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

by Damien Boyd

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Dixon, standing up.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Clearing my mind. Another drink?’

  Chapter Six

  ‘What’ve we got then?’ The following morning had dawned cold and crisp, and Dixon was waiting in meeting room 2 when the others arrived. He’d even found time for a walk on the beach first.

  ‘We’ve had a call from someone in Fordgate who was out when we did the house to house. They saw lights about oneish,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘What sort?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Car headlights. I’m going over there later on to get a detailed statement.’

  ‘Better try the other houses where we got no reply before while you’re there.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘On both sides of the canal,’ continued Dixon.

  ‘I’ve got the files from the Insolvency Service too,’ said Pearce, nodding. ‘I’ll copy them for you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Anything on his mobile phone?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘Nothing yet from the Boat and Anchor either,’ said Harding. ‘Nothing that stands out anyway.’

  ‘How many people have you spoken to?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Twenty or so. No one saw anything unusual, but it was a busy night and there were people coming and going all the time.’

  ‘What about the taxi firms?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to their passengers. They’re regulars and the landlord remembers them too. Nothing sinister,’ replied Harding, shaking his head.

  ‘Widen the search. Let’s speak to the landlords of any pub between North Curry and Fordgate. If I was meeting someone to kill him, I doubt I’d stop for a beer in the nearest pub first, but I might have one a few miles away.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about the North Curry house to house?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Pearce. ‘But there were a few empties to follow up.’

  ‘Louise can give you a hand. Let’s try roadblocks on Friday night too, all routes into North Curry, and see if any motorists remember seeing anything.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about the army pension, Louise?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The widow gets a half.’

  ‘Well, that’s that motive out the window.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If they’d divorced, then the pension would have been split and she’d have got half anyway, which is the same as the widow’s benefit, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wonder why she didn’t mention it then,’ said Louise.

  ‘Probably thought it made her look bad,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘And why didn’t she divorce him and go after it?’

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘Not huge. He was a captain and he’d only been in the army sixteen years or so.’

  ‘There’s your answer then.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have lost it when he went bankrupt?’ asked Harding.

  ‘He didn’t go bankrupt, did he, Mark?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘No. He did an IVA when the guest house failed, and the letting agency was a limited company. It went into liquidation, but he never went personally bankrupt.’

  ‘It would depend when anyway,’ said Dixon. ‘Since May 2000 a workplace pension is protected from bankruptcy. I checked.’

  ‘Do we still need to speak to her partner, Ian Newby?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Get the Shropshire lot to do it.’

  ‘That still leaves the will though.’

  ‘Yes, but for the wife to have any chance of getting any money, Fletcher needed to survive his mother and inherit her estate.’

  ‘So if it was her, she’d have made sure the mother was dead first.’

  ‘Precisely. It may be a reason they didn’t divorce I suppose, but that’s it.’

  ‘That still leaves the sister, surely,’ said Pearce.

  ‘I checked the Land Registry website,’ replied Dixon, ‘and there’s no mortgage on her house. What do we think that’s worth, Louise?’

  ‘Dunno. Seven hundred thousand, something like that?’

  ‘And her husband uses the Bentley to commute to work,’ said Dixon, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘What about her children?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Both are in London,’ replied Louise. ‘One’s a doctor and the other works in the City. A broker of some sort.’

  ‘Where does that leave us then?’ asked Harding.

  ‘We’ve got the possibility of a message etched into the brickwork at the scene,’ replied Dixon, ‘and the failed businesses, plus anything else we can dig up.’

  ‘So keep digging,’ muttered Pearce.

  ‘We still need to find Fletcher’s will, if he’s got one,’ said Dixon. ‘Louise, can you ring round the local solicitors and see if you can find one? Try Dorset too. Bridport, Dorchester and Weymouth.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Then start going through the address book. Check every entry. Friends, family, anything. All right?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘On a wild goose chase.’

  Dixon sat down in the corner of the canteen with a cup of coffee and opened a web browser on his phone. He typed ‘Welsh Guards Museum’ into Google and glanced down at the results, the third of which caught his eye. ‘The Guards Museum – Family Research . . . Many of these people ring the museum to ask us to search the archives . . .’ It even gave a phone number, so he clicked on it.

  The page turned out to be a request not to contact the museum, but instead the regimental headquarters at Wellington Barracks, London, which held the service records on individual soldiers. It also gave a different telephone number for each of the Guards regiments.

  ‘Welsh Guards archivist. Can I help?’

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’

  ‘Tom Cuthbert.’

  ‘I’m trying to get in touch with the commanding officer of the 1st Battalion during the Falklands War and was hoping—’

  ‘I’m not sure I should be giving that sort of information out really.’

  ‘His name then. That’ll be in most history books on the subject, won’t it? I can find the rest on the police computer.’

  ‘Colonel Huw Byrne it is. That’s Huw with a “w”. Retired now of course. Lives in Pembroke he does.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘A little place on the coast there. Stackpole.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you going to see him?’

