When a Killer Strikes, page 9
With still no sign of the estate agent or Jen and Maisy he sheltered under the front porch his dad had built when the rain started to fall. As if lifted by an unseen hand, his outstretched finger found the spot on the wooden joists where his father had carved his initials besides his mother’s, in a heart with an arrow going through. Young and childless, him just back from the war, they’d enjoyed his homecoming in this house. On turning with his back to the door Dylan felt strangely at peace, until stumbling on a moss-covered paving slab. The loud crack that followed announced his unceremonious entering of the house. A deep base rumbling followed by a boom, and for a few minutes the sound of gushing water, then an eerie, cavernous silence punctuated only by an echoing drip-drip, and the whistling of the wind.
Dylan put his hand to the wall, searching for a light switch he knew should be there. With relief he found it, but no light appeared, as he had hoped. His eyes became accustomed to the dark, enabling him to move tentatively forward into the kitchen. The crunch of his footsteps was followed by scurrying, which ceased so abruptly when he stood still that he wondered if he had imagined it. He expected at the very least puddles, but when he shuffled his feet the floor appeared dry.
A shiver of apprehension flowed through his body as he recalled his older brother’s haunting words, and the stories of the grey figure with blurred features that followed them around Siding No. 4. His heartbeat faster. Panic grabbed at his legs and threatened to pull him down. His head turned at the rumble in the distance and ghosts of the past swirled at his feet.
In front of him, a chipped and dirty butler sink could be seen lurking beneath rusty taps. The wire-hung curtain below the sink promised behind it a cupboard, or at least shelves. He blinked continually for a moment or two, trying to focus in the darkness and familiarise himself with his surroundings. Meanwhile he wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.
A lonely breeze wandered in through the open door to the living room. The floorboards were bare, as were the walls. There was dirt in every corner of the room, rotted fragments of old paper and faded veneer of paint. Dust lay thick on the windowsills where a little light was welcome. There was no furniture in the room but the old wooden fireplace stood bold as brass opposite the door, a mass of ash still in the hearth. The door to the stairs swung open at his touch, presenting him with the staircase every bit as abandoned as the rest. He didn’t dare lean on the banister, which looked as though it would snap off at his touch. Every step he trod protested his weight, yet he climbed them anyway. At the top he reached a landing, and the three rooms that he knew to be there opened up to him. Each door had the same cast-iron lock, each with rusted hinges. The first two bedrooms were empty, but not the third. The third had been his brother’s room and looked out onto the railway line. Here the built-in cupboard that stored their clothes and toys, in which the youngest of the Dylan children had slept, still stood rooted to the floor. The built-in wardrobe door’s hinges were unforgiving and refused to budge, no matter how hard he tried pulling at the small wooden knobs. At which point he admitted to himself the house was all but derelict he didn’t know. What the hell was he thinking when he had agreed to the asking price?
The pitter-patter of footsteps brought him the much-coveted blanket of light. He walked quickly to the window to see the most welcome sight of his wife and daughter heading towards the front door.
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Maisy squealed, as he crept quicker up the stairs than he had come. He welcomed her all-encompassing arms around his neck. Her McDonald’s Happy Meal bag wafted the aroma of fries under his nose.
‘How’d you get in here?’ said Jen, dangling the keys on a cardboard fob in front of him. ‘Natalie couldn’t make it, I had to call in the office for the keys.’ He saw a scowl on her face as she switched on the light. ‘And what are you doing in the dark?’
* * *
Maisy didn’t need rocking that night. Downstairs Max lay in front of a roaring fire and Jen was lighting the candles on the hearth when Dylan joined them. He carried two glasses of wine; placing them on the coffee table in front of the settee he sat beside Jen on the sofa, her laptop on her knee.
The crackling of the fire and the dancing flames were the only distraction as Dylan reread the particulars that the estate agent had provided about The Station House. ‘I’d forgotten about the attic.’ He chuckled.
