by Damien Boyd
‘Thanks.’
After twenty minutes of crawling, wriggling, ducking and banging his head, Dixon caught up with Kemp when he stopped at the end of a narrow passage.
‘What’s up?’
‘The Thirty Foot Pot,’ said Kemp, pulling a wire ladder out of his tackle sack. He clipped one end into the bolt on the rock wall to his right and then let it uncoil over the edge.
‘Did it reach the bottom?’ asked Dixon.
‘It’s a thirty foot ladder. Don’t panic.’
Kemp took a rope out of his tackle sack and handed one end to Dixon, which he clipped on to his caving belt.
‘Right, down you go, and remember: hands behind the ladder.’
Dixon made short work of it, even taking the time on the way down to admire the rock formations behind the waterfall. He looked up at the side walls, crystals glinting in the light from his lamp, searching for foot and handholds, his old climber’s instinct getting the better of him.
Kemp abseiled down the rope, leaving it in situ with the ladder, and five minutes later they were moving again, Dixon struggling to keep up with him. Not that he would have let on.
They arrived at a double waterfall, each no more than a four foot drop into a pool beneath, although very little water was cascading over the edge.
‘The Double Pots,’ said Kemp. He grinned at Dixon and then jumped in, landing in water up to his waist. Then he waded across the pool and jumped over the next waterfall. Dixon listened for the splash and heard no scream after it, so Kemp must have landed safely.
The water was cold, Dixon knew that, and the prospect of jumping into it filled him with dread. He looked at the side walls, spotting a narrow ledge no more than a few inches wide and several handholds on the wall above. Perfect.
He climbed over the edge and around the side wall, doing the same at the next waterfall and arriving on the rocks at the far side bone dry.
‘You won’t get past the Washing Machine,’ said Kemp, grinning. Then he turned and set off along the passage again.
‘This bit’s the Inclined Rift.’
It reminded Dixon of a narrow alleyway between two tall buildings, no more than two feet wide, and then tipped at an angle of forty-five degrees or so. He watched Kemp wriggling down it, bracing himself against the rocks on either side.
Next came the Washing Machine, and Kemp had been right: Dixon would not get past it. He tried but fell back into the water, the cold taking his breath away. Nothing for it but to keep moving.
They stopped for a short break at Tratman’s Temple, Kemp insisting that Dixon admire the vast cavern, and it was worth it. Huge waterfalls of cascading crystals glistening in the lights of their headlamps, hundreds of stalactites and stalagmites too, although Dixon couldn’t remember which was which. And what looked like small waves of red rock frozen as they broke over the rock walls.
‘We call that flowstone,’ said Kemp. ‘It’s mineral deposits left behind by the water running down the walls.’
‘How much further is it?’
‘Ten or fifteen minutes. We’re making good time.’
The passageway ended in a small boulder strewn cavern, the only clue to the way ahead a white nylon rope that disappeared into the water under the back wall.
Dixon was sitting on a boulder, eating his chocolate. He was shaking, but that was probably a combination of cold and fear. Either way he wasn’t taking any chances with his blood sugar.
‘So, this is where it happened?’
‘This is it. We found her body on the other side though.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Seven feet.’
‘And what’s on the other side?’
‘Another cavern, with a small beach believe it or not.’ Kemp was sitting in the water, feeling along the roof of the sump with his hand. ‘There’s nothing she could have snagged her suit on. It’s weird.’
‘It’s my belief someone came up behind her and held her feet,’ said Dixon.
‘So, you do think she was murdered?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘D’you want me to go through?’
‘Yes, please.’
He watched Kemp lie down in the water, duck down and begin kicking with his feet. The water was churned up by all the kicking and splashing, and the noise echoed around the chamber.
Dixon started counting.
It took eleven seconds from the time his head went under the water until his feet disappeared. More than enough time for someone hiding in the rocks behind her to switch on their lamp, jump out and grab hold of Alison Crowther-Smith’s feet. And she no doubt took longer than Kemp to scrabble her way into the sump.
Dixon was standing on a boulder at the back of the cave when Kemp emerged from the sump, panting hard.
‘Fuck, it’s cold.’
‘There’s a place here he could’ve hidden,’ said Dixon, shining his lamp behind a large rock, the gravel on the floor of the cave beneath it revealing no telltale footprint.
‘Are you going through?’ asked Kemp.
‘I’ve seen enough, thanks.’
It was pitch dark by the time Dixon stuck his head out into the fresh night air. He pulled back the elasticated wristband of his oversuit and looked at his watch: 7.30 p.m.
They trudged back across the fields, snow falling in the lights of their headlamps, and arrived at the hut to find a light on upstairs.
‘What’s that?’ asked Dixon.
‘It’s a bunkhouse,’ replied Kemp. ‘Five pounds a night for visitors; three fifty for club members. We’ve got reciprocal rights at other clubs too. It’s not bad.’
Dixon nodded. It reminded him of the summers he’d spent climbing with Jake, moving from one bunkhouse to the next.
Kemp hosed himself down using the tap on the side of the shed.
