Deadly Focus (28 page)

‘You wanted revenge?’ Dawn asked.

‘Don’t even go there,’ answered Little.

‘But why, after all these years?’ Dawn asked.

‘I thought they’d have changed or forgotten. I’m scarred. There isn’t a day goes by when I don’t suffer a panic attack or break out in a sweat with the flashbacks.’

‘So are you saying if they’d changed, or apologised to you at the reunion, everything would have been okay?’ Dylan queried.

‘I didn’t say that. I didn’t say that, did I? Stop putting words into my mouth. Thirty years I’ve suffered,’ Little stormed.

‘Calm down, Harold, we’re only trying to understand what went on. Did you want to attack them?’ asked Dawn.

‘How could I? They’re bigger … stronger … than I am, and they always will be.’

‘Could you not have challenged them at the reunion about their behaviour at school? I mean, now everyone is older, wiser and more mature, they might’ve understood.’

‘No.’

‘Okay, so how many people are we talking about, Harold? Did you hate all the class, the whole year, everyone?’ Dylan asked.

‘No. Nobody liked me. I know they thought I was strange. I didn’t hate them. I just didn’t have any friends because ….’ He stopped, choking back tears.

‘Because?’ asked Dawn.

‘Because nobody wanted to be seen with me in case they got treated like I did.’

‘Is the reunion the first time you’ve seen these people, since school?’

‘No. ‘Cause I’ve seen them. But I was hardly going to go up and say “hello”, was I?’

‘Why? Do you think they’d hurt you now?’ Dylan asked quietly.

‘A bully’s a bully. What they did to me wasn’t just a schoolboy prank. I know what they’re like, don’t I? With respect, you don’t, Inspector.’

‘So why did you think they’d be any different at the reunion?’

‘Well, like … there’d be people about, and anyway I was going to let them know I worked for the police. Once they knew that, they wouldn’t try anything again, would they?’ Little said smugly.

‘You said they’d made fun of you. Did they do anything specific to you at the reunion?’

‘No. I just overheard them laughing.’

‘Had they changed much? Did you recognise them? Did they recognise you?’

‘I recognised them and they recognised me, all right. I’d seen them and their pictures on the website.’

‘Are you going to name them now? You don’t owe them any favours, do you, Harold?’ Dawn felt the time was right to ask.

Little said their names fast as if it would conjure them up in the interview room. ‘Martin Spencer, Barry Sanderson, Trevor Hind, Billy Fletcher.’

Dylan carefully watched Little’s reaction. The revelation was an anti-climax. Billy Fletcher? Dylan hadn’t heard of him, but he knew very soon he would know. He would be raising an enquiry to see who Billy Fletcher was.

‘So what did you do to get back at them?’ Dawn continued, probing and prodding him for an answer, as if Little had just announced the names of his favourite group, not the names of his torturers.

Dylan saw Little’s eyes flicker and knew he was picturing the boys.

‘I made up my mind. They would pay this time. I wanted them to suffer like I’ve suffered day in, day out since.’

‘The visit to the reunion got you so upset? So angry? How were you going to make them pay?’

Three questions at once Dawn,
thought Dylan.
Slow down.
But he did understand her frustration. Little’s face had turned grey and he fingered his wedding ring. He ignored the questions, looked at Dawn, and spoke as if they were having coffee in a street cafe.

Turning his head on one side, he asked softly, ‘How is my Pauline? Is she okay?’

‘She’s with her sister,’ Dawn said quietly.

‘His wife’s ill.’ His solicitor spoke up for him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Harold. She’ll be worried sick, won’t she?’

‘Yes, I know. I didn’t think it would happen yet.’

‘But you expected it at some time?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Harold, let’s put an end to all this. Tell us in your own words what happened.’

He sighed and his shoulders sank. Dylan held his breath. A smile of triumph creased Little’s face. He was savouring the moment as if the taste of sirloin steak had just reached his lips.

‘I decided I wanted to hurt them as they’d hurt me. I watched them in their perfect lives, playing happy families. We couldn’t have children, you know. They hadn’t suffered, like me. Pauline … it’s not fair. It isn’t fair. They made my life hell, why should they be happy? They didn’t even know. Martin Spencer’s son played football. Do you know, he had a son and he didn’t even bother to go and watch him play football?’ Little tutted in disgust. ‘I watched him for weeks. Trevor wasn’t fit to be a dad and when he realised how lucky he was; it was too late, wasn’t it?’

