by Damien Boyd
‘Any ideas?’
‘Not that I’d share yet.’
Lewis sat down behind his desk. ‘You went to see the Shannons?’
‘I did.’
‘Get anything?’
‘A Polaroid photograph, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘An assurance they didn’t kill Michael Carter and some very interesting information about Jonny Sexton.’ He glared at Potter.
‘You didn’t need to know,’ she said.
‘Which means the Carters, The Vet and Horan are all out there,’ continued Dixon. He sighed. At least she hadn’t said she ‘didn’t think’. And she was right. He didn’t need to know about Sexton. Not really.
‘What’s the photograph of?’ asked Lewis.
‘One of The Vet’s victims, Sir. Before he was killed.’
‘And you don’t want to go public with this latest body?’ Potter folded her arms.
‘Not until we’ve got Horan. I don’t want to send him further underground.’ Dixon winced. It was an uncomfortable pun, but then weren’t they all?
‘Where are you with that?’
‘Lots of leads. Nothing yet, though. The team are on them.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m coming at it from the other end,’ replied Dixon. ‘There’s a connection between Horan and Manchester.’
‘What connection?’
‘You mean apart from the body we’ve just found on Dunkery Beacon?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know yet, but he’s got information no one else has, and he must be getting it from somewhere.’
‘Your job is to catch Horan,’ said Potter, ‘not The Vet. I don’t give a shit what’s going on in Manchester.’
‘What’s going on in Manchester will lead me to Horan.’
‘Are you trying to catch Horan or The Vet?’ asked Potter, standing up sharply.
‘Both.’
‘Really.’ The sarcasm dripped from her voice.
‘Horan because he’s the prime suspect in two murders. The Vet because he will lead me to Horan.’
‘And you know that for sure?’
‘No.’
Potter frowned. ‘Does this investigation end when you find Horan?’
‘It ends when I say it ends.’
Lewis raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t tell me, I just staked my future on it?’ continued Dixon, from behind a wry smile.
‘You did,’ muttered Potter.
‘Sounds familiar.’
He just caught the exchange between Lewis and Potter as he walked along the landing, before Lewis closed the door behind him.
‘Good, isn’t he?’
‘Very, much as it pains me to say it.’
Dixon was sitting in the staff canteen just after midday when Janice sat down next to him. She waited for him to finish his mouthful of sandwich.
‘Well?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘We had a call from a care home in Cheadle. Denise Marks; fits the description. She walked out of the home four days ago and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘And they didn’t report her missing?’
‘She still has her own flat, and it’s not altogether unusual. She comes and goes as she pleases, apparently.’
‘What sort of care home is that?’
‘Not dementia care,’ replied Janice. ‘She was still quite sprightly, apparently. I’ve given the details to Roger Poland.’
‘What’s her story then?’ Dixon took another bite of his sandwich.
‘Well, I’m not sure what you were expecting.’
‘Nothing.’
‘But this strikes me as one giant can of worms.’
Dixon stopped chewing.
‘Denise Marks,’ continued Janice. She leaned forwards across the table, and whispered, ‘retired Police Sergeant Denise Marks.’
‘Greater Manchester?’
‘Yep.’
‘What did she do?’ Dixon dropped the last of his sandwich back into the box.
Janice took a deep breath and spoke as she exhaled.
‘Witness protection.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Green Tree Court,’ said Sexton. ‘I googled it. Not your ordinary care home by any stretch.’
‘I’m starting to get bored with this bloody train journey.’ Dixon was looking out of the window watching the Burnham lighthouse in the distance. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘The price.’ Sexton slid his phone across the table and shook his head.
‘How much is it?’
‘Sixteen hundred quid a week.’
‘A week?’ Dixon snatched the phone off the table. ‘Proud to be five star, it says. It looks more like a posh hotel.’
‘I’d love to be able to afford that,’ Sexton muttered. ‘I’d move in now.’
‘And how does a retired police sergeant afford that, I wonder, without selling her flat?’
‘Even with selling her flat. That’s over six grand a month.’
Dixon nodded. ‘Well, Janice won’t notify the Manchester lot until she hears from us. That gives us a bit of time.’
‘What for?’
‘First dibs.’
‘Let’s see if we can catch the last train home,’ said Dixon as they stepped on to the platform at Manchester Piccadilly. He looked at his watch: 5.15 p.m.
‘That’s the 8.27,’ replied Sexton, ‘and it only goes as far as Temple Meads.’
‘You can go straight home and I’ll get a cab.’
‘Where first then?’
‘Green Tree Court.’
‘Not the police station?’
‘Sod that.’
The taxi dropped them outside an almost new care home on the outskirts of Cheadle. Light brown brickwork with green roof tiles and huge fish tanks in the entrance hall. Purpose built, certainly. They were even offered tea or coffee and a cake while they waited for the duty manager.
‘Inspector Dixon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sarah Evans, I’m the senior nurse on duty.’ The dark blue uniform and name badge confirmed it.
‘I understand that you were able to identify Denise Marks from the Manchester Daily Post yesterday?’
