by Damien Boyd
‘No, it isn’t. You’re leading the team. Let them do the legwork.’
Dixon closed his eyes and began counting to ten.
‘Who are you trying to catch, Horan or The Vet?’ snapped Lewis. He was standing with his back to Dixon, looking out of the window.
‘We’ve had this conversation before.’
Lewis sat down and leaned back in his chair. ‘This isn’t about The Vet.’
‘Yes, it is. He left a body on our patch, don’t forget.’
Lewis sighed.
‘And Horan is more than a copycat,’ continued Dixon. ‘He’s getting inside information from somewhere.’
‘What about the witness protection officer?’
‘She led us to the body on Exmoor. And someone got to her flat before we did and pinched her computer.’
‘Just like Butler.’ Lewis was leaning forward now, both elbows on his desk with his chin resting on his hands. ‘Sit down,’ he muttered, shaking his head.
Dixon did as he was told.
‘And you found nothing?’
‘A six grand a month care home and a posh but empty flat. That and a password for something, but we’re buggered without the computer.’
‘So, a counter corruption officer wasn’t a bad shout?’
‘There must’ve been someone on the inside all along. That’s the only way The Vet could’ve stayed hidden for so long. And got clean away.’
‘I wonder what became of the Carters?’ asked Lewis.
‘There’s never been a DNA match.’
‘There’s DNA?’
‘A covert sample from Michael, apparently.’
‘Have we cross-checked it with the samples from the barn?’
‘You got any eggs?’ asked Dixon.
‘Eh?’
‘You could teach me to suck them at the same time.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Lewis, smiling.
‘They don’t match.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘It doesn’t match with the partial sample thought to be from The Vet either.’
‘Look, I know what you’re like, how you work, but Deborah Potter doesn’t.’ Lewis was pointing at Dixon with a Bic biro. ‘As far as she’s concerned you’re leading the MIT, so you’d better get on with it, sharpish, before she puts someone else in over your head.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about Janice?’
‘Can you leave her on Denise Marks for the time being? I don’t want Manchester thinking we’re giving it a high priority.’ Dixon winced. ‘That sounds awful, doesn’t it?’
‘I know what you meant,’ said Lewis. ‘They’ll know by now though, if they’ve been to the care home.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Well, that’s your problem. Just accept this bit of friendly advice: get up there and at least make it look as though you’re leading that team.’
Dixon spent the rest of the morning in meetings with the house to house team leader, the crime scene coordinator and the scientific support manager. Then he spent an hour reading the call logs and flicking through the various witness statements that had been taken. Multiple sightings by well intentioned members of the public, all of which had been followed up, statements taken and entered on the computer system by the civilian support staff.
Another hour had been spent updating the Policy Log and Investigation Plan, although he left out any reference to Denise Marks, other than a passing one when noting the body found in the shallow grave on Dunkery Beacon. The rest could go in Janice’s records.
It was just the sort of administrative nightmare he hated and had always been determined to avoid, to the point of refusing promotion – or at least he would if and when it was offered. And now he found himself leading a Major Investigation Team, albeit a reduced one. He shook his head, reached over and took his mug off the copy of the Major Incident Room Standardised Administrative Procedures manual he had been using as a coaster. Then he spat on the cover and used a tissue to wipe away the coffee stains. A few well placed yellow Post-it notes would make it look the part too.
Roger Poland’s post mortem report on the body on Exmoor had not been terribly enlightening, although that was hardly his fault. The injury was consistent with known victims of The Vet – the same number of turns of the trephine indicative of a man of similar strength, identical positioning of the trephine catching the venous sinus. Too much information, as usual, prompting a turn to the conclusions at the back of the report.
The crime scene report on the barn, van and caravan ran to over a hundred pages, plus colourful appendices, and confirmed what Dixon already knew. He tapped out an email to Sexton asking him to get Dr Pearson to look at it and clicked ‘send’. Seconds later the computer on the other side of the workstation pinged and Sexton looked up.
‘Just get him to give it the once over. Unofficially. Let us know if anything leaps out at him.’
Sexton reached for his phone. ‘The self-harming should give him something to work on.’
Dixon managed to watch some of the surveillance footage before a meeting of the whole team around the conference table in the larger meeting room on the second floor. He had brought them up-to-date with developments on Exmoor and in Manchester and found himself wondering whether any of them would be leaking the information that night – not to the press, but to someone else. He sucked his teeth as he glanced around the table. Dave, Mark and Louise may not be MIT material in the eyes of the powers-that-be, but he trusted them with his life.
There were some interesting theories, the best coming from the leather jacket, leaning back in his chair, chewing gum.
‘Maybe The Vet was going to grass on the IRA and went into witness protection?’
It would explain a lot.
The silence had been deafening when Dixon had showed them the codes found on the scrap of paper at Butler’s house and on the whiteboard at Denise Marks’s flat. Not surprising though; Dixon had no idea either.
It was the 4 p.m. conference call he had been dreading. The email had arrived the night before, but it was the list of attendees Dixon had trouble with: DCS Potter – fine, DCS Douglas – if you must, DCI Chard – twat.
