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Dylan gazed out of the kitchen window watching a robin tug at a worm in the rockery. He called Jen and Maisy over to see, from where they sat eating their breakfast by the coal fire. When Maisy came running he scooped her up into his arms. Her leg that had been closest to the fire felt hot to his touch.
‘Is he eating spaghetti?’ Maisy asked enthusiastically, she shivered and Dylan stretched her slipper socks up over her knees.
‘It certainly looks that way, and it’ll make him big and strong if he eats up all his breakfast. Have you eaten yours?’ Jen asked, peering over Maisy’s head towards the table.
Dylan put her down on the floor and she ran back to the table and climbed up on the chair, eager to get back to the warmth of the fire, and her porridge.
‘Not for giving up is it Jack?’ Jen spoke, bewitched by the red-breasted robin struggling with its food. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
They shared a knowing look. A smile crossed Dylan’s face. ‘He’s probably a reincarnated detective focused on keeping hold of his prey,’ he said playfully.
Jen shivered and pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I never thought I’d say this but I don’t half miss the central heating at our old house.’
Dylan turned his back on the window and drained his coffee cup. ‘Softy Southerners are urged not to travel unless necessary as snow, ice and blizzards approach,’ he said in a silly voice, stopping for effect before he continued. ‘Northerners – you’ll need your big coat.’ His laugh was infectious and seeing her parents laughing made Maisy chuckle. Dylan walked over to the fire and put a finger under Maisy’s chin, he spoke softly to her. ‘Do you know, when I was a little boy I slept in the bedroom where you sleep now, and it was so cold in winter that when I woke up in the morning there was ice on the inside of the window.’
‘Go on with you,’ Jen teased.
‘It’s true!’
Although Jen wore her slippers she could feel the cold striking up through the floor. Dylan put his pot in the sink. ‘I for one can’t wait to rip up this lino,’ she said, her eyes looking downwards. At her feet lay a white feather. She bent down and picked it up. She looked at Dylan and raised her eyebrows. ‘Your Kirsty believes in white feathers too.’
Dylan scoffed. ‘Figures,’ he said, as Max ran to the door and began barking. Suddenly a bundle of letters, tied with string, came flying through the letter box and landed with a ‘plop’ on the doormat. Maisy jumped down and ran to the door, hastily bringing the post to her parents. So excited was she, she tripped and landed in a heap at Dylan’s feet. All was silent for one moment, before the piercing scream. Jen scooped her up into her arms. Dylan stooped down to rip up the raised piece of floor covering. ‘It’s no good,’ he said ripping up more and more, as it cracked and crumbled at his touch. ‘We’re going to have to take this lot up.’ He nodded towards the far wall. ‘At the same time as we knock that down.’
‘Charlie’s got a team coming to start on the roof and Ronnie said he’ll be here early tomorrow morning.’
Dylan looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be off but with a bit of luck, I’ll be here to help.’
Jen smiled, Dylan bent his head to Maisy and pursed his lips, his eyebrows were furrowed.
‘Ouch,’ he said, ‘I think Mummy might have a plaster somewhere? Dylan looked around at the unpacked boxes and Maisy followed his gaze.
‘Thanks,’ Jen said rolling her eyes. Dylan kissed Jen on the cheek.
‘See you later alligator,’ he said to Maisy as he shrugged into his overcoat.
A smile crossed her tear stained face. ‘In a while crocodile,’ she replied shyly. Dylan waved a hand, unlocked the door and let himself out into the yard, now shrouded with a dense, rolling fog. Quickly he closed the door behind him to keep the warmth within.
***
The black limousine eased away from the back door of the Palma Club on its way to the airport. A slight, young woman in a bright orange boobtube and a short black skirt stood at the bottom of the metal fire escape in her six-inch heels, ensuring her neckerchief covered the marks made by the studded, leather collar. Her younger malnourished friend sat three steps up in her stocking feet, stroking the red chaffing on her inner thighs. She looked up at the sound of the car approaching, clutched the tattered remains of her clothes to her and looked at the older woman beseechingly, until she passed her the joint – it was her turn to draw on the spliff they’d earned. Together they strained to see passed the tinted rear windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the big man himself. Malcolm Reynolds looked straight ahead. He loved the feeling of power he got from being driven in the back of the car; his driver satisfied with his payment.
