by Damien Boyd
Siegfried’s response had been less than sympathetic, which had added fuel to the fire.
Dixon winced.
Less of the fire metaphors in future.
It was a reasonable question though. ‘Why didn’t you buy the franchise first?’ Although it unleashed a tirade that ended with the news that Tristan’s ‘bitch of a wife’ had started divorce proceedings. The response was timed less than two minutes later, which meant they had both been online at the same time, surely? Dixon scrolled down.
All of the posts came in a thirty minute window at the same time and almost always on a Monday, although sometimes weeks apart. Perhaps it was an agreed time. They’d both check, and if the other one was online, then they’d chat.
DeniseM had been a registered member from the start, but never joined in the discussion, instead just lurking in the background. That much was confirmed by Tristan’s last post in the October exchange: ‘I know you’re reading this, Denise. Can’t you do something about it? You useless piece of shit.’
Nice.
The next set of posts came in November, Tristan becoming ever more animated now. Phrases such as ‘Don’t these bloody people know who I am?’ popped up several times, as did ‘I’m going to teach them a lesson they won’t forget’. Always with Siegfried trying to talk him down.
‘It’s not as if you need the money’ got a simple retort: ‘That’s not the fucking point’, by which time it was obvious even to the impartial observer that Tristan was ‘losing it’. Dixon scrolled down a bit further and smiled when he read Siegfried’s post at the start of the January exchange.
‘You’re losing it, mate. You need to get a grip.’
DeniseM chimed in at this point: ‘You need to calm down. It’s not going to be long before you attract attention to yourself and that will not end well for any of us. Least of all you.’
Dixon raised his eyebrows. Tristan’s response had been short and to the point as usual.
‘I don’t give a shit.’
The March exchange didn’t fit the pattern at all. Tristan started it in the middle of the month, on a Wednesday, with the announcement that he’d bought a trephine on the internet and The Vet was coming out of retirement. Then came the post that identified Siegfried as The Vet more than any other, pleading with Tristan not to risk it, pointing out that he’d ‘got lucky’, the advances in DNA profiling and, interestingly, reminding Tristan that there’s ‘no one on the payroll’. The ‘these days’ was unspoken, but Dixon knew it was there.
Then came the photographs of Harry Lucas. Dixon scrolled past them, glancing up at the television screen as he did so. He’d seen enough death in the last twenty-four hours.
Dixon continued reading, Tristan strangely calm now. ‘I could’ve done with your help. Some twats in a boat saw me, I’m sure they did. Anyway, hope you like the photos. Burial at sea was the best I could do. Bring back any memories? Heads or tails? The toss of a very special coin.’ Then a smiley face. ‘I remember the looks on their fucking faces!’
Twat.
Dixon swallowed hard.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jane. She was sitting on the floor with her back to the sofa, watching the surveillance footage on the TV.
‘It’s what The Vet did with the bits of skull. Horan’s revelling in it.’
‘What?’
‘He taunted his victims. “Heads I kill you, tails I don’t.” That’s what Paddy Shannon said. See what you think.’ He turned the laptop to face her.
‘The toss of a very special coin . . .’
‘Explains this photo, doesn’t it?’ Dixon scrolled down to the picture of David Cobb on Dunster Beach. ‘And the Polaroid of Dermot McGann.’
‘The looks on their faces . . .’ muttered Jane, through a heavy sigh.
Then came DeniseM’s first intervention. Pleading with Tristan to stop. ‘I can’t live with this. You have to stop or I will stop you. This is not what it was supposed to be about. I will stop you. You know that I will.’
Tristan’s response had been dismissive to say the least. ‘Piss off, Denise. You’ve been well looked after and you can’t turn me in without taking yourself down too. Live with it.’
Denise had chosen not to. She was being paid for something. That must be what the phrase ‘well looked after’ meant. But what? Dixon had suspected as much from the posh care home and the flat. She knew about the body in the shallow grave on Dunkery Beacon all along. And had turned a blind eye to more criminality besides. That would usually bring witness protection to an end for an individual and his family. It made sense.
Dixon had read the final exchange before. Or rather the business end of it that had taken him to the furniture factory. But the beginning of it was no less enlightening.
‘I need your help.’
‘No way.’
‘You owe me.’
‘I owe you nothing. I’ve paid you back and more. It wasn’t my fault it ended the way it did.’
‘They’ll think it’s you anyway.’
‘They don’t actually. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘If I get caught it’ll come out. The whole lot. Where will you be then? You won’t last five minutes in prison. Just this last one, then it’s over. It’ll be just like the old days. Then I won’t contact you again. Separate ways. I’ll take the board offline and that will be that.’
And that had been that, thought Dixon, adjusting the bandage on the side of his head.
‘Don’t touch that,’ said Jane.
‘It itches.’
‘Tough.’
‘Give me the remote, will you?’
‘What for?’
‘I’m going to start 1996 again.’
‘You’re kidding? I’ve sat through half of it already.’
‘Sorry,’ said Dixon, pointing at the laptop screen. ‘I was reading this.’
‘Cheese on toast?’ asked Jane.
