Death Sentence (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 6) Read online

  Dixon clicked on ‘Huntworth (b)’, a standard Type 24 pillbox according to the narrative, but this was further north, nearer the pub, so he clicked ‘Back’ and selected ‘Fordgate (a)’, the next in line south. And there it was. A Type 24 right at the water’s edge where the canal narrowed. The photographs must have been taken some years before, judging by the lack of vegetation and the five concrete ‘dragon’s teeth’ that were clearly visible on the far bank.

  Dixon read aloud: ‘Tanks attempting to drive over these obstacles would expose their vulnerable undersides to the fire of the defenders.’ He wondered what those defenders, the Home Guard probably, would think of it now.

  Next he went back to Google and typed in ‘Type 24 pillbox’. The first result came from the Pillbox Study Group, so he clicked on it and found a diagram of an ‘irregular hexagonal’ pillbox, with rifle slits either side of the entrance and light machine gun slits in the side and front walls. This one was the ‘shellproof’ version, the wider window ledges, now covered in rubbish, designed to accommodate the tripod of the much larger Boys anti-tank rifle. Dixon recognised the shape of the inner shield too, to protect the occupants from the blast of a shell landing behind the pillbox.

  His impromptu history lesson was interrupted by Louise, tapping on the window of his car. She was breathing hard.

  ‘Have you been running?’ asked Dixon, climbing out of the Land Rover.

  Louise nodded.

  ‘There was no need for that.’

  ‘I wanted to get here before SOCO,’ she gasped.

  ‘Well, you just made it,’ replied Dixon, turning to see two vans driving towards them along the towpath from Fordgate. PC Cole was behind them, with Roger Poland sitting in the passenger seat of his patrol car.

  The vans turned into the field and parked either side of Dixon’s Land Rover. PC Cole dropped off Roger Poland, turned and drove back along the towpath.

  ‘Where’s he off to?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘He went off duty half an hour ago,’ replied Poland, dropping his bag on to the bonnet of Dixon’s Land Rover. ‘Bloody good job he turned up. The other lot just dropped me at the Boat and Anchor.’

  ‘The walk would’ve done you good,’ said Dixon. ‘Look at DC Willmott here, all bright eyed and bushy tailed.’

  ‘You look like death warmed up,’ said Poland, frowning at Louise.

  ‘You don’t look much better yourself,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you going to allow your newest CID officer to speak to a senior pathologist like that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dixon grinned.

  ‘Thought as much,’ said Poland, smiling. ‘What’ve we got then?’

  ‘I didn’t get too close,’ replied Dixon, ‘but it’s a man aged sixty-fiveish, possibly younger, slumped against the wall in the pillbox over there. Looks like he’s been dead for a day or so.’

  ‘How d’you know he’s been murdered?’

  ‘His hands are tied behind his back,’ replied Dixon. ‘That’s a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘You’ve been in there?’

  The voice came from behind him. Dixon spun round to see Donald Watson, the senior scenes of crime officer, climbing into a set of white overalls. He was standing on one foot, leaning on the open door of an Avon and Somerset Police Scientific Services van.

  ‘I just had a quick look,’ replied Dixon. ‘I stayed well back.’

  Watson reached into the back of the van and threw a set of overalls to Dixon and another to Louise.

  ‘I’ve got my own,’ said Poland.

  ‘Give us twenty minutes,’ said Watson. ‘There are overshoes and masks in here. All right?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘You been in there?’ asked Watson, turning to Louise.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only you look a bit . . .’

  ‘She was out celebrating her transfer to CID last night,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Celebrating?’ muttered Watson, shaking his head. ‘You must be bloody mad.’

  Poland reached into his leather bag and took out a large Thermos flask.

  ‘Coffee anyone?’

  ‘Her need is greater than mine,’ said Dixon, nodding in Louise’s direction.

  They were sitting in Dixon’s Land Rover watching two scenes of crime officers covering the pillbox with a large tent. Bright shafts of light were shining out of the machine gun slits from the arc lamps set up inside, and despite the glare, camera flashes were still visible from time to time through the snow that was, if anything, falling harder now.

  ‘No Monty?’ asked Poland, looking over his shoulder into the back of the Land Rover as he passed Louise a mug of coffee.

  ‘I left him at home with Jane,’ replied Dixon. ‘It’s too cold for a Staffie to be sitting around.’

  ‘It’s too cold for me to be sitting around.’

  ‘It’s a shithole in there, Roger,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘What the hell was he doing?’

  ‘That’s your department.’

  ‘There’s a brown powder around his nose and mouth, but he’s no druggie.’

  ‘You never can tell these days.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I often wondered what these pillboxes were for,’ said Poland. ‘Second World War?’

  ‘Yes. Built to stop a German invasion from the west. There’s a whole defensive line right down to the south coast.’

  ‘Manned by the Home Guard, I suppose?’ asked Poland.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Give me The Novelty Rock Emporium any day,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s the . . . ?’

