Heads or Tails (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 7)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘You let me worry about that,’ replied Dixon. ‘GMP will probably stand down once Roger confirms it’s the copycat, and we were due back tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘She’s not going to be happy.’

  ‘She’ll get over it.’

  It was cold and dark when Dixon joined the back of the taxi queue just after 10 p.m., an abandoned copy of the Manchester Daily Post tucked under his arm. Roger Poland had stayed on the train to Taunton, where his car was waiting for him, and Sexton had decided to walk home. It was not far, apparently, and he would get a lift out to Portishead in the morning.

  Dixon stamped his feet. There were three people in front of him in the queue, but only two taxis, although his angst proved short lived when a third drew up.

  ‘Portishead, please,’ he said, opening the back door.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘The police HQ.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  On way don’t wait up Nx

  He slid his phone back into his pocket and closed his eyes, the buzzing in his breast pocket the only thing that stopped him nodding off.

  Where r u? Jx

  On way to fetch car Nx

  We’re watching The Lavender Hill Mob Jxx

  Apt ;-)

  Waiting up :-)

  Dixon smiled. Jane’s taste in films was improving, only a couple of rogue DVDs finding their way on to the shelf. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves had been one. He shook his head. Great fun, maybe, but Robin of the Hood did not have an American accent. Even Alan Rickman couldn’t save that one. The Money Pit had been another, although after Saving Private Ryan he could forgive Tom Hanks pretty much anything.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ replied Dixon, climbing out of the taxi at the front entrance. The lights were off in the gatehouse, so he ducked under the barrier and walked along the access road to the car park, glancing up at the second floor of the headquarters building. Detective Chief Superintendent Potter was standing in the window of her office, watching him.

  ‘You’re supposed to be in Manchester,’ she said as he dropped the red box file on to a workstation. The reflection in the window had given him advanced warning.

  ‘They’re winding down now. Roger’s told them it’s a copycat.’

  ‘And Burkett confirmed that?

  ‘He did.’

  ‘They’ll probably stand the whole team down now.’

  ‘What about this latest body?’ asked Dixon, sitting on the corner of the workstation.

  ‘There’s no ID yet. Is Poland back?’

  ‘He will be, by now,’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch.

  ‘Did you ruffle any feathers?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t find many that needed ruffling.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘The Carters—’

  ‘We know about them.’ Potter nodded, then took a swig from a plastic cup, the smell of scotch reaching Dixon where he was sitting.

  ‘They disappeared after the Arndale Centre bomb,’ he said. ‘Michael Carter was turning supergrass, so the IRA killed him.’

  ‘We didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s not official. Just what informers could find out. The rest of the gang melted away, leaving Manchester to the Shannons. Can you check with Special Branch?’

  ‘I can try,’ replied Potter. ‘Did we get anyone on the inside?’

  ‘A barman at the snooker club. Went by the name of Rick Wheaton. You may remember the name?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Potter frowned.

  ‘You never mentioned you were Brian Hocking’s partner.’

  ‘You don’t miss much.’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘I was young, just out of training,’ continued Potter. She turned the swivel chair to face Dixon and then sat down on it. ‘I didn’t know he was in it up to his neck. How was I supposed to know that?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When he was killed I was moved out of the Tactical Vehicle Crime Unit to VO15 – that was gun crime. Then I applied for a transfer.’

  ‘To Avon and Somerset?’

  ‘To anywhere I could get one. This is where I ended up.’ Potter drained the plastic cup. ‘Better rinse that out before I bin it,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Rick Wheaton got a job behind the bar in one of their clubs,’ Dixon said. ‘Never got in beyond that though.’

  ‘Did he turn up anything useful?’

  ‘A bit of drugs and a couple of thugs who beat someone to death right in front of him. He got nothing on Carter himself though.’

  ‘How long was he in for?’

  ‘Over a year.’

  ‘And he never saw The Vet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How’d he get out?’

  ‘He was arrested after the bomb went off.’

  ‘And they’ve heard nothing about what’s going on now?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ replied Dixon, folding his arms. ‘They had a small team on it trying to find out.’

  ‘What about the redacted statements?’

  ‘Just informers. I’ve seen the originals.’

  ‘And the surveillance?’

  ‘Four discs. They’re copying them and sending them down.’

  ‘All right,’ said Potter, frowning. ‘I’ll speak to Douglas in the morning, when Poland’s done the PM. You’d better go.’

  ‘What about Wainwright?’

  ‘Resources are tight. I’ll be taking him off it and reducing the team to six. You can take it from here.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘But remember, you report to me. All right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The Incident Room can stay at Express Park and you can use local officers as and when.’

  Dixon smiled.

  ‘Let me know what Poland says in the morning,’ continued Potter. ‘I’ll send Jonny Sexton down when he gets here too.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And don’t muck it up.’

