When a Killer Strikes, page 19
Senior CSI Sarah Jarvis hung over the body taking photographs. The 360-degree-angle camera was working away on the tripod being monitored by CSI Karen Ebdon. What was apparent was the different shutter speed noises. David Funk stood back for a moment and let the younger CSIs, covered from top to toe in white paper suits, do the necessary.
‘As the photographer, it is not up to us to determine the relevance of the injury, or item, but to document it,’ said David who stood at Dylan’s side. ‘We must remain impartial and non-judgemental in order to maintain the highest level of service and photograph the scene in order to show the body prior to it being moved. I wonder how many irrelevant images we collect in a year?’
‘And a tiny fragment of something you preserve, or an image you take can be the very piece that proves a case for us,’ said Dylan.
David looked pleased. ‘Looking at her clothing and the grazing it suggests to me she was dragged into her present position behind the wheelie bin. She’s received one hell of a blow to her head which would have had immediate effect, so what we have here may just be the dump site.’
Vicky, suited and booted, walked in to the inner cordon. ‘Good grief, I can see my breath,’ she said pulling her mask over her nose and mouth. Her eyes looked dull and sad. ‘Not only has the poor kid ended her days at the hands of a killer, but to be dumped like garbage is shit.’
‘Satisfied you guys have done everything you need to do?’ asked Dylan. David nodded.
A plastic body sheet was laid on the ground next to the body, and the victim was rolled very slowly onto it.
The girl’s eyes were closed. Her cheek was badly grazed, smeared with blood and there was a mixture of grit, mud and the slime found from the remnants of decayed, rotting food.
‘Rigor, rigid. Mortis, dead,’ Vicky mumbled. The girl wore no jewellery that could be seen, except for a small metallic stud in her left nostril, and in her ear. ‘No, I.D, no coat and her clothing’s dry. How far, and from where has she travelled?’
‘With some luck we may find out sooner rather than later. My initial thoughts are that we remove her to the mortuary and keep this immediate area protected, including the bins and their contents. I want you to arrange to have them fingerprinted in case our attacker moved them to get her in that position. A search will tell us if the murderer has done us a favour and dumped the weapon in one of these bins.’ Dylan looked around. ‘We won’t know that until we get in touch with Operational Support to ask for a POLSA search team out. I also want a house-to-house on Shroggs Grove before we cast our net wider. David, can we get a head shot of the girl’s face, she looks asleep doesn’t she? We may have to consider using that to identify her.’
The clicking noise from the camera shutter was immediate. ‘Not a problem, boss,’ he said.
‘Also we need the CCTV database checking. See if this location is covered and any routes to the area. Call Raj, she’lI deputise. We’ll run on HOLMES. Tell her to set up the incident room next to Patti’s, and that way I can keep a foot in both camps. Anyone got anything else before we move on?’
‘Who’s exhibits, boss?’
Dylan turned to Donna. ‘Can you pick this one up?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay, phase one: arrange for the young woman to be moved to the mortuary and I’ll request two teams from Ops Support. Check the MisPers, it could be we have someone reported missing from home that fits her description. I’ll speak to the coroner’s officer see when we can get the Home Office pathologist to carry out the PM.’
When he did so the response was quick. Arrangements were made for eight o’clock. A press appeal was drafted. Maybe someone would come forward and report her missing.
Limited details were used:
‘A murder enquiry is underway after the discovery of a body behind wheelie bins in Shroggs Grove earlier today. The person was fully clothed and had suffered a severe head injury. She is slim, white, has shoulder-length light brown hair, and is dressed in black leggings and a pale blue, knitted jumper. She also has a small silver-coloured ball nose stud in her left nostril. A post-mortem will be carried out tomorrow to ascertain the exact cause of her death. D.I. Jack Dylan leading the investigation said, “I am not convinced that this young lady was killed in the location she was found. I appeal to anyone who may know her or may have seen a person fitting her description recently to please contact us. Anyone with any information shouldn’t hesitate to contact us in confidence.”’
Dylan eyes looked skyward. ‘Oh God, we’re moving house tomorrow,’ he said out loud.
