by Damien Boyd
‘Who recommended Alan for the QGM?’
‘I did.’
‘Is the incident mentioned in the battalion war diary?’
‘War diaries were phased out in the seventies, Inspector. Now it’s the quarterly report. But yes, it’s in there.’
‘Is he mentioned during the battle?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘Who wrote the report?’
‘Major Hardcastle, subject to my scrutiny as CO of course. You can find them at regimental HQ, but they’re not terribly enlightening.’
‘Tell me about Fletcher when you got back from the Falklands. Why was he never promoted again, for example?’
Byrne sat back in his armchair and sighed.
‘You’ll find my reports on his service record,’ he replied. ‘He became surly, insubordinate. We had to pull him off ceremonial duties for being drunk. D’you know I think he was drunk the day he got back off sick leave? It was a bloody shame because he was a high flyer, destined for the top.’
‘Did you take him to task about it?’
‘Tried to. Never got anywhere. I think it was the guilt, that he hadn’t been on the ship when it was hit. That he’d somehow been spared. He never said so, but I do believe that was behind his complete disregard for his own safety when that ambulance caught fire. He was badly burnt and came home on a hospital ship. It was almost as if it was his penance.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘I spoke to Jean about it, but she was at her wits’ end too. He never paid his mess bill either. Then there was a car accident in Camberley. An allegation of drink driving was made.’
‘Was he prosecuted?’
‘No. I dealt with it.’
‘Disciplined?’
‘No. The reputation of the regiment was at stake, Inspector. A scandal like that . . . It was unthinkable. A Welsh Guards officer being prosecuted for drink driving? The regiment comes first. Always.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not long before he left the army. He wasn’t really given a choice if the truth be told. It was a sad end to what had been a promising career,’ said Byrne, shaking his head.
‘Was he offered counselling when he got back from the Falklands?’
‘Yes, but he refused it. We all did. It was something officers just didn’t do. And it was a long time ago. Less enlightened times, shall we say? Things are different now, thankfully.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Well, thank you, Colonel Byrne. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘Doesn’t feel like it, but if there’s anything else I can do, please let me know,’ replied Byrne, standing up.
‘I will.’
Dixon parked in the car park at St Govan’s Head and walked down the steps to the old chapel, keeping Monty on his lead. The waves were just visible in the last of the daylight, crashing on to the rocks below, the spray being whipped on the wind and into his face as he stood in the doorway. It was too late for a walk along the clifftops to Huntsman’s Leap, even if he was minded to ignore the red flag fluttering in the wind by the sentry post.
He wondered whether Alan Fletcher and the Welsh Guards had ever visited the range for live fire training, although it was mainly tanks and artillery that used the Castlemartin and Manorbier ranges.
He took out his phone and sent Louise a text message.
Get on to MOD and get Fletcher’s service record pls
It struck him as odd that Colonel Byrne had no recollection of Fletcher being at the command post during the battle of Mount Harriet. Still, that really was ‘in the heat of battle’, so perhaps he could be forgiven. And it was an interesting take on Fletcher’s determination to pull those injured men from the burning ambulance. Penance.
Guilt, Byrne had said. Maybe he felt the same.
Dixon took a couple of photographs of the chapel for Jane and then sent another text message to Louise.
Fletcher arrested drink driving rta camberley 1990 or 91 see what you can find pls
He was learning more about Fletcher the man. There was no doubt that the Sir Galahad had changed lives, and not just for those on the ship. But was it possible that Fletcher had returned to the burning ambulance time and again as some form of penance for escaping the carnage on the Sir Galahad? Byrne had concluded that it was, and Dixon had to agree with him.
He checked his watch: 4.45 p.m. Just enough time for a cup of tea in Ye Olde Worlde Cafe in Bosherston before the long drive home.
Chapter Seven
Dixon was sitting in the window at Express Park, waiting for a computer to start up and thinking about the time he and Jake had run into the St Govan’s Inn and put someone’s severed thumb in an ice bucket. The climber had been airlifted to Chepstow Hospital, and they never had found out whether his thumb had been sewn back on or not.
He had arrived home just before 9 p.m. the night before, having stopped at the Little Chef at Carmarthen, to find Jane had scribbled a note on the bottom of his own note to her.
Gone to see parents. Back later. Jx
She hadn’t been too impressed with the photographs when she got home, and the picture of Monty on the beach had rubbed salt into the wound, but she had been placated by the promise of a trip to Pembrokeshire in the summer. Climbing was not on the agenda.
Dixon logged in and scrolled down through his emails, deleting all except one from Donald Watson and another from the photographer, Scott Pilling. Watson confirmed that the dust matched the bricks used in the construction of the pillbox. The best that could be said was that it came from the same batch, the remainder of which could have been used anywhere of course.
Pilling had photographed 412 bricks, too many to print off and put in an album, so he had uploaded them to a secure server. His email gave Dixon the link, which he followed.
He began scrolling through the pictures. Some were obviously old marks and some were illegible, all or part of the message obscured by paint or lichen, or crumbled away. That left a hundred or so that warranted closer scrutiny. He was noting down the reference number of each when Louise arrived.
