Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) Page 13

  ‘The Ilminster Bypass,’ replied Poland. ‘Head on. They really need to do something about that road.’

  Dixon turned away and walked over to the window.

  ‘I need to have a word with you about Elizabeth Perry.’

  ‘They’ve let you loose on an unsuspecting public again, have they?’ asked Poland.

  ‘My disciplinary proceedings have been concluded satisfactorily, if that’s what you mean, and thank you for asking.’

  ‘What you mean is you got away with it?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Dixon, with a wry smile.

  ‘Good. Calls for a curry that, I think,’ said Poland. ‘I thought the Perry case was Janice Courtenay’s though?’

  ‘She’s gone on holiday.’

  ‘My notes are in my office.’

  Dixon did not need to be asked twice. He disappeared through the swing door on the far side of the lab and was sitting on the corner of the desk in Poland’s office by the time he caught up with him.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ asked Poland, pulling Elizabeth Perry’s file from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet.

  ‘Tell me about the knives.’

  ‘The main one was pink. Probably looked something like this,’ replied Poland, handing a piece of paper to Dixon.

  It was a colour printout of a web page featuring a set of Colourworks kitchen knives in bright pink.

  ‘The smallest one,’ said Poland. ‘The blade’s an inch or so across the base and three inches long. Slightly curved, as you can see. It could well have been one of those.’

  ‘But this isn’t the knife that killed her?’

  ‘No. That’s more your ordinary steak knife. Longer. Thinner. Not tapered until the tip. More serrated too.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘We’ve got the wounds made by the pink knife. There are several of those, much the same and easily identifiable. Then one of them extends a further two inches into her chest cavity and penetrates the heart. It’s made by the second blade. Narrower and turned around the other way so the cutting edge is on the opposite side to the initial injury.’

  ‘So, the second knife was carefully inserted into the existing injury?’

  ‘It was,’ said Poland, nodding.

  ‘OK. So, we’ve got an elderly man who hears a diesel engine and a suspect, Stanniland, who drives a diesel van. Then we’ve got an elderly woman who hears a motorbike and a second knife wound.’

  ‘You think it was two people?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Could’ve been, I suppose,’ said Poland.

  ‘I’m thinking Janice was blinded by the DNA. One profile equals one person. Therefore, the elderly woman must be wrong. Add to that the fact that Stanniland drove a diesel van and you could be forgiven for thinking it was case closed.’

  ‘You could.’

  ‘So,’ continued Dixon. ‘Was it one person or two?’

  ‘That’s your dep . . .’

  ‘If you “that’s your department” me again, I’m gonna order you a vindaloo and watch you eat it,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Yes, it could’ve been two,’ replied Poland, grinning.

  ‘More likely, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why else would he bother to hide the fatal injury inside an existing stab wound? Stanniland would’ve just stabbed her again, surely?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘All right, ask yourself this. If it was Stanniland, why would he suddenly take so much care when he’s been dropping cigarette butts on the landing and puking up in the garden?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And why is he murdered by the Albanians a few days later?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We fished him out of the sea on Saturday.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘We’ve got no DNA trace in a pile of vomit and the man we are supposed to believe it came from had Barrett’s oesophagus . . .’

  ‘Stomach acid.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dixon. ‘So, if the vomit was kept for any length of time the DNA trace in it would’ve disintegrated.’

  Poland nodded.

  ‘How long was it between the initial stab wounds and the one that killed her?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’d say about ten minutes, judging by the blood loss.’

  ‘Would she have died anyway, without the second knife wound?’

  ‘Depends when she was found. She wouldn’t have lasted more than a few hours, at best, but the milkman at 6 a.m. may have been in time to save her.’

  ‘But she would’ve appeared dead, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘You would’ve felt a pulse but to all intents and purposes she’d have looked dead.’

  ‘So, Stanniland leaves thinking he’s killed her. Our Albanian motorcyclist then goes in to drop the cigarette and the vomit, finds her still alive and does the necessary. It all fits, Roger.’

  ‘Why though?’

  ‘To make sure Stanniland gets caught. He wouldn’t dare talk and it keeps it clean and simple.’

  ‘But, why did the Albanians want her dead?’

  ‘Money’s my guess,’ replied Dixon. ‘They were paid.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘You were sticking your neck out a bit on the TV, weren’t you? Ruling out the husband . . .’

  ‘I’m paid to use my judgement,’ replied Dixon. ‘I used it. Is there anything you can tell me about the second knife wound? Was he left or right handed, perhaps?’

  ‘Impossible to say. She was lying face down on the floor when the knife was inserted slowly and then pushed straight down. The markers we use to determine that just aren’t there.’

  ‘We need to know, Roger.’

  ‘I’ll open her up and have another look then, now that I know where you’re going with this.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You owe me a curry.’

