by Damien Boyd
‘Who?’ shouted Jane, from the kitchen.
‘Do you remember that chief super from Bristol in the sharp suit?’ asked Dixon.
‘He came to the hospital after our early morning visit from the Albanians,’ replied Jane.
‘That’s right. Do you remember what he said?’
Jane was standing in front of Dixon holding a mug of tea in each hand.
‘If they’d wanted you dead,’ continued Dixon, ‘you’d be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel by now.’
‘He did.’
‘Those were his exact words.’
‘D’you think the Albanians are involved?’
‘Google lamb, rice and yoghurt.’
Dixon watched Jane tapping the words into a web browser on her phone and waited for her reaction.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘So, what d’you think happened?’ asked Jane.
‘Either Stanniland was framed for Elizabeth’s murder or someone went in after he killed her to make damn sure he got caught. The latter would explain the van and the motorbike, wouldn’t it? And the different knife.’
‘If you assume Grafton and Mrs Freeman are right.’
‘And why wouldn’t they be? Just because they’re old?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Then, when Stanniland walks free, what better way to close the whole thing off than to make him disappear? We’d have been chasing his shadow for months until the file was quietly closed.’
‘Why though?’ asked Jane.
‘No idea,’ replied Dixon. ‘Yet.’
‘I’m assuming you’re taking over the investigation then?’
‘I am.’
‘That explains this,’ said Jane, handing Dixon the file that had been tucked under her arm. ‘And Janice’s holiday. Poor sod. It’s hardly her fault, is it?’
‘She’ll bounce back,’ said Dixon.
‘What about your disciplinary?’ asked Jane.
‘Monday morning.’
‘It’s been fixed?’
‘I’m not sure fixed is the right word. At least I hope it isn’t.’
‘A reprimand?’ asked Jane.
‘Management advice.’
‘You lucky sod.’
‘And I’ve been assigned to the MIT.’
‘That’s based at Portishead,’ said Jane, frowning.
‘Yes, but it only assembles when there’s a major investigation, don’t forget.’
‘Some people always come up smelling of roses.’
‘Well, I bloody well didn’t this morning,’ said Dixon, smiling.
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Jane, sniffing the air. ‘I’d suggest another bath.’
Dixon tiptoed down the stairs. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders.
‘What’s this you’re watching?’ he asked, dropping onto the sofa next to Jane.
‘Long Lost Family. It’s where they reunite parents with children given up for adoption. Happy ending stuff.’
‘Always?’
‘Seems to be. Although they probably don’t show those where it goes wrong.’
‘I bet they don’t.’
‘I’m adopted, you know.’
‘Really? You never said.’
‘Came as a bit of a relief, to be honest. My parents are mad as hatters, aren’t they?’ asked Jane, grinning.
‘No, they’re not,’ replied Dixon. ‘Well . . .’
Jane elbowed him in the ribs.
‘Are you really adopted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever tried to find your real parents?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve thought about it sometimes, but mostly I think of them as dead. It’s the only way I can deal with it. And it’s easier. Full stop.’
Dixon thought it best not to press the point. Jane would look for them if and when she was ready. Both parties must want to be found for it to work, no doubt. Otherwise, who knows what might happen.
‘What’s her story then?’ asked Dixon, gesturing towards the screen.
‘Single mother in the 1960s. She was sixteen. Things were different back then.’
‘That they were,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Fancy something to eat? I think I could keep it down now.’
Dixon had spent the Sunday with his feet up, reading the file of papers that Lewis had sent via Jane. It contained a copy of Elizabeth Perry’s post mortem, the forensic reports on both Waterside Cottage and Stanniland’s flat, the witness statements, such as they were, and, lastly, the DNA reports from PGL, which had made grim reading. It had been an otherwise pleasant day, best described as the calm before the storm and, now, as he sped south on the M5, Dixon reflected on his misconduct meeting.
It had lasted all of ten minutes.
‘You admit that you should have disclosed your personal connection to the case from the outset?’
‘The possible connection, yes.’
Dixon had resisted the temptation to smile sweetly and hoped DCI Lewis would forgive him.
‘Do you have anything to add before this tribunal arrives at a decision?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. There will be a finding that your conduct failed to meet the requisite Standards of Professional Behaviour. However, I find that it was at the lower end of the scale and propose to deal with it by a reminder to disclose personal connections in future. You will receive a letter to this effect and a copy will be placed on your file. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You will receive written notice of the outcome of these proceedings within five days and have seven days from receipt of that notice in which to appeal, if you wish to do so.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then that concludes these misconduct proceedings,’ said the officer, standing up. Then he had walked around the side of the table and stood in front of Dixon, with his hand outstretched.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Dixon, shaking his hand.
The officer had smiled and nodded, but had said nothing more.
Dixon turned off the M5 at Burnham-on-Sea and went home. He was standing in the field behind his cottage, watching Monty sniffing along the hedge, when his phone rang.
