Deadly Focus (12 page)

Dylan arrived at Harrowfield Police Station at seven o’clock. He was sure he’d heard the name of the missing boy before, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to him. Dylan looked at the lines of enquiry to see if they were sufficient. What contingency planning had been put into place for the search to continue overnight? Had they already cleared the ground beneath their feet? Dylan swore by the golden rule. Had the detectives already searched Christopher’s bedroom? Did he have a computer? Dylan knew how important it was to try to understand the family and get a background for Christopher himself. What sort of family were they? Which school did he attend? What did the school know about him? Who took him for football? Where is that person? Dylan tried to keep an open mind as he worked through what was already known about Christopher, but his mind was racing at a hundred miles per hour. He needed answers to lots of questions and the night was drawing in. He sent his detective sergeant and two detective constables, one a specially trained family liaison officer, to the family home, having first briefed them that the purpose of their visit was to gather information.

The on-call detective sergeant was Larry Banks, and he joined Dylan in the office. Dylan had worked on a number of occasions with Larry the lad, as he was known. A lot of police officers had nicknames; it went with the job. He was six feet tall with neatly combed back, jet black hair. Some thought it was dyed, but Dylan wasn’t sure and frankly didn’t care. What he did know about Larry was he was always impeccably turned out, he was forty-five-ish and divorced twice with no children, and he somehow managed to afford a luxury riverside apartment and a bright blue Audi sports car. He always wore slip-on leather shoes without socks; the rumour being that, as his socks had once been his downfall when he’d to leave some married lady’s bedroom in a hurry, not wearing them meant he had less to worry about if he needed to make a quick exit. If he wasn’t on the pull or in the gym he was in his favourite haunt, the pub.

Children, in Dylan’s experience, were found in all kinds of places. A small girl who went missing had only gone to the bottom of the garden, climbed into her pet rabbit’s hutch and fallen asleep, much to her parents’ relief. Others he could remember had done much the same thing in attics, cellars, sheds and garages. However, experience was telling Dylan that this one felt different.

In the darkness enquiries progressed, but there had been no sign of Christopher since the match. The cold night and the thought of hypothermia concerned Dylan. Some of the team were still with the family. The enquiry was ongoing and arrangements were made for them to stagger their contact throughout the night. Cell site analysis of activity from Christopher’s mobile was instigated, which Dylan hoped would lead to a possible location. The area around the football pitch was sealed, and a tent was erected around the entry where Christopher had waited. Rain was forecast.

Initial searches were negative. The Spencers’ house showed nothing untoward, they were just an ordinary family who were out of their minds with worry. Dylan returned home in the early hours knowing that he personally couldn’t do any more until first light. Jen was lying awake in the dark as he crept into the bedroom. She didn’t turn to face him.

‘Hi, love, I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he whispered as he pulled back the covers and slid into the nice warm bed.

‘You’re freezing,’ she squealed as Dylan snuggled up behind her. ‘You want to talk about it?’ she asked turning to give him a cuddle.

‘It’s a ten-year-old boy, gone missing from a school football match earlier. I saw him score a goal, Jen. I stopped at the school to watch the match for a few minutes.’
Was the murderer watching too?
Dylan wondered. He put his face in Jen’s shoulder. There was no more to say.

‘Let’s hope he turns up, eh?’ she said as she held him tight. She was just pleased he was home with her.

Dylan didn’t sleep much; his mind was racing. Many times he woke with questions or ideas, and jotted them down on the pad on his bedside table.
Contact the Press Office. Keep a lid on panic in the community. Search sites?
The thoughts went around and around in his head.

The alarm clock read ‘05:30’ in big, red numbers when he opened his eyes. As they were adjusting to the darkness, the phone rang. It was police control. A security night watchman walking home by torchlight had come across a body hung from a bridge over the canal at Lowergate.

‘Is it the boy?’ Jen asked tentatively, her mouth dry.

‘Looks like it,’ Dylan said as he climbed out of bed. He turned and leaned over to kiss her. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ he stopped and cupped her face in his hand, looking into her eyes. ‘That’s all I seem to be saying these days, isn’t it? Remember I do love you. I know I keep saying it, but I never want you to forget.’

