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times he had warned him before about parking in the DI’s spot. The bay was allocated for an easy exit and access to the police station for Dylan, DI and force hostage negotiator. He could be called upon at any time to a life or death situation, so it was important that he could get in and out of the station quickly. Dylan parked behind the Peugeot, stepped out of his vehicle, put on his coat, and collected his briefcase from the boot. It was so full it wouldn’t close, but the sturdy handle held firm. It was always with him wherever he went. Like Dr Who’s TARDIS, the space inside seemed to go on forever.
    He walked through the foyer of the police station and today, for some unknown reason he noticed how shabby it looked, with its battered and scraped walls. Due to modern day culture and the lack of respect some people had for the police, the seats were fastened to the floor, not discreetly, but with large metal brackets and ugly bolts, and there was a protective screen surrounding the front counter. Progress? He mused.
    ‘Afternoon,’ he shouted to the front counter staff as he swiped his warrant card in the lock, allowing him access. Just through the door on the left was a stable door, which was the property store.
    ‘Afternoon, Harold,’ shouted Dylan in his deep, authoritative voice.
    ‘Afternoon, Mr Dylan, sir,’ Harold replied in his high-pitched whine. ‘Always nice to see you,’ said the property clerk, his head popping over the bottom half of the door. ‘It usually means something serious has happened and I’ll be getting a lot of property for my store though,’ he moaned.
    ‘And no different this time, Harold.’ Dylan smiled. ‘Nasty murder overnight. You’d better make some space for the exhibits and be sure they’ve all got labels on before you accept them. You know what policemen are like when they’re rushing.’
    ‘I will, Mr Dylan, sir. You know you can rely on me,’ said Harold. His last name was Little. A little man in size as well as name, he’s no bigger than a jockey, thought Dylan.
    Dylan’s aim was the cells as he strode out down the corridor, a man on a mission. Eventually he was going to solve the mystery of who had hit him and why. Nobody hit Jack Dylan and got away with it. He wanted answers, he wanted them now, and someone was going to feel the force of his anger. He would soon come face to face with his attacker and he couldn’t wait.
     
     

 
    Chapter Six
     
    Dylan swung through the double doors of the custody suite and they flapped wildly behind him.
    ‘Morning sir,’ the sergeant said, throwing his legs off the desk as he jumped out of his chair. ‘Shit, boss, he didn’t half give you a whack, didn’t he?’
    Dylan instinctively put his hand to his face ‘Who the hell is he?’ he asked as he romped into the cell area. The sergeant ran to keep up. ‘I hope you haven’t given him a fucking cooked breakfast. Let me see if I know the bastard,’ he said searching the names of those chalked on the custody board.
    ‘No can do, boss.’ The sergeant shook his head.
    ‘Come on. I only want to look. I’m hardly gonna smack him here now, am I?’
    ‘I would if I could, boss, honest, but he got bailed on the instruction of him upstairs. The superintendent must be obeyed,’ he said, rolling his eyes. Dylan turned and vanished before the sergeant had time to blink. He ran up the stairs in a blind rage, ignoring everything and anyone he passed. Dylan could feel the steam coming out of his ears. Superintendent Walter Hugo-Watkins, the divisional commander, was going to feel the full force of his anger.
    Watkins was a graduate entry. A cloak and dagger Freemason, or so he thought, but everyone knew of his ambition to become a Grand Master. He was a thin, lanky man, with a matching moustache. His short, dark hair was always groomed to perfection. Watkins was a self-important man who only had twelve years in the job and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t a chief