by Damien Boyd
‘Find anything in Tom’s past connecting him with Stanniland?’ asked Jane.
‘No. What about Elizabeth?’
‘Straight “A” student at every turn. Gap year working for charity in Malawi. There’s lots on Facebook but nothing sinister. Not even amongst her friends. I can’t find anyone who has a bad word to say about her. And as for her path crossing with a drug dealer? No chance.’
Janice shook her head.
‘What now then?’ asked Jane.
Janice was about to reply when they were both distracted by the sound of a door slamming at the far end of the first floor. They listened to heavy footsteps marching along the landing and watched the end of the canteen to see who would appear around the corner.
DCI Lewis was flushed and Jane could see that he was gritting his teeth, even from twenty yards away. He stopped on the far side of the workstations and looked across at Jane and Janice.
‘Meeting room two. Now.’
They followed DCI Lewis across the landing and into meeting room two. He slammed the door behind them and spoke without sitting down.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing, Sir,’ replied Janice.
‘Nothing?’
‘Not yet, anyway. We’ve been looking for a connection between the Perrys and Stanniland. The next step is to proceed on the basis that Stanniland was paid by a person or persons unknown.’
DCI Lewis shook his head.
‘We’ve got the DNA, don’t forget, Sir,’ said Janice.
‘Well, that’s just the point, isn’t it,’ replied Lewis. ‘We haven’t got the DNA, have we? At least, not anymore.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Jane.
‘PGL fucked it up,’ replied Lewis.
‘What d’you . . . ?’
‘What was the term they used?’ replied Lewis, shaking his head. ‘“Investigator mediated contamination”.’
Janice pulled a chair out from under the table and slumped into it.
‘It was a skeleton staff on over Christmas, so they retested the sample this morning,’ continued Lewis. ‘A matter of routine, apparently.’
‘And?’
‘They got a different result. A stack of plastic trays from a robotic unit was reused when it shouldn’t have been and it’s contaminated the whole bloody lot.’
‘But that’s all we had.’
‘Exactly.’
‘They got nothing from the vomit or the cigarettes in the lane,’ said Jane.
‘So, what’ve we got left?’ asked Lewis.
‘Not enough,’ replied Janice.
‘There’s his van on the traffic camera,’ said Jane, ‘if High Tech can enhance the footage so we can see the number plate.’
‘And what does that prove?’
‘On its own, nothing,’ replied Janice.
‘That’s what we’ve got then, isn’t it? Nothing.’
DCI Lewis saw Dave Harding waiting outside the meeting room door and opened it.
‘What’s up, Dave?’
‘We’ve lost the crime scene, Sir.’
‘What d’you mean “lost it”?’
‘It’s under twelve feet of water.’
‘It just gets better and better,’ said Lewis, sitting down on a chair he had kicked out from under the table. He closed his eyes and sat in silence, breathing slowly through his nose. Dave Harding used the opportunity to back out of the room, closing the door behind him. Janice and Jane waited.
‘We’ll never get another extension to hold him based on what we’ve got,’ said Lewis. ‘The reason we got the last extension has gone now and we sure as hell haven’t got enough left to charge him.’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Janice.
‘I’ll speak to the chief constable. And Vicky Thomas. Our press officer’s going to earn her bloody money this time.’
Jane followed Janice out into the rain and stood holding an umbrella over her while she smoked a cigarette that she had scrounged off Harry Unwin.
‘It’s not your fault, Jan.’
‘You and I both know that . . .’
‘And Lewis knows it too.’
‘Maybe, but that’s not how it’s going to look. Is it?’ replied Janice, blowing the smoke out through her nose.
Jane watched a large black Jaguar turning into the staff car park. She recognised the driver.
‘That’s the assistant chief constable, Jan. We’d better go.’
‘Well, we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory, have we?’ said David Charlesworth. He was sitting at the head of the table, dressed casually and chewing an earpiece of his black horn rimmed spectacles.
‘The fault rests with PGL, Sir,’ said Lewis.
‘An inevitable consequence of the privatisation of the Forensic Science Service, I suppose?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well, you’re probably right. But how do we explain that to the Perry family?’
‘And to the press,’ said Vicky Thomas.
‘It’s not as if we’ve come up with anything else, is it?
‘No, Sir.’
‘Have the family been told?’
‘Not yet, Sir,’ replied Lewis.
‘When can we hold him until?’
‘We’ve got a Warrant of Further Detention but it expires tomorrow morning.’
‘And the DNA was the basis upon which we got it?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In custody here, Sir.’
‘Have forensics finished in his flat?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What did they find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing off the van either, I suppose?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘And the crime scene is flooded, I gather?’
‘It’s under twelve feet of water.’
‘He’s been very lucky then, hasn’t he? This . . . what’s his name?’
‘Stanniland, Sir.’
David Charlesworth shook his head.
‘I don’t see we have any real alternative, do you? We have to release him. But for God’s sake, keep a tail on him.’
