When The Killing Starts: A DI Jack Dylan novel Page 2

  ‘Can’t you just see our children running bare foot together on the lawns in the summer?’

  ‘Steady on,’ he said. Jake rubbed his wife’s very rotund stomach. ‘Let’s see how we fair with this little-one first before we begin to talk of having a football team.’ Jake gave a little throaty cough but his laughing eyes were suddenly bright, moist, and his voice eager.

  ‘How about I build them a tree house in that grand old Beech,’ he said, pointing straight ahead to the South lawn. ‘I wanted my father to build me a tree house. He was always too busy.’ Jake was thoughtful.

  ‘Now whose imagination is running wild?’ she said looking down at his leg that was strapped in a bandage at the knee.

  ‘Alright, I’ll get my man to build it for my son,’ he said.

  ‘Or daughter,’ she said with a cock of her head. ‘And my maid will live in the cottage out back.’

  ‘Hold on a minute we’ll need that cottage for the gardener,’ he said.

  Leah smiled sweetly. Then looking suddenly puzzled she showed her husband a frown. ‘Where on earth is the nanny going to sleep?’

  ‘If you want a nanny, she’ll have to sleep in the nursery.’

  Leah went into her husband’s arms and held him tight for a moment then draping her arms loosely around his neck she pulled away. ‘You make me so very, very happy.’

  Jake followed his wife’s eyes to their four poster bed.

  ‘Shall we?’ she giggled.

  ‘Go on with you,’ he said tapping her lightly on her bottom. ‘You’ve only just got up. And the doctor said you should rest!’

  ‘I will. I promise. Later,’ she said, with a flick of her hair. ‘But first I want to do a little more work on the nursery mural -make my tree branches look less swollen and diseased as you kindly pointed out.’

  With supplies from the shop and paint brush in hand Leah was soon using long, sweeping brush strokes. Oh, to be married to an artist and a perfectionist at that! She stopped to peruse her work from time to time and watch the painted owl come to life opposite the bright yellow bird that had just taken flight. From where she stood at the nursery window, at the rear of the house, she saw hilly farmland. Each field framed with a Yorkshire stone wall and rock fencing, her inspiration for the animated woodland scene sketched by Jake, that she worked from. The deeply set window frame that the drawing was pinned to housed a thick cushion for a window seat. When she sat, she could see down below the back yard, stables, outhouses and a dilapidated servants’ cottage that would indeed be a nice project for the future. Gazing beyond the farmland, her eyes rested on a green valley rising on a gradual incline of newly planted trees to the age old oaks of Oakhurst Wood. In her mind’s eye there was many a family picnic planned on that hillside. Leah had chosen this particular room for the nursery because she had seen sheep, cows and horses grazing from the window when Jake had first brought her to the house. It had a nice, warm, welcoming feel. Sometimes in the bedroom she smelt the sweet bouquet of apples and pears. As opposed to the stench of boiled animal fat and lye in the dark, dank cellars. Oddly enough, she had noticed her sensitivity to different smells increase as her pregnancy progressed. Some rooms were pleasantly scented, but others made her feel instantly dizzy and nauseous, such was their overpowering odour - unfortunately that often happened in the kitchen and dining room, when sometimes she could only liken the smell to a butcher’s shop. Jake thought it highly amusing but the doctor said it wasn’t uncommon.

  ***

  Declan and Damien had been northbound on the motorway when Declan noticed the blue lights of the emergency vehicle rapidly approaching in his rear view mirror. He steered the car swiftly to the central lane, allowing the police car unrestricted access ahead.

  ‘Why do all Coppers drive like fucking Twats?’ Declan muttered as the uniformed passenger in the police car looked their way.

  ‘Let’s hope for their sake they keep moving,’ Damien said, through clenched teeth. As the police car came along-side he leaned forward and raised an eyebrow at the police officer. Damien stroked the tips of his fingers over his weapon.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said Declan. ‘You heard what the Pigs were saying in the pub. With police cuts they’re dependent on the ‘hobby bobbies’.’

  ‘The public would have a heart attack if they knew how many officers are working this week in Harrowfield,’ said Damien a little less anxious as the police car sped ahead. ‘Merton’s cop shop is up for sale and Tandem Bridge is only open a few hours a week - we’ve done our homework. Lucky for the likes of us the force is on it’s fucking knees.’ Damien paused for a moment. ‘Listening in on the coppers conversation is much easier now the shiny arses have shut the cop shop bar. All any villain needs to do to get the low down is go to the nearest pub to the police station at the end of a shift and they’re all in there moaning.’

