by Damien Boyd
‘OK,’ said Jane. ‘What’re you up to?’
‘I’m going to see Mrs Freeman then we’ll ruffle a few feathers at the Conservative office.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, me and Lou . . . are you winding me up again?’
Jane smiled.
‘Just be careful. Remember, the Albanians are in the mix.’
‘I know, I know,’ replied Dixon.
Dixon thought about his last encounter with the Albanians as he walked across to his Land Rover. He remembered the feeling of a gun barrel in the small of his back and the words of their leader, Zavan.
I hope our interests never conflict.
‘What’s the address?’
‘Flat 2, Fisher’s Bridge Mill,’ replied Louise. ‘It’ll be a converted mill. Down by the river, I suppose.’
‘Langport hasn’t flooded, has it?’ asked Dixon.
‘No.’
Louise was peering over her shoulder, watching Monty, who was standing with his front paws on the back of her seat.
‘He’s fine. Just likes to see where we’re going, that’s all,’ said Dixon.
‘Does he go everywhere with you?’
‘Pretty much.’
Dixon could handle an arson attack on his cottage. It was rented, after all. But not if his dog was home alone. And the Albanians knew where he lived.
‘Why are we seeing Mrs Freeman again?’ asked Louise.
‘I want to see just how deaf she is,’ said Dixon.
‘Take the next left,’ said Louise. ‘Whatley Lane. It’s a dead end.’
A large four storey converted mill was visible at the far end. It was built of grey stone, with the top two floors clad in timber, and had retained its large oval doors on the ground floor, although these were now glazed and looked like patio doors. The front entrance was at the side. Dixon parked in the visitors’ parking space, walked over to the low wall on the far side of the car park and looked down at the river.
‘Difficult to imagine it’s caused such bloody havoc lower down.’
‘There’s more rain to come, according to the forecast last night,’ replied Louise.
Dixon shook his head.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
Dixon rang the bell for flat 2 and listened at the small speaker.
‘Yes.’
‘Inspector Dixon to see Mrs Freeman.’
The lock in the glazed front door buzzed so he reached up and grabbed the handle, wrenching it open before the buzzing stopped. The hallway was dark but Dixon could make out a figure at the far end silhouetted against a window. She was waving to them.
‘Mrs Freeman?’
‘Joyce. You want Edna. She’s in here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She’s not too good at the moment. It’s all been a bit of a shock for her, I’m afraid,’ whispered Joyce.
‘Was she insured?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes, and her neighbours were very helpful. Got everything they could upstairs.’
‘They’ve got the pumps working now,’ said Louise. ‘And . . .’
‘She’ll never go back. Not now. Not unless they dredge the river. She’d be too frightened it’d happen again.’
They followed Joyce into her flat and along the corridor to a lounge with a large window overlooking the river. Edna Freeman was sitting in a chair, with a blanket over her legs. The television was on, but she was watching the water swirling past the old mill. Joyce leaned forward and spoke into her left ear.
‘The police are here, Edna.’
She looked up and smiled at Dixon. He fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Edna, waving it away.
‘Do you think we might turn the television off?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Joyce. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ replied Dixon. ‘This won’t take long.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Joyce.
Dixon turned to Edna. ‘You gave a statement to my colleagues about Christmas Eve?’ he whispered.
Edna Freeman smiled.
‘You’re testing me, aren’t you? If I was ten years younger I’d put you over my knee.’
‘You heard me though, didn’t you?’
‘I did. If there’s no background noise I’m fine.’
‘When you heard the motorbike on Christmas Eve, did you have the telly on?’
‘No.’
‘Radio?’
‘No. I’d been asleep. It was deathly quiet.’
‘What woke you up?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Dixon.
‘He loved his motorbikes. I used to ride pillion in the early days but then he had to get a sidecar for me. We went all over Europe once. That was on a Triumph Bonneville.’
‘What other bikes did he have?’
‘It was a BSA 500 when we met, then the Triumph and two Nortons. I’ve still got the last one. He never sold it. It’s in the shed.’
‘All British,’ said Dixon.
‘Of course,’ replied Edna, smiling.
‘Did you ride?’
‘No. Only ever pillion or in the sidecar. I never learned to drive either.’
‘So, the bike you heard that night, was it British?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can tell from the sound of the engine?’
‘Oh, yes. They’re distinctive, like a Rolls Royce Merlin. Not high pitched or tinny like the modern rubbish. And definitely not a Harley Davidson.’
Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out four folded pieces of paper. He unfolded them and then flattened them over his thigh. Then he passed the top one to Edna.
‘Do you wear glasses?’
‘Yes, they’re here, dear,’ she said, picking a pair up off the coffee table beside her. She put them on and looked at the piece of paper.
‘It’s a Norton Commando. Do you have any other photos of it?’
Dixon handed her the other photographs. She stared at them one by one.
