by Damien Boyd
‘And what about Alan Fletcher personally? How well did you know him?’
‘He seemed all right to begin with. Ex-army and all that. We met at a Dorset Business Club lunch I think.’
‘And when did you find out his business was in trouble?’
‘Not for months. The first inkling we got was when the excuses started. The cheque’s in the post, that sort of crap. Then he’d pay and it’d be OK for a few months. Then all of a sudden the payments stopped altogether. That’s when we took legal advice.’
‘Was your mother involved in the decision to remortgage her house?’
‘Yes. I think she argued with my father about it, but there wasn’t a lot of choice in the end. It was either that or we went bust as well.’
‘Where does your mother live?’
‘Burton Bradstock. Why?’
‘We may need to speak to her I’m afraid.’
‘Now, hang on. I don’t want my mother upset by this. She had nothing to do with it.’
‘Routine enquiries, Mr Maynard,’ replied Dixon. ‘That’s all.’
Dixon and Louise arrived back at Express Park just before 5.30 p.m. They had stopped off in Bridport to meet Koorosh Ziatabari, who lived in a large house not far from the golf course, and had seemed genuinely saddened by the news of Fletcher’s murder.
Yes, he had lost a lot of money when Fletcher’s company had gone bust, but he could afford it and had even offered to help Fletcher out, albeit too late. With nineteen properties, none of them mortgaged, Mr Ziatabari had taken the whole sorry affair in his stride.
‘We’re still not really any closer, are we?’ asked Louise as they walked across the top deck of the car park.
‘No.’
‘Maynard’s mother possibly, but I don’t think he had anything to do with it.’
‘You believed him?’ asked Dixon.
‘I did.’
‘Me too,’ muttered Dixon as he wrenched the security door open.
Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were waiting for them in the CID area, although Harding had the look of a man whose eyes had glazed over several hours ago.
‘Anything, Dave?’
‘I’m checking the details of twenty-one cars on the camera at Junction 24. The town cameras are far too busy to get anything meaningful without knowing what we’re looking for.’
‘What about you, Mark?’
‘I’ve traced two from his Christmas card list so far. Both ex-army. They hadn’t heard from him for years and thought he may have died.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Dixon.
‘Major Redhead and his wife. They live in Cardiff. And a Lieutenant Colonel Collis. He’s in France. Both retired.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it,’ replied Harding.
‘Are the roadblocks fixed for tomorrow evening?’
‘Five till seven.’
‘Good. Well, you might as well bugger off for the night.’
‘And me?’ asked Louise.
‘And you.’
Dixon sat down at a workstation and swivelled round on the chair to look out of the window. He thought about another visit to the pillbox, but it was far too cold for that so settled on another scroll through the photographs on the system. The brickwork had to hold the key, and if he stared at it for long enough he felt sure it would come to him. It was a tactic that had always worked in the past, although it was being well and truly tested this time.
‘Where is it we’re going tomorrow night?’ asked Jane as Dixon walked in the back door of the cottage.
‘I told you, it’s a surprise.’
‘I need to know what to wear.’
‘Posh.’
‘Really?’
‘And warm.’
‘Eh?’
‘We’ve got roadblocks underway at North Curry from five till seven, so we need to check on them on the way.’
‘You are kidding.’
‘Table’s booked for seven, so I thought we could just look in.’
Jane sighed.
‘You can stay in the car,’ continued Dixon.
‘Thanks.’
He noticed the sealed envelope containing Jane’s adoption file still sitting on the side exactly where she had left it last night.
‘I was waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Supper’ll be ready in five minutes.’
‘What about the envelope?’
‘I thought I’d open it at the weekend.’
‘Whatever you say,’ replied Dixon.
He slumped down on to the sofa and began flicking through the photograph album again.
‘How many times have you been through that?’ asked Jane, handing him a can of beer.
‘God knows.’
‘Well, I couldn’t see anything.’
‘We’re probably looking straight at it, only the significance of it hasn’t hit us yet.’
‘Yet?’
‘It will.’ Monty jumped on the sofa and curled up next to Dixon. ‘It always does,’ he said, scratching his dog behind the ears.
Chapter Nine
‘OK?’
Dixon looked up from his screen to find DCI Lewis standing over him. Either Lewis was getting better at creeping up on people, or Dixon had been so engrossed in the photographs that he hadn’t seen him coming. He’d try a workstation facing the window next time. Perhaps the reflection would offer some sort of early warning system.
‘Only we’re into Friday, nearly a week now,’ continued Lewis, ‘and the chief con’s wondering what’s going on.’
‘We’re making progress,’ replied Dixon.
‘That sounds like flannel.’
‘We’ve ruled out the sister and wife. So we’re digging into his past . . .’
‘The failed businesses?’
‘Yes. The letting agency has potential, but nothing concrete yet.’
‘Why the brick dust then?’
Lewis had done his homework.
