Deadly Focus Read online

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan opened the door. Max ran to greet him, nearly knocking Jen flying in the narrow hallway.

  ‘Hiya. Someone is pleased to see you,’ she laughed placing a kiss on Jack’s head as he bent to stroke Max. ‘Kettle’s on, you eaten?’ she asked as he followed her into the kitchen.

  Before Jack could reply, his mobile’s shrill tone made him jump. He pressed ‘receive’ and they looked at each other in anticipation.

  ‘Sir, I’ve been called out to a shooting at a flat on the Greenaway Estate. A friend of the occupant couldn’t gain entry and noticed a strange smell. Entry has now been forced and there’s a dead man in there with head injuries and a gun at his side.’

  ‘Are you at the scene?’ Dylan asked. Jen turned away before he could see the disappointment in her eyes. Busily she made him a warm drink.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well fucking go then. Get suited up and ring me back when you’re standing by the body. It sounds like suicide.’ He threw his phone on the table.

  Jen swung round. Dylan didn’t speak like that to anyone, not in her presence anyway.

  ‘Well, the man is fucking useless,’ he said noticing the look on her face. ‘He hasn’t even been to the scene, how the hell can he describe it to me?’ She ignored his outburst and concentrated on making him something to eat. There was one thing for sure. He would be going back out to work soon.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jen,’ he said, rubbing his forehead, unsure if the apology was for the outburst or the language. He ached; his eyes were struggling to stay open. ‘He’ll be ringing again. He won’t make a decision. He’s pathetic.’ He stood behind her and turned her round to give her a cuddle, closing his eyes with the comfort of the embrace. It wasn’t like him to get mad and lose his temper. In silence, he ate the omelette that Jen had prepared for him. As they sat together at the dining room table Jen looked at him closely. She noticed his face was grey and puffy, dark circles ran around his eyes, and darkened either side at the bridge of his nose. For once he looked older than his years. The phone rang. He picked up slowly and put it to his ear, his elbow resting on the table. His head was bowed to the receiver, eyes closed. Detective Sergeant Wigglesworth attempted to explain the sight that greeted him.

  ‘Well, sir, half the head is missing,’ he said. ‘There’s a gun on the floor near to his right hand. I’m not happy. It might’ve been staged to look like he’s done it himself. Someone could have easily locked the door behind them on the way out. We don’t know who he is. Sir, will you be attending? I’ve told control I think it’s suspicious.’

  ‘Come out of the scene.’ Dylan exhaled loudly. ‘Make sure SOCO are there and doing the necessary photographs. I’m on my way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Dylan put the phone down, threw his head back against the chair back-rest, and closed his eyes. Jen knew by the set of his mouth that he was raging. One of his pet hates was people who wouldn’t make a decision. Passing the buck wasn’t an option in Dylan’s world.

  ‘Years ago they’d have put officers like Wigglesworth against the wall and told them to go and find a bloody job they could do,’ he muttered under his breath. He pushed himself up from the table and picked up his briefcase and jacket. He’d been so sure he would be called out he hadn’t bothered changing out of his suit.

  ‘Sorry, I won’t be long, love. From what he’s told me already I know it’s a suicide,’ he said.

  She had never known him to be wrong.

  She stayed seated at the table, fuming inside. ‘You’re tired. You should leave him with it, and then he’d have to sort it himself. He gets bloody well paid and then wants someone to hold his hand. I know you’ll go,’ she said, ‘But there’re times like this when you should say “no”.’ He gave her a silent, reassuring hug and kissed the top of her head, too weary to argue, knowing she was right.

  His anger kept Dylan from falling asleep at the wheel. The subservient DS Wigglesworth harped on about the strangeness of the body as he met Dylan in the car park leading to the flat.

  ‘It just doesn’t seem to fit somehow, suicide,’ he said shaking his head to and fro, trying to justify calling the DI out. Dylan couldn’t bear to look at him, never mind discuss it with him. He suited up in silence and strode to the steps leading to the scene like a man on a mission.

  ‘Should I wait outside, sir?’ DS Wigglesworth enquired, hovering nervously behind him.

  ‘No, you bloody shouldn’t. Follow me.’