‘Yes, there we are. Exhausts on both sides. That makes it the SS type. If they’re on one side it’s the S type but high level exhausts on both sides is the SS type. The one in my shed is a 1970 Fastback, if it’s not rusted away by now.’
‘Will you be going home?’ asked Dixon.
‘I’d like to see them stop me.’
‘Only your sister said . . .’
‘If she thinks I’m going to sit here staring at that bloody river for the rest of my days, she’s got another think coming!’
‘They don’t make ’em like that anymore,’ said Dixon, walking across to his Land Rover. He was holding his phone to his ear.
‘No, Sir,’ replied Louise.
Dixon turned away. ‘Yes, fine. Put Dave on, will you?’
‘What’ve you got?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Good. Right, Mrs Freeman has identified it as a Norton Commando SS type, so get onto DVLA. You know what we need. For the whole of Torbay. Then contact all of the Norton parts suppliers and local garages. Get a list of everyone they supply parts to. All right?’
‘Well done, Dave.’
Dixon rang off.
‘He’s got it on a number plate recognition camera in St Marychurch, then it disappears,’ said Dixon, climbing into the Land Rover.
Louise was already sitting in the passenger seat.
‘Torquay?’
‘Yes. Fancy a trip to the English Riviera?’
They looked more like residential barn conversions than offices, but the signs on the car parking spaces confirmed that Dixon was in the right place. Four of the spaces were marked ‘Bridgwater and North Somerset Conservative Association’ so he parked in one of those, next to a grey Vauxhall Astra. All of the other spaces were empty.
‘Well, it is New Year’s Eve, I suppose.’
‘They probably got drunk at the Christmas
party and left it here,’ said Louise.
‘There’s a light on in the office,’ said Dixon, peering over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go and try our luck.’
They were walking across the car park when the light went out and a tall figure appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. A small black umbrella opened and the figure then stepped out into the rain. It was a man and he kept his head down as he turned to lock the door behind him. He turned when he heard footsteps walking up the steps behind him.
‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’
‘I’m surprised to find anyone here at all,’ said Dixon, holding his warrant card in front of him. ‘It is New Year’s Eve, after all.’
The man leaned forward and squinted at Dixon’s warrant card.
‘We’re in the middle of a by-election campaign, Inspector.’
‘And you are?’ asked Dixon.
‘Lawrence Deakin. The agent.’
He was tall, thin and bald. Dixon reckoned he was in his late forties, or possibly his early fifties, but it was difficult to tell without a measure of grey hair. He was wearing jeans and an orange raincoat.
‘May we have a word, please, Mr Deakin?’
‘Well, I was just . . . yes, of course.’ He turned back to the front door and opened it. ‘Come in.’
Dixon and Louise followed Deakin into a small open plan office on the ground floor. There were four desks on the right, opposite a line of large printing machines.
‘All of that stuff that gets pushed through your letter box gets printed here, Inspector,’ said Deakin. ‘We’ve even got a machine to fold it.’
Dixon nodded.
‘The only bit we can’t automate is delivering it. We rely on volunteers for that.’
‘Not the postman?’
‘Too expensive. Every candidate in a parliamentary election gets one leaflet delivered. That’s the Election Address. But we like to deliver more than that.’
‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Dixon.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘You haven’t asked why we’re here.’
‘I rather assumed you were going to tell me,’ replied Deakin, sitting on the corner of one of the desks.
‘How well did you know Elizabeth Perry?’
‘I thought . . . wasn’t her killer found washed up at Brean Down?’ asked Deakin.
‘He was. How well did you know her?’
‘Well, I’d met her several times. First at the selection . . .’
‘Selections,’ interrupted Dixon.
‘Yes, selections, then at dinners and such like, when Tom was speaking. She was always out campaigning with him too. Full of energy, she was. And great for the association, really brought everyone together.’ Deakin sighed. ‘Everybody thought she was lovely.’
‘And Tom?’
‘The same,’ replied Deakin, nodding. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how he must be feeling . . .’ His voice tailed off.
Dixon walked over to the window and looked at the fields behind the office block.
‘Nice office,’ he said, nodding. ‘How long have you been the agent?’
‘Six years.’
‘So you know the membership fairly well?’
‘I do. The active ones. I meet them at coffee mornings, dinners.’
‘And the management committee. You work closely with them, I imagine?’
‘Yes.’
‘How well do you know Rod Brophy?’
‘Very well. He’s a past chairman of the association, councillor.’
‘And Liam Dobbs?’
‘Not so well. He’s been a member, say, four years or so.’
‘How involved were you in the selection process?’
‘Very. It’s my job to make sure it’s done right. In accordance with the constitution and the party rules. I don’t have a vote or a say in who is selected. That’s for the members.’
‘And the open primary?’
‘We followed the correct procedure,’ said Deakin.
‘Whose idea was it to hold an open primary?’
‘Central Office suggested it. The selection committee were reluctant but went along with it. I think they took the view that 90 per cent of the final audience would be party members anyway so what did it matter?’
