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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘About time,’ he muttered, when he spotted a dark blue Land Rover with a yellow roof driving towards him. It parked next to him, and Steve Yelland climbed out, a large bunch of keys jangling in his hand.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘There’s a kettle in the office.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon followed him through the side door.

  ‘I gave the list of names to your colleague.’ Yelland was filling the kettle.

  ‘Tell me about Toby Horan.’

  ‘He’s a volunteer. They’re all volunteers. He’s been here fifteen years or so, maybe longer. Always been reliable, until the last few months. He used to respond to every shout, but then he started turning out less and less, then stopped altogether. That was the first time I’d seen him for, I dunno, a couple of months.’

  ‘Are there records?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who decides who responds and who doesn’t?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Yelland flicked on the kettle. ‘There are twelve volunteers in Burnham and all of them get paged for every shout. When enough turn up, off we go.’

  ‘And how d’you become a Coastguard officer?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘You volunteer. There’s an informal interview with Senior Coastal Ops, that’s Geoff Garrett. After that it’s basic competences and fitness. Some train for cliff rescue, others as mud technicians. Toby’s a mud tech.’

  ‘No background checks? Criminal Records Bureau?’

  ‘No. Why, has he got one?

  ‘He’s the prime suspect in Harry Lucas’s murder,’ replied Dixon, matter of fact.

  ‘Oh, shit, no.’ Yelland sat down on a swivel chair. ‘And he was . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Talk to me about the bolt cutters.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Yelland closed his eyes and sighed, his chin dropping on to his chest. ‘He . . .’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘The bastard.’ Yelland sat up. ‘The bolt cutters are always in the truck. Always. Unless they’ve been used, I suppose. Then they’ll be washed off and left in the drying room, but if that happens, a note should be left on the steering wheel.’

  ‘Where were they that morning?’

  ‘We found them in the drying room when we got back. There was no note in the truck though.’

  ‘Or, if there was, Horan took it.’

  Yelland nodded.

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Not a lot, really. I only know him through HMC, and he was never that social. He’s divorcing, I heard. A pest controller too, I think, but that’s it.’

  ‘Did anyone notice anything unusual about his behaviour at the scene, or hear anything he said to Harry perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I know of. It’s difficult to hear anything over the hovercraft engines. I can ask around though, if you like?’

  ‘We’ll do that.’

  Dixon hadn’t bargained for the conference call with DCI Chard when he rang DCS Potter to bring her up-to-date with developments, but he had managed to get through it without incident. And now he was sitting in the corner of the canteen at Express Park topping up his blood sugar with a sandwich and a mug of tea.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Busy morning, I gather,’ said DCI Lewis, sitting down next to Dixon.

  ‘We got lucky.’

  ‘D’you think he might go back to the barn?’

  ‘We’ll be watching.’ Dixon gritted his teeth. ‘He’s a Coastguard officer, and I found out this morning he was the one talking to Harry when he drowned.’

  ‘He was there?’

  ‘He was. Which explains the missing bolt cutters, doesn’t it?’

  Lewis grimaced. ‘Makes you wonder what he was saying to him.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Dunkery Beacon,’ said Lewis, changing the subject. ‘Farmers were up there yesterday burning off the gorse and—’

  ‘Swaling they call it, Sir.’

  ‘That’s right, swaling. On the side of Dunkery Beacon. Anyway, some fuckwit managed to cremate a body lying in the heather.’

  ‘A body?’

  ‘Female, dead before the fire started, according to Roger Poland. He’s up there now.’

  ‘Is there a—?’

  ‘There’s no injury to the forehead, no, so it’s probably not connected. I thought you ought to check it out all the same. Just in case.’

  ‘I will, Sir.’

  ‘I’ve given it to Janice Courtenay. She’s taken Louise with her.’

  Dixon drained his tea.

  ‘Don’t tell her I sent you, for God’s sake,’ said Lewis. ‘I don’t want Janice thinking I don’t trust her.’

  ‘I won’t, Sir,’ replied Dixon, through the last mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘Maybe on the way back, old son, all right?’ Dixon glanced in his rear view mirror at Monty, paws up at the back window, barking at the Exmoor ponies up to their bellies in the heather.

  On a clear day Dixon would have had a grandstand view across the Bristol Channel to Wales, but today the summit cairn on Dunkery Beacon was only just visible a few hundred yards off to his left, up through the low cloud.

  The police officer at the Dunkery Gate roadblock had assured him that the way along the side of the Beacon was passable and he ‘should be all right’ on the track down to Hanny Combe too, but only one police Land Rover appeared to have ventured down towards the Combe. The remaining cars and Scientific Services vans were blocking the road ahead at the junction.

  A large white tent was visible further down the slope, beyond the Land Rover off to Dixon’s right, several figures in white overalls milling around outside it. He spotted Janice Courtenay too, standing on the road by Roger Poland’s Volvo, yelling into her mobile phone.

