by Damien Boyd
‘What’s a detective inspector doing here? Where’s my brother? Where’s Alan?’
‘Mrs Paint—’
‘He hasn’t done anything stupid, has he?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He always said he wouldn’t let her suffer. That he’d . . . you know . . . when the time came.’
‘As far as we can tell at this stage, your mother died of heart failure, Mrs Painter,’ said Dixon.
‘Oh thank God.’ She closed her eyes and bowed her head. ‘Sorry, that must sound awful.’
‘We understand,’ said Dixon.
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like to see her now?’
‘Yes, please.’
Mrs Painter followed Dixon up the stairs.
‘This is Dr Roger Poland.’
‘You’re not my mother’s GP.’
‘I’m the senior pathologist at Musgrove Park, Mrs Painter,’ said Poland.
‘Where’s her GP?’
‘She’s been and gone,’ said Dixon.
‘Look, will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’
‘We received a call from a neighbour this afternoon and arrived to find your mother had passed away.’
‘It looks like she died in the early hours of Saturday,’ continued Poland. ‘Heart failure as far as I can tell, but the coroner’s been notified, and there’ll need to be a post mortem, probably tomorrow now.’
‘Why a post mortem?’
‘Because she was found alone in the house,’ replied Dixon.
‘Will there be an inquest?’
‘That’s unlikely.’
‘You still haven’t mentioned Alan yet,’ snapped Mrs Painter.
‘No. We’ll come on to your brother in a moment, Mrs Painter,’ said Dixon. ‘Would you like to spend a moment with your mother first?’
Mrs Painter looked down at her mother. A tear appeared in the corner of her eye and then was gone.
‘No.’
‘You confirm this is your mother, Mrs Lillian May Fletcher?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Well, let’s continue this downstairs, shall we?’
‘Tell me about Alan,’ said Dixon. He was sitting in the living room perched on the edge of an armchair next to the open fire and wishing it had been lit. Mrs Painter and Karen Marsden were sitting side by side on the sofa, with Louise behind them, at the bureau.
‘He lived here with my mother. What more is there to say? Where is he? And where’s Nimrod?’
‘Mrs Painter, I’m sorry to have to tell you that we found a body this morning on the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal. We believe it to be your brother, but will be asking you to identify him formally, if that’s OK.’
Silence.
Dixon glanced at Karen Marsden and then back to Mrs Painter.
‘We believe it was a heart attack,’ he continued, ‘although I have to tell you that he appears to have been assaulted and died during the assault. For that reason we have opened a murder investigation.’
‘Murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Late on Friday night or possibly the early hours of Saturday.’
Mrs Painter sighed and shook her head.
‘Where were you?’
‘You can’t possibly think that I did it.’
‘Forgive me, we have questions we have to ask, boxes we have to tick.’
‘I was at home with my husband.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might wish to harm Alan? Did he have any enemies?’
‘We weren’t that close, Inspector. Or at least we hadn’t been for some time.’
‘Why?’
‘Family reasons.’
Dixon waited. Mrs Painter looked up and then back down to her feet.
‘We fell out after he moved in here with Mother. Not that we’d seen much of each other before that.’
She took a sip of tea.
‘It all changed when my father died and Alan came back from the Falklands. He came back a different person. Scarred inside and out I suppose.’
Dixon looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘He was there when the Sir Galahad was hit,’ continued Mrs Painter. ‘He was the adjutant, 1st Battalion of the Welsh Guards. Watched the whole thing from the shore. His best friend, best man, actually, was on the ship and died in the fire. Alan could do nothing except watch. None of them could. They lost a lot of men that day.’
‘Go on.’
‘Is there anything stronger?’ asked Mrs Painter over her shoulder to Louise.
‘Er . . .’
‘The sideboard over there. There’s usually a bottle of gin or something.’
Dixon watched Louise fetch an open bottle of gin from the sideboard and waited while Mrs Painter tipped at least a double measure into her tea.
‘It’s all right, Inspector. My husband will come and pick me up.’
‘You said it all changed when Alan came back.’
‘He came back on a hospital ship, badly burnt. It was after Port Stanley fell. There was a fire on an armoured personnel carrier from what we could gather. He went in to get the men out. It was like he was trying to make up for not being able to help on the Sir Galahad. Got them all out too. That’s when he won the QGM. His commanding officer told us that. Alan never spoke about it. Ever.’
Dixon nodded.
‘He was bitter,’ continued Mrs Painter. ‘Blaming everyone and . . . poor Jean, she bore the brunt of it.’
‘Jean?’
‘His wife. They went their separate ways in the end, which is when he moved in here. She lives in Shropshire now. We keep in touch.’
‘Is she in a relationship?’
‘Yes. She lives with a man called Ian Newby. He’s divorced too.’
‘What about Alan? Was he in a relationship?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘So, what happened when he came back from the Falklands?’
‘His army career stalled. He was the youngest adjutant in battalion history, but when they got back it all went wrong. He left in 1991, slinked away really, still a captain, and after that it was one failed business venture after another. He went bust twice I think. And then finally Jean had had enough. He even managed to lose her inheritance from her parents.’
