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

by Damien Boyd

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Damien Boyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com,Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939691

  ISBN-10: 1503939693

  Cover design by Stuart Bache

  For Alison, Florence and Will

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Absolute darkness.

  She’d never experienced it before. There’d always been a gap under the door, a keyhole, light filtering in through the curtains. Moonlight. But now there was none.

  She held her gloved hand in front of her face, no more than a few inches away, but couldn’t see it, couldn’t even make out the outline. She tried moving it, waggling her fingers. Nothing. At least there was the sound of running water somewhere below her in the darkness.

  ‘Spooky, isn’t it?’

  Prick.

  Why not come caving? You’ll love it!

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Can I turn my lamp on now?’

  They’d only been in the cave for twenty minutes, but she was already soaked to the skin. And cold, if the chattering of her teeth was anything to go by.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get moving. You’ll soon warm up.’

  ‘How much further is it?’

  ‘It’s a four hour round trip to Sump One.’

  Four hours?

  ‘I’m not sure I . . .’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll be fine.’

  She followed his light down towards the water, if only to avoid being left alone in the darkness.

  ‘You’ll need to crawl through this bit and watch your head.’

  Face down in the stream, her helmet banging on the rock above her. Cold water again, just when she had been starting to warm up.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ Trying not to sound nervous.

  ‘Down there,’ he replied, turning his head to shine the lamp on his helmet over the precipice. ‘The Thirty Foot Pot.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Down this ladder, but I’ll have you on a rope, so you’ll be quite safe,’ he replied, pulling her towards him and clipping the karabiner on to her caving belt.

  At least the waterfall would muffle her screams and wash away her tears.

  She looked at him, grinning at her from under his caving helmet as he uncoiled the wire ladder and dropped it over the edge.

  All right then. But if you think I’m going through that bloody sump you are very much mistaken.

  Prat.

  Two hours later she slumped down on to a boulder, breathing hard, and unzipped her oversuit. Then she took off her helmet, careful to keep her head torch shining on a white nylon rope that disappeared into the water under the far rock wall.

  ‘We go through there?’

  ‘That’s Sump One. It’s only seven feet, and I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’ll be all right I promise.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, I’ll go through and then come back to prove it to you.’

  She watched him lie down on his belly in the water, take a deep breath and duck down. Then he began pulling on the rope and kicking with his feet before he disappeared under the rock.

  She waited.

  Then he reappeared, grinning like an idiot.

  ‘You see, it’s easy.’

  Seven feet. Underwater. She could do a full width of the swimming pool, but that wasn’t cold and dark. And didn’t involve crawling on your belly through a confined space hundreds of feet underground.

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll do it. What the hell.’

  He sat in the water and smiled at her.

  Is that supposed to be reassuring?

  ‘I’ll pull on the rope three times; then it’s your turn. Just shut your eyes and go for it!’

  She watched him disappear again and then waited for the rope to move, fear rising in her chest. If she’d had any breakfast, she’d have thrown it up by now.

  Please don’t move. Please . . .

  Then the rope jerked. One. Two. Three.

  Oh shit.

  She lay down in the water facing the blank rock wall, both hands on the rope. The water was cold, far colder than further up the cave.

  Were those footsteps behind her? She spun round.

  Was that a light?

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and ducked down, the cold water clawing at the exposed skin of her face. Then she began pulling on the rope.

  The air in her oversuit made her float, and she had to wriggle and kick to dive down under the cave wall. Her helmet clattered on the rock above her head, and the sound of her oversuit scraping along the roof was amplified by the water all around her.

  She reached forwards, took hold of the rope in her right hand and pulled. Now for the left hand. Inching forward.

  What the . . . ?

  She opened her eyes. The rope was right in front of her. She had a firm grip on it with both hands now and was pulling as hard as she could. But she wasn’t moving. She tried harder. Nothing.

  She tried to lift her head to see the rope ahead, but her helmet hit the rock directly above her. The walls on either side ruled out turning around.

  Only one thing for it. Crawl back out. Odd that she was still capable of rational thought despite the panic that was taking hold of her.

  She let go of the rope and dug her hands into the gravel in front of her. Then she began pushing and wriggling backwards.

  Nothing.

  She tried kicking her feet, but they were jammed. Wedged.

  How much longer could she hold her breath?

  It can’t end like this.

  She began jerking the rope in the hope that he would come.

  First his light. Then hands searching for hers.

  Lungs bursting.

  He had hold of her wrists and she could feel him pulling. But she was stuck fast.