Jen smiled softly, reading quietly the information she had come across about the house on the internet. ‘It must be surreal to be returning to live in the house where you spent your childhood.’
‘Mmm…’ Dylan looked thoughtful. ‘In all honesty Jen, do you think we may be taking on too much?’
Jen’s look was determined.
Dylan looked at the pictures and took a gulp of his wine. Jen’s eyes flew up from her computer, her eyes wide, her mouth hung open.
‘What?’ he said.
‘It’s the station,’ she said. ‘It’s haunted!’
Dylan smiled. ‘So they say,’ he said, leaning back, his head on the cushion. He raised his feet onto the footstool and closed his eyes. The smile remained on his face – the deal was done.
‘You knew?’ Jen pulled herself up to sit on the edge of her seat. She turned to face him. Her voice rose. ‘You knew and you never told me?’
‘I know the ghost stories our Ronnie and Charlie used to tell me.’ His eyes were now open and full of laughter.
‘Well, this newspaper article says the last owner had to call in someone to get rid of a ghost who didn’t realise he was dead! It goes on to say…’ Jen scrolled down the piece, muttering through the text as she did so. ‘She believed it was the ghost of a train driver who she claimed walked amongst the sheds, specifically around the Siding No.4. Apparently he was killed when a water boiler exploded…’
Dylan pulled the computer from her lap. It was his turn to question his experience at the house that night.
Chapter Nine
Detective Inspector Jack Dylan headed to see Patti’s mum and her partner, Elliot Black, directly after the morning briefing. This gave him not only the opportunity to update them but also a chance to thank the family liaison officer, Jaene Booth. Her role was a difficult one, a role that could be very isolated, because of their caring responsibilities.
The grieving couple remained at the house of Patti’s Auntie Joan, and it was becoming increasingly obvious to the FLO that they had no immediate desire to return home. Elliot answered the door to Dylan as if it were his own house and invited him into the lounge where Jaene Booth and Sandra were seated. He extended his arm towards the armchair under the bay window inviting as he did the SIO to be seated.
‘Good news at last, I hope?’ said Elliot, sitting down next to Sandra who was slumped in between two soft cushions. He reached for her flaccid hand and transported it into his lap, fait accompli. Sitting on the edge of his seat he raised an eyebrow at Dylan that demanded a reply.
‘It’s still early days, but I do have an update, and I wanted to come in person to reassure you we are doing our utmost to catch Patti’s killer.’
Sandra gave a grunt. Her eyelids looked heavy. ‘The medication… It’s stopping me from going out of my mind,’ she slurred, when he asked how she was feeling.
‘I have some good news, as far as the enquiry goes.’
Sandra’s actions were laboured but with Elliot’s help she pulled herself into a sitting position. Desperately, it seemed, she tried to focus her eyes on Dylan’s face, his lips, and what he was about to say.
‘We have a full DNA profile.’
Sandra held her breath for a moment. Closing her eyes she swayed from side to side, falling eventually into Elliot. ‘Oh, what does that mean?’ she said, in a singsong voice, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.
Elliot cocked his head to one side. He tapped the back of Sandra’s hand. ‘It means, my love, that people will be eliminated by being subjected to one of their tests. Isn’t that right, Mr Dylan?’
Dylan nodded silently.
Elliot’s voice was softer and held a tinge of bitterness. ‘They made me do it…’
Sandra looked up from Elliot to Dylan. There was a moment of panic in her eyes, then confusion. ‘You? A suspect? Was he a suspect?’ Sandra lunged forward towards Dylan and Elliot caught her with is outstretched arm.
Dylan lifted his hand, quick to reassure her. ‘We know it was a man that raped Patti, so any male coming into the investigation has to be eliminated. I don’t apologise for that because I won’t leave anything to chance in finding Patti’s killer.’
She nodded slowly. ‘Ah, I understand.’
