by Damien Boyd
‘Every cloud.’ Jane muttering again.
‘I’m more worried about Jonny and the other man. Have we got an ID for him yet?’
‘The MIT are working on it,’ replied Janice. ‘There’s a missing persons report that looks promising. It’s the factory manager employed by the Administrator.’ She glanced down at her notebook. ‘Andrew Barker. He’d been left in charge of a skeleton staff while they tried to sell it as a going concern. DCI Chard’s following it up.’
‘Chard?’
‘Potter’s put him in charge of the MIT.’
Dixon’s frown was obvious, despite the bandage across his forehead.
‘So, what’s with the secrecy?’ Harding shrugged his shoulders. ‘Everyone still thinks you’re dead, apart from us.’
‘And it’s got to stay that way. Jonny Sexton was a counter corruption officer.’
‘What?’
‘Manchester CCU have been investigating their own MIT for years, ever since the Carters were on the streets, and they got nowhere. So it was another opportunity to get someone in there.’
‘A GMP officer is on the take?’
‘Yes, Dave. And if he knows I’m alive, he’ll disappear.’
‘The bulletin board’s gone.’ Jane snapped Dixon’s laptop shut on the dining table.
‘Can you email a copy of the file you downloaded to everyone, while you’re there?’
‘I’ve already done it.’
‘What about our Major Investigation Team, then?’ asked Harding. ‘Why not involve them?’
‘I don’t know them. And I don’t trust them,’ said Dixon.
‘There’s a compliment in there somewhere,’ said Pearce, grinning.
‘Shut up, Mark.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So, who was it in the factory?’ asked Louise.
‘The Vet and Horan.’
‘The copycat?’
‘Let’s stop calling him a “copycat”, shall we?’ There’s far more to Horan than just copying The Vet. We found a dark net forum or bulletin board or whatever you call them. That’s the file Jane’s emailed you. Three members: your Denise Marks, Horan and the third we think may be The Vet. Horan had been posting photos.’ Dixon took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, read it for yourselves, but they’re connected, the two of them, and you’re going to catch them both.’
‘We are?’ Janice looked at him quizzically.
‘Think about it. You’re investigating the death of Denise Marks, which is the perfect cover for making all the enquiries we need to make. You need to rule out foul play, find out whether there’s a connection with the body in the shallow grave, identify the body in the shallow grave.’
‘Chard won’t like that.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Dixon. ‘It works for me.’
Janice smiled.
Monty started barking when there was a knock at the back door.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Jane, letting in DCI Lewis.
‘I’m assuming you’re happy with this, Sir?’ asked Janice, before Jane had closed the back door behind him.
‘We’ve got a few days until anyone can get in the factory, so it makes sense to me.’ He threw his coat over the bannister. ‘What have we got to lose?’
‘Our jobs.’
‘I’m authorising it, Janice. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Lewis placed a file on the dining table. ‘You wanted these?’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Dixon smiled.
‘How far have you got with Denise Marks then?’ he asked, turning to Janice.
‘We’ve established who she is, which you know, and that she died of an overdose of heroin and fentanyl,’ she replied. ‘I’m still waiting for details of her witness protection cases. They refused the first time I asked, so I resubmitted the request.’
Dixon looked at Lewis, his eyes wide.
‘I’ll see what I can do, but they’re highly confidential, for obvious reasons.’
‘Maybe if we give them the name we’re looking for?’ said Dixon.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Carter.’
Jane took advantage of the silence. ‘Coffee, anyone? Only I’m not sure we’ve got enough mugs.’
‘Not for me,’ said Lewis.
Jane waited for someone else to respond. She looked at Dixon and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
‘Let’s start with what we know,’ said Dixon. ‘A fifteen year old Michael Carter is sent to borstal in 1976 convicted of murder. He stabbed a man in the neck and then shot him in the head at point blank range. Right here.’ He was pointing at the middle of his forehead with his index finger.
More silence.
‘Sound familiar to anyone?’
‘The fleam and the trephine,’ said Janice.
‘When was he released?’ asked Lewis.
‘1988,’ replied Dixon. ‘Then he pops up in Manchester, clearing out the street gangs on Moss Side, which is no mean feat.’
‘How did he do that?’ asked Louise.
‘Fear.’ Dixon stood up and walked to the middle of the room, standing with his back to the TV. ‘Gun crime was endemic, so it was no good shooting people. It was an occupational hazard, a risk they accepted, and more would just pop up. You had to terrify them.’
‘And so The Vet was born,’ muttered Lewis.
‘Born on the streets of Moss Side and christened by the Manchester Daily Post. Polaroid photographs of each victim taken on an old instant camera.’
‘I remember them,’ said Harding, turning to Pearce. ‘Point and shoot and then the print comes out.’
‘Before my time.’
‘But we know Michael Carter’s not involved because there was no match with the covert DNA sample,’ said Louise.
‘And where did that covert sample come from?’
‘Er, I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Dixon. ‘Check, will you? And see when it was last cross-checked against the national database. If it hasn’t been done for a while, do it.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘If we get really lucky, it’ll turn up a match now.’
