Dylan stood and introduced himself and Dawn for the benefit of the few who didn’t know them. The room was full. He was about to start when uniformed Chief Inspector Fleet hurriedly entered and stood with her back to the door. Moira Fleet was a stocky woman in her forties with short, dark hair that made her look masculine.
‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve only just been asked by Mr Watkins to attend on his behalf,’ she said. Ruddiness flecked her complexion. ‘He had an urgent appointment at HQ. Divisional Commanders or something.’ Dylan nodded and glanced at Dawn who smiled knowingly.
‘Can everyone hear at the back?’ he called. Heads nodded to reassure him people could. ‘There’s an evil killer out there. I want him or them to be found quickly. I don’t want people dragging their feet. Neither do I want anyone holding back. If you’ve any ideas or concerns, speak to us. I don’t bite so don’t be shy. Jasmine, will you please start the DVD of the scene where little Daisy was found.’ While the DVD played, Dylan emphasised the important parts for the audience, pausing the DVD every now and then. In most murder enquiries, not everything was disclosed to the officers, especially at the first briefing. Some things were held back that only the killer would know. On this occasion, however, Dylan gave them all he had.
‘I’ve given you one hundred per cent of what we know. Your working days will be twelve hours long until you’re told differently. Any questions?’ he asked. There was silence. The room emptied quickly. Dawn dabbed her mouth, he glanced at his watch, and saw it was two-fifteen.
‘Canteen, Dawn? Then we’ll make sure all the priority lines are ongoing.’ As they walked towards the door he saw DC Hornby out of the corner of his eye, lurking in the corridor.
‘I’ll see you up there in a minute, Dawn. Hornby: a word,’ Dylan shouted, grabbing the man’s collar and ushering him into the empty snooker room. ‘I’ve warned you before. Not only will your balls hurt if I have to tell you again but you’ll be back pounding the beat before you can say “Jack the Ripper”. Do I make myself clear?’ DC Hornby nodded. ‘Fucking move it then.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ A red-faced Hornby scuttled out of the room. He knew full well where he had left his car.
Dylan had a reputation for being a hard man on the streets as a young detective; perhaps foolishly, he’d backed away from nothing and nobody. He hadn’t changed; he wouldn’t let anyone get one over him and he wouldn’t stand for any nonsense either.
Dawn had finished her meal when Dylan reached the table in the canteen, with his briefcase full of work by his side. He discussed the imperative lines of enquiry he wanted so Dawn could brief the investigation teams; CCTV and house-to-house enquiries were an obvious priority. Dawn returned to the briefing room. The canteen was busy. He sipped his coffee and nibbled at his ham sandwich while he updated his policy log and read a few reports. He saw the banana and apple Jen had somehow managed to squeeze in and it made him smile. The canteen table was now a makeshift desk. He picked up his mobile.
‘Hiya, love, just a quickie,’ he whispered.
‘That would be nice,’ she said, a smile in her voice.
‘I should be so lucky,’ he said. ‘Just touching base. I’m only in the canteen if you’re passing?’ he said hopefully. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll get to yours tonight, maybe half-ten or so.’
‘That’s fine. Just let me know when you leave and I’ll have something ready for you to eat,’ she said. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’ He put the phone down on the table and nodded across to the property clerk who was leaving the canteen, iced finger in hand.
How mouse-like he is,
Dylan thought.
Updating his policy book, Dylan had to state the reasons for his decisions and outline the lines of the enquiry. Although laborious, he always completed the policy logbook in his own style. Succinct, but the reader could see what had taken place and how the investigation had progressed, what decisions had been made to establish what had happened and boy, were they like the Bible when defence barristers like pit bulls tried to rip the evidence or procedures to pieces. He walked over to get his mug topped up from the counter and felt a light touch like an electric shock on his hand from behind. It was Jen: he knew it without looking.
‘Hello, sir,’ she breezed as she asked for some milk. He turned and smiled.
‘If you’ve any trouble with the murder team’s travel and subsistence forms you let me know, Miss Jones,’ he said loudly for observers to hear. ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he whispered. He slowly walked back to his table watching her leave. Her long blonde hair spilled over the shoulders of her clingy blue shift dress. As she reached the door she turned. He was transfixed. She looked at him and gave him a smile. It wasn’t a game; it was their relationship, which no one else could feed off.
