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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Was she there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine. She was winded, that’s all, and her ribs hurt for a day or two, but she’s fine.’ Dixon sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘Deborah Potter was there too. She offered me a transfer to Portishead.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Jane frowned.

  ‘That I’d think about it and let her know. I rang Paul Butler’s widow afterwards and said I’d call in on the way back from your mother’s funeral.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Then I went to see Jonny’s family.’

  ‘How were they?’

  ‘Not good. His parents have lost both their sons now,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head.

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ he said, smiling as he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his phone. ‘It’s from Janice.’ Dixon dropped the phone into Jane’s lap. ‘You coming?’

  She picked it up and read the text message aloud. ‘West Huntspill Sewage Treatment Works, quick as you can.’ Then handed the phone back to Dixon. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘My guess is Kenny Carter’s put in another appearance.’

  The uniformed officer opened the gate on Sloway Lane and Jane drove out along the River Huntspill towards the outfall into the River Parrett.

  ‘There’s an odd sort of symmetry to this, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s called a coincidence,’ replied Dixon, watching a heron on the far bank.

  ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s stick with symmetry.’

  Dixon ignored Jane’s emphatic nod.

  At the outfall she turned north along the service road that followed the River Parrett. A short wheelbase Land Rover was visible in the distance, on the top of the embankment.

  ‘There it is again,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s the Defender 90. Much quicker too. What d’you think?’

  ‘Lovely.’ Jane sighed.

  An ambulance was parked on the embankment behind the Land Rover and beyond that a fire engine.

  ‘Let’s leave this here and walk the rest of the way,’ said Dixon.

  Jane pulled into a lay-by on the service road and Dixon let Monty out of the back of the car. Then they crossed the embankment and walked along the grass just above the high tide line. Two more Land Rovers were visible in the distance, on the concrete service road beyond where it crossed over the embankment. Three Coastguard mud technicians were climbing into bright yellow mud suits, while another carried a large orange stretcher to the edge of the mud.

  Dixon stopped to put Monty on his lead as they approached the sewage outfall, marked by the huge concrete viewing platform and warning sign, not that he could imagine anyone dropping anchor along here. Janice spotted them and walked along the service road with Louise to meet them.

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘He’s face down in the mud, but he’s wearing a green coat and black trousers, so . . .’ Janice’s voice tailed off.

  ‘You all right, Sir?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Fine, thanks. These are getting better anyway,’ he said, holding out his hands.

  ‘He’s over there,’ said Janice. ‘The Coastguard are getting ready to go out and get him.’

  ‘Well, he was one of theirs, wasn’t he?’

  ‘There’s no hovercraft, unfortunately,’ said Louise, raising her eyebrows.

  Dixon handed Monty’s lead to Jane and walked across to the stones at the edge of the mud. He looked at the body, perhaps twenty yards away down the slope towards the concrete outfall, the waterline a further five or so yards below that. At least the ducks had gone this time.

  An orange fishing net appeared to be tangled around Carter’s left wrist, hiding the bandages, and a mat of thick black seaweed covered his head, affording it some protection from the seagulls. Not that he had lain there for long.

  ‘A dog walker found him,’ said Janice. She was standing next to Dixon on the edge of the mud.

  ‘Where would we be without dog walkers?’

  Janice smiled. ‘How did you know it was Kenny?’

  ‘Denise Marks told me. And if you assume Paul Butler was right about the Carters then it all drops into place. That and Michael’s interview.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘If I’d stabbed someone in the neck and then shot them at point blank range, I like to think I’d remember which way round I’d done it, even at the age of fifteen.’

  ‘He didn’t do it?’

  ‘Kenny did and Michael protected him, but nobody cared. They’d got a confession and that was that.’

  ‘And the DNA test?’

  ‘Horan was related to the body on Dunkery Beacon. That made it either Kenny or Michael,’ Dixon shrugged his shoulders. ‘So I had a fifty-fifty chance either way. But Angela Maxwell confirmed it. She recognised him.’

  He watched the mud technicians wading out across the mud, dragging the stretcher behind them. They were up to their waists by the time they reached the body, but somehow managed to manhandle it on to the stretcher, rolling Carter on to his back and tying him on. Then they turned and began wading back towards the safety of the stones.

  Dixon stood over the stretcher and looked down at Carter, watching the seawater draining from his nose and mouth, leaving streaks in the wet mud on his face. The large mat of rotting seaweed tangled around his neck and arm had come with him on the stretcher and a paramedic began cutting it away.

  ‘I’d leave that, if I were you,’ said Dixon, grateful for the stench.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Two funerals in three days. It was enough for anyone.