  The end was near. She knew that.

  But I’m supposed to be going skiing . . .

  Then she took
the involuntary breath, the gasp that she had been fighting. She felt the water in her mouth, her throat, her lungs.

  Convulsing now, yet oddly calm.

  The light fading . . . convulsions slowing . . .

  It can’t end like this.

  It really can’t.

  Chapter One

  Plastic bottles. Cans. Broken glass. Carrier bags. Dog bags. Syringes. And the smell. What the hell was that smell?

  Nick Dixon stepped back into the light and exhaled, his breath suspended in front of him in the freezing dawn air.

  ‘I did warn you, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Cole,’ replied Dixon, taking a deep breath and turning back to the pillbox.

  He peered in, shining his torch along the concrete walls to the left and right of the inner blast shield directly in front of him. Narrow shafts of light penetrated the darkness, illuminating abandoned machine gun placements piled high with green plastic cider bottles, squashed juice cartons, cigarette butts, dead snails and more beer cans. All of it covered in cobwebs and dust, the spiders long gone.

  Otherwise it was pitch dark, far colder than outside, despite the fresh snow, and damp. So damp he could taste it.

  Dixon stepped over the rubbish piled up in the entrance and on to a small patch of bare earth floor to the left of the inner wall. Bags of household waste were piled up along the side wall to his left next to a set of old tyres and a shopping trolley. Several piles of human excrement explained the smell.

  It was no place to die.

  Dixon shone his torch at the ceiling and watched the snowflakes falling through a small hole just above his head, presumably where the flue of a wood burning stove had once been. A lifesaver in winter no doubt, but now the stove was long gone and the snow was settling on several empty beer cans on the floor.

  He tucked his torch under his arm and rubbed his hands together.

  Then he saw the body.

  The man was lying with his back against the far wall, slumped over to his right with his head resting on a bag of garden rubbish marked ‘biodegradable’. He was blocking the passageway around the inner wall to the other side of the pillbox.

  The man was bald, but his deathly grey skin reflected little of the light from Dixon’s torch. He had been dead for hours.

  What hair he had was grey, although there were flecks of black in his moustache, which gave away his original hair colour. A jacket and tie, brown corduroys, brogues and a green waxed coat, a Barbour probably. Respectable? Certainly not someone you would expect to find in a place like this.

  A pair of spectacles lay broken on the ground in front of him, the frames buckled, the lenses shattered.

  Dixon squatted down and shone his torch into the man’s face. A faint trace of brown powder was visible around his nose and mouth, and there was some bruising on his face and the back of his head, each bruise small and clearly defined. But no blood and no obviously fatal injuries. Still, cause of death would be someone else’s problem.

  He stepped back and shone his torch on the wall, reading what little graffiti there was.

  How can you possibly spell that wrong?

  And that?

  It was odd, given that plenty of local lads would regard the pillbox as a blank canvas.

  Written in faded green spray paint just above the body were the words ‘old but still it’. The message looked like it had been there some years, but Dixon took a photograph of it on his iPhone before retracing his steps back to the entrance, stepping over the rubbish and into the right hand side of the pillbox.

  More beer cans, plastic bottles and carrier bags, with the added extra of silver foil, the remnants of several candles and blackened spoons on one of the machine gun placements, everything covered by a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. More tyres too. And the remains of a small fire in the corner, ages old by the looks of it. From the smell, this side was also the urinal.

  Dixon checked the walls for graffiti, but found none at all, except for Tracey’s mobile phone number. A good time was guaranteed apparently.

  He shone his torch down at the bottom of the far wall, lighting up the dead man slumped on the bag of garden rubbish. From the position of his hands, they must have been tied behind him, but it was impossible to see how.

  Dixon turned to leave – or rather, make his escape – and noticed a large red admiral butterfly on the wall just under the ceiling. He reached up and touched it with his torch, sending it spiralling to the floor, its wings crumbling at his slightest touch.

  ‘Everything in this bloody place is dead,’ he muttered as he stepped back out into the snow.

  ‘Where’s Jane?’ asked PC Cole.

  ‘If you mean where is Detective Sergeant Winter, she’s still in bed.’

  ‘Celebrating, was it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not every day you get promoted, is it?’ replied Dixon, smiling.

  ‘And what about Detective Constable Willmott?’ Cole grinned, revealing a missing front tooth.

  ‘Louise is on her way. What happened to you?’

  ‘Rugby.’

  ‘I didn’t know you played rugby.’

