Kickback

  Kickback

  Damien Boyd

  Cox Publishing

  First published 2014 by Cox Publishing

  ISBN 978-1495962745

  Copyright © Damien Boyd 2014

  The right of Damien Boyd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This book is a work of fiction and is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. All the characters are fictitious and any similarity to real persons and/or events is purely coincidental.

  About The Author

  Damien Boyd is a Solicitor and crime fiction writer.

  Drawing on extensive experience of criminal law as well as several years in the Crown Prosecution Service, Damien writes fast paced crime thrillers featuring Detective Inspector Nick Dixon, Avon & Somerset CID.

  For further information, please visit www.damienboyd.com

  Also by Damien Boyd:

  The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series

  As The Crow Flies

  Head In The Sand

  Table Of Contents

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  For Joy

  Prologue

  Race days were the best days. They made it all worthwhile. All the feeding and mucking out, the grooming and tack cleaning; the early mornings and late nights. And then there was the relentless training; all day, every day, round and round the gallops in all weathers.

  Yes, it was all about race days. And the prospect, the hope, of a winner. There had not been many in recent months but he knew one day it would be his turn to punch the air as he crossed the line, eight lengths clear of the field. That was his dream. That and being led into the winner’s enclosure, the crowd cheering and clapping. Better still, on board his beloved Westbrook Warrior.

  For now though, it was his job to do the mucking out. And race days made for an early start.

  He was always at work at least an hour before anyone else but then he lived at the yard in an old static caravan. It was a little too close to the muckheap for comfort perhaps but it was free and he was near the horses.

  His horses.

  The season was a few weeks old and today was to be the second outing for Westbrook Warrior. Two miles and seven furlongs over the hurdles in the 3.10pm at Taunton. The Charles Hedges Handicap Hurdle. He had checked the odds the night before and the Warrior was evens favourite. Not only that but rain was forecast making for good to soft ground. Perfect.

  Surely, he must win today?

  He had fed the horses and was skipping out the worst of the muck while they were eating. All except Westbrook Warrior, of course. No one went in the Warrior’s stable when he was eating.

  He paused for a moment to listen to the crunching of the racehorse cubes. There was something comforting about the sound of horses eating.

  By 5.00am he had skipped out the horses racing that day and had a wheelbarrow full of muck and shavings. It was still dark and raining hard so he had been putting off the dash to the muckheap. He pushed the heavy wheelbarrow along the front of the stables, sheltering under the canopy, and paused at the end to switch on the outside light on the corner of the barn.

  The first blow struck him on the back of the head, just above and behind his right ear. The noise was deafening. Like a shotgun blast going off right by his head. He felt the bones of his skull cracking and his teeth bite deep into his tongue. Blood filled his mouth causing him to cough and splutter. It dribbled down his chin but there was no pain. He braced himself but it never came.

  He dropped to his knees and slumped forward over the wheelbarrow, face down in the muck and straw. He heard footsteps and turned his head to look up. A figure was moving in the darkness.

  The second blow hit him on the forehead above his left eye. It was louder than the first. He fell back onto the concrete plinth in front of the stables. He could smell urine and hear the rain running in the gutter in front of him. Blood began pouring down his forehead into his eyes.

  He heard the familiar sound of the horses eating their haylage. Loud at first. Then it began to fade away.

  He didn’t hear the third blow.

  Or the fourth.

  One

  ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘Good question, Jane.’ Dixon raised his pint glass in his right hand. ‘How about living to fight another day?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Roger Poland.

  ‘Me too,’ replied Jane Winter.

  They touched glasses in the middle of the table and then each took a large swig of beer.

  ‘You really shouldn’t be drinking that,’ said Jane, frowning at Dixon.

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  Detective Inspector Nick Dixon had discharged himself from hospital earlier that day, following surgery to remove a fish filleting knife from his left shoulder two days before. His arm was still in a sling and he was topped up with painkillers, which made the perfect cocktail with a pint of Kingfisher. He was enjoying a celebratory meal in his favourite curry house, The Zalshah in Burnham-on-Sea, with Detective Constable Jane Winter and the senior pathologist from Musgrove Park Hospital, Dr Roger Poland.

  ‘So, you two are a couple then?’ asked Poland.

  ‘The grapevine’s been working overtime,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Who told you?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Can’t remember. It was weeks ago.’

  ‘Weeks?’

  ‘Most people think we started seeing each other before we actually did,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Everyone enjoys a bit of gossip, don’t they?’ said Poland. ‘Police officers are no different.’

  ‘Worse, if anything,’ said Dixon.

  ‘How’s the arm?’

