Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘It’s 17 Church Street.’

  ‘Do we know who lives there?’

  ‘Harry,’ replied DCI Lewis. ‘Harry Unwin.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jane was tying her hair up in a ponytail as Dixon turned out of Brent Knoll and sped south on the A38. It was less than five minutes after DCI Lewis had telephoned and it was not the start to New Year’s Day she had been hoping for.

  ‘Do we know if it’s Harry?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Dixon. ‘Some kid was out in his canoe and saw a body hanging in the garage. That’s all we know.’

  ‘If it is Harry . . .’ Jane’s voice tailed off and neither of them spoke again until they were going over the M5 at Huntworth.

  ‘When does the tenant move into your flat?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘End of January. But we’ve got to clear it first.’

  ‘Might be an idea if we stayed there for a while.’

  Jane nodded and turned back to the passenger window, watching the fields on the nearside disappear under the floodwater.

  Dixon turned into the farm gateway on the bend just outside Moorland. It had been dry on his previous visit but was now under two or three inches of water. He spotted Roger Poland’s Volvo and two police Land Rovers, neither of them fitted with snorkels. He pulled up next to Poland and a group of uniformed officers that included PC Cole.

  ‘How long till the dive boat gets here?’ asked Dixon, winding down the window.

  ‘We were told about two hours, Sir,’ replied Cole. ‘But that was half an hour or so ago.’

  ‘That’s no bloody good.’

  Cole shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You got here quick, Roger,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It’s only one junction on the motorway.’

  ‘Hop in then,’ said Dixon. ‘Let’s see if I fitted this snorkel properly.’

  Poland walked around to the back of the Land Rover and opened the door.

  ‘And you, Cole. The rest of you can stay here.’

  Monty jumped over the seat and sat on the front seat next to Jane. Dixon leaned over and put his lead on, then he opened the door and let him jump out.

  ‘I’ll put him in the back of one of the Land Rovers, Sir,’ said Cole. ‘This lot’ll keep an eye on him. Won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon waited until Cole had jumped in the back of the Land Rover and then turned out of the car park.

  ‘Who fitted the snorkel?’ asked Poland.

  ‘He did,’ replied Jane.

  ‘You did use silicon, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ said Poland.

  ‘This is the second time you’re going to get wet on my account, Cole. Thank you.’

  ‘You’d have done the same for me, Sir,’ replied Cole.

  ‘Right, here goes,’ said Dixon, accelerating along the lane. The water rose up in front of the Land Rover and the bow wave was soon washing over the bonnet.

  ‘Slow down,’ said Poland.

  ‘We need a bit of a bow wave,’ replied Dixon. ‘It keeps the water away from the doors.’

  He eased off the accelerator and the bow wave receded but the water was getting deeper fast. They were no more than two hundred yards from the field gateway but it was almost level with the top of the front wing and well over the air intake. Then it began bubbling up under the back door.

  ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  ‘We get rescued off the roof by the dive boat,’ replied Poland.

  ‘And you get the piss taken out of you for weeks, Sir,’ said Cole.

  ‘Thank you, Cole,’ replied Dixon, accelerating again. The bow wave was washing over the bonnet now and dirty water was trickling into the passenger compartment.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Slurry.’

  ‘Mixed with oil,’ said Poland.

  ‘If it gets much deeper we’ll start to float,’ said Cole.

  ‘It gets shallower as you go into Moorland, I’m sure it does,’ said Dixon.

  ‘He’s making it up as he’s going along,’ said Poland.

  Dixon felt the steering becoming lighter and the Land Rover began turning sideways. He turned the wheel to the left, trying to straighten it up, and gunned the engine.

  ‘We’re floating,’ said Jane.

  ‘We’ll have to let the water in to sink us,’ said Poland.

  ‘No bloody fear.’

  Suddenly the wheels hit the road surface again and the Land Rover lurched forward. Dixon eased off the accelerator and straightened it up, before accelerating again. They felt the Land Rover beginning to rise up and the water level started to drop away. Bungalows appeared on either side of the road.

  ‘We’re in Moorland,’ said Cole.

  ‘How deep’s the water?’ asked Poland.

  ‘A couple of feet,’ replied Dixon, looking out of the driver’s side window.

  Poland opened the back door of the Land Rover, allowing the small amount of water still in the passenger compartment to drain away.

  ‘We didn’t even get our feet wet,’ said Dixon. ‘Right, let’s find number 17.’

  ‘It’s the other side of the church,’ said Cole. ‘On the right hand side.’

  Dixon crept forward, but the water was no more than knee deep now. It was up to the level of the wooden seat in the lychgate and seemed to shallow off still further beyond the church. He stopped across the drive of number 17 and Poland opened the back door and jumped out, carrying his bag.

  ‘Is the exhaust clear of the water, Roger?’ shouted Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dixon revved the engine several times and then switched it off.

  ‘I’ll go back in the boat,’ said Jane.

  The water was over their wellington boots.

  ‘My trousers are soaked anyway,’ said Cole, splashing up the drive. ‘This way, Sir.’

