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

by Damien Boyd

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Brace yourself.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re about to enter a parallel universe,’ continued Dixon, walking up the yellow painted steps at the front of Wimbledon Police Station.

  ‘I forgot you used to work here,’ said Louise, still struggling with a box of papers. Dixon was carrying the other, but instead of taking a taxi they had walked down to Temple tube station and got on the District line out to Wimbledon. Something about not having time to waste sitting in traffic.

  ‘Seven years,’ replied Dixon. ‘Before I moved back to Somerset last year.’

  He dropped his box down on the counter in reception.

  ‘DI Dixon and DC Willmott to see DCI Gresham.’

  The duty sergeant leaned over the counter and looked down at their feet.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just checking you haven’t got any cow shit on your wellies,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘I forgot to warn you, Louise,’ said Dixon, rolling his eyes. ‘Everyone’s a bloody comedian.’

  The sergeant picked up a telephone and dialled a three-digit extension number.

  ‘Worzel Gummidge is here to see you.’

  Dixon sighed and turned away.

  ‘She’s on her way.’

  Dixon paced up and down in the reception area, trying to avoid eye contact with two lads sitting in the corner. Answering bail no doubt. Louise used the opportunity to send her husband a text message. Both of them turned when the security door opened behind them.

  ‘Nick, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘And look at you,’ replied Dixon. ‘A DCI.’

  Hannah Gresham was tall with long black hair, recently brushed. Dixon noticed the fresh squirt of perfume too. So did Louise.

  ‘It would have been you if you hadn’t left,’ said Hannah.

  Dixon shrugged his shoulders. He knew that, but had left anyway.

  ‘You’re dealing with the Fryer case?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Let’s go through,’ replied Hannah. ‘I’ve got Sunny and Fred on it, so I’ve asked them to join us if that’s OK.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘We’re in my office.’

  They followed Hannah up the stairs to the first floor and along the corridor, past the open plan CID area and into her office. Dixon frowned. It was large enough for a desk at one end and a small conference table at the other. Maybe he shouldn’t have left.

  ‘Louise, this is Sunil Kohli, Sunny, and Gary Piper,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I thought you said his name was Fred?’ asked Louise.

  ‘He looks like Fred Astaire and dances like Fred Flintstone,’ said Sunny, grinning.

  ‘The old ones are always the best,’ muttered Louise.

  ‘What’ve you got on Robert Fryer?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘We’ve got an e-fit from the CCTV, but not a lot else,’ replied Sunny. He opened a file and slid a colour print across to Dixon, who was sitting opposite him. ‘Five feet ten or so, mid-thirties, carrying a yellow rucksack. There’s a beard, so we’ve got the hair colour from that. In the film he’s got a bobble hat on under a hoodie, so you don’t see his hair.’

  Dixon stared at it. Dark hair, sharp blue eyes, trimmed beard.

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘Some, but he never spoke and got clean away in the confusion,’ replied Gary.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Hannah. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a retired Welsh Guards captain,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just after the fall of Port Stanley in 1982 he ordered five marines to dismantle some enemy radar cabins, which were lined with asbestos. Those same marines are now dying of lung cancer and suing the MOD. Robert Fryer was the solicitor at the Government Legal Department conducting the case, and my victim was a witness in the same case.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Sunny.

  ‘The case goes to trial on a preliminary issue next week,’ continued Dixon.

  ‘We’ll need access to the case file,’ said Hannah.

  Dixon leaned over and lifted a box off the floor, placing it on the table. ‘Yours,’ he said, sliding it across to Sunny.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What else have you got?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ replied Dixon. ‘Can we see the CCTV?’

  Sunny looked at Hannah, who nodded.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Dixon stood up and handed a note to Hannah. ‘Someone needs to make contact with this guy. He took over the case from Fryer and he’s shitting himself. I’ve told him to go to his parents’ in Barnes. He’s going to take a cab.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  Dixon and Louise followed Sunny to his desk in the CID area and stood behind him.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The film was grainy and showed a railway station from above, the glare from the lights obscuring parts of the platform.

  ‘There’s Fryer,’ said Sunny, pointing to a middle-aged man in a grey suit reading a tabloid newspaper. He was standing just behind the white ‘Do Not Cross’ line on the edge of the platform. Several commuters were in the shot further down.

  ‘He’d walked to the front of the platform,’ said Sunny, ‘presumably to try and get a seat.’

  ‘And he was heading to Berrylands?’

  ‘Yes. He was waiting for a stopping train.’

  ‘Have you picked him up at Waterloo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone following him?’

  ‘Not that we can see, and certainly not his killer.’

  ‘Have you tried other stations?’

  ‘His killer arrived and left on foot,’ replied Sunny. ‘We’ve got him on CCTV leaving the station, then we lose him heading on to Wimbledon Common.’

  ‘He knows his CCTV then,’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘Oh yes. You’ll see in a minute. He knows exactly where the cameras are.’

