Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4) Read online

  ‘Right, we’re gonna make a run for it. Next time she fires, I want everyone to get up and run down the hill to the bottom of the combe. Don’t stop for anything. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This includes you, Simon.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘When you get to the bottom, turn left and don’t stop until you get clear. You should come out at Adscombe. There are some houses there so bang on doors until someone lets you in. OK?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Anyone wearing a blue rucksack, leave it behind. In fact, all of you dump your rucksacks, they’ll only slow you down.’

  ‘What about you, Sir?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, you just get clear,’ replied Dixon.

  Dixon lay back down and closed his eyes. Shit happens, he thought. Then he sat up behind the tree trunk.

  ‘Everybody ready?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘When you hear the gunshot, get up and run like hell. Right, on the count of three. One, two, three . . .’

  Dixon held up his blue rucksack and it was immediately hit by a bullet. All six boys got up as one and ran down the slope, crashing through the undergrowth. Dixon jumped up and began running diagonally up the slope to his left. He was carrying his rucksack in his right hand, trying to hold it out behind him as far as he could. On the count of ten, he dropped it behind him and then dived on the ground. The rucksack was thrown into the air as another bullet tore into it. Then Dixon was on his feet and running again up the slope. The cold, still air rasped the back of his throat and his lungs were burning but he kept going, lunging up through the bushes. On the count of eleven he dived on the ground, just as another bullet ripped through the collar of his jacket.

  He could see the trees thinning near the edge of the wood so he knew he was getting close to an area of open ground below the road. He crawled upwards towards the light for several yards before getting up and then immediately diving on the ground. His face was peppered with splinters as another bullet glanced off the tree behind him. Then he was up and running again. He could see a figure running back through the trees off to his right, a hundred yards or so away. The race was on.

  The undergrowth was clawing at his face as he ran. He tried to shield himself from the brambles, buckthorn and pine tree branches as best he could but he had to watch the ground ahead of him as he ran. Stopping was not an option either.

  Finally, he broke clear of the wood and out into the open. The first lay-by was empty but trees screened the second. Dixon could hear a car engine starting up. He looked to his left towards the gate. Just before the junction, the road narrowed and fences came in on either side, meeting at a small forest cattle grid.

  Dixon jumped the drainage ditch and ran along the road. He took his woolly hat off as he ran and threw it on the ground. Then he jumped the cattle grid and turned to look back up the road.

  Rowena Weatherly was driving straight at him in a dark blue VW Beetle. She was accelerating hard and Dixon could hear the engine screaming in protest. She was hunched over the steering wheel but was too far away for him to pick out her facial features.

  He squatted down and took hold of the first tubular steel bar of the cattle grid in both hands. Then he braced both feet against the edge of the frame and heaved. It took all the strength in his legs and arms but he was able to lift the grid a few inches and then drag it clear of the pit underneath. He was only able to drag it a few feet but that would be enough. Then he stood back to watch.

  Rowena realised too late that Dixon had moved the cattle grid. She stamped on the brakes, locking her wheels, but still slid into the pit at over forty miles an hour. The front wheels of her car dropped into the pit with a bang and the cattle grid flicked up, landing on the bonnet.

  Dixon saw the airbags deploy in the front of the car but it was only when the smoke and dust cleared that he realised Rowena had not been wearing her seatbelt. Blood was trickling down the left side of her forehead. She was swaying backwards and forwards in the front seat, at best groggy and at worst unconscious. Dixon didn’t know which but, either way, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  He ran round to the passenger door, opened it and took out the rifle, which was lying in the passenger foot well, and then sat down on a grass mound adjacent to the driver’s side door of the car. He was shaking but this time it wasn’t low blood sugar that was causing it.

  Chapter Ten

  Dixon sat watching Rowena and listening to the sirens in the distance gradually getting louder. He could hear at least two, but they were still some way off. He took out his phone to find that he had a signal now that he was clear of the trees and on the top of the hill, so he rang Sarge.

  ‘We’ve had a bit of an incident, Sarge. I sent the boys back down Quantock Combe so they should come out at Adscombe.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A road traffic accident, I’m afraid, but the boys are all fine. The police are on the way so I’ll send some of them over there to find them. OK?’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Wait where you are for the other teams. Just keep your phone on.’

  ‘But everyone’s all right?’

  Dixon looked at Rowena still slumped unconscious in the driver’s seat of her car.

  ‘Everyone who needs to be.’

  Dixon rang off. No sooner had he done so than his phone started ringing. ‘Oh, thank God for that. Are you all right?’ said Jane, when he picked up.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her car. Did you call an ambulance?’

  ‘Yes, it’s on the way. Helicopter’s up too.’

  ‘See if you can get a car over to Adscombe to find the boys. There are six of them in walking gear, probably knocking on doors . . .’