‘You’ll need another quid for a hot shower,’ he said.
‘I’ll go straight home I think. Have a hot bath.’
‘So, what happens now?’
‘That’ll be for the coroner to decide,’ replied Dixon, dodging the question.
He changed clothes and then threw the bag of wet caving equipment into the back of Kemp’s Land Rover.
‘I’d better scrub our names off the board, or I’ll be getting a call-out later I expect,’ said Kemp.
‘One last thing,’ said Dixon. ‘How many ways are there in and out of that place?’
‘Two. The way we went, and there’s another entrance on the village green at Priddy, but you really need to know what you’re doing to go that way.’
Chapter Seventeen
The snow turned to sleet and then to rain as Dixon drove down through Cheddar Gorge, the heater in his Land Rover on full blast. In different circumstances he may have enjoyed his first caving trip, but he doubted there would be another, and certainly not if the stream was a raging torrent.
He allowed his mind to wander back down Swildon’s Hole, although that made the metallic smell in his nose seem stronger if anything. Dazzling cascades of crystals and waves of flowstone left behind by water running down the walls for millions of years. It had been a sight to see. And Dixon had stayed dry, apart from one dunking in the Washing Machine, and warm for most of the time, making for an interesting and enjoyable experience.
Would he do it again? Maybe one day.
And the sump? No bloody fear.
He might pop down there on his own one day, or take Jane. He smiled. Idiot. What were the chances of him finding Sump One again? And getting back out? Kemp had said it was a maze of passages and caverns. No, you needed to know what you were doing and where you were going down there.
Dixon stamped on the brakes and screeched to a halt in the middle of the mini-roundabout at the bottom of Cheddar. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the still from the CCTV footage, looking down on to the killer standing behind Fryer on the platform at Wimbledon station, and squinted at the rucksack in the weak glow from the interior light of his Land Rover.
It was yellow and shiny, waterproof no doubt, with a black flap and straps and a handle on the side. Not your ordinary rucksack.
And just like Kemp’s caving tackle sack.
He took his phone out of his pocket and checked for a data signal. 3G. That would do.
He opened Google, typed in ‘caving sack’ and hit ‘Enter’. Then he selected ‘Images’. And there it was. He clicked on the link below the image, which took him to caving-gear.co.uk, and seconds later he was looking at a Petzl thirty litre Portage Tackle Sack, perfect for approaches and all caving use apparently.
Mark Pearce answered his phone at the second ring.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Still at the nick.’
‘What about Louise?’
‘She’s here.’
‘I want you to drop everything and focus on caving, Mark,’ said Dixon. ‘The rucksack he was carrying when he killed Fryer is a specialist caving tackle sack. A Petzl. You can see it on the CCTV footage. And remember he got down to Sump One and back out again on his own, so he knows Swildon’s Hole like the back of his hand.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘It does.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘We’re looking at anyone connected with the five claimants, aren’t we? So go through their social media profiles again. Facebook and Twitter, and look for any caving pictures. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Instagram too,’ continued Dixon. ‘Any reference to caving even. And get Louise to help you.’
‘OK.’
‘Get on to the caving clubs as well. We’ll need a list of members from them. And a list of anyone Cave and Rock hired kit out to last October.’
‘Which caving clubs?’
‘All of them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Go back through the service records and see if any of the marines went caving. I bet they had a caving club.’
‘They’re a bit past it now.’
‘But their children and grandchildren aren’t.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘He’s a bloody caver,’ muttered Dixon as he slid his phone into his pocket.
‘How’d you get on?’
‘I might have enjoyed it,’ replied Dixon. ‘If I hadn’t been investigating a murder.’
‘I can’t imagine anything worse,’ said Jane, shuddering. ‘Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.’
‘I can see the attraction.’
‘Would you go again?’
‘In the middle of a drought perhaps.’ Dixon was stripping off in the kitchen, leaving his clothes in a pile in front of the washing machine.
‘Maybe leave it till the summer next time,’ said Jane.
‘Yes. It depends on the rain though. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to the temperature. That stays pretty much the same whatever’s going on above ground.’
‘Freezing cold I suppose.’
‘Without the right kit you wouldn’t last long.’
‘And was she murdered?’
‘She could’ve been,’ replied Dixon, standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his underpants. ‘He’d need to have been an experienced caver, that’s for sure, which gives us a new line of enquiry. But unless we catch him and he confesses, we’ll never really know.’
‘You eaten?’
‘Not yet. I’ll have a quick shower, then we’ll nip over to the pub?’
‘Hurry up then,’ said Jane.
Dixon leaned over the sofa, put his arms round Jane and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What was the matter this morning?’ he asked. ‘When you came to collect us from the station.’
‘I just need to toughen up a bit. I’ll get used to it.’
‘Safeguarding children?’
‘It’s not easy,’ replied Jane, shaking her head. ‘Now, go and have that shower. You stink.’
Monty was barking when Dixon stepped out of the shower, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and went downstairs to find Jane and Roger Poland in the kitchen, unpacking various silver trays from a carrier bag.
