Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime) Page 7

  ‘Where to?’ he asked, when he turned off the M5 at Burnham.

  Lucy was sitting in the back of the Land Rover, her arm around Monty who looked none too chuffed in his seatbelt harness. That was the deal: no seatbelt, no sitting on the seat. ‘I said I’d meet Billy at the Pavilion.’ She looked at her phone. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your sister will give you some.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ muttered Jane, picking up her handbag.

  Dixon parked on the seafront.

  ‘Make sure you’re home by ten!’ shouted Jane, although Lucy was already out of earshot. She sighed. ‘It’s like a scene from one of your old films,’ she said, peering over her shoulder at Lucy and Billy running into each other’s arms.

  ‘There was a time when we did that.’ Dixon was watching the same scene unfold in his wing mirror. ‘The night of the fire; it was just down there.’ He pointed over the sea wall. ‘You ran the full length of the beach.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I.’ Jane blushed. ‘I thought you were dead. And you were running too, remember?’

  ‘Then there was the time—’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  He grinned. ‘We’re like an old married couple.’

  ‘And we’re not even married yet.’

  ‘We should set a date.’ Dixon started the engine and continued along the seafront towards the sailing club.

  ‘When?’

  ‘It’s September now, so that depends on whether you want winter, spring or summer. And you must walk down an aisle; Rod would never forgive us if he didn’t get to walk you down the aisle.’

  Jane’s parents, Rod and Sue, had adopted her as a baby, a decision taken out of love, not forced on them by circumstance. Jane knew she was adopted. What she didn’t know was that her parents could have had a child of their own, but instead chose to adopt her. One day they would tell her; on her wedding day maybe? That would make for quite a speech from the father of the bride.

  ‘Let’s get this crossbow business sorted first. Besides, if you lose your job you might not be worth marrying.’ She sighed when it dawned on her they weren’t heading home. ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘Express Park,’ replied Dixon. ‘Louise is in this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re not going to rope her into this as well?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Three missed calls from a Bristol number,’ said Dixon, holding out his phone in front of Jane as she swiped her pass to open the staff entrance. ‘No messages though.’

  ‘Nothing on mine,’ she replied, heading for the back stairs, only stopping when she noticed Detective Constable Louise Willmott on her way up.

  ‘I saw you drive in,’ said Louise. ‘I’ve had the ACC on the phone wondering if you were in. I think he was hoping to catch you on your way home from Leyhill.’

  It sounded like an ambush and, whatever it was, it could wait. ‘What time does your shift finish?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Four.’ Louise’s short dark hair was tied back in an elastic band, a pen tucked behind her left ear. She was young and keen, transferring from uniform to CID when Jane had been shunted off to Safeguarding. It had been dressed up as the only vacancy for a newly promoted detective sergeant, but Dixon knew Jane’s move had been forced on her by their relationship.

  Charlesworth had once described Louise as ‘Dixon’s protégé’, which was absurd, although he was happy to take the credit. ‘What’s Janice got you doing?’

  ‘Watching CCTV.’ Louise shrugged. ‘The only good thing is there’s no overtime, so I’m seeing lots of Katie at the moment. She’s three next week, would you believe it?’

  ‘Can you spare me an hour or two?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ she replied, nervously.

  Dixon handed her a scrap of paper with the names of the four crew from the Sunset Boulevard scribbled on it. ‘This is the crew from that yacht that sank a few months back. The owner is dead.’

  ‘The crossbow?’ Louise was following them along the landing. ‘Dave and Mark said you were up to something.’

  ‘The families have got serious motive, so I’d like you to—’

  ‘Find out everything I can about them?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What about the victims of the tax avoidance scheme?’ asked Jane.

  ‘There are hundreds of them, so we’ll have to start with the families and see where we go from there.’ Dixon flicked on the kettle in the CID Area. ‘After all, we’re not exactly awash with resources, are we?’