‘That’ll do for me.’
His eyes had almost glazed over watching the surveillance footage. And there were only nineteen hours still to watch. He’d be dreaming about the snooker club, although he’d rather that than the fire. He looked down at the palms of his hands, stretching his fingers as far as he could. His right hand had taken the brunt of it, but then he was right handed so that was to be expected, perhaps. The blisters on all but his little finger had burst and the skin beneath was beginning to dry out. The doctor had been right – they looked worse than they were. He had been far more concerned by the concussion, but even his headache had gone now.
‘D’you want Lea and Perrins on yours?’ Jane was shouting from the kitchen.
‘Yes, pl—’ Dixon froze. ‘Where’s the remote?’ he screamed.
‘Dunno,’ replied Jane, poking her head around the door. ‘Try under Monty.’
The dog was curled up on the sofa next to him, so Dixon pushed him on the floor. ‘C’mon, shift, you dozy little sprite.’ Then he snatched up the TV remote control and jabbed the ‘pause’ button, ignoring the pain in his fingers.
‘You son of a . . .’
‘What is it?’ Jane was standing beside him now, watching him trying to press the buttons with his left hand. ‘Here, give it to me.’
Dixon handed her the remote control. ‘Just take it back a couple of minutes, then press “play”.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Just watch and pause it when I say.’
‘That’s a Jag, isn’t it?’ Jane was tipping her head to one side. ‘Could be a Daimler, I suppose. The Asian bloke in the sheepskin coat is in the way.’
A sheepskin coat, collar turned up, cowboy boots, sunglasses in winter; the man was standing outside the snooker club, the footage appearing to have been shot from an upstairs room in a building opposite. A step up from a surveillance van.
The conversation was animated, although both men had their hands in their pockets, presumably due to the cold. A thin layer of snow had settled on the top of the wall outside the club, and on the flat
roof.
‘Is that Michael Carter?’ asked Jane.
Dixon nodded. ‘Watch the car in the background.’
‘Looks like an old VW Golf to me,’ said Jane, watching the car back into a space on the far side of the car park, even though it was empty. A man and woman sat in the car talking for thirty seconds – Dixon timed it – then got out and walked across to the front door of the club.
‘Pause it.’ Dixon waited. ‘What d’you notice about that?’
‘They’re holding hands?’ Jane was shaking her head.
‘They are. Press “play”.’
The woman rummaged in her handbag, found a set of keys and opened the front door of the snooker club. Then they went in, closely followed by Michael Carter and the sheepskin coat.
‘What’s odd about that?’ asked Jane.
‘Several things.’ Dixon handed Jane the 1996 photograph album. ‘Find me the corresponding photo.’
Jane began flicking through the album. ‘I can’t. There’s one of Carter talking to the Asian man, but none with the couple in the background.’
‘Exactly.’
‘D’you think it’s deliberate?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s the undercover police officer. Rick Wheaton was his cover name. He worked there for twelve months and that’s the only image of him we’ve found anywhere. Funny that, isn’t it?’
Jane nodded.
‘Not only that, but he’s holding hands with Derek Hervey’s widow.’
‘That’s her?’
‘There’s a photo of Hervey and his wife on the file in Manchester.’ Dixon handed Jane his phone. ‘Rewind it and take a photo of them standing together by the front door. Zoom in and get a couple of them.’
‘If I zoom it’ll go all grainy.’
‘Stand nearer the telly.’
‘Here.’ Jane handed Dixon’s phone back. ‘Is that it?’
‘One more thing.’
‘What?’
‘The toast’s burning.’
Dixon listened to Jane’s footsteps as she ran into the kitchen and then the clatter of the grill while he tapped out a text message to Louise.
Need address and tel for Derek Hervey’s widow, Angela, soon as poss pls
‘That was the last of the bread,’ muttered Jane. She was standing in the doorway watching the smoke billowing from the grill.
‘I’ve seen enough smoke to last me a lifetime.’
‘Course you have. Sorry.’ Jane tipped the toast into the bin. ‘How about a mug of soup?’
‘That’s fine.’ He was about to switch the surveillance DVD back on when his phone rang.
‘Hi, Louise.’
‘I’ve got the information you wanted about the covert DNA sample, Sir.’
‘Fire away.’ Dixon rolled his eyes.
Twit.
‘The sample was logged by Detective Chief Superintendent Hargreaves on the third of March 1995. It’s been tested against the database three times since: 1996, 2005 and 2011. Then again today.’
‘And?’
‘It throws up a match this time. Robin Ellis, aged fifty-five. He’s an estate agent in Winchester. Got nicked for drink driving two years ago and received an eighteen month ban.’
‘Which agent?’
‘One of the posh ones. Wilton and Parker. They do the big million pound plus houses, looking at the internet.’
‘Have you got an address for him?’
‘And a phone number.’
‘Text them to me, will you?’
‘OK.’
‘Is it a full match?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, Louise. How’s Janice getting on?’
‘Not too good, I don’t think. She had a run-in with Chard earlier too, but she can fill you in on that. Did you see the press conference on the local news?’
‘No, I missed it.’
