Deadly Focus (11 page)

‘Fucking hell,’ Dylan gasped, as the skid brought his car to an abrupt halt without the anticipated ‘bang’. The property clerk driving past the entrance to the gated yard had nearly been annihilated.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Dylan said as he wound down his window to apologise to Harold. ‘My fault entirely, my mind was elsewhere.’

‘It’s okay, Mr. Dylan. Don’t you worry yourself. No one’s hurt,’ said Harold. His voice quivered and his face was flushed. ‘You’re a lot busier than me. You … you go first, sir.’ He waved Dylan on and slumped against his steering wheel.

Dylan’s heart rate finally found its equilibrium and he realised he was driving towards Harrowfield Middle School. On the sports field he could see a soccer match taking place. He stopped, shivering as he got out of his warm car to watch. The cold, fresh air felt good and he breathed it deep into his lungs as he stood on the touchline near the penalty box. It was a fast game between Harrowfield and Bradley School. Both teams looked exhausted, socks rolled down, 1 – 1 on the scoreboard. Someone shouted, ‘Five minutes remaining.’ Dylan felt quite excited. The sound of the referee’s whistle pierced the air. He was pointing to the penalty spot.

‘Come on, Harrowfield,’ came the shout of a supporter. There was a lot of booing from the Bradley School end, as Malcolm Meredith, Harrowfield’s PE teacher and coach, walked on the pitch to speak to his team. He looked calm and confident. He pointed to a little thin lad with a red, elfin face, who stood shaking on the periphery of the group. ‘Chris, you take it. Goalie’s left,’ he advised.

Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, showing the navy blue brace on his teeth.

‘Your best striker?’ Dylan asked Meredith, who had come to stand beside him on the touchline.

‘Spencer? Nah, he’s been off injured most of this year. Plays centre forward and never scored.’

‘Poor lad. Why’d you give him the pressure shot then?’

‘He’s a capable player. It’ll give him confidence, if he scores,’ Meredith answered as he clasped his hands together and jogged on the spot. ‘Come on, Chris,’ he cried through gloved, cupped hands.

Christopher Spencer pulled his socks up over his thin, mottled legs. The referee called him forward. There were shouts and screams from the crowd.

He put his head down and ran forward, blasting the ball to the left of the goalkeeper. The keeper dived the wrong way. The teacher was right. It was like slow motion. The ball went in.

‘Yes.’ Dylan threw up his clenched fist and cheered along with the crowd.

Chris turned and ran back towards his teammates, who mobbed him. The coach ran on to the pitch with other spectators and lifted Chris high, swinging him around and round. Dylan smiled.
Great kick, well-done lad,
he thought.
That took ‘bottle’.

Christopher Francis Spencer, aged ten, scoring a goal, a penalty, maybe the winner, it was surreal. This was a dream come true. He couldn’t wait to tell his mum and dad. A few minutes to go and the team were on a high. Christopher couldn’t stop smiling; he didn’t ache or feel the cold anymore. He didn’t even mind the brace he’d recently had fitted and was still getting used to.

The final few kicks of the game, and it was a corner for Harrowfield, safe at Bradley’s end. The ball was crossed, a hard kick. Up went Christopher and it hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.

That hurt,
he thought, turning his face from the mud as he fell. He heard a loud cheer and raised his head. The ball had gone in the back of the net. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was dragged up from the ground by many pairs of arms. The referee blew his whistle. They were in the final. Two goals for Spencer. He was a hero. He was lifted to shoulder height and chaired around the pitch.

Dylan got into his car and drove, feeling guilty all of a sudden. He was never going to catch Daisy’s killer watching a football match now, was he?

Chapter Thirteen

This is the very best day ever,
thought Christopher. He was bursting to tell his dad. How he wished he’d been there to see it. The changing rooms were noisier than he had ever heard before.

‘Great game Chris, well played,’ said Meredith, picking him up in a bear hug.

Dylan drove to Jen’s, switching his car radio on for the first time in as long as he could remember. He felt relaxed, positive.

Chris collected his kit and stood at the entrance to the ground, wishing he had some credit on his mobile so he could ring his dad. No sooner had he thought it than his mobile started vibrating.