  ‘I’d better get that,’ mumbled Louise, gesturing to the landline ringing on her desk. ‘Yes, Sir.’ The phone pressed to her ear. ‘I don’t know, Sir, let me have a look.’ She put her hand over the mouthpiece and stared at Dixon, her eyes wide.

  ‘You can’t ask her to lie to the assistant chief constable,’ whispered Jane.

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said, stepping forward, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Yes, he’s here, Sir, over by the kettle. Hang on.’

  Dixon took the phone from Louise. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he said with a wince.

  ‘You weren’t answering your mobile, Nick.’

  ‘I was driving, Sir, sorry.’

  ‘Oh, well, I need you here as quick as you can. Whatever it is you’re doing, drop it and leave now. We’re in conference room five in Ops.’

  ‘We?’ Dixon couldn’t help himself.

  Charlesworth cleared his throat. ‘I’m here with Deborah Potter and Dick Collyer. Vicky Thomas is here too, and there’s someone on the way from Operational HR for two o’clock.’

  ‘I’m leaving now, Sir.’ Dixon looked at Jane and drew his index finger across his throat as he handed the phone back to Louise. Detective Chief Superintendent Potter was his boss, or ‘line manager’ according to the manual; and what was the press officer there for? That left someone from HR and Collyer. At least there was no one from Professional Standards.

  Yet.

  Dixon dropped Jane and Monty at the beach on the way to Portishead, her parting shot still ringing in his ears. ‘You’ll be checking parking meters in Martinique by this time tomorrow.’

  She’d obviously been watching his old Pink Panther films again.

  What was even more disturbing was that he was waved through the main gate before he’d even had a chance to get his warrant card out, the officer on duty raising the barrier and letting him straight through. Perhaps he’d been told to look out for a ‘vomit green’ Land Rover?

  It was just before two when Dixon finally looked through the small window in the conference room door; stern faces all around the table, the remains of a sandwich lunch in the middle of the table. Vicky Thomas was sitting with her back to him, but the press officer was no doubt enjoying his misfortune. Collyer didn’t look like he was enjoying himself much though, turning the coffee cup on its saucer and clearly not listening to the discussion taking place between Deborah Potter and Charlesworth. Notes were being taken by the person from HR, either that or Charlesworth was having minutes taken by Professional Standards; they do that at disciplinary meetings.

  Sod it.

  He could always get a job on the door of some supermarket somewhere; or even go back to the legal profession if push came to shove and there really wasn’t anything else going. Someone would give him a job as a criminal defence solicitor somewhere and it wouldn’t take a jiffy to get police station accredited. Now, that really would piss Charlesworth off.

  He knocked on the door and opened it.

  ‘Come in, Nick.’ Charlesworth gestured to the vacant chair opposite Deborah Potter, the grey streaks in her hair still matching the pinstripe of her suit.

  He sat down, trying to look relaxed, but the beads of sweat on his forehead probably gave him away. Potter smiled at him from behind the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose – a feeble attempt to put him at his ease – then slid her phone across the table.

  Dixon picked it up
and stared at the photograph on the screen: a middle aged man, a tree and two crossbow bolts, one through the cheek and the other the eye socket; mouth open, a drip of blood congealed on the end of his chin like an icicle.

  Charlesworth was introducing Dixon to whoever it was from HR, but he wasn’t listening – instead reeling from yet another blow to the pit of his stomach, his relief that he had been right after all quickly turning to guilt that a man had died to prove it.

  ‘Yes, there’s been another one.’ Charlesworth sighed. ‘It seems you were right.’

  ‘And I was wrong.’ Collyer was still staring into the empty coffee cup on the table in front of him.

  ‘There’s no blame here, Dick,’ said Charlesworth. ‘We all did what we thought was right at the time and it was perfectly reasonable to proceed on the assumption that it was gang related.’

  ‘Doesn’t look good, though, does it.’ Vicky Thomas’s face flushed, her eyes darting from Charlesworth to Collyer and back again, clearly embarrassed she had said that out loud.

  ‘When was this?’ asked Dixon, using his fingers to zoom in on the back of the victim’s head, both bolts clean through and buried deep in the tree.

