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Dylan noted Vicky gesticulating with her middle finger at Ned. The office was in uproar at some comical quip he had made. Laughter lines clustered around DS Mike Scott’s eyes and mouth, which were evident when he arrived at Dylan’s door. When he stepped over the threshold his face was serious.
‘I thought you’d like to know we’ve just had a complaint come into the Safeguarding Unit from a Missus Anita Carson, 7, Bentley Grange. Their house, it’s within a five mile radius of your murder scene.’
He had Dylan’s attention. ‘Go on.’
‘In brief, she says her fourteen year old daughter Beverley is alleging that she was followed home from a friends house last night. Her daughter refuses to go to school this morning. Hence why it’s come through to us. I’ve got a couple of officers on their way to see what the score is.’
‘Any background we’re aware of?’
‘Nothing, apparently mum caught her still in bed this morning when she got home.’
Dylan’s eyebrows rose. ‘She works nights?’
‘She works shifts.’
‘And this morning is the first time her daughter has told anyone?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Which school’s she at?’
‘Same as Patti Heinz.’
‘Nev Duke has good liaisons at the school, he’ll probably be able to quickly get you more background information via his contacts. Have a word will you?’
***
Patti Heinz bedroom door hadn’t been opened since the day the police had finished their search. Her bed was still unmade from the young girl’s hurried departure on the day of her death. Patti’s curtains were pulled across the window haphazardly, as they had always been since Patti had begun to draw them back herself, her mum had said.
Jaene Booth prepared to enter Patti’s room behind Sandra. Patti’s mum’s hand laboured on the doorknob, turned and saw the place where the staining of Patti’s blood had been, on the carpet. She looked up to the ceiling and took a deep breath. Jaene put a hand on hers to steady her ward. Patti’s towelling bathrobe hung on a hook behind the door and it made a swishing sound against the wardrobe when the door was opened wide. Her Unicorn patterned pyjamas lay where she had stepped out of them, next to her dressing table. Sandra picked them up as if in slow motion and smoothed them out on the bed before folding them neatly and putting them under the pillow. Quickly she straightened the bottom sheet and pulled the duvet cover up over the pillow before plumping up the cushion that would lay atop – and she did so in silence. Next she chose to walk around the soft rug and swept her fingers over trinkets on her window still. She stopped at the little music box and opened it. The ballerina staggered to an upright position and the room was full of the music from Swan Lake. Even though Sandra had her back to Jaene she saw the drooping of her head to her chest, and heard a soft whimpering. A ghost of a hand, like spiders’ legs running up her back made her shudder. Sandra turned to the family liaison officer and smiled sadly, her shoulders slumping with the weight of regret. ‘Why?’ she said in a velvet tone. She didn’t even realise, it seemed, she was crying as the tears tumbled down her cheeks unchecked.
***
In the hours, days since Patti’s murder the ground beneath the detectives feet had been cleared as much as physically possible. Tens of people had been located, eliminated, swabbed and interviewed within the capability of the dedicated team, at Dylan’s disposal. Hundreds of telephone calls had been made, meetings, briefings, debriefs held daily, door-to-door enquiries done, a DNA profile found, but the murderer remained elusive.
Dylan’s phone rang. ‘Boss, Mike, it’s been brought to our attention that Beverley has been bunking off school lately.’
‘Do we have a reason?’
‘No, but her older brother has confirmed that she was late in last night. She’s given us a vague description of her follower, a five foot eight male, wearing a dark hoodie. Beverley tells us that she had to run into a garden and hide in a Wendy house, in fear for her life, when she heard his quickening foot steps behind her, and smelt the alcohol on his breath.’
Dylan sucked in a breath. ‘He got that close? Is there an alleged assault?’
‘No, not an assault and her brother appeared as surprised as mum at her allegation. He says he berated her for being late from the bottom of the stairs when he heard her footsteps on the stairs following the slamming of the front door. But then he heard nothing more.’
‘Your thoughts?’
‘I don’t know... There’s obviously a rabbit off. At present my officers are driving around the area with Beverley and her mum and we are checking out the location of the Wendy house she talks about.’
