Consequences (15 page)

‘How the hell does this happen? Someone must have known,’ he muttered. He needed some air; the atmosphere was overbearing. He reached for the door handle, there wasn’t one there.

Stumbling down the stairs he could hear voices. SOCO had arrived.

‘Jasmine. Good to see you. Can you do the usual, please; seize blankets, photograph the rooms, and the walls will need examining for blood splashes. The child’s got recent head injuries.’ Dylan’s phone rang. Jasmine nodded, smiling knowingly at him as he turned to take the call.

‘Boss, Patrick Finch. Where are you? Can’t hear you. Signal’s bad but if you can hear me; Division’s letting me go, so I can meet up with you. Anything happening?’ Patrick sounded eager and Dylan walked to the door to try for a better reception. ‘That’s great news. Apart from the burned body in the park, it looks like we’ve got a murder of a little lad on our hands.’

‘A murder? Right boss, where do you want me then?’

‘Here at 14, Peel Street, on the Drighton Estate ASAP.’

Jasmine was heading towards the stairs as he ended the call. ’We may need to place people in the boy’s room. Can you give some thought to fingerprints please?’

‘Will do,’ she said.

Half an hour later, giving the DS a tour of Susan Sharpe’s home, Dylan saw Patrick’s face drain of colour. ‘But it’s no better than a kennel of an ill treated animal,’ Patrick said, his voice choking as they entered the boy’s bedroom.

‘And that is exactly why every SIO should go to the scene. See how the victim lived and you will see how they died,’ Dylan said, repeating his aged old theory. ‘Then and only then can you get a feel for the circumstances surrounding the death. The hardest thing to do though once you’ve been there is control your emotions.’

From the scene they headed to the hospital, only to find the canteen was chaotic. Dylan had no appetite and he saw Patrick hadn’t either, as he watched him toy with the food on his plate, but they both knew they had to force something down; there was a lengthy post-mortem ahead of them. Dylan felt angry inside and was quiet. How the hell could incidents like this continue to happen? So many people, including him, would count themselves blessed to have a little boy like Charlie.

Walking down the long half-glassed corridor of the hospital to the mortuary, always felt surreal to Dylan. The quietness made the hollow rap of shoes on the polished tiled floor echo loudly. The smell of formaldehyde hung in the air. The sun either blazed through the windows making it feel stuffy and warm or the rain beat heavily on the corrugated roof and it felt cold and austere. It was never just an ordinary day, for how could any day that involved attending a post mortem be ordinary? And this was not just any post-mortem, but that of a small, helpless child who had been beaten to death. Dawn walked alongside Dylan and Patrick. ’Lock up the mother on suspicion of wounding,’ Dylan said. ’At least ‘til we have a cause of death, then we’ll see where we go with her. Does she have a photograph of the child on her? I didn’t see one at the house.’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Dawn. ’Shall I get her checked out regarding her fitness for interview? That way I can get a responsible adult if we need one,’ she continued, panting as she struggled to keep up with him.

‘Yeah, thanks. Video any interview and I want to know the whereabouts of the boyfriend and his mate as a matter of urgency.’

‘Consider it done.’ Dawn said, as exhibits officer DC Carter arrived with Phil Turnbull from SOCO in tow, who would cover the mortuary scene, whilst Jasmine continued at the house.

Professor Jefferson studied the unwrapped body of Charlie Sharpe. The little boy’s clothing that had been removed in Casualty earlier lay folded, neatly on the trolley beside him. The professor looked at them before handing them to DC Carter.

‘Dear, dear,’ sighed Donald Jefferson. ‘Let’s weigh him please. Date of birth?’ he asked Dylan.

‘Born 8
th
July 2003,’ he read from his notes.

‘He looks underweight and malnourished for his age. Gosh,’ he said and paused. ’Let’s make a start shall we?’ he said, as the infant’s body was placed naked on the examination table.

Charlie’s swollen face looked contorted with the bruising; like a broken doll. Dylan groped in his pocket for a mint, as he felt bile rising from his stomach. Popping it in his mouth, he offered the packet around, never taking his eyes off the tiny frame on the table. A picture of innocence, he thought.

