by Damien Boyd
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon nodded.
‘What about the solicitors?’
‘Lings in Bristol. They’re behind the Hippodrome. Brett Greenwood is the solicitor dealing with the case, and the partner in charge of the department is Fiona Hull. Their photos are on the firm’s website, with short bios. We’re leaving Holt Burton to the Met, aren’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyway, it’s Michael Adcock there. Again, his photo’s on the Holt Burton website.’
‘Anyone get anywhere with the Royal Engineers?’ asked Dixon.
‘I’ve spoken to them on the phone,’ replied Pearce. ‘There were only the two of them because the rest were clearing minefields. That’s why Fletcher got the marines to do the donkey work. They can’t really add anything to the statements they gave to the MoD in the civil claim though.’
Dixon nodded.
‘What about F Company?’
‘The Order of Battle lists a hundred and eight men, and we’ve got a complete set of service records now,’ replied Harding. ‘Kandes was in 3 Troop, so I’ve separated their service records out for you to have a look at.’
‘Anything leap out at you?’
‘Not really.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Where are we going?’ asked Louise. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Dixon’s Land Rover, speeding north on the M5.
‘Drop Monty off at home, then Bristol. It seems to me that we need to speak to Richard Hagley before it’s too late.’
Dixon parked in the multistorey car park and they walked down the hill to the Bristol Royal Infirmary, dodging the puddles on the pavement. Once inside they took the lift up to the third floor and found Richard Hagley in a private room opposite the nurses’ station.
Dixon peered in through the small window in the door. Hagley’s eyes were closed and he had an oxygen mask over his mouth. A man, aged thirty or so, was sitting in the armchair beside his bed. His son probably.
‘Can I help you?’
Dixon turned to face the nurse in the dark blue uniform behind him. ‘Matron’ it said on her badge.
‘I need to have a word with Mr Hagley,’ he replied, taking his warrant card out of his pocket.
‘He’s not really in a fit state to—’
‘It’s a murder investigation. And we won’t be long.’
‘He’s on morphine.’ The matron hesitated and then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Give me a minute.’
Dixon watched her through the window, leaning over and speaking directly into Hagley’s ear. The younger man in the armchair was craning his neck to hear what was being said. Then he jumped up.
‘For fuck’s sake, I’ve already told them to leave him alone.’
Hagley nodded his head on the pillow and pointed at the door.
‘His son says—’
‘I’m not interested in what his son says,’ interrupted Dixon as the matron closed the door behind her. ‘I’m interested in what Mr Hagley says.’
‘He’ll see you. But do bear in mind he’s very short of breath and will find it difficult to speak for any length of time.’
‘I will.’
Dixon opened the door and walked in.
‘I’ve already told you lot to fuck off,’ said the younger man.
‘And you are?’
‘Philip Hagley. His son.’
‘And who did you speak to?’ asked Dixon.
‘The Metropolitan Police. Someone rang this morning.’
‘We’re from the Avon and Somerset force, Sir,’ said Dixon matter of fact. ‘And you can rest assured that we wouldn’t be troubling a man in your father’s condition unless it was absolutely necessary.’
Philip Hagley slumped back into his chair.
‘Is there somewhere you could wait, Sir?’ asked Dixon. ‘The canteen perhaps.’
‘I’d rather stay.’
‘Forgive me. I framed it as a question, but I do need to speak to your father alone.’
Philip Hagley sighed loudly and left the room.
Dixon leaned over Richard Hagley, lying in his hospital bed.
‘Mr Hagley, can you hear me?’
Hagley nodded. Dixon showed him his warrant card and he nodded again.
‘I’m investigating the death of Alan Fletcher, Mr Hagley.’
Hagley reached up slowly and slid the oxygen mask to one side.
‘Did you say death?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon watched the smile turn into a grin, then a laugh, all of it lost in the bout of coughing that followed. He waited.
‘I know it was Captain Fletcher who gave you the order to dismantle the radar cabins,’ said Dixon.
‘It wasn’t an order,’ said Hagley, gasping. ‘It was a . . . a fucking death sentence.’ He slid the oxygen mask back across his nose and mouth, breathing deeply.
‘What happened when Adrian Kandes ran?’
Hagley closed his eyes, still panting into the mask, the condensation appearing and then disappearing inside with each shallow breath. Then he pulled the mask away from his mouth to speak.
‘You know about that?’
‘We do.’
‘Me and the lads went after him.’
‘Who?’
Dixon glanced over at Louise. She was sitting in the armchair taking notes.
‘Ray, Grant, Harry and me.’
‘That’s four. I was told there were five of you.’
‘And Loz.’
‘Lawrence Hampton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Raymond Absolon, Grant Foster, Harry Jones and you?’
Hagley nodded.
‘And who hit Fletcher?’
Hagley let the mask snap back over his nose and mouth, the elastic round the back of his head holding it in place. Dixon noticed the grin, before it was obscured by more condensation. He watched Hagley’s right hand moving slowly until he was pointing at the centre of his own chest with his index finger.