‘Is there anything that makes you think it’s linked to Patti’s murder?’
‘No, there is no definite link at the moment other than she’s about Patti’s age and goes to the same school.’
‘We’ll continue to investigate the two incidents independently unless we obtain that link, otherwise we could end up creating a monster of an enquiry, and that doesn’t help solve either.’
As Dylan put down the phone Vicky stuck her head around his door. ‘Mark Carpenter’s going back to his barracks today. I told him I’m on my way to speak to him before he leaves.’
Dylan stood up, grabbed his car keys from his desk drawer and his jacket from behind his chair. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he called to her retreating figure.
***
There was nothing notable about the skinny, small-framed, nineteen-year-old Mark Carpenter other than he was dressed in army uniform.
‘I don't know why you’d want to speak to me about Patti Heinz. She was just my little sister’s mate,’ he said.
‘We heard you asked her out?’ Vicky followed the swaggering young man into the lounge at his invitation. Carpenter stood, hands deep in his khaki trouser pockets, shoulders back, in front of the fireplace. His gaze less assertive when it found Dylan’s.
‘Look, you know how it is. She spent a lot of time here during the summer and I guess... well you know, I probably did ask her out. But she said no and I moved on, and now, well I’ve grown up a lot since then.’ Carpenter nodded to his kit bag that stood by the door.
‘There was quite an age gap. You’re nineteen and she was what, fourteen?’
Carpenter grinned. ‘Yeah, I know but there’s a ten year age gap between my mum and dad. I never gave it a thought at the time. Anyway, Patti was very mature for her age.’
‘We’ll need to take a DNA sample from you to eliminate you from the enquiry.’ Vicky delved into her bag.
‘Not a problem,’ he said walking towards her.
‘You said you’d moved on?’ said Dylan. ‘In terms of relationships too?’
Carpenter sat down in the chair, his mouth was open wide. He made an ahhhing noise and nodded his head in small, jerky movements.
‘Yes,’ he said wiping his mouth with the tissue Vicky gave him. ‘I’m in a new relationship.’
‘And what do they call this lucky lady then?’ said Vicky with a wink of her eye.
Mark Carpenter blushed slightly. ‘Ah... it’s early days. I’d rather not say if it’s all the same to you,’ he said with a tone that told them, that line of enquiry was over.
***
Jen watched Maisy run down the path into the child minder’s arms. Chantal picked her up and together they waved. She had left home later than usual because the estate agent had required her to do the viewing on their house. By the time Jen reached the police station the car park was full and there was no hiding the fact that she was late from her boss, Avril Summerfield-Preston due to the clocking-in machine. No doubt she would have to work an extra day this month to make up for all the time she had had to take off lately. Jen could feel herself growing warm. She loosened the scarf around her neck and unbuttoned her coat. Sweat beads appeared on her brow and she brushed aside a lank fringe. Her mind was chasing around things she needed to do, and not to forget as she parked the car eventually, on the main road. The quickest way to get to the clocking-in machine now was via reception at the front counter. Her hands were shaking as she locked the car and she threw the keys in her handbag that she swung over her shoulder. She ran, ‘less haste, more speed,’ she muttered, her heart racing.
The doors of the police station opened automatically, welcoming her. The rush of warm air, and a loud ranting man met her, but her focus was the digital coded access keypad on the adjacent door. Taking long strides and avoiding any distractions she had to admit that her direct route was not free. She stood directly behind a young woman who was sobbing hysterically, the man Jen had heard from outside was the one giving her a tirade of abuse. Jen was stopped in her tracks as the man grabbed the woman by her throat. The front office staff looked on helpless from behind the counter and rang for assistance as he threw her against the wall.
Dylan was looking forward to a day off. The investigation was feeling flat, or was that just him knowing that whilst the taking of the DNA samples was necessary the process reminded him of a conveyer belt. He didn’t want his team to rely solely on the DNA process, he wanted his team to be out interviewing people, questioning their behaviour, questioning their whereabouts at the time of the murder, and then the DNA would tell them if their instincts were right about the individual in their net. He was the man in charge and his job was to keep moral high, even if his own slipped on occasions. Sooner or later they would net the killer.
