Heads or Tails (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 7) Read online

  A silver Ford Transit. Too low in the mud to see the registration number, or the wheels for that matter, but it looked new. ‘Pest Erase UK, the pest eradication specialists’ and an 0800 number were emblazoned on the side of the van. ‘Members of the BPCA’ too, whatever that was.

  Dixon walked along the concrete track and looked back at the driver’s seat. Several days of stubble was all he could add to the description he had already been given. That and a trickle of blood down the right side of the driver’s nose. Perhaps he had hit his forehead on the steering wheel? But was that before or after he had driven down the embankment? Or was he pushed? Lots of questions coming thick and fast, but no answers. Yet.

  Sirens in the distance began to drown out the skylarks in the fields behind him. Then a trailer appeared, reversing on to the jetty at Burnham, the bright orange hovercraft on the back visible even from over a mile away. Dixon looked back to the van. The water was now lapping at the front bumper, and it would not be long before the passenger compartment was swamped. He checked his watch. There were still almost two hours to go before high tide, which would submerge the whole van.

  He took out his iPhone and took several photos of the scene, zooming in on the driver. The trickle of blood was clearer now, if anything. Odd that. Dixon scrambled down over the rocks, slipping on the seaweed, trying to get as close as he could to the van. He looked again, squinting into the sunrise reflecting off the window. Then it hit him. The driver had turned his head.

  He’s alive!

  Dixon ran back up to the two uniformed officers standing on the concrete track.

  ‘Get on to the Coastguard and tell them the casualty is alive.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What’ve you got in the boot?’

  ‘A stinger and a couple of accident warning signs, Sir. There’s some cones too, and a broom, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Give me the stinger and the signs,’ replied Dixon, handing the officer his phone. ‘Here, look after this for me.’

  ‘You’re not going out there?’

  ‘He’s alive, and I don’t intend to let him drown.’

  ‘The Coastguard will be here in a minute, Sir.’

  ‘And how long d’you think he’s got before he drowns?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Have you ever deployed a stinger before, Sir?’ asked the other officer, handing Dixon the road signs.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d better do it then. There’s a knack to it. I’ll need to make sure it lands fully extended as well, because there’s no way it’ll slide across the mud.’

  ‘Just make sure you do it the wrong way up; I don’t want holes in my shoes.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  Dixon followed the officer down to the edge of the mud and watched him deploy the stinger. The steel lattice frame extended out from the bank, landing a couple of paces short of the van, with the spikes that would usually deflate car tyres facing down into the mud. Then it sank from view, the mud closing over it and leaving little more than a faint outline where it had been.

  ‘That’ll have to do,’ muttered Dixon. Then he tucked the road signs under his arm and ran straight along the line where the stinger had been.

  Any hope that the van would have compressed the mud behind it was soon dashed. It was like treacle. Wading through deep snow in the Alps had been much easier. He had gone less than halfway before the mud was up to his waist, but the stinger was beneath him, taking at least some of his weight and stopping him sinking even further. When he reached the end, he threw the road signs on to the mud in front of him and crawled across them. They soon disappeared, but not before he had reached the back of the van, grabbing the handle at full stretch and pulling himself across.

  ‘I’ve lost my bloody shoe,’ he muttered as he tried to pull himself up on the roof rack.

  ‘Can you get up on the roof, Sir?’ shouted one of the officers on the bank.

  Dixon tried to get one foot up on to the bumper and step up, but the suction was immense. Not just holding him, but pulling him down.

  He grimaced. ‘There goes the other shoe.’

  Then he was clear of the mud and on the roof of the van, scrambling over the ladders towards the front.

  ‘Throw me the broom.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon caught it and, standing above the driver’s door, swung it like an axe at the window, shattering it with the first hit. Then, holding on to the roof rack, he lowered himself into the mud adjacent to the driver, sinking up to his waist. He held on to the wing mirror and looked in the passenger compartment.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  No reply.

  Blood was pouring down the left side of the man’s chest, coming from wounds to that side of his neck. He was wearing a black polo shirt and fleece, embroidered with the Pest Erase UK logo, the white stitching saturated with blood. Dixon leaned in. There were several wounds, each an inch long. Stab wounds, surely?

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The man turned his head, slowly, revealing a hole in his forehead. Dixon had seen one before, jagged and made by a bullet, but this was different. A perfect circular incision half an inch or so in diameter, which accounted for the trickle of blood running down the man’s nose, a piece of skull the size of a penny missing.

  ‘Help . . . me . . .’

  The voice was low, almost a whisper, the eyes wide and fixed on Dixon.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ha . . . Harry . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Stay with me, Harry. All right? Stay with me.’

  Water surged into the footwell, reaching Harry’s knees, just as the first wave hit Dixon. He gasped.

  Shit, that’s cold.

  It could have been worse. There was very little wind, and the waves were lapping gently around his chest rather than crashing over him, but creeping ever higher all the same.

  Then he spotted Harry’s left wrist, handcuffed to the steering wheel.

  ‘Shift this van out of the way.’

