When a killer strikes, p.21
When a Killer Strikes, page 21
‘It’ll be reet,’ Ned said with a lop-sided grin. ‘I’m from Yorkshire!’
Dylan jaw muscles tightened. ‘You’ll catch your bloody death,’ he said.
* * *
Ogden Water car park was positioned high above the beauty spot, from where the public were rewarded with magnificent views of the woodland trails and waterside paths. From the confines of the car Dylan could see the wind ruffling the water in the thirty-four-acre reservoir that was enclosed by woodland, with open moor beyond. He was unusually quiet, appearing to Ned to be in a world of his own. The detective constable was grateful for Dylan’s distraction, and respected his silence knowing police protocol would be running through his head. Should anything go wrong with this procedure there was only one place the blame would fall, and that was at the senior detective’s feet.
Dylan was instantly aware of the grouping of the police recovery personnel presence below. As they simultaneously opened the car doors the noise of the recovery vehicle’s engine in the distance roared to life. Its distinctive sound at the positioning of the lorry loader crane being guided into place for the recovery of the sunken vehicle could be heard loud and clear. The two detectives crossed the shingled car park, their footwear making a crunching sound on the gravel-sized stones.
The blue and white crime scene tape at the nature reserve’s entrance and exit could be seen happily flapping this way and that in the cool breeze that came off the water. A blur of movement on the sun-kissed water drew Dylan’s attention to the Marine Unit. The rear transit van doors were wide open and their personnel were unloading their equipment at the water’s edge expediently.
From the shingled ridged car park the two detectives ambled downwards, over tree stumps and fallen branches in their path through the dense part of the wood. The sight of a woodpecker drilling the damp ground for worms caught Dylan’s keen eye. Two grey squirrels ran across his path and directly up a tree, at which point he had an overwhelming urge to voice what he’d seen, as he would if he’d been with Jen and Maisy. Instead he kept his head down and navigated the damp, dark, wood chip path that was surrounded by tall trees that filtered the light. A drip of cold water dropped on his head and ran down his neck making him shiver. He took his gloves out of his pocket and, pulling them on his cold hands, he continued to walk briskly in front of a cursing Ned as he stumbled and slid his way towards the reservoir.
The temperature dropped noticeably as they neared the water’s edge. The woodland birds could be heard long before they were seen. Twigs snapped and drier leaves crackled under foot. Once through the woods that surrounded the large body of water the detectives came across a wooden stile. The ground surrounding it was wet and boggy. Dylan trudged through the mud and over the stile knowing there had been shoes, socks and dignity lost here before. He knew Ogden Water and its surrounding moorland well. From child-to-man it had been a regular haunt of his, and his siblings. A place of peace and quiet as he grew, a haven to visit, to think and reflect. As a youngster he recalled trudging over the moors from The Station House in ill-fitting Wellington boots that chafed his legs, for he never wore socks. He tapped his pocket as he walked towards the circus and half expected a bottle of water and a jam sandwich to be there, as it was in those days.
Dylan found CSI David Funk at the top of the slipway suited and booted for both the job in hand and the elements. Here it was all shadow and light – the result of the cold wind that blew off the water through the surrounding trees. This cordoned-off scene was a hive of activity. Everyone working as one in a well-rehearsed and timely fashion. He was aware, as were the others, that they were losing light fast. Three police officers stood in the shallow, murky waters talking to a colleague who was submerged to his shoulders. The diver had his face mask firmly in place, looking to all intents and purposes like a seal due to his professional attire. Quickly he confirmed to all those present that he could see no one inside the vehicle.
All eyes were diverted as a shout went up, and a hand of another diver flayed near to the vehicle. ‘No air bags required,’ he called. Dylan looked down to the yellow lift bags that would remain on dry land.