  ‘You’re early,’ shouted Jane as Dixon stepped in through the back door of the cottage just before midnight. ‘I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’

  ‘There was a second murder.’ He dropped his bag on the floor and knelt down to scratch Monty behind the ears.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dunster Beach. It’s a copycat though. Roger’s confirmed it from the first body, so the Manchester lot are leaving us to it.’

  ‘Is the MIT being wound up?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Jane appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, looking down at Dixon on the floor with Monty. ‘You eaten?’

  ‘We got something on the train.’

  ‘A beer then?’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Dixon, standing up. ‘Spoken to Sonia?’

  Jane took a deep breath and exhaled, puffing out her cheeks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Four times this evening,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I think she’s had a few too many.’

  ‘Doesn’t she always?’

  ‘Not this bad. Anyway, I told her I’d try and see her at the weekend. Will you come?’

  ‘Yes, if I can.’

  ‘Are you back at Portishead?’

  ‘The Incident Room at Express Park,’ replied Dixon. ‘The team’s being scaled back.’

  ‘At least I can keep an eye on you,’ said Jane, smiling. She put her arms round him and kissed him.

  ‘You can.’

  Jane reached over and picked up the newspaper that Dixon had left on the worktop.

  ‘“The Vet strikes again!” They don’t muck about, do they?’

  ‘They don’t let accuracy get in the way of a good headline either.’

  ‘Did Roger find you?’

  ‘We came back on the train together,’ replied Dixon, taking a swig of beer.

  ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘We could watch the end of The Lavender Hill Mob again?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Dixon
turned right off the A39 and drove down through Dunster. He looked over his shoulder at Monty, sitting in the back of the Land Rover, whining as the reek of salt in the air grew stronger. Even Dixon could smell it now.

  ‘Smells like the tide’s in, old son,’ he said.

  A walk on Dunster Beach would be a first for both of them, although the circumstances could have been better. He flicked the windscreen wipers to intermittent. Investigating a murder too. Still, at least one of them would enjoy it.

  Monty had his feet up on the front seats now and started barking at the patrol car blocking Sea Lane.

  ‘Access to Haven Close only, Sir,’ shouted the uniformed officer walking towards the Land Rover. ‘The beach is closed.’

  Dixon wound down the window and held out his warrant card.

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ said the officer.

  ‘Surely, Scenes of Crime have finished?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. We’re just trying to keep the ghouls away. There’s nothing to see. The tide’s been in and out twice since he was found.’

  ‘There’s been a full search?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Is there anyone on the beach?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘What’s to stop people walking along from Blue Anchor then?’

  ‘Er, nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.’

  ‘Since dawn, Sir,’ replied the officer, looking at his watch. ‘Half an hour at most.’

  ‘I suggest you find something else to do,’ said Dixon, glancing in his rear view mirror at a car waiting behind him. ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘He was buried on the other side of the last groyne. About halfway along.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Towards Blue Anchor. Right next to the groyne. There was some blue tape on the posts. I’m not sure if it’s still there.’

  ‘What about the tide?’

  ‘It’ll be on its way out now.’

  ‘Thank you. Now can you—?’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  The officer ran back to the patrol car and reversed it out of the way, reaching for his radio as Dixon drove past.

  He pulled up next to an old World War Two pillbox that looked like it had been rendered with stones from the beach. Miserable places at the best of times: cold and damp, even in high summer, at least this one had a sea view. He checked the ticket machine, which was blocking the entrance. Then he checked his pockets and the glovebox. Putting the blue light on top of his Land Rover would have to do.

  He drove to the far end of the car park and stopped with the last groyne directly in front of him. Off to his right the concrete outfall took a freshwater stream out to sea. What was left of a line of blue and white police tape trailed in the wind like the tail of a kite from one of the huge timbers that made up the groyne: a line of logs pile-driven into the beach and forming a barrier out towards the sea, designed to stop the shingle washing away. It had stopped the body washing away – a body with no name yet. Dixon grimaced. Time enough for that.

  He let Monty out of the back of the Land Rover.

  ‘C’mon then, old chap.’

  He fished Monty’s ball out of a wellington boot under the bench seat and set off after him across the shingle towards the wet sand. He threw the ball and watched it rolling towards the sea, Monty reaching it just before the waves swept it away.

  Not a footprint in sand freshly washed by the tide; a few paw prints, but Dixon knew who was responsible for those. He looked along the groyne to his left, the sand smooth, offering no sign whatsoever of a grave dug and then dug up.

  He took his phone out of his pocket and rang Sexton.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Express Park, Sir.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you?’

  ‘Dunster Beach. Check and see if house to house is planned for today and, if not, organise it. Dunster north of the A39, and make sure they include the chalets west of here. We’ll need someone on the beach speaking to dog walkers too. I can see some in the distance already.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Sir.’

  ‘Have we got a name yet?’

  ‘David Cobb. He only retired last year, poor sod.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘He worked for the council.’

  ‘Find out which one and what he did.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll be over at Musgrove for the PM.’