  The voice came from the concrete track. Dixon looked up. The first HM Coastguard vehicle had arrived, and a man in blue overalls was speaking into a radio. One of the police officers was moving their van and the other was pointing out into the River Parrett. Dixon turned to see the hovercraft heading straight towards him.

  ‘Help’s here, Harry. They’re gonna get you out.’ Dixon was shouting, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the hovercraft’s engines as it edged ever closer.

  He tried the driver’s door, but the mud was halfway up the side of the van. Then he heard a woman’s voice.

  ‘Are you the police officer?’

  The hovercraft was behind him now, its bow sitting on the mud. Two Coastguard officers, a man and a woman wearing yellow dry suits and red lifejackets, slid over the side, their special boots acting like snow shoes and holding them on top of the mud.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon. This is Harry. He’s conscious, but unresponsive. He has injuries to his neck and head. And he’s handcuffed to the steering wheel. The door won’t budge, so you’ll have to bring him out through the window.’

  ‘I’m Bev,’ said the woman. ‘Let’s get you clear first. Can you climb in?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just get Harry out.’

  He took hold of the side of the hovercraft, managing to pull his legs out of the mud. Then he rolled over the side, landing in a muddy heap on the floor.

  ‘Shall we take you back to Burnham?’ asked the pilot.

  ‘No, just over there will do.’

  Dixon looked up at the bank from the hovercraft. A second Coastguard vehicle had arrived, and an ambulance. A third Coastguard officer was getting ready to walk out to the van, pulling a stretcher with a rope paying out behind it. He had on the same mud boots and was carrying a long walking stick with a flat bottom. More useful than a road sign, no doubt. The hovercraft settled on the mud adjacent to the seaweed covered stones
along the shoreline.

  ‘Inspector Dixon?’

  He glanced up at the hand outstretched towards him. ‘Here, let me help you.’ The man was stocky and bearded, with dark curly hair, thinning on top and greying at the sides.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon, stepping over the side of the hovercraft on to the seaweed.

  ‘Steve Yelland. Officer in Charge. I’m in touch with the Watch Officer at Milford Haven.’ His moustache was a mixture of grey and nicotine stain. Dixon noticed a radio in his left hand and another dangling from his right wrist.

  ‘He’s handcuffed to the steering wheel.’

  ‘We’ve got a set of bolt cutters in the truck, and the fire brigade are on the way with their cutting equipment.’

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘Ten or fifteen minutes. Plenty of time. We’ve established a safety zone, so if you could just stand over th—’

  The look on Dixon’s face stopped Yelland mid-sentence.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Yelland turned away and shouted across to another Coastguard officer standing by the large four wheel drive truck.

  ‘Get the bolt cutters, Phil.’

  Dixon looked back to the van. The water was halfway up the driver’s door, at least up to Harry’s waist in the passenger compartment. A Coastguard officer was leaning in the window.

  ‘The bolt cutters aren’t here, Steve,’ shouted Phil, leaning in the back of the truck.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’

  ‘Must be back at the station, in the drying room. We used them on the last training exercise, didn’t we?’

  Yelland ran over and began rummaging in the back of the truck. ‘Who was on the last exercise?’

  ‘I was. And Bev and Toby.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you put the bloody bolt cutters back?’

  Phil shrugged his shoulders. ‘I thought we did.’

  ‘They’ll have to break the steering wheel with a holdfast stake,’ said Yelland, handing him a long metal bar.

  ‘Right.’

  Phil ran down to the edge of the mud and handed the metal bar to the officer about to walk out to the van.

  His progress was slow. Painfully slow. His mud boots stopped him sinking to more than knee deep and the wading stick ensured that he kept his balance, but he was still taking too long. Far too long. Dixon watched the water level creeping up the side of the van, each wave taking it higher.

  ‘Is that the bloody sewage works?’ asked Dixon, turning away, his hand over his nose and mouth.

  ‘It’s right behind us,’ replied Yelland, gesturing over his shoulder to a large concrete plinth at the foot of the embankment behind them. There was a viewing platform on top and a large yellow sign: OUTFALL, 70 METRES, NO ANCHORS.

  Dixon scraped some mud off his trousers and held it to his nose. He winced. Drowning was bad enough, but at a sewage outfall? It was too horrible to contemplate. At least Harry was drifting in and out of consciousness.

  A voice crackled over one of Yelland’s radios. ‘We’ve broken the steering wheel, but we can’t get him out. It’s his left foot. It’s stuck. Over.’

  ‘Stand by,’ replied Yelland. Then he spoke into the second radio. ‘Watch, this is OIC Burnham. Casualty’s foot is stuck in the footwell of the van. Now a confined space due to water ingress. Please advise. Over.’

  ‘Await further instructions. Over.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything, but then his feet were already underwater when I got there,’ said Dixon. ‘Can’t someone get in the passenger side?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ replied Yelland. ‘What if the van slides into the water?’

  ‘Burnham, this is Watch. Return to place of safety and await the fire brigade. They are on the way. ETA ten minutes. Over.’

  ‘Watch, this is Burnham. That will be too late. Over.’

  ‘Stand by.’

