When a Killer Strikes, page 17
Foley flinched. The hostage taker had seen that he hadn’t intimidated Dylan, nor had the asserted dominance over the detective. Dylan saw it, and Foley knew he’d seen it.
‘What, so you bastards can spray me? I’m not stupid. You’ve got near enough once, you’re not getting close enough again. You can watch me kill her… Or you can leave us to talk – it’s your call?’
Becky shrank back from the venom in his voice. Foley’s snarl was as menacing as the dogs. His gums red, his teeth grinding. ‘Your call!’ he yelled again.
‘Why do you need the knife to talk to Becky?’
‘To make sure she listens.’ He took the blade from her neck and waved it in the air.
Dylan gave the nod for the two officers with the riot shields to come stand by his side. ‘Just put the knife down, Kenny. Let’s try and sort this out.’
Foley shook his head. ‘She’s coming with me, dead or alive.’
Becky, without the restraint of the blade to her neck gave a little cry at his tugging of her hair. The point of the knife went instantly back at her throat. His breaths became deeper and louder and she squirmed as his wet lips brushed her cheek. Becky looked directly at Dylan, her lips parted in her bloodless face. Foley drew his lips back on his long front teeth in a fixed snarl and growled like a dog.
‘But don’t you see, Kenny, the decision to be with you has got to be hers? If she doesn’t come to you of her own free will, she’ll run away every chance she gets.’
Foley’s eyes were round and staring. He appeared to be thinking. Then he raised his stubbly chin at Dylan. ‘What’s them toy soldiers doing with them shields? Tell %’em to back off.’
‘They’re here for my protection.’
‘Yeah, well, if any of you step any closer she’ll get it. If I’m going to prison, I might as well make it for something worthwhile.’
The German Shepherd snarled and growled, his lips vibrating as he barked incessantly at the hostage taker’s words as if he understood.
Dylan remained calm. ‘Don’t talk like that, Kenny. We can sort it out. Nobody needs to get hurt.’
‘Take that fucking dog away from me.’ Foley started to hop from foot-to-foot, but at least the knife was away from Becky’s throat. ‘I’m losing my fucking patience with you,’ he raged. The veins on his neck were ugly and bulging.
‘If I do, will you talk to me? See if we can find a way out of this?’
Bite was up on his hind legs, barking, snarling, sniffing the air for his prey.
‘I’ll kill her.’ The blade was back at Becky’s throat. Foley’s eyes were on the dog and its handler allowed Dylan and the two officers to take a step closer to him.
‘Are you all right, Becky?’ Dylan called. Becky managed presence of mind to blink her eyelids.
‘Of course she’s fucking all right. I haven’t fucking touched her yet %’ave I?’ Foley lunged forward with the knife. ‘But, I’m gonna kill you bastards.’ Foley’s biting of his bottom lip was so hard that it drew blood.
‘We aren’t moving, Kenny, so you might as well let her go,’ said Dylan.
With no warning other than Foley seeing the blood from his mouth drip on his forearm, he violently pushed Becky to the floor, and raised the knife above his shoulders throwing his head back. A guttural howl emanated from the depths of his lungs. Becky was on her hands and knees.
‘Now!’ shouted Dylan. The officers armed with shields pushed forward at speed, trapping Foley against the wall. Dylan felt the spittle from Foley’s mouth hit his face, his reflexes made him blink at the sudden feeling of droplets falling onto his skin.
As Dylan had anticipated the hostage taker wasn’t fully covered by the armour. In a blind rage accompanied by an energy surge, Foley’s anger, pent-up emotions, fear, erupted as one and he kicked out hard. It was so hard his shoe came off. Becky screamed for Foley to stop. The sound of grunts and groans assaulting her ears.