‘Did they have children?’
‘No.’
‘Do you?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘I’m just trying to build a picture of the family, Mrs Painter.’
‘Two. And three grandchildren.’
‘What about his failed business ventures then? What were they?’
‘They bought a guest house in Lyme Regis, but it was repossessed. Then it was a letting agency. After that he just gave up I think and started taking it out on Jean. Drinking too.’
‘So when they divorced he came to live here?’
‘That’s right. Look, you’ll find out about it eventually, so I may as well tell you. He got my mother to change her will, leaving everything to him. She said I was financially secure and he needed it more, so she left him everything. That’s when we . . . well, when we fell out.’
‘You felt you were due half?’
‘Yes. Why not? I was being penalised for being careful. He pissed all his money up the wall and gets bailed out. And what about my children?’
‘Where did your mother make this will?’
‘He took her to a firm of solicitors in Taunton. I don’t know which one.’
‘Did your brother make a will?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Mrs Painter, shaking her head.
‘Who inherits your mother’s estate if your brother dies first?’ asked Dixon.
He watched the blood drain from Mrs Painter’s face.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Me probably. Look, I don’t need the money, I really don’t. It was the principle of the thing.’
Dixon stood up.
‘Mrs Painter, I�
��m going to ask you to go with these two uniformed officers to identify your brother. Then they’ll take you home.’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘The coroner’s officer will be in touch about your mother’s funeral arrangements, but they are likely to be delayed because of the post mortem.’
‘What about my brother?’
‘It’ll be some time before his body can be released I’m afraid, but Karen will keep you informed. We would like to speak to his ex-wife, if you could tell us how to get in touch with her.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And then there’s Nimrod,’ said Dixon. ‘He’s in the back of my car at the moment.’
‘He’ll have to be put down,’ replied Mrs Painter. ‘I can’t have him . . . He fights with my Border Terrier.’
‘Would you like me to take care of him?’
‘Yes, please, Inspector.’
It was pitch dark by the time Dixon and Louise left Easter Cottage. Mrs Fletcher had been taken to Musgrove Park for post mortem the following morning, and Scientific Services had left with a vanload of papers, the bin bag of shredded paper and the laptop to go to High Tech. A search of the garden had revealed a small brazier that had been used for burning rubbish at some point, so how much of value was left would remain to be seen.
Mrs Painter had formally identified her brother, Alan Robert Fletcher, and the search of the canal had been completed and turned up nothing. House to house had drawn a blank too.
Dixon ignored the turning for the staff car park at Express Park and drove around to the back of Bridgwater Police Centre.
‘You missed the—’ said Louise.
‘Kennels,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘They’re round the back.’
Louise looked over her shoulder at Nimrod, curled up asleep in Monty’s bed.
‘You’re not taking him home then?’
‘Better not. They can be little buggers can Russells. One had a go at Monty on the beach a few weeks ago.’
‘What’d he do?’
‘He sat on it,’ replied Dixon, grinning.
‘You’re not going to have him put to sleep, are you?’
‘You heard Mrs Painter. I can take care of him.’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Good. So, we’ll see if the charity I got Monty from can take him. Until then he can stay here.’
Dixon glanced up at the police centre while he waited for the steel gates to open. Several officers were visible in the huge windows at the front of the building, sitting with their backs to the glass. Mark Pearce had collected Dave Harding from the Boat and Anchor, and both were now being quizzed by DCI Lewis, who was leaning on Mark’s workstation.
‘Give me ten minutes, then get everyone together in meeting room two, will you?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise, jumping out of Dixon’s Land Rover in the staff car park.
A cup of tea with a spoonful of sugar would be enough to tide him over until he got home. He checked the time while he stirred it: 6 p.m. Not too late, so he dialled the number and waited.
‘What’s up?’
‘Who died first, Roger?’ asked Dixon.
‘That’s easy. Alan did. His mother perhaps twelve hours later. It’ll be in my report.’
‘Thanks. Let me know if you find anything tomorrow morning.’
‘Will do.’
Dixon rang off. Then he leaned back in his chair in the corner of the staff canteen and closed his eyes. He had been up since just after 5 a.m. that morning and hadn’t got to bed much before 1 a.m. Thank God he had been driving last night.
He just had time to send Jane a text message.
how’s your head Nx
The reply came as he was finishing his tea.
banging
He smiled. They had been first in and last out of the Zalshah Tandoori Restaurant in Burnham-on-Sea, and Jane had been doing all right until the liqueurs arrived.
He typed out a reply – serves you right! – but thought better of sending it.
Dave Harding, Mark Pearce and Louise Willmott were waiting for him in meeting room 2, although it was more of a glass cubicle on the landing, a victim of the move from a good old fashioned police station to a brand new police centre. His office had gone too, replaced by a workstation, and not even his own at that. ‘Hot desking’ it was called. Bollocks. It was going to take some getting used to.
Dixon sat down at the head of the table and glanced around the room. He was going to miss Jane on this one. Mark was young and keen, Louise was bright but new to CID, and Dave’s old grey suit was just as crumpled as ever. Not that Dixon would criticise a man for that, but the brown suede shoes were a different matter altogether.
