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

by Damien Boyd

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Poland, smiling.

  Meeting room 2 was familiar, although the same could not be said for the officers sitting around the table, apart from Jonny Sexton. And name badges would have been useful, he thought as he listened to the officers introducing themselves. A small team was one thing, but a small team he didn’t know was quite another. He’d have been better off if Potter had stood down the MIT and returned the case to Bridgwater CID. Still, he could call on Dave, Mark and Louise when and if he needed to.

  ‘Let’s start with Harry Lucas,’ said Dixon. ‘Have we spoken to the Coastguard officers?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir.’ Glasses, sitting at the far end of the table.

  ‘Let’s chase that up, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about the house to house?’

  ‘We’ve done either end of the coast path. Clyce Road in Highbridge and Sloway Lane in East Huntspill.’ Short dark hair, too much perfume. Must be Tracey somebody, the house to house manager, thought Dixon.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Work colleagues?’

  ‘We’ve got statements from his area franchise manager, and Superintendent Wainwright went to their head office yesterday. The statements are being typed up now.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Not a lot, really.’ Leaning back in his chair, arms folded.

  ‘Traffic cameras then. Anything there?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A few cars that we’ve ruled out. Otherwise nothing.’

  ‘There are lots of country lanes he could’ve used to avoid them.’ The shrugging shoulders almost reached her earrings.

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’ Dixon took a deep breath. There were some days he would have taken the bait. But this was not one of them. ‘The staff at the sewage treatment works,’ he said. ‘Has anyone spoken to them?’

  ‘There’s a statement from the manager. Someone took it the day he was found.’

  ‘And you’ve not been back?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s do that, shall we? Speak to everyone who works there or has reason to visit. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about his family and friends.’

  ‘I’m still doing that, Sir.’ Tracey again.

  ‘Social media and phone records?’

  ‘We’re doing that as well.’

  ‘Is there a copy of his customer list?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’m working through it, Sir.’ Sitting at the back, black leather jacket. ‘I’ve spoken to some of them by phone and visited others. I can let you have copies of the statements.’

  ‘Have you spoken to all of them?’

  ‘Not yet. It’ll take me another day or so.’

  ‘Keep at it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Any connection with the eel poachers?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Anything on the van?’

  ‘The horn had been disconnected.’

  ‘It seems he thought of everything.’ Dixon sighed. ‘David Cobb then.’

  ‘Superintendent Wainwright went to see Cobb’s widow yesterday, but she was too upset to see him.’

  ‘House to house?’ asked Dixon, looking at Sexton.

  ‘Starts at ten. There’s a roadblock on Sea Lane too and officers on the beach talking to dog walkers. I’ll be heading over there in a minute.’

  ‘You said he worked for the council?’

  ‘Yeah, he retired a year ago. Head of Environmental Services at Sedgemoor District Council.’

  ‘OK,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll try the widow again and then catch you up.’

  It was a schoolboy mistake, sitting with his back to the door. He took a deep breath as DCI Lewis sat down next to him in the canteen.

  ‘Potter’s put you in charge then?’

  Dixon dropped a sugar cube into his coffee and stirred it.

  ‘I thought you were diabetic?’ continued Lewis.

  ‘I’ve been up since six,’ muttered Dixon in reply. ‘And I’d rather she disbanded the MIT. Manchester have stood their team down, so there’s no liaison to worry about.’

  ‘It’s a double murder,’ said Lewis. ‘And the press would have a field day if she did that.’

  ‘What’s happened with the Whites?’

  ‘They’ve been remanded in custody and Janice is gathering evidence. There’s nothing to connect them to Harry Lucas.’

  ‘Except they heard him banging and did nothing. The bastard had even disabled the horn on the van, would you believe it?’

  Lewis shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Did you bump into Chard?’ he asked.

  ‘He was lurking behind me, ready to insert the knife.’

  ‘Deborah Potter won’t take any notice of him.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Sir.’

  ‘Tell me about David Cobb.’

  ‘Same killer, according to Roger. He was found buried in the sand on Dunster Beach. I’m going over to speak to his widow now.’

  ‘What’d he do for a living?’

  ‘He retired a year ago, apparently. He was the Head of Environmental Services at Sedgemoor District Council.’

  ‘There’s your connection,’ said Lewis, nodding.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You never had to phone the council about a wasps’ nest or rats?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Lucky you. Well, when you do, you phone Environmental Services.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It used to be Environmental Health,’ replied Lewis, standing up. ‘I’m not sure if it’s the same these days, with all the cuts.’

  Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover before he inserted his key in the lock to find Monty curled up on his bed, fast asleep. It had been an early start followed by a walk on the beach, so he could be forgiven for that, perhaps. He started growling when Dixon opened the door, but soon stopped when he realised it was him.