  Dylan forced himself to be amiable, but the DS had no common sense. Wigglesworth had made the mistake of telling Dylan in the past he didn’t want to be a detective. He was just gaining experience to tick the box before moving up to the next rank, which infuriated Dylan.

  The scene was a flat on the top landing of a two-storey maisonette. Most of the windows and doors on the estate were covered with a rusty brown metal mesh informing everyone of the lack of occupancy. Rainbow-coloured graffiti covered the walls, and cans that once held alcohol or aerosol spray adorned the staircase and lobbies. Bits of paper and old cigarette butts littered the floor, but the smell of cat urine and dog excrement overpowered the reek of tobacco. The overflowing bins and blocked waste pipes soured the air as Dylan walked along the damp landing.

  Inside wasn’t much better. To say it was a ‘shit tip’ was an understatement. An overpowering combination of stale smoke, chip fat, sweat and cheap scent hit him as he stepped through the door. What made it worse was the heat. It was roasting, with the electric three bar fire on full in the lounge. Empty beer bottles and cans adorned the floor. An ashtray that overflowed with tab ends sat on the arm of a grubby chair. Ash covered the cushion like dandruff. The curtains were closed and the room’s only light was from a TV in the corner that flickered silently to an empty arena. Dylan stepped over a mattress strewn with dirty clothing and blankets. Ahead of him he could see dirty dishes piled high in the kitchen. Empty cans and used bottles covered the worktops. Immediately he saw the deceased’s body wilted on a chair, his head tilted back against the wall and a shotgun next to him on the floor.

  Dylan moved close to the body. True, there wasn’t much left of the head. It finished at the lower jaw. The remnants of blood-splattered brain and bone decorated the wall behind, as well as the ceiling above. He thought it looked like a pressure cooker had exploded and spewed its contents of rice pudding and jam everywhere. Not pleasant. Stuck to the ceiling, surrounded by the bits of flesh, was one solitary eye, staring down at them. Unusual, uncanny, but not something that distressed Dylan.

  ‘Have you told me everything?’ he asked Wigglesworth. Dylan’s eyes scoured the room.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course, sir.’ His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at Dylan.

  ‘Just making sure because you’re being watched,’ he said pointing to the ceiling where the eye peered down eerily.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ Wigglesworth said running away, his hand to his mouth. That would teach him for calling him out. Dylan smiled; he had a warped sense of humour, sometimes, but in his job he needed it. A closer look at the body revealed a metal bar down at the man’s feet. It was a thin rod about half an inch in diameter and about three feet long. DS Wigglesworth rejoined him, his face ashen.

  ‘Feel better now?’ Dylan enquired nonchalantly, but he didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Okay, it’s suicide,’ he announced. ‘The man has sat down on the chair, put the barrel of the single-barrelled shotgun in his mouth, and used the metal bar to push the trigger. Bang, all over, and the devastation left behind you can see. Help SOCO search for ID will you? I want photographs of any tattoos he’s got and then I want the eye recovered.’

  ‘Re … co … ver the eye, sir?’ Wigglesworth, said swallowing hard.

  ‘Yes, to return it to the body where it belongs. Nobody else wants to have to suffer seeing that. Photograph it first in situ. Let me have copies. It’ll be a good one for training on how to identify suicide. I want a report with your findings on my desk first thing to
morrow and do the report for the coroner. I need a firearms officer to secure the weapon and recover any further unspent cartridges so they can be disposed of safely. I’ll leave it with you, as they say,’ Dylan said, looking over his shoulder as he turned to leave.

  He thanked the scenes of crime officer. It was not uncommon for Dylan to leave a DS with a body such as this: he knew the likes of Dawn or Larry Banks would have got on with it and told him about it the next day at briefing. Being a detective was all about making decisions. Tonight’s scene, although gross and not something one would choose to view, was at the lower end of the scale as far as nauseous and evil were concerned, and quite straightforward.

  He returned to Jen’s to get some much-needed sleep so he was ready for whatever the next day might bring. He knew from experience that could be anything. He liked the unpredictability of the job. Most SIOs would work continuously when a job was running, their rest days increasingly never taken. Silently they went on their ‘days owed’ card in their desk drawer. This was evidence to show they had worked a day when they should have been off. HQ was quite happy for Dylan to work his rest days, but didn’t like it when he tried to take time out. He knew he had four months in days owed on his card.

