When a Killer Strikes, page 1
When a Killer Strikes
Cover
Title Page
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
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter One
Colonial House didn’t warrant a second glance. The red brick, detached Georgian home blended harmoniously with its surroundings. At its front a bowling green lawn ran the breadth of the residence. It faced a tree-lined avenue set in an orderly manner and was surrounded by a trim privet hedge behind white painted railings and an ornamental gate. However, situated in a quiet, semi-rural neighbourhood on the outskirts of Harrowfield town, behind its solid, locked, glossy blood-red door, the house held a macabre mystery.
Detective Inspector Jack Dylan, a middle-aged man, father to four-year-old Maisy and a seasoned detective, was house-hunting with his wife Jen when his mobile phone rang. Used to Dylan’s sudden departures when summoned the pair’s eyes locked.
‘What makes you think it’s suspicious?’ he said earnestly to the caller as he turned away and walked to a more private place to speak, near the window. ‘Has someone pronounced life extinct?’ Dylan nodded twice. ‘Okay. Tell those present I’ll be with them shortly.’ Dylan’s eyes were drawn to an elderly couple across the road who stood looking in the toy shop window with a young girl who was pointing out something that had taken her eye. She looked up at the older woman and put the palms of her hands together, as if in prayer. The old man walked away. The old lady tugged at the young girl’s hand. She let it go and the young girl turned to face the window once more, her arms crossed. A silver-haired man dressed in a caramel-coloured Crombie coat and hat stood a few yards away, obviously taking an interest in the altercation. He was hesitant, as if about to intervene at one point but then thought better of it. As the young girl turned and chased after the old man and woman he got into the back of a chauffeur-driven car.
Phone still in hand, Dylan turned to kiss Jen on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said softly. She gave him a tight-lipped smile and he moved swiftly towards Maisy. ‘Be good for Mummy,’ he continued, patting Maisy on the top of her fair head en route to the door. With one hand on the handle he raised an apologetic hand to the estate agent sat at her desk – his mind already running through the many answers he needed from those at the scene. When he left the estate agent’s the older couple and little girl were crossing the road towards him.
‘Detective Inspector Dylan,’ said the old man, reaching out to shake his hand.
‘That can’t be Gemma.’ Dylan said. The little girl gripped her grandmother’s hand shyly and pulled her into the sweet shop.
‘It certainly is,’ said Ken. ‘No word on the whereabouts of her good-for-nothing father yet? Drug baron status, apparently now. What an accolade; it’s five years since her mother was burned to death, and your colleague Larry Banks got murdered?’
Dylan nodded. ‘Life goes on. We get bits of intelligence now and again. Last we heard he was in Spain. But, we’ll never give up.’
* * *
Once Dylan had been notified of an incident the responsibility for what happened from then on fell firmly at his feet. Briskly he headed towards his car – a man on a mission.
Jen continued to scour the glossy property pamphlets. The midsummer sun shone directly onto her back through a wall of plated glass that showed her the hustle and bustle of the high street. Inside the shop was by contrast quiet and peaceful.
‘Seen anything of interest?’ said Natalie, sliding from behind her desk and stifling a yawn. At the sight of the solemn shake of Jen’s head she settled herself on the warm carpet next to Maisy. Her outstretched hand reached into the toy box where she instantly found what she was looking for; sections of railway track for Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends that the little girl was happily pushing to and fro.
Head down, Jen screwed up her nose. ‘I want something different…’ she said, turning the loose-leaf plastic sleeves over one by one – unwittingly dismissing each box-like house with a little sigh.
‘Would you consider something that needs work doing?’ Natalie asked, tentatively.
Jen’s eyes shot upwards in the estate agent’s direction and she scowled. ‘What do you mean by work?’
Natalie raised an eyebrow. A smile touched the corners of her mouth and her face lit up.
‘Maybe…’ said Jen her eyes narrowing.
‘Then I have just the one for you!’ Eagerly she jumped up from the floor with the ease of a twenty-something-year-old.
Jen raised her shoulders. She smiled at Maisy who fleetingly observed the interaction with interest, before hurriedly sticking her hand back in the toy box to retrieve a fuzzy-haired doll that caught her attention.
Hearing the metal filing cabinet clunk-click open and shut Jen’s head turned to see Natalie carrying a yellowing sheet of paper towards her; it was quite clear this was not a glossy brochure of the day.
At that very moment Maisy threw her arms in the air with a squeal of delight as she held a figurine high above her head. ‘Joe’s, here Mummy!’
Natalie giggled at Maisy’s excitement. Seeing Jen’s face blanch the smile dropped from her face. ‘You okay?’
Jen put her hand directly to her beating heart. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, stumbling on her words. Blindly she reached for the paper Natalie held out for her taking. Tears that had sprung into her eyes spilled down her face.
Natalie sat down on the chair next to Jen with a look of concern. ‘Are you sure?’ she said, putting a hand over Jen’s and feeling her shake.
