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

by Damien Boyd

  Jane switched off the TV.

  ‘What did Potter say?’ asked Dixon, handing Jane a mug of tea.

  ‘Usual stuff. You eaten?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘D’you want to pop over to the Red Cow?’

  ‘I’d better not. My blood sugars have been a bit high lately.’ Dixon sat down next to Jane, closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder. ‘Is there anything in the freezer?’

  ‘A chicken pie.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ he said, getting up.

  ‘You want one?’

  ‘Better had.’

  ‘I’ll bung a few oven chips in too.’ He fished Jane’s phone out of her handbag on the kitchen table and dropped it into her lap. ‘This just buzzed.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Dixon, switching on the oven.

  ‘Sonia. Oh God. She’s in the Red Cow and wants to see me,’ said Jane.

  ‘She’s driven all the way down from Carlisle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘Doesn’t say.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I can’t very well not go, can I? It’s only over the road.’

  ‘And she never said she was coming?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied Jane, her brow furrowed.

  On the phone four or five times a day and now turning up on the doorstep. Dixon sighed. It did not bode well.

  ‘D’you want me to come?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside then.’

  Dixon watched from the upstairs window as Jane walked across the road to the pub. Then he put Monty on his lead and wandered over to the car park. He let himself into the beer garden and peered through the back window into the lounge bar.

  Jane was sitting by the fire, opposite a tearful Sonia. Waterproof mascara might be in order, thought Dixon, not that he was an expert on make up. Her eyes were dark and puffy, her nose running, her earrings and nose stud glinting in the lights from the bar. The blue stripe in her hair was new, but apart from that she looked the same and was dressed in the same dark blue jeans and padded coat.

  Dixon was no lip reader either, although if he had to guess, Sonia was asking for something and Jane was saying no. And a resolute ‘no’ at that. That much came from the body language more than anything else. Lots of head shaking, more tears, a wine glass knocked over. Then Sonia stood up and made a less than straight line for the door.

  He watched her stagger across the car park towards an old Ford Sierra parked in the corner. The one with the hubcaps missing and the man sitting in it. Not an altogether unusual sight in a pub car park. Waiting for someone, Dixon had thought, and he’d been right.

  Sonia opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. Dixon glanced back to the bar where Jane was ordering a gin and tonic, then back to the Sierra. The engine had still not come on, which was odd, so he stepped back behind the corner of the pub and watched.

  Arms waving, muffled shouts – male and female – followed by a scream. Then the driver’s door of the car flew open, hitting the car parked next to it. The man climbed out, walked around to the passenger side, wrenched open the door and dragged Sonia out on to the tarmac.

  ‘Just get back in there and get the bloody money.’

  A sharp kick as she was lying on the ground was the last straw. Dixon hooked Monty’s lead over a fence post.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ he shouted as he marched across the car park.

  The man came towards him, several inches taller, looming over him, but at least twenty years older.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Police,’ replied Dixon, ducking under the fist looping towards his head. ‘Now wind your neck in. Unless you want to add assaulting a police officer to the list.’

  Sonia stood up and grabbed hold of the man to stop herself swaying.

  ‘Why don’t you just sod off and leave him alone?’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Sonia Beckett.’

  ‘Not you, him,’ said Dixon, pointing at the man.

  ‘John Smith.’

  ‘Really.’ Loaded with sarcasm.

  ‘I’m not making a com . . . a complaint,’ muttered Sonia.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ replied Dixon. ‘I witnessed the assault. John Smith, I am arresting you on suspicion of common assault. You do not have to say anything but—’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Jane, appearing beside Dixon. She was holding Monty on his lead.

  ‘Just leave us alone!’ screamed Sonia.

  ‘He was assaulting her,’ said Dixon. ‘So, I was just arresting him.’

  ‘Let them go, Nick,’ said Jane.

  ‘Are you two together?’ asked Sonia, trying to focus on Dixon.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jane.

  ‘So, you’re going out with a copper?’

  ‘I am a copper.’

  ‘You?’ Sonia fell across the boot of the car. ‘You never said you were a fucking copper.’

  ‘Well, I am.’

  ‘A pig. Of all the . . .’ Sonia shook her head, slid along the side of the car and slumped back into the passenger seat.

  ‘D’you know this man?’ asked Dixon, turning to Jane.

  ‘He’s her partner, Tony.’

  ‘Abusive partner,’ muttered Dixon.

  Jane’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t want everyone to know.’

  They watched the Sierra, with Sonia slumped in the passenger seat, pull out of the pub car park and turn south towards the motorway.

  ‘That chicken pie’s still in the oven.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She wanted money?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Five grand.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Gambling debts, she said,’ replied Jane, looping her arm though Dixon’s.

  ‘His probably,’ he said. ‘He was behind it.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘Drugs is more likely anyway,’ said Dixon. ‘She dropped this.’ He handed Jane a small plastic bag, white powder residue stuck to the sides.