***
It took three uniformed police officers to lock him up.
‘Jack it’s only me. Don’t panic. I’m making a statement about an assault. I didn’t want it to come as a shock if you read about it on screen.’ Jen said, looking into PCSO Fawad Ali’s blue eyes. There was something unbelievably odd about blue eyes in his young, handsome Indian face. She leant heavily into the PCSO who had taken care of her, trying desperately to focus on what she was saying.
Dylan abruptness brought her back in the moment. ‘Who got assaulted?’
‘I’m okay. I’ve just got a bit of bruise on my head...’ She heard her voice trail off, and his in the distance.
Dylan felt an abdominal pain as it someone had punched him in the stomach. ‘What?’ his authoritative voice rose. ‘Where are you?’
Jen coughed uncontrollably, her eyes watering and questioning. ‘Where are we?’ she mouthed to Fawad.
The PCSO took the phone. ‘Patrol office sir.’
‘I’m on my way.’ Dylan slammed the phone down and to raised eyebrows, he strode through the incident room without saying a word. The office door slammed behind him. His pace quickened on the corridor and he took the steps two at a time, his heart pounding. Dylan heard Jen coughing before he opened the door. Then he saw her face, pale and grey, a cut to her cheekbone, a glass of water to her lips. Dylan cringed. His finger hovered over the wound. Jen swayed instinctively away and Dylan and Fawad reached out to stop her tumbling sideways from the chair. Jen’s coughing worsened.
‘Pepper spray sir,’ Fawad said, by way of an apology. I’ll get us all a warm drink, shall I?’
‘Nothing for me thanks.’ He sat down close to Jen, scrutinising her cut at close quarters. ‘You’re going to have one hell of a shiner.’ Are you sure you’re okay?’ he said reaching for her hand and squeezing it tight.
His presence and the grip of his large, warm hand were comforting. ‘I think so,’ she said with a lopsided smile. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been headbutted.’
‘Deliberate?’
‘Oh, yes, he knew exactly what he was doing.’ Jen shuddered. ‘I won’t forget them staring, blood shot eyes and that laugh.’
‘He’s locked up?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Do we know why he attacked you?’
‘I think he’d been taking something, or he’d been drinking. A woman was with him. He was shouting at her. She was trying to complain about him as I recall. He grabbed her by the throat and that’s the last I remember, apart from two large red piercing eyes, and the raucous laugh.’
‘We know that the usual drugs and drink fuelled pathetic excuse is going to be used then, don’t we? Do you need to go the hospital?’
‘No, no, I’m fine honestly.’
Fawad walked back into the room. The colour in Jen’s face had returned and albeit a red mark and a slight cut to her cheekbone there didn’t appear to be anything else to suggest the altercation.
‘I’ll leave you to get on with your statement,’ Dylan said. He put his hand on Jen’s shoulder and laid a kiss on her forehead. ‘Let me know when you’re finished.’
Dylan’s rank and knowledge of procedure felt very important to him as he headed back to his office via the Bridewell. He wanted to know who the lowlife was who attacked women.
‘Kenny Foley, twenty-eight years from number 1, Armitage Road.’ The Custody Sergeant turned the screen of his computer towards Dylan. That was a name and a face Dylan would remember.
‘I dealt with Foley for a wounding a couple of years back. He’s one of our homegrown pieces of shit. They should lock him up and throw away the bloody key once and for all,’ said Vicky as they headed to briefing. ‘But, we know that’s not going to happen, don’t we?’ Vicky put her hand to her rumbling stomach. She appeared thoughtful. ‘Does it bother you when they top themselves in prison?’
‘Does it hell. Apart from the massive enquiry it causes us.’
She sniggered. ‘And but think of the money it save us, the taxpayer? I’d give ’em a noose when they arrived if I was a prison officer.’
Dylan put his hand out to open the door and turned to her, ‘You can’t say that.’
The door of the briefing room sprung open. ‘Too late, just did. I’ll get coffee.’
The detectives stood at the coffee machine. Vicky picked up a mug and poured from the jug. She handed it to Dylan. He spooned sugar into the steaming liquid and stirred vigorously.