Jen took a deep breath. ‘Joe is the name of my husband’s late father. He was a stationmaster,’ Jen said, by way of an explanation for her random behaviour. She swallowed hard. ‘Maisy and Dylan call the Thin Controller Joe, after him.’ Jen leant forward in her chair and plucked a tissue from her handbag.
‘Oh, I see.’ Natalie watched her dry her eyes. ‘Has he passed over recently?’ she said in a hushed tone.
Jen chin wobbled. She shook her head and swallowed hard. ‘No, no, he died a long time ago… I never met him.’
Natalie looked puzzled.
‘We recently buried our stillborn son who we named after him.’
* * *
The tree-lined avenue which led to Colonial House was awash with crime scene vehicles, police cars and an ambulance. Dylan noted each one in turn on his approach. He knew that the scene would be secured with uniformed police officers, as he had instructed en route. The blue and white ‘DO NOT CROSS’ police tape was a simple barrier command for people to adhere to, allowing the crime scene to remain sterile. There was only ever one chance at a crime scene and no one knew that better than Inspector Jack Dylan.
The local officers watched out for his arrival. Dylan was in charge and they knew it. Him being responsible for the investigation from now on was something of a relief to the most senior officers in attendance at the scene.
He parked his car and walked towards the rendezvous point. He was pleased; it had been chosen wisely as the gated entrance that lead into the driveway. He could feel the concealed eyes of the neighbouring householders upon him. When he looked upwards he saw one occupant peering at him from behind a curtain, a mobile phone against the streaky glass, unashamedly filming the police activity. A sign of the times, he knew, and he was in no doubt that the ongoing action would be on social media prior to related family members knowing that anything at the address was untoward. He shook his head.
Detective Sergeant Vicky Hardacre walked towards him.
‘What’ve we got?’ asked Dylan.
‘What’ve you been told?’ she said, tucking a soft, blonde tendril of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were upturned in a serious face.
‘Suspicious death of a teenage girl and that you’re at the scene just about sums it up.’
The two stood still for a moment observing the house and its surroundings.
Vicky broke the silence. ‘Our deceased is a Patti Heinz, fourteen years old and apparently a talented gymnast, competing at national level.’
He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. ‘I read an article about her recently in the local press. Wasn’t she destined for the Olympics?’
Vicky nodded. ‘Apparently so. First impressions suggest that she’s been strangled with her bra, and she’s naked – there’s blood… In a way which suggests to me that she may also have been subjected to rape.’
‘Who found her?’ Dylan’s eyes wandered to the gate considering his approach. The windows sparkled in the afternoon sun and the white painted walls looked fresh and new. Seasonal flowers were strategically placed with precision up the pathway.
‘Mum’s pa
‘Have the couple any other children?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s Mr Black now?’
‘I’ve had him taken down to the nick. You should know there was blood on his trousers.’
Dylan’s eyebrows rose. ‘Make sure the car transporting him is valeted before it’s used again. I don’t want the suggestion of contamination to be an issue in court at a later date.’
Vicky regarded his comment with a brief nod.
‘Who’ve you got with him?’
‘Detective Constables Donna Frost and Michelle Robinson; they’ve been instructed to seize all his clothing and record the circumstances surrounding him finding her.’
‘And his initial explanation?’
‘He popped home to get his phone charger that he keeps on his bedside table. Obviously got a shock to see Patti laid on the landing.’
‘What did he say he did then?’
‘Checked for signs of life – his explanation for the blood on his trousers – and immediately rang three nines.’
‘From his mobile?’ Dylan quickly asked.
‘The landline.’
Dylan looked at her questioningly. ‘But?’
Vicky cocked her head to one side, her lip turned up at one corner. ‘But, I’m having that verified.’
‘Good. And?’
‘Paramedics have confirmed life extinct. I’ve made arrangements for statements to be taken later today.’
Dylan took a step closer to the entrance. ‘By the way,’ Vicky continued, ‘the vomit at the side of her body – it’s his.’
‘Thanks for that,’ Dylan grimaced. ‘Does Mr Black work nearby?’
Vicky looked up at her boss, a puzzled look upon her face.
‘No car in the driveway,’ he said by way of an explanation. His eyes followed the neatly cut hedge and beyond up the driveway.
‘Apparently he cycles. He works down the road at the Spar shop.’
Dylan scanned the front of the house. ‘Where’s the bike?’
‘At the back of the house, secured to the drainpipe on the garage wall. It appears he’s a bit of a fitness freak. He’s recently turned their garage into a gym for himself and Patti.’
‘What’s your first impressions of Mr Black?’
‘Seems to be coping a little too easily for my liking.’ Vicky’s eyes narrowed, her lips tight. ‘Then again, he could be in shock.’
Dylan frowned. ‘And where’s Mum? Is she aware?’
‘DC Jaene Booth has gone round to the local bookies where Patti’s mum works. Jaene’s family liaison trained so she’s been given the task of breaking the news to her, taking her to the nick, and keeping her away from her partner until they’ve got their independent initial accounts of their last contact with Patti.’