  ‘You weren’t asleep at all, were you, you crafty bugger,’ said Dixon, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  He switched on the engine and then opened a web browser on his phone. He typed in ‘Sedgemoor pest control’ and hit ‘enter’. He ignored the adverts from pest control firms and looked at the first search result.

  ‘Sedgemoor District Council – Pest Control; The Pest Control Service at Sedgemoor District Council aims to guard against the diseases and damage caused by pests.’

  He clicked on it and read aloud.

  ‘Pest Treatment Services. Councils do not have a duty to provide a pest control service. However, a pest service can be obtained through the Council’s preferred provider, Pest Erase UK Ltd.’

  Dixon recognised Karen Marsden’s old Audi parked in the drive of Castle Cottage, a small pink house at the bottom of Castle Hill, Nether Stowey. The cottage backed on to the road, with net curtains at leaded windows, and room for only one car in front of the garage.

  He parked as tight as he could to the neighbour’s garden wall, his nearside wing mirror lost in the branches of an overhanging fir tree. There was enough room for a car to get past, just, and they could always knock on the door. He turned in the driver’s wing mirror to be on the safe side.

  Dixon admired Karen Marsden. The work of a police family liaison officer was far from easy, dealing with the grief and anger of victims and their relatives day in and day out. And then came the frustration at lack of progress in the police investigation, always directed at her even when she was just the messenger.

  ‘I was expecting Superintendent Wainwright,’ said Karen, opening the door at the side of the cottage before Dixon had rung the bell.

  ‘Change of plan.’

  ‘There’s still a Major Investigation Team?’ Her voice was hushed, her hand holding the inner door closed behind her.

  ‘Yes. It’s confirmed as a copycat though, so Manchester have dropped out,’ replied Dixon. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not good, but she
wants to speak to someone now, which is progress.’

  He followed Karen along a corridor to the living room at the far end. It overlooked the garden at the back, or was it the front of the cottage?

  ‘Mary, this is Detective Inspector Dixon,’ said Karen. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind me saying so, but he’s the best we’ve got. He’ll find out what happened to David.’

  ‘I hope so, Inspector.’ Mary Cobb looked up at him, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Cobb.’

  She held a tissue to her eyes. ‘He’d only just retired. It was supposed to be the start of the rest of our lives . . .’

  ‘What sort of man was David?’ asked Dixon, sitting down on the sofa next to Mrs Cobb.

  ‘Quiet, unassuming, a good husband and father.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘And your children?’

  ‘Claire is in America. She’s flying back tomorrow, and Mark is driving down from London tonight. They’re both married. Mark has children, but Claire doesn’t.’

  ‘He retired early?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there any particular reason? Was he having any trouble at work, perhaps?’

  Mary Cobb shook her head.

  ‘Did he ever say that he was concerned about his safety?’ continued Dixon.

  ‘At Sedgemoor District Council?’

  ‘About twelve months ago, perhaps?’

  Karen Marsden looked at Dixon, her eyes wide.

  Dixon waited.

  ‘He never had any trouble with anyone he worked with, but . . .’

  Silence.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re right. There was something troubling him, a few months before he retired, so that’s a year ago, isn’t it?’

  ‘Can you remember what?’ asked Karen.

  ‘He’d had someone come into his office, shouting the odds. It really shook him.’

  ‘Were the police called?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes, but the man had gone by the time they got there.’

  ‘Did he mention a name?’

  ‘No. Look, he was fine the next day.’ Tears started to roll down her cheeks. ‘You don’t think it’s connected, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know for—’

  Dixon was interrupted by a car horn out in the lane.

  ‘I’d better move my car. I’ll leave you to it, but I will be back, Mrs Cobb. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Karen Marsden leaned on the door of the cottage, watching Dixon squeezing down the side of her car.

  ‘You know who killed him, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Nice spot this,’ said Dixon. ‘Is there a castle?’

  ‘Up there,’ replied Karen, looking up the hill on the other side of the road. ‘There’s nothing left except earthworks, according to M—’

  Dixon was out in the road by the time she finished her sentence.

  ‘Tosser,’ she muttered as he climbed into his Land Rover.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the pavement would have to do. Dixon left the blue light on top of his Land Rover, the hazard lights on and a business card on the dashboard. It would be a brave traffic warden who gave him a parking ticket.

  The reception area at the Sedgemoor District Council Offices in Bridgwater was a hive of activity. There were queues for the Council Tax and Business Rates and the Housing Benefit Enquiry Desks, but only one person behind the Housing Advice and Homelessness Desk, and no one to advise. She looked asleep. Quite an achievement that, with all the background noise. At least two children were crying. It must have been two, thought Dixon, glancing around the room; one child couldn’t cry in stereo, surely?

  ‘Who is the Head of Environmental Services?’ he asked the receptionist at the General Enquiries Desk.

  ‘That’ll be Mr Jones.’

  ‘I’d like to see him, please.’

  ‘Well, he—’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police,’ said Dixon, brandishing his warrant card.