  Dixon watched Fryer flicking through the pages of his newspaper. Then he folded it up and tucked it under his arm.

  ‘He caught the first train out of Waterloo, a fast train to Wimbledon,’ said Sunny. ‘Now he’s waiting for a train that stops at Berrylands.’

  Dixon folded his arms across his chest. He was about to watch a man die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He glanced across at Louise, who was breathing hard.

  ‘Here he is.’

  Sunny was pointing at the bottom left hand corner of the screen. A man wearing a green anorak with the hood pulled up had just come into shot. The rucksack was yellow and appeared shiny. He paused and then edged further left into the shot, revealing black jeans and trainers. He stopped behind Fryer, keeping his head down.

  ‘Here comes the train,’ said Sunny, pointing to lights in the distance.

  At the last second the man stepped forward and pushed Fryer in the small of his back with both hands. Fryer was thrown forward, landing between the railway tracks, and was just visible on all fours in the split second before the train hit him. Dixon thought Fryer looked up at the last moment, but couldn’t be sure.

  Then the screaming started – that much was obvious despite the footage having no sound; passengers running in all directions on the platform, some vomiting. Two collapsed.

  Dixon looked but the killer was gone, having crept back out of shot the way he came in.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Dixon. He looked at Louise, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue.

  Sunny stopped the film.

  ‘Can you email that to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dixon gave Sunny his address and watched while he attached the film to an email and clicked ‘Send’.

  ‘D’you want the e-fit too?’

  ‘Yes, please. And any other footage you’ve got.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  ‘Where does the e-fit come from?’

  ‘The camera in the ticket hall.’

 
‘Can we see it now?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Again the shot was from above. The angular jaw was visible and the dark beard, but not much else.

  ‘Where did the eye colour come from?’

  ‘A witness,’ replied Sunny. ‘But she couldn’t be sure.’

  Once back in Hannah Gresham’s office, she handed Dixon an envelope. ‘These are the witness statements. Fred’s getting you a set of photographs.’

  ‘Thanks. I can let you have what we’ve got when I get back tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you staying over?’

  ‘We’re in a hotel somewhere. Cheap and cheerful,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘You could come back to mine,’ said Hannah, smiling. ‘I’m sure Louise wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘It’s fine, thanks,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ve got to be away early in the morning.’

  ‘OK.’ She sat down behind her desk.

  ‘How long would it take us to get another e-fit done?’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ replied Sunny, appearing in the doorway behind them. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s have one without the beard.’

  ‘Without the beard? Why?’

  ‘If he takes the time and trouble to learn where the cameras are, chances are he’ll take the time and trouble to change his appearance. Grow a beard, dye it.’

  ‘Yes, but if you suddenly grow a beard people are going to notice, aren’t they?’ asked Sunny.

  ‘What was the date of the murder?’

  ‘November thirtieth.’

  ‘Half the adult male population is growing a beard or moustache in November,’ continued Dixon. ‘So you grow one, dye it, commit the murder on the last day of the month and then shave it off the next morning.’

  ‘Fuck, yes, it’s Movember,’ replied Sunny.

  ‘And you can even raise money for charity while you’re doing it.’

  ‘An old flame?’ asked Louise as they waited for a taxi outside Wimbledon station.

  Dixon had his hands in his pockets and was standing astride the remaining box of papers.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘D’you think he’s our killer then, the same bloke?’

  ‘He’s too young to be one of the surviving four marines, but he’ll be connected with them in some way,’ replied Dixon, nodding. ‘Bound to be.’

  A black cab pulled up in front of them, and Dixon opened the back door.

  ‘The Holiday Inn, Merton High Street.’

  ‘The Express,’ said Louise.

  ‘There’s a good curry house just along from there too,’ said Dixon. ‘I need to eat something.’

  It was gone 2 a.m. by the time Dixon finally fell asleep. The witness statements in the Fryer murder case had taken no more than ten minutes to read and told him nothing he didn’t already know. But the photograph album had been something to behold. The train driver had braked hard, coming to a halt just outside Raynes Park station, meaning that Fryer’s remains had been scattered over a distance of almost two miles.

  A left hand, lying on the brown stained gravel between the tracks, wedding band still on the finger; the wrist with the watch still on it, the time matching the stamp on the photograph; a foot with a short grey sock and black brogue – all of them photographed in the bright glare of an arc lamp and gone by rush hour the next morning.

  But by far the most shocking of the photographs was the last one in the album, of Robert Fryer on the slab in the mortuary after the pathologist had pieced him back together.

  Dixon wasn’t sure what he had learned from the photographs if anything, but they had kept him awake long enough to read most of the litigation file. The medical reports made grim reading. All five claimants had been smokers, which increased the risk of damage from asbestos exposure. Otherwise they confirmed what he already knew. Not only were the surviving four claimants too old to be Fryer’s killer, they were also far too ill, each with a life expectancy of no more than two years. And the reports were already over a year old.