***
Vicky picked up Dylan’s phone, just as she saw him pull into his car parking space directly under the office window. She beckoned him in. ‘Forensic on the landline,’ she called when he entered the building. Dylan bustled into his office, briefcase in one hand, post in the other. The phone receiver was lying on his desk. Still wearing his outer coat he sat behind his desk. ‘Jack Dylan,’ he said.
‘I’ve news on the Julie Dixon murder.’
Dylan picked up a pen. ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve checked Lucy Waldon’s DNA profile against the packaging from the two parcels found in the deceased car. Was she a friend of Julie Dixon do you know?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘There are some markers that are strikingly similar to samples we have lifted from the parcels, and the bloodied cloth that was found at the flat. Do you know if she has any relatives that are connected to your investigation?’
‘I am only aware of a child living with her. Her little boy had to be taken into care when she took a drug overdose. There has been no mention of other family at the house.’
‘Some of the markers are not quite fifty per cent but I suggest you priorities male siblings for DNA sampling.’
‘Really?’ Vicky walked in the office with a hot drink. He signalled her to take a seat. His eyes held hers as she sat. ‘So, for clarity, what you’re saying to me is that the DNA profile you have on the sample from the bloodied cloth we found under the sink, and on the parcel is male, and so similar to Lucy Waldon’s that it is likely to belong to a male sibling?’
‘In simple terms, yes!’
Dylan could feel his pulse racing. ‘I appreciate the call.’
‘I look forward to receiving priority samples, or hearing from you when you locate any of her family.’
The line went dead. There was a knock at the door and Gary Warner opened it.
‘You might be interested to know sir, that I’ve just been informed the foil that the drugs were wrapped in, in a parcel you recovered from Julie Dixon’s car gives us a link to our target in your area.’
‘Malcolm Reynolds by any chance?’
‘The one and only.’ Gary closed the door and sat down next to Vicky. ‘If Forensic haven’t a match then we know it’s someone who isn’t already recorded on our systems, nor had their DNA taken.’
The optimism was tangible at the morning briefing. All personnel in attendance to hear what the detective sergeant from the Regional Crime Squad had to say.
‘That’s what they do, isn’t it?’ said Dylan. ‘Enrol kids, with no previous, to be their mules.’
‘They pick them up and take them to school in their big fancy cars – make them feel like somebody. Treat them as one of the gang; buy them anything they want – and the kids think it’s all for free. Remember the kids they target are usually from care homes, or excluded from mainstream education. When the drugs syndicate decide, they put them to work. Children as young as twelve are involved in this particular operation and Malcolm Reynolds is reputed to be the main player in this area, he knows well. We have already uncovered these kids travelling long distances, from coast to coast, delivering drugs in shoe boxes, pills in bags. We call it country lines; the children call it going country. It’s a new kind of organised crime that is unreported and unrecorded but our research suggests it runs into thousands of youngsters. These kids are being groomed right under our noses, to run drugs. Sadly, as you know the drugs market has reinvented itself you’ll have heard of the Darknet, basically eBay for drugs. Ninety-eight per cent of a test purchase order will get to us via the post in a couple of days, and they are also using the Internet parcel distribution service too. Bitcoin is the cash currency, which cuts out the middle man and a trace.’
‘I think we need to speak to Lucy Waldon again as soon as possible. This is a giant step in the investigation allowing enquires at last to become streamlined and focused. Raj, Andy, I want to see you in my office after this meeting. I want you to visit Lucy Waldon. I want to know about the men in her life and who might have handled the parcels. Be subtle in your approach, we don’t want to rattle anybody’s cage just yet.’
Gary nodded. ‘The boss is right. She doesn’t need to know the same sample was found on the bloodied cloth, at this time. The last thing we want her to do is warn someone either directly, or indirectly of the results from Forensic, and ultimately our suspicions.’
‘So we’re okay to mention to Lucy that a male’s DNA has been found on the parcels and use that as a reason for the revisit?’ Andy asked.
