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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Only that he didn’t kill anyone, but that was after he jumped the bench in Court One and kicked the judge.’

  ‘I’ve been tempted to do that many times,’ said Sunny, grinning.

  ‘Well, I’ve had a go at briefing them, but you’d better fill ’em in properly. Then DCI Gresham can sit in with you when you interview him. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Whenever you’re ready.’

  Dixon’s phone bleeped in his pocket, announcing the arrival of a text message.

  Hearing adj to 1st open date after 28 days. Defence to disclose expert’s report not later than 7 days before. Thanks again. VS

  Dixon smiled. Now time was on his side too.

  It was just after 7 p.m. when Louise arrived from Bristol with Brett Greenwood. He was held downstairs in the custody suite, while she went upstairs to find Dixon. Instead she found Jane peering around a pillar at the far end of the CID area.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Jane nodded towards a workstation on the far side, where Dixon was sitting with his back to her.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.

  Louise peered over her shoulder. DCI Gresham was sitting on the corner of Dixon’s desk, her legs crossed, her short skirt having ridden up even higher.

  ‘Some DCI he used to work with in Wimbledon. He gave her the brush off when we were in London.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘There’s ancient history, he said.’

  ‘What’re the Met doing here?’

  ‘Come to find out what we know I expect. You’ve nothing to worry about. Really.’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘Besides, he’s not the type,’ continued Louise.

  Jane walked over and tapped Dixon on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you staying late?’

  ‘We’ve got an interview. Couple of hours at most,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘Meet Hannah Gresham. We used to work together at Wimbledon. Hannah’s here to take the credit.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Jane and I live together.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, are you two—?’ asked Hannah, sliding off the corner of the desk and straightening her skirt.

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Jane.

  ‘He’s downstairs, Sir,’ said Louise, changing the subject.

  ‘Has he asked for a lawyer?’

  ‘No. He said he is one.’

  ‘What’s that old saying?’ asked Hannah.

  ‘A solicitor who acts for himself has a fool for a client,’ muttered Dixon. ‘C’mon, let’s get this over with. You’ll have to sit this one out, Louise. DCI Gresham’s going to sit in.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll see you at home, Jane.’

  ‘Right then, Brett, you’re still under caution.’

  Greenwood nodded.

  ‘For the tape, Mr Greenwood nodded his head.’

  Dixon was sitting next to Brett Greenwood in one of the new interview rooms at Express Park. Hannah Gresham was sitting to his left, and they were all sitting opposite the tape recorder. Dixon would never get used to it. The layout had taken Hannah by surprise too, if her ‘What the fuck?’ was anything to go by. Dixon felt the same.

  ‘And you’ve declined a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, Brett, let’s cut to the chase if you’ll pardon the pun. Why did you run?’

  Greenwood closed his eyes and sighed. Long and slow.

  Dixon waited.

  ‘I’m here illegally.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My visa expired last year.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I’m employed as a paralegal, unqualified staff, but paid the same as a solicitor because I’m qualified in Canada. Only I’m not. The certificate is a forgery.’

  ‘So you’re not actually a lawyer?’

  ‘Not a qualified one, no.’

  ‘What qualifications do you have?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘I worked in a law firm in Ontario for eight years, then decided to do a bit of travelling. Pitched up in the UK and got a job with Lings.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Last May.’

  ‘So why did you lie?’

  ‘Paralegals get paid bugger all. So I forged the certificate from the Canadian Bar Association and told Lings I’d sit the exams in this country so I’d be dual qualified.’

  ‘And they paid you the same as a solicitor?’

  ‘Near enough.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A paralegal gets maybe fifteen to eighteen thousand a year. With my experience perhaps twenty-five. They paid me forty.’

  ‘Section 2 of the Fraud Act 2006,’ muttered Hannah.

  ‘Fraud by false representation, I know,’ replied Greenwood.

  ‘Weren’t checks done?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There are checks for solicitors, but not paralegals. They asked for copies of my driver’s licence and a bank statement, but that’s it.’

  ‘What about your visa or a work permit?’

  ‘They never asked.’

  Gresham looked at Dixon and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Lings are in trouble then,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve been good to me. It’s not their fault.’

  ‘I’m sure the Border Agency will take that into account,’ said Hannah. ‘What’s the fine these days?’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds,’ replied Dixon. ‘Let’s talk about Alison Crowther-Smith, Brett. Had you met her before the CMC?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘What about after that?’

  ‘No. I told you, I rang the following week and got “number unobtainable”.’

  ‘So, you didn’t follow her down Swildon’s Hole and drown her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ Greenwood’s voice had jumped an octave.

  ‘Or wait for her down there perhaps.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Have you ever been caving before?’

  ‘No,’ replied Greenwood, slumping back into his chair.

  ‘Where did you meet Alan Fletcher?’

  ‘I’ve never met Alan Fletcher.’

