by Damien Boyd
‘You’re hardly going to kidnap Hatty over a three hundred quid bill,’ said Jane, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘What about Metcalfe Electrical?’
‘Give me a minute.’ They were arriving at the motorway roundabout before Jane spoke again. ‘Torquay.’ She looked up. ‘I suppose he does cover the whole of the south west.’
‘What about the other one?’ asked Dixon. ‘Markhams South West.’
‘They’re Torquay too, according to Companies House, but that’s just the registered office.’
‘That’s probably their accountant.’
‘They’ve got a listing on Yell. It says they’re a commercial wine merchant supplying the trade in Avon and Somerset. You’re hardly going to do that from Torquay.’
‘A wine merchant?’
‘Isn’t that the same as a vintner?’
Dixon nodded. ‘They’ll be closed on a Saturday, I expect. See if you can find a home address for Simon Gregson.’
‘I’ll ring Lou.’
Much of Jane’s call to Louise passed him by. He pulled into a lay-by on the A370 and sat listening to the diesel engine idling. It was more of a hum than a rattle and you could hear yourself think. Much better than the old one. He shook his head. A commercial wine merchant? The world was suddenly getting smaller.
Jane rang off. ‘He’s at Marston Farm Barn, Marston Farm Lane, Combe Hay. Where the hell’s that?’
‘Over Radstock way.’ He reached into the footwell behind the front passenger seat, picked up a road atlas and dropped it into Jane’s lap. ‘I’ll head for Bath while you find it on the map.’
‘Aren’t you going to ring him to let him know we’re on the way?’
Chapter Thirty
The road atlas took them to Combe Hay, and Google Maps on Jane’s iPhone the rest of the way. Marston Farm Lane was not marked on the map, but Marston Farm was, so they took the left turn just beyond the pub and had gone no more than a couple of hundred yards before the road forked again, a sign for Marston Farm Barn pointing down a track to the left.
The grass growing in the middle of the track didn’t quite reach the underside of the Land Rover as Dixon bounced over the ruts, but it would have had the exhaust off Jane’s car.
‘I hope he’s got a four wheel drive,’ she said.
The track ended at a gravel turning circle, a large Volvo XC90 blocking the entrance to a courtyard beyond.
‘There’s your answer,’ said Dixon. ‘I’m guessing the XC stands for cross country.’
‘No shit.’
‘At least we know he’s in.’
‘Are you going to ask him about Savage?’
‘In a roundabout, routine enquiries sort of way,’ said Dixon. ‘We’re speaking to all Mr Renner’s customers etcetera etcetera. All right?’
‘He’ll know we’re here, anyway,’ said Jane, without looking up. ‘There’s a camera on the wall above your head.’
They squeezed past the Volvo into a small courtyard where they were surrounded by a single storey barn conversion, probably old stables or a cowshed even. There were two front doors to choose from, each with its own letterbox, but lights behind only one of them. Dixon and Jane were walking towards it when it opened.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so, Sir,’ said Dixon, his arm outstretched, warrant card in hand. ‘We’re looking for Mr Simon Gregson.’
‘That’s me.’ He looked like he’d just taken his dog for a walk: red corduroys with mud splattered up them, a navy pullover; he was even holding a dog’s lead. Late thirties, possibly early forties, there was no grey to be seen in amongst the thick curly dark hair. The car may be on tick, but Dixon doubted the Rolex was.
‘May we come in, Sir?’
‘Er, yes.’ Gregson stepped back. ‘Look, what’s this all about?’
‘Just routine, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Jeremy Renner’s daughter and we’re speaking to all of his customers at the bank.’
‘I heard about that. I hope she’s all right.’
‘We all do, Sir. We all do.’
‘I was just having a cup of tea. Would you like one?’
‘Thank you, Sir. That would be very nice.’
