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Dylan arrived at work. It was seven-thirty. Immediately he logged onto his computer and instantly began working his way through the homicide database. He was eager for any scrap of information that gave him a new line of enquiry. ‘Any news on the leaflet droppers? I assumed not as there was no update from you last night.’
Vicky was typing. She didn’t look up. ‘Nothing to report. It was half-eleven before we finished and there didn’t seem much point in ringing you to say nothing at silly time of night.’
‘Why so late?’
‘The guys work as bartenders, to pay the rent. Neither of their interviews brought about areas of concern. Their stories were consistent. Both admit to handing out leaflets on Burford Avenue for their new joint enterprise, and we took their DNA. Neither of them admit to knowing Patti.’
‘They’re touting for window cleaning business in the area?’
‘Yes, and they’re adamant they didn’t put a leaflet through the letter box of Colonial House on the day of the murder; they were doing even house numbers, not odd.’
Dylan’s smile was forced as he raised his eyes from the computer screen. ‘And there’s nothing new on the box this morning.’
‘Could have told you that.’ Vicky sighed. ‘What next?’ Her eyes met Dylan’s stubborn gaze.
‘We carry on doing what we’re doing.’
The Force’s internal post had been delivered and sorted by admin, and was piled high in the tray on the corner of his desk. He gave the documents a brief scan as to their priority, and made a start.
‘Why the long face?’ said Vicky when she brought coffee back with her into the office ten minutes later.
‘You’d think the officer running a murder enquiry would be left out of everyday, mundane issues wouldn’t you?’
‘You would, but they’re not.’
‘No,’ Dylan held up a variety of paperwork. ‘Then there’s the paper trail for the murder, and the stream of requests for various updates. Just so they can monitor performance from headquarters. I wouldn’t care but everything is computerised, so the information they’re seeking has already been gathered and recorded. They could save a bloody rainforest, never mind a bucket full of money if they only took time to access it. Dylan’s phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Dylan,’ he snapped.
Vicky spun on her heel and snuck out of the office, closing the office door behind her.
Although it was one of the great highs of an investigation, to get DNA evidence, it meant others expectations for a quick lock-up were high. Dylan more than most knew that, that wasn’t always the case, unless the offender was already on a database. In this instance the offender was proving illusive. The net was widening. The only definite result was that Patti’s murderer was a male.
‘Good news from Forensic today, I hope?’ said Dylan on hearing Maggie Jones voice on the end of the line.
‘Not the news you were hoping for I’m afraid. We have an anomaly with a sample that’s been submitted to us in a batch.’
‘An anomaly? In what way?’
‘The problem isn’t getting DNA from the piece of chewing gum. But, that the label identifies it to belonging to an Ivan Sinclair.’ Maggie paused. ‘And, the DNA is that of a female.’
Dylan felt his body stiffen and his teeth clench. ‘A female? So, what you’re telling me is that this Ivan Sinclair, he’s trying to pull a fast one?’
‘I’m not saying anything, I don’t know how he features in the murder enquiry.’
‘He doesn’t feature, until now. Thank you for that, we’ll put him under the microscope.’
‘Vicky!’ Dylan hollered, whilst still in the process of putting down the phone and writing down the reference number Maggie had given him.
According to the incident room database Ivan Sinclair was a fifteen year old. He attended St Martin’s, Patti’s school. On screen it also showed Dylan, by means of a Marker, that his DNA sample was to be taken from a piece of chewing gum, which he handed to officers.
The brief write-up stated: Ivan knows the deceased Patti Heinz from school. He wasn't obstructive, but stated his parents were against him giving a DNA sample. Therefore, he gave the officers the piece of chewing gum in an attempt to comply with both parents, and the police request.
Whilst that seemed reasonable to the reader; perhaps even helpful of the pupil in question, Ivan hadn’t given his own DNA. No doubt he assumed that he could pass on someone else's DNA to eliminate himself. However, by using a girl’s spent chewing gum he had made it very easy for the laboratory to identify the deception. If however he had used another male pupils spent chewing gum to deceive, it may not have been discovered until the police had gained two identical samples submitted from two different people.
‘Why go to that extent, if he’s nothing to hide?’ said Vicky.
Ned’s grin suggested that he suspected some sly trickery.
Nev Duke appeared surprised. ‘I know about this. The officer who interviewed him asked me if it was okay, and I told them that we wanted his DNA and I didn’t care how he got it. The officer said he had the chewing gum in his hand so it looked to them like he had just taken it out of his mouth. They were impressed how cunning he was in trying to help us without compromising his promise to his parents. The crafty bastard.’ Nev whistled through his teeth.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. ‘I wonder if the girl knew what she was doing by giving him her chewed gum?’ He paused for a second. ‘Can you found out if he’s in school today for me?’
‘Will do, and his address will be in the system boss.’
Vicky’s eyes glistened with excitement. ‘How stupid! He can’t be that chuffin’ bright if he thought he could pass a girl’s DNA off as his.’