‘Leanne, our receptionist, spotted it first. It’s definitely her.’
‘How well did you know her?’
‘Quite well. She’d been living here since we opened.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two years ago. We’re not fully occupied yet. She was one of our first residents.’
‘Can we see her room?’
‘Er, yes. Follow me.’
A long, wide corridor led past dining rooms, bathrooms, and open bedroom doors. ‘She liked the privacy down this end,’ said Sarah, stopping outside the last door on the right. ‘And she had no mobility problems.’
‘What problems did she have?’ asked Dixon.
‘None, to be honest.’
‘Has anyone else been here?’
‘No.’
It looked just like a room at the Premier Inn, were it not for the hospital bed and red alarm cord. A flat screen TV stood on built-in furniture, all of it brand new.
‘Just clothes in the drawers and a few dresses in the wardrobe. That’s all she had here, except make up and toiletries,’ said Sarah.
‘What about the bedside table?’
‘That’s private.’
Sexton stepped forward and opened the drawers.
‘What’s in here?’ asked Dixon, pointing to a door on his left.
‘The en suite.’
En suite was an understatement. Marble tiled wet room did it justice.
‘It’s like a five star hotel,’ said Sexton, gazing in. He handed Dixon a small box with a flip top lid.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Spare dentures.’
‘That’s exactly what we are. A five star hotel, with care on hand,’ said Sarah.
‘Did you never wonder what she was doing here, if she was other
wise fit?’ asked Dixon, opening the bathroom cupboards to reveal nothing more exciting than shampoo and toothpaste.
‘Not really. Maybe it was the company. For some that’s priceless.’
‘What about these photographs?’ asked Sexton.
‘I don’t know who they are. She had no family, as far as I’m aware.’
‘Bring them,’ said Dixon. ‘And how did she afford it?’
‘I never asked. It’s not something you . . .’ Sarah’s voice tailed off.
Dixon was sucking his teeth.
‘Can we have the address of her flat, please?’
Eton Drive, Cheadle. Four blocks of modern, purpose built flats, each on three floors with bay windows and black and white timber gables. Victorian to the casual observer, and hidden by landscaped gardens and conifers.
‘Nice.’
‘Very,’ said Dixon, looking up. ‘It’s the garden flat, so it must be that one. See if you can see anything.’
Sexton squeezed between the wall and the bushes along the front of the building, peering in the windows. ‘The blinds are down.’
Dixon pressed the entry phone buzzer marked ‘Deliveries’ and waited. Nothing. Then he began pressing them all in turn until one crackled.
‘Yes.’
‘Police. Can you let us in, please?’
He got no reply, but the lock buzzed and he wrenched the door open.
‘They’re trusting,’ said Sexton.
‘Or stupid.’
The light in the entrance hall came on automatically. Flat 2 on Dixon’s left had ignored the buzzer and the lights were off behind the frosted glass pane in the front door, so he gave them the benefit of the doubt. The rest of the flats, apart from Denise’s, were up the stairs, which cast a shadow across her front door. Dixon only noticed that it was open when he was standing right in front of it. He looked at Sexton and pointed to the lock, the inner latch hanging off a large splinter of wooden door frame by one screw.
He put on a pair of latex gloves, turning to check that Sexton was doing the same. Then he pushed open the front door. He paused to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom, before tiptoeing along the corridor into an open plan living room.
The torch on his iPhone was enough to confirm the room was clear. Sexton switched on the light.
‘Furniture would be traditional,’ muttered Dixon, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
‘It’s a sofa bed.’
‘Which makes all the difference. Still, it’s more than I had for a while.’
‘No TV either.’ Sexton pushed open a door to his right. ‘The kitchen. Never touched by the looks of it.’
Dixon peered over his shoulder. ‘There’s no kettle, nothing.’
‘Probably ate at the care home. I would. Did you see the menu?’
‘Check the bedrooms.’
Dixon walked over to the window and fumbled for the cord behind the floor to ceiling curtains, pulling them open to reveal patio doors, the key still in the lock. ‘More of a courtyard flat than a garden flat,’ he said, listening to the click of Sexton’s heels on the laminate flooring. They stopped when he reached the carpet in the hall outside the bedrooms, to be replaced by the opening of doors and the flicking of light switches.
‘There’s a bog roll in the loo. Nothing else. And no furniture at all in either bedroom,’ said Sexton, walking back into the living room.
Dixon turned to the only other pieces of furniture in the flat: a small table up against the wall and one office chair.
‘Must’ve been an iMac,’ said Sexton. ‘That’s a wireless keyboard and a Magic Mouse.’
‘Someone beat us to it.’
‘Looks like it.’
Dixon leaned over and looked under the table. ‘They didn’t even bother to take the power cable.’
‘And I thought my garden was low maintenance,’ said Sexton, looking out of the window.
‘She liked her conifers,’ replied Dixon, on all fours now, under the table. He slid a small whiteboard out from between the table leg and the wall.
‘What’ve you got?’ asked Sexton.
One side of the whiteboard was blank, so he turned it over to reveal a sequence of letters and numbers. He passed it up to Sexton and then crawled out from under the table.