‘Yes, just go with the unusual elimination stuff. You might want to speak to Nev and Ned about their visit, but I want to know your views after you meet with her.’
***
Detective Sergeant Rajinder Uppal and Acting Detective Sergeant Andy Wormald got no response from their knocking at the door of 9, Union Street and decided to look for Lucy Waldon at her place of work. It was lunchtime as they pulled up across the road from the Palma Club, on Venn Street. At either side of the illuminated entrance stood two large boxed plants and in the middle, blocking the entrance, a seven-foot tall, bald man with a sloping forehead wearing a black suit, white shirt and a dickie bow tie. A barbed wire tattoo could clearly be seen crawling over his face.
‘Have you ever seen a scarier doorman?’ Raj asked as they surveyed the scene for a moment or two.
Two young girls approached the bouncer and it was obvious that after speaking to the bullet-pierced hulk they were not welcome.
Not taking their eyes off the door the detectives got out of the vehicle and walked over to the entrance, climbing the few stone steps to stand before the muscle bound man. He bowed his head and opened the doors for them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
Andy ushered Raj inside, but she halted instantly, blocking his entry. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness, sidestepped his colleague and opened the double doors into the main room of the club. Even over the throbbing bass of the rock music they could hear the murmur of voices and the jeering of the clientele. There were plenty of patrons, but not a real crowd. The doors and windows of the dimly lit room were swathed in velvet curtains of red and gold. The rosy diffused light around two small stages showed them the route to the bar. Ahead, a couple of gentlemen could be seen perched precariously on cushioned stools in front of the moderately lit bar. Their heads turned in the same direction, watching the dancers performing on and around the poles. Each man had a drink in hand and although dressed like they meant business, looked decidedly worse for wear. Raj noted six booths faced the stage. A couple were occupied with men who were being personally entertained by scantily clad lap dancers. A pile of bank notes sat upon the tables, and several could be seen in the entertainer’s garter. As the detectives reached the bar, a petite, dark and delicate looking young woman appeared. She was dressed in a tight, thin, low-cut dress and it was pretty obvious to them that she wore no undergarments.
‘Hello sir,’ she said to Andy, a velvet tone to her voice. ‘Can I get you something to help you relax?’
Raj stepped forward. ‘No thanks, but you can get us the manager.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘I’ll get him,’ she said briskly, the smile dropping instantly from her overly made-up face.
She turned picked up the phone behind her and as she spoke she covered the mouthpiece. ‘There’s two plods here to see you,’ they heard her say.
At the appearance of the man who purported to be the manager the detectives had to do a double take. Wasn’t this the jacketless man who was stood at the door not five minutes ago?
‘My name’s Grant Marchant,’ he said, his sleeve tattooed arms full of empties that he placed upon the bar. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Andy shook his head. ‘No thanks, we’re working on the investigation into the murder of Julie Dixon, and as a matter of routine we need to speak to one of your employees Lucy Waldon, is she about?’
‘If you’d like to come this way.’ Mr Marchant led them through a door in the wall that was papered in the same dark red, flock wallpaper, into a brightly lit, cold, corridor. The corridor was so narrow that they had to walk in single file. The noise of their shoes on the stone slabs echoed up to the high ceiling of the whitewashed stone walls framed by a metal spiral staircase. He stopped at a door at the foot of the stairs, took out a large old key and opened it wide.
‘You won’t be taking Lucy away with you will you, she’s working a double shift for me?’ he said as he stepped back against wall of the corridor to allow the officers to enter the office before him. He followed them in and closed the door behind him. ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, motioning to two old oak armchairs that were positioned either side of the large oak desk. The office looked like something out of an old nineteen-forties’ detective movie.
‘Hopefully not, we just need a chat with Ms Waldon for now,’ said Raj.
‘Good, because finding good workers this day and age is hard,’ He eyed Raj up and down. ‘If you ever need any extra cash here’s my number,’ he said taking a business card from out of his wallet and sliding it across the desk.
Andy leant forward and picked the card off the desk. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind, but I’ve got to warn you I’m not good on a pole.’
Grant Marchant looked peeved that he’d not got the reaction he had wanted from Raj. He picked up the phone and asked whoever answered to get Lucy to his office immediately.