‘How’d it go?’ asked Jane.
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Just giving Monty a quick run in the field.’
‘Well, you’d better get here sharpish. There’s a rumour Tom Perry is a suspect in Stanniland’s murder and the press have got hold of it. They’re crawling all over the place and Perry’s downstairs kicking up a helluva stink.’
Dixon arrived at Express Park twenty minutes later and parked in the staff car park. It had taken him several loud blasts of his horn to clear a way through the journalists and TV crews and he watched them milling around outside the police centre while he waited for the huge steel gate to open.
He parked on the top floor. Jane was waiting for him.
‘Lewis wants to see you. Now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Meeting room two.’
Dixon winced. Still, the open plan office was likely to be the least of his worries.
They could hear the shouting as they stepped out of the lift on the first floor and looked across to the meeting room. Lewis was visible through the glass, waving his arms at Harry Unwin, who was standing with his back to the window.
‘Aren’t they supposed to be soundproofed, those meeting rooms?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘More like a bloody echo chamber.’
Lewis looked across the landing and saw Dixon watching.
‘Just get out,’ he said, to Unwin. Then he waved at Dixon to come in.
Dixon was blocking the door and waited for Unwin to open it from the inside. Dixon glared at Unwin, who looked away and stepped back to allow him into the roo
m. Lewis waited until Unwin closed the door behind him.
‘Jane’s filled you in?’
‘She has.’
‘What d’you need?’
‘Rid of Harry, for a start.’
‘Leave it to me,’ replied Lewis. ‘What about a replacement?’
‘Can I have Louise Willmott?’
‘Fine. Anything else?’
‘What about Jane?’ asked Dixon. ‘We’re living together now.’
‘She’d better stay on the team,’ replied Lewis. ‘But I’d suggest you work with Louise and put Jane with one of the others. All right?’
‘Have you spoken to Tom Perry?’ asked Dixon.
‘Not yet. Vicky Thomas is on her way to deal with the press.’
‘I’ll go and see him now.’
‘Did you read the file?’
‘Yes.’
‘What d’you make of it?’
‘Person or persons unknown paid the Albanians to arrange the murder of Elizabeth Perry. Stanniland was the fall guy, the Lee Harvey Oswald of the piece, so when we mucked up the DNA and had to release him, they needed to tidy up.’
‘And you can prove that?’
‘Not yet. The vomit at the scene, possibly Albanian baked lamb. It’s a bit of a leap but it makes sense. And the Bristol Channel’s their trademark, don’t forget. My guess is that someone went into the cottage after him. He or she delivered the fatal stab wound and dropped the cigarette butts for us to find too. That would explain the van and motorbike.’
‘I still don’t understand why we got no DNA from the vomit,’ said Lewis.
‘Have we got the PM report on Stanniland yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘That should tell us,’ replied Dixon.
Lewis shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out. Keep me posted.’
Dixon opened the interview room door and walked in. Tom Perry was sitting with his back to the door and turned to face him. He was flushed, which was visible even through several days of stubble.
‘You?’
‘I’m taking over your wife’s murder, Mr Perry.’
‘I thought you were suspended?’
‘You’re well informed.’
‘One of our members is on the civilian staff here.’
Dixon nodded. ‘My hearing was this morning and I got off with a warning.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Perry.
Dixon sat down opposite him.
‘Seventeen years ago my fiancée was murdered. I got the chance to catch her killer but to do so I had to keep quiet about my connection to the case. I failed to disclose my personal involvement.’
‘Did you catch him?’
‘I did.’
‘Then it was worth it.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘So, what the hell’s going on?’ asked Perry. ‘The press seem to think I killed Stanniland.’
‘I’ll deal with that.’
‘I bloody well wish I had killed him.’
‘No, you don’t. Not really.’
‘Has there been a leak?’
‘We’ve had a few changes of personnel,’ replied Dixon.
‘About bloody time.’
‘You are not a suspect in the murder of John Stanniland and I will make that clear to the media.’
‘Are they here?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Wankers.’
‘Mr Perry, it’s my belief that your wife was killed to get to you. Can you think of anyone who might wish to do that?’
‘You mean it wasn’t a burglary that went wrong?’
‘No.’
‘That makes it my fault, doesn’t it?’
Perry slid his wedding band off his ring finger and stared at it in the palm of his hand.
‘Tom?’ Dixon could hear him breathing deeply. ‘Listen to me, Tom.’
Perry looked up.
‘What campaigns have you been involved in?’
‘Recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hinkley C, the new reactor at Hinkley Point. There’s a wind farm over at East Huntspill. But who’s gonna kill my wife over a few wind turbines?’
‘What about planning applications?’
‘I was helping residents oppose one on the edge of Burtle and another at Berrow, but that’s it.’
‘Were they big developments?’
‘Not really. But why kill my wife and not me, if that’s it?’