‘Dad, guess what? We’re in the final and I scored,’ Christopher shrieked down the phone, shaking with excitement. He grinned from ear to ear.

‘That’s fantastic, son, gosh, I’m so proud of you.’

‘You should have seen me.’

‘Listen, Christopher, I’ve got a flat tyre and I can’t get hold of Mum, so I’m going to be late picking you up. I’ll be there as soon as I can, stay at the usual place.’ Christopher heard his dad chuckle, knew he was smiling. ‘What a player, eh, son?’

Christopher stood and daydreamed. Would his name be in the papers? He imagined the headlines. SPENCER PUTS HARROWFIELD MIDDLE SCHOOL INTO THE CUP FINAL or CHRISTOPHER FRANCIS SPENCER A HERO. He wasn’t bothered which they used.

Most people had gone home. All the Harrowfield players and supporters left, shouting and whistling to Christopher as they passed. Mr Meredith pulled alongside.

‘Do you need a lift, Chris?’

‘No thanks, sir, my dad’s picking me up.’

When Martin Spencer arrived fifteen minutes later, there was no sign of his son. He tried ringing his mobile, but it was out of service.
Where can he be,
he wondered? It was totally out of character for Chris not to be where he said he would be. Martin got out of his car and wandered around the sports field, checked the changing rooms. The doors were locked and bolted. He drove around the area, looking for his son. He telephoned home, just in case. The area leading to the football pitch used by the school was off a small, unmade road. There were a few houses at the end but it was mainly an area where people exercised their dogs. Martin returned home and paced the house.

Where is he, where the hell is he?
he asked himself over and over again, scratching his head. ‘What was Chris thinking of, going off somewhere? That’s why we got the bloody mobile, so he could keep in touch with us,’ he said as he pressed re-dial for the umpteenth time.

When Sarah Spencer got home with her shopping, she rang round Chris’s friends, but all they could tell her was that the last time they had seen him he was waiting for his dad. Martin and Sarah were worried sick. They reported their son missing to the police at twenty to six.

Dylan and Jen had just arrived at the Farrington Restaurant for dinner. It was a lovely place in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of town, far away from prying eyes. Dylan had been promising Jen a night out for ages. Feeling much brighter, he had taken the bull by the horns and booked the table as a surprise. Jen looked gorgeous in a short, floral-print, silk dress and high sling back shoes. She was wearing Jack’s favourite perfume; she knew she smelled good too.

It was blustery outside and they had practically blown into the place. The flames of the candles on the tables flickered as the heavy, wooden door closed behind them, but once seated, the room felt warm and cosy.

‘Miss Jones, you look good enough to eat,’ remarked Jack.

The candles in the brass candlesticks and their soft, warm light gave the surroundings a romantic radiance. The cream damask tablecloth and napkins were perfect for the china, glass, and cutlery set out on them. A fire blazed in the open fireplace, which added to the comfortable glow: its sooty fragrance could hardly be noticed. It was quiet and intimate with only one other couple dining. They were both looking forward to the evening. Jack for once looked relaxed, and handsome in his white shirt and tie, Jen thought, as the maitre’d’ pulled out their chairs. They smiled, content with each other as Jack reached for Jen’s hand across the table.

‘This is lovely. Thank you for bringing me here, Jack,’ she said as they were handed the menu and wine list. Jack didn’t hesitate to order a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Jen’s favourite wine.

She looked coy. ‘I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, Mr Dylan.’

‘And what if I am? I’ll drive. You can have a drink for once. Mmm, I think I’ll have a sixteen ounce sirloin,’ he said, his eyes dancing with delight as he looked at the menu.

‘I might have known you’d pick that, but such a big one?’

‘Yeah, I’m starving. What about you?’ he grinned.

‘A big one, but I think I’ll have the monk fish,’ she teased, looking deep into his eyes.