‘You’re early.’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ replied Dixon.
‘Mark asked me to give you this,’ said Louise, fishing a file out of a filing cabinet. ‘He’ll be in later.’
‘What is it?’
‘The insolvency papers. Copies.’
‘Did you find a will?’ asked Dixon, nodding.
‘Nope. I tried every firm I could find.’
‘What about the address book?’
‘The mother’s friends mainly, and she seems to have outlived most of them.’
‘Anything interesting from the house to house?’
‘Not really. There was a bloke from Fordgate who’d been out with his dogs and heard an engine. He was in his back garden and saw the headlights going off down the lane.’
‘Is that it?’
Louise nodded.
‘What was he doing out at that time?’
‘He goes out with the dogs when he lets them out apparently. They bark and wake the neighbours.’
Dixon rolled his eyes.
‘Time?’
‘Just after one,’ replied Louise. ‘Mark’s still got some others to follow up. Empties on the other side of the canal.’
‘Did you get my message about Fletcher’s service record?’
‘It’s on its way.’
‘And the RTA?’
‘Nothing. There’s not even a record of a road traffic accident, let alone an arrest for drink driving.’
‘I suppose we could try going a bit further back; 1989 perhaps,’ said Dixon.
‘I did,’ replied Louise, switching on the kettle. ‘Anything useful from his CO?’
‘Background stuff, that’s all.’
‘Coffee?’
It was mid-morning by the time Dixon had finished going through the photographs. He emailed a list of reference numbers to Scott Pilling of those he wanted printed off and put into an a
lbum. The rest could remain in digital format. He had selected only those that looked recent, or could not have been old due to weathering or growth of lichen.
He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He was making two assumptions, and he hated those at the best of times. Yes, the dust came from a brick in the same batch that was used to build this pillbox, but it could still have come from somewhere else. Another pillbox built with bricks from the same batch, for example. There were two within a couple of hundred yards of it for a start. Not only that, but he was assuming the dust had been collected on the night of the murder. He grimaced. What if the killer had collected the brick dust months or even years before? Then the mark would appear old and weathered, perhaps even obscured by lichen. Still, that was unlikely. They were reasonable assumptions, and the search could always be widened if he drew a blank.
And then there was the very real possibility that there was no message at all, just simple scratch marks. And why had Fletcher been forced to inhale the dust?
Dixon fished his phone out of his pocket and sent Roger Poland a text message.
Was Fletcher asthmatic?
Then he picked up the landline and was dialling Mrs Painter’s number in Ilminster when Poland’s reply arrived on his mobile. It was short and to the point.
No.
‘Mrs Painter, this is DI Dixon. I was hoping to speak to Mrs Fletcher. If she’s still there?’
‘Hang on.’
Dixon waited. He clamped the phone tight to his ear and listened: footsteps, muffled voices, nothing of interest.
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Fletcher, we’ve been unable to trace Alan’s will, which leaves you as the administrator of his estate.’
‘There isn’t an estate to administer.’
‘Well, there’s Nimrod.’
‘I thought he’d been put to sleep.’
‘Not yet. He’s here in the kennels.’
‘Well, you’d best get on with it. I don’t want him.’
‘So, you’re content for me to do whatever I see fit?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
Mrs Fletcher rang off, leaving Dixon staring at his phone. He shook his head.
‘Some people,’ he muttered, replacing the handset.
He looked around the CID area, which was deserted, apart from Louise, who had a telephone clamped to her ear. Mark Pearce had gone to complete the house to house enquiries, and Dave Harding was no doubt in a pub somewhere between North Curry and Bridgwater.
The insolvency files made interesting reading for different reasons. The guest house had been repossessed by the building society, but when it was finally sold at auction for less than the Fletchers had paid for it, the proceeds failed to cover the mortgage, arrears and costs.
The building society had not pursued them for the shortfall, having insisted that the Fletchers take out a mortgage guarantee indemnity policy, so the insurance had covered the loss. That left the Fletchers owing various local traders and suppliers. They had consulted a local insolvency practitioner in Poole, and an IVA had been agreed quickly and without much protest from their creditors.
The sums of money involved were small by today’s standards, and it was difficult to imagine anyone involved bearing a sufficient grudge over it to kill Fletcher after all these years.
The letting agency, on the other hand, had been a much more acrimonious affair. Fletcher had continued trading whilst insolvent for over six months, pocketing rents along the way. Several landlords with multiple properties or properties in multiple occupation had lost large sums of money. Not only that, but the client account, containing the deposits paid by tenants, had been cleared out, although Dixon suspected who was behind that. It had been Mrs Fletcher’s escape fund.
Several landlords had been taking debt recovery proceedings against Fletcher, and at least two had commenced court proceedings when HM Revenue & Customs stepped in and served a winding up petition on the company in pursuit of unpaid tax. The company had been wound up in the High Court on 14 March 2006.