  They followed PC Cole along the side of the bungalow to the garage, which was set back, adjacent to the garden. Dixon looked in through the window. The body was silhouetted against the light from a window at the back of the garage, the head tilted to one side, but the figure was unmistakeable. Dixon turned to Jane.

  ‘It’s Harry.’

  He put on a pair of latex gloves and then tried the side door. It was unlocked but needed a firm push to open it against the water on the inside. Cole followed and reached up for the light switch.

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Dixon.

  Cole nodded.

  What little light there was came from the small window at the back of the garage and the open door. Dixon stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Harry Unwin was hanging from a ceiling rafter near the front of a small red car, his feet dangling in the water. The bonnet of the car was dented, presumably where he had been thrashing about on the end of the rope, kicking out as his life drained away. Poland and Jane waded into the garage and the movement of the water started Unwin’s body swinging backwards and forwards.

  Unwin’s facial features were visible to Dixon, now that his vision had adjusted to the light. Unwin’s eyes were wide open, bulging even, and his tongue was hanging out. He was fully clothed, and his hands were at his sides. Not bound.

  ‘Over to you, Roger.’

  Poland stepped forward and shone a torch in Unwin’s face. Then he looked at his hands and wrists.

  ‘Can’t see any sign of restraint or other injury.’

  ‘Time?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Days certainly.’

  ‘Who checked this place?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head.

  ‘Someone came out in a boat, Sir,’ said Cole, ‘but it couldn’t get down the side here.’

  ‘The water’s hardly deep . . .’

  Poland was feeling about in the water underneath Unwin with his foot.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, picking up a small plastic kick stool. ‘This is what he stood on.’

 
; ‘How the hell did he get here?’ asked Dixon. ‘Look at the trouble we had.’

  ‘He’d never have got through in that car,’ said Cole.

  ‘That’s not his car,’ replied Jane. ‘He had a VW like mine.’

  ‘Run the plates. See what we get,’ said Dixon.

  ‘My guess is it’ll be his daughter’s,’ said Jane.

  ‘He’s got kids?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  They stood listening to the rain falling outside and watching Poland examine Unwin. His body was turning on the rope now. Spinning.

  Dixon turned away when PC Cole’s radio crackled.

  ‘Dive boat’s on its way, Sir. They’re about an hour away.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And the car is registered to Dawn Unwin. This address.’

  ‘That’s the daughter,’ said Jane.

  ‘Why on earth would he kill himself?’ asked Cole.

  Jane looked at Dixon, expecting an answer but none came. He was looking around the garage, deep in thought, and she knew better than to disturb him. Then he turned and waded across to the back door of the bungalow. It was open. He checked every room, with PC Cole close behind him.

  ‘What’re you looking for?’ shouted Jane. She was leaning against the sink in the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I didn’t see a suicide note,’ said Cole.

  ‘There won’t be one because he didn’t commit suicide,’ said Dixon, watching Jane opening the kitchen cupboards one by one.

  ‘How d’you know that, Sir?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Dunno,’ replied Dixon, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Shall we ask Mr Poland?’

  ‘He’ll tell us it’s a suicide.’

  ‘How . . . ?’

  ‘Because it looks like one, Cole,’ said Dixon. ‘Just like Georgina Harcourt. Remember her, Jane?’

  ‘The racing stables?’

  ‘That’s it. The overdose . . .’

  ‘You had no evidence of foul play,’ said Jane.

  ‘Still haven’t.’

  Poland appeared in the back door.

  ‘My feet are freezing.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Looks like a suicide but I’ll know more when I cut him down and get him back to the lab.’

  ‘Shall we get SOCO over here?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Better had,’ said Dixon, ‘but they won’t find anything.’

  Dixon moved his Land Rover forward to allow the large black boat into the drive. It was flat bottomed and resembled a large skip, but the water was still too shallow so the outboard motor had been lifted clear. It was being pulled along by two members of the underwater search team wading either side of it. They were wearing wetsuits and bright orange lifejackets. Sitting in the boat were the scientific services officer, Donald Watson, DCI Lewis, two mortuary technicians from Musgrove Park, and DCS Collyer from the organised crime team in Bristol known as Zephyr.

  ‘I’ve just been hearing about your stint as a trainee teacher, Dixon,’ said Collyer, stepping over the side of the boat. He was wearing a pair of fishing waders, which Dixon eyed with a sense of envy, all feeling in his feet having left him over an hour ago.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘My offer of a place on Zephyr still stands.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon, noticing Lewis glaring at him.

  Collyer’s presence confirmed what he already knew. Deep down. Harry Unwin had been mixed up with the Albanians and he’d paid the price.

  Dixon followed Lewis and Collyer along the side of the garage and waited outside while they went in.

  ‘No way for him to die,’ said Collyer, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the daylight.

  ‘He was . . .’

  ‘It’s not what you think, Nick,’ said Lewis.

  ‘He gave the Albanians my home address.’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said Collyer. ‘He was feeding them false information.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He gave them an empty property in East Brent. Took a huge risk.’

  ‘The Albanians found you anyway, Nick,’ said Lewis. ‘But it wasn’t Harry.’

  ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘I know what I said,’ snapped Lewis.