Donald Jefferson spoke into his Dictaphone. ‘Externally to the head are four cuts,’ he said, measuring them with a twelve inch wooden ruler. ‘Hair has been pulled out by the roots. There is severe bruising to the back of the head and petechia in the eyes, which suggests strangulation,’ he said, turning the head and lifting the eyelids. ‘Broken nose...both wrists have been broken for several days. Left leg broken and there are also welt marks to the backs of both legs, with burns to the feet.’ The list went on and on. Dylan’s chest felt tight with anger and his heart felt heavy with sadness. This little boy had been tortured badly. Charlie had led a painful, brief existence. Dylan heard a mobile ring and it was moments before he realised it was his own, consumed as he was by the horrific scene on the slab.

‘Hello boss, John. Can you speak?’

The body was being opened up, the saw and knife slicing through the bones that weren’t fully developed, as if through butter.

‘Yeah.’ Dylan swallowed hard.

‘A couple of bits of good news. Firstly, forensics have a DNA good enough profile, from the saliva on the balaclava found in the park. They’re going to start searching the database. And on the burnt out car they’ve come up with a chassis and engine number. I’ve already been onto the DVLA and I’m waiting for a call back. The original plate has been changed for a personal one, so I should get that in the next twenty minutes. Shall I get back to you?’

‘That’s great John, thanks.’ Dylan looked at the clock . ‘I’ll still be at the mortuary.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘Appalling. One of the worst, if not the worst case I’ve ever seen.’

Professor Jefferson shook his head as he pulled at his mask over his nose and mouth. His eyes were puffy and red and he looked pale and tired. ’Cause of death, inspector; severe fracture of the skull. He hasn’t just been hit; he’s been hit with a tremendous force.’

‘And the cause of the other injuries?’ Dylan asked.

‘The burns on his feet...cigarette burns I would think. His wrists have probably been broken for about seven days. They have been bound at some stage; see the old bruising?’ Professor Jefferson pointed out. ‘The injuries to his wrists again suggest that he has been hit with something. Again, whatever caused the damage had to have some force behind it. When we’ve run further tests I’ll probably be able to be a bit more precise with the timings.’ He sighed before he continued. ’I can confirm what I said earlier; the fractures to the wrists and leg are around seven days old and consistent with being punched and kicked, and it appears he’s had something around his neck.’

Dylan flinched.

‘I’ve counted seventy-five independent injuries, all-recent, and in my estimation, within the last seven or eight weeks. Some of the cuts to his head are similar to that caused by, perhaps …’ Professor Jefferson studied for a moment or two…‘A razor. His heads been shaved, and none too carefully either.’ He pointed to the gashes on Charlie’s scalp. ‘They would’ve been very sore for the poor little un. Death was probably a blessing in disguise after what he’d been through. He’s been systematically beaten, that’s for sure. Let’s put it this way; to break his limbs wouldn’t have been simple, it would’ve taken a lot of strength and determination and no doubt this has been intentional. You’ve got numerous injuries to support murder.’

‘Thank you Professor.’

‘Just find the animal that did this, Jack,’ he said, as he shook Dylan by the hand. ‘Good luck.’

The team stood rooted to the spot, blank expressions upon their faces; and each deep in their own dark thoughts.

‘Come on. Let’s get back to the nick and we’ll open the incident room.’ Dylan put his hand on Patrick Finch’s shoulder. ’Can you ensure that we keep number fourteen as a crime scene. We’ll need forensics out.’

Dylan texted Jen.
On my way back to the nick. Little Charlie’s PM was bad. The bastard who killed him needs hanging and I’d willingly pull the noose. Shouldn’t be too late tonight hopefully. Will give you a ring when I’m on my way x.

‘Hold on a minute before you update the team Dawn, I’d just like everyone to know that the arrest status of Susan Sharpe has been upgraded to suspicion of murder.’ Dylan told the audience of team leaders in the incident room, who were eagerly soaking up the fresh information. He sat down and motioned Dawn to proceed with the briefing.

‘Susan Sharpe, although twenty-one, only looks about fifteen,’ Dawn said.’ She’s five-foot three, very thin and as you can see from her photograph, frail. She’s got quite a few bruises on her body so I’ve arranged for her to be medically examined. Her best guess as to the father of Charlie is Jason Todd who is a relatively steady boyfriend, and, according to her, accepts the child as his own. He’s on bail for a robbery and he appears to have done a runner when she called the emergency services for Charlie. Jason Todd’s previous, according to information we’ve got, is assault, burglary and robbery.’