The dulcet tones of Dylan’s mobile cut short the banter.
No, not now
, he thought as he took a few steps over to the reception area. Jen nodded her thanks to the waiter, who looked at her sympathetically and asked if they would like to wait until the gentleman had finished his call before ordering. Jen could see Jack’s face from where she sat. She knew in her heart that they wouldn’t be eating at the lovely restaurant with the pretty candles. She blew them out in defiance. She could tell by the way he cocked his head and held the mobile to his ear with his shoulder to free his right hand, the way he wrote in his pocket notebook, and the way he listened intently to what he was being told that he would be going back to work soon. His expression was serious as he passed the bottle of red wine that the understanding waiter had corked, to Jen. He opened the car door for her in silence and got into the driving seat. He looked at her and laid his head back.

‘I’ve just got to make another call. I’m so sorry, love.’

‘Is it a bad one?’ she asked through gritted teeth, a lump in her throat.

‘Yeah, a young lad’s gone missing.’

She cuddled up to his arm, leaning towards him from the passenger seat of the car while he keyed the number of force control into his mobile. She was angry, upset, sad, and annoyed with herself for being so selfish. She didn’t want him to see.

‘I hope you find him, safe,’ she whispered, as tears of disappointment stung her eyes. She wouldn’t let him see her cry; she knew he felt guilty enough.

Jack was in work mode and at once became a different person. He talked on his mobile and Jen knew she had already faded into the background, forgotten for the time being. She hated his job for what it did to their lives.

‘Who’s the on-call DS? Call them out. On-call CID? All to the CID office for briefing, please. I want the helicopter up and a full search team to the CID office. Close the street where he was last seen,’ Dylan instructed.

He marched ahead of Jen into the house when they arrived home. Changed his suit and tie in silence and was on his way with a quick kiss on her cheek, but without a backward glance. She watched as usual as the tail lights of his car disappeared. She drew the curtains to shut out the world and clambered into her pyjamas. Taking her make-up off slowly whilst seated at her dressing table, she picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her hair. She hung up her pretty dress and, with dressing gown and slippers on, she padded down the stairs.

‘Hi fella, looks like it’s you and me for dinner again. Beans on toast?’ She groaned as she looked in the cupboard and remembered the lovely food that had been on the menu. Sitting at the kitchen table, she stroked Max’s head, rubbing behind his ears as the microwave whirred. He snuggled up to her leg and placed his head on her knee, appreciating the attention. Food, glass and bottle of wine on the tray, she was followed by Max into the lounge, where she lit the fire and flicked on the TV, mainly for the background noise. The house was so quiet without Jack.
The last thing he needs is another child missing,
she thought as she uncorked the bottle of wine from the restaurant and filled the large glass to the brim.

‘To the police service. Thanks again for ruining my evening,’ she toasted.

Jen had never been a drinker, but planned to have another glass as an anaesthetic to her heartache. The job was hurting both of them. How long could she keep on worrying about Jack and being left alone, disappointed? If she stayed with Jack she knew her life would be being available for him … when he wasn’t working. Did she want it to be like this? She didn’t want to be forever watching his car lights disappearing away from her; she knew that. There would always be a murder, always someone going missing, but did that mean she had to suffer because of it?

‘One day, Max. One day it’ll all change. Do you think?’ She pulled Max closer to her.

Chapter Fourteen

The enquiries into missing persons, or ‘mispers’ as they are known, are well-rehearsed approaches, and although each one is dealt with on its own merits, there is a routine to follow. The tried and tested plan is intended to ensure thoroughness, so that nothing is overlooked.

Two uniformed officers had attended at the home of the Spencers, a male and female, the available unit. They had recorded what had happened and obtained a recent photograph of Christopher and a description of what he had been wearing.

Christopher Francis Spencer was four feet tall, of average build, with very short light brown hair. He was wearing a navy blue tracksuit that advertised Adidas on the right breast, white T-shirt, and size six blue Adidas trainers. He had with him an Adidas navy blue sports bag, which would have in it a blue towel, his football kit, and maybe a juice drink. Christopher was a normal kid. His only distinctive, identifying accessory was the newly fitted, navy blue brace on his top teeth. It was totally out of character for him to go off, he had just spoken to his dad, and was elated about the football result. Instinctively the duty inspector wasn’t happy. This boy going missing felt totally wrong. Christopher’s description went out immediately. Searches using dogs would take place and the helicopter would be up within the hour. CID was requested along with a DS who’d called out a DI. It wouldn’t be long before the Press were out like vultures, asking questions because of the police activity.