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The briefing room was packed. The updates rolled in from the team. Working staff including Detective Sergeant Vicky Hardacre from the Patti Heinz murder enquiry were also included. Heads down, many notes were taken.
‘In respect of the elimination of Lucy’s younger brother, Reggie Hartley. We have secured worn clothing,’ Andy told the group. ‘This will be sent for examination and tested against anything connected with Julie Dixon.’
‘And, if we get a DNA profile it will be checked immediately against the cloth used to clean up her blood in the hallway of her home and the parcels,’ said Dylan. ‘The information Raj and Andy obtained today also gives us a link between him, Lucy, Julie and the packages.’
‘The mother’s vehicle is circulated and flagged up as of interest to us here at the incident room. If the vehicle is subject to a stop and check it is highly likely that the driver will be one Reggie Hartley who needs to be eliminated from the Julie Dixon murder enquiry.’
Vicky raised her hand. ‘Sir, number nine Union Street, I believe there has been an action raised on the Patti Heinz murder investigation for that address.’
‘Can you check and get back to me?’ Dylan said, his hopes raised.
‘If so that would be an interesting link, between both investigations wouldn’t it?’ said Raj.
‘Ah, but not unusual if the address is a delivery distribution address for Internet deliveries. In the meantime I’ll speak to Maggie and let her know Hartley’s clothing is en route and if she does get a DNA profile could she compare it against the unidentified profile on the Patti Heinz murder.
Dylan was about to walk out into the all but empty car park, looking forward to the night ahead with the family when Vicky called him back. Looking over his shoulder to the far side of the incident room he saw her put down her phone and stand. She ran down the walkway in between the desks. ‘The database shows that there is an outstanding enquiry at number 9, Union Street regarding a delivery of a parcel to Burford Avenue.’
‘Patti’s home address?’
‘No, across the way; apparently a note has been left by the officer asking the householder to contact the incident room, but to date no one has been in touch – hence the enquiry remaining open.’
***
‘I’m home!’ Dylan called cheerily as he stepped over the threshold. He put his briefcase down, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, loosened his tie and took off his jacket. ‘Where is everyone?’ he shouted, as he turned to hang up his coat behind the door. There was a rush of footsteps on the stairs, the hallway door burst open, a loud cry and the children led by Maisy ran in screaming, laughing and shrieking. ‘It’s a ghost! It’s a ghost!’ Frantically dodging each other in an effort to lose ‘the ghost’ they ran rings around Dylan until Maisy ran behind her daddy to catch her breath and clung to his trouser leg. She held her side as a stitch stabbed her under her ribs and, instantly dropped to the floor. The others, red faced and sweating flopped down around her giggling. Mabel the oldest, headscarf covering her hair and bed sheet draped over her shoulders ‘Whoo’d’ one last time before flopping down at Dylan’s feet.
Jen stood in the hallway and beckoned a hesitant Dylan into the lounge. He looked directly into the blazing coal fire, its flames danced merrily in the big, wide fireplace with two mantle shelves; one high up near the ceiling and one lower down. There were green ceramic tiles on the inner side of the wood columns and on the hearth floor. The hairs on his arms stood up and goosebumps multiplied over his skin. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the dimly lit room, and in his mind’s eye he saw the beautiful mahogany sideboard with the oval mirror. The piano, a soft, comfy couch and two armchairs. The vision, lovely as it was, was gone with the flick of a light switch. He was dazed for an instant as if he had woken from a dream, to see his brothers and sisters smiling back at him. At the foot of the ladder where his youngest sister Dawn stood was a stripped heap of the hideous wallpaper. She had a scraper in one hand and a wet sponge in the other. He could hardly believe his eyes. He held his breath. His heart thudded against his chest as he heard his mother chastising him, ‘Wait till your father gets home,’ she said, wagging her finger at him. The drawings he had done as a child were still there, as if they’d been drawn yesterday. ‘That’s surreal,’ he said.
‘Aye, and we all took the belt for that,’ said Ronnie. ‘Do you remember?’
Dylan nodded his head.
‘Most importantly do you remember what happened next?’ Charlie’s grin was wide.
‘We locked ourselves in the cellar...’ Dylan said hesitantly, his voiced lowered ‘...so he couldn’t find us.’
Dylan hurried back to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he went, his brothers on his heels, the remainder of the family in tow. He tossed fish and chip paper from the work surface and picked up a sledgehammer he knew to be there. Raising the hammer above his head and with adrenaline-fuelled force he closed his eyes, turned his head and lifted his left arm to shield his face; an almighty thud followed, then a crash and a rain of fragments of plasterboard, broken bits of bricks and mortar flew in his direction. Dylan stepped back before subjecting the wood to hastily delivered repeat hammer blows, tripping and sliding on the uneven floor covering, at each blow. Charlie and Ronnie big enough to break his fall coughed and spluttered at his side as they, and the rest of the family watched the dust settle around them, in silence. At last the hole was big enough for him to step inside. His heart raced, and when his feet hit the floor, he reached back with his open hand. ‘Torch?’
A set of voices echoed his words in the distance, he could hear the pitter-patter of footsteps that he knew to be Jen’s running up the stairs. Stood, as if glued to the spot he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. ‘There are objects, stacked against the wall...’ he said into the abyss, squinting his eyes. ‘I can see silhouettes, but I can’t quite see what they are... It smells like musty cardboard and paraffin.’ Dylan shivered.
With the aid of torchlight a set of narrow steps leading down into the basement opened up to him. Dylan’s heart raced as he was forced to tiptoe down.
‘What can you see?’ came a call from above a couple of minutes later.
‘A dolly tub, not where Dad used to mend out shoes,’ he said. ‘But at Mum’s mangle end.’