‘I want any known business or private CCTV checked and seized. Especially those covering the route from where Mr Black works.’
The uniformed police officer nodded her head in acknowledgement when they reached the rendezvous point. ‘I’ve shown you on the log as arriving at 3.35 pm, sir,’ she said.
‘Thanks Rachael.’
‘Who’s Crime Scene Investigator?’ He stood on the roadside with his back to the garden wall. ‘I need a suit.’
‘Tony’s here,’ Vicky said, rolling her eyes.
Dylan turned and raised his hand in acknowledgement to the man who was laying the footplates in the grounds. ‘That’s not very nice,’ he said giving a half-hearted laugh.
‘Well, he walks around like the grim reaper. As if crime scenes aren’t bad enough without seeing his miserable bloody face.’
Dylan looked past Vicky and shrugged his shoulders at Rachael; both smiling at the DS they were united in shaking their heads. ‘As long as he does his job,’ he said, raising an eyebrow back at his number two. He lifted his chin in the direction of the neatly cut lawn where the path now had footplates in situ. ‘And, he looks to be cracking on.’
‘That’s thanks to David Funk, thankfully he was on-call Crime Scene Manager.’
As if mentioning the six-foot-two, brown-haired man’s name had conjured him up, Dylan saw David confidently walking towards them. Vicky saw Rachael’s eyes looking in his direction approvingly; his right wrist instantly went into his pocket.
‘David!’ Dylan said enthusiastically as he took a few steps towards him. He took the coveralls he was offered and energetically shook his hand.
‘Good to see you. How’s Eccles?’
David’s smile was wide. ‘He’s a great companion and always the showman, like most Border Terriers.’
Dylan and David talked about the crime scene as the detective inspector pulled on his coverall, bending down to slip on the overshoes as he touched the wall for support.
‘Who’s that?’ Rachael whispered to Vicky as she nodded in the Crime Manager’s direction. ‘Is he married? Got a girlfriend, do you know?’
It was Vicky’s turn to shake her head at the younger woman. ‘God, you make me feel old.’ A puzzled look crossed Rachael’s face as she studied David more closely.
‘Is he left handed? I’ve never been out with a guy who’s left handed,’ she gushed.
The young women watched David hand Dylan gloves and a mask.
‘David? No, he lost his fingers and thumb on his right hand, just below his wrist in an accident when he was younger. He’s actually one of the nicest men I’ve met in this job. He’s kind, generous, hardworking. He does loads for charity… In fact…’ she said, with a wink.
‘Hands off,’ said Rachael. ‘He’s mine.’
The Detective Inspector was more than aware of how much information a crime scene could hold but it was up to them, the investigators, to uncover it. Personally, he desperately needed to try get a feel of how the deceased had lived, which in turn usually gave him some indication of how they died.
Via the footplates to the door Dylan took the lead down the path. The walkway was free of debris and litter. Detective Sergeant Vicky Hardacre, David, CSI Tony Oswald and DC Emily Scotcher, nominated Exhibits Officer, walked behind him. He stopped at the entrance and turned to see Tony Oswald’s droopy eyes in his solemn face looking at him mournfully.
‘Smile Tony, it could be worse.’
‘How’s that?’ he mumbled.
‘It could be raining.’
Tony scowled at Dylan and put his head down showing a saggy, protruding bottom lip. Dylan looked over his head at David, raised his eyebrows and gave a tight-lipped smile.
Led by Dylan the five entered the semi-detached home via the front door which had been the chosen route by the emergency services, being the first in attendance. Instantly Colonial House felt invitingly warm, smelt lemon fresh, and looked exceptionally tidy. Dotted around the room was an occasional vase of seasonal flowers. Family pictures mostly depicted the various stages of an auburn-haired girl growing up. There were no knick-knacks, as Dylan’s mum would have said, no clutter. Due to the care taken on the exterior of the house, this wasn’t unexpected. However, this was the exception rather than the rule in houses he attended in his role as a police officer; houses he walked into, and wiped his feet on his way out.
As he stood looking at the plain cream walls that merged into a plain cream carpet, for a moment he was taken back to being a young copper on the beat. The particular house he had been called to had been stripped on the interior – floorboards were missing, the odd wooden step from the stairs gone. The internal doors were non-existent, so the inhabitants could burn the wood in the fireplace to keep warm. He was offered a drink from an old jam jar on that occasion. The lady of the house apologised for having no crockery which had been sold, the results of a family struggling to survive the best they knew how, with the hand that life had dealt them. In those days there were no cash machines, no credit cards… just human kindness that a neighbour might show in giving a cup of sugar, or jug of milk when times were hard.
‘Before we go upstairs,’ said Dylan, conscious that all eyes were on him for direction. ‘I know she was allegedly discovered by her stepdad, but have we checked down here to see if there’s an insecure window or door?’
‘All downstairs windows and doors checked, sir,’ said Emily. ‘Patio door not secure, but I am reliably informed that nothing appears to be out of place, or taken.’