  They had previously shared an office at Bridgwater Police Station, before the move to the new Police Centre at Express Park, and had always got on well. Or so Dixon thought. Maybe he was being overly sensitive, but he got the distinct impression that Janice had been avoiding him since the Perry investigation had unravelled. She had taken the fall for the lab mucking up the DNA samples. And it was hardly her fault that the crime scene had flooded. Then she had been sent on a training course and Dixon had taken over as SIO, his disciplinary process rushed through. He’d probably still be languishing on suspension were it not for that.

  He parked on the grass verge behind Poland’s Volvo.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ snapped Janice as Dixon slammed the door of his Land Rover.

  ‘Hi, Jan,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just thought I’d check to see if it had anything to do with—’

  ‘I’d tell you if it had.’

  ‘Of course you would. Are you heading back down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked side by side down the track towards the Land Rover.

  ‘What’ve you got then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A female, aged seventyish. Dead before the fire started, apparently. That’s it, really.’

  ‘Clothes?’

  ‘Burnt off,’ said Janice.

  ‘What about a handbag? ID? Car keys?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Jewellery?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Thick gorse and heather on the right as they walked down the track gave an indication of what it had been like on Dixon’s left before the fire. Now it was a barren, charred landscape, the odd sprig of blackened gorse all that was left of the dense undergrowth. Occasional islands of light brown or green in the scorched earth marked out bushes that had somehow survived the inferno.

  ‘Stinks, doesn’t it,’ he said.

  ‘Some of the farmers are licensed by the National Park Authority,’ said Janice. ‘They burn off the heather and gorse to allow new grass to grow. It’s supposed to improve the grazing. And there’s a beetle of some sort, Heather Beetle or something, that they’re trying to kill off.’

  An area the size of two rugby pitches on the slopes above H
anny Combe had been torched, some of it still smouldering on the far side.

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘We’ve got a statement from him,’ replied Janice. ‘He’s a local farmer with a grazing licence up here. Louise has his details.’

  Dixon followed Janice across the charred landscape towards the tent.

  ‘Don’t they check the area before they set it alight?’

  ‘They’re supposed to, but it’s a large area and thick heather, to be fair to them.’

  ‘And she was already dead?’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘How long? Do we know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Hello, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘What’re you doing up here?’

  ‘Checking up on us,’ muttered Janice.

  Poland poked his head out of the tent.

  ‘I thought I heard your voice,’ he said. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  Dixon cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with your case,’ said Poland.

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s my department,’ said Dixon, with his best disarming smile.

  ‘Touché.’ Poland winked at him before disappearing back inside the tent.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Put these on.’ A set of overalls flew out of the tent and landed at Dixon’s feet.

  ‘What did the farmer say?’ asked Dixon, leaning on Louise’s shoulder while he wrestled his way into the overalls.

  ‘They came up yesterday morning, gave the area a quick once over and then set it alight. They use accelerant around the edges to get it going and then watch from a distance. They’ve got a water bowser in case it gets out of hand.’

  ‘They just leave it to burn?’

  ‘The hotter the better, apparently. It kills the heather and the beetles and some rough grass called . . . hang on . . .’ She was flicking through her notebook. ‘Molinia.’

  ‘How do they put it out?’

  ‘They don’t. It burns out, more often than not. They only put it out if it’s going too far or getting near anything.’

  ‘How long does it burn?’

  ‘All day sometimes. This one burnt out about fourish yesterday afternoon. Then they came back up today to check it, before starting another one. That’s when they found her.’

  ‘What’s the farmer’s name?’

  ‘It’s Eric Stokes, and his son, Frank. Eric must be in his eighties, at least.’

  ‘You have told him he didn’t kill her?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir,’ replied Louise.

  ‘Better do that,’ said Janice. ‘Now it’s been confirmed by Dr Poland.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ducking under the tent flaps being held open for him by Poland.

  He looked down at the body and swallowed hard.

  ‘Why are her eyes so wide open?’

  ‘The eyelids have burnt away,’ replied Poland.

  ‘And the fingerprints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her hands were clawed and reaching for the sky.

  ‘The muscles contract,’ said Poland. ‘Then the skin splits. That’s why she’s . . .’ He waved his hands in the air.

  Dixon turned away.

  ‘Teeth?’

  ‘Dentures,’ replied Poland. ‘They’ve melted.’

  ‘You’ll get some DNA off her though?’

  ‘Yes, lots of that. Not much use if there’s no database match, though, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not a lot else to say, really. Not until I get her back to Musgrove Park.’

  ‘How long’s she been dead?’

  ‘Two or three days. Not long, but I’ll know more when I’ve done the post mortem.’

  ‘Cause of death?’ Dixon took a deep breath, squatted down and peered at the side of her neck.

  Poland stood up and pulled off his mask. ‘I’ll need to run some tests. Toxicology, for starters.’

  ‘If you had to guess?’

  ‘An overdose of some sort.’