  ‘He was found at ten this morning by his wife,’ replied Potter. ‘He was supposed to be doing a bit of deadheading, and when he didn’t come in for his coffee, she went to look for him. The call came in from a neighbour at ten-twelve. She heard screaming and went to investigate, as any good neighbour would. His wife was still screaming when uniform got there eight minutes later.’

  Dixon zoomed back out, a conservatory now visible in the background, a tray of coffee sitting on the table beyond the open doors. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Keith Finch.’ Potter again. ‘An enforcement officer at HM Revenue and Customs in Cardiff.’

  ‘You know what this means, Nick?’ asked Charlesworth.

  The bloody boat’s got nothing to do with it.

  ‘I do, Sir.’ Dixon was already halfway through tapping out a text message to Louise: Stop what you’re doing ta

  ‘Collins was up to his neck in a failed tax avoidance scheme that landed hundreds of people with large tax bills,’ continued Charlesworth. ‘And now the officer pursuing the payment of those bills has been killed.’

  ‘Perhaps I could clarify, Sir.’ Potter leaned forward. ‘It’s not been established exactly what work Mr Finch was doing at the tax office, but it is the same office that’s handling recovery of the loan charge scheme debts. I think that’s all we can say at this stage.’

  ‘That’s enough, isn’t it?’ Collyer took a sip from his empty coffee cup, more for something to do with his hands than anything else, probably.

  ‘Where is he?’ Dixon slid Potter’s phone back across the table.

  ‘In his back garden,’ she replied. ‘It’s a bungalow on the edge of Bradley Stoke so it’s in our patch. I suppose he commuted over the Severn Crossing every day. Nice and convenient, especially now there’s no toll.’

  Dixon turned to Charlesworth and fixed him with a steely glare. Mercifully he got the message before Dixon had to ask, an abrupt ‘Well?’ proving unnecessary.

  ‘We’re going to make Janice Courtenay up to acting DCI and move her across to the managerial role at Express Park. I think she’s probably more suited to that anyway and it leaves you free to head up the major investigation team we’re putting in place. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You’re more suited to the senior investigating officer role, so everyone’s happy.’ Now it was Charlesworth’s turn to glare at Dixon. ‘And you haven’t forgotten our little understanding?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Eleven days.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Staffing’s going to be difficult, that’s why Jesminder’s here from HR,’ said Potter.

  ‘Call me Jez,’ she said, her long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘We can spare you eight from Portishead and a few more from Bristol, but it’s going to be really tight for an investigation of this size. I gather the victims of Godfrey Collins’s tax avoidance schemes run into the hundreds, so we’ll need to take some people from Bridgwater too. Is there anyone specific you’d want on the team?’

  ‘Louise Willmott, Dave Harding and Mark Pearce.’ Dixon noticed Potter smiling. He must be getting predictable.

  ‘Got them,’ said Jez, still hovering her pen over her notebook. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘It might be useful if the Bridgwater Rural Crimes team was seconded to the MIT as well. That’s Nigel Cole. He’s been looking into the sheep killings.’

  ‘A representative from Zephyr for liaison purposes would be sensible as well,’ said Charlesworth. ‘At least to begin with.’

  Dixon stifled a sigh. Not the twat from the car park, please.

  ‘I’ve asked DS Turner to drop the files down to you,’ said Collyer. ‘You met him in the car park at Harptree Combe.’

  ‘Of course I did, Sir. But I’m not sure we’ll need to liaise with Zephyr.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ snapped Charlesworth, his face quickly softening into a smile. ‘The last question then is where we put the incident room, here or Express Park?’

  ‘There’s space upstairs,’ offered Jez. ‘And I’m sure we could find room in the accommodation block for anyone from Bridgwater who didn’t want the daily commute.’

  ‘I think I’d rather Express Park, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘The top floor’s vacant at the moment.’

  ‘Jolly good, that’s settled then.’ Charlesworth rubbed his hands together. ‘Portishead it is; second floor, ops building.’