  ‘Breakfast together. What have I done to deserve this honour?’ Jen said, stroking Dylan’s neck as he sat at the table.

  ‘It was a suicide last night,’ he mumbled, mouth full of cereal. ‘He’d blown his own head off. DS Wigglesworth just couldn’t hack it. He threw up when he saw the eye on the ceiling. Serves him right for calling me out.’ Jack smiled, gulping from his mug of tea liked a pleased child.

  ‘That’s awful. I’m not surprised he was sick, most people would be, but it does serve him right. Don’t get me going on that one this morning. What you up to today?’ she said, snapping her lunch box together and throwing him a banana and an apple to put in his briefcase.

  ‘I need to catch up with the Hodgson murder trial to see where they’re at with that one, before getting to Daisy’s murder. We’ve had no luck yet.’ His voice sounded flat as he put on his suit jacket and picked up his briefcase.

  ‘I wonder how many people talk about murders and suicides over breakfast,’ Jen said, as she put on her coat and reached up for a kiss goodbye, squaring his tie. He smiled; what could he say?

  ‘Might see you later at work, Miss Jones,’ he called as they both walked to their cars.

  ‘Have a good day. You’ll find the murderer, you know you always do,’ she called.

  Easier said than done, thought Dylan.

  Chapter Ten

  Dawn always had an infectious glow about her and Dylan was pleased to see her smiling face in his incident room. The smell of toasting bread drifted in the air to greet him.

  ‘Looks like you certainly put the frighteners on Michael Moorhouse for head butting you,’ Dawn said as she accepted a slice of toast and dripping from a plate that was being passed around the busy office.

  ‘Why, what makes you say that?’ he said as he snatched a slice from the giggling typists.

  ‘Dooh, well, he did blow his head off last night. Was it suspicious, is that why you went?’ she said wiping the fat running down her chin with her hankie.

  He stared at her open mouthed: he hadn’t realised that the body he’d been called out to was the man who’d attacked him.

  ‘No, not suspicious at all. Just a DS who couldn’t tell a suicide when he saw one. Do you know, I didn’t stay long enough to find out the deceased’s name? I’m obviously losing it, Dawn I didn’t recognise him.’

  She nearly choked. ‘Not surprising really, he’d no bloody head according to the report,’ she laughed.

  ‘At least he won’t get the chance to hurt anyone else.’ He touched his lip instinctively. It still felt lumpy. Jen would be relieved. He texted her: You know that low life gorilla that did my lip? He was the body I went to last night.

  And you forgot to tell me? she immediately responded.

  I didn’t recognise him

  That’s not like you

  I’d a good excuse, since he’d no face.

  LOL Talking of gorillas you should be at the dentist at 10.

  You know how to make a grown man cry, don’t you?

  The mention of the dentist made him cringe. He hated the dentist. He shivered as he remembered as a child being dragged on two bus rides across town by his mum, having had no breakfast. His mum feared he might bring it back with the anaesthetic, bless her. The only good thing about the excursion was sitting in the waiting room reading the old comics that his parents couldn’t afford new. He could still hear his stomach growling. Feel his legs shaking uncontrollably, whether with cold or fear he didn’t know. He recalled a huge, high, cold chair where a metal clamp was put in his mouth to wedge it open. He wondered if he recalled correctly a half-deflated black rubber ball being slammed over his nose and mouth, or if it was just a nightmare. Dylan could still conjure up the smell of gas and recall the hissing that it made as he drifted down a never-ending tunnel of swirling distorted images. The voices of the dentist and his nurse he’d heard get louder and drone off as the gas took effect, unrecognisable as human as he fell into oblivion. He always woke with tears streaming down his face as he fought to climb back through the fog. Blood oozing down the edges of his mouth, gauze stuffed in his cheeks making him look like a chipmunk. Fortunately he was always released before the blood running down his throat choked him and he would stagger out of the room only to hear ‘next’ being hollered for the unsuspecting poor victim. Those days were long gone, but he still didn’t like the dentist. He’d go though, just to please Jen.

  This morning the waiting room was quiet. Leaflets littered the table in the middle of the room. A fire glowed in the fireplace and the sun streamed in through the windows. Not a lot had changed over the years, he thought, as he picked up a summer edition of Homes & Gardens. He had just got nicely seated when the nurse appeared.

