Deadly Focus (21 page)

‘Er … do I have a choice?’ Larry brushed invisible fluff from his dark trousers as he spoke. He reminded Dylan of a spoilt child at times.

‘Not after this morning’s episode you don’t, no. You ought to think yourself lucky you’re even coming on the lock up. Once she’s calmed down, I presume you can come away. Remember, it’s going to be one hell of a shock to her. I want you back here as soon as possible and she can be seen later for a statement. I’ll make the arrest for both murders. I intend to treat him with kid gloves unless he kicks off. After all, I want him to talk to us and it’ll be a lot easier in interview if he does. Dawn, I’ll have you with me in the interview. We’ll see what he starts off saying and then play it by ear. I’d like to deal with the murders in order, but we’ll see how it goes. It’s nearly briefing time. Anything else you think we need to cover?’ he asked them both.

‘Media, boss. Are we going to have a pre-arranged statement to be released at a specific time?’

‘Yeah, I thought so, I drafted this. “A forty-five year old man from Tandem Bridge was arrested today in connection with the murders of Daisy Charlotte Hind and Christopher Francis Spencer.” However, we won’t release it till late morning. Right then, let’s tell the team what’s going to take place tomorrow.’ Dylan was keyed up and eager to get on.

Walking along the corridor to the briefing room, he could hear the team’s laughter, mimicking, teasing, and fun.
I’m going to have to hold the reins tight on this lot,
he thought. Once they knew, it would be like showing a dog a rabbit. Dylan himself was on a high; he was smiling inside, but his grin could not reach his lips. He had to hold a solemn face, the serious approach. He had arrested a murder suspect many times before, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to see the surprised look on Wilkinson-Little’s face when he felt his collar. Dylan could already feel his adrenaline pumping just at the thought of it, but he had to suppress it to make sure he remembered everything he had to say at the briefing. They’d worked so hard to get this far and nothing was going to spoil it now. He didn’t want any mistakes or any transgression that could prejudice the case.

Jack Dylan and the two detective sergeants strode into the room. The noise cut to silence. The room itself was indifferent, unaffected by the enormity of it all. There were desks and chairs strewn about haphazardly so everyone could fit in. Larry closed the door and joined Dawn and Dylan at the front of the audience. Dylan spoke.

‘Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty we will arrest a suspect whom we believe to be our murderer. He will be brought here to Harrowfield HQ. We have recovered Christopher’s sock and also part of Daisy’s bridesmaid dress, which have been positively identified by their families and are now with forensic.’ The room remained perfectly still. ‘The target is Harold Wilkinson-Little.’

There were instantaneous murmurs and mutterings around the room, heads turned, people whispered into each other’s ears behind cupped hands. ‘Yes,’ Dylan continued, ‘Most of you will know him. He is our property clerk. He’s obviously been amongst us since the beginning of these incidents. Tomorrow he’ll be with us in a completely different capacity. At this time his house is under surveillance. His wife Pauline works at Tesco. A lot of hard work has been done so far, but there’ll be a lot more to do when he’s in. Dawn and Larry will give you specific tasks. Remember, I want nothing but a professional approach.’

The meeting was closed and everyone buzzed around to find out what his or her role would be in the operation.

Dylan contacted Superintendent Phil Warrington in a confidential e-mail to let him know of the arrest, as promised.

Jen was pleased when Jack walked in early.

‘Steak’s on,’ she called from the kitchen as she heard the door bang. ‘You’ll need your strength to get you through tomorrow, I hear.’

She placed before him a plate of sirloin steak with fragrant garlic mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, and mashed and roast potatoes, accompanied by a glass of red wine.

‘Just eat,’ Jen ordered as she sat down in the chair opposite him; if he started talking, she knew it would go cold. Jack smiled, leaned across the table, holding his tie to his shirt so as not to trail it through the gravy, and kissed her.

With the exception of a small piece of meat on the corner of his plate, Jack ate the lot. At his side, waiting patiently, was Max. Jack dropped the scrap of steak into the patient dog’s mouth; it never touched the sides.

‘That was wonderful, love.’ He was always appreciative, which made Jen love cooking for him. ‘What’s for pudding?’

