Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) Page 12

  ‘Right. Let’s get on with it,’ said Dixon.

  Chapter Eleven

  There’s two ways of looking at this thing,’ said Dixon. ‘The first and obvious conclusion is that Stanniland broke into Waterside Cottage to get some money for his next fix, was confronted by Elizabeth Perry, killed her and then fled the scene, torching his van on the outskirts of Bristol. He stood over the body and smoked a cigarette, vomited on the lawn and then drove off, heard by Mr Grafton, as we know.’

  ‘It all fits,’ said Harding.

  ‘Does it?’ replied Dixon. ‘Even ignoring Stanniland’s subsequent murder, which we discovered by pure chance, there are still gaping holes.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘All right. Let’s start with the vomit. You’d expect to get some DNA off that, wouldn’t you? Let’s assume he puked up at about 2 a.m. and the sample was found and collected at, what, let’s say 8 a.m. That’s six hours, being rained on for five of them. That shouldn’t destroy any DNA trace, should it?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘But there was nothing?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We know from Stanniland’s post mortem that he had advanced Barrett’s oesophagus. That’s a thickening of the lining of the gullet just above the stomach caused by persistent acid reflux, what you and I would call heartburn. It can lead to cancer, but it tells us that Stanniland had high levels of acid in his stomach.’

  ‘And the acid would have destroyed any profile?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Over time, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘Remember, we’re looking at abnormally high stomach acid levels here.’

  ‘That would take longer than five or six hours, surely?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Yes, it would. Not least because the acid was being diluted by the rainwater, wasn’t it?’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I’m saying that Stanniland vomited hours earlier, possibly days, and it was collected, bagged up and then deposited by someone at the scene. Someone riding a motorbike.’

  Silence.

  Dixon looked around the room. All but Dave Harding were smiling.

  ‘So, Mrs Freeman was right about the motorbike?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Well, let’s assume she was right, for a minute. It explains the vomit and the cigarettes, which I’ll come onto in a minute, and the second knife wound.’

  ‘What about the cigarettes?’

  ‘The two in the lane are the same brand. That’s it. So, they could have been bought, lit and allowed to burn down to the filter, then dropped in the lane to make it look as though Stanniland waited outside the cottage, perhaps until Elizabeth went to bed. There was no DNA on them at all, so it was either washed away by the rainwater, which is unlikely, or the cigarettes never touched anyone’s lips.’

  ‘And the one on the landing?’

  ‘Smoked by Stanniland at the same time as he ate his Albanian baked lamb and rice with yoghurt. They call it tavë kosi. It’s a national dish.’

  ‘Was the lamb baked?’ asked Louise.

  ‘There’s your first job. Find out.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So, he eats his tavë kosi and smokes a cigarette,’ continued Dixon. ‘Then he’s punched in the stomach and pukes up. The vomit is collected for later use by our motorcyclist and the cigarette butt is bagged up to be dropped at the scene.’

  ‘The Albanians again,’ said Pearce.

  ‘Stanniland’s murder is their style, as we know,’ replied Dixon. ‘And he would have done as he was told, no doubt.’

  ‘Why kill him though?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘Once we’d released him it was the obvious way of tidying up the loose end. If he’d just disappeared we’d have chased our tails for a few months and then closed the file.’

  ‘Why didn’t we pick this up before?’ asked Harding.

  ‘The assumption was made that Grafton and Mrs Freeman heard the same vehicle so no one was looking for it,’ replied Dixon. ‘It becomes clearer if you assume they were both right about what they heard. We also now have Stanniland’s murder, don’t forget, and that puts the whole thing in an entirely different light.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Jane.

  ‘There is. What brand of cigarettes was it?’

  ‘Marlboro Lights,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘Right. The ash that was recovered from the landing, let’s get it tested. My guess is it’ll come from several different brands.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was taken from an ashtray.’

  ‘Can you tell from ash?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Sherlock Holmes can tell the difference between one hundred and forty different types of tobacco just by sniffing it so I’m damn sure our lab can do it. Jane?’

  ‘I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Then we come onto the second knife wound, the fatal one, which we know from the blood loss came several minutes later. What do we make of that?’

  ‘Stanniland realises he hasn’t killed her. Perhaps his knife isn’t long enough. So, he goes to the kitchen to get a longer knife and then stabs her again.’

  ‘That’s possible, Jane,’ replied Dixon. ‘There’s only one thing I don’t like about it. He’s stabbed her umpteen times already, so why would he take the time and trouble to insert the knife into an existing wound? He’d just stab her again surely?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘My reading of Poland’s report is that time and care was taken to insert the blade into a wound in her back. To hide it, as far as possible. After all, it was only visible internally on close inspection of the heart and surrounding tissue.’

  ‘So, you’re saying the motorcyclist did it?’

  ‘I am. This is a real professional we’re dealing with here. Make no mistake about it. There’s no trace he or she was there whatsoever.’

  ‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,’ said Jane.

