As Case Officer, Bull had been the first member of the team Dillon had called. The news that his day was going to be disrupted hadn’t pleased his wife. And he knew the boys would be annoyed when they woke up. They had made plans to visit the local park together for a Sunday morning kick around. Both of his sons played in a junior football league, and rumour had it that talent scouts for a big Premiership club were due to attend their next game. He had promised them they would fit in some extra practice before then.
Still, this was important work and someone had to do it. Besides, the extra money would come in handy. Having his weekly leave cancelled with less than eight days’ notice meant he would be getting paid overtime at double time today. He knew his family understood his sudden abstractions, even if they didn’t like them. Unlike Jack Tyler’s ex, his wife and kids were behind him all the way.
As the speeding car hurtled towards London he glanced sideways at Dillon. Now here was a real character, someone that you either liked intensely or couldn’t stand at all. With Dillon, there were no in-betweens. Detective Inspector Tony Dillon was a diamond in the rough; a down to earth person with simple, honest values. He would bend over backwards to help the needy, and he could be moved to tears by the suffering of others surprisingly easily. However, there was an aura of barely subdued violence about him, and when it came to a time for action Dillon was a man you definitely wanted on your side. He was six-foot-one-inches tall, with the impressive bulk of a power-lifter, and hands the size of shovels. Steve secretly thought that he resembled an overdeveloped gorilla. Dillon’s jet-black hair was shaved to a number-one cut at the back and sides, and the tight French crop on top of his head was brushed forwards and gelled. Unlike Tyler, Dillon could never be described as shy. He was always outspoken, and he could be brutally blunt. You always knew exactly where you stood with him.
After a while, the pleasant greens and browns of the suburbs were replaced by the drab greys of urban concrete. Inside the car they discussed the case, oblivious to the gradual changes in the surrounding environment.
There didn’t seem to be much to go on. The homicide sounded like the work of a ‘crazy’ to Dillon. Was that the case, or was it a skilful attempt to disguise the real motive for the murder, thus throwing them off the killer’s trail?
Could it be a serial killer? Tyler asked. That was the worst-case scenario, they all agreed. It would transform the investigation from a Category B into a Category A case. It would also explain the unusual level of involvement from Holland.
Bull switched the siren on when they reached Leyton, a dense inner-city area within the London Borough of Waltham Forest, and the noise it made effectively killed any further conversation between them.
Steve Bull was enjoying himself as he negotiated the car skillfully through the early morning traffic that was already starting to congest Lea Bridge Road; he rarely got the chance to have a proper blat on blues and twos anymore, and he was determined to make the most of this opportunity. He barely slowed down as they approached the humpback bridge from which the road took its name, and Jack felt his stomach rise and fall in quick succession as they shot over it. He also felt his head hit the roof as they momentarily became airborne, and his spine compress as the wheels hit the ground again. “I want to get there in one piece if that’s alright,” he shouted irritably above the wail of the siren.
“Don’t worry; you’re in safe hands, boss. I’m an advanced driver,” Bull assured him proudly.
“The only thing you’re advanced in is age,” Dillon observed, trying to keep his forefinger in the right place on the page of the battered map book that lay open on his lap.
Tyler, sitting back and rubbing his head, looked out of the window and kept his thoughts to himself.
The Omega powered past Hackney Police Station in Lower Clapton Road. They turned left when they reached Dalston junction, and drove the length of Kingsland Road, finally emerging into the one-way system at Shoreditch.
Jack glanced over at Shoreditch Church, seeing little more than a blur thanks to Steve’s heavy right foot. For a moment, he was tempted to tell his colleagues that he had been christened there, but this didn’t seem like the right time for trivia.
Big green signs appeared giving advance route information for the major junction ahead: Commercial Street and Aldgate were off to the left, the City lay straight ahead; Old Street, Holborn and Islington could be reached by turning right.
Dillon glanced back over his shoulder. “We’re almost there now, Jack,” he shouted.
On Tyler’s instructions, the flashing lights and siren were turned off.
Following the map, Dillon directed Bull to turn left into Commercial Street. A few seconds later he ordered another left turn, this time into Quaker Street. And there, up ahead, were all the parked emergency vehicles and a foreboding looking police cordon.
“We’re here,” Bull said.
“Don’t expect a tip,” Jack replied, massaging the back of his neck.
◆◆◆
The Omega pulled up next to the line of blue tape, which marked the perimeter of the police cordon, about ten yards from the site entrance. Tyler noticed several reporters lingering nearby, like vultures awaiting their next meal.
“Stay with the car, Steve,” he instructed.
As he and Dillon got out of the
