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

by Damien Boyd

  And Alan Fletcher had survived all of that to die in a shithole on the banks of the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal.

  ‘What’s that you’re watching?’ asked Jane, dropping down on to the sofa next to Dixon.

  ‘A documentary about the Falklands War. My victim was there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was in the Welsh Guards. The adjutant.’

  ‘What’s an adjutant?’

  ‘Personal staff officer to the battalion commander. He deals with the admin, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Was he still in the army?’

  ‘No, he left in 1991.’

  ‘Got any witnesses?’

  ‘No.’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘What’s on the telly?’

  ‘You choose,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just not a war film, all right?’

  Dixon woke early the following morning. He never slept well during an investigation; ‘in the heat of battle’ he called it, although that seemed a bit crass this time. Yes, he’d had his house broken into by armed men in the dead of night and yes, he’d been shot at too. And stabbed come to think of it. But it wasn’t quite the same as fighting for Queen and country, watching your friends fighting and dying all round you. He closed his eyes and saw the smoke billowing out of the Sir Galahad again, this time in slow motion and against a backdrop of Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’. The music had been going round and round in his head all night.

  In Dixon’s book, war veterans were to be treated with respect, not murdered in pillboxes on the banks of the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal. Alan Fletcher had done his duty for Queen and country, and he could rely on Dixon to do his.

  He reached over and prodded Jane.

  ‘C’mon, you’ve got to get up to Portishead don’t forget.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Oh, y’know, places to go, people to see.’

  Dixon was filling up with diesel in the Shell station at the entrance to Express Park when his phone rang in his pocket.

  ‘Louise? Where are you?’

  ‘Outside Harringtons Solicitors in Burnham, Sir. They made Mrs Fletcher’s will, but they won’t let me have it. Client confidentiality apparently.’

  ‘Who are the executors?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me.’

  Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 9 a.m. He ignored the cashier banging on the window of the petrol station and walked away from the pump, still with his phone to his ear.

  ‘We don’t have time to wait for an interim death certificate. Tell them they’ve got three choices. They can either believe a member of Her Majesty’s constabulary that Mrs Fletcher is dead and release a copy of her will, or you can take them to the mortuary now and show them the body.’

  ‘What’s the third choice?’

  ‘Arrest them for obstruction.’

  ‘Just a copy?’

  ‘Yes, a copy will do. And a copy of their will file. And don’t forget to ask them if they acted for Alan on his divorce.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Sir.’

  Every run-in with a solicitor reminded Dixon of his narrow escape from the legal profession, leaving the day he qualified. Much longer and it would have been a mortgage, commitments, and he’d never have got out.

  Louise rang back just as he was parking the Land Rover in the staff car park.

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I give all my estate whatsoever and . . . blah . . . blah . . . Here it is . . . For my said son Alan absolutely but if he dies before me then to be divided between such of my grandchildren as shall survive me and if more than one in equal shares on their attaining the age of twenty-five years.’

  ‘Mrs Painter’s going to love that,’ said Dixon. ‘Who are the executors?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Top of the first page.’

  Paper rustling.

  ‘Er, I appoint my son Alan Robert Fletcher and the partners at the date of my death in the firm of Harringtons Solicitors of—’

  ‘That’ll do,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘What about Alan’s divorce?’

  ‘No record.’

  ‘Get back as quick as you can then.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  A quick check on Nimrod in the kennels and Dixon arrived in the CID area on the first floor just before 9.30 a.m. Late for him perhaps, but Sunday had been a long day.

  ‘Where’s Dave?’

  ‘He’s gone to interview people who were in the Boat and Anchor on Friday night, Sir,’ replied Pearce. ‘Louise has gone to get the old dear’s will.’

  ‘What about Alan’s businesses then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The guest house was repossessed. They couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments.’

  ‘Which bank was it?’

  ‘Northern Rock. They both ended up doing individual voluntary arrangements.’

  ‘How much did they owe?’

  ‘Not a lot. It was mainly the bank and some local tradespeople in Lyme Regis.’

  ‘And the letting agency?’

  ‘That went pop big time,’ replied Pearce. ‘The company was wound up. He was done for trading while insolvent and disqualified as a company director. Owed thousands.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the file, Sir.’

  ‘Copy it for me when it arrives.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Anything from scientific?’

  ‘Nothing amongst the papers except an old letter from Harringtons thanking Mrs Fletcher for paying their bill. It was in the bureau. They’re making a start on the shredding.’

  ‘Jigsaw puzzles are bad enough,’ muttered Dixon as he walked over to the kettle.

  ‘Here it is, Sir,’ said Louise, dropping the copy of Mrs Fletcher’s will on to Dixon’s keyboard. He picked it up, glanced at it and then threw it to one side.

  ‘Did you get the will file?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Any mention of the son being there when she gave instructions?’