‘I’m exploring all possibilities at the moment. Look, I want you to think about this, carefully, and if you come up with anything else, you let me know immediately. All right?’
‘I will.’
‘Are you carrying on with the election?’ asked Dixon.
‘I haven’t decided yet. I think so,’ replied Perry. ‘It’s what Lizzie would have wanted me to do, I know that much.’
‘I’ve got some more digging to do and then we’ll have another chat. All right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Out the front.’
‘I’ll get someone to bring it round the back.’
‘This is the one bit of the job I dread,’ said Dixon, looking out of the huge windows on the first floor at the journalists gathered below.
‘You’ll be fine,’ replied Jane. ‘Vicky Thomas has told you what to say, hasn’t she?’
‘Fat lot of bloody good she is.’
‘You know what not to say?’
‘I do. And it doesn’t leave a lot else,’ replied Dixon, straightening his tie.
He went downstairs in the lift and stepped out into the glare of the flashbulbs and spot lamps in front of the police centre. It was just after midday and overcast.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon. I am the senior investigating officer in the murders of Elizabeth Perry and John Stanniland. I will make a short statement and then take questions, but you will appreciate that I am limited in what I can say at the present time.’
Dixon waited for the clicking of cameras to subside.
‘Mrs Elizabeth Perry was, as you know, stabbed to death in the early hours of Christmas Eve. John Stanniland was a suspect in her murder. He was released on police bail pending further enquiries on the afternoon of Friday 27 December. His body was found in the Bristol Channel to the north of Brean Down on the morning of Saturday 28 December. He too had been murdered.’
‘Has Tom Perry been arrested for the murder of John Stanniland, Inspector?’ The shouted question came from the back of the crowd of journalists.
‘No, he has not. Mr Perry is not a suspect in either murder. He is a husband whose wife has been murdered and I would reiterate the family’s request for privacy at this time.’
‘Do you have a suspect?’
‘Our enquiries into both murders are ongoing. That is all I can say at this stage, although I would ask anyone with any information to contact the incident room, anonymously if needs be, by dialling 101 and asking for Bridgwater CID. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
‘Is Tom Perry going to stand in the election?’
‘That is a matter for Mr Perry,’ replied Dixon.
‘What would you say to members of the Conservative Party moving to deselect him?’ The question came from a reporter at the front of the crowd. She was holding a microphone at full stretch in front of Dixon.
‘It is not for me, as a police officer, to comment on the internal affairs of the Conservative Party. But, as a voter in the North Somerset constituency, I will just say this. I think I would take a dim view of any political party that chose to kick their candidate when he or she was down. Tom Perry needs their support at this difficult time. Not to face moves behind the scenes to get rid of him. And I suspect many voters in the constituency would feel the same.’
Dixon was momentarily blinded the camera flashes going off all around him. Then he turned on his heels and walked back into the police centre.
Dixon walked back up to the
CID area on the first floor. Louise Willmott was standing by Jane’s workstation, following Jane’s finger as she pointed at her computer screen. Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
‘Meeting room two, twenty minutes,’ said Dixon, sitting down at a vacant desk. ‘Louise?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We need to get out to the crime scene. Get on to the underwater search team and see if they can take us out there in their boat, will you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The Burnham Area Rescue Boat is out there, Sir,’ said Dave. ‘Ferrying people around, that sort of thing.’
‘We won’t worry them with it, Dave. They’ve got better things to do.’
‘OK.’
Dixon switched on the computer on the desk in front of him and logged in. Then he scrolled down through his emails until he reached the one attaching Stanniland’s post mortem report.
‘If I send this to print, where will it go?’
‘The printer’s over there, Sir,’ said Mark, pointing to a line of printers against the far wall.
‘I used to have one in my office,’ muttered Dixon. Then he sighed loudly. ‘And what the hell’s this?’ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jane.
‘What on earth possesses them to spend millions of pounds on a shiny new police station and then stick the old computers in it? I’ve got a bloody egg timer now.’
‘Calm down.’
‘All I want to do is print this report,’ said Dixon, clicking the mouse over and over again.
‘And stop clicking,’ said Jane.
‘I know what I want on my gravestone. Here lies Nick Dixon, brackets, not responding, close brackets.’
Louise laughed.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ said Jane.
‘Nice to have things back to normal though, isn’t it?’ said Louise.
‘I suppose it is,’ replied Jane, smiling.
Dixon was standing by the printer when Louise shouted across to him. She had her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone.
‘Will the inflatable do, Sir, or do you want the big one?’
‘The inflatable’s fine.’
‘What time?’
‘An hour. On the Moorland road, as near as we can get to the village without getting our feet wet.’
‘OK.’
Dixon sat down on the edge of the printer table, speed reading Stanniland’s post mortem report, and quickly found what he was looking for. Stanniland’s stomach was full of seawater, making an assessment of the pH levels impossible, but he did have advanced Barrett’s oesophagus.