‘Why the reluctance?’ asked Dixon.
‘Fear of something new. The risk that the opposition stuff the meeting and select someone unsuitable . . .’
‘But surely someone unsuitable wouldn’t even make it through to the primary?’
‘That’s the counter argument, yes.’
‘So, who was behind the move to reject the open primary selection?’
‘Behind it?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon waited, watching Deakin’s eyes darting around the room.
‘Look, I don’t think it’s any great secret that Rod Brophy regarded the seat as his when Ken stood down.’
‘Or died,’ said Louise.
‘Yes, or died, as it turned out.’
‘Was Brophy on the Approved list?’ asked Dixon.
‘No. But where there’s a particularly strong local candidate an association can select them anyway.’
‘So, was Central Office’s insistence on an open primary an attempt by them to ensure Brophy didn’t get it?’
‘I don’t think so. Look, what’s this got to do with Elizabeth Perry’s death?’
‘You tell me,’ replied Dixon.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What happened after the primary?’
‘The executive council met to ratify the selection, only they didn’t.’
‘Was that a surprise?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many people attended the meeting?’
‘Thirty or so.’
‘And how many people usually attend a meeting of the executive council?’
‘Twenty perhaps.’
‘And what did you think when you saw a full house?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Deakin, standing up. ‘It was an important meeting. Look I really need to be . . .’
‘How did Central Office react?’
‘They weren’t happy about it. Threatened to put the constituency on special measures.’
‘Which are?’
‘Basically, they step in and take over running it.’
‘But that didn’t happen?’
‘No.’
‘So, tell me about the final selection. How did Tom Perry win if there was an orchestrated effort by Brophy to stuff the meeting, as he had done the executive?’
‘I didn’t say he had.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘It’s the nature of politics, even in the same party when we’re all supposed to be on the same side. For every supporter you’ve got, there’s another who hates you,’ said Deakin. ‘Or supports someone else.’
‘So, the stop Rod Brophy brigade had time to get their act together?’ asked Dixon.
‘They did.’
‘What about the ballot at the executive meeting?’
‘Secret. All I’ve got are the numbers.’
‘Can I see the minutes?’
‘They’re confidential,’ replied Deakin.
‘And what d’you think confidential means in the context of a murder investigation?’ asked Dixon.
‘Look, what has this got to do with Elizabeth’s murder?’
‘You let me worry about that, Mr Deakin. All right?’
Deakin sighed.
‘I’ll get them.’
‘Thank you. For that meeting and for the previous three as well, please.’
‘You certainly know how to rub someone up the wrong way.’
‘Thank you, Louise,’ said Dixon, smiling.
They were sitting in his Land Rover, listening to the rain hammering on the roof. Dixon was flicking through the minutes of the executive council meetings.
‘What it gives us is a list of those who turned up just to block the primary selection.’<
br />
‘And one of them may have killed Elizabeth Perry.’
‘Had her killed is a more accurate description, but yes, one of them may have done.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it,’ replied Dixon, reversing the Land Rover out of the parking space. Then he stamped on the brakes.
‘What is it?’ asked Louise.
‘At least we know where to come to find Mr Dobbs,’ said Dixon, looking in his rear view mirror. ‘Dobbs Design. Not a very imaginative name for a graphic design company, is it?’
‘Any sign of Unwin?’ asked Dixon. He had done his injection in the Land Rover and was eating a sandwich bought from the canteen on the way to the CID area.
Jane shook her head.
‘Where does he live?’
‘Moorland.’
‘Could be staying with friends somewhere then, couldn’t he?’ asked Louise.
‘Either that or he’s at the bottom of the . . .’
‘How did you get on at the Conservative office?’ asked Jane, cutting in.
‘Good,’ replied Louise. ‘The agent was there and . . .’
‘Get a boat over to Moorland to have a look,’ said Dixon.
‘They’ve been,’ replied Jane.
‘What’ve we got then, Dave?’ asked Dixon, turning to Harding.
‘Thirteen Nortons registered with DVLA in the TQ postcode area. That was the simplest way to do it, but it takes in Newton Abbot and Totnes too, so we can disregard some of them.’
‘Are these the SS type?’
‘The registration isn’t that specific, sadly, so this is all Nortons.’
‘How many in Torbay itself?’
‘Seven.’
‘What about off road notifications?’
‘They’re included.’
‘And the parts suppliers and garages?’
‘They add another three to the list. One was a PO box but I got the address from the post office,’ replied Harding, handing a piece of paper to Dixon.
‘Well done.’
Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 1.30 p.m. ‘Torquay anyone?’
‘Er, I was due off at four, Sir. Got a party to go to tonight,’ said Pearce.
‘It’s New Year’s Eve, Sir,’ said Harding.
‘What about you, Louise?’
‘I’ll come. I’ll just ring my husband and let him know.’
‘I might as well come too,’ said Harding, with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll only be sitting at home watching Jools Holland and feeling sorry for myself.’