Dixon and Jane followed Gregson into the kitchen. He slammed the microwave door shut and set it going then flicked the kettle back on. ‘I’m just doing Henry a bit of food too,’ he said. Then he reached into a cupboard for two more mugs, placing them on the worktop next to the one with the teabag already sticking out of it. The elderly West Highland terrier on the dog bed in the corner opened his eyes, looked at Dixon and then went back to sleep, his brown stained muzzle twitching.
‘Hope you don’t mind decaff,’ said Gregson. ‘It’s all we’ve got.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Jane.
‘D’you live alone?’ asked Dixon.
‘No, my wife’s gone into Bath for the day with a friend.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Spending money we haven’t got.’ He dropped a teabag into each mug and then leaned back against the worktop, folding his arms.
‘How long have you been a customer of Svenskabanken?’ asked Dixon.
‘Oh, six years or so. We switched when my father died and I took over.’
‘Family business then, is it?’
‘I’m the managing director and my wife and I own sixty per cent. My brothers have ten per cent each, then there’s an aunt with ten and her two children each have five per cent. We only see them once a year at the AGM. We do get the odd phone call too, usually around dividend time.’
‘And you’re a vintners?’
‘Commercial, trade only. Pubs and restaurants, hotels, anywhere with a drinks licence, really. We cover the whole of Avon and Somerset. A bit of Wiltshire too.’
‘And is the business doing well?’
‘Fine, yes. We’re making a profit.’
‘Only you rang Mr Renner six times last week so I was wondering whether some issue might have arisen?’
Gregson turned back to the kettle when it finished boiling and poured the tea.
‘We’re refinancing,’ he said, placing the mugs on the table where Jane was sitting making notes. ‘Sugar’s there and I’ll just get you some milk.’
‘And what does refinancing involve?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’ve an overdraft we’re moving to another bank. The interest rate is better. There’s no hard feelings.’ Gregson shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have to shop around when you’re running a business. Even the smallest difference in the interest rate can mean a lot of money.’
‘And is Mr Renner helping you with that?’
‘I wouldn’t say helping – after all, we’re leaving Svenska. I think he was hoping we’d stay with them, to be honest, but they can’t match the terms we’re being offered. It includes invoice finance too, and we’re raising some capital to fund an expansion.’
‘What’s the current extent of your borrowing with Svenska?’
‘Borrowing?’
‘You said you had an overdraft, Sir.’
‘Yes, there’s a loan too. It’s . . . er . . . four hundred and seventy thousand pounds in total. Just over, actually. It sounds a lot.’
‘It does, Sir.’
‘But it’s manageable and we still turn a healthy profit, as I said.’
‘It is secured?’
‘They’ve got a floating charge over the company assets and personal guarantees from me and my wife.’
‘And a mortgage?’
‘On this place, you mean?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘What about your premises?’ Dixon was stirring his tea. ‘In Trowbridge aren’t they?’
‘We lease a unit on the industrial estate.’
‘How many staff d’you have?’
‘Two in the office, two sales, and two in the warehouse. The rest are delivery drivers. Maybe six of them, so what’s that?’ Gregson nodded. ‘Twelve or so, but it fluctuat
es.’
‘Does the name Jeffrey Savage mean anything to you?’
Gregson turned away and emptied his mug into the sink. ‘I don’t keep a track of the drivers; some of them are agency staff at busy times too.’
‘Only we pulled his body from Chew Valley Reservoir. You may have seen it on the news?’
Gregson rinsed his mug under the tap. ‘No, I’ve not seen that.’
‘He was a delivery driver for a vintners in Trowbridge until about a year ago.’
‘Must be us,’ said Gregson. ‘There aren’t any others. I can check, if you like?’
‘That would be most helpful, Sir, if you don’t mind.’
‘It won’t be until Monday now, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s fine, Sir.’ Dixon drained his mug, walked over and put it on the sideboard, then he looked out of the kitchen window. ‘Nice view,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t appreciated you were on a hill. It’s the high hedges in the lane.’