  ‘No. Listen, I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Louise. ‘I really don’t think Mrs Painter killed him.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Firstly, she’s not the direct beneficiary. Her adult children are, and the youngest is twenty-nine.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you do that for your daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your brother will be pleased,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I haven’t got a brother,’ replied Louise, frowning. ‘And what if Alan had inherited? He doesn’t have children of his own, so chances are he’d leave it all to her children anyway, his niece and nephew. And if he didn’t make a will, then it would go to Mrs Painter or her children under the Intestacy Rules, wouldn’t it? He’d already had one heart attack, so why kill him for it?’

  ‘What if his will left it all to someone else? The Welsh Guards Benevolent Fund, for example.’

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘I expect so. And he’s hardly good with money, is he?’ continued Dixon. ‘She might have thought she had to kill him before their mother died to see to it that the money stayed in the family.’

  ‘Are you saying you think she did it now?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘But she could’ve done. There’s a motive there, even if it is thin.’

  ‘And she volunteered it don’t forget.’

  ‘She knew we’d have found it anyway. Have you found his will?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well don’t just stand there then. And see if you can track down the ex-wife too.’

  Dixon smiled. He thought Louise was right about Mrs Painter, but for the wrong reasons. Although if pressed he could do no better than ‘it didn’t feel right’. The will gave her a tenuous motive, more so if Alan’s will was found and really did leave the estate outside the family. No, Mrs Painter had some questions to answer, and they would have a close look at her finances, but Dixon’s mind was already elsewhere.


  He had spent the last twenty minutes scrolling through pages and pages of old posts on several web forums, reading the grievances of landlords and tenants who between them had lost thousands of pounds in rent and deposits when Fletcher Lettings (South West) Limited had gone bust. It looked like Alan Fletcher had had his fingers in the till too. There were a lot of very angry people.

  Beacon End House was on the hill above Ilminster. It was a large Victorian property with four chimneys and a slate roof, not much else being visible from the road thanks to the high box hedge.

  Dixon pulled in opposite the drive and wrenched the handbrake on.

  ‘What time was she getting down here?’

  ‘She was leaving Shrewsbury this morning and getting down for lunch, so she should be here by now,’ replied Louise.

  ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ mumbled Dixon, peering down the drive.

  ‘How long does it take?’

  ‘Three hours at most I’d have thought.’ Dixon looked at his watch. ‘C’mon, we’re a bit early, but she’s hardly going to turn us away, is she?’

  Dixon followed the drive down towards the house and round a sharp bend at the bottom, where it opened into a large gravelled parking area hidden behind tall fir trees. A Jaguar and a Chrysler Crossfire were parked in a double garage, which was open, and an old Ford Fiesta was parked outside.

  ‘D’you think that’s Jean’s?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Could be,’ replied Dixon. ‘Or it could be one of Mrs Painter’s children.’

  Dixon had learned a long time ago never to judge a person by the car they drive, more so if it was an old heap. He parked behind the Ford Fiesta and switched off the engine, wondering as he did so what an old Land Rover said about him. Still, it was bought and paid for.

  ‘The Painters look well off, don’t they?’

  ‘They do,’ replied Dixon. ‘Assuming they own it all, but they might be up to their armpits in debt for all we know.’

  Louise nodded.

  Dixon was able to see right along the hall through the glazed front door to the kitchen at the far end. There was a desk in the bay window to his right: the office, probably; but the door on the left of the hall was closed. He had banged the door knocker twice before the barking started and Mrs Painter appeared in the kitchen door, closely followed by a Border Terrier, its feet skidding on the floor tiles. She turned and said something over her shoulder before walking towards the front door.

  ‘Looks like that is Mrs Fletcher’s car,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You’re early, Inspector,’ said Mrs Painter. ‘We were just having lunch.’

  ‘We could always . . .’

  ‘No, don’t bother. It’s cold anyway. Come in.’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Willmott.’

  They followed Mrs Painter along the hall and into the kitchen.

  ‘Jean, this is the policeman I was telling you about.’

  Jean Fletcher was tall, with the grey hair and wrinkles that come with age, but Dixon recognised her from the wedding photograph. She was wearing black jeans and a cream pullover. A set of wooden beads around her neck jangled when she stood up. No make-up either, but then this was not the occasion for it perhaps. She forced a smile when she shook Dixon’s hand.

  ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’ asked Dixon, turning to Mrs Painter.

  ‘Yes, of course. Use the living room. Follow me.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Painter?’

  ‘At work, Inspector. He’s an orthopaedic consultant at the Nuffield.’

  ‘Both cars are in the garage.’

  ‘He took the Bentley this morning.’

  The living room was large, taking in both bay windows at the side of the house and giving views right across east Somerset. A table and chairs at one end and two brown leather sofas at the other, one in front of the fire and the other opposite a wall mounted flat screen TV.