  ‘I don’t, Sir. It was a piss up at Burnham Rugby Club, and it got a bit out of hand.’

  Dixon shook his head as he walked around the side of the pillbox, peering at the brickwork, each and every brick carrying a message of some sort etched into it. Several different people ‘woz ere’, some of them even taking the trouble to give the date. ‘Kyle loves Tracey’ caught his eye, and he wondered whether it was the same Tracey whose phone number was scrawled on the wall inside. Perhaps not.

  Scratching a message into the red brick appeared to be the preferred method of graffiti outside, and there was very little spray paint, although the same person had daubed the same messages that appeared on the inside walls. His spelling had not improved.

  ‘Don’t fall in, Sir,’ shouted Cole.

  Dixon looked down at the shallow water, which was gin clear beneath a thin layer of ice. Not surprising when boat traffic on the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal had stopped decades before. Patches of weed were still visible on the bottom, despite the snow that was settling on the ice.

  The pillbox had been built where the canal narrowed, and small concrete pyramids were just visible in the brambles on the far bank. Dixon had seen enough war films to recognise a tank trap when he saw one.

  He walked back around the side of the pillbox, taking care to step over anything that resembled a pile of dog mess. Not easy when it was all covered in snow.

  ‘SOCO on the way?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And a pathologist?’

  ‘Roger Poland is coming. We’ve sent a car for him. He didn’t feel well enough to drive.’

  Dixon smiled.

  I bet he didn’t.

  ‘Is the towpath blocked?’

  ‘We’ve got cars at Huntworth Bridge and Fordgate, Sir.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Mr Rushton, Sir. He’s waiting in my car,’ replied Cole, gesturing into the field behind the pillbox.

  Dixon was walking through the gate when his phone rang.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘My husband’s dropping me off. There’s no way I can drive.’

  Dixon sighed. ‘Get him to drop you at the Boat and Anchor,’ he said. ‘You can walk in from there. South, away from the M5. The fresh air will do you good.’

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Dixon rang off and opened the rear passenger door of the patrol car. A black Labrador jumped out, followed by a man wearing waterproofs and a wide brimmed hat.

  ‘Mr Rushton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Dixon. I gather you found him.’

  ‘Polly did actually,’ replied Rushton. ‘I don’t usually let her go anywhere near the pillbox because of the broken glass, but there was no stopping her today. Then she wouldn’t come out. Just sat there barking.’

>   ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I had to go in and get her. I carried her out and put her on her lead. Then I dialled 999.’

  ‘Do you walk along here often?’

  ‘Most days. We park at the Boat and Anchor.’

  ‘When did you last come along here?’

  ‘Friday. We went to the beach yesterday for a change.’

  ‘Have you seen the man before?’

  ‘I didn’t get a very good look at him I’m afraid. It’s dark in there and I didn’t have a torch.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘It’s not a place you want to hang about,’ continued Rushton, ‘and when I saw the body lying there I just grabbed my dog and legged it.’

  ‘Very wise,’ replied Dixon. ‘We have your details?’

  ‘The officer over there took them.’

  ‘Good. Someone will get in touch to take a formal statement from you, but that’s it for now. You can go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Would you like a lift back to your car?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘That’d be great, please. I’m running a bit late now.’

  Dixon watched the patrol car drive slowly back along the towpath to Fordgate, leaving fresh tracks in the snow. The towpath north of the pillbox was a narrow footpath, but south to Fordgate it was wide enough for vehicles, which explained the fly tipping.

  The pain in his toes was becoming unbearable, so Dixon climbed into his Land Rover and switched the engine on before adjusting the heater to blow on his feet. He had a few minutes to kill before Scientific Services arrived, so he took out his phone and opened a web browser. He typed ‘bridgwater canal pillbox’ into Google and hit ‘Search’.

  He ignored the first two results, news articles about an old World War Two pillbox being turned into a haven for bats, and looked at the third result, the Wikipedia page for the canal. The short description in the search results referred to a ‘pillbox which formed part of the Taunton Stop Line’, so he clicked on the Wikipedia page for that, which was directly below it.

  Dixon scrolled down, reading as he went. The Taunton Stop Line was a World War Two defensive line designed to stop an enemy’s advance from the west. It ran from Seaton on the south coast to Highbridge on the north, taking in the River Axe, various railway lines and the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal. Under ‘References’ he clicked on ‘Somerset Pillboxes’, then ‘Taunton Stop Line’. Now he was looking at a complete list of all the pillboxes on the Stop Line, running north to south by the looks of things. Someone had photographed them all.