‘But not daft enough to not have thought out how he could get away with giving us a DNA sample, and yet not physically have it taken by us.’
Vicky’s eyes were wide. ‘Could he be our killer?’
Dylan smiled in anticipation over the information that Nev fed them. ‘The plot thickens,’ Nev said. ‘This young lad is no longer a pupil at St Martin’s. Apparently, according to staff, his family are in the process of relocating to a different area.’
‘Do we have a forwarding address?’
‘The school secretary is on a course, and would you believe that no one else can obtain the information for us, in her absence?’
Dylan nodded. ‘Yes, I would. Okay, the address that we have on screen is 12, Flaxby Court.’
‘And, I’m told he presently represents the county at swimming. They might be able to help us.’
Dylan and Vicky found themselves sat in traffic at the point on the main road to Brelland where the steep craggy rocks dropped dramatically through deep dark woods onto Waterford Road. Beyond, the view to Norland was stunning.
‘I checked to see if Sinclair features on the list of names we’ve been supplied from the baths,’ said Vicky. The paperwork for their visit to the Sinclair’s home was on her lap.
Dylan glanced across in her direction at the turn of the wheel to the left. ‘And?’
‘And, he’s on it.’
‘Interesting, he knows Patti from school; swimming is a shared hobby. I guess he is also aware he is relocating with the family, and he gives us a duff sample for DNA elimination to Patti’s murder. So, where was he when she was murdered, that’s what I want to know?’
‘Do you think he knew the implications that a girl’s DNA would have on the test results?’
‘He probably didn’t think.’
‘I wonder if his parents saw the form that the school sent out for consent to be given, for DNA to be taken? Maybe, their refusal was a lie?’
‘And, you and I know you don’t need to lie if you've done nothing wrong. He’s done one thing for us. He’s put himself forward as a suspect.’
Vicky’s eyes narrowed. ‘I wonder if there’s any history between him and Patti?’
Dylan pulled the blue unmarked CID car in front Flaxby Court.
‘It’s less than five miles from Patti’s home. Let’s go,’ he said, swinging the car door open wide.
‘Let’s hope if they’ve moved, the new occupants have a forwarding address.’
The detectives’ door slamming was in unison. A couple of young lads sat on their bikes at the opposite side of the road, one foot on the pavement, surveying the visitors.
‘Twitchy arses at three o’clock,’ Vicky spoke out of the corner of her mouth.
‘Rozzers!’ they shouted as if they were listening in. Dylan stepped forward. Vicky followed closed behind. The exodus of young kids from the block of flats was like a spooked flock of birds taking flight from a tree.
‘Why aren’t they in school?’ she said with an air of annoyance. Her mobile rang and she took it from her jacket pocket. ‘DS Hardacre, what do you want?’
‘Indeed,’ said Dylan, with a lopsided smile. He opened the door to the foyer, allowing his colleague to walk before him.
‘I’m with Dylan now...’ Dylan turned at the sound of his name. His eyes found Vicky’s. ‘Go on Mike, I’ll repeat,’ she said. She listened intently. ‘So, Beverley Carson has admitted to the officers that she was late home because she was with her boyfriend who her mother disapproves of – hence the cock and bull story about being followed?’
Dylan nodded his understanding. Vicky raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘And have you warned her about wasting police time?’ Dylan heard Vicky say as he considered which button to press for the lift to take them to the third floor.
Vicky found herself being propelled into the small, shabby lift. They stood, facing the door, in silence as it closed. The stench of urine was foul. Vicky balked. ‘Apparently, Mike says that when he visited the owners of the house, where she allegedly hid in the Wendy house in their garden they told him they had found a condom in the garden, and on inspection of the Wendy house they seized some used tissues. He’s on his way back to the Carson’s.’
Dylan bent down, pointing his finger towards the list indicating what floor flat twelve was situated. ‘Is Rozzers the current term used for us now?’ Dylan pressed the button for the third floor and standing upright readied himself for the jolt.
‘Rozzer, filth, pig, copper, old Bill, plod... Depends what they’re watching on the box.’
With no immediate movement he looked up at the light monitors above the door, which still read Ground Floor. The mechanical movement they heard wasn’t the lift moving but the doors opening. A short, elderly lady with a hunched back, long green raincoat and holding a walking stick, limped towards them. Her head was covered in grey, tight curls, hidden mostly with a see-through Rainmate that was tied under her wizened chin. When she upturned her face she had a waxy pallor. Deep farrows ran from her nose to the angles of her determined mouth.
The detectives each took a polite step to the side and the exhausted face of the lady looked grateful.
After a few moments Vicky broke the silence. ‘I don’t think it’s working. What floor are you going to?’ she said to the old lady, as they waited.