  ‘D’you know what? I really don’t care. I can’t. I had to know and now I do. So, let’s just forget it, shall we?’

  ‘You’ll need to block her phone number.’

  ‘I already have.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  A chicken pie and The Great Escape, curled up on the sofa with Monty and Dixon, seemed to do the trick. He knew a brave face when he saw one though, and Jane had been doing her best. She was no worse off than she was before, she knew that, or said she did. And she still had her adopted parents in Worle. Sonia had never been a part of her life and now never would be. Nothing lost, perhaps, but it still hurt, that much was obvious. Nobody cries when Steve McQueen is in the cooler, surely?

  Dixon woke several times during the night to check his phone. An odd impulse, given that he hadn’t even switched it to silent mode. The last time was just before 6 a.m., and Monty got a run in the field behind the cottage while the kettle boiled. Then Dixon checked his phone, again, the local TV news and the internet. Nothing. It was the largest manhunt in the history of Avon and Somerset Police, according to ITV Westcountry, and so far, it had drawn a blank. DCS Potter was clearly prone to exaggeration.

  ‘Got anything?’ asked Jane, leaning over the bannister.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘I’d better get in,’ said Dixon. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘What’ve you got on today?’

  ‘I’ll go over to Worle.’

  ‘I’ll take Monty. Clocks go forward tonight don’t forget.’ Dixon smiled.

  He watched Jane turn back towards the bedroom, her half-hearted smile gone before she reached the door. She’d been better off as a detective constable in CID. At least they got to work together then, although that had been unofficial once their relationship had beco
me public knowledge. Her promotion to sergeant had resulted in a transfer to the Safeguarding Coordination Unit and several child protection training courses. Dixon frowned. His old joke about never working with children and animals was starting to wear a bit thin.

  He arrived at Express Park twenty minutes later, just before 7 a.m. Jonny Sexton was slumped over a workstation, fast asleep, so Dixon made a coffee and placed it on the desk in front of him. Then he dug him in the ribs.

  ‘You been here all night?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Sexton, yawning.

  ‘Anything come in?’

  ‘The odd phone call. A few sightings. I’ve got uniform following them up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A couple of the van. Or at least a white Transit with faded sign writing. Another with it scrubbed out. And we’ve got a couple of sightings of Horan, one giving another name.’

  Dixon raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Joe Boardman,’ continued Sexton.

  ‘Any photos?’

  ‘We’ve got his driving licence photo from DVLA. It’s in your email.’

  ‘How does it compare to the e-fit?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Let’s get it out there,’ said Dixon, ‘in time for the morning news.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Email it over to Vicky Thomas and she can earn her money for a change.’

  Sexton grinned. ‘I take it you two don’t—’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘Get it up to Manchester too. See if anyone there recognises it. What about known associates?’

  ‘Jackie and Doug were going through them. They’ll be back in in an hour or so.’

  ‘Who was chasing up the Coastguard?’

  ‘Tracey.’

  ‘Well, tell her to get on with it, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon shook his head. Jackie and Doug sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put faces to the names. A Major Investigation Team sounded good in theory: the best detectives on the force working together on the highest profile cases, but in practice it threw together officers who had never worked with each other before, giving the SIO no real idea of the team members’ strengths and weaknesses. It was different in the Met and Manchester perhaps, where the force was large enough for the MIT to be a permanent fixture, but in Somerset, when it only assembled when needed, it was counterproductive. That was Dixon’s two pence anyway, and he’d share it with anyone who would listen when he got the chance.

  He sat down at a workstation by the large windows at the front of the building, switched on a computer and swivelled around on his chair to look out of the window while it booted up. Louise was waiting at the entrance to the staff car park, music on by the looks of things. Dixon smiled. In-car karaoke. It was one advantage of an old diesel Land Rover – the engine was too loud for music. Then she was gone, up the ramp and on to the top floor of the car park.

  The photograph from DVLA did bear a striking resemblance to the e-fit, thought Dixon as he clicked ‘print’. The faintest of smiles, more of a smirk, although why anyone would smirk when they were having their driving licence picture taken was beyond him. No facial hair, but that could change in a matter of days. And probably would if he was living rough. No visible tattoos or scars on his face and neck either, which was a shame, although the nose looked as if it had been broken at some point. Eyes like a shark – black and dead – he was not someone to spill your beer over.

  Dixon looked up when a printer on the other side of the room began spewing out the photograph and noticed PC Cole walking towards him. An old fashioned bobby-on-the-beat, that was Cole. And a few months ago he’d jumped into an ice cold river to pull Dixon out.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir.’

  ‘What is it, Cole?’

  ‘There’s a friend of mine in reception asking to see you.’

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘We were at school together.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He’s seen something he thinks you might be interested in.’

  Dixon followed Cole down to reception where a man was sitting with his back to the window. He was dressed in a one piece fishing suit.

  ‘Dave, this is Inspector Dixon, the one I told you about. Just tell him what you told me. All right?’