  ‘Area J,’ said Jez.

  ‘Reporting to Deborah as usual,’ continued Charlesworth. ‘Now, you’d better get up to Bradley Stoke.’

  ‘Scientific Services will be there for a while and Leo Petersen’s on scene,’ said Potter. ‘The wife’s gone to the neighbour’s; family liaison are with her and the daughter’s on her way down from Birmingham.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘It’s a cedar of Lebanon.’

  Dixon recognised Leo Petersen’s voice, and the rustle of overalls behind him. ‘It’s not coming down, is it?’ He was craning his neck to see the upper branches towering over the rear of the red brick bungalow.

  ‘Can’t,’ replied Petersen. ‘There’s a tree preservation order on it. It may look nice from a distance, but I wouldn’t want it in my garden, the bloody thing drops needles and crap everywhere.’

  The front door of the bungalow was standing open.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Petersen stopped him in his tracks. ‘Follow the path round the side. And you’ll need these.’

  Dixon turned to find a sealed packet of overalls flying towards him like a frisbee.

  ‘I’ll see you round the back when you’ve put those on.’ Petersen opened the wrought iron gate between the corner of the bungalow and the double garage and disappeared from view.

  ‘DCI Dixon?’

  He was wriggling into the overalls when he heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘DS Bennett, Sir; Patchway Police Centre. The wife’s next door and would like a word when you’ve got a minute. And I’ve sent two lads over to his place of work. We’ve got hold of one of the senior tax inspectors who’s going to open up for us.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘No, Sir. We just sealed it off and were waiting for you. Scientific are in there though.’

  Dixon pulled the elasticated hood over his head and followed the path alongside the bungalow, stopping to peer in the side window of the garage: a BMW and a British racing green Mini with Union Jack wing mirrors; standard his and hers.

  He ducked under the washing line, admiring the roses along the hedge to his left as he set off across the perfectly manicured lawn until the grass thinned out under the cedar, the ground covered in needles.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Petersen was standing on the edge of a stepping plate. ‘It’s taking the sun off the conservatory to
o.’

  ‘Well, Mr Finch doesn’t have to worry about that now,’ said Dixon, following the line of plates.

  ‘Mrs does though.’ Petersen spoke without looking away from the entry wound in the eye, examining it at disturbingly close quarters with an ophthalmoscope, his index finger rotating the dial to change the focus as he moved still closer.

  ‘Eye, eye.’

  Dixon spun round to find DS Bennett laughing at his own joke on the stepping plate behind him, wearing a set of hastily put on overalls; the sleeves were rucked up showing the cuffs of his shirt and the zip had only been done up as far as his neck, which Dixon could cheerfully have wrung. ‘Show some respect, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, it’s just that we don’t usually get too many murders round these parts; it makes a change from shoplifting at Cribbs Causeway.’

  ‘And do your suit up properly,’ snapped Petersen.

  Bennett backed away, wrestling with the cuffs on his overalls.

  It was no more than three paces from the flower bed at the bottom of the garden to the base of the tree, a pair of secateurs lying on the bare earth in amongst the roses, two Scientific Services officers crawling on their hands and knees in the long grass of the field beyond. A patrol car blocking a tarmac lane was visible through a five bar gate in the far hedge line.

  Dixon turned to Bennett, who was still fidgeting with his hazmat suit. ‘Let’s get a team out for a full fingertip search of the field, and I want that lane checked for tyre tracks; the nearest traffic cameras in both directions too.’

  ‘Now, Sir?’

  He resisted the temptation. ‘Yes, please.’

  Finch himself was upright, although his legs had buckled under him, his full weight now being taken by the crossbow bolts.

  Petersen stepped back. ‘He was killed by the second bolt through the eye; the first one pinned him to the tree, but he was probably alive at that point. Just.’

  ‘The second bolt’s a lot further in,’ noted Dixon.

  ‘Eight point two centimetres,’ replied Petersen.

  ‘Three and a bit inches then.’