaac used Nigel Earley to pollard trees recently.’

  ‘They’ll all need checking out.’

  ‘You might be interested to know that although he was devastated about the fire he was terribly upset to find that one of the original staddlestones had gone missing.’

  ‘It was still in situ when he went on holiday then?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Confirms what we already thought from images taken before and after the fire. I don’t suppose he told you if they were identifiable?’ Dylan raised an eyebrow.

  ‘They were carved on the underside and it’s a unique mark created by the stonemason back in the day.’

  ‘Is it visible to the naked eye?’

  ‘Yes, if you tip the staddlestone upside down and look closely under the mushroom, near the stem. He said he would send us a picture of the marking as it is identical to the others. The letters being M M followed by what he says is a serpent.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘It is if we find it sir.’ Jon looked downcast.

  ‘Positive! When we find it.

  Andy Wormald came to stand at the door and the men’s attention
turned to him. ‘Sorry to disturb you but I’ve had a message from a Detective Inspector Terry Hawk from North Yorkshire who has asked me if you would give him a call sir? Apparently he’s dealing with a murder where the deceased was shot in the head and wonders if there may be some connection with the Merton Manor murders?’ Dylan reached out for the piece of paper he held in his hand which had a telephone number thereon.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said before turning to Jon. ‘Have we finished?’

  Jon nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll give Terry a ring.’ Dylan picked up the phone immediately, curiosity getting the better of him. ‘Jack Dylan, Harrowfield,’ he said. ‘I understand we might have a common interest?’

  Terry Hawk chuckled. ‘Well, we’ve got a wealthy landowner that’s been shot in the head and ballistics tell me it’s got links to your shootings at Merton Manor.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s music to my ears,’ said Dylan.

  ‘It could of course be a pool weapon,’ said Terry. ‘Are you about this afternoon? I’m thinking of having a trip down to see you?’

  Dylan’s heart sank to his stomach. ‘Terry, that’s really good of you but my wife and I have an appointment. You couldn’t possibly make it tomorrow could you?’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning and we’ll have a talk about linking our databases. Make sure you have the kettle on.’

  Dylan put the phone down, breathed deep and closed his eyes. How his priorities had changed he thought to himself as he studied the photo of Jen and Maisy on his desk. He called Jon back into his office.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning with DI Hawk and I’d like you to be present. Feed the information into the incident room will you and see if there is any intelligence links to North Yorkshire. I’ll be out of the office this afternoon so if anyone is looking for me I’m on my mobile.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The old lady, who had followed Jen onto the bus and sat beside her, tapped her gently. ‘Excuse me, I think the next stop is yours Love,’ she whispered. Jen turned towards her. She smelt of lavender, her eyes were grey and watery, her cheeks over powdered and her lips red and loose. ‘You looked miles away,’ she said as she stood to allow Jen to pass her on to the platform. Jen stared at her, appearing to have no idea of her surroundings. ‘The Hospital,’ she said.

  ‘It is,’ Jen smiled at her weakly and rose from her seat. ‘Thank you.’

  When the bus stopped Jen quickly clambered off. Perhaps it was a good job Dylan would be taking her home in her present state of mind. There hadn’t seemed much point trying to park two cars in the hospital car park when Dylan was joining her there.

  The bus journey had been relatively quiet and surprisingly comforting, affording her time to rest, but as she set off in the direction of the hospital building, the noise of the traffic and the bustle of people became quickly all consuming. Entering the hospital, she found the smell to be a mixture of mouth wash and body odour. She walked down the long corridor with the shiny floor. A door suddenly flew open on her approach and made her jump. Hospital personal staff ran out. The overpowering smell was of stale urine. Jen walked on, up the rise toward the maternity unit. The level of sound came in waves; telephones ringing, people chatting, and the clatter of trolley’s. Reassuringly, people in uniform were busily going about their business. Then there were the patients, on every corner, every landing and in the lift. The visitors amongst them, some walking around aimlessly, others stood quietly comforting, some laughing, whispering, weeping. Patients passed her dressed in hospital garb wheeling themselves and their intravenous drips towards the nearest exit. Were they trying to escape? No, they were desperately clutching packets of cigarettes. The hospital visit was as important as it was surreal and Jen found herself thinking that she could easily have been in the middle of a TV drama and she wished with all her heart that someone would shout ‘Cut’!

  Leaving the hustle and bustle of the main building behind she walked through the doors of the quieter maternity wing, to see several women with sizeable bumps heading towards reception. Jen held the door for a couple carrying a newborn baby proudly in a car seat. It was apparent by their smiles and chatter that they were going home. She held her breath when they passed and prayed. This building was newer, cooler. The walls painted pastel colours and here and there were murals depicting children’s fictional characters. Standing alone now at the reception desk, she was conscious of the quickening of her heartbeat and for the second time that day she felt a tap on her shoulder, but this time when she turned she saw Dylan’s smiling face. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

  The receptionist sprang up from behind the desk. ‘Jennifer Dylan? The sonographer will be with you soon, if you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room.’ Jen followed the direction of her pointing finger.