‘I got you a biriani. I hope that’s all right,’ said Poland.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there dripping water all over the place.’
It took Dixon less than five minutes to get dressed.
‘I put yours in the oven,’ said Jane as he came running down the stairs.
‘This is a pleasant surprise, Roger,’ said Dixon.
‘Call it a working supper.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve looked at the PM on the caver, Alison Crowther-whatsit.’
‘And?’
‘She was wearing a wetsuit and boots, with a caving suit over the top. That’s got tight elasticated ankle bands.’
‘I could hardly get mine on over my feet, and they’ve left red marks around my ankles.’
‘Quite.’
‘Still, it stops the water getting in,’ continued Dixon, tearing off a piece of naan bread.
‘And makes finding any other marks almost impossible,’ said Poland.
‘Oh, so does that mean . . . ?’
‘I said almost.’ Poland grinned. ‘You’d never see them if you weren’t looking for them, the faintest impressions in amongst the other bruising.’
‘Finger marks?’ asked Jane.
‘Possibly. That’s the best I can say really. But they’re definitely different from the others, and on both legs, just above the ankles. Exactly where the elastic would’ve been.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Dixon through a mouthful of vegetable curry.
‘Jane said you’d been down there.’
‘It’s a small cavern, about the size of a tennis court, smaller perhaps. Boulders everywhere and then a pool in the far corner. That’s the entrance to the sump. There’s a rope; you lie down in the water, pull on it, duck down and through you go.’
‘Did you go through?’ asked Jane.
‘Too bloody cold for that.’
‘Wimp.’
‘So, you hide amongst the boulders, jump out when she ducks down and grab her ankles,’ said Poland.
‘That’s about it,’ replied Dixon. ‘Or clamp them to the roof of the sump. No one would ever see you hiding, particularly if you were wearing a black wetsuit.’
‘What about her partner?’ asked Jane.
‘He’d already gone through, and with her in the sump there was no way for him to get back.’
‘D’you go through first if you’re leading a novice?’ asked Poland.
‘I suppose so. He did anyway.’
‘Well, there are faint marks, although the best I can say is that they’re consistent—’
‘But she would’ve been banging her ankles and lower legs for a couple of hours already by the time she reached the sump,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘Tripping and stumbling over rocks in the dark, would she not, Doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Climbing down wire ladders, jumping over waterfalls, wriggling through narrow gaps, over ledges and boulders.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the marks are consistent with that, are they not?’
‘Well, there’s a pattern to them. It’s faint, but consistent with fingertips.’
‘But equally consistent with a trip here, a stumble there regularly over several hours.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Case dismissed.’
‘You should’ve been a bloody barrister,’ muttered Poland, through a mouthful of mushroom bahjee.
‘Let’s run through the five claimants,’ said Dixon the next morning. He was sitting in meeting room 2 with Dave Harding, Mark Pearce and Louise Willmott.
‘The dead one is Grant Foster,’ replied Pearce. ‘Died in August. Mesothelioma. His claim’s marked “dead” but stays with the others because they’re linked. They’re fast-tracked as “living claims”.’
‘Where did he die?’
&nbs
p; ‘Bristol Royal Infirmary, but he’d been in Weston until a week or so before the end. He lived in Weston.’
‘Solicitors?’
‘Lings.’
‘What about his executors?’
‘That’s his wife and daughter.’
‘Who’s next?’
‘Richard Hagley,’ replied Pearce. ‘He’s in Bristol with days to go. Mesothelioma.’
‘Family?’
‘He’s a widower. One son in Australia, but the other’s local. No grandchildren.’
‘Where does the son live?’
‘Yatton. He goes in to see his father every day, apparently.’
‘Lings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lawrence Hampton is next on the list, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘He’s the one in Reading, and the Met are going to see him today and Holt Burton on Monday.’
‘Family?’
‘A wife and four children. The Met are going to speak to them too.’
‘And what’s his prognosis?’
‘Two years, but that was given a year ago. He’s housebound now, on oxygen.’
‘Then we’ve got Harry Jones,’ said Harding. ‘Divorced and lives in Bristol. One son, in Abingdon, and one grandson.’
‘And the last one is Raymond Absolon,’ said Pearce. ‘Lives in Bath. Divorced and recently married again.’
‘Children?’
‘Two,’ replied Pearce, looking down at his notepad.
‘Any reference to caving?’ asked Dixon.
‘Nothing yet, Sir. We’re waiting for the membership lists from the clubs though.’
‘Well, keep an eye out for it,’ said Dixon. ‘Whoever killed Alison Crowther-Smith must have been an experienced caver.’
‘If she was murdered.’
‘Quite.’ Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘What about Maynard?’
‘He was a member of Naval Party 8901,’ replied Louise. ‘They were the small detachment on the Falklands when the Argentinians invaded. They were flown home after the invasion and then went back as part of 42 Commando.’
‘Did he go back with them?’ asked Dixon.
‘No, Sir. He was wounded, medically discharged six months later and then set up Weymouth Properties with his wife.’
‘But he was 42 Commando and would’ve known Kandes.’