‘If I can’t have her, nobody else is gonna,’ he hissed, spitting blood, pulling, kicking at the officers, until with equal determination Dylan screwed his hand into a tight fist, drew his arm back, reached over the safeguards and punched Foley as hard as he could on the nose. The bone crunched. Foley flew backwards into the glass with an almighty thud. Immediately his grip loosened on the knife which dropped with a clatter onto the stone flags. Dylan kicked it with the tip of his shoe and it skidded across the bloodied floor. Winded, the officers squashed Foley hard against the wall and brought him down to the ground. But the hostage taker was not giving up. With his face swelling, and blood oozing from his nose and mouth, he squirmed beneath the transparent buffer and pushed back at the officers with strength.
Once down, back-up ran forward to assist in his restraint. Becky held her hands to her ears, to drown out the noise from Foley’s abusive mouth. He was handcuffed, his legs fastened around his jogging bottoms to stop him kicking out. Becky sat on the small wall to the side, her head in her hands whimpering. She leaned forward, dropping to the floor in a faint – bruising evident in her face that was fast becoming the size of a balloon.
‘We need help, here!’ came a cry from the officer attending to her.
The knife was collected and Kenny, his face a red ruin with dark sheets of blood flowing steadily from his split lip and rubbled nose, was carried to the waiting police van screaming at the officers. The prisoner was tossed into the transit van for transportation to the cells.
‘They’ll throw the book at him this time. Kidnap, threats to kill and assault for starters,’ said Stonestreet.
Dylan splayed his fingers, his knuckles cracked, red and swollen, Foley’s blood splattered on the white cuff of his shirt.
‘You better get that seen to,’ said Stonestreet.
* * *
‘Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Back a dog into a corner…?’ said the traffic officer when Dylan climbed in beside him. ‘I’ll call in A&E en route. They’ll check that over,’ his face held a frown.
Dylan could feel his hand stiffening. He grimaced. ‘You’re probably right.’
The clean shaven traffic officers looked young, fresh and smart.
‘I’ve not seen a negotiator at work that close before, sir. A few words, and smack. You showed him who’s boss.’ He smacked a fist in the palm of his hand. A look of respect crossed his face.
‘Well, it’s supposed to be about listening and talking, and nobody is supposed to get hurt.’ Dylan pulled a face.
‘I prefer the way you did it, Basher.’ He cocked his head in Dylan’s direction as he started the vehicle.
‘Now where did you hear that nickname?’ said Dylan genuinely interested.
‘My dad, Barry ‘Razor’ Sharpe? You got a cold case of his cleared up, long after he retired. It nearly saw him off, the Tina Walker murder?’
Dylan nodded.
‘I was at uni at the time but I was inspired. Made me want to be a police officer, and here I am.’
‘Really?’ A surprised smile crossed his face. ‘Why traffic instead of CID?’
‘Boys and cars, eh? There’s time for me to jump ship yet.’
‘From Traffic to CID?’ Dylan raised an eyebrow and with a fleeting glance at his epaulettes, noted his collar number. ‘I’ll look out for you then PC 4038,’ he said.
‘Bob to my friends,’ he said, lifting his hand off the steering wheel to acknowledge the uniformed police officer waving them on.
Dylan’s mind was elsewhere – appreciating all that was around him. The way the sky seemed bluer, the grass greener, the way he always did after a negotiating incident. He never took things for granted, never had since becoming a police officer.
The police radio gave the officers constant updates on divisional incidents and when the traffic officer heard that the dual carriageway was blocked due to a road traffic accident, and his colleagues were on the scene, Bob located a narrow meandering lane through waist-high dry stone walls, that led them directly to the hospital’s door.
‘Dad died, soon after it was solved,’ Bob said, as he pulled up outside the hospital entrance. ‘Mum always said that job would see him off and in essence it did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dylan, and he meant it.
Bob’s melancholy was short lived. He held in his hands a large pot of tea that had been instantly brought to him the moment he arrived, and he flirted with the hospital staff unashamedly as ice packs were wrapped around Dylan’s hand.
Dylan winched.
‘It might be painful to begin with but it reduces the swelling and inflammation,’ said the nurse.
With little fuss she elevated his hand above the level of his heart.
Dylan’s X-rays showed a fracture to the knuckle bone. The nurse produced some painkillers. ‘You can’t drive.’ She bound the injured site to the adjacent finger. ‘That’ll keep the knuckles straight,’ she said in a satisfied way.