  ‘On a good day you can see King Alfred’s Tower,’ said Mrs Painter, looking out of the window.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘We’ll sit here I think,’ he said, gesturing to the table and chairs.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Mrs Painter, backing out of the room and shutting the door behind her.

  Dixon sat down opposite Mrs Fletcher with his back to the view and waited for Louise to take out her notebook.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Fletcher.’

  ‘Don’t be. He’s not my loss. I’m here for Eve really.’

  ‘When did you divorce?’ asked Dixon, nodding.

  ‘We didn’t,’ replied Mrs Fletcher.

  ‘You’re still married?’

  ‘Yes. We separated, but never divorced.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There didn’t seem much point. We were both too old, and there was nothing to fight over. Not that we had any fight left in us.’

  ‘What does Ian make of that? It is Ian, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ian Newby. He doesn’t mind. He’s divorced himself, so he understands.’

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning then. When did you marry?’

  ‘Nineteen seventy-eight. Good it was too. To begin with.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘He did. In the Falklands. He came through a tour in Northern Ireland the year after we married and seemed fine, but the Falklands was different . . . He was never the same after that.’

  ‘Mrs Painter said he witnessed the attack on the Sir Galahad from the shore.’

  ‘He did, but I never really got him to open up about it.’

  ‘Then he was injured in a fire on an armoured personnel carrier.’

  ‘There were no APCs on the Falklands, Inspector. If there had been, the boys wouldn’t have had to yomp across the island, would they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘And the Guards wouldn’t have been on the Sir Galahad either,’ continued Mrs Fletcher, her eyes glazing over for a split second.

  ‘What was it then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A common or garden Land Rover. The ambulance conversion. Eve always says it was an APC, but it wasn’t. I don’t know where she got that from. Not that it matters. What matters is he got everyone out.’

  ‘And was decorated for it.’

  ‘That and other things. He won the QGM. That was the last really good day, getting that from the Queen.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘He started drinking. Got himself overlooked for promotion when the second in command moved on, and a few years later he was ushered quietly out of the army. That was just the start though.’

  ‘Was he ever diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder perhaps?’

  ‘Saw a shrink, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, no. That wasn’t the done thing in those days.’

  ‘Tell me about the guest house then.’

  ‘That was our first disaster,’ replied Mrs Fletcher, shaking her head. ‘It was good to begin with; then the recession got us. Bookings were down, and we were into negative equity before we knew it. Interest rates at fifteen per cent too. You’ll be too young to remember that I expect.’

  ‘Just about,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Anyway, it was the bank that pulled the plug. We both ended up doing IVAs and spent the next few years paying off what we could when we could, which wasn’t often. I worked as a secretary, and he got a job managing a fleet of vans. Hated it though. We both did.’

  ‘Where were you living?’

  ‘We rented a cottage in Dorchester, then Bridport. Then my mother died and I inherited her house in Weymouth. Till we lost it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We borrowed against it to set up the letting agency. This was the late nineties, and interest rates had gone down by then, so it was affordable. Just.’

  ‘But the letting agency failed?’

  ‘Yes. It took a few years though, and everything we had. We sold the house first and used the equity to prop the company up. Ended up losi
ng the bloody lot. It was wound up and Alan taken to court. It was very messy and led to more drinking.’

  ‘Did he hit you?’

  ‘No. Never. We rowed a lot, as you can imagine, but he never laid a finger on me. I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Was that when you separated?’

  ‘After a couple of years, yes. I was working as a secretary again, and every penny I earned went on rent and drink. In the end I’d had enough and just left.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He stayed where he was, until the landlord got fed up with him not paying the rent, and then he moved in with Lillian.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I went to my sister’s, in Telford. One suitcase. That’s all I had to show for . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Ten years ago now.’

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff online about the collapse of the letting agency. Lots of angry landlords and tenants.’

  ‘It wasn’t him.’

  ‘What wasn’t?’

  ‘The missing deposits,’ said Mrs Fletcher. She was looking down at the nail varnish on her right index finger, flicking at the edge with her thumbnail. ‘He did that by the book, and everything was in a separate client account.’

  ‘Where did the money go then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked up and stared at Dixon.

  ‘And Alan?’

  ‘He never mentioned it.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Not a huge amount. Eight thousand or so. A drop in the ocean when it came to it. The average rental deposit was only four hundred pounds back then don’t forget, one month’s rent.’

  ‘We’re looking for a motive for his murder, Mrs Fletcher. Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm Alan?’

  ‘Not really. I can’t believe it’s a former client. That was ten years ago.’

  ‘Did they get any money back?’

  ‘No. There was nothing left.’

  ‘What about you? Were you very bitter after the separation?’

  Dixon’s question came out of the blue and took Mrs Fletcher by surprise. She shifted in her seat, crossed and uncrossed her legs.