Shit, shave, cuddle, and he was off, while Jen rolled over in bed stuffing her head under her pillow and groaned.
Why, why, why was it always Dylan that was called out?
‘Urgh, she growled in between clenched teeth, crying in anger into the mattress.

‘Larry, meet me at the scene as soon as you can.’ Dylan spoke on the hands-free phone in his car, anxious to hit the ground running. ‘I need the scene sealed. SOCO are on their way, I’m told, and I need an exhibit officer identifying. Do you know if preliminary examinations have been carried out by paramedics?’

Larry yawned. ‘Um, yes. Okay, okay and don’t know,’ he said trying to keep up with Dylan’s requests while still trying to see through the fog of last night’s ale.

Once suited up, the group led by Dylan walked along the towpath to the bridge, then along the twenty or so footplates that SOCO had laid so no one would trample over any evidence that may be there. There was no sign of Larry, but to be fair he’d got the scene sealed and an exhibits officer on site. A searchlight enabled them to see the hanging body. A shuffle along the footplates told Dylan that Larry was walking in haste towards them.

‘Larry, arrange me some canvas screening on poles, would you? The last thing we need is prying eyes,’ he shouted not turning to look in his direction.

‘Will do, boss,’ Larry replied.

He could see the body of a young boy, bright blue nylon rope around his neck. A smearing of something dark was around his mouth and about his face, like mud. He turned away. The body looked like something from another planet. The boy’s face was distorted and purple in colour. His dark blue tongue protruded from his mouth. It was elongated and swollen to probably three times its normal size. The boy’s eyes bulged out of their sockets: even from a distance; it was a nauseating sight. Dylan could quite understand the shock and reaction of the man who found him.

The occasional splash of the slow-moving water of the canal disturbed the silence, making the quietness of the moment seem eerie. Even though they were fifteen feet away from the body, Dylan could see the boy’s head flopped to the right like a rag doll. He shivered. He had seen a few hangings in his time. All had been horrific, but this was by far the worst. Another child’s body.

The team walked slowly and carefully onto the bridge itself. It was only about four feet wide. Not big enough for a large vehicle, Dylan noticed. He could see that the rope came up over the stone wall and was fastened to a lamppost at the opposite side.

‘The child’s got an injury to the top right hand side of his head,’ the officer from SOCO pointed out. ‘Look, you can see where it’s bled.’

‘It’s not consistent with a fall,’ observed Dylan. ‘Not suicide. Murder? Someone has taken the time and effort to leave the child’s body like this. We’re going to have to somehow lift him onto the bridge or lower him into a dinghy.’ Dylan pondered. ‘And as soon as possible.’ He was sure it was just one of many problems that lay ahead.

‘The canal is only about two feet six deep here, so we can examine the body in situ using a scaffolding tower then lower it by cutting the rope,’ an officer from operational support informed Dylan.

‘We’ll need two people to lower the body into a dinghy and paddle it to the canal side.’ Dylan thought out loud, considering the option. It bothered him, the extent to which the murderer had gone to display the young lad’s form. Evil didn’t begin to describe it. This was not simply a dump site. Dylan knew the killer had planned everything before he struck and left the body on display in this way, but why?

Chapter Fifteen

Daylight crept upon them, nobody noticed. Christopher’s sports bag could now be seen at the opposite side of the bridge. Scenes of crime officers worked busily securing evidence. Dylan told them to cut the rope a couple of feet above the body for closer inspection of the knot and possible DNA.

The suits of those worn would be retained just in case they were required by anyone for evidence at a later stage. Everything had to be recorded, retained and revealed for disclosure to any future defence team, should they wish to examine it. Once the sports bag had been photographed, its contents would also be photographed individually, item after item carefully examined. Dylan left Larry to oversee the recovery of Christopher’s body and went to meet the liaison officers outside the Spencers’ home, after which he planned to go inside to meet the family and break the sad news. He saw Detective Clive Merton, the FLO for the incident, and PC Frances Hope, who was new in post, just having returned from her FLO training.