Vicky looked at her watch. ‘Correction sir, you’re moving house today…’
* * *
Dylan put his briefcase down at the kitchen door. Exhausted he shook off his jacket, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and loosened his tie. He switched on the light, dropped his newspaper-clad fish and chips onto the kitchen table and as if on auto-pilot walked to the sink and filled the kettle. Opening the cupboard door only showed him they were bare. Dylan looked around him at the moving boxes taped up and labelled ‘KITCHEN’ in big, bold, black lettering. He noticed a lone glass on the draining board, rinsed it out and filled it with ice cold water from the tap. The window was bereft of curtains, which meant he stared directly out onto the back garden but it stared back at him like hollow eyes. He put the glass to his lips, his head back and drank heartily before reaching out to the cutlery drawer to find it empty also, all the homely comforts packed away. He left the glass next to the fish and chip paper and turned to the fridge, but there was no can of beer that he sought, only half a pint of milk, and a bottle of wine. His hand hovered over the milk, he looked over his shoulder, attempting to locate a jar of coffee. There was none to be seen. So, he grabbed the wine bottle by the neck and collecting his supper, he carried them both into the lounge. There was one chair in the living room that was devoid of clutter – obviously the seat Jen had been using earlier as Maisy’s bedtime storybook still sat on its arm. The answering phone blinked next to a pile of papers and mail. He didn’t touch them but left them lying in wait for tomorrow, today, this morning, when Jen woke. The removal men would arrive and Dylan would have left for work. He stood from the chair sometime later, his stomach full, his head reeling, nearly pitching himself onto the floor. He grabbed at the coffee table, upset the empty bottle and it fell with a thud to the floor. He made his way unsteadily to the door and grabbing hold of the foot of the banister pulled himself up the stairs.
Jen rolled over and spoke in a hushed tone when Dylan slid into bed next to her. ‘I heard the news… Are they trying to see you off?’
Dylan’s head facing the ceiling sank into the soft, cool pillow. Immediately his eyes closed. The breath that emerged from his body was by way of a long, low sigh.
Jen propped herself up on one elbow. Overwhelmed to see his dark, sunken eyes and the tautness of his face, highlighted by the moon that shone through the window, she frowned down at him. ‘How much more are you going to let them dump on you before you collapse? Are you trying to kill yourself?’ she said in a hushed tone, through gritted teeth.
His droopy eyelids flew open at a noise outside and he watched the shadows from a car’s headlights dance on the ceiling. ‘I don’t think that’s in the role profile,’ he said after a moment or two.
‘I bet it isn’t. Because they don’t want it to be public knowledge how few of you are holding the fort.’ Jen sat up, punched her pillow, and turned to face him, her cheek and ear sinking into her pillow.
‘Maybe so.’ Dylan closed his eyes and for a moment he slept, only to be woken when he stretched and his leg cramped. He sat up with a jolt, threw his legs out of bed and bent down to rub his thigh vigorously.
‘The likes of Hugo-Watkins… They sit in their bloody ivory towers and let others do the work for them. He was telling someone in the office today he had never been to a mortuary or given evidence in a Crown Court! How can it be right for a Chief Superintendent to say that?’
‘There are some good bosses, Jen, you know that, they’re not all like him.’
‘But you can count them on one bloody hand.’
Jen rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
Dylan opened his eyes and turned his head to face her. ‘Apart from that, what’s annoying you?’ he said when she returned.
‘Avril Summerfield-Preston had the great pleasure announcing today that she’s heard the government are planning to tax the lump sum, therefore reducing the police pension by a substantial amount. She says it’s a plan to make officers retire sooner than they intended.’
‘Really? Well, Beaky will know.’ Dylan smiled a wry smile. ‘I had heard a rumour. But I’m told we won’t lose out over time.’
‘Sadly time is something that no one is guaranteed…’
‘I guess sleeping with the boss means she finds out a lot more than the hierarchy intend. Pity she doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.’ Dylan put his hand up to his face and stifled a yawn.
‘You know what they say. Give them enough rope…’
‘Well, at least you wouldn’t be called out to that.’