  Fripp’s report was interesting, if only for his conclusion that three radar cabins, dismantled in the open on an exposed hillside in the Falkland Islands, might not have been sufficient to cause the injury of which the claimants complained. The fourth had been shipped back to the UK intact of course.

  The claimants’ witness statements, on the other hand, said that it took them three days to dismantle the cabins and that the dust inside them had been overpowering. They had, they said, been left coughing for months afterwards. Not one of them mentioned Adrian Kandes.

  Fletcher’s witness statement was purely factual and confirmed he had ordered the marines to dismantle the cabins under the direction of the Royal Engineers. A good deal of insubordination had resulted, and order had only been restored at the intervention of two military policemen. The insubordination itself was unspecified. There were also statements from the two Royal Engineers and one of the military policemen, which Dixon would look at more closely on the train home.

  They were standing on the concourse at Paddington station by 8 a.m. the following morning, Dixon watching the steam rising from a cup of coffee.

  ‘What time’s the train?’

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ replied Louise. ‘Did Jane remember to get Monty out of your car?’

  ‘She had him up in the SCU office all afternoon apparently,’ replied Dixon, rolling his eyes. ‘Asleep under her desk.’

  ‘And no one spotted him?’

  ‘Not until she was leaving.’

  ‘I spoke to Mark,’ said Louise. ‘They’ve identified the Engineers and want to know what you want them to do.’

  ‘There are statements from them on the file, so tell him to wait until we get back. Just concentrate on the claimants and their families. All five of them.’

  ‘I’ll ring him now.’

  Dixon watched Louise pacing up and down with her phone to her ear. Then he glanced up at the departure boards.

  ‘C’mon, that’s us,’ he said. ‘Platform Four.’

  Once on the train he passed the witness statements to Louise, both in the Fryer murder and the litigation, but spared her the photographs.

  ‘What d’you notice about Fletcher’s?’

  Louise flicked through the bundle of statements, pulling one out and looking at it.

  ‘I dunno. What?’

  ‘It’s dated last March. Around about the time he suddenly became a churchgoer.’

  ‘You spoke to the vicar?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘The guilt?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Probably,’ said Dixon. Then he started on the pleadings.

  The Statements of Claim, each marked ‘Living Mesothelioma Claim’, alleged the usual stuff he had seen umpteen times before: failure to provide training; failure to provide any or any adequate personal protective equipment; failure to conduct a risk assessment properly or at all; breaches of the Health and Safety at Work etc Act 1974. The list went on.

  In response the Government Legal Department had filed a Defence that alleged the claims were statute barred by virtue of Section 10 of the Crown Proceedings Act 1947. It then went on to deny each and every allegation individually, before continuing, ‘If, which is not admitted, the Claimants were exposed to asbestos when dismantling the radar cabins, then the Defendant will say that the exposure was not prolonged and/or sufficient to have resulted in the alleged injury.’

  The Defence had been drafted by a barrister, and Dixon found the fee notes on the correspondence pin. Miss Alison Crowther-Smith of St Luke’s Chambers, Bristol, had drafted the Defence, and a Request for Further Information. She had represented the MoD at the case management conference on 17 October, showing cause why the defendant should be allowed to defend the claim and defeating the interim payment application. After that she had provided her available dates to the court for the listing of the preliminary issue. Odd then that she had returned the brief.

  Dixon jumped up from his seat and walked along the aisle to th
e gap between two carriages. He looked up St Luke’s Chambers on Google and then dialled the number.

  ‘St Luke’s Chambers.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Dixon of Avon and Somerset Police. I was hoping to speak to Miss Crowther-Smith.’

  ‘She’s no longer with us I’m afraid.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Well, actually, I’m sorry to say she’s dead.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last October. She drowned in a caving accident.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dixon rang off and then dialled Mark Pearce’s number.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Dr Anthony Fripp. He’s an expert witness, based in Bangor. Find him. Tell him to stay where he is and then get the local police to send someone.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s an expert witness in a case in which two, and possibly three, people have been murdered.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it now.’

  ‘And ring me when you’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Jane was waiting for them in Dixon’s Land Rover when they walked out of Taunton railway station just after 10.30 a.m.

  ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Very enlightening,’ replied Dixon. ‘What are you doing here?’ Monty jumped over on to the front seat and started licking his ears.

  ‘I needed to get out for a bit,’ replied Jane, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘Coroner’s office then,’ said Dixon.

  Jane looked at Louise and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Louise. ‘He’s hardly said a word all morning.’

  Jane parked in the car park behind The Winchester Arms, switched the hazard lights on and left the engine running.

  ‘I’ll go round the block if a traffic warden comes.’

  ‘We won’t be long,’ said Dixon, opening the passenger door.

  Old Municipal Buildings in Corporation Street, Taunton was an ornate granite building with sandstone mullion windows. Until 1870 it had been home to Taunton Grammar School, but it now served as the Somerset Register Office, as well as the offices of the Somerset Coroner, Michael Roseland.