‘So what did you do?’ Dylan asked as the tension built.

Little closed his eyes and Dylan knew that he was seeing the scene as if it was being played on a video. ‘Simple, really.’ His eyes sprang open. ‘It was a lot easier than I thought,’ he said smugly. ‘I followed him ‘til I knew his routine. Saturday was football. He dropped Christopher off, but I knew something he didn’t know when he left him that day. He wouldn’t see him alive again.’

‘So what did you do then?’ asked Dylan.

‘I went to his shop and stabbed the tyre of his parked car. It was so simple. Then I drove back to the football game and watched and waited. I parked the van behind the trees by the gate. Christopher was kicking a stone on the ground, laughing as he talked on his mobile. He heard me at the last minute, but I hit him on the back of the head with the cane to keep him quiet. He fell to the ground like a sack of shit.’ Little was visualising the scene with great clarity. He looked straight through Dylan and Dawn, who sat directly opposite him. He appeared younger as contentment flourished on his face; he was smiling slightly as he began to tell of Christopher’s murder, reliving and enjoying the experience.

‘Did you kill Christopher?’ Dylan asked.

‘I told you. I was watching. I was so close I could hear him talking to his dad on the phone. I could almost feel his breath. I had to be quick. I dragged him and then bundled him onto the floor of the van.’

‘Wasn’t he heavy?’ continued Dylan.

‘No.’ Little appeared surprised by the question.

‘Where did you go?’

‘You know where you found him.’ Little appeared bored; his fantasy lived out once more.

‘Why hang him, why the dog dirt?’

‘I told you. That’s what they did to me, his dad, Martin.’

‘You took things from Christopher, didn’t you? Why?’

‘I wanted to hurt Martin Spencer. I wanted to make it last, to go on and on. I’ve read murder files in the store, you know. I’m no worse than those murderers and I’d good reason. The killers in them files … they were evil.’

‘What do you mean when you say you wanted to keep hurting Martin, Harold? How did you do that?’

‘By post.’

‘What did you post to him?’

‘A card with his son’s brace … well part of it … they aren’t meant to come out, them bloody things. That sorted Martin Spencer out for this year.’ He laughed a cruel, frenzied laugh, threw his head back and opened his mouth wide. He slapped his hands on the desk in front of him. No longer did he portray the image of a poor victim, but an evil predator.

‘Did you take anything else?’ Dawn asked.

‘One of his socks. I was going to send it to Martin next year,’ he said, smiling, obviously pleased with himself. ‘When they thought it was all over, I was going to turn the screw again.’

Little was enjoying this. Dylan could see his eyes dancing with possibilities.

‘You know we recovered the sock in the “Wilkinson” bag, don’t you?’ Dylan asked.

He looked taken aback as though he’d just realised he’d said too much.

‘Right,’ was all he said.

‘Christopher was an innocent young boy. He’d done nothing to you,’ said Dawn.

‘Well, I know that feeling, don’t I? I was innocent. What’d I done wrong, Inspector? It’s his dad’s fault not mine.’

‘So just to be absolutely clear, you’re telling us, after watching and waiting, you killed Christopher to get back at his dad?’ confirmed Dylan.

‘I can see now why you’re an inspector,’ he said, cocking his head in a bird-like fashion.

‘What about the other lads from school?’

‘Barry Sanderson’s a waster. He’s sick, an alcoholic. Thank you, god.’ He spoke to the ceiling as if calling to god almighty. ‘But I poisoned his beloved dog. He buried it in the garden, but I dug it up. He was going to get it back in a parcel,’ he said sniggering. Dylan let him talk. ‘Billy Fletcher, he got killed a couple of years back, a hit and run driver. He saved me a job. I wish I’d have thought of that, and fireman Trevor and daughter Daisy. That was fate lending me a hand; I got divine help with that one.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Dylan. For a moment he looked as if he contemplated holding back, but then realised he had said too much, come too far.

‘Right place, right time. Ah, poor little Daisy,’ he pulled his lips in an unhappy grimace, but sounded chuffed with himself all at the same time. He appeared to be really enjoying himself now.

‘So what did you do to Daisy?’