  ‘A vindaloo?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Dixon arrived back at Express Park just after 4 p.m. His old windscreen wipers had only just kept up with the volume of water out on the M5 as he drove north and it had been a relief to get off the motorway. He parked on the top floor of the car park, ran across to the staff entrance and was still shaking the water off his coat as he walked along the landing to the CID area on the first floor.

  Jane and Mark Pearce were sitting side by side at workstations in the window. Louise was on the telephone and Dave Harding was staring at his computer screen, although he had the look of a man whose eyes had glazed over some time ago.

  Dixon waited until Louise had finished her call.

  ‘What’ve we got then?’

  ‘Mrs Freeman’s staying with her sister in Langport.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about you, Dave?’

  Dave Harding sat back in his chair and pointed at the screen in front of him.

  ‘Timed at 2.27 a.m. Christmas Eve. Junction 24, on the southbound slip road.’

  Dixon walked over and stood behind him. The image was grainy and taken from an overhead camera, but it clearly showed a motorcycle travelling down the southbound on slip. The rider was wearing black from head to toe: black leathers and a full face helmet.

  ‘Can we get it enhanced?’

  ‘High Tech are working on it now,’ replied Harding.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘What about the number plate? A577 RYB is it?’ asked Dixon, squinting at the screen.

  ‘Registered to a Volvo 340 in the name of Edith Rosemary Craven. She died in 1989.’

  ‘See if those plates crop up anywhere else in the system.’

  ‘I’m on it, Sir.’

  ‘Not exactly a modern bike, is it?’

  ‘Possibly an old Triumph, something like that.’

  ‘What about further down?’

  ‘We’ve got this timed at 2.39 at junction 25,’ replied Harding, clicking on another photograph. ‘Then this one at
Taunton Deane services five minutes later.’

  ‘He’s not travelling very fast,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It’s dark, the roads are wet and it’s raining in this one,’ replied Harding.

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘Just looking now.’

  ‘Keep at it then, Dave. Well done.’

  Dixon watched Harding maximise a second window and click ‘Play’ on the camera footage. The time stamp told him all he needed to know; ‘CAM 1335 M5 (J27) 0255’. The camera was looking north and the motorway was dark, illuminated only by the lights on the off slip. Dixon paused, wondering when the next vehicle might appear, but nothing seemed to be moving in either direction.

  Harding spoke just as he turned away.

  ‘There we are.’

  Dixon turned back to the screen to see a single headlight travelling in the nearside lane, straight towards the camera. He watched it pass underneath the camera and disappear from view.

  ‘On to junction 28,’ said Harding.

  ‘Cullompton,’ said Dixon. ‘Sing out if you get anything.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘What about you, Jane? What’ve you got?’

  ‘We’ve looked at all the campaigns Tom Perry’s been involved in since he was selected last year. There’s Hinkley C, but he’s just one of a number of voices in favour of that. He’s proud of his green credentials too, according to his website. He’s against the pylons that’ll go north from the new reactor to Avonmouth, saying they should go under the sea or underground, and is in favour of the tidal lagoon in Bridgwater Bay.’

  ‘He’s in favour of solar power too,’ said Pearce. ‘But in the right place, so he’s supporting residents opposing the solar panel farm at Brent Knoll. He seems to be a bit of a sceptic when it comes to wind turbines though. He’s campaigning against the wind farm between East and West Huntspill.’

  ‘What about housing developments?’

  ‘The only contentious one is on the edge of Burtle,’ said Pearce. ‘That’s five hundred houses.’

  ‘We’re compiling a list of the players in each case, on both sides of the argument, and can let you have it later today,’ said Jane.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’s a big supporter of the Flooding on the Levels Action Group, or FLAG, but then everyone is. It’s why he rented in Northmoor Green. To be among them.’

  ‘To feel their pain,’ said Harding, without turning away from his screen.

  ‘I think he’s done that, don’t you, Dave,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s a body and crime scene to us, but it’s his wife and his home. And he’s lost them both.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Dixon, turning back to Jane and Mark Pearce.

  ‘His selection seems to have been a bit of a nightmare. Not sure I can make head or tail of it, to be honest. I printed off this from the Bridgwater Mercury,’ said Jane, handing a piece of paper to Dixon. He looked at the headline.

  ‘Bridgwater and North Somerset Tories Ignore Primary Vote.’

  Dixon read aloud.

  ‘Last night a meeting of the executive council of Bridgwater and North Somerset Conservatives refused to ratify the selection of Tom Perry as prospective parliamentary candidate for the party in the forthcoming general election, despite his selection having been made by local people at an open primary. The meeting was attended by Somerset County Councillor Rod Brophy, one of the candidates defeated by Mr Perry at the open selection. Mr Brophy declined to comment.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ replied Jane.

  ‘It says here, “The selection is expected to be rerun behind closed doors.” Perry must’ve won again though, mustn’t he?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I suppose he must,’ replied Jane.

  Dixon folded the piece of paper and put it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘I’ll take this. You concentrate on the campaigns.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You got anything, Dave?’