‘I’m sure you’ve got hollow legs, mister. Treacle sponge and custard. I hope you’ve left room.’ She was standing at the sink running the washing up water as she turned to him and smiled. ‘Then you can go into the lounge, put your feet up and watch the news whilst you’re reading the evening paper. I’ll bring you coffee when I’ve cleaned up here.’ Jack stood up from the table and went to snuggle up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling his face into her neck. ‘Did I ever say “thank you” for loving me?’ he asked, kissing her neck softly. ‘You spoil me, you know.’

‘I like spoiling you. Oh, by the way I called in at Tesco, so there’re plenty of bananas for you to take tomorrow, plus an apple, water, and two packs of doughnuts for the team.’ Jen busied herself clearing the table. ‘I bumped into my friend who works there. She used to look after Max for me when I went to Mum and Dad’s before I met you. I haven’t seen her for ages.’

‘That’s lovely, and guess what? That’s where our man’s wife works.’

‘Eek. Oh gosh, I bet she knows her.’

‘Well, it’s not as if she’s done anything wrong, poor woman,’ Jack called as he walked down the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom. As he passed their bedroom, he noticed Jen had already hung his suit, shirt and lucky tie on the wardrobe door for the next day. He shook his head in disbelief. She really was amazing.

Five thirty in the morning and Dylan was buzzing, ready for off. He hadn’t slept much, tossing and turning in anticipation of the arrest, but surprisingly he felt fresh and wide awake. The day felt cool as he left the house, there was a morning mist, and the slight breeze had a bite. It was so quiet and still; it felt eerie as he drove to work. Larry arrived as Dylan parked his car and they walked into the incident room together. Luckily it was a very different Larry from the previous day.

‘Morning, you two,’ shouted Dawn, looking over her shoulder from where she stood making coffee.
That’s more like it,
thought Dylan.

As promised, on the nail the call came in from the Obs team.

‘Boss,’ said the caller in a hushed tone. ‘Your target hasn’t moved. Best of luck. We’ll move away once your cars arrive.’

‘Thank you,’ Dylan said, and replaced the receiver. ‘Arrest time, you lot.’ he growled.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dylan and Dawn travelled in silence, each nursing their own emotions. They’d waited a long time for this day.

The small convoy of six vehicles moved slowly. Five plain vehicles and one marked car crept down the cul-de-sac, tyres crunching the gravel, until they each took their positions to surround the house. The officers moved forward as one to number twelve and stopped.

Dylan’s knock was like thunder. The echo made the sound last. Lights illuminated neighbouring houses. Blinds twitched as occupants looked to see what the noise was about. A glow appeared to the side of number twelve’s bedroom curtains. Dylan impatiently thumped again. A beam of light sprang through the half window of the front door.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming, patience, please,’ came a voice from within.

Dylan could hear the bolt drawn back. The key turned and the door squeaked open.

The boy-sized frame of Harold Wilkinson-Little stood in front of them, dishevelled, dressed in blue striped pyjamas and old tartan slippers.

‘Can I help you? Oh, it’s you Mr Dylan, sir,’ he said politely, pulling his pyjama top together with one hand as he held the door open with the other.

Dylan stepped forward across the threshold. ‘May we come in?’ He pushed the open door wide with the palm of his hand, not waiting for an answer. Harold took a step back.

‘Harold Wilkinson-Little, I am arresting you for the murders of Daisy Charlotte Hind and Christopher Francis Spencer.’ Dylan spoke quietly but with authority, as he cautioned him. Little stood, his face expressionless, as he stared at Dylan and remained silent.

‘What’s going on, Harold? Who is it? Harold.’ A woman’s high-pitched voice cracked the tense atmosphere. Dawn silently handcuffed Harold and escorted him to the waiting car, as his wife Pauline appeared at the top of the stairs. Dylan directed the team into the house to start the planned search.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘What’s going on? Where you taking Harold? He’s not dressed,’ she said, flustered.

Larry stepped towards her as she came down the stairs. ‘Mrs Wilkinson-Little, your husband has been arrested for the murders of two children. We’ll be searching the house and taking items away,’ Larry said, as sensitively as he knew how. Leading her by her elbow, he took her through the hallway and into the small kitchen. Sitting her down, he found the kettle and filled it with water.