The team hung on Dawn’s every word. Some took notes. The room was silent and still.

‘Susan tells me she doesn’t cope well on her own and when Jason threatened to leave her recently, she allowed another lad to move in with them; a mate of Jason’s, Alan. She says Alan’s criminal record is not much better than Jason’s, but she’s too frightened to not do as they tell her.’ Dawn coughed and reached for a drink of water from the glass on the desk in front of her. ‘She said she called her little boy after a character in her favourite film, which happens to be, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.’

‘What’s Alan’s second name? Do we know of him?’ Dylan said sensing the sadness in the room.

‘Alan ….err…Connor.’

‘You’re bloody joking.’ Dylan stared heavenwards, as he rose from his chair and strode the few steps towards her.

‘No, why?’

‘He’s the twat I stopped jumping to his death a while back...Chubby, Chubby Connor.’ he said punching the desk.

‘We don’t know …’

‘I wouldn’t have said he was hard enough to be a bully, he’s a weak kneed little bastard,’ he said with venom. ‘And she must have known. When you look at the house and the injuries... notoys, no photographs... no nothing.’ Dylan’s outburst brought a wave of agreement from the assembled few. It reminded him of a mob, ready to lynch someone.

‘Does she have any photos of Charlie? Did you ask her?’

‘No, she doesn’t, not one.’ Dawn replied sadly.

‘Dawn, I want her interviewed again. Get a description of Alan Connor and the date he moved in. It’s important because some of the injuries can be dated as per the pathologist.’

‘Okay. There was no food in his stomach. She says she believes he died from SID.’

‘What? Sudden Infant Death syndrome? A cot death? ’ Dylan shouted. ‘Sorry,’ he said, waving his hand. ‘I’m pre judging people’s abilities and education based on my own, and I shouldn’t. Let’s see what else she can tell us, eh? Then bed her down for the night and we’ll pick it up again first thing.’

The team disbursed to get on with their actions.

‘I’ll get on with the next interview then, boss,’ groaned Dawn, as she eased herself from behind the desk and stretched.

‘Dawn?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, with a forced smile.

‘Thanks.’ He smiled weakly at her and headed for his computer to have a look at Jason Todd for himself.

‘Pat,’ Dylan shouted. ‘Get direct enquiries carried out to find Jason Todd. Apparently there’s a warrant out for him for robbery, ‘non appearance at court’ so that’s easily enough for a lock up, and find Chubby Connor. It’s more than likely this Alan Connor is going to be him.’

‘Will do,’ he shouted back from the far end of the office. ‘Do you want everybody off at ten and back at eight?’

‘Yeah.’ Dylan replied.

Jen had run the bath when Dylan walked in. She pressed a finger to her lips to stop him from talking and took his briefcase from his cold hand. She pointed to the stairs. He kissed her briefly. The smell of roasting lamb wafted up to the bedroom and he undressed, taking in the luxury of his surroundings. He flicked on the big light in the bathroom, not wanting to be shrouded by the dim light of the candles Jen had lovingly placed around the bath; it reminded him of the darkness Charlie had had to endure.

He squeezed the bath foam through his fingers and the sponge as he absentmindedly patted the water whilst he soaked. Dylan closed his eyes. He heard Jen enter the room and he opened his eyes to find a cup of coffee placed on the side of the bath. She knelt down, stroked his brow and splashed water gently onto his chest.

‘Remember I talked Chubby Connor out of committing suicide; the lad threatening to jump off Stan Bridge when we were going to the Isle of Wight?’

‘Mmm …’ she replied, sleepily.

‘Well maybe if I hadn’t have, little Charlie might still be alive,’ Dylan said, as he stared up at the ceiling, through clouds of steam from the bath drifting up towards the light.

‘Shhhhh,’ said Jen.

‘Am I losing it? Am I out of touch? Passed my best? Starting to make wrong decisions?’ Jen foamed the soap on the sponge and gently rubbed the palm of Dylan’s hand, holding it in her own as she listened to his self-torture. The thought of Charlie’s injuries clung to him like a leach.

‘I saved someone from taking their own life, perhaps only to have them torture and kill an innocent child. I won’t be negotiating again for a while, that’s for sure...if ever again,’ he said. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing and look what’s happened now?’