  ‘Stayed on at junction 28, so I’m watching 29 and 30 now. Exeter.’

  Dixon was making a cup of coffee when Harding shouted over to him.

  ‘Stayed on at 29 and 30, Sir.’

  ‘So, what does that leave?’

  ‘A30 west to Okehampton, Plymouth on the A38 or Torquay on the A380.’

  ‘Louise, see if we can go and see Mrs Freeman tomorrow morning, will you?’

  ‘It’s New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’

  ‘And if she does?’

  ‘Remind her it’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘Stayed on the M5 at the A30 intersection,’ said Harding. ‘Watching the roadworks at Splatford Split now.’

  Dixon walked over and stood behind Harding, drinking his coffee.

  ‘There he is,’ said Harding pointing at the screen. ‘Just going into the fifty limit.’

  The motorbike stayed in the nearside lane.

  ‘That’s Torquay then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Or Newton Abbot,’ replied Harding. ‘The next camera will be at Pen Inn roundabout. Should take him about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Here’s the email from High Tech. It’s a bit sharper. Shall I forward it to you?’

  ‘Print it, will you, Dave.’

  ‘Mrs Freeman is expecting us at 9 a.m. tomorrow, Sir. Is that all right?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Fine,’ replied Dixon, walking over to a printer that was churning out a piece of paper. ‘Yes, that’s better. Let’s identify the make and model then. Get it over to Traffic and see if they can tell us what it is.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Anything at Pen Inn, Dave?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I started ten minutes after he passed the last camera so it should be about right.’

  ‘What’s between Exeter and Newton Abbot on the A380?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Chudleigh on the right, Teignmouth. Kingsteignton. Loads of villages.’

  Dixon waited, watching Harding’s eyes scanning the screen.

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Harding. ‘I’ll check the town cameras in Teignmouth.’

  ‘You won’t be able to do that until tomorrow now,’ said Dixon, checking his watch. ‘It’s gone five.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘You head off, Dave. Be back here at 8 a.m. for an early start. And you, Louise.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about you two?’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ said Pearce.

  ‘I’ll bring it with me and see you at home,’ said Jane.

  ‘OK,’ replied Dixon. ‘Feed Monty if you get there first, will you? I need to have a word with Tom Perry.’

  The front door of the bungalow opened as Dixon reached up for the bell and he lurched back just in time to avoid the large golf umbrella that sprang open in front of him.

  ‘Sorry!’ The voice came from behind the umbrella, which was lifted up by a tall man with dark curly hair, greying at the sides. He wore brown corduroys and a sleeveless padded jacket over a brown check shirt. He stepped out onto the garden path, holding the umbrella over himself and Dixon.

  ‘This is Inspector Dixon, Barry,’ said Tom Perry, from his position in the doorway. ‘Inspector, this is Barry Dossett, our area campaign director.’

  Dixon and Barry Dossett shook hands.

  ‘I saw you on the TV, Inspector. And you were right, the electorate would take a dim view of us if we tried to deselect him.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘You should go into politics,’ continued Dossett.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll be on my way then, Tom,’ said Dossett, turning back to Perry. ‘I’ll await your call on Thursday.’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Perry.

  Dixon watched Dossett stride down the garden path and across to the new Land Rover Discovery parked on the other side of the road, in front of his old Defender.

  ‘Did you want something?’ asked Perry
.

  ‘A word, if you’ve got a minute,’ replied Dixon, wiping the raindrops from the end of his nose.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Perry closed the door behind Dixon.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll go through to the kitchen. My parents are watching the news in there.’

  The living room door was open and Dixon recognised the familiar jingle of the BBC News Channel as he followed Perry along the passageway into the kitchen.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Perry, gesturing to a small table against the wall, just inside the back door. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Are you here to ask questions or tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Questions,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Best get on with it then.’

  ‘What’s the significance of Thursday?’

  ‘I’ve got until then to decide if I’m going to fight the election.’

  ‘Was there a move to deselect you?’

  ‘There was but Central Office got involved and put a stop to it. I’m told I have you to thank for that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘What you said on the telly.’

  Dixon smiled.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  Dixon watched Perry stir the tea and then throw the teaspoon into the sink.

  ‘I can’t get it out of my head that someone killed Lizzie to stop me standing,’ said Perry, placing a mug on the table in front of Dixon. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘If someone tries to stop me doing something it tends to make me more inclined to do it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And you said it’s what your wife would want you to do?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Do it then.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You leave them to me.’

  Dixon watched Perry staring into his tea and waited.

  ‘You had some questions?’

  ‘How did you get into politics?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘My parents brought me up with a very strong sense of duty and . . .’

  ‘I’m not a journalist,’ said Dixon.

  Perry smiled. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Give me the real answer. Just between us.’

  ‘An old fashioned notion about wanting to help people, I suppose,’ replied Perry. ‘And it’s got to be better than working for a living. I’ve always hated being an architect.’