  ‘There’s been a call from someone there. They’re fine.’

  ‘Good. You can stand down armed response. Get the helicopter to check the rest of the woods with its thermal imaging camera.’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Jane. ‘Where’s Rowena’s car, then, if she’s in it?’

  ‘In the cattle grid.’

  ‘In it?’

  ‘You’ll see it when you get here. We’re on the top at Crowcombe Park Gate.’

  ‘Where’s the gun?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘And what’s she doing?’

  ‘Sleeping it off,’ replied Dixon.

  He rang off and listened to the sirens. There were several but two were much nearer now, the nearest down in Crowcombe at the bottom of the hill. One in the far distance suddenly went quiet and Dixon thought it was probably the armed response unit turning for home.

  He looked along the top of the hill and spotted the two remaining teams in the orienteering exercise coming towards him. The team of younger boys was in front, with the girls following not far behind. Both teams were still a hundred yards or so away when a police car sped around the corner and up towards the gate. It skidded to a halt when the occupants saw Dixon holding the rifle, so he put it on the ground and waved them on.

  The car pulled onto the grass in front of the cattle grid and a uniformed WPC got out of the driver’s seat. The blue shirt under his uniform told Dixon that her passenger was a police community support officer.

  ‘Inspector Dixon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘WPC Harden, Sir, and this is PCSO Stevens. We were in Bishops Lydeard when we got the shout.’

  ‘That is Rowena Weatherly, the suspect in a multiple murder investigation. She was shooting at me with this.’ Dixon held up the rifle by the barrel. ‘Lock it in the boot of your car, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Is she . . . ?’

  ‘She’s unconscious, that’s all.’

  ‘An ambulance will be here in fifteen minutes, Sir,’ sai
d PCSO Stevens. He put the rifle in the boot of the patrol car and took out a first aid kit, which he carried over to Rowena’s car.

  Dixon turned to WPC Harden.

  ‘You know that I’m undercover?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  Dixon heard footsteps behind him and turned to find himself being surrounded by the two orienteering teams.

  ‘What’s happened, Sir?’

  ‘Isn’t that Miss Weatherly, Sir?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Dixon. ‘She’s had an accident but the police are here and an ambulance is on the way.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked one of the girls.

  ‘No. She’s unconscious but we can’t move her until the paramedics get here.’

  ‘What do we do, then, Sir?’

  ‘We wait. I’ll ring Sarge. He can come and pick you up. Wait over there,’ said Dixon, pointing to a small car park below the gate.

  He was on the phone to Sarge when the helicopter appeared overhead, the down draft from the rotor blades sending the thin dusting of snow that was lying on the ground high into the air. Dixon turned away and pulled his collar up. Then he walked over to WPC Harden.

  ‘Their teacher’s on the way to fetch them.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Get the helicopter to search the woods south and east of us with its thermal imaging camera, just to be on the safe side.’

  Dixon watched WPC Harden shouting into her radio and was relieved when the helicopter turned away to search the woods.

  ‘Check someone is on the way over to Adscombe to collect the boys I was with as well, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon walked over to the pupils milling about in the small car park.

  ‘Sarge is on his way to collect you. He’ll be ten minutes or so. OK?’

  ‘Where are the others, Sir?’

  ‘I sent them back the way we came. The police’ll pick them up at the other end, don’t worry. Try to keep moving then you won’t get cold.’

  Dixon walked over to Rowena’s car and watched PCSO Stevens putting her neck in a brace. She had tried to kill him. Why? He needed some time to think. Some peace and quiet. But standing there listening to the helicopter hovering over the woods and the sirens getting ever closer, all he knew for sure was that this was one walk Monty would not mind having missed.

  Rowena had regained consciousness and was under guard in the back of an ambulance by the time Jane arrived. Two other police cars were also on the scene and the helicopter was still hovering over Great Wood off to the south-east, its lights just visible in the gloom.

  Dixon watched Jane pull in to allow the school minibus to turn out of the small car park with the two orienteering teams safely on board. Sarge was on his way back to the school, having been assured that the other team had been picked up by the police and would be dropped back to the school later. He had taken some convincing that it had been a simple car accident, but he’d very quickly realised that was the only explanation he was going to get and so left it at that.

  ‘Are you all right?’ shouted Jane, jumping out of her car and hurrying over to Dixon.

  ‘Fine, really,’ replied Dixon.

  She took hold of his elbow and turned him first to the left then to the right.

  ‘Your face is cut to ribbons.’

  Dixon rubbed his cheeks and chin with both hands and then looked at his palms. Both were smeared with thin streaks of blood.

  ‘It’s just scratches.’

  ‘And there’s a bullet hole in your collar.’

  ‘Is there?’ replied Dixon, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Has she been arrested?’