  ‘Surely you’ve seen Dad’s Army, Louise?’ asked Poland. ‘Even I know that one.’

  ‘Nope, sorry.’

  Dixon looked at Poland and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Poland, pointing over to the tent that was now covering the pillbox. Donald Watson was standing in the entrance, waving at them.

  Dixon opened the door of the Land Rover.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get this over with.’

  ‘What is wrong with people?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘They bag up their dog shit and then just dump it.’

  ‘D’you mind?’ asked Poland, rolling his eyes.

  ‘I suppose we should be grateful they didn’t leave it hanging in a tree,’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘OK, let’s get him on a stretcher,’ said Poland, standing up. ‘Better strap him on too. You’ll need to tip it to get it out of here.’

  ‘Anything in his pockets?’ asked Dixon.

  Poland shook his head.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘D’you want me to guess?’

  ‘If you have to.’

  ‘Myocardial infarction,’ replied Poland.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Heart attack to you.’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘That is just a guess mind you. I won’t know for sure till I open him up.’

  ‘What’s the brown powder?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A sample’s going off to the lab,’ said Watson.

  ‘How long’s he been here?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A day or two,’ replied Poland. ‘Friday night or perhaps Saturday morning. Early hours. It’s colder than most fridges in here don’t forget.’

  ‘What about the rope?’

  ‘Bog standard nylon,’ said Watson. ‘You can get it in any hardware store.’ He was holding up a clear plastic evidence bag with a knotted blue rope inside. ‘We had to cut it to get it off.’

  ‘And the bruises?’ asked Dixon, turning to Poland.

  ‘A hand was held over his nose and mouth. Like this,’ replied Poland, clamping his right hand over his face.

  ‘Then his heart gave out?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Dixon looked down at the man’s face just as one of the mortuary technicians zipped up the body bag. Sixty-five had been a reas
onable guess. His face was gaunt, moustache well trimmed and the marks either side of the bridge of his nose confirmed that the spectacles were his.

  ‘Is there enough left of the lenses to get a prescription?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Watson. ‘We’ll check fingerprints and DNA first, but if we draw a blank, then it’s on to dental records and the specs.’

  ‘What about missing persons?’

  ‘Nothing that matches,’ replied Louise.

  ‘We’re going to need more . . .’

  ‘Ah, there you are.’

  Dixon turned to see Detective Chief Inspector Lewis peering into the pillbox, blinking furiously as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  ‘Mind stepping outside?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ said Dixon, stifling a sigh.

  ‘What d’you need?’

  Dixon stepped out into the snow, managing to jump over the puddle of mud and slush at the entrance to the pillbox.

  ‘Is it melting already?’

  ‘That’s just where people have been walking,’ replied Lewis.

  ‘Then we’ll need the dogs to search the surrounding area.’

  Lewis nodded.

  ‘And divers in the canal.’

  ‘I don’t envy them that one,’ said Lewis.

  ‘House to house at Fordgate and over there,’ continued Dixon, pointing to a line of new houses five hundred yards away on the other side of the canal. ‘And we need to track down and speak to anyone in the Boat and Anchor on Friday night.’

  ‘What about identification?’

  Dixon shook his head.

  ‘What, nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope we get something from DNA and fingerprints. Dental records’ll take ages.’

  ‘And it’s a bloody Sunday,’ muttered Dixon.

  Chapter Two

  It was late morning by the time the dive team broke the ice and began a search of the canal bed. Dixon watched two divers crawling side by side along the bottom in the freezing cold water, feeling in the mud with their fingers. Maybe his comfy desk was not so bad after all.

  The canal was still sealed off at Huntworth and Fordgate, much to the annoyance of the local angling club and their match secretary, who had to cancel the fishing competition at the last minute. He had calmed down when Dixon had pointed out the canal was frozen over anyway.

  DC Mark Pearce was supervising the house to house enquiries at Fordgate, and Louise was over at the new development on the far side of the canal. DC Dave Harding was in the Boat and Anchor going through the bookings for the previous Friday evening. And then there were the locals who had not booked a table. The landlord was doing his best to remember who had been in that night, and there was CCTV footage of the car park, but it was going to take time to catch up with them all.

  It had at least stopped snowing.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied the dive team sergeant, following his divers along the canal bank. ‘We’ll go as far as we can either side of the pillbox though.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon did not expect them to find anything. Anyone taking the time and trouble to empty the victim’s pockets was hardly going to drop the contents into the canal right by the murder scene. And there was unlikely to be a murder weapon either, given Roger Poland’s to-be-confirmed cause of death. Dixon checked the time. Another couple of hours and he could head over to Musgrove Park Hospital to catch the end of the post mortem. He knew from bitter experience that it was best not to arrive too early.

  ‘Perhaps it was two consenting adults,’ had been Jane’s suggestion when Dixon rang her an hour or so earlier. He put it down to the fact that he had woken her up. That and her hangover. He shook his head. No, whatever the brown powder was, the victim had been forced to inhale it; the bruises around his nose and mouth and on the back of his head were evidence of that.