  ‘But you knew Dr Fripp would be in Birmingham because you’d seen his dates to avoid.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Fripp. I’ve never even fired a gun before.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before! I’ve never fired a gun before!’

  Greenwood was staring at the wall above the tape machine, breathing deeply.

  ‘What’s your father’s name?’

  ‘Mike. Why?’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘I haven’t got a sister. I’m an only child.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Hazel Greenwood.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does the name Adrian Kandes mean anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Greenwood, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never heard of him. Look, I’ve told the truth. I’m in the UK illegally, I lied to Lings about my qualifications and I kicked the judge. But I’m not a killer, and I haven’t murdered anyone. All right?’

  ‘You can take the credit for that one I think,’ said Hannah, smiling at Dixon.

  They were standing in the lift waiting for the doors to close, Dixon jabbing the first floor button.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, his teeth gritted.

  ‘When I catch the killer, I’ll let you know.’

  Dixon rolled his eyes.

  Hannah waited until the lift doors closed. ‘You and Jane then – is it serious?’

  Dixon hesitated.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he replied, nodding.

  ‘I envy you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A relationship with someone who understands the job? Mine never last.’

  ‘We certainly didn’t.’

  ‘How long was it?’

  ‘A month,’ replied Dixon. ‘I wasn’t ready for anythin
g serious. Too many ghosts.’

  ‘But you’re ready now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Louise has booked us into The Walnut Tree, if you change your mind.’

  ‘I won’t, but thank you for the offer.’

  DCI Lewis, Sunny and Louise were waiting for them when the lift doors opened.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’ll be charged with fraud by false rep and common assault,’ replied Dixon. ‘We’ll leave the Border Agency to decide about any immigration offences.’

  ‘I’m not interested in that. What about the bloody murders?’ asked Lewis.

  Dixon shook his head.

  ‘So it’s back to the drawing board.’

  If we had one.

  ‘How’d it go?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Not good,’ replied Dixon, letting Monty out of the back door.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s not him.’ The crack of a can of beer being opened punctuated the conversation. ‘Have you fed Monty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s Hannah Gresham?’ asked Jane.

  ‘At The Walnut Tree. She goes back to London in the morning, full of hilarious stories about how bloody useless we are I expect.’

  ‘And where d’you go?’

  ‘Square one.’

  ‘There’s a curry in the fridge. D’you want me to bung it in the microwave?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it, ta.’

  Dixon set the microwave going and then walked into the lounge. Jane was stretched out on the sofa in front of Doctor Zhivago, paused at the final scene with Zhivago’s lifeless body lying in a snow-covered Moscow street.

  ‘Press “Play”. I need cheering up.’

  ‘It’s all right, I can start it again when you’re ready.’

  ‘This arrived today,’ said Dixon, taking an envelope out of his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve not opened it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your mother’s address.’

  ‘You found her?’ Jane sat bolt upright.

  ‘I used an enquiry agent. It’s yours if you want it.’

  ‘Have you contacted her?’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got to take it from here.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t look it up on the PNC?’

  ‘With my disciplinary record? I’m hardly going to abuse the police national computer.’

  ‘So you got someone else to do it.’

  ‘I don’t want to know how he did it. Now, d’you want it or not?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane lurched forwards and snatched the envelope from Dixon’s hand. ‘Thank you.’

  She folded it in half and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘When your case has finished.’

  Joel and Tamsin Kandes, born in 1982, but that was unlikely to be the surname on their birth certificates. Joel and Tamsin Lundy probably.

  Dixon had assumed that the marines owed their lives to Kandes for dealing with the machine guns on Mount Harriet, but that was the wrong way round. Kandes owed the five marines who fetched him back to the battlefield and then lied for him. They had enabled him to die with honour and pass into Royal Marine legend, as Lieutenant Colonel Hatfield put it. So, were his children repaying the debt? It seemed a reasonable theory.

  The drizzle was turning to powder snow as Dixon climbed Hill Lane, deep in thought. He was following the fluorescent band on Monty’s coat, which was just visible on the end of the extending lead, as Monty sniffed his way along the grass verge.

  So if it was Kandes’s children, where the hell were they? Brett Greenwood wasn’t the son, that was for sure. But then that would have been too easy. The real Joel Kandes would hardly have left a Canadian Bar Association certificate on his office wall, if he had an office at all.

  Random thoughts popping into Dixon’s head. What the hell was he doing walking up Brent Knoll in the snow at one in the morning for starters?

  Their mother dies of breast cancer and they come to England to find their father, or to learn more about him, assuming they know he’s already dead. Then what happens? They meet Richard Hagley, who tells them the whole sorry tale and demands their help. Maybe they offer it.

  Fletcher’s death was about revenge pure and simple. Dixon could understand that perhaps. But the others? Would they really embark on a series of killings just because someone asked them to? Or to repay a debt owed by a man they had never met, even if he was their father?