  ‘It’ll be fine, or so they tell me. It missed the important stuff, apparently. I’ve got a few internal stitches and some Tramadol to keep me going.’

  ‘Tramadol and Kingfisher?’ Poland turned to Jane Winter. ‘He’ll be asleep before the main course arrives.’

  ‘All the more for us,’ said Jane.

  The restaurant was filling up by the time their starters arrived. It was popular, even on a Tuesday night.

  ‘I’m still pissed off I missed the carnival. I’ve not seen it since 1995 and the first chance I get to go, I’m in bloody hospital,’ said Dixon.

  ‘There’s always next year,’ said Jane.

  ‘If you live that long. You’ve only been here a few months and you’ve almost been shot and then got yourself stabbed.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Roger. You’ve cheered me up no end.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Jane was watching Dixon tucking into his sheek kebab starter. ‘Better than hospital food?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t get me started on that. I’m sure they do their best but...’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Poland. ‘It’s not something my patients usually complain about.’

  Their laughter was drowned out by a commotion at a table at the back of the restaurant. Dixon heard raised voices and breaking glass. He turned to see lager pouring off the table onto the floor. Two waiters were
already in attendance, one clearing up the broken glass and the other attempting to calm the situation. The diners were seated, two on the fixed bench seat with their backs to the wall, the third sitting opposite them on a wicker backed dining chair. Dixon watched while one waiter cleared up the spilt lager and the other fetched a replacement pint.

  ‘Relax, you’re off duty,’ said Poland.

  ‘Off sick,’ said Jane.

  Dixon turned back to Jane and Roger Poland. They were sitting on the bench seat opposite Dixon, who had his back to the restaurant.

  ‘Just keep an eye on them, will you? It’s a bit early to be that pissed.’

  By 9.00pm Dixon was finishing off his chicken tikka biriani. Jane and Roger Poland had finished picking at the remains of various dishes in the middle of the table and the waiters had begun clearing the empty dishes away. The conversation had ranged from forensic entomology and decomposition rates to the anatomy of gunshot and blast injuries. Dixon had noticed some strange looks from the diners sitting at the next table.

  He had also been keeping an eye on the table at the back of the restaurant, looking over his shoulder at various intervals throughout the evening, much to Jane’s annoyance. The three diners had been quiet for the last hour, except for the occasional outburst from the young man with short dark hair sitting with his back to the wall. He was opposite the empty chair. To his right sat a young woman and opposite her, an older man. All three were dressed casually, the younger man wearing a white polo shirt and black jeans. On the floor to his left was a brown leather jacket. He had a tattoo on his left forearm and was well tanned. Dixon could see that he was becoming agitated again.

  ‘Recognise him, Jane?’ asked Dixon, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  The younger man suddenly lurched across the table and grabbed the older man by the collar of his jacket. He pulled him forward over the table sending drinks and plates crashing to the floor. The woman stood up and began screaming. The younger man threw a punch, which missed. Dixon watched the waiters trying to calm the situation. The diners at the adjacent table stood up and were escorted to the bar area at the front of the restaurant by the manager. Dixon could hear shouting and swearing.

  ‘Right, that’s it.’

  He stood up.

  ‘If it gets out of hand, Jane, call it in.’

  ‘Your shoulder...’

  Dixon walked to the back of the restaurant. The manager, Ravi, saw him coming and instructed the waiters to leave the table. The younger man stood up and turned to face Dixon.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘A fellow diner trying to enjoy a quiet meal with friends.’

  ‘Well, fuck off then.’

  ‘And a Detective Inspector in the Avon and Somerset Police.’ Dixon produced his warrant card. ‘Now sit down.’

  ‘Make me,’ said the younger man, looking at Dixon’s arm in a sling.

  ‘I have staff for that. One phone call from my colleague over there and they’ll be here before you can say lamb pasanda.’

  The younger man hesitated. He looked at the older man then the woman and then back to Dixon. He sat down. Dixon sat on the empty chair opposite him. The older man spoke first.

  ‘Are you the officer that got stabbed the other day?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  The older man turned back to the younger man. ‘This is the guy that got that murderer...the beheadings…’

  ‘That was you?’ asked the younger man.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I read about that on the plane home.’

  ‘Home from where?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Afghanistan.’

  ‘Soldier?’

  ‘The Rifles.’

  ‘Are you home for good?’

  ‘Compassionate leave. My brother’s funeral.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your name?’

  The older man answered.

  ‘His name’s Jon Woodman. I’m his father, Tom, and this is my daughter, Natalie.’

  Dixon turned to Ravi who was standing by the table. ‘Another round of drinks here, please, Ravi. Stick it on my tab. And you can tell that lot they can sit down.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s your name?’ asked Tom Woodman.