‘Rip someone off in a property transaction and they make you inhale brick dust?’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘We’ve got the roadblocks tonight,’ said Dixon.
‘Well, if they come up with nothing we’ll have to try a TV appeal.’
Dixon winced.
‘Just make it happen, Nick. You haven’t let me down yet.’
Dixon was about to respond when Lewis turned on his heels and walked away. Lewis was right though. Nearly a week in and the investigation was floundering. No sensible motive. A few tenuous ones and several people who either gained from Fletcher’s death or celebrated it. But no real motive or suspect. Or even any sense of direction for that matter.
He had spent the afternoon trawling through Fletcher’s army service records, which included the reports from his commanding officers, first Colonel Owens and then Colonel Byrne. All were glowing in the years leading up to the Falklands War. After that they made uncomfortable reading. Dixon looked for any reference to a car accident and a charge of drink driving but found none.
A highlight was finding Fletcher’s QGM citation. The recommendation for the award had been signed by Colonel Byrne on 31 July 1982.
For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty. In rescuing four seriously injured men from a burning ambulance, he saved their lives. He insisted on returning to the ambulance although suffering from severe burns, displaying a complete disregard for his own safety. He then directed efforts to put out the fire, setting a fine example of endurance and leadership.
Dixon was showered, changed and ready to go by the time Jane arrived home from Portishead.
‘You’re wearing a tie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Crikey, it must be posh. Good day?’
‘Not really. Lewis crept up on me and gave me an earwigging.’
‘Really?’
‘He was nice about it, but the chief con’s getting impatient, apparently.’
‘Ignore it.’
‘And I dropped Nimrod over to the foster home on the way back.’
‘Well done.’
‘Oh, and these came for you.’
‘I wonder who they’re from,’ said Jane.
‘No idea,’ replied Dixon, grinning as he handed her a bunch of red roses.
‘Have we got a vase?’
‘Somewhere. I’ll find it. You go and get ready.’
He fed Monty and was standing in the field at the back of the cottage when Jane appeared in the doorway. Her blonde hair was flowing over her shoulders, released from its ponytail, and she was wearing a black dress and high heeled shoes. Dixon walked over and put his arms around her waist.
‘You look—’
‘I know.’
‘Blimey, where are you two off to?’
‘Behave yourself, Cole,’ said Dixon through the open window of Jane’s car.
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Not yet, but we’ve still got half an hour or so.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Where’s Mark Pearce?’
‘He said he’d be over on the Taunton road.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Shall I let him know you’re on the way, Sir?’
‘No need.’
Dixon drove into the centre of North Curry and then south on the Taunton road, coming across the roadblock a few hundred yards outside the village. He was flagged down by a uniformed officer he didn’t recognise.
‘Excuse me, Sir, we’re asking—’
‘It’s all right, Dan, this is the DI.’ It was Mark Pearce’s voice, coming from behind the constable, who was leaning on the car door.
‘Oh, sorry, Sir.’
‘Well?’
‘Nothing,’ said Pearce.
Dixon grimaced.
‘We’ll give it until 7.30 p.m., but it’s very quiet. And those we have had say they saw nothing.’
‘Let me know if you get anything.’
‘Will do,’ replied Pearce. ‘Going anywhere nice?’
‘The Little Chef,’ muttered Dixon, winding up the car window.
Exposed beams, Somerset willow chairs, a single candle, more red roses in a vase and a bottle of champagne on ice. Jane squeezed Dixon’s hand as they looked down at the table in a quiet corner of The Willow Tree in Taunton.
‘You never said we were coming here.’
‘I’ve been saving up,’ said Dixon, grinning.
‘And champagne?’
‘I can have one glass, but you’ll have to have the rest.’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ replied Jane, smiling. ‘I was convinced we’d end up at the Zalshah.’
‘Well, we could always . . .’
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘I’ll have to give myself a few extra units as it is,’ said Dixon. ‘Have you seen the dessert menu?’
They watched the waiter opening the champagne.
‘I’ll have the cork, please,’ said Dixon.
He passed it to Jane.
‘Here, a memento. The first of many.’
‘I like the sound of that.’ Jane smiled as they clinked champagne flutes in the middle of the table. ‘I’ve never really thanked you properly for saving my life last year,’ she said, her eyes welling up with tears.
‘You don’t have to,’ replied Dixon. ‘It’s what you do, isn’t it? When you love someone.’
‘I’d do the same for you. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘For the same reason.’ Jane reached across the table and held Dixon’s hand.
‘I know.’
‘Just as long as you do.’
‘It’s a shame we’re not still working together, isn’t it? We made a good team.’
‘We still do,’ replied Jane.
‘That we do. And the chief con is married to one of the assistants, so who knows?’
‘I thought you said you’d dump me when you became chief constable,’ said Jane, grinning.
‘Probably will come to think of it.’
Dixon winced. Then he reached down and rubbed his shin.
‘I’d rather refuse the promotion, honestly, Officer.’
‘I should bloody well think so,’ said Jane.