  ‘It isn’t. And when he gets in there he finds Elizabeth still alive.’

  ‘And he finishes the job,’ said Pearce.

  ‘He does. Clean and clinical,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘There’s a lot of guesswork in there . . .’ said Harding.

  ‘There is, Dave. So, it’s our job to prove it. Louise, you were going to check the vomit.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And Jane, the ash?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Dave, I know you’ve looked at the traffic cameras going north. Look at them again, north and south this time, for a motorbike.

  Harding bowed his head and sighed.

  ‘It’s a pain in the arse, I know, but it’s got to be done.’

  ‘They may have gone cross country,’ said Pearce.

  ‘Possibly, but their plates will almost certainly be fake so they’re likely to be a bit more relaxed about cameras. Let’s hope so, anyway.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Freeman again, so if we could find out where she’s been evacuated to?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Leave it to me, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why though, Sir?’ asked Pearce. ‘What’s the motive?’

  ‘That’s for you and Jane to find out, Mark. We’ve got a professional killing dressed up to look like a drug induced burglary gone wrong. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to kill Elizabeth Perry and the reason is going to be hidden in Tom Perry’s political life. Somewhere.’

  ‘Politics?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Think about it. They’re just a perfectly normal young couple expecting their first child. He’s an architect and she’s a housewife. What’s the one thing that sets them apart, makes them stand out?’

  ‘Puts them in conflict with others,’ said Louise.

  ‘It does. We’ve got the expansion of Hinkley Point Nuclear Power Station, wind farms, housing developments. He’s getting involved in stuff where millions of pounds is at stake.’

  ‘But why h
er and not him?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it? replied Dixon. ‘I want you two to look at the campaigns he’s been involved in recently. Look at who stands to lose if his campaign is successful. And I want detailed profiles on the local Conservative Association. Start with the chairman and work down. Who are these people and who are they connected to?’

  ‘Shame we’ve lost our best witness,’ said Harding.

  ‘Stanniland and our mysterious motorbike rider are just the foot soldiers, Dave. Expendable. They knew nothing. The Albanians were paid to arrange it. What we need to do is find the money behind it and Tom Perry’s our best witness, only he doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘I never got to thank you properly. For what you did,’ said Dixon, as he drove over the M5.

  ‘It’s fine, Sir, really,’ replied Louise. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’

  ‘That’s not the point. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m assuming your disciplinary went well?’

  ‘It did,’ said Dixon. He leaned forward, over the steering wheel and looked up. ‘I don’t like the look of these clouds.’

  ‘There’s another storm front coming in off the Atlantic, apparently. Three days of rain.’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  Dixon stopped on the railway bridge and looked to his right.

  ‘What the f . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  The small hill of Burrow Mump, with its church on top, was visible in the distance, perhaps six miles away at Burrowbridge. But the land in between was under water. Murky, brown water. Lines of trees and hedges marked the boundaries of the fields and smaller hedges and fencing, the gardens of the houses in Moorland. All of them flooded.

  ‘You’ve seen it on the telly, Sir?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Yes, but nothing prepares you for the scale of it, does it?’ replied Dixon. ‘And look at that!’

  He was looking at a train in the middle distance, perhaps a mile or so away. It was stationary in the midst of the floodwater that had almost reached the level of the tracks. A bright blue First Great Western InterCity 125 brought to a standstill by water.

  ‘We’ll see that on the evening news, I bet,’ said Louise, pointing at a helicopter that was hovering above the train.

  ‘That embankment must be eight feet high.’

  ‘It’s flooded to eighteen and a half feet further up,’ replied Louise.

  Dixon shook his head. Maybe his snorkel had been a waste of time, after all.

  The road took a sharp turn to the right and then followed the River Parrett. There was a short section of stone wall on the nearside and then a steep earth bank on top of it. Much of the vegetation on the bank had been flattened so Dixon guessed that the water had been over the bank here as well, perhaps at high tide.

  The road itself was under several inches of water but it appeared to be draining away into the culvert on the other side. Dixon kept going.

  Around the next bend he spotted several vehicles and trailers parked in a farm gateway on the right. The Burnham Area Search and Rescue vehicle was there, with an empty trailer behind it. There was also a large six wheel drive Mercedes that looked like a giant version of his Land Rover. It had a bright orange inflatable boat on the roof and was sign written Avon and Somerset Police Underwater Search Unit. Dixon parked next to the Mercedes.

  ‘Are you Inspector Dixon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sergeant Watts, Sir. I hope you’ve got some wellies.’

  ‘I have. What about you, Louise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve got some in the van, don’t worry. And put these on,’ said Watts, handing Dixon and Louise a bright red life jacket each.

  They watched two of the dive team lift the boat off the roof and then carry it along the road until it was sitting in a foot of water.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ said Watts. ‘We need to walk the boat out as far as we can, otherwise we’ll be sitting on the road when we get in it.’

  Dixon nodded and began wading along the road, pushing the boat ahead of him. The water was almost up to the top of his boots before Watts stopped.