  ‘He didn’t know,’ said Collyer. ‘Nobody outside Zephyr did.’

  ‘And Harry was part of Zephyr?’ asked Dixon.

  Collyer nodded.

  Dixon looked past Collyer and through the open door at the body of Harry Unwin, silhouetted against the back window of the garage and swinging slowly from side to side. Seldom had he misjudged anyone more. He prided himself on being an excellent judge of character and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had got it wrong. But this time he had got it spectacularly wrong. He looked at Lewis, who shook his head, and then back to Unwin. Pride comes before a fall, as his mother had always reminded him. And this felt like a long fall.

  ‘He gave them the wrong address?’

  ‘He did,’ replied Collyer.

  Dixon waded past Lewis, into the garage and stood looking up at Unwin. He wondered how and why he had misjudged him. And why Harry had never said anything. He couldn’t, of course he couldn’t.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Jane, from the doorway.

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m bloody well not all right.’

  Jane waited.

  ‘I was wrong about him. He . . .’

  ‘Lewis told me,’ said Jane. ‘C’mon, let’s leave them to it. There’s nothing you can do now.’

  ‘Oh, yes there is,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Catch his killer.’

  ‘Looks like a suicide, at this stage,’ said Poland. He was standing outside the garage with Lewis and Collyer. Donald Watson was setting up an arc lamp inside so that he could photograph the scene.

  ‘Remember Georgina Harcourt, Roger?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Owned the racing stables?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not still banging on about her, are you?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Overdose, you said?’ asked Dixon, turning to Poland.

  ‘There was no evidence of . . .’

  ‘Did she have children?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Poland.

  ‘Yes, she did,’ said Jane.

  ‘She was murdered and so was Harry,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Who by?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Ask him,’ said Dixon, pointing at Collyer.

  ‘We know there’s someone. A professional. But we don’t know who or where or even how they communicate. No one’s ever got close.’

  ‘How though?’ asked Poland.

  ‘You’ve got children and grandchildren, haven’t you, Roger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you know who I am. My reputation,’ continued Dixon. ‘I’m holding a gun to your head and I tell you I’ll kill you, your children and your grandchildren unless you take these pills. It’s your one and only chance to save them. What’re you gonna do?’

  Poland hesitated.

  ‘Or how about I tell you I’ll take your children, one by one, and dump them in the Bristol Channel. Alive. Unless you hang yourself. Now. One chance to save them. The clock’s ticking. What’re you gonna do?’

  ‘We get it, Nick,’ said Lewis.

  ‘So did Harry.’

  ‘This car stinks,’ said Jane, sitting in the front of the Land Rover.

  ‘I thought you said you were going back in the boat?’

  ‘I’m going with you.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Dixon. ‘But don’t blame me if you get wet.’

  ‘Go slowly and let it fill up with water. That’ll stop you floating.’ That had been Roger’s advice, but Dixon ignored it. Letting the water in was a last resort.

  It seemed to take longer on the way back to the farm gateway and Dixon wondered whether the water was getting deeper or whether it was just because he had been going slower. Eithe
r way, it wasn’t long before they were picking up Monty.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Jane. She had slid across to the driver’s seat while Dixon had been putting Monty in the back.

  ‘Express Park, then home.’

  ‘Express Park? You can’t go in there looking like that. You’re soaked.’

  ‘I’m not. You are.’

  ‘But . . .’ Jane sighed. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘The photos of Georgina Harcourt’s bedroom.’

  ‘The file’ll have gone off to the coroner by now.’

  ‘Yes, but the photos should’ve been scanned onto the system. Print them off then it’s home for a shower and what’s left of New Year’s Day.’

  ‘Are you sure they were both murdered?’

  ‘As sure as I can be without any real evidence.’

  ‘You’ll find it. You’re always right.’

  ‘That’ll come back to haunt you one day.’

  ‘You’ll see to it,’ said Jane, smiling.

  ‘I will. And besides,’ continued Dixon, ‘I was wrong about Harry.’

  It took Dixon twenty minutes to hose down the inside of the Land Rover. The floodwater had left a thin layer of brown silt on everything and Dixon shuddered to think what it was. A mixture of mud, oil and slurry was being optimistic and if he was to stand any chance of getting Jane in it again, the Land Rover needed a damned good clean and a potent air freshener. And so did he. Monty would need a bath too.

  Dixon was standing in the shower wondering how on earth he was going to prove that two people had been murdered without any evidence. Unless the killer confessed, it was going to be a challenge. But now he owed it to Harry. And then there was Georgina Harcourt, who had been trying to contact him the night of her murder. And Elizabeth Perry. And John Stanniland. The list went on. How many more were there? And how many more would there be before Dixon caught up with him? Or her.

  So many questions and, standing there in the shower covered in foam, it felt as though the only thing he knew for sure was that Jane had been at the shampoo and shower gel bottles again. All of them facing front on the shelf. He smiled. She was the same with the jars and tins in the kitchen cupboards.

  He stared at the bottle of shampoo in his hand. It was a compulsion and Jane had no choice. An obsession. He dropped the bottle and leapt out of the shower. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist and ran downstairs, leaving the shower running.