‘You hit him?’
Hagley nodded, then moved the mask again. ‘And what’re you going to do about it now, eh?’ He grinned, revealing yellow broken teeth.
Dixon shook his head.
‘What did he think he was going to do, shoot Adrian?’ continued Hagley. ‘The twat.’
‘And the next day?’ asked Dixon.
‘We all swore Adrian was there all the time . . .’ More coughing. ‘And it was his word against ours.’
‘Tell me what happened when you ran into him again outside Port Stanley.’
‘It’s all in my statement. It was his moment of . . .’ Hagley’s voice tailed off and he retreated behind the oxygen mask again.
‘So, who killed Captain Fletcher?’
Hagley shook his head on the pillow.
‘And now you’re suing the marines?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’re suing the MOD. And it’s not about the money, it’s about justice.’ Hagley allowed the oxygen mask to cover his mouth before he grinned again. ‘You’ll never catch him,’ he spluttered.
‘Your son?’
‘He knows nothing.’
‘Who then?’
Hagley tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
‘How many more people have to die, Richard?’ asked Dixon. ‘For your justice.’
Hagley’s right hand moved slowly, his index finger reaching for the red alarm button in the clip on his bedside table.
‘How many?’
Coughing and spluttering broke the silence.
‘Do the right thing, Richard, before it’s too late.’
Dixon waited.
‘These are innocent people, with families, children. Just doing their jobs. Think about it, Richard.’
No response.
‘Alison Crowther-Smith was thirty-six years old, with two young children. You think about that.’
‘She stopped us getting our money.’ More coughing. ‘Now it’s too late.’
‘She was just doing her job, Richard.’
&nb
sp; Hagley’s voice was muffled behind the oxygen mask, but Dixon recognised his reply all the same.
‘Fuck you.’
‘So, it was about the money, until you realised you wouldn’t live long enough to see it. Is that it?’
‘What else is there?’
Hagley finally reached the alarm button.
‘I fought for my country,’ he gasped, falling back into his pillow. ‘Fuck all of you.’
‘C’mon, Louise, let’s leave him to it,’ said Dixon, standing up.
Philip Hagley was waiting for them outside the private room.
‘What the hell was all that about?’
‘We’re investigating a murder, Mr Hagley, and Detective Constable Willmott here has a few questions to ask you. I suggest using the day room. It was empty when we came in.’
‘Follow me, Sir,’ said Louise.
Dixon turned and watched through the small pane of glass as two nurses attended to Richard Hagley.
Hagley knew the who and the why; he had made that clear enough. But he would be dead within forty-eight hours. And for what? He’d served his country and stood by his friends, another victim of a freak set of circumstances that started when an otherwise exemplary marine fled the battlefield. A set of circumstances in which everyone had thought they were doing the right thing and yet no one had escaped unscathed. And now they were all either dead or dying. And more innocent people besides.
An old soldier would no doubt say that such were the fortunes of war.
‘He knows. He bloody knows who’s doing it, and he’s going to take it to his grave,’ said Louise, shaking her head.
‘Well, we can hardly arrest him in his condition, can we?’
They were sitting in Dixon’s Land Rover in the car park at Brent Knoll motorway services.
‘Let’s check his phone. Mobile and the one by his bed,’ he said.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Focus on what he did tell us,’ muttered Dixon, ripping open a sandwich carton, ‘instead of what he didn’t.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, first off, we’re in a race with the Met,’ replied Dixon through a mouthful of egg and cress sandwich.
‘They were supposed to leave Hagley to us,’ said Louise.
‘They were. Still, the son saved us the job of telling them where to go.’
‘What else?’
‘He knows who it is, so it’s someone he knows, someone connected to him in some way. To all of them possibly.’
‘Not the son though,’ replied Louise. ‘He was in Tenerife when Alison Crowther-Smith was murdered and has an alibi for Fletcher’s too. It’s only his girlfriend, but—’
‘Check it.’
‘I will.’
Dixon screwed up the sandwich carton and dropped it into the carrier bag in the footwell.
‘Disgusting.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Louise.
‘That it’s about the money,’ replied Dixon.
‘The damages?’
‘It must be. If it was just about Kandes, then killing Fletcher would’ve been enough, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’
‘The rest are lawyers defending their claims, denying liability,’ said Dixon. He was staring in his rearview mirror, watching a dog running about on the grass area behind the car park.
‘So, the lawyers are being killed because they’re defending the claims?’ asked Louise.
‘Let’s say your father was dying of cancer and you knew it was caused by someone else,’ continued Dixon. ‘It was their fault. But he’s being denied compensation by some smart lawyer dragging the case out until after your father died. Would you be angry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Enough to kill?’
‘No.’
‘And there’s a very good reason for that.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not a psychopath,’ said Dixon, starting the diesel engine.
‘DCI Lewis was looking for you, Sir,’ said Pearce as Dixon walked past his workstation.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘No idea.’
‘Louise, see if you can fix us up with Foster’s executors tomorrow, and Absolon too if you can. Not too early.’ Dixon was leaning against a filing cabinet, waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where’s Dave?’