‘What? He couldn’t possibly. Tell me this is a dream. This is ridiculous, you’ve got it all wrong he … he … works for the police.’

She was in need of a cup of strong, sweet tea. Larry knew Pauline would also be a victim, and he wouldn’t find it easy to console her. Not only had Harold killed two children and ruined the lives of those families, he’d also destroyed her life. Neighbours would point fingers at her.
That’s her that’s married to the child killer.
The house, her home, would more than likely become a target once it became common knowledge. Dylan and the team would do their level best to get support for her. Time would heal, maybe, but Harold had left her with her own life sentence: the tag of being the wife of a child murderer. The question people would always ask would be,
did she know?

Larry sat with Pauline while the team searched. He tried to explain to her what they were doing, but in her dazed state, he could have been reading a shopping list. He knew it would all have to be explained to her again, later.

Harold’s van was being lifted onto a low loader outside the house, and the orange light of the truck flashed in Pauline’s face as she sat at the kitchen table. Pauline began sobbing, her cries muffled by the tissue she held. She told Larry she had a sister who she’d like to have with her. Pauline would soon learn that the man she’d shared her life with was a stranger; she didn’t actually know him at all. There were so many questions she needed answers to, but only one person could tell her and that was Harold. Would she ever believe a word he said again? Although distraught, she began to realise that the police didn’t go to these lengths for nothing.

Harold sat in the back seat of the CID car and stared straight ahead, as if a mannequin. They arrived at the custody suite of the station, where the sergeant went through a series of routine questions: name, address, and date of birth. Dylan and Dawn remained quiet, watching Harold’s every movement.

‘You will need a solicitor; do you have one in mind?’

‘Yes, Brenda Cotton from Sykes and Co,’ he said in a quiet voice, his head bent. His chin nearly touched his chest.

Dawn looked at Dylan. ‘Have you been expecting us?’ asked Dylan.

Harold stared straight ahead and spoke to the sergeant as if Dylan wasn’t there. ‘I know my rights. I haven’t had breakfast,’ he said, lifting his head up and speaking clearly.

‘Oh, dear, what a shame. Breakfast’s over,’ the sergeant drawled sarcastically as he continued to fill in his paperwork.

‘Harold, we’ll get you breakfast. Is tea and toast all right?’ Dawn asked.

‘Thank you,’ he whimpered. His lip quivered like a child as he turned to look at her.
Perhaps the soft approach will work,
thought Dylan.

Dawn was playing games, keeping him sweet until he was interviewed. Thereafter he would be the evil child-murdering bastard she knew he was. She managed to smile at him with this thought in mind.

‘Your solicitor will be contacted and asked to attend at the police station as soon as possible. In the meantime, we need you to change out of those clothes into one of our overalls, until someone brings you alternative clothing. You’ll go into a cell until some food can be arranged,’ said the sergeant as he marched him down the corridor to the dedicated chamber that awaited him.

The cell had no natural light; it was dimly lit and furnished with a low, wooden, fixed bed base with a thin, blue plastic mattress on top. A metal toilet stared at Harold from where he sat on his bedstead; it had no seat. Although the cell was dismal, claustrophobic and bare, it was still too good for a murderer. It would remain a mystery to Dylan why criminals were looked after so well, even after conviction in prison.

Harold would be under constant supervision, which meant the cell door would be open and a uniformed officer would sit outside on a chair. It was known as ‘suicide watch’ and was in place because nobody knew what Little’s reaction would be to his arrest. The officer would be under instruction to record any comments the prisoner made: they might be useful in interview. However, the police officer could not reply, or the defence could claim it was oppressive and an actual interview.

‘Sarge, don’t upset him before we’ve interviewed him, please,’ said Dawn, in an attempt to appeal to the custody sergeant’s better nature now Harold was in a cell.

‘I won’t.’ He tutted and rolled his eyes.

‘We’re serious, sarge,’ Dylan growled.

‘I know, I know … kid gloves,’ he reluctantly replied.

‘One double murderer in the cells.’ Outside in the corridor, Dawn dramatically punched the air.

‘Just got to prove it now,’ replied Dylan.

‘He must have planned to have Brenda Cotton from Sykes and Co when he was arrested. Don’t you think?’