  Dixon was reading the graffiti etched into the brickwork on the outside of the pillbox when his phone rang.

  ‘I hope this is good news.’

  ‘No, Sir. Sorry,’ replied Louise. ‘Nothing from the fingerprints.’

  ‘What about the DNA?’

  ‘We should get a result one way or the other by tomorrow morning.’

  Dixon rang off and watched the scenes of crime officers loading their equipment into the back of one of the vans. The other was full of the rubbish that had been strewn inside the pillbox, each item bagged up for examination back at the lab.

  ‘Saves the council clearing it I suppose,’ said Watson.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Nothing from Fordgate, Sir.’

  Dixon spun round to see Mark Pearce walking towards him along the towpath.

  ‘There’s only twelve houses,’ continued Pearce. ‘No one at home in three of them, and none of the others saw or heard anything.’

  ‘Are you on foot?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Dave’s got the car at the Boat and Anchor.’

  ‘Keep walking then and you can give him a hand.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Half a mile or so.’

  ‘Hop in,’ said Watson, climbing into his van. ‘I’ll give you a lift round there now.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Keep in touch with Louise,’ said Dixon, ‘and don’t go without her. I may go over to Musgrove Park for the PM.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Pearce.

  Watson waited in the field to allow two Dog Section vans through the gate and then drove slowly back along the towpath. The vans parked next to Dixon’s Land Rover, and a uniformed police sergeant got out of the driver’s seat of one of them. The other van was rocking from side to side.

  ‘That’s Ajax, Sir. He gets a bit excitable.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There’s another on the way.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Where d’you want us?’

  ‘The towpath north to Huntworth Bridge and south to Fordgate, plus this area around the pillbox.’

  ‘Any idea what we’re looking for?’

  ‘His pockets were empty, so a wallet, car keys, stuff like that.’

  ‘What about a murder weapon?’

  ‘He died of a heart attack while he was being assaulted, so that’s unlikely.’

  ‘Leave it with me then, Sir. I’ll let you know if we find anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon stamped his feet to keep them warm while he watched the dogs start their search of the immediate vicinity, one heading north along the towpath and the other south.

  He waited for the third dog to arrive, another liver and white Springer Spaniel, and watched it searching the canal bank around the pillbox, weaving in and out of the undergrowth. By now, though, the pain in his toes was too much to bear. Much longer and frostbite would set in, but either way, getting to the post mortem too early seemed a small price to pay for getting out of the cold.

  ‘You’re all right,’ said Poland over the intercom. ‘You’ve missed the internals. Come in.’

  Dixon sighed. He had been quite happy sitting on the radiator in the anteroom, and the pathology lab would be stone cold. Still, at least he could feel his toes again.

  ‘He was a heart attack waiting to happen,’ said Poland as Dixon walked into the lab. ‘He’s had one before too.’

  ‘Any idea when?’

  ‘Within the last year or two.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Friday night or Saturday morning.’

  ‘And he died in the pillbox?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no sign he’d been moved.’

  Dixon looked down at the body on the slab, still with no name. An incision held together by a line of staples ran the full length of the torso, another around the top of the skull.

  ‘Approximately sixty-five years of age,’ said Poland, reading from his notes. ‘Sixty-three point five kilos and one hundred and seventy-eight centim—’


  ‘What’s that in real money?’ interrupted Dixon.

  ‘Ten stone and just over five feet ten to you. A bit underweight for his height and age.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Dixon, pointing at the forearms.

  ‘Old burns. They’re on both arms, the backs of his hands and the right side of his face.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Not life threatening. Serious enough though. The burns on his face have been touched up at some point. Cosmetic surgery.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘No idea. Years. Decades even.’

  ‘What about toxicology?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Poland.

  ‘Nothing? What’s that brown powder then?’

  ‘No idea. It’s still sitting in his lungs, but he died before it could be absorbed.’

  ‘How much is there?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Dixon leaned over and peered at the dead man’s moustache. Faint traces of the brown powder were still visible in amongst the greying hair.

  ‘Anything from the fingerprints?’ asked Poland, dropping his notepad into the pocket of his white coat.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’ve lined up an odontologist for tomorrow in case you get nothing from the DNA.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘He’s looked after his teeth, so if he used a local dentist he should be fairly easy to find,’ said Poland. ‘Assuming he’s local of course.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Poland. ‘There’s a historic leg fracture, he drank a bit too much, non-smoker, ingrowing toenails. How much detail d’you want?’

  ‘Not that much.’

  Poland smiled. ‘You look like you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Dixon followed Poland into his office and sat on the corner of the desk while Poland boiled the kettle.

  ‘You might as well have this,’ said Poland, handing Dixon a chicken sandwich. ‘My secretary got it for me from the canteen, but I can’t face it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon reached into his pocket and took out his insulin pen. Then he dialled up twelve units and pushed the needle into the side of his leg through his trousers.