‘I watched the house just one night, like you said. I like to be organised. I’d only just got there after work and she appeared pretty as a picture at the door and ran down the street, alone. Now tell me, why would you let a child go out in the dark alone? Some parents she had. She had to come back, didn’t she? So I waited,’ he said with menace in his tone.

‘What did you do?’

‘I parked my van at the side of the road and waited. When I saw her coming, I got out, I hit her over the head when she passed, and threw her in the van.’

‘And?’

‘She was dead, so I drove up towards the reservoir and dumped her body.’

‘Is that where you hurt your ankle?’

‘No, no that’s a health and safety issue. I’ve got a claim in for that. That happened in the store. Bloody administrator, I should have seen her off … the way she spoke to me.’ He was talking now as if he was a powerful individual and capable of anything.

‘But you didn’t just dump Daisy’s body, did you, Harold?’ teased Dylan.

‘I know what you mean …. Yes … okay, I removed her clothes. I wanted them to know that their daughter was dead but needed them to think that someone had raped her first. I’m not into that sort of thing, but I thought it would add to their pain, rub salt in it like … when I was stripped, you know, before …?’

‘You say
their
pain but Daisy’s mum and Christopher’s mum hadn’t done anything to you, had they? They don’t even know you and neither did Daisy nor Christopher.’

‘Ah, but their pain would have given Martin and Trevor pain, too. You reap what you sow, I’m afraid, in this life. It’s their fault, not mine.’ Little was indignant and had absolved himself of all responsibility, which mystified Dylan to watch. Little truly believed he had done nothing wrong, but was paying back a debt, a huge debt of bullying.

‘What about the fingertip?’

‘Well, that was an accident. They do happen. It trapped in the door when I flung her in the van, so I thought I’d make good use of it by sending it to them,’ he laughed. ‘Waste not, want not, call it recycling.’ The smile was set on his face like an ugly joker.

‘And once you’d done it with Daisy?’ Dylan enticed.

‘Christopher was a piece of piss,’ Little tittered.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

‘Jen? Jen, is that you, Jen?’ Dylan could hear the desperation in his own voice.

‘I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. If you’d like to leave your name and number I will get back to you as soon as possible,’
her answering machine said before it bleeped for a reply.

‘Jen, he’s coughed,’ he yelled excitedly. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know. I love you. Ring me.’ He terminated the call, feeling deflated and sad. He missed her.

The next interview with Little was at nine. Dylan had an hour. He struggled into his suit trousers, which he’d thrown over the dressing table chair the night before. Right now he had to get to work.

Dylan wanted to get into Harold Little’s ribs in this interview. He was fired up, ready to go. He read the statements submitted by the officers dealing with Martin, Trevor and Barry as he walked along the corridor to the interview room. Dylan stretched his legs as he strode out and it felt good. He knew psychiatrists would argue for the defence at the trial, but he was confident with all the planning Little had done, he would be found guilty of murder. Dawn ran to catch him up.

‘Right, updates from the team,’ Dylan said, thinking aloud as he walked with Dawn. ‘Martin Spencer says at school they once stripped Little off as a joke on the playing fields because he’d been bullying some younger kids. Trevor Hind says he remembers teasing him because he was a bit weird.’

Larry knocked on the interview room door as Dawn and Dylan took their seats.

‘Morning, you two. I’ve just had a word with the officer that interviewed Sanderson, and I think you should know that he remembers them threatening to hang Harold Little. He said it was just a prank. Some prank eh?’

‘So, he was bullied, but would that fester for thirty years, or did he want to show them he was now big enough to get his own back?’ Dylan said.

Dylan opened the questioning. ‘Harold, last night you admitted murdering Christopher Francis Spencer and Daisy Charlotte Hind, is that correct?’

Little’s lip curled. ‘You’re the expert.’

‘Yes, but you’re the one who actually killed them, aren’t you?’

‘You tell me,’ he spat out, nonchalantly flicking his fingernails.

‘Harold, if your beef was with Martin and Trevor, why didn’t you damage their houses, Martin’s shop or their cars? Why go for their children and why to the extreme of murder?’

‘I wanted to hurt them,’ Little growled.

‘So why didn’t you wait for a dark night and the element of surprise? Why their children and not them?’ Dylan continued to question him.