‘How long will it take to heal?’
‘About two to three weeks.’
‘Can you still work?’ said Bob as he drove Dylan to work.
‘Not much choice with a murderer to catch, but my worry is that we’re also moving house.’
Dylan walked through the incident room and as he did so the noise in the office changed. The computer keyboards started to clatter more and desk draws banged louder. Voices came and went in wave the nearer he got to his office door. The sound of laughter from the kitchenette was raucous. He put his hand to his forehead.
‘Hey, I thought you were having a day off?’ Vicky said with a quizzical stare as he passed her desk. She slid back her chair, rose and followed him into his office. ‘I heard you were called out. Stuck for words, were you?’ Her voice was loud. He screwed up his eyes as he turned on his heels to face her.
Dylan’s legs felt weak, he looked helplessly boyish. ‘I think I’d better take you home,’ she said.
* * *
Hand trembling, Dylan let himself into the house with his front door key. The curtains had not been drawn and through the lounge window he could see Jen laid asleep, Max at her side. The television created shafts of brilliance in the otherwise darkened room. The dog’s tail tapped slowly and gently against the sofa, his eyes and ears raised but he didn’t get up. An empty wine glass stood on the edge of the coffee table next to an empty glass. There was a Home magazine on the chair. Dylan paused at the door considering her reaction to his bandages. He put his finger to his lips. ‘Best let her sleep,’ he whispered to the dog.
Dylan sat quietly at the dining room table. It was laid just as he had left it, with the exception of the bottle of wine in the cooler, and a glass.
Jen’s hair framed her pale face. She rubbed her eye with a fisted hand. Her clothes were crumpled.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
Her eyes widened. ‘More’s the point, are you?’
‘I will be.’ Dylan looked dead beat. This was no time to give him a hard time, remind him that his health came first, so instead she walked towards him, knelt down at his feet and put her hand to his arm. ‘Can I get you anything? Have you eaten?’
Jen stood listening to the sound of a quick splash wash, and the opening of drawers. She cleared the table swiftly and prepared him a tray of warmed soup and a bread roll. Whatever had happened he needed fuel in his belly.
* * *
‘What on earth…?’ said Jen when Dylan walked into the kitchen early the next morning. He carried his tie, and looked at her questioningly. No words were spoken as he stood before her, bent his head and proceeded to lift his collar with one hand. His eyes looked up to the ceiling while Jen knotted his tie. She put the palm of her hand to his chest when she had finished, tapped it gently, and looked up into his white face. He planted a kiss on the end of her nose.
‘I guess there is no point in me asking you to take the day off?’ Dylan gave her a wan smile. Just then there was a tap at the door. Maisy burst into the room and straight into Jen’s arms, squealing at the top of her voice. Chantal followed close behind carrying Maisy’s overnight bag. At that moment, Dylan’s mobile phone rang, and he turned and walked briskly into the dining room to take the call. The women exchanged glances, both watching Dylan through the half glass doors.
Chantal lifted an eyebrow at Jen. ‘Good night?’ she said with a little smile on her lips. The expression on her face changed on seeing Dylan’s bandaged hand as he opened the doors and re-entered the kitchen.
He picked up his briefcase. Jen shook her head gently at him – her face gave nothing away. He walked towards Jen, kissed her on the cheek and tasting the salt from her tears, he drew back, his face pained. He kissed Maisy, thanked for looking after their daughter, said goodbye and was gone.
Maisy wound her arms around her mother’s neck. ‘Don’t ask,’ Jen said over her daughter’s shoulder. She sat Maisy at the table with her crayons and colouring book and sat down next to Chantal. Feeling a lump in her throat, tears sprang into her eyes but she didn’t wipe them away immediately, half hoping that Chantal would not see them as she responded to the little girl’s pleas for her to help.
Chantal got up, filled the kettle and got two cups out of the cupboard. She was thankful for her friend’s intuition. She stared round at the empty shelves and walls and back at the packing boxes as she busily prepared the drinks. She brought the hot beverages over and handed a mug to Jen who in turn looked up into her friends face that was full of concern.