  Jonny Sexton’s had been very different: a huge crowd of mourners, led by his family and the Chief Constable – who had not finished frowning at Dixon – past and present colleagues and friends, a guard of honour; Avon and Somerset Police had been out in force for a colleague killed in the line of duty. And rightly so.

  And the TV cameras, of course. They had been there too.

  Now Dixon was sitting outside Carlisle Crematorium watching the other mourners – both of them – admiring the daffodils and the rose garden, a few early buds on the way. Neighbours, apparently. They hadn’t known Sonia well, they had told Dixon, but her probation officer had told them the funeral would not be well attended so they felt they ought to be there to make up the numbers. He shook his head. It sounded sad and it was.

  Two more arrived as the hearse drew up to the front.

  ‘That’s Sonia’s probation officer, I think,’ said Jane. ‘I’m not sure who the other one is.’

  Dixon squeezed her hand.

  That made six.

  ‘We’d better go in.’

  Carlisle Crematorium was identical to every other crematorium he had ever been in, but it did have a nice view. Dixon was looking out of the window at the spring flowers in the Garden of Remembrance, and beyond them Carlisle and the Solway Plain. It was as good a place as any to meet your maker, he thought as he put his arm around Jane.

  She had felt fine before the service, or at least had said she had, but as soon as it started she had begun to cry. Still, she had come armed with a packet of tissues, so all Dixon had to do was be there.

  It was an odd relationship, mother and daughter. Jane had only met her birth mother twice, but her death could still invoke this reaction. Maybe she was crying for what she’d lost?

  He glanced around the crematorium. No sign of Tony, which was a relief. Still, it would have been a first, arresting someone at a funeral.

  Twat.

  They were sitting in the front row, the only other mourners on the other side of the aisle. He noticed a middle-aged couple and a girl of fifteen or so sitting at the back. They must have crept in once the service had started.

  The eulogy was short, and the vicar obviously hadn’t known Sonia. A few prayers, two hymns and that wa
s that. In and out in under twenty minutes. It wasn’t much to show for fifty years of life.

  Once the service was over, Dixon left Jane talking to the vicar and followed the late arrivals to their car on the far side of the car park.

  ‘Excuse me, I didn’t get a chance to ask you who you were,’ he said, catching up with them just as the man was opening the car doors.

  ‘Er, I—’

  ‘Sonia was my mother,’ said the girl, her jet black hair obviously dyed. ‘These are my foster parents.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the man.

  ‘My name’s Nick,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘Would you mind waiting here a minute?’

  ‘Well, we—’

  ‘Why?’ asked the girl.

  ‘There’s someone I think you’d like to meet.’

  The girl nodded.

  Dixon ran back over to Jane, who was sitting on a bench staring at the spring daisies. She looked up, her eyes full of tears. He sat down next to her, took her hand and smiled.

  ‘Come and meet your sister.’

  Acknowledgments

  There are a great many people without whom this book would not have been written, but also a great many without whom it would not have been read. So, first of all, I would to thank you, the reader. Whether this is your first experience of the DI Nick Dixon Crime Series or whether you have followed Nick, Jane and Monty through all seven books thus far, thank you and I hope you enjoyed the ride!

  I would also like to thank my editorial team at Thomas & Mercer, whose patience has not yet run out despite my best efforts. And to my friends and unpaid editors, as always, and in no particular order, Alison Crowther Smith, Charlie Szechowski and Rod Glanville.

  I should also like to express my particular thanks to Dr Harry Pugh MB ChB MRCOG FRCA and Mr Jonathan Bull MA MB BChir MD(Res) FRCSGlasg FRCSEng (Consultant Neurosurgeon) for their invaluable help with the medical aspects in this book. Needless to say, the surgical niceties involved went right over my head (if you’ll pardon the pun!) and I am deeply grateful to them for sharing their knowledge and expertise.

  I would also like to record my thanks to Beverley Milner Simonds for sharing her experiences of HM Coastguard operations and to the team at BARB Search & Rescue for the guided tour of their station and the hovercraft – for the record, they have two of them! And, once again, to Burnham-on-Sea RNLI who have been extraordinarily generous with their time. Thank you for the ride in the lifeboat too!

  And lastly to my father, Michael. Thanks for everything, Dad. I’ll see you on the other side.

  Damien Boyd

  Devon, UK

  March 2017

  About the Author

  Photo © 2013 Damien Boyd

  Damien Boyd is a solicitor by training and draws on his extensive experience of criminal law, along with a spell in the Crown Prosecution Service, to write fast-paced crime thrillers featuring Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.