  ‘Oh right. Hang on,’ said the receptionist, reaching for the phone.

  He was flicking through a leaflet about Dunster Castle when the door opened behind the reception desk.

  ‘Is someone looking for me?’

  ‘That’s him over there.’ The receptionist’s finger was pointing at Dixon, so he walked over.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Are you Mr Jones?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Simon, yes.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Follow me.’

  ‘How long have you been Head of Environmental Services?’ asked Dixon, following Jones along a narrow corridor.

  ‘Nine months.’

  ‘You took over from David Cobb?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you work here before that?’

  ‘I was his assistant.’ Jones stopped to peer through a frosted window. ‘This one’ll do,’ he said, opening the door to a small interview room: two chairs and a round table. ‘Is David all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr Jones,’ replied Dixon, sitting down. ‘He was found buried in a shallow grave on Dunster Beach yesterday morning.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘D’you remember an incident about twelve months ago when the police were called?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jones mopped beads of sweat from his forehead with a tissue. ‘I heard about it later. David didn’t pursue a complaint so it wasn’t taken any further, if I remember rightly. He said he was just letting off steam.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Toby Horan.’

  ‘And he was a pest controller?’

  ‘Er, yes. How could you . . . ?’ Jones looked quizzically at Dixon. ‘He runs Westcountry Pest Services. He was our preferred provider until Pest Erase UK opened up.’

  ‘Why did you switch to them?’

  ‘Toby was a one man band: a man and a van operation. Pest Erase came with BPCA membership, that’s the British Pest Control Association, Constructionline certification and they were accredited by CHAS, I think.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Contractors Health and Safety Assessment Scheme. Toby had none of those accreditations.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘He came in and had a go at David. There was a lot of shouting and that was about it, I think.’

  ‘Were any threats made?’

  ‘Just general “I’ll get you for this”, “You don’t know who you’re dealing with”, sort of stuff,’ said Jones, shaking his head. ‘The pane of glass in David’s office door was broken too, I think.’

  ‘What was the effect on Horan’s business?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It hit him hard. He went bust six months later, so I heard. It was unfortunate.’

  Dixon stood up.

  ‘D’you have Horan’s address?’ he asked.

  Dixon was watching the traffic warden on the other side of King Square while he waited for Louise to answer her phone.

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ she said, just before her voicemail cut in.

  ‘You interviewed the bloke from Wessex Water at the sewage treatment works?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he said Harry was their pest controller?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Louise. ‘He’d been doing it for about a year. Pest Erase do all their rat catching where they’ve got a franchisee.’

  ‘And where they haven’t?’

  ‘They just get someone local to do it.’

  ‘Who did it before Harry?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Find out and text me, will you?’

  ‘Er, yes, Sir.’

  Dixon rang off and sent Sexton a text message.

  Express Park quick as you can

  The reply came as he was turning out of King Square, so he pulled over on the pavement and reached for his phone, watching the traffic warden
in his rear view mirror scribbling down a note of his registration number.

  What about the house to house?

  He hit ‘reply’.

  Leave them to it

  Another text arrived just as he was sliding his phone into his jacket pocket.

  Toby Horan, Westcountry Pest Services

  He tapped out a reply – Thanks Louise – and then slid his phone back into his pocket.

  ‘Who’s the rat catcher now?’ he muttered as he pulled away, the front wheels of his Land Rover dropping off the kerb with a clunk.

  ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘That one straight in front of you,’ replied Sexton. ‘The one with the double garage and the boat outside.’

  They were in a cul-de-sac of newish red brick houses, all of a similar design, some with columns either side of a grand entrance porch, some with a single garage, some with a car port, but only one with a double garage: the house on the corner where Marlborough Court forked, perhaps a hundred yards away. The double garage had a new roof, either that or the garages themselves were new; a small fibreglass speed boat on a rusting trailer, a half-hearted attempt to hide it behind a box hedge; and no sign of a van.

  ‘Is everybody in position?’

  ‘Armed Response are going in with us, and there’s another car behind the house.’

  Dixon frowned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sexton.

  ‘It’s too easy,’ replied Dixon, grimacing. ‘Too easy by far.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘There’s nobody in. You can see that from here.’

  He looked at his watch: 4.30 p.m.

  ‘She could be collecting the kids from school,’ said Sexton.

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Thirteen and fifteen.’

  ‘There’s no Toby Horan on the electoral roll, is there?’

  ‘No, Sir. Just Anna Turnbull, his ex-wife presumably. He’s got a mobile phone registered to this address though, a bank account and a van.’

  Dixon had checked the Land Registry records. The property had been transferred from the joint names of Tobias and Anna Horan into the sole name of Anna Turnbull six months earlier. A sure sign of divorce and an ex-wife reverting to her maiden name.

  ‘And you don’t think this is too easy?’

  ‘Well, it’s—’

  ‘Let’s just get it over with,’ said Dixon.