‘Who with?’ asked Lewis.
‘Probably some pisshead who used to play a bit of snooker. That’s if there’s any match at all.’
‘You mean it didn’t come from Michael Carter?’
‘We don’t know that it did, do we? And until we do, we assume it didn’t.’
‘So, it could be him on Dunkery Beacon?’
‘It could.’
Janice nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’d like to see the file from Carter’s murder conviction. Anything you can find.’
‘Mark?’ asked Janice.
‘Fine.’
‘And retired Detective Chief Superintendent Paul Butler’s missing persons file. If anyone asks, you’re exploring the possibility the body in the shallow grave might be him.’
‘And might it?’ asked Lewis.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘You’re not inspiring me with confidence,’ said Lewis, shaking his head.
‘We can get Roger to have a look at it when the file comes through, but it could be him, yes.’
‘What else do we know?’ asked Pearce.
‘We know that Horan had inside information about The Vet’s methods. And he had it before the bulletin board started. Read the file. They know each other. Of old. Then, when the killings begin again, Denise Marks starts posting that she can’t live with it. Siegfried tries to placate her—’
‘Who’s Siegfried?’
‘Just read the file, Dave.’
‘Live with what?’ asked Louise.
‘Guilt. She knew about the body buried on Dunkery Beacon and did nothing about it. And then the killings start again.’
‘Which is why she kills herself,’ said Janice.
Dixon nodded. ‘Probably.’
‘You’ve got a theory. I know you have,’ said
Jane, standing in the kitchen doorway with five mugs of coffee on a tray.
‘Let’s hear it.’ Lewis reached up and took a mug.
‘This is a rumour, mind you, but after the Arndale Centre bomb in 1996, Michael Carter was going to turn supergrass. The story goes that he was killed by the IRA before he could do it, though, and that allowed the Shannons to take over the city. The Shannons deny any involvement.’
‘You asked them?’
‘Yes, I did, Dave.’
Jane scowled.
‘So, what I think happened is this,’ continued Dixon. ‘Michael Carter is taken into witness protection with Denise Marks as his supervising officer. And ever since then he’s been working as a pest controller in sleepy old Burnham-on-Sea. He even got married and had two kids.’
‘Living right under our bloody noses,’ said Lewis.
‘And everyone else’s. But how much do we really know about our neighbours? I bet even his wife doesn’t know who he really is. And for twenty years it’s fine. That is until Harry bought his Pest Erase franchise and put him out of business. Then all hell broke loose.’
‘But there were no prosecutions after the Arndale bombing?’
‘Maybe there wasn’t enough other evidence. Who knows? But once Carter was in the system they couldn’t just abandon him. The IRA would have known he was grassing on them.’
‘So, Horan is Michael Carter?’ asked Janice. ‘Do they even look the same?’
‘Possibly. With twenty years in between, remember. And maybe a touch of plastic surgery.’
She shook her head.
‘What happened to The Vet then?’ asked Louise.
‘He’s still out there somewhere. And remember, none of this would have been possible without someone in Greater Manchester Police knowing about it as well.’
‘Who?’
Dixon tore a piece of paper off a notepad on the side and spoke as he scribbled on it. ‘You get the difficult job, Jan. I want to know everything about this person. It’s not going to be easy, but you need to do it without anyone knowing. Start when they were born and work forwards, not the other way around. All right?’ He folded the piece of paper and handed it to her.
‘All right.’ She looked down and began unfolding the note. ‘Shit!’
‘We need to look at the CCTV on the Walrow Industrial Estate. I know the MIT will be doing it, but you need to do it too, Dave. All right?’
‘Why me?’
‘The footage in the factory will have gone, but the traffic cameras may throw up something. I went in there just before ten and the fire started not long after that. Then they’d have been on their toes.’
‘They might have gone in on foot from Dorset Close.’ Harding sighed. ‘I know, I know. Check. But, what do I tell the MIT about the CCTV?’
‘Tell them nothing.’
‘And Deborah Potter?’ asked Lewis.
‘You know her, is that right, Sir?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Where was she before Avon and Somerset?’
Lewis hesitated.
‘I’ll give you a clue. It’s a big city up north.’ Dixon raised his eyebrows. ‘With two football teams. United and—’
‘She came down from Manchester. In the late nineties.’
‘Tell her nothing.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘What do we do?’ Jane waited until Dixon had closed the front door of the cottage behind DCI Lewis.
‘Wait.’
‘You’re joking?’
Dixon sat down and picked up the TV remote control, quickly dropping it into his lap. ‘There’s the surveillance footage to watch. Pass me that file on the table.’
‘So, we just sit here twiddling our thumbs watching telly?’
‘I won’t twiddle mine, if you don’t mind.’ Dixon smiled. ‘You told me I was crap at delegating, so I delegated.’ He opened the file while it was still in Jane’s hand. ‘Manchester surveillance photos from the nineties,’ he said. ‘Five years’ worth, one binder per year. Pick one.’
‘1995,’ said Jane, sighing.
‘I’ll take 1996 then,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll put the 1995 DVD on in the background too.’