‘It’s why we bought it, really. We own the land between here and the road,’ said Gregson. ‘It’s about ten acres in all.’
‘And where’s the road?’
‘Down there, the other side of the cut.’
‘The cut?’
‘The old canal. Long since abandoned and derelict now, but you can still see the old locks in the trees. We’ve got three of them on our land.’ Gregson was rinsing the mugs under the tap. ‘It’s the old Somerset Coal Canal.’
‘He wasn’t too keen on us walking down here, was he?’
Dixon held open the five bar gate at the bottom of the paddock for Jane. ‘He knew damn well that Savage was a driver too; although that might be understandable, I suppose, if the other staff haven’t changed recently.’
Jane jumped over the mud on the other side of the gate on to a tuft of grass beyond. ‘We should’ve changed into our wellies.’
‘Is he still watching us?’
She glanced up at the house. ‘He’s in the kitchen window now.’
‘This must be the path he was talking about,’ said Dixon, ducking under the bare branches and stepping over a low barbed wire fence at the same time.
The path shelved away steeply through the trees down an embankment of bare earth covered in dead leaves, a line of puddles and a chicken wire fence at the bottom marking the old canal.
‘I never knew there were coal mines in Somerset,’ said Jane, as she slid down holding on to Dixon’s arm.
‘A bit before our time.’
Dixon was hanging on to a branch to steady himself as they teetered their way down the muddy track until it opened out into a small meadow at the bottom, tufts of thick grass growing almost up to the level of the ‘Private: Keep Out’ sign on the fence on the far side. They blinked in the bright sunlight as they emerged from the undergrowth and looked down at the line of the canal.
The ground shelved away to their left, thick stone walls either side of dark chasms in the ground marking the abandoned locks, the sun striking the top line of stone blocks poking out of the grass, recently cut by the looks of things.
‘Someone’s been out with a strimmer,’ said Jane.
‘The road must be beyond those trees.’ Dixon was pointing to the embankment on the far side of the small meadow.
‘You can hear the cars.’ Jane was craning her neck. ‘Just.’
Dixon headed for a gap in the fence and stood on the edge of the nearest lock, looking down into the void at his feet.
‘Difficult to imagine this full of water with a canal boat going through it,’ he muttered.
At the far end the thick wooden skeleton of an old lock gate was leaning over, still hanging from one hinge at the top, the panels long since rotted away.
‘I’m surprised that’s not gone for firewood before now.’
‘The brambles must be holding it up,’ said Jane, peering down at the dense vegetation in the bottom of the lock, a thin trickle of water just visible in the middle.
Dixon looked down the flight of locks, which followed the contours of the land like stone steps, taking the boats down the hill a few feet at a time – the sights, sounds and smell of the working canal replaced by a silence only broken by birdsong and the low hum of traffic in the distance.
He sighed. ‘A stone wall, a big wooden gate, and a boy drowning.’
‘The wizard?’
‘A lock with no water in it and a horse covered in coal dust.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘A boy drowned in a lock, I suppose.’
‘When?’
‘Not recently, that’s for sure.’
‘And what’s it got to do with Hatty?’
Dixon closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose. ‘Can you smell burning coal?’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Someone’s been cutting the grass,’ said Dixon.
‘That’ll be the Somersetshire Coal Canal Restoration Society,’ replied Gregson, holding the gate open for them at the top of the paddock. ‘They want to restore it, as the name suggests.’
‘And will they?’
‘They’ve done bits of it near the junction with the Kennet and Avon, but down here there are too many different landowners to deal with and most of us don’t want it opened up.’ Gregson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Would you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Hundreds of holidaymakers going past the end of your garden? No thanks.’
‘Not in my backyard,’ said Dixon, smiling.
‘Exactly. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s my land and that’s an end of it as far as I’m concerned.’
‘When does the refinancing go through?’
‘Next few days, I hope,’ replied Gregson.