  ‘You listen to the Pigs that much you’re beginning to sound like one of ‘em - no manpower, coppers on shift, the public. Whine, whine, whine.’

  Damien crossed his arms over his chest, ‘Ah but, all your moaning about me spending time at the Pig and Whistle has paid off hasn’t it?’ The corners of his mouth were turned up in a grin.

  ‘Why did you call them, shiny arses?’ Declan pulled a face at his brother.

  ‘Shiny arses, that’s what the cops call the bosses that never go out of the station: sit behind the desks all day.’

  ‘That’s why we have to do this job now.’

  ‘They’re gonna have no bugger to come out to our job today are they?’ Damian sniggered.

  ‘Well, a robbery isn’t exactly going to be top priority, is it?’

  Damien studied his brothers strong tattooed hands that gripped the black leather sports steering wheel. He reached inside his jacket and wrapped three fingers around the magazine well of the handgun securing his grip with his thumb. He watched Declan’s unblinking eyes shoot from rear mirror to side mirror as another police car came up their rear. Releasing the gun slightly from the holster enabled Damien to lay his forefinger straight along the side of the barrel. ‘If they don’t go past, the public will be having a parade,’ Damien said in a whisper, with a lopsided smirk on his unshaven face. He stared straight ahead.

  Declan’s jaw twitched. His knuckles were white. Suddenly there was nothing more than a quick flash; seconds later the police car had passed and disappeared in the chaos ahead and all that remained was the distant wailing of a siren.

  Damien took a deep breath in and whistled on the breath out. He lay his weapon, in his limp hand, upon his lap and studied it.

  ‘Put it away,’ said Declan.

  Damien lifted his head towards his brother and four brown, staring eyes locked. Damien lifted the gun to his jaw, ran it across his lips and dropped a feather-light kiss on its barrel.’

  ‘What the fuck did I tell you?’ said Declan, his eyes flew quickly back to the road ahead as he put his foot down hard on the accelerator.

  Damien paused, raised an eyebrow and only then did he do as his elder brother said.

  ‘Those Pigs, they must have been doing well over a ton.’

  ‘It’s not us they’re after. That’s all I care about.’ A smile spread across his face. ‘Mind you, they wouldn’t catch us if they were,’ he said laughing like a madman as he put his foot to the floor. ‘They’ll never, ever catch me.’

  ‘Open her up. See what she can do over the moors,’ Damien said as they reached the markers which directed them onto the slip road and off the motorway. ‘Three, two, one.’ Damien looked at his watch. It was 10.15 a.m. as they approached Saddleworth Moor which would take them over the Pennines to the A6162, Harrowfield Road towards Merton village. There was a fine, grey mist hanging in the sky which soon became steady rain as the car climbed to the moorland summit. From there they would see their destination in the distance, sat in the picturesque valley.

  The heather clad moorland, peat bogs and rough grazing land was all that they surveyed for a few miles. Hill-cloud i
nduced its fair share of drama as the brothers were forced to slow down for patches of over-zealous fog. Emerging from one such instance there appeared to be islands of moorland floating ahead of them. Dean Reservoir was now within sight. The adrenalin started pumping.

  ‘Do you reckon that’s what heaven looks like Dec?’

  ‘How the hell would I know,’

  ‘Don’t suppose it matters, we’re never gonna fucking find out are we?’

  Chapter Two

  Detective Inspector Jack Dylan stood looking down at the crumpled dead body of a man he knew well. He felt his lips slowly turning up at the corners. Detective Constable Ned Granger from Harrowfield CID, stood beside him. His phone rang insistently but he appeared to not hear. ‘Well, you know what they say boss, if you live by the sword, there’s a good chance you’ll die by it.’

  Dylan turned his head sideways and looked at his officer whose eyes were still on the corpse. Ned’s phone stopped and immediately started to ring again. He ignored it. After a while it stopped.

  ‘They also say, what goes around, comes around,’ said Dylan. ‘And on this occasion I’ve got to say that “they” whoever “they” might be, are right.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ said Ned with a sigh. ‘That suggests this one isn’t going to be easy to detect.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ said Dylan?