  ‘Nick Dixon. Tell me what happened to your son?’

  ‘Noel. He was killed by a horse. Kicked...’

  ‘No, he fucking wasn’t,’ screamed Jon. He tried to stand up but lost his balance and fell back into his seat. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He reached down, picked up his leather jacket and slid along the bench seat. Then he stormed out of the restaurant.

  Dixon turned to Tom Woodman. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘He’s got it into his head Noel was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It’s nonsense. Really. He was a groom at a racing yard and went in a stable with a stallion.’

  ‘He was going to be a jockey,’ said Natalie.

  ‘Has there been a post mortem?’

  ‘Yes. Last week. Head injuries. He was kicked.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘He knew the risks.’

  ‘And he loved the horses,’ said Natalie.

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Friday.’

  Dixon looked up. Jane Winter was standing by the table.

  ‘Everything ok?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Dixon, standing up. He turned to Tom Woodman. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if there is anything I can do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Tom Woodman.

  Dixon sat back down at his table with Jane and Roger Poland.

  ‘What’s the story then?’ asked Poland.

  ‘Father, son and daughter. The son is home from Afghanistan for his brother’s funeral…’

  ‘And the row?’

  ‘The son thinks his brother was murdered. He’s had a few beers and got a bit carried away, that’s all.’

  ‘What happened, do we know?’ asked Jane.

  ‘He was kicked by a horse from what I can gather. Mean anything to you, Roger?’

  ‘Yes, it does. It was at a small racing yard near Spaxton. The new lad, James Davidson, did the PM. It was fairly straightforward, I think.’

  Dixon nodded.

  Ravi appeared with the sweet menu. He handed one each to Dixon, Jane and Roger Poland.

  ‘On the house, Mr Dixon.’

  It was 10.30pm before the Tramadol and Kingfisher finally took effect. Dixon was fast asleep in the back of a taxi on his way back to his cottage in Brent Knoll, his head resting on Jane’s shoulder. Roger Poland had taken a cab back to Taunton.

  ‘C’mon, wake up,’ said Jane, digging Dixon in the ribs. ‘We’re home.’

  Jane helped Dixon out of the taxi.

  ‘You got any money?’

  ‘Don’t look at me, I’ve only just got out of hospital,’ replied Dixon.

  He left Jane paying for the cab and opened the front door to be greeted by a very excited white Staffordshire Terrier.

  ‘Hello, matey.’ Dixon knelt down and put his good arm around Monty. Jane appeared behind them.

  ‘I’ll give him five minutes in the field,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon went upstairs to his bedroom. He closed the curtains, threw his jacket on the floor and lay on the bed. He was asleep before Jane got back with Monty.

  The mix of painkillers and alcohol made for deep but fitful sleep, broken by vivid dreams and hot sweats. Dixon saw a blade glinting in the moonlight and a severed head in the sand. It was always the same. It felt as if he was lapsing into unconsciousness rather than falling asleep but when he woke up and checked the time it was only five or ten minutes later than the previous occasion. It was not the night’s sleep he had been hoping for.

  He was dozing when he became aw
are of a dog growling. It took him a moment to recognise that he was not dreaming. He sat up and could make out the silhouette of Monty sitting on the end of the bed. He was staring at the curtains, his head tipped to one side.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  Dixon listened. He could hear voices outside in the road. He got out of bed, still fully clothed. Jane was stirring.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Voices. Outside.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  Dixon picked up his alarm clock and turned it to the light from the window, such as it was.

  ‘3.00am.’

  He opened the curtains a crack and peered out.

  ‘Uniform. What the hell do they want?’

  ‘What makes you think they are looking for us?’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘That,’ said Dixon.

  Monty jumped off the bed and raced downstairs, barking as he went. Dixon followed. He opened the front door. It was PC Cole.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Sir. Chief Inspector Bateman has been trying to get hold of you. Your phone must be switched off?’

  ‘It is. What’s up?’

  ‘We have a situation at a house in Pawlett, Sir, and the Inspector was hoping you might be able to attend.’

  ‘A situation?’

  ‘An armed siege.’

  ‘What am I supp...?’

  ‘The gunman has been asking to speak to you, Sir.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Who is it, do we know?’

  ‘No, Sir. We’ve come over from Cheddar to pick you up.’

  ‘Get on the radio and find out, will you? I’ll be out in a minute.’

  Dixon closed the front door and ran upstairs. Jane Winter was getting dressed.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘I was listening at the top of the stairs. I wonder what’s...’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. Help me put this on,’ said Dixon, throwing a thick blue pullover onto the bed. He began taking his left arm out of the sling.