  ‘Come on, the sooner done, the sooner over so you can stop your worrying,’ said Dylan as he took hold of her tremulous hand and pulled her along.

  Jen’s hopes rose at the positive tone of his voice. She leant her head on his shoulder and forced a smile. The couple sat quietly waiting. Jen picked up a magazine from the rack. New born babies. She snapped it shut, put it back and picked up a Scallymag. Dylan mulled over what Jen had told him about the bleeding, and deep down he had to consider that it could be serious - far more serious and worrying than he had led her to believe. Instinctively he reached out to lay his hand reassuringly on her leg.

  At the sonographer’s request, Jen climbed on the bed and lifted her top to reveal her stomach. She chatted away as she squeezed gel onto Jen’s stomach, laughing as she did so at Jen’s reaction to the coldness of it. Jen lay perfectly still, turning her head to Dylan. He held her hand, she squeezed it tightly. Her heart raced now as if it would burst from her chest. Her stomach turned, panic rose in her throat. Dylan nodded reassuringly and their eyes turned to the screen and then to the sonographers face. She put the transducer onto Jen’s stomach. ‘Don’t look so anxious you two,’ she said with a chuckle.

  As soon as the baby’s image flickered into view the sonographer’s smile dropped from her lips. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, pushing the transducer firmly into different locations on Jen’s stomach. ‘If you’ll just wait here I’ll go and fetch my colleague.’ The sonographer disappeared quickly.

  ‘I knew it. It’s bad news,’ said Jen through trembling lips. As the words tumbled from her mouth a tear squeezed from the corner of her eye and ran down the side of her cheek on to the pillow. She swallowed hard. Dylan tenderly brushed the tear away but it was rapidly followed by others. He handed her his handkerchief.

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  The second sonographer’s smile was not reassuring; instead, to Dylan, it appeared to be more of a consoling one. ‘I’m sorry this wasn’t what you were expecting.’

  The next morning was tense. Make-believe enthusiasm was never harder but they both knew their daughter was much too young to understand what was going on and they had to try as best they could to keep to the routine.

  ***

  Dylan found work, as always in times of past personal angst, to be a distraction, and he and Jon Summers looked forward to listening to what Detective Terry Hawks from North Yorkshire Police had to say.

  Waiting for Jon to join them, Dylan and Terry moaned, groaned, smiled and shared stories about their years in the job. They also put the world to rights regarding the changes in modern policing and the dangers now facing front line officers.

  ‘Too many Chiefs and not enough Indians is always going to be a problem,’ said Terry whose attention was drawn to a picture on the office wall.

  ‘By ’eck that takes me back, Jack Warner.’

  Dylan turned his head to face the picture of a uniformed police officer who was stood saluting. The peak of his cap was covering the bridge of his nose, shielding a winking eye.

  ‘Even wore his chin strap correctly. Between the bottom lip and the p
oint of the chin,’ added Terry.

  ‘My hero,’ said Dylan. ‘Dixon of Dock Green.’

  ‘Evening all,’ said Terry in a deep voice as the door opened and in walked Jon carrying a tray of drinks.

  ‘The father-figure. The protector,’ said Dylan quietly.

  ‘Right Dylan, let’s get down to business,’ said Terry taking his paperwork from a blue, cardboard folder. ‘Our victim is a proper old country gent. His name is Cedric Oakley, seventy-eight years old. He owns the very grand estate at Welford Grange, Wetherby. He’s stinking rich. Last week he was found dead by the side of the road in his Range Rover registered number CO 1. The car was found in the lay-by of a narrow country lane, approximately three miles from his home. It looks like he’d pulled off the road to, I don’t know, allow another vehicle to pass maybe? Driver’s side window was partially open, and the engine was still running, suggesting to us that he may have spoken to someone just before he died.’ Terry shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s been shot not once, but twice in the head. Nothing else was disturbed, nor is there any damage to the vehicle, which makes us think that he was the target.’

  ‘You’ve recovered the ammunition?’

  ‘Yes, one from his head and the other from inside the vehicle. They have been checked and confirmed as being from a nine millimetre Smith and Wesson revolver.’

  ‘The same gun that was used at Merton Manor.’ asked Dylan.

  ‘An exact match, is what ballistics are telling me.’

  ‘The most exciting thing here for me is that we have another opportunity to trace the killers,’ said Jon. ‘I’ll get both databases checked to see if any other links can be established.’

  ‘Although it might be pure coincidence,’ said Terry. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many enemies an old guy can have.’