  ‘Mr Dylan, the dentist is ready for you now.’ Great, waiting around always made him nervous.

  ‘Good morning. Just a check up this morning, I see by your notes,’ said the dentist cheerfully, shaking Dylan’s hand as he walked into his lair.

  ‘Don’t know what’s good about it,’ Dylan smirked apprehensively.

  ‘Oh, you’re a comedian, Mr Dylan,’ the dentist laughed as he tilted Dylan’s chair back, pulled his mask over his nose and mouth, and shone the light straight into Dylan’s eyes. Was his dentist a sadist?

  ‘Let’s have a look. Relax your tongue,’ he said whilst hooking a saliva ejector into the corner of Dylan’s mouth. ‘Keeping you busy I see. Are you getting any nearer to catching the perpetrator? Relax your tongue, no, relax it,’ he said, pressing down on Dylan’s tongue with the back of the mouth mirror to make sure he did what he was being told. ‘Nasty scar on your lip, Detective. Did you get that in the line of duty, eh?’

  Dylan wondered why it was that dentists always asked questions when they had their hands in your mouth, knowing full well you couldn’t reply. Did they really expect you to answer back? Dylan found it uncomfortable enough having water spitting up into his face, running down the side of his neck, an instrument down his throat, never mind making idle conversation.

  ‘Relax your tongue. Nearly done now, Mr Dylan. Well done.’

  Dylan tried hard to relax and keep focused on the map of the town of Harrowfield and its surrounding areas on the ceiling of the surgery, the area he was having searched for Daisy’s killer clearly visible to him. My god, why hadn’t he thought about it before? The body had been found on the back road used daily by him and his colleagues between Harrowfield Station and Tandem Bridge. Was that significant?

  ‘Okay, all done,’ the dentist said triumphantly as he ejected Dylan abruptly into a sitting position. ‘Swill your mouth out, please. Have you ever considered crowns on those front three teeth?’ he asked. ‘It’ll only take a couple of hours, just two appointments. That front tooth is not going to hold out much
longer.’

  Crowns. Crowns. Had he ever considered crowns? Had he hell. Ten minutes in the chair was enough.

  ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ was all he said as he headed for the door. ‘See you in six months,’ he called as he fled.

  ‘He wants me to have crowns,’ he told Jen from his mobile phone.

  ‘Wow. How good would that be? Film star teeth.’

  ‘In your dreams and his.’ Dylan scowled.

  Jen laughed. ‘You big baby. Of all the awful things you see and do in your job you’re frightened of the dentist?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he heard himself saying for the second time today. ‘Speak to you later.’ But he was already defeated; she would persuade him, he knew she would.

  Driving back through the town, Dylan realised that Christmas was looming. The streets were adorned with lights and gaiety. It was quiet, so he parked his car on the high street. He was impulsive. Shopping for Dylan was no different to making decisions on a murder enquiry. Once he made up his mind, he went with it. Heading straight to the jewellers, a two-toned gold bracelet took his eye for Jen.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the young female assistant.

  ‘Yes, I’ll take that one please.’ He pointed the bracelet out in the window display.

  ‘Would you like it gift-wrapped?’

  He nodded. It was a good job he wasn’t a shopaholic, he thought; he’d just spent five hundred quid in five minutes flat. A card, now, and his Christmas shopping would be finished. He recognised one of the assistants in Central Cards: Marjorie Sykes. Some years ago she’d been a police typist, he recalled, but she didn’t appear to know him. She was still a smart, middle-aged lady and although she’d been an excellent typist, had been required to leave, if his memory served him correctly. He smiled as he remembered why. No one had known of her prejudices until a prosecutor was reading the case papers that she’d typed. The statement by the officer in the case read: You flipping custard go flip yourself, the man shouted. Hiss off, I’ll fight any of you fruckers. The swear words used by the defendant had been changed for somewhat milder ones by Marjorie. Although causing amusement, she was told in no uncertain terms that the words needed to be verbatim for court. She insisted that she didn’t like to hear such language and she certainly wouldn’t type it. Nothing would make her compromise her values or beliefs. He thanked her and wished her a merry Christmas as she took his money for the card. It must have been so difficult to think of the alternative words, he chuckled to himself as he walked out of the shop.