‘Have you looked at the contents of the envelope?’ Dawn asked on her return as she leaned on the back of his chair. He pulled the envelope from his briefcase. ‘You’ll need that,’ she said, pointing to the strong coffee on the table. ‘Call of nature, be back in a min,’ she said and disappeared.
Glancing over his shoulder he was puzzled as he saw her rush out of the canteen. He pulled the photocopied paper from the envelope and saw, in large letters across the page: ‘VIOLENT, APPROACH WITH CAUTION, WEAPONS’. Dylan looked at the passport-sized picture of his attacker. He had two black eyes, a shaven head and a tattoo on his neck. Michael James Moorhouse, thirty-one years old, six feet one inch tall with twenty previous convictions for assaults, robbery and firearms. He’d been released from prison six weeks earlier after doing five of a nine-year sentence and was already on bail for an assault on a taxi driver. The file had been updated recently and now read: ‘Bailed pending further enquiries re: wounding of a police officer – Detective Inspector Dylan’.
‘Fucking piece of shit shouldn’t even be walking the streets. Bloody Watkins. Why do we fucking bother?’ he said out loud slamming the papers on the table. Although he had heard of Moorhouse, their paths had never crossed.
Great. Local psycho, that’s all I need,
he thought as he felt his blood pressure rising.
If I see him first I’ll be in there with a fucking pickaxe.
Dawn strolled back and stood against the table. ‘Is it safe to come back yet?’ she asked before sitting down. Dylan stared at her. ‘You always have to pick on the biggest twat don’t you? I’ve had a word with the Serious Crime Squad and he ought to be under surveillance. You got away reasonably lightly; the next person might not survive. Apparently he saw you come out of a court building and thought you were the one who’d sent him down last time. That’s his story, anyway, according to the detective who interviewed him.’
Dylan sat staring at the paper in front of him. ‘Bailed for six fucking weeks. Don’t they have any common sense?’ He gently touched his swollen lip and flinched. ‘Honestly, is he gonna turn up at court? Is he, hell,’ he said as he stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope. He thought about it for all of a minute. ‘He can wait. Let’s get on with this job. We have a murderer to find.’
Down two flights of stairs to the incident room, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES) team were setting up their computers.
Dylan and Dawn’s next call was to the Hind family to tell them about Daisy. There would have to be a formal identification. He couldn’t save them from that and there was no easy way to tell them. Dylan would never let anyone else inform the families. Not all senior investigators felt the same, but even though it was one of the hardest parts of his job, he wouldn’t sidestep it. So many times before he’d had to tell loved ones of a death and about the deceased’s horrific injuries, and he often needed to tell them again at a later date for it to sink in. Dylan knew he couldn’t shield them from the pain and he never tried. That was all part of the grieving process. It never got any easier; he was the bearer of the worst possible news. They would cling to his every word and rely on him, trust him to find the killer, and eventually, when it was all over he would have to break the bond he’d forged. What did they call it at HQ, an ‘exit strategy’? Like the opening and closing of a door. How simple they made it all sound. His was the knock at the door that no one wanted or believed. Dylan never knew how anyone would react because everyone reacted differently. He wondered what he had to face this afternoon. How does anyone react when they’re told their worst nightmare has come true?
Chapter Seven
They arrived at 3.15 p.m. The house was quiet and the atmosphere heavy as Janice, the police family liaison officer, let them in. Wendy and Trevor stood to greet them, anxiety etched into their faces as Dylan and Dawn entered the room.
‘You’ve found her haven’t you? She’s dead isn’t she? She’s dead. Oh, my god she is dead.’ Wendy held a hankie to her mouth suffocating the sound of sobs. Trevor stood behind his wife protectively, cradling the back of her head against his shoulder. Tears ran from his eyes and dripped from his chin.
‘Tell us,’ he whispered.
‘Please sit down,’ Dylan said. They immediately did, as if the quicker they sat, the sooner they would know. ‘Earlier today, the body of a young girl was found near Dean Reservoir. We have recovered her to the hospital mortuary. She appears very similar to the description of Daisy. I believe it is her, but I’m afraid I’ll need you to formally identify her.’