Dylan’s frown was visible.
‘Sorry.’ Jen’s apology was hardly heartfelt. ‘Will you be able to take time off tomorrow for the move now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, his eyebrows knotted together. ‘The others can hold it together for one day.’
‘Good,’ she said, a contented smile on her face. ‘Because I have a surprise for you.’
‘You have?’ he said snuggling up behind her.
Dylan sleep was fitful and he felt drowsy on waking when night turned to day. He vividly remembered waking and writing down a thought or two and he turned his head on the pillow to see the post-it-notes he kept by the side of the bed littering the floor. Jen was snoring softly at his side. Tentatively he rose, bending over to pick up his notes on his way to the bathroom. Some notes were readable others not, just as some were obvious procedure, and others made no sense at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Dylan’s eyes snapped open. He looked at his phone to see there were no messages. He breathed a sigh of relief and set his phone down, then laid his head down on the pillow. Dozing until daylight he heard his phone vibrate and it startled him. Jen stirred beside him. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder, reassuring her as he would a child. She moaned contentedly. He accepted the call.
‘I’ve a young lad in the front office, sir. He’s telling me he hasn’t seen his girlfriend for two days and he thinks she might be the girl who was found yesterday,’ said Dave Cracker Craze.
So as not to disturb Jen, Dylan gently threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled a pair of socks from the radiator with one hand. ‘Can you inform DS Raj and tell her I’m on my way.’
Jen’s eyes flew open to see Dylan staring at her, knowing with certainty that she wouldn’t be pleased. ‘No,’ she shook her head repeatedly. ‘Please tell me this is a joke?’
‘Sorry, I have to go.’
* * *
Dylan and Raj sat in a warm, windowless interview room at Harrowfield Police Station, opposite a giant of a man who had given a birthdate which led them to believe he was twenty-seven years old. He had broad, muscular shoulders, the sturdy hands of a manual worker, grit under his fingernails and calluses on his knuckles. His shoulder-length hair was curly and his jawline framed by a woolly beard. For five minutes he sat perfectly still and didn’t speak a word. It was hard to tell if he was scared, drugged, shy, in shock or drunk, although there was no smell of alcohol. He was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that displayed a myriad of small holes to its front.
Raj introduced both herself and Dylan. Although he looked at her briefly when she spoke, it appeared to take him a while to process what she had said. Eventually, he replied eventually with his name.
‘Alan Sanderson.’
There appeared to be a sudden change in his demeanour once she used his name in her questioning and DS Raj grasped the opportunity to move on. ‘And your address?’
‘Flat 4, Wingate Heights.’
DS Raj gave Alan her best reassuring smile when he afforded her a brief glance. ‘We understand the reason for you coming to the police station is that you think the dead girl, found yesterday, may be your girlfriend. What makes you think that?’
Alan tapped his foot rhythmically on the linoleum floor. He held his right hand in a fist that he rested on the table that sat in between him and the detectives, and this is where his concentration lay. ‘Julie and me, we had a row,’ he said raising his dark brown eyes to meet hers. The emotions he had experienced began creeping back, making it difficult for him to keep his voice from cracking. ‘I think she’s been seeing somebody.’ He wrung his hands. ‘No,’ he said shaking his head briefly. ‘I know she was.’ He looked from Raj to Dylan. ‘I confronted her. She stormed out.’ His voice lowered. ‘And she didn’t come back.’ Unblinking for a moment or two he appeared to hold his breath. He stared past the officers to the blank wall beyond and cleared his throat. His face crumpled. Tears sprang into his eyes and his gaze shifted to his hands that were clamped between his legs in a prayer like position. ‘I waited and waited for her to return. I had hope because she hadn’t taken any of her things. But, her car is gone…’ Emotions overwhelmed him and fighting them only appeared to make it worse.
‘What’s Julie’s surname?’ asked Raj.
He took his time in answering. Fighting tears he swallowed hard. ‘Dixon, Julie Ann Dixon.’
‘And the car, what make is it?’
Alan’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘It’s a Morris, Mini Classic.’
‘Do you know the registration number?’