The family’s worst fear would shortly become reality. Their son dead. And at this stage a lot of unanswered questions. Why? Who? When? Where? He would also have to tell them how their child had died, but not yet. He needed to tell them of the discovery before they heard it through the media. He briefed the FLOs as to the situation at the canal and what would happen later in the day, then he went into the Spencers’ house. Martin and Sarah were open-mouthed, just waiting for news, reminding him of hungry chicks in the nest waiting for food. Their faces were ashen with lack of sleep, worry and distress. Inside they sat and then Dylan broke the news. As he spoke, tears rolled silently down their cheeks. Sarah hugged her daughter Jane to her.

‘Oh, my god no,’ Martin cried. ‘Where is he? I want to see him.’

‘The boy’s body, which we believe is Christopher, is being taken to Harrowfield mortuary. You’ll be able to see him there. I’m afraid you’ll have to make a formal identification,’ Dylan told them. Sarah cried quietly. As she tried to stand, her legs buckled and she almost dropped Jane. He didn’t want to tell them Christopher had been hanged. He knew that he would have to break this harrowing detail at some point, but he could only do that once the facts had been established and the time was right.
When is there ever going to be a right time to tell them that?
Dylan wondered. Once again he found himself trying to console a destroyed family, attempting to soften the impact as best he could. He drew on all his experience in dealing with situations such as these. But in his heart, deep down, he knew that no matter what he said or how he said it, all they wanted was Christopher back.

‘Let me assure you both that once I’m in possession of all the facts I will hold nothing back from you. You have every right to know.’ He knew how difficult it was, the not knowing, but asked them to be patient while enquiries were being completed to establish what had happened and how Christopher had died.

‘I will update you later in the day and, apart from seeing Christopher; you will be able to go to where his body was found if you want.’ Dylan was careful not to say ‘died’ as it was unlikely in his mind that he was killed there. The post mortem would hopefully enlighten him as to what had taken place.

He headed back to the mortuary. Once there he met up with Larry, the scenes of crime officers, Andrew and Mike, and the on-call pathologist, Professor Shirley Wright. Dylan had met her before on other cases. He was glad it was Shirley; he had a lot of time for her.

‘The lad had played football for the school. They won and he scored their two goals. Strangely enough I saw him there, but that’s another story. After the match, he’d waited for his dad, in the usual place. Dad had a flat tyre and was late. When he got there, Christopher had gone, which was totally out of character. A digital photograph of the boy has been taken in situ.’ Dylan handed it to Shirley.

The examination began. Some rounded object, the size of a golf ball or thereabouts, had caused the injury to the right rear of Christopher’s head.

‘It was a forceful blow,’ remarked Shirley. ’It would have rendered him certainly semi-conscious if not unconscious and it has caused a massive hairline fracture to the skull.’

The circular impact mark was measured and found to be two inches in diameter. Petechia, burst blood vessels, covered the whites of the eyes. The noose was carefully cut from around the boy’s neck and preserved. The dark coloured substance around and in his mouth was discovered to be excrement.

‘Ugh,’ murmured Shirley, as it was swabbed and scraped into containers. Was it human? Only time would tell. The smell of the mortuary had taken on the overriding smell of faeces, which rose above the normal distinctive smell of death. This was not just murder. The killer was leaving a message. But why?

‘It appears that he’s lost part of the brace from his upper front teeth. Some of it is intact, but the majority is missing. There has been bleeding and bruising, which suggests that it was ripped out by force, either by something or somebody.’ Shirley continued Christopher’s post mortem. He had not been sexually assaulted and his internal organs were all normal. He had been a healthy young boy prior to his death.

‘Cause of death, strangulation by ligature,’ Shirley announced, as she meticulously recorded weights of organs, and took blood and other routine samples. ‘After the blow to the head he would have been unconscious, but the strangulation, the hanging, is what killed him.’

As Shirley washed her hands, she turned to Dylan. ‘Best of luck with this one, I hope you catch the perpetrator pretty quick. If I can be of any help, well, you know, don’t hesitate.’