  Dixon rang off and kicked at the sand in front of him. Monty ran over, thinking it was a game, and started digging, sending a spray of sand behind him.

  ‘You won’t find anything, matey; they’ve been over it with metal detectors,’ he said, kicking the ball along the beach.

  Dixon watched the hole filling with water and wondered whether David Cobb had suffocated or drowned in his shallow grave in the sand. And whether he’d been conscious when the hole had been cut in his forehead.

  ‘You’re early,’ said Poland, looking up when Dixon walked into the pathology lab.

  ‘Time and tide, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘Well, you’re just in time for the internals.’ Poland was pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Have you got a cause of death?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’ll need to have a look at his lungs. It wasn’t blood loss, so he either suffocated or drowned when the tide came in. If his lungs are full of water—’

  ‘I get it,’ interrupted Dixon, peering at the side of Cobb’s neck. ‘You said he got the jugular this time?’

  ‘Not completely, but he’s improving.’

  ‘Not enough to kill him?’

  ‘Not on its own. You could apply a bit of pressure and stop the bleeding. It may have looked like he’d done the job to begin with. He got the venous sinus this time though, and together that would’ve been enough. He’s not in The Vet’s league. He was opening up the vein—’

  ‘You carry on. I’ll wait in your office,’ said Dixon, making for the door.

  He was sitting back in the chair with his feet on the radiator when Poland walked in.

  ‘He suffocated. The lungs are dry. And it’s the same killer who murdered Harry Lucas. Not The Vet as we know.’

  ‘Can I come back in?’

  ‘You’re quite safe.’

  David Cobb was lying on the slab, a green sheet covering him up to his shoulders. A bit of a paunch perhaps, but nothing much. A thin grey beard hiding pockmarks, and a receding hairline accentuated by the hole in his forehead.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ said Dixon.

  ‘His wife identified him last night, so there’s a lot we know for sure,’ replied Poland, glancing down at his notepad. ‘He’s sixty, married with two children. He has angina and is on the waiting list for a triple heart bypass. Looking at the heart it was a bit more urgent than anyone realised.’

  ‘But it wasn’t a heart attack?’

  ‘No. Six feet tall and fourteen stone, so a bit overweight. On a diet, apparently.’

  ‘Still too heavy for one person to carry.’

  ‘You could drag him from the car park at Dunster Beach.’

  ‘Across the shingle?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It’s not far,’ replied Poland.

  ‘Any incapacitating injury?’

  ‘A blow to the back of the head. Blunt object, just like Harry Lucas.’

  ‘Handcuffs?’

  ‘His hands were in front of him.’ Poland picked up a plastic evidence bag from the side, a set of handcuffs clearly visible behind the white label.

  ‘Anything from SOCO about where he was killed?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Poland. ‘The tide had been in and out again, so any evidence would have been washed away.’

  ‘How long would it take?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘The blow to the head.’ Poland acted out the arm movement. ‘Roll him on his side and line up the fleam, or try to.’ />
  ‘What about light?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘That’s your department,’ replied Poland. ‘Then the trephine. He’s pushing hard with that so he’d be through the skull in maybe five minutes.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘Yes. The skull’s thickest at the front. Why d’you think you headbutt people?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Poland sighed. ‘Right in the middle this time too, so he got the venous sinus. Blood loss would have got him eventually, if he hadn’t suffocated first.’

  Dixon swallowed hard.

  ‘Then he’s just got to bury him,’ continued Poland. ‘A shallow grave in soft sand. Ten minutes tops. Less if he’d already got Cobb to dig it.’

  ‘It all points to him being in a hurry,’ said Dixon. ‘He didn’t even bother to bury Harry; he just rolled the van into the mud.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘My phone’s buzzing.’

  Poland waited.

  ‘Manchester MIT standing down. We’re on our own. DP,’ said Dixon, reading aloud.

  ‘That’s just the way you like it,’ said Poland, grinning.

  Dixon smiled. ‘Is he working alone?’

  ‘There’s no sign of anyone else.’

  ‘I wonder if he hung around.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I would,’ said Dixon. ‘After all, you wouldn’t want your victim coming round and climbing out. Would you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘In soft sand, you’d just have to sit up. Do we know how deep he was buried?’

  ‘About a foot,’ said Poland, flicking through his notes. ‘But he wouldn’t have needed to hang around for long.’

  ‘When? You never said when.’

  ‘My colleague, Davison, reckoned he’d been dead about twelve hours when he got to him yesterday morning. And he’d have suffocated straightaway under a foot of wet sand.’

  ‘The night before then.’

  Poland nodded. ‘We’re no nearer finding out why he’s copycatting though, are we?’

  ‘I’m more interested in where he’s getting his information from. We can worry about “why” when we’ve got him,’ replied Dixon, turning towards the door. He stopped when he had opened it.

  ‘D’you think he had to dig his own grave?’

  ‘No idea. Why?’

  ‘You want to kill me and bury me in a shallow grave, you’ll have to dig the bloody thing yourself.’