The mantle clock gave a Westminster chime that broke the silence. Sandra snatched her hand from Elliot’s grasp. Head bowed, she shook it slowly from side to side. ‘No, no I don’t understand. You’ll think I’m stupid, Mr Dylan,’ Sandra’s pale cheeks had turned a more colourful shade of pink. She was hesitant. ‘What the hell is this DNA?’
‘I don’t think you’re stupid at all.’ Dylan gave her a reassuring smile. ‘DNA is the abbreviation for Deoxyribonuceic Acid. It stores the biological information of an individual. Nearly every cell in the body has the same DNA. It’s the hereditary materials in human beings, and almost all other living organisms. It’s what makes us different from one another, and although other people in the family may have similar DNA, it will not be an exact match. Without confusing you that would be known as Familiar DNA. The DNA for each person is stored as a code, made up of four base chemicals and they create what is typically like a barcode, to you and me. The only exception to this is potentially identical twins. DNA can be obtained from sweat, saliva, urine, faeces, hair follicles, bone, semen, blood, teeth. It can even be found in a place where a person has touched… but in this case, it’s the semen found on Patti that has given us the full profile. All you really need to understand is once we get a match for the DNA we have found, we will know who is responsible for raping and murdering your daughter.’
‘He can’t deny it then?’
‘He can always deny it. He can protest his innocence till he’s blue in the face, but the DNA profile will convict him and prove beyond any doubt it was him.’
‘I take it the national database has been searched?’ said Elliot.
‘Yes,’ said Dylan.
‘What’s that?’ said Sandra.
‘The national database?’
She nodded.
‘The national database was established back in 1995 and continues to grow by the day. It is populated by samples recovered from crime scenes and taken from police suspects, although data for those not charged, or found not guilty, is deleted. At the moment there is no match on the national database, which means that the killer may not have been arrested previously, or it is possible if he has been arrested, for some reason his DNA wasn’t taken – but it should have. The DNA sample we have will be routinely checked against new samples being added from across the country and, as I said earlier, every male we come across during this enquiry will be asked to provide a DNA sample.’
‘How do you collect a sample of DNA?’
‘They swab the mouth,’ said Elliot.
‘You do what?’
‘A swab is a bit like a cotton bud but it’s twice as big,’ said Dylan.
‘What do you do if anyone refuses to give a sample?’ Elliot took hold of Sandra’s hand again.
‘If someone refuses then they become more of an interest to us. We’ll dig deeper, and if need be we’ll arrest them but, we can only do that if we have sufficient evidence to arrest them.’
‘So if someone has been arrested they can’t refuse to give you a sample?’
‘No, and there are other ways and means by which we can obtain a DNA sample… Let’s just say you can be assured that nobody is going to escape the net, Sandra.’ Dylan shuffled to the edge of his seat and spoke directly to her. ‘Look, if there is anything at all you don’t understand or want to know then please ask either Jaene,’ he said, glancing in the direction of the FLO, ‘or myself. If we don’t know the answer we’ll find out for you. Now, for the sake of repeating myself, what the DNA profile means to us, in this investigation, is that we can eliminate people without a shadow of doubt very quickly and easily. That is invaluable to us right now.’
‘And when you find him, you’ll let us know?’ Sandra’s eyes were awash with tears.
‘Of course. And, will you do something for us?’ asked Dylan.
Sandra nodded her head. ‘Anything.’ The tears flowed down her cheeks and she brushed them away with a tissue that until then had been concealed up the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘Don’t listen to rumours. They’re unhelpful, could be hurtful and can be very misleading. Like I say, just ask one of us.’
Saying his farewells and giving his thanks to Jaene, Dylan left the house and walked briskly down the path towards the large horse chestnut tree under which he’d parked his car. Checking his mobile phone en route he saw four missed calls from Vicky. With car keys in hand he turned at the door to see the dark, scaly plates on the bark of the tree that showed its age. He looked up to see hairless, stout twigs and down to see spiky green casings, palmate leaves and red-brown conkers surrounding his feet. Stooping down he picked up a large conker – the child in him returning for a split second. ‘The first recorded conker game was on the Isle of Wight in 1848,’ he heard Jen whisper in his ear as smiling, he sat down behind the wheel.