‘What did you make of the daughter, Sir?’ asked Louise.
‘What did you think of her?’
Louise shook her head.
‘Trust your gut.’
‘I don’t think she did it.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Dixon. ‘But we check all the same. Find the mother’s will and get the solicitor’s will file too. See if Alan made a will as well.’
‘What happens if he didn’t?’
‘Nothing. He died before his mother, so the gift to him fails. It’s about the mother’s will now, and it’ll soon tell us who inherits in his place.’
‘It could be the daughter.’
‘Yes, it could, but that doesn’t mean she killed him. Not everyone left out of a will kills the other beneficiaries.’
‘If they did, we’d be bloody busy,’ said Harding.
‘We would, Dave,’ replied Dixon. ‘Get anything at the Boat and Anchor?’
‘Lots of names and phone numbers from the bookings. Some regulars and several number plates from the CCTV. Some people arrived by taxi too.’
‘Well, you know what to do.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let me know if you need any help.’
Harding nodded.
‘Mark, we need everything on Alan Fletcher’s failed businesses. He went bust twice apparently. Find out who he owed money to. Check with the Insolvency Service to begin with, and see what they’ve got on him.’
‘What about the ex-wife?’
‘Leave her to me. Louise, see if you can find the solicitor who acted for him on the divorce, and set up a meeting with the ex.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about the brown powder?’ asked Pearce.
‘We should get a result tomorrow,’ replied Louise.
‘And we’ll need some house to house in North Curry tomorrow evening. Catch people in after work,’ said Dixon. ‘Anything else?’
‘Isn’t this a double murder?’
‘Eh?’ Harding was shaking his head.
‘Seriously, Dave,’ continued Louise, ‘you kill a carer and the person being cared for dies. Aren’t you responsible for both deaths?’
‘That’s one for the Crown Prosecution Service,’ said Dixon. ‘Let’s just find the bugger first, shall we?’
Chapter Four
Jane was fast asleep on the sofa under the duvet she had dragged off the bed, and not even the diesel engine nor Monty’s barking had woken her up. Odd that. Dixon would have checked for a pulse had it not been for the snoring.
‘You been fed, old son?’
Monty ran into the kitchen and sat on the floor by the dog food cupboard, wagging his tail.
‘That’s a no then, is it?’
The noise of the kettle boiling soon drowned out the sound of a metal dog bowl being pushed along the tiled floor.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just after seven,’ replied Dixon, turning to see Jane standing in the doorway, the duvet wrapped around her shoulders.
‘You’ve been had.’
‘What?’
‘I’d already fed him.’
Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘Cheeky little—.’
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Jane.
‘I had a sandwich earlier.’
‘There’s
a chilli in the freezer.’
‘What about you?’
‘I might have some toast later. How’d you get on?’
‘We got lucky, if you can call it that. A neighbour was concerned about the victim’s elderly mother, only she was dead when we got there.’
‘A double murder?’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘But you know who he is?’
‘Alan Fletcher. Lived over at North Curry.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Heart attack. He was being assaulted at the time.’
‘In a pillbox on the canal?’
‘I reckon he’d have been killed if he hadn’t died first. His hands were tied behind his back. Either way, it’s murder.’
‘I’m going to go and have a shower,’ said Jane. ‘Tell me about it later.’
Dixon dragged his laptop out from under the TV stand while he waited for the microwave to go ping. He would have time to cook his supper and eat it before it booted up, but then it was almost as old as Alan Fletcher’s. It was a miracle it had lasted this long and a great shame it had survived the shotgun blast a few months earlier. A new one, paid for by his house insurers, would have been just the job.
He balanced his empty plate on the arm of the sofa, picked up his laptop and typed ‘Falklands War’ into Google. The first result came from Wikipedia, so he clicked on it and scrolled down to ‘Land Battles’, then ‘Bluff Cove’ and ‘Fitzroy’. Thirty-two Welsh Guardsmen had been lost from a total of forty-eight killed when the Sir Galahad had been hit by bombs and caught fire during an attack by Argentinian Skyhawks. Dixon had seen the footage of helicopters hovering next to a ship billowing black smoke before, but he found it on YouTube and watched it again, trying to imagine how Alan Fletcher must have felt watching the attack and its aftermath from the comparative safety of the shore, powerless to stop it.
It was old news footage from the BBC and ITV. Soldiers milling about, helping the wounded ashore from the lifeboats and landing craft that were being used to ferry the injured to safety, and administering first aid. All of it against a backdrop of black smoke, flames and explosions as the fire reached the ammunition on board the ship. Dixon looked for Fletcher amongst the faces, but it was impossible to identify him.
Nine days later, on 11 June 1982, the 1st Welsh Guards had taken part in the Battle of Mount Harriet, when 42 Commando, Royal Marines, with 40 Commando and the Welsh Guards in support had captured the high ground above Port Stanley. Mount Longdon and Two Sisters fell on the same night to other units, the first phase of the approach to Port Stanley complete. Two days later Mount Tumbledown and Wireless Ridge were taken, and a ceasefire was declared the following day.