  ‘I was out fishing on the Langacre Rhyne,’ said Dave, taking off his bobble hat. ‘The other side of Middlezoy.’

  ‘It’s closed season, Sir,’ said Cole, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘It was just an hour or two. Fly fishing for pike.’

  ‘Let’s assume you were fly fishing for trout then, shall we?’ said Dixon. ‘The trout season’s open.’

  ‘There aren’t any trout in the Langacre,’ replied Dave.

  ‘Just spit it out, Dave.’ Cole nudged his elbow.

  ‘East of Middlezoy, there’s an old barn.’ Dave hunched over and started whispering even though the reception area was deserted. ‘Right out in the fields it is. Anyway, there was smoke coming out of it this morning. Just a wisp, mind you. Then it was gone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I went over and had a look. There’s an old caravan in there. And a white Transit van.’

  Dixon straightened up and looked at Cole. Then back to Dave.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Just after dawn.’

  ‘Was there a light?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘Just behind Bere Aller there’s a lane called Beer Drove. Follow that west and when it turns sharp left you turn sharp right down a farm track. Then you’re heading right out across the fields north towards where the River Cary meets Eighteen Feet Rhyne. Across the field on your right is a line of trees. It’s behind that.’

  ‘D’you know it?’

  ‘I know the lane he’s talking about, Sir,’ replied Cole.

  ‘You can go, Dave,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ll need a statement from you at some point. All right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Did you catch any trout?’

  ‘Not a bloody thing,’ replied Dave, grinning.

  Dixon waited until the door had swung shut and then turned to the receptionist. ‘Get DS Sexton down here as quick as you can, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied the receptionist, picking up the phone.

  ‘You doing anything for the next couple of hours, Cole?’

  ‘Checking on a barn the other side of Bere Aller?’

  Dixon smiled. ‘You said you know where it is.’

  Cole nodded. ‘You coming too, Sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dixon turned when the security door at the side of reception swung open and Sexton appeared, pulling on his jacket.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve had a report from a fisherman of smoke coming from a remote barn on the levels beyond Bere Aller,’ said Dixon. ‘And there’s a van in there too.’

  ‘Can’t we just send uniform?’ asked Sexton. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

  Cole frowned.

  ‘What did we find in Horan’s garage loft?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Fishing tackle,’ replied Sexton, nodding.

  ‘We’ll take uniform with us.’

  Dixon turned into a farm gateway on the edge of Bere Aller, wrenched on the handbrake and walked back to the patrol car following him.

  ‘Leave this here and come with me in the Land Rover. Hats off too.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The farm track was narrow with deep ruts, the grass in the middle brushing the underside of Dixon’s Land Rover as it bounced along.

  ‘D’you reckon you’d get a Transit along here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Cole. He was sitting on the bench seat behind Dixon, opposite another uniformed officer. Sexton was in the passenger seat.

  ‘Maybe we should approach on foot?’ asked Sexton.

  ‘We may need the vehicle if there’s a pursuit,’ said Col
e.

  ‘Is there backup?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There are two cars within ten minutes of us, Sir,’ replied Cole. ‘And I put Armed Response on standby.’

  Dixon nodded, although the gesture was lost as the Land Rover lurched along the track.

  ‘Looks like there’s another way out to the east,’ said Sexton, trying to follow the map on his phone.

  ‘Bound to be,’ said Dixon. ‘Who would hole up anywhere there was only one way in and out?’

  He stopped behind a gate, a hedge screening them from the line of trees off to their right, the top of the barn just visible through the foliage. The field beyond the gate opened out, offering nothing to cover their approach.

  ‘At least they’re evergreens,’ muttered Cole.

  ‘What are?’

  ‘Those trees.’

  Dixon slid out of the front seat and peered over the gate into the field beyond. A few yards ahead the track forked, the right fork leading straight to an open gate in the hedge adjacent to the barn. The left fork led to another gate in the far hedge line and the next field.

  ‘All right, you two, lie down in the back,’ said Dixon, climbing back into the Land Rover.

  Cole looked at Monty and hesitated.

  ‘He won’t bite you,’ said Dixon. ‘I’m going straight across into the far field. If you two hop out there you can get around the back of the barn on foot.’

  ‘What about us?’ asked Sexton.

  ‘We’ll drive straight up to the front door. Is your stab vest under that coat?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Sexton.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Dixon, looking over his shoulder at Cole and the other officer lying in the back of the Land Rover.

  ‘Very cosy,’ mumbled Cole.

  Dixon accelerated across the field, stopping once he was through the gate on the far side. Cole and the other officer slid out of the back door and began running along the hedge line towards the back of the barn. Then Dixon spun the Land Rover around and drove back towards the barn, stopping in the gateway directly in front of it.

  Sexton jumped down from the passenger seat and ran into the barn, Dixon close behind him. He wrenched open the back door of a white Ford Transit van parked against the right hand wall.

  ‘Clear.’

  Sexton ran over and opened the door of a small caravan in the far corner.

  ‘Clear.’