‘The Chief Con seems to think the sun shines out of your arse.’
Dixon smiled. ‘He won’t when he finds out I’m still alive.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dixon spent the rest of the day watching the surveillance, when he wasn’t on the telephone or coating his hands in antibiotic cream, and went to bed just before midnight, halfway through the 1994 footage. They had stumbled on highlights of the Chief Constable’s press conference on the local TV news when Dixon had been channel hopping, but the evening had taken a turn for the better when Louise dropped off a takeaway from the Zalshah.
Now the alarm on his phone was buzzing, taking it ever closer to the edge of his bedside table.
‘What time is it?’ Jane’s voice was coming from under the duvet.
‘Six.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘Half an hour. We need to drop Monty off at your folks’ on the way.’ Dixon sat up. ‘You did ring them?’
‘Not yet. They’ll be fine.’ Jane threw back the duvet. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Winchester first, then Surbiton. And we need to be back by six for Janice and the team.’
‘I’m driving, I suppose.’
Dixon smiled. ‘No Little Chef, I’m afraid. We’ll have to make do with a bacon sarnie from a van.’
‘You know just what to say.’ Jane jumped out of bed and ran across to the bathroom.
‘I’ll let the dog out, shall I?’ mumbled Dixon.
‘He’s your dog.’
They arrived in Arthur Road, Winchester, with plenty of time to spare before their 11 a.m. appointment with Robin Ellis. And that was despite breakfast sitting in a lay-by on the A303. Ellis had insisted on meeting them at home, rather than his office, for reasons he hadn’t felt the need to spell out, although Dixon had understood. Ellis had only just hung on to his job after the drink driving incident, so he was no doubt anxious to avoid the police turning up at his office.
It was a large bow fronted Victorian property with a tiled front path and stained glass windows in the front door.
‘Nice, isn’t it,’ said Jane, leaning over the steering wheel and looking up at the house.
‘Spoilt by next door’s loft conversion, if you ask me.’
‘Hark at you.’
‘It looks like a big square box has been dumped on the roof, or fallen off a plane or something.’
‘Since when did you become an architect?’ Jane smiled.
‘Next door was sold two years ago for one point two million. I looked it up.’
‘You’ve been watching daytime TV again, haven’t you?’
‘C’mon, he’s in there. Let’s get it over with. And remember, avoid giving my name unless he asks. I’m just your colleague.’
‘I know, I know.’
Jane rang the doorbell. Dixon was standing behind her with his hands in his pockets. He made out a blue blazer and red tie approaching the front door from the inside, and the click of leather heels on a wooden floor. Ellis opened the door and stepped out into the porch, pulling the door shut behind him.
‘Look, what’s this all about?’
‘Detective Sergeant Winter, Sir,’ said Jane. ‘And this is my colleague.’ Dixon was standing behind her holding up his warrant card in his left hand with his finger over his name.
‘May we come in?’ continued Jane.
‘My wife’s in.’ Ellis’s eyes were wide, a look of panic on his face.
I wonder what you’ve been up to while the cat’s away . . .
‘This relates to an incident in Manchester twenty years ago, Sir. You’re not suspected of having committed any offence, if that helps. We’re just hoping you might be able to help us with our enquiries.’
Ellis breathed out. ‘Can my wife sit in with us?’ Eyes wide again.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Jane, with her best disarming smile. ‘I’m sure she’ll have no problem with any of it.’
‘Follow me.’
The back of the property had been knocked through to make the whole area open plan, with floor to ceiling g
lass windows overlooking the garden, and two large sofas arranged around an open fire. There were built-in shelves on either side full of books and photographs.
A woman sitting with her back to the door stood up.
‘You can stay, Clare, it’s fine,’ said Ellis, trying to sound matter of fact.
Dixon sat down on the end of the sofa nearest the photographs and took out his notebook and pen.
‘Where were you in 1995, Mr Ellis?’ asked Jane.
‘We lived in Hale back then. We moved down here in 2002.’
‘You’ll remember The Vet then.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘So, you’ll know we’re investigating the series of copycat killings in Somerset?’
‘Yes. Look what’s this got to do with me?’
‘In 1995 a DNA sample was obtained. It came from saliva. It’s been tested several times over the years and has never thrown up a match. Until now.’
‘Who with?’
‘You, Mr Ellis.’
‘Me?’
‘Let’s be quite clear. We’re not suggesting that you’re The Vet.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ muttered Mrs Ellis.
‘But, a sample of your saliva was obtained,’ continued Jane, ‘almost certainly without your knowledge, and presented as if it came from a man called Michael Carter. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘I remember the Carters. Everyone in Manchester back then had heard of them.’
‘Michael was the leader.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘D’you know anyone who might have done that?’
‘No, of course not.’ Indignant now.
‘Anyone who might have wished to hurt you?’
‘No. Look, we lived in Hale. Had two young children in the local primary school. I was an estate agent. That’s it.’
‘Did you ever play snooker at a club in—’
‘I’ve never played snooker,’ interrupted Ellis, shrugging his shoulders. ‘A couple of games of pool in the pub, but I never went to a snooker club.’