‘What about the family?’ asked Lewis.
‘I’ll tell them,’ replied Charlesworth. ‘Although God alone knows what I’m going to say.’
Jane arrived home just after 7.30 p.m. The cottage was dark and there was no barking when she put her key in the door, so she walked over to the Red Cow to find Dixon standing at the bar, paying for a pint. Monty saw her first and ran across to greet her, his lead trailing on the floor.
‘Just in time,’ said Dixon. ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘Make it a double,’ replied Jane.
Dixon shrugged his shoulders and turned to the barman.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Rob.
They sat down at the table by the fire and Monty took up his usual position, stretched out on the floor as close as he could get to the hearth.
‘Bad day?’
‘You could say that,’ replied Jane, taking a large swig of her drink.
‘What’s happened?’
‘The lab mucked up the DNA sample. Contaminated it. That was all we had so we’ve had to let him go.’
‘Let him go?’
‘No choice. Four o’clock this afternoon.’
Jane spent the next twenty minutes bringing Dixon up to date with the investigation, which involved starting from scratch, given that she hadn’t really told him anything about it before. What she chose not to tell him was that DCI Lewis had taken her to one side after the meeting with the assistant chief constable and asked her to brief Dixon. Lewis had tapped the side of his nose with his index finger leaving Jane in no doubt that she wasn’t to let on. But he had definitely used the word ‘brief’. It sounded formal.
Dixon had listened intently and finished his beer before he spoke again.
‘What’s Janice doing about it?’
‘Thrashing around, I think. I’m not sure she knows what to do, to be hone
st.’
Dixon was sucking his teeth. Jane recognised the signs and waited.
‘So, you’ve got three DNA profiles?’ asked Dixon.
‘We had three DNA profiles.’
‘The usual you’d expect from Tom and Elizabeth and then Stanniland’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘So that means no one else was there?’
‘Right.’
‘Wrong,’ said Dixon, picking up his glass. ‘Fancy another drink?’
Dixon placed a fresh gin and tonic in front of Jane and sat down next to her.
‘What d’you mean “wrong”?’ she asked.
‘Let’s start at the beginning. What is trace DNA?’
‘Well, it’s proof of . . .’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s evidence. That’s all. Hair, saliva, skin cells. And it needs to be interpreted just like any other piece of evidence.’ Dixon took a swig of beer. ‘It’s often misinterpreted too.’
‘Anyone would think you knew what you were talking about,’ said Jane.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s good evidence then?’
‘Sometimes, but not always.’
‘So, what if there’s no profile?’ asked Jane.
‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t there. Just that they left no DNA behind,’ replied Dixon. ‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Lots of people. It’s an aphorism. But it’s quoted by Professor Peter Gill. Twenty-six years with the Forensic Science Service, so he should know,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’ve got his book at home. You should read it.’
‘But . . .’
‘Have you ever stopped to think that Grafton and the old bird might both be right?’
‘Mrs Freeman?’
Dixon nodded.
‘No,’ said Jane.
‘Try it,’ said Dixon. ‘You eaten?’
Dixon was standing in the kitchen window, watching the first light of dawn spread across the fields behind his cottage. It had stopped raining by the time they had left the pub the previous night and a clear sky had made for a hard frost, as evidenced by the thick layer of ice coating his Land Rover. At least the snorkel hadn’t fallen off.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Jane standing in the doorway. She was leaning against the door frame with her eyes closed.
‘Can I smell coffee?’
‘You can,’ replied Dixon, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘Want some?’
‘Yes, please.’ Jane was rubbing her eyes. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eightish.’
Dixon watched her yawn.
‘What time are you due in?’ he asked.
‘Whenever I get there.’
‘And what time did you finish reading last night?’
‘Two or so.’
‘You go and sit down, I’ll bring your coffee in.’
Dixon was handing a mug of coffee to Jane when they heard the bleep of a text message arriving on a phone in the bedroom.
‘Was that you or me?’ asked Jane.
‘You probably. I’ll go and have a look.’
It took Dixon a minute to find her phone, which was being used as a bookmark in his copy of Misleading DNA Evidence by Professor Peter Gill.
‘It’s you,’ he said, walking down the stairs.
He took a swig of coffee while he watched Jane open the text message and read it.
‘I just don’t f . . .’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Dixon.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me.’
‘Stanniland’s disappeared.’
‘You said there was a tail on him.’
‘I thought there was,’ replied Jane. She held her phone out in front of her and read from the screen.
Stanniland not on train. Never arrived Bristol Temple Meads yesterday. Jan
‘They put him on a train?’ asked Dixon.
‘Looks like it,’ replied Jane. ‘I’d better go.’
Jane arrived at Express Park just as Janice was leaving, at speed. She screeched to a halt and wound her window down.
‘There’s a body in the water off Brean Down,’ shouted Janice. ‘It fits the description of Stanniland. Dump your car in the visitors’ car park and get in.’