The couple sat shaking, holding hands. They looked dazed and numb.
‘What’re we waiting for? Let’s go. I want to be sure. I need to know. I want to see Daisy one more time,’ sobbed Wendy, hugging a cushion to her, as she stood.
‘Can we both see her?’ asked Trevor softly.
Dylan nodded; he’d already made the arrangements. The reaction was expected. They hadn’t asked what had happened, how their little girl had died. It was as though they didn’t need to know, and they didn’t want to hear.
Jack Dylan and his officers were regular visitors to the mortuary. For Wendy and Trevor, it was a place they never wanted to have to visit or even to imagine visiting, even in their deepest nightmares.
The drive took only twelve minutes without rush hour traffic. Wendy crumpled a pack of paper tissues in her hand. Her tears were silent but her pain was tangible. The silence made the journey seem like an eternity to Dylan. As they reached the mortuary doors, Trevor and Wendy hesitated for a moment. She gasped as she stumbled. Trevor tried to hold her. He was doing his best to comfort her. Dylan could see he was in fear of collapsing himself and stayed close to them just in case he was needed.
‘Please don’t let it be Daisy,’ muttered Trevor.
‘Let me wake up. Now, please,’ Wendy quietly begged. Dylan knew they would be reunited with Daisy soon, if only for a short while. She would no longer be lost to them. Dylan wished there was something he could do to ease their pain. He knew there wasn’t.
Dylan remembered every inch of the viewing room. Scrutinizing the décor was his way of distracting himself from the bodies. He knew it was a similar size to a box room and had an entry and exit at opposite ends so that you could walk through and pass the body. It was sparsely decorated with an odd bunch of plastic flowers in a vase in one corner and a dark wooden cross on the back wall. The smell of potpourri wafted in the air. There was nothing else but a trolley upon which Daisy’s little body would be draped in a starched white blanket, her face exposed. The room would feel peaceful, even religious, as choral music played quietly in the background. On another wall there were three windows at about waist height and from where they stood in the corridor outside, they could only see the drawn black curtains. Pulling the drapes back allowed them to see the body.
‘Are you ready?’ the attendant asked Wendy and Trevor.
On a nod, the curtains were pulled back slowly with a sash cord, similar to unveiling a plaque. Dylan didn’t know whether that was done as a matter of respect or whether it was to lessen the shock. Nothing could have prepared Trevor and Wendy for what they saw inside. They gasped sharply.
The room was dimly lit, which helped sometimes to hide any deterioration or bruising to the body, in an attempt to minimise the trauma. Some bodies had to have make-up applied to reduce the shock to the loved ones. Dylan knew of a mortuary attendant who knitted clothes for toddlers and babies, so that their parents would have a lasting memory of the child in peace and tranquillity, rather than being dressed in a hospital robe. Marjorie, another mortuary attendant, took hand prints and footprints of babies for the bereaved parents as a keepsake, something extra for them to cling to. Everything possible was done, and with sincerity and respect.
‘Oh, no,’ said Wendy, bringing her hand to her throat. Her knees gave way and her face crumpled in pain. Dylan and Janice reached out together instinctively to catch her.
‘What have they done to her? Why? Why? Why?’ she wailed, as uncontrollable tears rushed down her cheeks like a waterfall. She turned into Trevor and buried her face in his chest, beating him softly with her clenched fist. He held her. Janice put her arms around them as the onslaught of emotion poured from them. From beneath the brilliant white sheet that adorned Daisy’s body peeped a few strands of unmistakable red hair. She looked angelic.
‘She was so happy … she’ll never, never be a bridesmaid now, will she? Please can I touch her?’ Wendy sobbed, turning to Dylan.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure she’d want you to, don’t you?’ He tried to smile as he suppressed his own emotions. Janice held Wendy’s hand as she led them into the room. Trevor followed cautiously, as if his feet were walking through treacle. Wendy looked waxy as if every ounce of life had been sucked out of her.
Jack Dylan had lost his parents when he was in his twenties, through illness. He wished they were alive, but he was so glad for the time he’d had with them. These days murders were inevitable, with a society less respectful and more violent. Nowadays, sadly, it was simply a talking point like any other occurrence. Life was cheap.