‘And which bank are you moving to?’
‘Er . . .’ Gregson hesitated. ‘It’s not a done deal yet. I’m just waiting to hear from them.’
‘Who?’
‘I’d rather not say. Will you be contacting them?’
‘No, Sir. It was just out of interest really,’ replied Dixon, handing his car keys to Jane. ‘It’s not important.’
Gregson nodded. ‘Well, if there’s anything else I can help you with.’
‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Which way now?’ asked Jane, having safely negotiated the farm track.
‘Express Park.’ Dixon was holding his phone just under the roof of the Land Rover, moving it from side to side. ‘Somewhere we get a signal would be good too.’
‘What did you make of that?’
‘The only thing I’m left wondering is why he wouldn’t tell us the name of the bank he’s moving to.’
‘Maybe he was worried we’d contact them and it might put them off.’
‘Possibly. Ah, at last.’ Dixon flipped his phone sideways and opened a web browser. Then he typed in ‘Somerset Coal Canal’ and hit ‘Search’. The first result came from the Somersetshire Coal Canal Society so he clicked on it to open coalcanal.org.
‘“A ten mile long amenity corridor”,’ he said, reading aloud. ‘That’s their plan for it, and it’s hardly at the end of his garden is it? Here we are: it was built to carry coal from the Paulton and Radstock coal fields.’ He scrolled down. ‘“The drop of one hundred and thirty-five feet from Paulton to Dundas was concentrated in a lock flight at Combe Hay.”’
‘When was it opened?’
‘It doesn’t say. It closed in 1900, I can tell you that much,’ replied Dixon, scrolling back up. ‘“Researching the history of the canal as an educational resource.” Let’s try that,’ he said, clicking on the link. ‘There’s a PDF file,’ he said.
‘Open it.’
‘There are lots of technical drawings.’ Dixon frowned.
‘Scroll down,’ said Jane.
‘By 1854, one hundred and sixty thousand tons a year.’ Dixon shook his head, still flicking the screen with his index finger, scrolling down through the PDF file. ‘I don’t understand most of this. There’s caisson locks and inclined planes, whatever
the hell they – oh shit.’
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a section here, “Death on the Canal.” It’s from the Bath Chronicle, October fourteenth, 1830. Listen to this. “Saturday afternoon, as a lad, engaged in a barge from Devizes, was winding the windlass to let the water through the locks, near Combhay, he lost his balance and fell in; he was not missed for a space of 4 or 5 minutes when, in apprehending some accident caused by his absence, the bargemen dragged the water and found the body with life extinct.”’
‘A drowning boy,’ said Jane, raising her eyebrows.
‘The bloody wizard must’ve seen this before.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Don’t tell me you believe he had a vision?’
‘He saw the castle and flowers.’
‘He did.’ Dixon sighed. ‘All right, there’s some significance to it. We just have to find out what it is.’
Dixon spent the rest of the journey back to Express Park reading the educational resource and felt like an authority on the Somersetshire Coal Canal by the time they arrived back at Express Park.
‘If it ever comes up at a pub quiz, we’ll be quids in,’ he muttered.
It had been interesting, but the best he could come up with to answer the substantive question was that it was the third time that the Kennet and Avon Canal had come up in the investigation into Hatty’s disappearance.
‘Everything connects to the Kennet and Avon,’ he said, as Jane drove up the ramp into the staff car park. ‘Sonia kept her boat there and so did Savage. And now we find Gregson living on the Coal Canal.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I know.’
Jane parked on the top floor and they were walking across to the back door when it flew open, Potter standing there waving a piece of paper at them.
‘We’ve had a complaint,’ she said.
‘That was quick.’ Dixon smiled. ‘Who from?’
‘Jeremy Renner.’ Potter stood her ground, leaving Dixon and Jane standing in the drizzle that had started to fall. ‘Says you’ve been pestering the bank’s clients.’
‘Only some of them.’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’