  The portly, smaller Detective Granger lifted his head to look up at his boss. ‘Well, even if someone did see what happened, they’re hardly likely to shop the culprit are they? In fact, I’d go as far as to say there might be a few who’d buy the murderer a pint.’

  Dylan raised an eyebrow at his Detective Constable. ‘What do I always tell you? Never...’

  ‘Never assume. But, bloody hell boss, come on, name me one person who is going to care that that scroat’s had his lights put out?’ said Ned pointing his latex-gloved finger at the dead body.

  Ned’s phone rang again. He took it out of his jacket pocket this time, looked at the screen and dropped it back in his pocket.

  ‘Will you answer that darn thing or turn it off. It’s doing my bloody head in,’ said Dylan.

  Ned fumbled in his pocket, turned off his phone as requested, and put it back.

  Dylan’s face was expressionless. Freddy Knapton, it was true, was the scourge of the local Community. He was laid on his back, his left leg twisted in a contorted way beneath him. It was obvious from looking at the deceased that the once intimidating, aggressive twenty-year-old had had his throat cut, and the person who had cut it hadn’t intended him to live. Without speaking, Dylan looked skywards to the top of the adjacent building, already aware that the multi-storey car park spanned the roof of the town’s indoor shopping complex. ‘By the state of him, my guess is that that’s where he's come from.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of street cleansing that’ll no doubt come as quite a relief to a lot of law abiding residents, I’d have thought.’

  Dylan scanned the crime scene looking puzzled. ‘Where’s Satan?’

  ‘If he were here we wouldn’t get anywhere near Knapton.’

  Dylan gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Exactly, so where is he?’ His brows furrowed. ‘That dog’s dangerous so we need to locate him, and quickly.’

  ‘I’ll never know why the magistrates allowed him to keep the friggin animal.’

  ‘It never attacked a human being, or not one that complained, that’s why.’

  Ned’s eyes widened. ‘How many dogs have been viciously attacked and their owners reportedly petrified by it though?’

  ‘It’s hardly the dogs fault. But with Knapton dead who knows what it might do without him to keep it under control,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Wherever it is it must be scared,’ said uniform Inspector Peter Reginald Stonestreet who on approaching the two men heard part of the conversation. ‘I’ll send someone to speak to the dog warden to see if he can us help locate it.’

  Dylan bent down on his haunches. Inspector Stonestreet turned to speak over the airways. The hood on the SIO’s coverall tugged at his hairline and his mask became taut. He put a gloved hand to the elastic and released it to help him breathe easier as he leaned over the body to study it closely.

  Knapton’s heavily tattooed right hand was clenched tightly. At the base of four of his fingers were what looked like initials. They were blue and faded and the staining had been done in an amateur fashion. ‘A.C.A.B,’ Dylan read out loud.

  ‘All, Coppers Are Bastards,’ Ned said, bending down beside him.

  Dylan looked up at Ned Granger and pointed out the remnants of a leather strap that could be seen trailing from beneath Knapton’s hand. ‘The remains of Satan’s lead?’

  Dylan and Ned turned quickly at the sound of female voices. ‘I look like a chuffin’ Teletubbie in this damn suit.’ Vicky Hardace was speaking loudly over her shoulder to Sarah (Jarv) Jarvis the Crime Scene Supervisor who was stood, hand on her hip at the open doors of her van; typically marked Crime Scene Investigation.

  ‘It’s not my bloody fault,’ Jarv replied to Vicky. ‘You should fetch your own. I can’t help it if I’ve only got extra-large,’ she said, with a hint of amusement in her tone.

  ‘It’s about time you lot bucked your ideas up.’ Vicky mumbled to herself as she lifted the tape to the inner cordon.

  ‘Rumour has it they’re changing the colour to blue if that would suit madam better?’ said Jarv as she caught up with Detective Sergeant Hardacre at the inner scene.

  ‘Better,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’ She pondered the fact as she stood between Dylan and Ned.

  ‘Better than what?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Blue’s a better colour than these white polar bear suits.’ Not waiting for an answer from her colleague her eyes were drawn to the face of the dead man. ‘Ooo Freddy Knapton. It’s the first time I’ve known him to be quiet in my presence. Didn’t recognise you when you’re not shouting obscenities!’ she said loudly at the body. ‘Ah, he looks quite angelic,’ she said turning her head this way and that. Her smiling face turned into a grimace. ‘Looks like someone has had a go at taking his head off. Pity we haven’t still got the gibbet in Harrowfield. It would have been a lot less messy, don’t you think?’