* * *
‘I wonder if Stuart Sykes has told his parents he was arrested yesterday, and if so what for?’ said Vicky following Dylan into his office. She carried a notebook and pen in her hand.
Dylan took off his suit jacket, put it on the back of his chair and slid behind his desk. He switched on his computer and searched his messages for updates. ‘Doubtful. Did Shelagh charge him?’
‘Yeah, and then bailed him.’ She sat down on the chair opposite him with a thump.
‘Good, now the court’s involved they can ask for background checks, and make sure he gets treatment.’
‘I just hope the magistrates don’t give him community service in the park,’ Vicky raised her brows.
Dylan flicked nonchalantly through his in-tray, half listening to Vicky’s chatter. There was an internal email from Jaene Booth. Her enquiry for Sandra and Elliot regarding the patio doors which were on central lock at the time of checking by the search team, was not unusual. They were both aware that the doors had not been bolted for several months since Patti had lost her key and couldn’t gain entry to the house via the front door. ‘So, did she enter the house that way the day of the murder? And did someone come home with her on that occasion?’
Vicky continued. ‘Anyway, if his DNA’s a match, his parents will know soon enough what their little angel’s been up to – especially when we arrive at the door to arrest him and start turning the house upside down. Do you think they have any idea what he’s like?’
‘Probably not. As a parent we’ve just got to hope and pray that the time we spend teaching them right from wrong is not in vain. CCTV puts a stop to the hassle we used to get to from parents these days – thank God.’
‘The camera never lies…’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Dylan stopped for a moment and was thoughtful. ‘My dad was a keen amateur photographer. His favourite saying was, “A camera is a mirror with a memory…”’
Vicky carried on regardless. ‘Maybe Sykes’ parents should see the bodycam footage from the arresting officers. The magistrates will be shown it and what a shock they’ll get when they see even the presence of the cops didn’t deter him.’
‘Mmm… People’s perversions, addictions, whatever you choose to call it, are the driving force in their lives – nothing else matters other than where they’re going to get their next fix. We’ll know soon enough whether Sykes is our killer. If he isn’t, we move on. But one thing’s for sure, whatever happens this time I’m certain we haven’t heard the last of him.’
Vicky put her pen to her lips. ‘Pity castration isn’t legal.’
‘It’s still early days. That said, we need to identify an arrest team for when we get a hit, to enable us to strike immediately.’
‘Consider it done.’ Vicky showed Dylan her perfectly neat, white set of teeth. ‘And I’m making one in with Donna shortly to interview, and take DNA from Patti’s gym teacher, Mr Gary Bale.’
‘Is he coming into the nick?’
‘Supposed to be, if he’s recovered from yesterday’s dental emergency.’
Dylan chortled. ‘What’s the betting he turns up in a tracksuit and trainers?’
‘Me and Donna, we’re banking on shorts. Apparently, he’s a bit of a looker.’
‘Ah, so that’s the reason for joining Donna in the interview?’
Vicky caught the teasing glint in Dylan’s eye. ‘And sending Ned off elsewhere,’ she grinned. ‘Well, it’ll make a change from the usual. I don’t think half our customers have heard of deodorant, and in the confines of that small interview room, it’s remarkable I’m not a size 0.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t you be wearing those rose-tinted glasses when you interview him, and make sure you get his DNA.’
Vicky blushed before smirking. ‘As if.’
Patti’s coach, Michael Parks, and Gary Bale the gym teacher would hopefully give them a better understanding of the type of girl Patti was and help build her profile. Dylan encouraged those at the next briefing. ‘I want to feel the ghost of Patti sat beside me, taking me through her daily routine. Each person you speak to brings us closer to knowing Patti and her contacts. I want names. Although we are clearing the ground beneath our feet we also need to be aware of the wider search. Whoever did this heinous crime cannot stay out of the net – not if we are structured, and that structure is airtight.’