The winch line from the recovery vehicle was attached to the casualty vehicle. Slowly it was winched back to shore. Water spewed from every gap, hole, vent, crack, cavity and groove. CSI David Funk took picture after picture as the vehicle slowly approached dry land. Once placed upon the slide-bed, the four wheels were strapped down. A diver tried to open the rear van doors which he found to be unlocked. He opened them wide. Inside were two packages both wrapped in grey plastic bags. The driver continued to traverse the outside of the vehicle. He opened the driver’s door, and then the passenger side. Again, he confirmed that it was beyond doubt that anyone had been trapped inside the vehicle when it had been driven into the water. What Dylan did see and was of interest to him as he looked through the windows of the van was an engineer’s lump hammer, with a hardwood handle, in the passenger side footwell.
It appeared to Dylan that David Funk saw the tool at the same time as he. Their eyes met. ‘Photograph and seize the hammer and the parcels.’ Dylan said without hesitation. ‘I’ll see you with them back at the nick.’
David nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The six-foot-six recovery vehicle driver dressed in navy blue overalls stomped through the mud towards Dylan. The squelching sound of his heavy, steel toe-capped boots became louder and louder the nearer he approached them on the concrete slipway.
‘Good job, George,’ said Dylan raising his voice over the sound of the vehicle’s engine.
George looked over his shoulder as the blue tarpaulin was placed over the van. The number plates were covered with black tape.
George stood directly in front of Dylan. ‘Aye and a bit quicker than last time. A submerged car, in five metres of water, fingertip search… took us two days to recover the vehicle. Do you remember?’
‘I remember it well. Hence why I came prepared this time,’ Dylan said pulling his thick wool coat around him and glancing down at his boots.
George nodded his head towards Ned who was limping towards them in his bare feet, carrying his sodden shoes. ‘You could have warned him. He’ll catch his bloody death.’
‘I told him. And if he rings in sick tomorrow I’ll be dragging him into work by his ears.’
Ned’s feet were covered in mud, his trousers rolled up to the knee. His cheeks were white in an unshaven face, his nose was red, his eyes watered. He shook his head in seeming confusion about how to form the words. ‘Everyone knows you can’t catch a cold by being cold.’ His tut was followed by one sneeze, two, three.
George shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Sneezing three times amounts to pneumonia in my gran’s book,’ he teased, with the wink of an eye.
Dylan chuckled. ‘Can you take the vehicle to the Collision Investigation Unit? I need it drying out so we can get it forensically examined as soon as possible.’
George shook Dylan’s hand, turned quickly on his heels and walked away at a pace. ‘Give me a shout if you need anything else,’ he shouted.
Ned’s attention was on the tarpaulin-wrapped car. He had a puzzled look upon his cold-worn face – as if he were finding it hard to think straight. ‘Highly likely it was used to transport Julie Dixon’s body, don’t you think?’ Dylan could hear the detective’s teeth chattering.
There was a lot of banging and slamming of doors. The men turned to see the Unit’s transit van being re-loaded with their equipment.
‘“Highly likely”, as you well know DC Granger, is not good enough. We need hard evidence,’ said Dylan lifting his hand in acknowledgement of those leaving the scene.
Ned stumbled putting one cold foot in front of the other precariously as they ambled back into the woods. At the woodland side of the stile he replaced his socks and shoes and climbed upwards behind Dylan, towards the car park. Several time Dylan caught him rubbing his hands together, snivelling or wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. ‘If you ask me I think she was killed in the flat, transported to the dump site by her killer in the van, and then the killer attempted to get rid of it so we’ve no evidence to prove what took place.’
‘Maybe, but what puzzles me is why the killer didn’t leave her in the vehicle if the plan was to drive it in the reservoir in the first place?’ said Dylan when they reached the car.
‘It’s obvious!’ said Ned with a raise of his eyebrows. ‘Something happened to make him panic. Wouldn’t we all if we had a corpse in the back of our vehicle?’
* * *
The removal van stuttered at the steepness of the driveway that led from The Station House, just as the sun was going down. The driver tooted its horn, and he and his crew smiled and waved at the children happily playing on the tree swing that Uncle Charlie had made. Dylan’s youngest sister Dawn, always the tomboy, stood at the front door and gave a high-pitched whistle through her teeth, beckoning the children to return to the house. Ronnie nudged Charlie who in an attempt to secure a new pane of glass to the front window had kneaded the putty into a pliable lump and was presently rolling it into precise pencil-sized strips, when the children ran past.