He joined the call late and got off to a bad start, even before Chard had opened his mouth.
‘How far have you got with Horan?’ snapped Potter.
‘We’ve had lots of sightings, but nothing substantive yet.’
‘You’ve updated the Policy Log?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll look at it tomorrow. I’m coming down to Bridgwater in the afternoon. Will you be there?’
Thanks for the warning. Not bloody likely.
‘Yes.’ Dixon managed to stifle a sigh.
‘I gather you’ve been to Manchester again?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I did,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes, we went back.’
‘Why?’ asked Potter.
Dixon was sitting in meeting room 2, the only option if he wanted a bit of privacy. And he did. He put his feet up on the chair opposite and leaned back. ‘It turns out the charred body on Exmoor belonged to a retired witness protection officer. Police Sergeant Denise Marks.’
‘Greater Manchester Police?’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas. ‘And you can imagine our surprise when we get to her care home to find that officers from Avon and Somerset have already been there. I thought we were supposed to be cooperating on this, and instead we’re made to look like a right bunch of bloody idiots.’
‘What did you find?’ Potter sounded unnaturally calm.
‘Nothing.’
‘And what did you find when you broke into her flat?’ Douglas again.
‘We didn’t. Someone had beaten us to it and taken her computer.’
‘And you expect us to believe that?’ Chard this time, sticking his oar in.
‘Yes, I bloody well do.’ Dixon sat up. ‘Just ask yourself who got there first, given that we didn’t
notify Greater Manchester Police until we were on the train home.’
Silence.
Potter blinked first. ‘Who?’
‘Someone who knew Denise Marks had bought a train ticket at Manchester Piccadilly and that she was dead.’
‘And who’s that?’ asked Douglas.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dixon. ‘Yet.’
‘But, you still think The Vet and Horan are connected?’ asked Potter.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And I suppose you’re gonna catch both of them.’ Chard’s sneer was obvious even down the phone line. ‘GMP gets nowhere in twenty years and you’re going to waltz in and—’
‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Dixon, tapping on the desk. ‘Someone’s booked the meeting room. I’m going to have to go, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve emailed the report to Dr Pearson,’ said Sexton as Dixon sat down at the workstation opposite. ‘He’s going to look at it overnight and get back to us tomorrow.’
‘Have you looked at the surveillance yet?’
‘Just the stills.’
‘Anything?’
‘Not really,’ replied Sexton. ‘None of the DNA is matching up either. We’ve checked Denise Marks and the body on the moor against Michael Carter and the partial from The Vet. Nothing. It’s definitely Horan at the barn though; there’s a familial match with his kids. And he has a history of mild self-harm. His GP records have come through, although they’re pretty thin.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They’re being scanned on to the system now.’
Dixon spent the rest of the afternoon watching the surveillance footage, the boredom broken only briefly by what turned out to be a false alarm. Multiple patrol cars were despatched to the cafe at Brean Down, the motorcyclist turning out to be the National Trust warden.
It was just before 5 p.m. when Jane sat down on the corner of Dixon’s workstation. She waited for a few minutes and then waved her hand in front of the screen. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘I’m off.’
Dixon looked at his watch. ‘Yeah, me too, I think. Ring me if anything comes up, Jonny. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘How have you been today?’ asked Dixon, smiling at Jane.
‘Fine.’
‘Fancy a walk on the beach?’
‘I was going to do Tesco’s.’
‘Sod that. We’ll get a takeaway.’
Dixon sat down on an old tree stump opposite the wreck of the SS Nornen and threw Monty’s ball towards the waves that were rolling in no more than fifty yards away. Monty reached the ball before it got wet, but dropped it on the way back, distracted by some foul smelling seaweed or a rotting fish carcass.
‘Any news on your mother?’
‘Someone from Social Services rang. The funeral will probably be the end of next week or the following week even.’
‘Who will organise it?’
‘They will. There’s no one else, apparently, and I don’t count.’
Jane sat down next to him and Dixon put his arm around her. ‘How was work?’
‘Not too bad today.’
‘Which counts as a good day?’
‘You got it.’ Jane forced a smile. ‘How are you getting on with the MIT?’
‘I got a friendly earwigging from Lewis about not doing it all myself.’
‘What did I tell you? You’re running a team.’
‘Of people I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t got the patience for all that management crap anyway, and you certainly can’t delegate.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘My pleasure.’ Jane smiled, her first real smile for days. ‘Let’s walk along to the Sundowner for some chips. We’ve got time. It’s open till nine and light till eightish now.’
‘Yes, OK,’ replied Dixon, turning up his nose. ‘I think dogs have been pissing on this tree stump anyway.’
‘Monty did.’ Jane grinned.
‘You could’ve said.’
‘Why d’you think I sat this side?’