  ‘Yes, I hope to.’

  ‘Tell him RSM Cuthbert sends his regards.’

  ‘D’you know him?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Served under him, I did,’ replied Cuthbert.

  ‘On the Falklands?’

  ‘Yes, I was just a lance corporal then. B Company.’

  ‘D’you remember the adjutant, Captain Alan Fletcher?’

  ‘I do. Four times he went into that burning ambulance. It was a bloody marvel, it was. I was there,’ said Cuthbert. ‘A fine man and a crying shame he never became the CO. A crying bloody shame.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  ‘Colonel Byrne’ll know. He would’ve written up his reports.’

  ‘What happened to the ambulance?’

  ‘It was an engine fire. Two medics and two Royal Engineers in the back. They’d been clearing landmines and . . . Anyway, Mr Fletcher had got them clear by the time me and the lads got to him.’

  ‘I may need to speak to you again, Mr Cuthbert,’ said Dixon. ‘Can I get you on this number?’

  ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I’ll give you my mobile.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon, scribbling the number on the back of his hand.

  ‘Is Mr Fletcher all right?’

  ‘He’s dead I’m afraid.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that. How did he die?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

/>   ‘Oh, like that, is it?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Cuthbert. Thanks again.’

  Dixon rang off, drained his coffee and went in search of Louise.

  ‘Get on to the Pembrokeshire lot and get me an address and phone number for Huw Byrne, will you? Lives in Stackpole. That’s Huw with a “w”.’

  ‘Er, yes, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Fletcher’s commanding officer.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Can you remember how long Mrs Fletcher said she was down here for?’

  ‘A couple of days I think. Why?’

  ‘If he did die without a will, then she’s his next of kin and inherits his estate.’

  ‘But there is no estate. We’ve already established that.’

  ‘What about Nimrod?’

  It was a three hour run to Stackpole, an hour to the Severn Bridge and then two hours from there. Dixon had left Express Park just after 9.30 a.m. and arranged to meet Colonel Byrne at 2.30 p.m. That would give him time to get there, eat and then take Monty for a walk on Broad Haven South beach first. He might even have enough time for a look along the clifftops at St Govan’s Head and a visit to Huntsman’s Leap. A trip down memory lane.

  Jane would be pissed off if she knew what she was missing. Still, he had left a note in the kitchen when he’d picked up Monty – Gone to Wales. Back later. Nx – and would take a photograph or two on his phone, so she shouldn’t feel too left out.

  The view from the Second Severn Crossing was spoilt by the need to keep his eyes on the road, but he was able to pick out Steep Holm to the south. Driving was usually premium thinking time, but Dixon found himself dwelling on the past, remembering the many sea cliff climbing trips he had made with Jake, his old and now dead climbing partner, killed in a fall in Cheddar Gorge the previous October.

  Not a lot had changed on the M4 heading west. It was still a dual-carriageway, stop start most of the way and slower than ever before past the steelworks at Port Talbot thanks to a lane closure, but Dixon arrived in the car park above the beach just after 1 p.m. The sky was blue and the view along the coast to Caldey Island was clear. Dixon could even make out the line of Always the Sun at Stackpole Head, a steep arête that had almost cost Jake a broken ankle when he hit the ledge from thirty feet up. Still, he’d got up it a week later for the second ascent.

  It was a weekday during school term and the beach was deserted, so Dixon left the remains of his sandwich on the passenger seat and let Monty out of the back of the Land Rover. Monty set off down the stone steps to the beach, with Dixon following, to make the first footprints in the wet sand as the tide went out.

  The waves were bigger than at Burnham and Berrow. A strong south-westerly wind was sending huge breakers crashing on to the beach, even on the ebb tide, but Monty soon got used to them and only got soaked once.

  An hour later and they were sitting in Dixon’s Land Rover outside the Old Post Office in Stackpole, Monty curled up on the passenger seat. Both had their coats on, and the heater was on full blast too. Dixon thought about his meeting with Colonel Byrne. He hoped to learn more about Fletcher the man and Fletcher the soldier. What sort of man came back from the Falklands, and why did his career falter? It might go some way to explaining the failed businesses, although that might have been pure bad luck.

  The Old Post Office was the largest house in the village, right in the middle, opposite the Stackpole Inn. The pub looked to have been refurbished since Dixon was last in there, his climbing equipment strewn all over the beer garden drying in the sun. He parked outside the pub and walked across the road. The curtain twitched and then the door opened before Dixon was halfway along the garden path.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Inspector.’

  Colonel Huw Byrne was in his mid-seventies, with short white hair, and stood tall, as you would expect of a Guards officer. Dixon remembered his days in the cadets being shouted at on the parade ground: ‘Shoulders back, arms straight, look to your front. You’re slouching, boy!’ He blinked and the vision was gone.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Only too happy to help if I can.’ Colonel Byrne allowed his spectacles to slide off the end of his nose, to be caught by the cord around his neck. He was wearing an open neck check shirt, brown wool cardigan and corduroys. ‘You’ll have to forgive my appearance. I’ve been tying flies all morning.’