‘Remind you of anyone?’ he said with a smile on his ruddy face at the two eldest elbowed each other for prime position.
Jen tottered down the stair steps, squinting up into the singular light bulb that hung from an old knotted flex in the middle of the hallway ceiling. She dropped the empty box she was carrying onto the floor and proceeded to flatten it with a determined foot. Wiping her brow with the back of her hand she stopped on hearing the thudding of footsteps running down the ginnel, which led between the main house and the outbuildings. Maisy was the first of the girls to burst through the front door, giggling as if she was fit to burst. Her Wellington boots covered in mud, she carried a rusty, red bucket and spade in her hand. Her trousers were ripped at the knee, her arms open wide to her mother. Max in tow was wagging his tail with such excitement that his entire rear end was gyrating. Oval-eyed, ears down, he stared at the little girl as he jumped around, making short high-pitched little barks. The collective noise grew to a crescendo, and then whimpered out to a silence as the three girls stopped, breathless, arms secured tightly around Jen’s legs and waist. Max not to be left out, nudged and nuzzled instead. Jen put her hand on her daughter’s head and picked from her hair a white feather as tears sprung to her eyes. She held it tightly between her finger and thumb. ‘Mum,’ she said softly. Maisy looked up, her eyes bright, her chubby hands and smiling face smudged with dirt.
Ronnie followed the leaner Charlie out of the lounge. He held a putty knife high in his hand. ‘All secure for now,’ he said with a smile. He stood perfectly still, sighed and with eyes staring he looked up to the ceiling and surveyed all around him. ‘By %’eck, lass,’ he said, his eyes settling upon her face. ‘I never thought I’d see the day that we’d be together again in this house.’ His arms swept the line of the next generations of the Dylan clan who continued to fuss around the youngest, Maisy, who was sat in the middle of the floor.
Kirsty appeared at the door of the dining room. In full make-up, a mop cap covering her shiny chestnut hair. She held the handle of a broom looking as if she had just stepped off the set of Upstairs Downstairs. In contrast, curly-haired Dawn was make-up free, wore khaki trousers, her shirt sleeves rolled up at the elbows and she had a scarf tired around her head, like a Landgirl. ‘Well, most people would have fussed about the damp and baulked over the roof, never mind the decay. I’ve got to hand it to you for tackling the old place, Jen. When’s our Dylan due home?’ she said.
Jen shrugged her shoulders a tired, accepting smile upon her face. ‘Your guess is as good as mine but, one thing’s for sure, he’s going to be shocked to see you guys,’ she grinned.
Kirsty nodded towards the white feather still in Jen’s hand. ‘You believe in angels?’ she said.
Jen smiled. ‘I do.’ she said her face assuming a dreamy expression. She looked at her sister-in-law closely.
‘I collected them in a jam jar when I was a child.’ She smiled with a faraway look in her eyes.
A shuffle of boots and six-foot, balding Ronnie put his dusty hand around Jen’s shoulder and gave it a hearty squeeze. ‘We might not be a family who lives in each other’s pockets, lass, but we’re all here for each other, just you remember that.’
Jen swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat. She looked across at Charlie. ‘And I can’t thank you enough,’ she said softly. ‘If it hadn’t been for you… Well, I don’t know what we’d have done. How’re you doing with that stud wall?’ she said quickly in an attempt to rein in her emotions.
Ronnie looked across at his brother, who in turn looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen door. ‘We’re ready to break through.’
Jen’s eyes were wide. ‘Can we wait for Dylan?’
* * *
DS Raj walked into the interview room behind Janet Munroe, Alan Sanderson and ADS Andy Wormald. With some persuasion the heavy fire door closed slowly behind her, and she secured it shut. Andy sat down next to the recording machine and looked up to check the video camera was working. Raj positioned herself next to him, opposite the prisoner and his solicitor. The small, soundproofed room was quiet, its occupants silent and still, critical for the recording quality but challenging to obtain due to the proximity of other rooms in the police station. The force-issue, abuse-resisting furniture was adequate but not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. After relevant formalities were concluded, including everyone introducing themselves for the requirement of voice recognition, the interview commenced.