‘There’s something else we need to have a talk about.’ Jane began flicking through the photos. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Anything interesting.’
‘When you were on the beach, you said you were my fiancé.’
‘Would that be such a bad thing?’
Jane dropped the photo album on to the sofa. ‘You’re doing my head in, you really are. You go out sometimes and I never know whether you’re coming back.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’m not sure I can do this any more.’
‘I always come back.’
‘You bloody nearly didn’t this time. And what happens if we have a child?’
‘Look, I—’
‘It’s not a bloody game, Nick. You just walked into the snooker club too. And then there was the mud.’
‘The hovercraft was already on its way.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘You want me to change, is that it?’
‘Just take care. I want to know you’re coming home, not hope you’re coming home.’
‘Maybe we’ll take some time off when this is over. Go away somewhere. What d’you think?’
Jane was shaking her head. ‘Just don’t leave it too long.’
Dixon glanced across at Jane, watching a single tear in the corner of her eye. She blinked and it was gone. She had a point, and he felt the same about her. He took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. He knew it would never happen to him, but it nearly had. And what did that tell him? Luck had played a part, certainly, but would it last? If we can just get this one over with, he thought, things will be different next time. Call for backup, do risk assessments. All that – he grimaced – crap.
Things would look different after the funerals.
‘I need to see Jonny’s family. He’s got a husband in Bristol. He was the Armed Response Officer up at Priddy.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It’ll have to wait though. I can’t very well go there now.’
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ asked Jane, thumbing through the photograph album. ‘They all the look the same to me. The same faces appearing over and over. Michael Carter. Someone called Jerry Gooch.’
‘Terry Gooch. The leader of a rival gang. He disappeared not long after those photos were taken.’
‘The other names have been redacted,’ continued Jane.
‘What are they doing?’
‘Standing around outside a snooker club.’
‘Keep looking.’ Dixon glanced up at the television, a shot of a car pulling up outside the snooker club catching his eye.
‘What year is that?’ asked Jane.
‘1995.’
‘Pause it,’ she said. ‘Here, this is a still from that bit just then. Look.’ She was holding the 1995 photograph album open in front of him.
Dixon looked at the photograph album, then the TV. ‘So it is.’
‘You never answered my question last night, before you fell asleep.’
‘What question was that?’
‘The voices in the factory.’ Jane was watching him trying to turn the page in the photograph album with his fingernails. ‘Here, let me.’
‘What about them?’
‘You recognised them, didn’t you?’
‘One. Now we just need evidence.’
‘But he tried to kill you. Why not just arrest him?’
‘He’s going down for more than attempted murder, Jane. Much more.’
‘Can you fire up the laptop and put it on my knee?’
‘What d’you want it for?’ Jane yawned. ‘There’s something about surveillance videos. They just make me . . .’
‘I noticed,’ said Dixon, watching her yawning again. ‘At least we’re not stuck in a van all day filming the bloody things.’
&nb
sp; ‘True. It could be worse.’
‘I want to read that bulletin board again.’
Jane leaned over the back of the sofa and picked up the laptop from the dining table. She opened the lid, pressed the ‘on’ button and then left it on Dixon’s knee. ‘You’ve got time for a cup of tea before that thing’s ready.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We could go over to the Red Cow for lunch too, if you like?’
‘Love to, but it might blow my cover.’
‘Good point.’
‘Can you change the DVD for the 1996 footage too?’
‘How’re your hands?’
‘Killing me.’
Jane was looking at her watch. ‘You can have a couple more codeine if you need them.’
‘Better had. If I nod off, you’ll have to give me a prod.’
‘It’ll be my pleasure.’
Dixon watched the surveillance footage on the TV while he waited for his old laptop to start up. Every now and then he would hit the ‘pause’ button on the remote control and then flick through the album, looking for the corresponding photograph.
Jane handed him a mug of tea, glancing down at the laptop screen as she did so. ‘It’s ready to go. Let me find the bulletin board for you.’ She sat down next to him, leaned over and began flicking at the touchpad with her finger. Dixon put his arm around her.
‘You will say “yes”, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’
Jane smiled and kissed him on the cheek. Then she looked down at his right hand. His arm was around her waist, with the palm and fingers turned away from her. ‘I’ll get the cream.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Rats always leave a trail,’ muttered Dixon as he turned to the copy of the bulletin board thread on the screen: ‘Shit Happens’ started by Tristan the previous September.
‘Why does it start in September? Butler must’ve been following it before he disappeared in 2011, surely?’
‘It’ll be a fresh installation every time they move it,’ replied Jane. ‘Here.’ She handed him the tube of cream.
‘So the earlier stuff is lost?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shame.’
Dixon turned back to the screen. It was a long post, although it contained nothing that he didn’t already know, and identified Tristan to be Horan beyond doubt. He was being put out of business by ‘some twat called Harry who’s bought some useless bloody franchise’. Tristan had lost the council contract, which included the local schools, and the hospitals – Taunton, Bridgwater and Burnham – and now he was losing Wessex Water too. And all because someone, who had no idea what he was doing, had had six weeks’ training and then bought the franchise with its national contracts.