  Dylan shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘A guillotine?’ said Ned.

  Jarv tutted. ‘Vicky, really!’ ...‘What’s wrong with you? I’ll never forget our school trip to see the Halifax gibbet – I’d have been about eight years old. Just short of a hundred people were beheaded in Halifax between the first recorded execution in twelve-eighty-six and the last in sixteen-fifty. And, it is reported that in twelve-seventy-eight there were ninety-four privately owned gibbets and gallows in Yorkshire, bet you didn’t know that? Now that’s what I call bloody justice,’ she said turning to look at Ned.

  ‘Impressive.’ Ned smiled.

  ‘Everyone says that,’ she said. ‘I’ve told them two before,’ she said nodding in the others direction. ‘I had a crush on my history teacher.’

  ‘That figures. They wouldn’t have used it on a petty criminal like him though would they?’ suggested Ned.

  ‘Too bloody right they would. Any thief caught with stolen goods to the value of thirteen and a half old pennies or who confessed to having stolen goods to that value. Not only that, once the felon was caught they were put in the stocks for three market days, before they beheaded them.’

  ‘So who sentenced them to death then, because presumably someone was judge and jury?’

  ‘The lord of the manor’s bailiff, would summon a jury of sixteen local men, and the jury had only two questions to decide on: were the goods stolen in the possession of the accused, and were they worth at least thirteen and a half pennies? There were no judge or defence council present; each side presented their case, and the jury decided on the verdict. Halifax had a reputation for strict law enforcement and was noted by the antiquary William Camden and by the poet.’ Vicky stopped and frowned. She looked at Dylan.
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br />   ‘Jon Taylor’s the name of the poet you’re looking for who penned the Beggar’s Litany: “From Hell, Hull, and Halifax, Good Lord, deliver us!’” answered Dylan.

  Dylan and Ned looked up to the top of the building.

  ‘So, we think he’s come from up there do we?’ Vicky said following their gaze.

  ‘It’s a probability,’ said Ned.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Well, if he has, it proves one thing boss.’

  ‘What’s that Vicky?’

  ‘Shit really can fly. Or maybe not in this case,’ she said.

  Chapter Three

  A wave of fatigue swept over Leah Isaac, as it often did when meal-time approached.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ the midwife had said on her last visit, with a comforting smile. ‘Blame it on the extra weight you’re carrying.’ Leah put her hand to her waist and arched her back to stretch out the ache. Standing straight, she bent her head towards her chest and looked down at her feet, her ankles were swollen. She sat down on the bed. The feeding pillow moulded itself around the bottom of her back, she gave a little moan of brief respite. Surrounded by baby paraphernalia, she unfolded the freshly laundered baby clothes into piles. Snowballing the fluffy soft towels into one soft mass, she couldn’t resist lifting them to her face and inhaling the magical aura of love that babies evoke. With neatly folded clothing in one hand she hoisted herself up. Overwhelmed by the heat, a dizzy turn knocked her off balance. She grabbed the corner of the bedside table and stood perfectly still. She found closing her eyes made the sound of the music coming from downstairs appear louder. Jake had put a CD on. Les Miserables was their favourite. Wonderful memories came flooding back of a date with Jake at the West End premiere. That night he had asked her to marry him. After a couple of minutes of daydreaming Leah opened her eyes, gave her head a little shake, blinked her eyes to become accustomed once again to the bright light, and continued to pad across the bedroom. She stopped to hang muslin cloths on the nappy changing station and nudged off her shoes, all the while humming to the lyrics that she knew so well as they bellowed out loud and clear from below. Jake’s favourite song, Master of the house. He sang the words at the top of his voice. In stocking feet, she felt the comfort of the soft, cream, shag pile carpet. With a contented little smile upon her face she fondled each tiny vest and sock in turn before placing them, neatly in a drawer, and when the drawer was full - she snapped it shut. A flicker of excitement rose within as she felt the baby move. She put a hand to her belly. ‘The next time I open that drawer little one you’ll be in my arms,’ she whispered to her unborn child. Leah looked up and saw her face in the mirror. The baby hiccupped, Leah giggled. ‘I dreamed a dream.’ She sang out loud to the tune.