by Damien Boyd
Suddenly, the track opened out and Dixon found himself in a clearing at the top of the cliffs. Another man was standing there, peering into the bottom of a deep cleft in the rocks. Four fishing rods were leaning against a large boulder just below the top.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a rope?’ shouted Dixon, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the wind and the waves.
‘No, sorry.’
‘Hold this.’ Dixon handed the man his phone.
‘You’re not going down there?’
Dixon smiled and then began scrambling down to the fishing ledges. The rock was slippery and sloped towards the water, which focussed his mind, but he made short work of it and was soon standing on the lowest of three ledges. Then he shuffled to his left until he was able to look directly over the ledge and see the water below him.
The body was floating face down at the bottom of a deep cleft in the cliffs, being carried in and out on the waves. It was male and so could perhaps be Jane’s missing suspect. Then Dixon noticed that the feet were bound, with a length of rope trailing behind the body. He knew the signs. The trademark. An old saying about playing with fire and expecting to get burnt flashed across his mind, although he couldn’t remember the exact words.
The rock was wet and coated in black slime just a few feet below the ledge he was standing on, and the body was no more than ten feet below that. Seaweed was washing in the current of muddy brown water that was surging into the cleft and back out again.
Dixon thought it might be fun to catch fish off these ledges, but eating it was out of the question.
Suddenly, he heard a dog barking and looked up to see Monty running backwards and forwards along the clifftop above him, his lead trailing behind him.
‘Get hold of my dog, will you?’ shouted Dixon, to the man watching his every move.
The current seemed to be getting stronger and it would not be long before it took the body out with it. Then it would be out into the main channel and gone.
He took a deep breath and began climbing down. He turned to face the cliff and picked his hand and foot holds with precision, making sure he had three points of solid contact with the rock before he moved. The band of black slime was the high tide mark and beneath that it gave way to smelly brown slime, although no more than a foot had been revealed by the outgoing tide so far. Dixon hoped that it was mud and silt but either way, holding on to that rock was out of the question.
He shuffled along a narrow ramp that descended towards the water. At the bottom was a narrow crack, perhaps four inches wide, from which he would be able to reach the body. Whether he would be able to hang onto it long enough was another matter, but he would cross that bridge when he got to it.
From a standing position at the bottom of the small and narrow ramp, he lowered himself down into the water up to his waist. He was feeling around with his feet, trying to find footholds to steady himself. Then he jammed his right hand in the crack in front of him, clenched his fist and twisted it.
The waves were crashing into the rocks all around him and he was soon soaked to the skin. He was trying to breathe through his nose, having decided that swallowing a mouthful of seawater was not an option, but it was far from easy with the water splashing up into his face on each surge.
Timing was everything. An incoming wave would bring the dead man close enough to catch. Then all Dixon had to do was hang on. He waited for the next wave, took a deep breath and turned. The body was surging towards him so Dixon reached out with his left hand and took hold of it by the belt.
Then the wave raced back out of the cleft. The man rolled over and Dixon could see that his hands had been tied in front of him using cable ties, which were biting deep into the flesh of his wrists. Dixon grimaced. It took all of his strength to hold on to him with his left hand and keep his right wedged in the crack, but he was able to do it. Just.
Now he had to do it again. And again.
Each wave that surged in twisted the body behind Dixon, turning him away from the sanctuary of the rock and showering his face and head with muddy brown water. There was no escaping it, no matter which way he turned his head. He tried to hold his breath and breathe only with each outgoing wave, but he was starting to swallow seawater now.
He had lost all feeling in his legs and was shivering violently. Much longer and he would have to let go. Either that or he would risk being sucked out into the main channel himself.
Dixon closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself walking along the beach in the heat of the midday sun on an August bank holiday. It didn’t work.
He had lost all track of time and had given up trying to count the tidal surges. It was far easier to count the bouts of vomiting now: five, six. Then he heard a shout from above. PC Cole was standing on the clifftop above, pointing out to sea. Dixon turned his head and looked out towards the main channel.
It was the inshore lifeboat, no more than fifty yards away, engines racing to hold station in the current.
The lifeboat sped upstream, out of sight, before turning in a loop and coming in closer this time, no more than ten yards from the rocks. The noise of the engines, the wind and the waves made it impossible for Dixon to hear the instructions being shouted by the helmsman, but he peered around the rocks and watched the crewman in the bows drop the anchor over the front of the boat just a few yards upstream of his cleft in the rocks.
The boat then began reversing back towards the rocks, both of the large engines screaming in protest as it tensioned against the anchor chain. The backwash was immense, churning the sea into a boiling mass of foam and bubbles under the boat. The anchor slipped and the boat jerked back. Then it held.