Two hours later they were sitting in the Red Cow, Dixon watching Jane ordering the drinks at the bar: a beer for him and a gin and tonic for her. The tide had come in while they were eating their fish and chips, so they’d had to walk back to Berrow Church along the road. He made a mental note to check the tide tables in future and was looking in the App Store on his iPhone when Jane sat down in front of him.
‘What’re you looking for?’
‘Tide tables.’
‘There’s a free app,’ replied Jane. ‘I’ve got it on my phone.’
‘Well, why didn’t you—?’
‘Why didn’t I what?’
‘Never mind.’ Dixon took a large swig of beer. ‘I tell you what then, clever clogs, tell me what this is.’ He opened ‘Photos’ on his iPhone and showed Jane the picture of the code written on the whiteboard at Denise Marks’s flat. ‘And this.’ He unfolded a piece of paper. ‘I found this on the floor underneath DCS Butler’s desk at his house.’
‘Is he the one who disappeared?’
‘Yes.’
Jane placed the phone on the table next to the piece of paper and compared the two. ‘I know what they are,’ she said, taking a large swig from her glass. ‘Get another round in. And you can make mine a double.’
‘Well?’ Dixon was holding Jane’s gin and tonic just out of reach.
‘D’you want the full version or the Noddy version for Luddites?’
‘The Noddy version first.’
‘What percentage of the internet d’you reckon is indexed in Google?’
‘I dunno. Seventy?’
‘Four.’
‘Really?’
Jane nodded. ‘That’s the “surface web”, the bit that’s publicly available. The rest is known as the “deep web”. Some of it is private networks, NHS, government, business, stuff like that. Then there’s the “dark net”. That’s the stuff that’s deliberately hidden because they’re up to no good.’
‘That’s the course you went on: Child Protection and the Internet?’
‘Welcome to my world.’ Jane leaned forward and took the glass from Dixon’s hand. ‘The dark net is only accessible using a special web browser known as TOR and the URLs are hidden. The URL is the—’
‘Web address?’
‘That’s right. The Uniform Resource Locator. Such and such dot com, that sort of thing. Only on the dark net they’re a random mix of letters and numbers.’
‘Just like these?’
‘Cheers.’ Jane took a swig of the drink Dixon had bought her. ‘They’re constantly changing too.’
‘So they can’t be found by the likes of you and me?’
‘Right. Which explains why they’ve been crossed out as you go down the list.’
‘Cross out the old one and write in the new one . . . or rub it out on a whiteboard.’ Dixon smiled. ‘And where d’you find the URL for a dark net site?’
‘You don’t. There’s no search engine for dark net sites. No Google. You have to know where they are.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dixon folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he picked up his phone. ‘This’ll be the latest one, on the whiteboard.’
‘Won’t whoever it is just change it?’ asked Jane.
‘Let’s hope they think there’s no need. After all, they’ve got her computer.’
‘What are we waiting for then?’
They stood up as one. Their empty glasses banged down on the table, waking Monty up with a start. Less than sixty seconds later Jane had switched on the kettle and Dixon his computer. It was one advantage of living opposite the pub.
‘What now?’ Dixon was sitting with his computer on the arm of the sofa and Monty curled up on his lap.
‘Swap.’ Jane sat down next to Dixon and passed him a mug of coffee. He placed the laptop on her knees.
She opened Internet Expl
orer and then placed the cursor in the address bar at the top.
‘I thought you said you had to use a special browser?’
‘There’s a way you can access dark net sites from a normal one. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. D’you want me to explain it?’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘What’s the address?’
‘2hr9458nv032ye23.’ Dixon was reading aloud from the photograph on his phone while Jane typed in the letters and numbers. Then she added ‘.onion’ on the end.
‘What the bloody hell’s dot onion?’
‘It’s the extension, the dark net equivalent of dot com.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘TOR is The Onion Router,’ continued Jane. ‘All of the internet traffic is routed through at least three different computers so it can never be traced. It’s supposed to be like the layers of an onion, which is why it’s called The Onion Router and the domains end with dot onion. Get it?’
‘If you say so.’
Then she added ‘.to’ in the address bar and hit ‘enter’. ‘Some dark net sites disable it, so we’ll see.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Bugger,’ muttered Jane. ‘Tor2web error: sorry we couldn’t serve the page you requested,’ she said, reading aloud. ‘It may mean the site’s offline or they’ve disabled Tor2web. At least we know your ISP isn’t blocking access to Hidden Services.’
‘Some do?’
Jane nodded. ‘Nothing for it. We’ll have to download the Tor Browser bundle.’
‘Will I need a tin hat?’ Dixon raised his eyebrows.
‘No.’
‘What about taping over the camera?’
‘It’s not all bad.’ Jane rolled her eyes.
‘Just most of it?’
‘Certainly the bit I deal with.’
Once the site opened, she scrolled down to Tor Browser, clicked on it and then clicked ‘download’.
‘There’s no going back now.’
‘I needed a new laptop anyway.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Jane said, clicking ‘run’. She crossed herself and began muttering the words of the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Now you’re taking the piss, aren’t you?’
Dixon tried to follow the clicks as Jane went through the set up sequence.