The Official Receiver had begun the winding up, before appointing an insolvency practitioner in Exeter to conclude it, but that was only after Fletcher had been disqualified from acting as a company director. Dixon glanced down the list of creditors, most of whom received nothing. What little money there had been after the mortgages were paid off had gone to the taxman as a preferred creditor.
The biggest losers were the landlords, and the more properties they had, the more they lost. Most of the tenants had lost their deposit, but got that back easily enough by failing to pay their last month’s rent. That had added to the landlords’ losses and bitterness at the outcome.
The biggest losers were both companies, Weymouth Developments Ltd and Ziatabari Property Services Ltd. Both had lost over thirty thousand pounds, more than the other landlords put together. A Mrs Jessica Kelsall was next in line at twelve thousand pounds.
Dixon closed the file. The investigation needed a direction, and perhaps this was it. He had known people killed for less.
He dropped the file on to Louise’s desk.
‘Have you read this?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Just the papers on Fletcher Lettings. Then let’s set up a meeting with the insolvency practitioner in Exeter for tomorrow. Company searches on the two corporate landlords too, and we’ll pay them a visit at the same time.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about Fletcher’s own landlord before he moved in with his mother . . . Where was it?’
‘They were renting in Bridport,’ replied Louise. ‘Can’t find the landlord. He sold it a few years ago, according to the Land Registry, but I checked with the local county courts and can’t find a record of possession proceedings against Fletcher.’
‘Have we had High Tech’s report on his laptop yet?’
‘No.’
‘Chase it up, will you?’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll see everybody back here at five o’clock. I’m off to church.’
Dixon parked across the lychgate and looked up at the Church of St Peter & St Paul, North Curry. It seemed unusually large for such a small village and looked more like a cathedral in miniature, with an oblong tower and huge stained glass windows. A service was unlikely at 2.30 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon, so he left his Land Rover where it was and walked up the path towards the church.
The path had been swept clear of snow, and the piles either side were all that was left now that it had clouded over and warmed up a bit.
The front door was open, so Dixon walked in and stood in the middle of the aisle looking up at the altar and the huge chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
‘Can I help you?’
Jeans, pullover, beard, but no dog collar.
‘I’m looking for the vicar,’ said Dixon.
‘That’s me, Julian Comley. How can I help you?’ A big smile and an outstretched hand.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon. I’m investigating the death of Alan Fletcher.’
‘Ah, so you don’t need saving.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘But perhaps not now, eh?’
Dixon smiled.
‘I heard about Alan. Shame,’ continued Comley. ‘And Lillian. Less of a shock perhaps, but still . . .’
‘Did you know them well?’
‘Lillian had been a regular here before I came to the parish. Lovely lady. I only went in to see her last Thursday, as it happens.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing of interest to you, Inspector. She knew her time was coming.’
‘And Alan?’
‘Odd fellow,’ replied Comley. ‘Lived in the parish for years, then suddenly starts coming to church twelve months or so ago.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Something from his past came back to haunt him, he said. He never elaborated though.’
‘Was that when his mother was taken ill?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She’d been
ill on and off for years. I don’t know why, I really don’t. One day he was just there,’ said Comley, shaking his head, ‘sitting at the back.’
‘Did he have any friends in the congregation? Anyone he spoke to, chatted with?’
‘Not really. Always sat at the back. Came in last thing and was first out, even before I got there to thank everyone for coming.’
Dixon shook his head.
‘And what about you, Inspector? Do you believe?’
‘It’s difficult, Father, when you see what I see,’ replied Dixon. ‘D’you mind if I sit for a while?’
‘Not at all. So, you do believe in God?’
‘Let’s just say we have an understanding.’
The last of the snow had melted by the time Dixon arrived at the pillbox. It was just after 4 p.m. and he had a bit of daylight left, but not much.
He walked around the pillbox and noticed at least three piles of dog mess with footprints in them. Scott Pilling would have needed to clean his van.
The grass around the base had been flattened, revealing the bricks previously hidden, but Dixon recognised those with writing on them from the photographs. Pilling had been thorough.
He checked for traces of brick dust in the grass, but found none. What dust there may have been would have been snowed on and then washed away when the snow melted. Still, it was worth a try. There were several patches of exposed brickwork that looked fresh, but the outer layer had crumbled rather than been scratched away. Dixon took out his car keys and began scratching at a brick near the entrance, with his left hand underneath to catch the dust. It worked, and he soon had a small pile of red dust in the palm of his hand. The mark left by his key was quite obvious too, so he began looking for scratch marks rather than legible writing. He looked at the names and dates that had been scratched out too, but saw nothing that looked fresh.
He went back to his own mark in the brickwork and rubbed a small amount of mud into it with the tip of his finger. He grimaced. Looking old and being old were clearly two different things.
The briefing at 5 p.m. had not lasted long. Dave Harding gave Dixon a file of thirty-three witness statements, all of them short and containing, in Dave’s words, ‘bugger all’. The statement from the witness at Fordgate, out with his dogs at 1 a.m. on the night of the murder, was just as thin, and the address book had turned up nothing of interest.