‘It’s just like the ones you found at Butler’s place.’
Dixon took his phone out of his pocket, switched it to camera mode and then zoomed in on the code. ‘Three should do it,’ he said, checking the code was visible in the photographs. ‘Butler had a list and crossed them out, all except the last one. Denise used a whiteboard and rubbed the others out. But, what the hell are they?’
‘Passwords of some sort?’
‘To what?’
Sexton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Did they know each other then? Butler and Denise.’
‘We’d better find out.’ Dixon unfolded a piece of paper he had taken out of his pocket and held it next to the whiteboard. ‘This is a copy of the Butler list. There’s no match,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘It must be significant, though, mustn’t it?’
‘It isn’t if we don’t find out what it is.’ Dixon gestured to the whiteboard in Sexton’s right hand. ‘Put that back, will you? Behind the rear leg, facing the wall, so it looks like it slid down the back.’
‘Shall I call it in?’ asked Sexton, straightening his coat as he followed Dixon towards the front door of the flat.
‘We’ll do it from a phone box on the way to the station. Anonymous tip off.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t want them to know we’ve been here.’
‘Who?’
‘If I knew that . . .’ Dixon rolled his eyes as he tapped out a text message to Janice.
OK to tell GMP now. On way to station. Will catch up with you tomorrow. ND
It took a minute or so standing in the queue at the taxi rank outside Bristol Temple Meads for Dixon to realise that the flashing lights and hooting horn were coming from his own Land Rover on the far side of the short stay car park. He ran across, jumping over the puddles, and climbed in the passenger door. He leaned over to kiss Jane, sitting in the driver’s seat, but pulled up short when he noticed the look on her face.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It was a drug overdose.’
‘Oh shit, Jane.’
‘I’m fine, really.’ She switched the engine on.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘I wish I’d never met her now.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘If I’d never gone looking for her . . .’ She leaned forward, her forehead on the steering wheel.
Dixon put his arm around her, but said nothing. He just sat there, one arm round Jane and the other round Monty, who had jumped over into the front of the Land Rover.
‘Does it make a difference?’ she asked, turning her head towards him.
‘To me?’
Jane nodded. ‘To know my mother was a druggie.’
‘No, it bloody well doesn’t. And besides, Sonia was just the woman who gave birth to you. Your mother lives in Worle with your father and an overweight cat. They’re your real family.’
Jane smiled. ‘And you.’
‘I think she’s talking to you, old chap,’ replied Dixon, turning to Monty.
‘I’m talking to both of you.’
They kissed, sheltered from prying eyes by the rain pouring down the windscreen.
‘Well, me certainly. I can’t speak for him.’ Dixon smiled. ‘He’s very particular.’
A long day, a short night and an early start. Jane had wanted to talk and there was no way he was going to let her down, getting to bed just after two in the end. A small glass of Pinot Grigio – Jane had drunk the rest of the bottle – and a screening of A Shot in the Dark. Dixon had thought it might cheer her up, but Jane talked all the way through it until she finally fell asleep on the sofa, her feet resting on Monty.
Dixon had covered them both with
a blanket, marvelling at the number of different ways Jane had been able to say the same thing over and over again, although it had become a bit slurred by the end. Then he crept upstairs to bed, spending ten minutes staring at the photograph of the code on his phone, before falling asleep himself.
The next thing he knew his alarm was going off. He tiptoed down the stairs to find Jane watching Monty from the kitchen window as he wandered along the hedge in the field behind the cottage.
‘You all right?’
‘Bit of a headache.’ Jane rubbed her eyes and sighed. ‘I’ve decided I’m glad I found her, just in time to meet her. But I’ve lost nothing, so that’s an end of it.’
‘At least you know.’
‘It’s satisfied my curiosity, if nothing else. And now I can forget it. Her.’ Jane frowned. ‘It.’
‘Why don’t you take the day off?’ Dixon flicked the kettle on. ‘Call it compassionate leave.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I’ll authorise it.’
‘You’re not my line manager.’
‘I’m your superior officer, Sergeant.’
Jane pulled him towards her and kissed him. ‘I love it when you try to pull rank.’
‘I’m not pulling—’
‘You’d better let him in before he scratches a hole in that door,’ interrupted Jane, picking up Monty’s food bowl. ‘I’ll feed him while you make the coffee.’
Dixon sighed.
Jane put Monty’s food bowl on the floor. ‘Just one last thing, then I won’t mention it again,’ she said, raising her voice over the sound of the metal food bowl clattering on the tiles.
‘What?’
‘You will come to the funeral with me, won’t you?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Manchester.’
DCI Lewis held open the door of his office. ‘In here. Now.’
Dixon trudged in and pulled a chair out from in front of the desk.
‘Don’t sit down. You won’t be staying.’ Lewis threw the file he had been carrying on to his desk. ‘What are you playing at?’
‘You’ve lost me, Sir.’
‘You’re supposed to be leading the Major Investigation Team in the hunt for Horan, and instead you’re racing about all over the place.’
‘My time is better spent—’