  ‘WPC Harden here did the honours when she came round. Attempted murder.’

  ‘Who of?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Chard and Baldwin are on the way.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘And DCI Lewis has been on the phone too,’ said Jane.

  A paramedic walked over and spoke to Dixon.

  ‘She’s fine. A bit groggy, perhaps, but that’s it. We’ll take her to Musgrove Park. They may keep her in overnight for observation. Then you can have her.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Let me have a look at your face,’ said the paramedic, peering at Dixon. ‘Superficial scratches. You’ll live. Here, wipe your face with this.’ He handed Dixon a paper sachet. He tore it open and pulled out a medicated paper towel, which he used to wipe his face.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What?’ asked Jane.

  ‘It stings like bug . . .’

  ‘We’ll be off, then,’ said the paramedic.

  Two officers accompanied Rowena Weatherly in the ambulance and two more followed in a patrol car. Dixon and Jane watched them leave.

  ‘What about the car?’ asked Jane.

  ‘A tractor is coming to pull it out.’

  ‘You lifted the cattle grid?’

  ‘Just enough to drag it a few feet.’

  ‘Was it heavy?’

  ‘You could say that,’ replied Dixon. ‘It’s a bloody good job it was a small one.’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘Tell me what happened, then.’

  ‘She just started shooting at us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me. So I sent the lads off in the other direction and made a run for the road. Got here first, as you can see.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I want to watch her interviewed first. And I want to be there when they search her rooms.’

  A dark blue Vauxhall Vectra pulled into the car park behind them. Dixon watched DCI Chard and DI Baldwin getting out. Chard turned up his collar and then rubbed his hands together before thrusting them deep into his coat pockets.

  ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘On her way to Musgrove Park.’

  ‘Under arrest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the rifle?’

  ‘In the boot of WPC Harden’s car. It’s a .22, probably from the school range but the headmaster can confirm if one’s missing.’

  ‘And no one was hit?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘We’ll interview her as soon as we can.’

  ‘The paramedics said they might keep her in overnight for observation,’ said Jane.

  ‘I’ll check with the hospital,’ said Baldwin.

  ‘What about the boys in the orienteering team?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘On the way to the station. We’ll get statements from them and then drop them back later.’

  ‘To the school?’

  ‘Yes. Is there a problem?’

  ‘They’re the only ones who know what happened here. The rest think it was an accident. Send ’em back to the school and my cover’s blown.’

  Chard looked at Baldwin and then turned back to Dixon. ‘Seems to me we don’t need you anymore. Your job is done. After all, we’ve got her now, haven’t we?’

  ‘If you assume Rowena Weatherly killed Isobel Swan, then yes. But she didn’t.’

  ‘And you know that for sure?’

  ‘No more than you know for sure that she did.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Shall I get on to the headmaster?’ asked Baldwin.

  ‘Better had,’ replied Chard. ‘Tell him to ring their parents. They’ll need to go home when we’ve finished with them. No phones and no
Internet either.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Do you need a lift back, Dixon?’ asked Chard.

  ‘No, thank you, Sir. I’ll go with Constable Winter.’

  Dixon watched the tractor pulling the VW Beetle out of the cattle grid, two large planks being used as a makeshift ramp. The car was then winched onto the flatbed lorry. The tubular steel grid itself had buckled and so it too was dragged clear before the road was closed off with police tape and traffic cones.

  ‘Highways are on their way with Road Closed signs now, Sir,’ said WPC Harden.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ll wait for them to get here and then drop the gun down to Taunton. And we’ll be back tomorrow morning with a dog team to look for any cartridge cases.’

  ‘Better tell the helicopter they can go too. I’m assuming they’ve not found anything?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Let ’em go, then.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ said Jane. ‘You must be freezing.’

  ‘I am.’

  They followed the flatbed lorry down through Crowcombe and, once out onto the main road, Jane overtook it and accelerated towards Taunton.

  Dixon was fiddling with the heater. ‘Did you get Clive Cooper’s inquest file?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s on the back seat.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It was an open verdict. Not suicide. He was found in the River Taff by the Millennium Stadium. Injury to the back of his head but no real evidence of foul play.’

  ‘I bet there wasn’t.’

  It was just after 7 p.m. when Dixon stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked in the mirror. His face and neck were covered in scratches, some of them deep, and it would be a few days before he could shave again. Every cloud, he thought. He hated shaving.

  He walked into the living room to find Jane sitting on the arm of the sofa reading the Iliad. She looked up.

  ‘It’s all Greek to me.’

  ‘It is Greek,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I know that, idiot. And these rooms are so dark and miserable. Haskill must be a bit . . .’

  ‘He does teach ancient history.’

  ‘That explains it,’ said Jane, shaking her head. She looked at her watch.