  ‘Trout?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Sea trout,’ replied Byrne. ‘D’you fish?’

  ‘Used to. Pike mainly, out on the Somerset Levels.’

  ‘C’mon through. Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, tea would be nice thank you.’

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ said Byrne, opening the door to the living room. ‘The fire’s lit.’

  Dixon looked at the photographs on the wall either side of the fireplace and recognised a young Alan Fletcher standing in the back row of one marked ‘Officers, 1WG, 6th September 1979’. Colonel Byrne was sitting in the middle of the front row of course.

  The older photographs, in black and white, showed a younger Huw Byrne, starting in officer training at Sandhurst and rising through the ranks, until the photographs switched to colour when he was a major.

  Dixon recognised the terrain in the background of another set of colour photographs that were mounted in a single large frame to the left of the fire. Some had been taken at night, the scene lit up by flares and tracer fire visible slicing through the darkness, but it was the faces that told the story; camouflaged with boot polish, eyes red and wide, mouths open – a mixture of fear, anxiety, anticipation. He squinted at a small brass plaque on the frame: ‘Mount Harriet, June 1982’. There was no sign of Alan Fletcher in any of them.

  Dixon was looking at the photograph of Fletcher from September 1979 when he heard footsteps behind him.

  ‘That one was taken just after we got back from Northern Ireland,’ said Byrne. ‘That was a quiet tour, mercifully. Well, comparatively anyway.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Belfast. North Howard Street,’ replied Byrne, handing Dixon a mug of tea. ‘We all came home though; that’s the main thing. Not all of us in one piece, sadly, but we all came home.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Mortar attack on the barracks that time if I remember rightly. Have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You wanted to talk to me about Alan Fletcher, you said?’ asked Byrne.

  ‘I’m investigating his murder.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘He was killed in the early hours of Saturday morning in an abandoned World War Two pillbox on the banks of the Bridgwater and Taunton Canal.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘It’s purely general enquiries at this stage. I’m just trying to build a picture of him, and a number of witnesses have said that he came back from the Falklands a changed man.’

  ‘We all did, Inspector,’ replied Byrne. ‘We lost a lot of men on the Sir Galahad – men we knew: colleagues, friends.’

  ‘Were you on the ship?’

  ‘No. If I had been, it wouldn’t have bloody well happened. I’d have got everybody off. They were sitting ducks out there.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was in Fitzroy, just along the coast.’

  ‘And what about Alan Fletcher?’

  ‘He was in Bluff Cove on the shore. Watched the whole thing unfold. We’d lost the Atlantic Conveyor, and that took all the helicopters bar one to the bottom. The Sir Galahad was supposed to be a shortcut along the coast to Port Stanley. It was either that or walking.’

  ‘Was Fletcher’s best man on the ship?’

  ‘Charlie Booth, yes,’ replied Byrne, nodding. ‘Didn’t make it, sadly.’ The nod became a shake of the head.

  ‘Were they close?’

  ‘Yes. Both were good men.’

  ‘What about on Mount Harriet then?’ asked Dixon. ‘Only I can’t see
Fletcher in any of the photos over there.’

  ‘Those were taken at the battalion command post.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he have been there with you, as adjutant?’

  ‘Yes, he should.’

  ‘Isn’t that odd?’

  ‘He was there I think. I can’t remember,’ replied Byrne, taking a swig of tea. ‘He may just have been out of shot.’

  ‘Are there any other photographs with him in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So was he there or wasn’t he?’

  ‘I really can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you ever ask him?’

  ‘Not that I recall. It was in the middle of a battle, Inspector. You have to understand . . .’

  ‘When was the last time you remember seeing him that night then?’ asked Dixon. He balanced his tea on the arm of the sofa and took out his notepad and pen.

  ‘I remember him on the march in. We approached from the west through a minefield, and the attack went in from the east. The walk in took hours, and it was pitch dark. He was there when we set up the CP definitely, but I don’t remember seeing him after the battle started—42 Commando moved forward when the barrage lifted, and all hell broke loose.’

  ‘What about your second in command? Where was he?’

  ‘Major Hardcastle went forward to the start line with A and B Companies. We were in touch by radio.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it odd that Alan Fletcher wasn’t there?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Byrne, shaking his head. ‘Look, I’m not sure where this is going, but if you’re asking me whether I investigated my adjutant for deserting the battlefield, I did not. There was never any suggestion that he did. He was a good man, a dedicated officer, and there were a whole host of reasons he might have needed to leave the CP.’

  ‘When was the next time you saw him?’

  ‘The next morning I think. And don’t forget he won the QGM a few days later, pulling those chaps out of the burning ambulance.’

  ‘RSM Cuthbert told me about that. He asked to be remembered to you,’ said Dixon.

  ‘One of the best, Tom Cuthbert.’