  ‘This should do. In you get.’

  Dixon and Louise climbed into the boat and then Watts began pulling it still further along the road.

  ‘I’ve got a wetsuit on,’ he said, grinning.

  The water was up to his waist before he jumped in, dropped the outboard motor into the water and switched it on.

  ‘Where to then?’

  ‘Into Moorland, then left opposite the church,’ replied Dixon.

  The wind was whistling across the Levels and the water was choppy, even in the confines of the road, although the hedges on either side provided a little shelter. The boat bounced over the waves, sending spray into Dixon’s face. It was his second boat trip in as many days and he had spent much of the last one being sick over the side. He was determined not to do the same again.

  ‘Can you slow down a bit?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The water was up to the letter boxes of the first houses they passed on their way into Moorland. Furniture was piled up on the ground floor of each of the bungalows, the owners of the two storey houses at least having an upstairs to store their sofas and chairs.

  Off to the right and set back from the road was a large red brick house with a huge earth wall around it.

  ‘King Canute, according to the newspapers,’ said Louise.

  Watts followed the road around to the left, opposite the church.

  ‘That’s Grafton’s place,’ said Dixon, pointing at the first bungalow on the left. The water was level with the bottom of the windows. Grafton had been right. The sandbags were a waste of time. ‘And that’s Mrs Freeman’s. I want to have a look at it on the way back.’

  Louise nodded.

  They followed the lane towards the river and Waterside Cottage.

  ‘How deep is it here?’

  ‘About twelve feet,’ replied Watts.

  Dixon looked across at the cottage. The water was lapping just below the first floor windows and the ridge of the tiled roof on the porch was just visible.

  ‘Can we get closer?’

  ‘I’ll need to watch the propeller on the gate, but we can have a go.’

  Watts tilted the outboard motor up until the propeller was just under the surface of the water. Then he edged the boat forward in line with the top of the porch and between two bushes that were sticking out of the water. It seemed a good guess for the line of the garden path.

  Dixon leaned over and peered in through the first floor window. The water was level with the mattress of a single bed, presumably in the spare room, and various items were floating around it. Dixon noticed a small suitcase and several jigsaw puzzles, still wrapped in their cellophane. The door was open and he was able to look through to the landing, but all he could see was water lapping against the bannister at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  Watts turned the boat and headed back along the lane.

  ‘Is that a field gateway?’ asked Dixon, gesturing towards a break in the hedgeline on the right.

  ‘Looks like it, Sir,’ replied Watts.

  ‘Can we go in?’

  ‘I’ll give it a try.’

  Watts turned the boat into what had once been a field and was now a lake. He switched off the engine, allowing the boat to drift towards the hedge.

  ‘What’re you thinking, Sir?’ asked Louise.

  ‘That this would be a good place to wait, assuming you’re on a bike and waiting in the dark for Stanniland to do the necessary. Tucked in behind this hedge. Let’s see if they got any photos of tyre tracks. We’re, what, a hundred yards from the cottage?’

  ‘More like seventy, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘OK. Let’s head back, Sergeant. I want to have a look at that house on the right though.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon was sitting in the bow of the boat, watching
the water pass by on either side. It was murky, with a thick brown sludge floating on top and, in places, oil. The clean up operation was going to take months.

  ‘This is the one,’ he shouted, waving at Watts. The boat slowed to a stop outside Moorland House.

  ‘Can we go in?’

  ‘The gate’s closed. And we’re only in four feet of water. I’ve not got clearance.’

  Dixon took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeve. Then he leaned over the front of the boat and reached down behind the gate, which was visible just below the surface, feeling for the latch in the freezing cold water.

  ‘Got it.’

  Then he pushed open the gate.

  ‘Can you get me over to that window?’ he asked, flicking the water off his arm.

  Watts took the boat forward, towards the window to the right of the front door. Dixon knew it had once been Mrs Freeman’s dining room and was now her bedroom. He could just about make out a bed through the net curtains. Then he tapped on the glass. Single glazed metal framed windows. He grinned at Louise.

  ‘What is it, Sir?’

  ‘How far is it to the lane from here?’

  ‘I dunno. About ten yards?’

  ‘They’re not double glazed,’ replied Dixon. ‘She could’ve heard a bike.’

  ‘Seen enough?’ asked Watts.

  ‘Yes. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Good. It’s going to be pissing down in a minute.’

  Dixon dropped Louise back at Express Park and then drove down to Musgrove Park Hospital. He parked behind Roger Poland’s car and walked into the pathology lab.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the receptionist.

  ‘It’s all right. I know where I’m going, thanks,’ replied Dixon, disappearing through the swing doors.

  He watched Poland at work from the safety of the anteroom for several minutes before summoning up the courage to tap on the window. He knew that Poland would insist he go into the lab and he could see that his current subject was unusually gruesome. He winced when he got the dreaded wave.

  ‘What the . . . ?’