He closed his eyes briefly, screwed up his face and shook his head slightly. He was hesitant. ‘Something-56, HAC.’
‘Can you describe Julie to me, Alan?’ said Raj, softly.
The description that followed satisfied Dylan that the dead woman he had seen was being described through the eyes of someone one who knew her well. Dylan placed the headshot photograph on the table and rotated it to face her boyfriend. Alan flinched and his face looked pained.
‘Is this Julie?’ Dylan asked.
Head down, Alan licked his pale, dry lips. As if in slow motion his jaw dropped; his mouth moved but no words came from within. He brought a hand up to his forehead and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind his ear, his eyes didn’t leave the image before him. Eventually, he nodded his head faintly, sighed deeply, lifted his head and shut his eyes so the officers couldn’t see them. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the flat of his hand. The officers gave him a moment to compose himself.
‘I knew it. I knew she was dead,’ he sobbed. ‘Can you tell if she suffered?’ Alan’s mouth remained open, his face gravely pale, his body braced in anticipation as he stared into Dylan’s eyes.
Dylan’s eyebrows furrowed briefly, then his body relaxed and he hunched over. Looking down at the photograph he rubbed its corner between his finger and thumb. ‘She was hit on the back of her head with something hard,’ he said, ‘I am told that Julie would have died instantly.’
‘Why?’ he said, his words barely a whisper. ‘Why?’
‘That’s our job to find out,’ said Dylan.
Alan threw himself back in the chair. Put his hands up to cover his face. ‘I wish I hadn’t come,’ he said through his sobs. ‘I didn’t want it to be her.’ He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, and at last the relief of the exhalation.
‘There are a lot of questions we need to ask you but firstly we need to search the flat.’
Adam’s expression hardened but his eyes were accepting. ‘Of course.’
* * *
Police search advisor Sergeant Simon Clegg made a primary search of the flat Alan and Julie had shared, and within the hour a full POLSA-trained search team were awaiting the instruction to go in.
DI Jack Dylan stepped under the outer cordon crime scene tape. He climbed the littered stairs to the third floor two at a time, side-stepping the takeaway boxes, wastepaper, empty bottles and cans. The stench of urine, the stains of which ran down the walls, was overpowering. He rummaged in his pocket, retrieved a mint, and popped it into his mouth.
‘Detective Inspector Dylan,’ he said, flashing his warrant card at Rachael, the uniformed police officer who stood guarding the door. There was something different about the young girl but he couldn’t quite figure out what – maybe the beaming smile. The door was ajar, the handle hanging limp. His eyes followed the direction of his pointed finger to a room at the end of a dark, narrow hallway.
‘Looks like you’ve had an unwelcome visitor, mate,’ said Ned to Alan.
Alan’s face held the makings of a smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is how it is.’
The role of the detective at the scene’s was to watch Alan Sanderson closely. He remained their prime suspect. One of the reasons for this preliminary visit was to see if there was evidence of a struggle. Had this the marks of a crime scene? If there had been a struggle however, it would have been hard to tell. Dylan looked and listened, as he walked around the flat alone. Alan chatted to Ned about Julie’s family – his earlier reserve apparently forgotten. David Funk stood with Dylan in the lounge, quietly observing all they surveyed.
‘Always time to stand and stare,’ Dylan said to the CSI. David’s eyes were drawn to a dark brown runner which ran the entire length of the room, and the wooden floor it rested upon. He gave Dylan a knowing look, and a nod. Dylan’s eyes followed him as he proceeded to chemically test the floor coverings.
‘Blood?’ Dylan’s voice was a whisper. David nodded his head. Standing perfectly still, taking in all that was around him Dylan noticed a lone bare screw in the wall at head height, which suggested to him that that something had been removed. David busily swabbed the floor. When the runner was lifted there was apparent heavy staining on the floor-boards and it appeared that there had been some attempt to clean the area. Again, a swab was taken and the chemicals used showed to test the sample showed that blood was present. Dylan sneezed heartily as they entered the kitchen. ‘Bleach,’ he said by way of an apology. ‘Can’t do with the stuff.’