A crewman at the back of the boat was leaning over the side, testing the depth with a pole as the boat inched back towards the rocks. Dixon watched the helmsman fighting the current and gunning the engines, trying to hold the boat straight across the current. Dixon was resisting the temptation to put his hands over his ears. It would mean losing his grip on the body and the crack in the rock in front of him, although that was just a matter of minutes away anyway.
The boat was getting close enough for Dixon to hear the shouts of the crew.
‘One metre.’
The anchor chain had given way to rope now and the crewman in the bows fed another metre over the front, allowing the boat to tension back still further.
The crewman at the back was testing the depth with the pole.
‘Clear.’
‘One metre.’ The helmsman again.
‘Clear.’
The boat was upstream of the cleft but close enough now that Dixon could almost reach out and touch it. He looked at the gap and wondered whether he could make it across before the current swept him away.
‘Stay where you are!’
Dixon looked up. The clifftop, no more than thirty feet above, was lined with people, looking down at him. He spotted Jane, holding Monty. She shouted something but it was lost on the wind.
Suddenly, Dixon heard the engines ease off and the lifeboat began drifting downstream towards him. Then the crewman at the back dropped the pole into the boat, tilted one of the engines clear of the water and jumped over the side. He was in the cleft in a flash and took hold of the body. Dixon let go. At last.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Nick Dixon.’ His teeth were chattering as he spoke and he was shivering violently.
‘Police?’
‘Yes.’
The crewman rolled the body over. Dixon got his first look at the face, which was almost unrecognisable as one, were it not for the eyes, one of which was almost out of its smashed socket. The rocks and the tide had seen to that.
‘He’s dead,’ said Dixon. ‘Look at his hands and feet.’
‘You first then,’ said the crewman.
‘No chance. Get him out of here first.’
‘You’ve got hypothermia . . .’
‘I’ll be fine,’ replied Dixon.
The crewman
turned the body and passed it up to a second crewman who was leaning over the back corner of the boat. Together they manhandled it up and over the side of the boat. The backwash from the single engine on the nearside of the boat was keeping the waves down and it was Dixon’s first respite for God knows how long. It felt like an age, as he vomited again into the water in front of him.
The water was now no more than waist deep and was quickly becoming too shallow for the inshore lifeboat, with its large outboard engines. The crewman in the water with Dixon shouted into a waterproof radio on his life jacket.
‘Too shallow.’
The helmsman eased off the power, allowing the boat to drift away from the rocks downstream of the anchor. The second crewman in the boat tilted the other engine back into the water and then went to the bow to retrieve the anchor.
The boat surged forward to a position upstream of the anchor, pulled it in, and then sped off in a loop to take up position fifty yards away.
Dixon looked at the crewman with him in the cleft. He had his arms around Dixon, holding him up.
‘The water’s too shallow now for the big boat. Can you climb out?’
Dixon shook his head.
‘My legs have gone.’
‘Not to worry, here comes the Puffin,’ said the crewman, smiling despite another wave crashing over them.
Dixon looked back out into the open water and spotted a smaller inflatable boat speeding towards them. It was heading straight for the cleft and slowed at the last minute, coming in bow first, right up to them.
‘It’s all right. You can let go now.’
Dixon unclenched his fist and slid his hand out of the crack. He felt himself slump back into the crewman, who held him up. Then he was lifted out of the water and into the boat in one movement. A life jacket was put on him and a space blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
‘There’s an ambulance on the beach the other side.’
Dixon watched the crewman climb into the boat and then it reversed back out of the cleft, before turning across the current and back out into the main channel.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Dixon.
‘Have you inhaled any seawater?’
‘Swallowed a lot, but not breathed it in,’ replied Dixon. He turned and vomited over the side of the boat.
‘Good.’
He looked up at the cliffs and the old fort as the boat sped around the end of Brean Down and, once round to the south side, the larger inshore lifeboat turned in towards the beach where a small orange hovercraft was waiting on the mudflats. It would take the body to the ambulance that was waiting on the beach still further in the distance.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I just need a cup of tea.’
The crewman who had jumped into the water was sitting opposite Dixon.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Matt.’
‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Dixon, shaking his hand.
‘My pleasure.’
Familiar landmarks raced past as the boat sped towards Burnham. The receding tide meant that they stayed well out to sea on the way back but the two yellow buoys marking the wreck of the SS Nornen were just visible bouncing around in the surf, and the lighthouse, of course, with several dog walkers on the beach behind it. Dixon hoped that the next time he saw it he would be walking his dog.
He was helped out of the lifeboat onto the jetty at Burnham. The larger boat had caught them up after dropping off the body and was being backed onto a trailer that had been reversed into the water by a giant tractor on the beach. Not easy in a strong cross wind. A smaller trailer was waiting alongside to retrieve the Puffin.
He looked up at the sea wall, which was lined with spectators. Several photographers were standing at the top of the jetty.
‘C’mon, let’s get you out of those wet clothes,’ said Matt.