Jane turned into the visitors’ car park and left her car in the first space, while Janice reversed back to the entrance. Jane then ran over and jumped in the passenger seat of Janice’s car.
‘You said he was on a train?’
‘Yes. He was put on the 4.02 p.m. to Temple Meads and they were going to pick him up at the other end. But he never got there, did he?’
‘Whose bloody stupid idea was that?’ asked Jane.
‘Mine.’
‘What about his flat?’
‘Never turned up there either.’
Janice accelerated up to ninety miles an hour on the dual carriageway out towards the motorway roundabout.
‘What’s the rush?’ asked Jane.
‘Tide’s going out,’ replied Janice. ‘It brought the body in and if we don’t hurry up it’s going to take it back out again.’
‘Lifeboat?’
‘On the way.’
‘I’ll ring Nick,’ said Jane. ‘He’ll be on the beach with Monty by now.’
Chapter Nine
Dixon had watched Jane leave for Bridgwater and then bundled Monty into the back of the Land Rover. The tide would be turning in an hour or so and, if it was too high, he could always park in front of the Sundowner Cafe, instead of on the beach. It was worth a look.
The wooden bollards designed to stop you parking too close to the sand dunes meant that parking on the beach was impossible, even with a snorkel, so Dixon reversed back along the beach access road. He left the Land Rover outside the Sundowner and then followed Monty towards Brean Down.
He thought about Janice, who seemed to be jinxed. After all, it was not her fault that PGL had contaminated the DNA sample, nor was it her fault that the crime scene was flooded. And as for Stanniland’s disappearance, it would have happened sooner or later no doubt, even with a tail on him.
Dixon was walking along the base of the cliffs at Brean Down, wondering who DCI Lewis would get to sort the mess out, and thanking his lucky stars he was suspended, when his phone rang in his pocket.
‘Hi, Jane, what’s up?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Brean Down.’
‘Thank God for that.’
Dixon could hear a car engine in the background.
‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s a body in the water on the far side of Brean Down. It fits the description of Stanniland so we got the shout. We’re leaving now. The RNLI have been called out. Can you get over there and see if you can spot it?’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘About a third of the way along on the north side. Two men are fishing off the terraces.’
‘OK.’
‘Look, the tide’s turning and if the Axe takes it out into the main channel we’ll never find it.’
‘All right, I’m on my way now.’
Dixon rang off and started running towards the gap in the sea wall. Monty chased after him, thinking it was a game, no doubt. They ran along the path between the bungalows and then followed the track towards the steps that would take them to the top of Brean Down from the south side. Dixon stopped at the bottom to put Monty on his lead and then began the climb.
Dixon was familiar with these steps. He used to run up and down them when training for climbing trips to the Alps, but that was many years ago now, or at least it felt like it. He remembered throwing up his breakfast at the top the first time he had done it and hoped he wouldn’t do the same again today.
He arrived at the terrace, less than halfway up, and stopped for a rest. His legs were burning and he was leaning on a fence post, breathing hard. He could hear sirens in the distance but could not tell how many there wer
e, nor could he see any blue lights. He looked to the south, hoping to see the lifeboat coming, but there was nothing. Yet.
Dixon looked at Monty, who was panting hard.
‘You and me,’ said Dixon, gasping for breath. ‘New Year’s resolution. Diet. All right?’ Then they started running up the steps again.
Dixon stopped at the top with his hands on his knees, trying to get his breathing under control, if only so he could stuff a handful of fruit pastilles into his mouth. Managing his blood sugar levels had become second nature now. Weston pier was visible in the distance but the old fort at the western end of Brean Down was out of view, around the corner.
Dixon looked up and saw a man standing on the tarmac road about two hundred yards away. He was waving both arms above his head and shouting, but any sound was being carried away on the wind.
The River Axe swept past the base of the cliffs on the north side of Brean Down and it was beginning to swirl as the tide turned. Jane was right. If the body was caught by the River Axe, it would meet the outgoing tide on the rivers Parrett and Brue before being taken out still further into the main Bristol Channel.
Dixon sprinted down towards the man standing on the service road, which ran along the clifftops on the north side. As he approached, he could hear the man shouting.
‘Have you got a phone? My battery’s gone.’
Dixon stopped in front of him.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police. Help’s on the way.’
‘Oh, thank God. The body’s in the water and the tide’s going out,’ said the man, pointing to a narrow path leading down through the dense undergrowth towards the clifftop.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Dixon.
‘Colin Wright.’
‘Got ID?’
‘Er, yes,’ replied Wright, fumbling in his back pocket. ‘What d’you need my ID for?’
‘I need to know who I’m leaving my dog with,’ replied Dixon. He looked at the photocard driving licence and then handed Monty’s lead to Wright.
‘You’ll have to hang on tight.’
‘Right.’
Dixon set off down the muddy track through the brambles. It was steep and slippery, with nothing to hang on to on either side, but it was no worse than some of the descent chutes he had navigated in his old climbing days. And at least this time he wasn’t weighed down with climbing equipment.