‘He had to go,’ replied Pearce.
‘Find anything?’
‘We’re putting together family trees with profiles. Hagley was easy. There’s just him and his two sons – Philip, and Jim in Australia,’ replied Pearce. ‘I spoke to Jim on the phone and he’s coming over on Monday apparently.’
‘He’ll be too late,’ muttered Dixon.
‘That bad, is it?’
‘How did you know it was Jim you were speaking to?’
‘Er, he’s over for two weeks and he gave me his mobile number. He sounded legit.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Anything else?’
‘Jones’s son’s got previous. GBH and affray. A while ago now though. And Absolon’s stepson is a known drug dealer. That’s it really.’
‘Any of them cavers?’
‘No, Sir. Not that we can find anyway.’
Dixon spent the next half an hour glancing through the service records of 3 Troop. Some ended on 11 June 1982 – those who had been killed in action on Mount Harriet. There were seven of them, including Kandes. He had joined the Royal Marines at the age of eighteen and risen to the rank of sergeant after almost twenty-two years of unblemished service, and he had only months left to go before retirement when he died.
His reports were always good, if not spectacular, describing him as a hardworking, committed marine. Dixon shook his head. Why then had he broken on the night of the battle?
Dixon switched on a computer and then fished the medical reports from the filing cabinets. There were five sets, one for each claimant, and they included psychiatric as well as medical, occupational therapists’ and employment consultants’ reports. The investigation of each had been thorough and had not been challenged by the defence, which explained why the amount of the damages in each case had been agreed.
Dixon ignored the medical reports from the consultant physicians setting out the previous medical history and diagnosis in each case and instead turned to the psychiatric reports. These documented the psychological effect on the claimants and their concern for those left behind. Hagley hadn’t mentioned his sons once, or at least Dixon could find no reference to them in the report. Absolon, on the other hand, was very concerned, because his second wife did not get on with his children and he knew there would be arguments after he died. About money of course.
Hampton had painted a picture of a happy marriage being cut short, and his bitterness was obvious, although at two years, his life expectancy was longer. Jones was divorced and talked about his son, who was an alcoholic. There would be no one to look after him when Jones died, which caused him great distress. Grant Foster had died before a psychiatric report had been prepared.
The employment reports set out their working histories since leaving the marines and, for those below retirement age – all except Absolon – gave a forecast used in their future loss of earnings claims.
All of their previous employers were listed, matching the statements from each confirming that they would not have come into contact with asbestos.
‘We’re seeing Mrs Foster in Weston at ten and then Raymond Absolon in Bath at two. All right?’ asked Louise.
‘Meet me at my place at nine then,’ said Dixon.
‘Will do.’
He put the file of medical reports back in the filing cabinet and took out the pleadings in the civil claim. Then he turned to Louise.
‘Right, I’m off. See you in the morning.’
The sound of waves breaking greeted him as he climbed on to the top of the dunes and looked down at the beach. He was surprised to see the tide still thirty yards or so away
and the waves small, although there was very little wind and the sound was carrying more than usual. Still, it left some beach for a decent walk, and Monty was already making the most of it.
Jane had been two thirds of the way through a bottle of wine when Dixon arrived home, and the idea of getting cold, and possibly wet too, had not appealed to her. Monty, on the other hand, had needed no persuading.
Dixon had still not managed to get the metallic smell out of his nostrils from his caving trip the day before, and a good blast of sea air might just be enough to get rid of it. And the cobwebs.
He checked his watch. He had an hour or so of daylight left and set off towards Brean Down, although there was no chance of getting there and back before dark.
Hagley’s admission that he knew the killer had taken Dixon by surprise. Or had it? Perhaps not. After all, what had Hagley got to lose? But it had given Dixon a direction, a focus.
Another question was bugging him, and no amount of walking on the beach was going to help him with this one. Alison Crowther-Smith had been killed by an experienced caver, drowned in Sump One down Swildon’s Hole. He was as sure of that as he could be with no real evidence. But how the hell did her killer know she’d be down there?
Chapter Nineteen
Jane was fast asleep by the time Dixon got home just after midnight, the empty bottle of Pinot Grigio on the floor by the sofa explaining why she didn’t wake up when Monty ran down the stairs, barking.
Dixon had gone back to Express Park, spending the evening going through the service records of F Company, 42 Commando, looking for any reference to caving and finding none. But standing at the end of the bed, looking down at Jane asleep, he wondered whether he should have spent the evening at home. Jane understood ‘the job’; of course she did. She was struggling all the same, and Dixon needed to be there for her. Struggling to adjust to one of the most difficult jobs demanded of a police officer, and struggling to adjust to the reality that her mother – her birth mother – was out there somewhere. And all the questions and uncertainty that went with that.
He couldn’t do much about the job, but he could do something about her mother. Perhaps he should.
He stifled a yawn before tiptoeing out of the room. Then he went downstairs and cracked open a can of beer. Nothing for it but to go through the pleadings. Again.