‘You are probably aware that enquiries are continuing whilst you are in custody.’
The wide-set eyes of the prisoner were staring without expression, and the skin on his face looked to be stretched tight, without emotion.
‘I can confirm to you that Julie died from a single blow to the back of her head. We also know that where she was found is not where she was killed,’ said Raj.
The prisoner’s eyes were wide open, transfixed – cold and dead.
‘You are aware that we found blood on the floor in the hallway of your flat, and on a cloth in a cupboard beneath the sink in the kitchen of your home. Further examination of the flat shows blood splatters on the hallway wall. Tests on that blood are being carried out, and the flat that you shared with Julie is now under intense scrutiny. We are told that it is highly likely this is where Julie was attacked. Is there something you’re not sharing with us, Alan?’
Alan Sanderson’s face was a white mask. His eyes were on Raj’s lips.
‘Do you understand what Detective Sergeant Rajinder Uppal is saying to you?’ said Andy.
Sanderson cast a bewildered look at Andy. ‘I told you,’ he said, in his low, hypnotic monotone voice. ‘She was absolutely fine when I last saw her. I would never, ever hurt her, I couldn’t. I told you we argued. I was sure she was seeing someone else.’ He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, put his head down and shook it from side to side. ‘She denied it, but she was.’ His head dropped lower and he stared at his hands. ‘She had this bite,’ his eyes looked upwards. ‘On her left… her left breast.’ He swallowed. ‘And, I know I didn’t do it.’
Andy looked at Sanderson with renewed interest. ‘So, you were angry, really angry, that’s understandable. Did you lose your temper?’
Sanderson closed his eyes and shook his lowered head again. His voice petered out to a whisper. ‘No, no, I didn’t hurt her. I loved her.’
Andy readjusted his relaxed seating position to sit up straight. He leaned forward and duly rested his forearms on the table. ‘Just you and Julie live at the flat, don’t you?’ said Andy, his lips forming a straight line.
Sanderson looked up, his staring eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve already told you that.’
Andy put his hands flat on the table. ‘Okay, we deal in facts. And the facts tell us that someone has attempted to clean blood up from the floor in the hallway of your flat, where we believe your girlfriend was attacked. She was found dead elsewhere but there is no sign of a break-in. What do you expect us to think?’
Sanderson’s face crumpled. ‘It wasn’t me. I swear on my mother’s life, it wasn’t me,’ he cried.
‘My problem is believing that if it was a stranger had killed Julie, creating such a blood bath in your house, why would they bother cleaning up afterwards and removing her body?’ Andy pushed.
Sanderson threw his arms up in the air. ‘How am I supposed to know? You’re the bloody detective!’
‘We know Julie wasn’t killed where she was found, but that’s what someone may have been trying to have us believe,’ said Raj.
‘How many times do I have to say it? It wasn’t me. Why don’t you believe me?’
Raj cleared her throat. Her arms were crossed loosely on her lap. ‘Alan, do you know the area around Shroggs Grove?’
Sanderson signed deeply. ‘Yes, one of my schoolmates lived there. We played football most Saturdays in Shroggs Park.’
Andy’s eyes narrowed, watching for any indications in his body language that he was lying. Raj continued the line of questioning.
‘Do you know Ogden Reservoir?’
Sanderson’s face was sombre. ‘Yeah, of course I do. If you’ve been to the flat you’ll have seen pictures of me and Julie walking over Pendle Hill from Driver Height. We’d always stop at the kissing gate…’ Emotion got the better of him and he swallowed as a lone tear fell onto his cheek. He wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve.
‘You see, Julie’s vehicle has been pulled out of the reservoir today.’
Sanderson’s eyes showed more than a hint of disbelief. ‘No, no way!’ He looked confused. ‘And you think I would do that? Why would I?’ His hysterical laugh turned into uncontrollable crying. Janet Munroe raised a hand.