‘Eleventh, ’ere let me ’ave a look,’ she said impatiently pushing Dylan out of the way with the sweep of her scrawny hand. Battering the console with a fist she stood back. The force of the jolt when it came wasn’t expected by Dylan, or Vicky. The old woman smiled a satisfied smile and winked a weary eye at Dylan. ‘You’ve either got it or you ’aven’t dear. And, I’ve still got it.’
Vicky and Dylan alighted at the third floor. The old woman screwed up her toothless face. ‘Good luck,’ she said as her parting gift.
The softest of sounds bounced off the glossy white walls as the detectives strode out in unison along the corridor, chuckling.
‘I’m going to be like that when I get old,’ said Vicky.
Dylan gave her a sideways look. ‘What do you mean when?’
Every few feet there were fire doors that closed slowly and silently behind them, until they shut with a bang as they reached the next.
‘Well, there’s a light on, so that may suggest someone’s in?’ said Vicky when Dylan gave a firm knock at No. 12. She took a pace backwards half expecting the glass to shatter as it rattled in its warped, wooden frame.
Dylan cocked his head towards the door. There was no response and no sound from within. He tried again.
‘You win some, you lose some.’ Vicky turned on her heels. ‘Let’s try a neighbour.’
The neighbour’s door was already slightly ajar, secured by a link on a chain. It opened slowly to reveal a tall young man with a flat, red, round face that went with his extra large body. ‘If you’re looking for ’er next door you’re in luck,’ he puffed and panted. ‘Missus Sinclair’s just pulled up outside in ‘er car.’ The door was closed before they had chance to thank him.
Mrs Sinclair obviously had ‘the knack’ with the elevator button because no sooner had they walked back to stand at the Sinclair’s door a harassed looking woman with a supermarket carrier bag over her arm, and a key in her hand, hurried towards them.
‘What do you want?’ she said looking them up and down. ‘If you’re after money you might as well go now.’ She attempted to put her key in the lock with a shaking hand that bore three rings, a large sapphire, a loop of pearls, and a circle of plain gold, without making eye contact with either officer.
Dylan took a step towards her, ‘Detective Inspector Jack Dylan and Detective Sergeant Hardacre.’ The officers held up their warrant cards. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’
The woman stopped as the door opened, her head turned towards them and sunken eyes appeared from under the brim of her hood. She withdrew the key. Her nostrils flared and her voice quivered. ‘Has there been an accident?’
‘No, nothing like that... It’s a routine call,’ said Vicky.
Having had her question answered to her satisfaction it seemed, the woman quickly entered the flat and turned, attempting as she did so to close the door behind her. Dylan put his size ten foot over the threshold. ‘We are making enquiries into the murder of schoolgirl Patti Heinz. I’m sure you’ll have heard about the case?’
Mrs Sinclair’s hooded eyes opened wide. ‘You’d best come in.’ A flash of recognition leapt into her eyes. ‘That’s why you look familiar,’ she said to Dylan. Busily, she collected discarded clothes that lay strewn in a haphazard fashion, upon the mismatched sofa and chairs. ‘I’ve seen you on the news. Sit down.’
Sat in a chair surrounded by packing boxes, her once pale face had regained a healthier colour but still showed lines of strain, and her eyes had not completely lost their look of anxiety. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I don’t know if you’re aware but we’re in the process of taking DNA samples from all males that knew Patti, and of course this includes the students at St Martin’s school.’
‘Yes, the letter they sent out explaining it was... interesting.’
‘So you got it?’
Mrs Sinclair nodded.
‘You have a son Ivan, yes?’ said Vicky. ‘Were you against him giving a sample?’
Mrs Sinclair looked perplexed. ‘No, why should I be?’
‘Your son Ivan, is he in?’ said Dylan.
Mrs Sinclair rolled her eyes. ‘He’s never in. He’s a teenager isn’t he? Why?’
Vicky spoke briskly. ‘Ivan told our officers at the school that his parents didn't consent to him having his DNA taken. Why do you think he’d do that?‘
She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. We discussed it. He knew it was to help find the young girl’s killer.’
‘The samples help us eliminate people, which saves us a vast amount of time on follow-up enquiries such as this. Instead of allowing us to swab him Ivan gave the officers some chewing gum, in the knowledge that we could get a DNA sample from it.’
‘Can you get a sample from chewing gum?’
Vicky nodded.
‘So?’
‘So, the chewing gum that your son gave us showed the DNA of a girl. That looks to us like he is for some reason trying to bypass the system.’
Mrs Sinclair sat twisting her hands into her skirt. She tried hard to control her tears. ‘I don’t understand,’ she repeated over and over again, her gaze fixed on Vicky’s face was disbelieving. Her eyes narrowed. ‘The stupid idiot, what was he thinking?’ The officers’ faces were lacking in emotion.
‘No, no, you’re not thinking he could be the murderer?’ Her hand immediately went to her mouth. ‘Oh my god...’ Her voiced quivered, ‘...you do don’t you? You think it’s Ivan?’