  And why the gaps between each killing? Alison Crowther-Smith in October, Fryer at the end of November, then Fletcher in February. The timing of Fripp’s to inconvenience the defence as much as possible was plausible, and it was probable that they were only granted the adjournment because Hagley had died, removing the immediate urgency, given the longer life expectancy of the others.

  Dixon stopped at the gap in the hedge and looked at the path leading off across the fields to the summit of Brent Knoll. Night climbing in the snow. The last time he’d done that was on the Matterhorn, and it hadn’t ended well, lightning striking the rocks all around them. He and Jake had turned for home that night, and Dixon would do the same now, although Brent Knoll was hardly in the same category.

  What if they were buggering off back to Canada after each killing? To let the dust settle. That would explain the gap between each of them. It would also mean that they were in Canada now, after killing Fripp.

  Note to self: check flights to Canada after each murder. If the same names appear . . .

  He hoped he had done the right thing finding Jane’s mother. And why she had insisted on watching Doctor Zhivago all over again was beyond him, not that he minded. He had ignored her protestations that his film selection was limited. ‘Crap’ was the word she used.

  Bloody cheek. And what’s wrong with watching the same film over and over again? People listen to the same music all the time, don’t they?

  It wasn’t just because Brett Greenwood was Canadian. It was because he knew that Alison Crowther-Smith was going caving and no one else did. Or did they?

  Dixon pulled Monty towards him, reeling in the extendable lead, and squatted down.

  ‘What would I do without you, old son?’ he asked, scratching him behind the ears.

  Then he started to run.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Don’t you miss this?’ asked Harding, yawning.

  ‘Strangely enough I do,’ replied Jane. ‘Coffee anyone?’

  Louise, Mark Pearce and Dave Harding had arrived at Dixon’s cottage just before 3 a.m. Jane was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Yes, pl—’

  ‘No time for that,’ said Dixon, appearing in the doorway. ‘Have you got an address?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘It’s owned by a Sarah Witheridge.’

  ‘Backup?’

  ‘Meeting us there.’

  ‘Right, let’s go.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten you’re giving me a lift home from work tomorrow?’ shouted Jane from the back door of the cottage, but it was lost in the rattle of Dixon’s diesel engine.

  Vernon Court was a large block of flats in St Paul’s Road, Clifton. It was built over eight floors of red brick, with metal windows and squared off balconies. You didn’t need to be an architect to know it was built in the twenties.

  Dixon parked across the drive of a house opposite, and Dave Harding parked alongside him.

  ‘Where’s the backup?’

  ‘I’ll check,’ replied Louise.

  Dixon climbed out of the Land Rover and looked up at Vernon Court. Lights were on in two of the flats, but apart from that it was pitch dark, the streetlights not due to come back on for an hour or two. He turned the collar up on his coat and blew on his hands, watching his breath hanging in the air in front of him. It had stopped raining as they drove north, but was colder if anything.

  ‘Armed response will be here in five minutes,’ sa
id Louise, getting out of the car.

  ‘Body armour, everyone,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Is he likely to be in there?’ asked Harding.

  ‘You wanna take the chance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Here they come,’ said Louise, turning to watch two patrol cars driving towards them. They pulled up in front of Harding’s car.

  ‘What’ve we got then?’ asked a uniformed police sergeant.

  ‘We’re looking for a brother and sister. Four murders, the last used a firearm. This is the sister’s address, and we don’t know who else is in there.’

  ‘Battering ram,’ said the sergeant, turning to another firearms officer. ‘We’ll give them the warning when we’re in there. All right?’

  ‘Fine by us,’ replied Dixon. ‘It’s Flat 27.’

  Each of the flats had its own door, accessed by a long covered landing at the back of the block. Flat 27 was on the second floor.

  Dixon followed the four armed response officers along the landing, with Dave Harding, Mark Pearce and Louise behind him.

  ‘Here it is,’ whispered the sergeant. He had stopped outside a blue door, with a frosted glass panel. No light was visible inside.

  ‘Ready?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘We go on three,’ said the sergeant. ‘One, two, three.’

  The firearms officer swung the battering ram at the lock. The glass shattered, the wood splintered and the door swung open.

  ‘Armed police!’

  The sergeant was first through the door, his machine pistol at the ready, closely followed by the constable who had dropped the battering ram. Two more followed behind, and then Dixon.

  ‘Armed police! Stay where you are!’

  The sergeant kicked open a door on the right of the corridor. A woman screamed. She was sitting up in a single bed with the duvet pulled up around her.

  ‘Hands!’

  She dropped the duvet and put her hands up.

  A loud crash behind him, and Dixon spun round to see an officer kick open a door on the left. Another scream.

  ‘Hands!’

  The other officers headed through to the room at the far end of the corridor, an empty sofa against the far wall.

  ‘Clear.’

  ‘Lounge and kitchen clear.’

  ‘Clear,’ said the sergeant, emerging from the bedroom behind Dixon.

  ‘He’s not here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fuck it.’