Dixon smiled. His foray into the murky world of local politics had been a welcome distraction after finding Fran’s killer and dealing with the fallout from that, both emotional and disciplinary. But Fran was gone, and now it was Jane’s time. And he would see to it that it stayed that way.
‘Tell me about Child Protection and the Internet then,’ said Dixon.
‘We’re not talking shop, are we?’
‘Good point.’
And they managed to avoid it until the coffee arrived, just after 10 p.m.
‘Where will you be this weekend?’ asked Jane.
‘No idea,’ replied Dixon. ‘Sitting in front of that damn pillbox I expect, staring at the walls.’
‘You could just sit at home in the warm and look at the photographs.’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘You could even take them on the beach when you go for a walk.’
‘You’re taking the piss now, aren’t you, Sergeant?’
‘Listen, I was thinking. You’ve been looking at the names.’
‘Yes.’
‘But what if it’s the date that you’ll recognise?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Apart from the “Jane loves Nick” scribblings and the obscenities, a lot of the others have dates with them, don’t they? Maybe that’s the significant part.’
Dixon nodded.
‘That’s assuming any of it is significant of course,’ said Jane, standing up. She looked down at Dixon, stirring his coffee. ‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes.’
Dixon was still stirring his coffee when Jane got back, although most of it was in the saucer. He was staring at the flame of the candle, flickering in the draught from the door, and she knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.
He looked up, tipped the coffee from the saucer back into his cup and drank it in one go.
‘You finished?’ he asked, snuffing out the candle between his index finger and thumb.
‘Not yet,’ replied Jane.
‘I’ll get the bill.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I thought you might fancy a bit of fresh air.’
‘Dressed like this?’
‘You can wait in the car if you like,’ said Dixon, fumbling in the glove box of his Land Rover for his torch. He had parked with the headlights shining straight at the pillbox.
‘Why don’t you just look at the photos when we get home?’
‘It won’t take a minute. I know what I’m looking for. And besides, it’s on the way.’
A light dusting of snow had fallen while they had been in The Willow Tree, but it had only settled on the wet grass. Dixon left the engine running and jumped out.
‘Be careful where you’re treading,’ he said, spinning round when he heard footsteps behind him. Jane was tiptoeing towards him, her arms folded tightly around her, and the collar of her coat turned up as far as it would go.
‘What are we looking for then?’ she asked, sighing loudly.
‘It’s this side I think,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ He was on the canal side of the pillbox, where the bank narrowed to no more than a foot or so.
‘If I tread in anything, you’re cleaning my shoes.’
Dixon shone the torch at the ground in front of Jane.
‘Don’t worry if you fall in. It’s not frozen over.’
‘This is not how I imagined Valentine’s Day ending.’
‘Look for anything with a date.’
‘I thought I had a date,’ muttered Jane.
The light from the Land Rover was shining directly in their faces, casting a shadow over the si
de of the pillbox. Jane was holding her phone in front of her and squinting at the brickwork.
‘What about this one?’
‘What’s it say?’ asked Dixon.
‘Dave, two, twelve, eighty-four.’
‘That’s not it.’
‘Not what?’
‘The right date.’
‘I’m sure there’s one . . .’
‘How about this one?’ said Jane. ‘A Kandes, eleven, six, eighty-two.’
Dixon tucked the torch under his arm, took his phone out of his pocket and switched it to camera mode.
‘Where is it?’
‘Here,’ replied Jane, pointing to a spot just above a machine gun slit.
‘Hold this a second.’ Dixon handed Jane the torch and then reached up, holding his phone in both hands, to take a close up of the mark.
A KANDES 11/6/82
‘Is that it?’ asked Jane.
‘That’s it,’ replied Dixon, dropping his phone back into his pocket.
‘Is it the date that’s significant?’
‘The Falklands War. The Battle of Mount Harriet.’
‘And your victim was there?’
‘He was.’
‘It could be a—’
‘No, it couldn’t. I don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘Where are we going now?’ asked Jane as Dixon turned off the M5 at Junction 23.
‘Express Park. I need a phone number off the file.’
‘It’s too late to ring them now, whoever it is.’
‘Have you got a data signal?’
Jane fished her phone out of her handbag.
‘Yes, 4G,’ she replied.
‘Google something for me, will you?’
‘What is it?’
‘Try “Falklands War, A Kandes”.’
‘Give me a sec.’
‘Well?’
‘How about this?’ said Jane. ‘Palace Barracks Memorial Garden. The meta-description says Sergeant A Kandes.’
‘Click on it. Maybe he died in the battle.’
‘It’s listing the Royal Navy.’
‘Scroll down,’ said Dixon. ‘You don’t get sergeants in the navy.’
‘Royal Fleet Auxiliary?’
‘No.’
‘Royal Marines?’
‘Yes.’ Dixon turned into Express Park and parked in the visitors’ car park.
‘Here he is. Sergeant A Kandes,’ said Jane.