  Dixon frowned. ‘So, she comes up here, lies down in the heather and takes an overdose? No ID, nothing.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s your department,’ said Poland, grinning.

  ‘Actually, it’s Janice’s,’ replied Dixon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The low cloud had lifted by the time Dixon left the tent at the top of Hanny Combe, revealing a huge plume of smoke coming from the west. He looked across the lower slopes of the Beacon as he drove back down to Dunkery Gate, stopping at the police roadblock.

  ‘Are they burning another area?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. That’s Codsend Moors, the southern slope of Rowbarrow,’ replied the uniformed officer standing in the middle of the cattle grid.

  ‘Did they check it first?’

  ‘We checked it with them, Sir. If you keep turning right down the lane you can almost get over there.’

  ‘Is it Stokes?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And his son.’

  ‘Let’s have a closer look then, shall we,’ said Dixon, glancing over his shoulder at Monty in the back of the Land Rover.

  He parked at the end of the lane at Codsend and followed a farm track across the fields leading up towards the fire, letting Monty off his lead.

  The smell was unmistakeable, even though the wind was taking the smoke away from him to the north. And the flames, an intense red and orange he’d only seen before in a wood burning stove, clawing thirty feet or more into the sky. A figure was just visible through the inferno, walking along the edge, spraying the heather and gorse with something from a can; accelerant probably.

  Never play with fire, Dixon’s father had told him. Clearly, Stokes’s father had never imparted the same wisdom.

  The fire was still over a hundred yards away when Dixon reached the gate at the top of the field, but he stopped to put Monty on his lead anyway before heading across the open moor towards the quad bike towing the water bowser, parked a safe distance off to the right.

  An old man came limping through the heather towards him, slowing when he saw Dixon’s warrant card in his outstretched hand.

  ‘Eric Stokes?’ shouted Dixon, trying to make himself heard over the crackling of the fire.

  ‘We checked this area afore we lit it.’

  ‘I know that, Sir.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about this morning.’

  ‘I gave a statement already.’

  ‘Where’s your farm?’

  ‘That’s us over yonder,’ said Stokes. ‘Higher Codsend.’

  ‘Has someone told you the woman was already dead?’

  ‘Yes. We thought it’d be all right to get another going after that. The season closes on the fifteenth so there’s not much time.’

  ‘Season?’

  ‘Can’t burn after that. Nesting birds.’

  ‘And you always check the land before you start the fire?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘We run the dogs through, but that’s more to flush out any wildlife to be truthful with you.’

  ‘What d’you farm?’

  ‘Sheep, mainly. We’ll be moving ’em up here when the new shoots start to come through. They’re on the lower pastures at the moment.’

  ‘Did you see anything unusual in the days before the fire?’ Dixon was watching the flames behind Stokes. They were thirty yards away, but not getting any closer.

  ‘It’s all right, the wind’ll take it that way,’ said Stokes, gesturing up the hill to the north. ‘See anything when?’

  ‘Yesterday or the day before.’

  ‘They already asked me that. Like what, you mean?’

  ‘Cars where you don’t usually see them. People doing things they don’t usually do. People you’ve not seen before.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  Stokes frowned. ‘Now you put it like that . . .’


  Dixon waited.

  ‘There was a woman in the post office at Wheddon Cross.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day afore yesterday, about lunchtime.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘A red bobble hat, grey raincoat. She had grey straggly hair too.’

  ‘Did you see any facial features, marks?’

  ‘She was leaving as I walked in, so I didn’t really . . . I didn’t think anything of it to be truthful with you. Could’ve been anybody, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Can you remember anything else?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied Stokes, sucking his teeth.

  ‘Have you got the contact details of the detective you spoke to?’ asked Dixon.

  Stokes fished a business card out of his pocket. ‘Detective Constable Louise Willmott?’ he asked, squinting at it.

  ‘Give her a ring and tell her what you just told me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But do me a favour, don’t tell her we had this conversation.’

  Stokes smiled.

  ‘My old man always told me never to play with fire,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Mine taught me how to do it,’ said Stokes, grinning. ‘Just keep your wits about you, Eric, he said, and an eyebrow pencil handy.’

  Dixon hated fire and had done so ever since his tent had gone up in flames on a campsite in the Llanberis Pass. Climbing trips had gone wrong before, usually involving falls and broken bones, but that was something different. And he’d had to put up with his climbing partner, Jake, pissing himself laughing. Dixon had had the last laugh though, sharing Jake’s tent, clothes and money for the rest of the trip.

  It had been worth the walk up to Codsend Moors to get a closer look at the swaling and give Monty a run. He’d only questioned Stokes to make it look like he was there for some other reason than walking his dog, but he appeared to have got away with it.

  He dropped Monty at home and arrived back at Express Park to find the Major Incident Room on the second floor all but deserted. Jonny Sexton was sitting at a workstation, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Watching the barn. We’ve got teams watching the three ways in and out.’

  ‘There are four.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Including Cardew’s farm.’

  ‘He’s not going to go through there, is he?’