  ‘Burnham, this is Watch Manager. You have permission to sever the leg. Do not enter the vehicle. Over.’

  ‘As if the poor bugger hasn’t suffered enough,’ muttered Dixon, shaking his head.

  ‘Phil, see what we’ve got in the truck to cut off his leg.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Yelland, putting the radio to his mouth. ‘Watch, this is Burnham. Get a message to the Arco Dart and tell her to slow down. Over.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘What’s the Arco Dart?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A dredger, coming out of Dunball Wharf,’ said Yelland, pointing to the south where a huge ship with a crane on the front was steaming out into Bridgwater Bay. It was low in the water, heavily laden, with a small pilot boat in front leading the way.

  ‘We’ve got nothing, Steve, except this,’ said Phil, holding up a small knife.

  ‘Try the ambulance.’

  ‘The Arco Dart isn’t slowing down,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It’ll take a minute,’ replied Yelland, rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘All they’ve got is a thing for cutting seatbelts and clothes,’ shouted Phil. ‘They said they’re an ambulance, not an operating theatre.’

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ said Yelland. ‘Everyone back to shore.’

  ‘What? You can’t just leave him there!’

  ‘It’s my jurisdiction below the high tide mark, and we’re not taking any chances with the bow wave. We can go back out when it’s passed.’

  The Coastguard officers down at the van began climbing into the hovercraft. One of them leaned back into the passenger compartment and said something, but it was lost in the noise of the hovercraft engines. Then he climbed in and it flew them back to the shore.

  Dixon watched the Arco Dart, which slowed down as it went past them, but too late to reduce the bow wave that was already racing towards the van. It was at least two feet high and would surely wash right over it.

  ‘What about pulling the van out?’ asked Dixon, turning to Yelland as the bow wave approached.

  ‘There’s no time now.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘We’ll go back out when the wave has passed and see what we can do, but I can’t risk—’

  ‘Here it comes, Steve,’ shouted Phil.

  The water hit the side of the van with a crash, sending spray high into the air. The van rocked under the impact and slid forwards, then the wave raced up the exposed mud and the seaweed covered rocks at Dixon’s feet. The hovercraft, a few yards away, bounced on to the rocks as the wave passed under it, before the pilot turned back out towards the van.

  The tide was up to Harry’s neck now; that much was visible from the shore. His head was tipped back, his mouth open, and he was fighting to keep his chin above the water with his last gasp. His eyes were wide open, tears mixing with the seawater. Harry was conscious enough to know what was happening to him. Dixon shook his head. He was watching a man’s life ebbing away on a flood tide and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  A Coastguard officer on board the hovercraft leaned into the passenger compartment. He held Harry’s chin clear of the water and was talking to him, but Dixon couldn’t hear what was being said.

  ‘What about an oxygen mask from the ambulance?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Not watertight. We’d need scuba gear,’ replied Yelland, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The fire brigade have breathing apparatus, but there’s no time.’

  The hovercraft pilot grimaced and drew his index finger across his throat. Only Harry’s forehead was visible above the waterline now, the blood mixing with the murky grey seawater. The Coastguard officer slumped back into the hovercraft and shook his head.

  ‘Watch, this is OIC Burnham. We’ve been unable to recover the casualty. Vehicle is now submerged. Over.’

  ‘Await further instructions. Over.’

  The first waves reached Dixon’s feet, standing on the edge of the rocks on the rotting seaweed. He watched the back of the van, the rear windows still visible, and the ladders on the roof. Not quite burial at sea, and not quite a graves
tone, but near enough.

  ‘Crew back to place of safety, Burnham. Stand down. Repeat, stand down.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘It’s a police matter from here,’ replied Yelland. ‘We’re all volunteers and have jobs to go to, but we’ll be back with a tractor when the tide goes out to recover the vehicle.’

  ‘And the body,’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘Yes, and the body.’

  The mud on Dixon’s clothes had dried to a light grey crust, which crumbled when he sat down on the edge of the concrete track. He started brushing it off, watching the Coastguard officers packing their dirty kit into the back of their truck. The hovercraft turned out to sea and sped off towards the jetty at Burnham, leaving the ladders sticking out of the water with a red flag tied to them, the only sign of the van and Harry’s resting place.

  ‘Here’s your phone, Sir.’

  ‘This is a crime scene,’ said Dixon. ‘I want a fingertip search of the whole area, once this lot have gone.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied the uniformed officer who had been looking after his phone.

  ‘Here comes the fire brigade,’ said the other officer.

  ‘Too bloody late.’ Dixon watched Steve Yelland walking along the concrete track towards the fire engine. He was waving his arms above his head. A short conversation with the driver followed and then the engine began reversing back along the track.

  ‘D’you need a lift back to Express Park, Sir?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’

  ‘He was alive when I got to him,’ said Dixon, without looking up at Detective Chief Inspector Lewis. ‘He had a hole in his forehead, and he was still alive.’

  ‘And the Coastguard couldn’t get him out?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ said Dixon, getting to his feet to face Lewis and Detective Constable Louise Willmott, who was standing behind him.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘The local rat catcher, handcuffed to the steering wheel.’