Dixon was sitting in the corner of the Burnham lifeboat station, watching the steam rising from a mug of hot, sweet tea that someone had thrust into his hands. He was wearing an RNLI thermal fleece undersuit and had a coat wrapped around his shoulders. His own clothes were lying in a sodden heap on the floor at his feet.
The lifeboats, now back on their trailers, were parked outside, being hosed down before the tractors reversed them into the shed.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to hospital?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’
Dixon smiled and went back to watching the steam rising from his mug of tea. Drinking it was not an option, for fear of bringing it back up again, but just holding it was warming him up.
‘I’m looking for Inspector Dixon.’
He recognised the voice.
‘He’s in there.’
‘Thanks.’
Dixon listened to the sound of footsteps approaching and claws scrabbling on the concrete floor.
‘There you are,’ said Jane. She was being pulled along by Monty, before deciding it would be far easier just to let him go.
‘Have you got my phone?’ asked Dixon. He was trying to fend off Monty without spilling his tea.
‘You were just supposed to spot the body. Not go in after it.’
Dixon shrugged his shoulders.
‘Idiot,’ said Jane, handing over his phone.
‘Was it Stanniland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are they taking him?’
‘Weston,’ replied Jane. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘I’ll be OK. I threw up most of the seawater I swallowed on the way in.’
‘Good.’
‘Where is he?’ The voice was loud and came from outside.
‘Oh shit, that’s Lewis,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll go and see what he wants.’
Dixon put down his mug of tea and began fishing his wallet, keys and warrant card from the pile of wet clothes at his feet.
‘Have a nice swim?’
He looked up to find DCI Lewis standing in front of him.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Bloody good job you were there. Well done.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘You know what this means? A body dumped in the Bristol Channel . . .’
‘I do,’ said Lewis, ‘And it’ll be your job to prove it.’
‘What about Janice?’
‘She’s going to take a few days off, then go on a training course.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s out of my hands,’ continued Lewis, shaking his head. ‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’
Lewis reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Dixon.
‘These are the papers for your misconduct meeting. Witness statements, documents, that sort of stuff.’
Dixon looked at the envelope and then dropped it onto the chair next to him.
‘I take it you agree to waive the twenty day notice period?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘Good.’
Lewis reached into his other pocket and took out a smaller envelope, which he handed to Dixon.
‘This is notice of your misconduct meeting. Monday morning at 10 a.m. Portishead.’
‘That’s the day after tomorrow?’
‘It is. Smile sweetly, speak when you’re spoken to and tell ’em what they want to hear. Otherwise, keep your trap shut.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Then get yourself down to Express Park as soon as it’s over. All right?’
‘What’s going to . . . ?’
‘Management advice. You’ll be reminded to disclose personal connections in future and a letter will be placed on your file to that effect.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. And you’re being assigned to the Major Investigation Team.’
Dixon smiled.
‘Is that a promotion?’ he asked.
‘Of sorts. They could hardly give you a commendation, could they?’ replied Lewis. ‘And you’d best hand back that cold case too.’
‘No cha
nce.’
‘Have it your own way.’
‘Has he gone?’ asked Jane, peering around the door.
‘Yes, you’re quite safe.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘D’you need a lift back to your car?’
‘I’ll get Cole to drop me back, don’t worry,’ replied Dixon.
‘I’ll head back with Jan then.’
‘Wait a sec.’
‘What?’
‘Can you remember what was in the vomit?’ asked Dixon. ‘The pile outside the cottage.’
‘Lamb, rice and yoghurt, I think. Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Just be careful. All right?’
‘OK,’ said Jane, shaking her head.
Dixon waited until she had gone and then opened a web browser on his phone. He typed ‘lamb rice yoghurt’ into Google and looked at the first search result, which came from saveur.com.
‘We meet again,’ he muttered, from behind a wry smile.
He was looking at a recipe for tavë kosi, otherwise known as Albanian baked lamb and rice with yoghurt.
Chapter Ten
Dixon was asleep on the sofa by the time Jane arrived home just after 7 p.m. He had spent the morning in the bath and the afternoon sitting on the edge of it, vomiting at regular intervals into the lavatory, and was exhausted. He had at least remembered to put his clothes in the washing machine first though.
He woke to find Jane standing over him.
‘You all right?’
He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
‘Yes, a bit better, I think.’
‘Have you had anything to eat?’
‘God, no.’
‘What about your blood sugar levels?’
‘Let’s try a cup of tea with a sugar in it first then. See if I can keep that down.’
‘Like that, is it?’ asked Jane.
‘You could say that.’
‘Have you fed Monty?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Have they done the post mortem?’ asked Dixon.
‘Drowning. He was alive when he went into the water.’
Dixon shook his head. ‘You’d have thought they’d have put a bullet in the back of his head first, wouldn’t you?’