‘There is no way on God’s earth that Dylan is going to be fit to help with the move. I’ve got to do something.’
Chantal’s smile was reassuring, as was her warm hand on hers. ‘I’ll help.’
Jen looked her up and down from top to toe. Chantal was always dressed immaculately, groomed and made up. Then she looked down at herself and despaired. ‘I doubt us two will be much use lugging furniture around, do you?’ Max’s ears shot up at that very moment, and he ran to the front door growling, to be met by a bundle of envelopes being thrust into the letter box with force. The dog barked frantically, leaping up and down incessantly at the door handle.
Jen frowned, ‘Must be someone new,’ she said. ‘He’s not usually like this.’ Jen shouted at him to cease but his behaviour didn’t stop. There was a thud as he backed into the waist high set of drawers that was just big enough to house the telephone. Calling repeatedly at Max, Jen hurried down the hallway, dragged Max away, picked up the post, put the table back in its place and stood the phone on top, scolding the dog all the while for his bad behaviour. Fallen from one of the drawers was a small book and as it lay opened on the floor she could see it had Dylan’s handwriting inside. A sparkle appeared in her eyes as she looked up from reading the words.
‘That look, I’ve seen it before, Jennifer Jones,’ Chantal said as she walked back in the kitchen. ‘What is it?’
‘I have a plan.’
‘I knew it. Tell me more,’ she said eagerly.
* * *
Dylan scanned his computer – one particular prisoner’s information he read, over and over again. Surprisingly he felt rather calm.
‘Good job you’ve got another to pick up a coffee cup,’ said Vicky nodding in the direction of his bandages, ‘otherwise you’d be buggered.’
Dylan nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the screen. When he spoke a few moments later it was in a slow drawl. ‘Yeah, I can sympathise with David. But…’ He turned the computer screen to face her and lay back in his chair, an audible sigh coming from his lips, ‘it was worth it to lay one on that bastard.’
‘Has Foley made a complaint of assault against you yet?’
Dylan afforded himself a chuckle as he sat up. ‘I don’t deny I hit him. I hit him as hard as I bloody could.’ His tone changed. ‘But, in my defence, your Honour, I only used as much force as was necessary to disarm him.’
‘The twat deserved it,’ she said raising her eyebrows and shrugging her shoulders.
The morning briefing was interspersed with sarcastic comments from the jovial team.
‘Boss, is it true you’ve had your ACAB tattoos removed?’ said Ned.
‘Not all coppers are bastards,’ Vicky said clipping him around the head. ‘Just some…’
‘We’ll call you Mr Punch from now on, shall we, sir?’ said Nev.
Dylan chuckled at their reaction, put his chin to his chest and shook his head. When the tormenting ceased, he stood tall. ‘If you lot worked half as hard as you did at taking the micky out of me, this murder would be solved,’ he growled, but his lips were still turned upwards at the corners, and the smile reached his tired eyes.
The assembled team walked out of the briefing room in single file, each with a fisted hand above their heads. Some had handkerchiefs wrapped around their hands, others with paper tissues. Ned held a tea towel. ‘The police force really is a job like no other,’ he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan sat at his desk, drumming his fingers to rhythmically soothe his frustration. Vicky had been gone no more than ten minutes when he heard her feminine throaty laugh emanating from the outer CID office. When he looked sideways at the tapping on his door he could see through the glass that she was carrying something. When she opened his door the smell told him that it was a warm meat pie. He smiled at her appreciatively when she handed him a small, brown, paper bag. She slid into the chair opposite him and adjusted the position of the remaining bit of sandwich that she held between her fingers, before popping it in her mouth.
‘If the Chief Super saw you eating outside he’d have a dicky fit,’ said Dylan.
‘Yeah, well there’s no fear of that because he’d have to come out of his office. Not all of us have the privilege of a dinner hour, or a secretary to go out to get our lunch. So?’ She looked at him in silence, her eyebrows raised.
