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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘May we have a word, please?’ asked Dixon, his warrant card in his outstretched hand.

  ‘Er, yes, of course. Shall we sit in the window?’ Dixon watched her eyes scanning the lounge, checking it was empty, no doubt.

  ‘Why not.’

  Mrs Sumner sat with her back to the window. Dixon sat down opposite her. Louise sat down at the table to his left and took out her notebook.

  ‘I was surprised to find the club open today,’ said Dixon.

  ‘We wouldn’t usually be. My husband’s the treasurer and he’s come in to do the accounts. Easier when it’s quiet.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about your time as chairman of the local Conservative Association.’

  ‘I gave that up last year.’

  ‘Are you still a member?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mrs Sumner. ‘I’m still on the local Burnham branch committee too. Look, what’s this all about?’

  ‘Your parliamentary candidate’s wife has been murdered, Mrs Sumner,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Yes, of course she has. Sorry. Such a crying shame. I feel so sorry for Tom.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘Not really. I stood down not long after Tom was selected. She came with him to a dinner once. Seemed very pleasant.’

  ‘Tell me about the selection process then.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Barbara Sumner rolled her eyes. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Start at the beginning.’

  ‘We advertised the vacancy when Ken died. Consulted with Central Office in the usual way. Got the CVs in and then followed the . . .’

  ‘Whose idea was the open primary?’

  ‘That came from Tim Spalding, the head of candidates.’

  ‘And when did Rod Brophy say that he wanted to stand?’

  ‘Early on. We had to delay the start so he could get on the list.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Ten years or so. He was already a member when I joined.’

  ‘Did any other local candidates put their names forward?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, he got on the list and put his CV in?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And got through to the next round?’

  ‘Yes. It’s difficult to ignore such a strong local candidate.’

  ‘Is he popular then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘With who?’

  ‘Let’s start with the electorate,’ said Dixon.

  ‘He’s elected to both the district and county councils, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘And what about members of the association?’

  ‘Mostly yes, I suppose. But we have our factions like any political organisation.’

  ‘When did you first learn about the plot . . .’

  ‘Plot?’

  ‘Yes, plot,’ replied Dixon, ‘to stuff the executive council meeting with his supporters.’

  ‘There was no plot.’

  ‘I’ve seen the minutes and there are nine people there who hadn’t been to a meeting in over a year.’

  ‘About a week before,’ said Mrs Sumner, with a heavy sigh, ‘Liam Dobbs was ringing around.’

  ‘And what did you do about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look, we felt that Central Office had forced an open primary on us. It’s our candidate and it should be our choice. The electorate get their say at the election, don’t they?’

  ‘So, you agreed with Dobbs?’

  ‘Yes. But not for the same reason. I wanted association members to decide, which they did in the end.’

  ‘And Dobbs?’

  ‘He wanted Rod.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’d need to ask him that. Thick as thieves those two. Always have been.’

  ‘What about Lawrence Deakin?’

  ‘It was his job to see to it that we did it by the book, which he did. He’s a good agent.’

  ‘And Barry Dossett, your area campaign director?’

  ‘He didn’t seem keen on an open primary, but then it was a lot of extra work for him and the Bristol selections were just getting started at the same time.’

  ‘What did Central Office do when all this kicked off?’

  ‘Two members of the Party board came down to an emergency management team meeting. Barry Dossett was there. They threatened us with special measures, but we stood our ground and they backed off in the end. There’d already been too much damaging publicity, I think.’

  ‘So, you rerun the selection and end up with the same candidate?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘We did. And a damned good candidate he is too. He’ll make an even better MP.’

  ‘What about this recent attempt to deselect him?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. I stood down at the AGM last year, don’t forget.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘You don’t seriously think this has anything to do with Elizabeth’s death, do you, Inspector?’

  Dixon was watching the rain running down the large conservatory windows, and the boats beyond, which would soon be afloat on the incoming tide that was just reaching them.

  ‘I . . .’ Dixon stopped when his phone bleeped in his pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, reading the message.

  wind farm protest meeting east huntspill village hall tomorrow 7pm J x

  ‘Just routine enquiries, at this stage, Mrs Sumner,’ said Dixon. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  It was dark by the time Louise dropped Dixon outside Express Park.

  ‘You head off,’ said Dixon. ‘Eight o’clock sharp tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Where’s Louise?’ asked Jane, stepping out of the canteen into the corridor behind Dixon as he walked past.

  ‘I sent her home.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Plenty of stuff on Westricity. The council minutes will take a bit longer. Should have them by the end of tomorrow.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘The file’s on my desk,’ continued Jane. ‘And Lewis was looking for you earlier.’

  ‘Collyer’ll have bent his ear so he’s got to bend mine. That’s the way these things usually work.’

  ‘The chain of command,’ said Jane, grinning.

  Dixon let Dave Harding and Mark Pearce go home early and then sat down at a computer to check his emails. He looked up when he spotted the reflection of DCI Lewis standing behind him.

  ‘Didn’t know you were a fan of panto,’ said Lewis. ‘You should join Bridgwater Amateur Dramatics. It’s Aladdin this year.’

  Dixon sighed.

  ‘I can just see you as Widow Twanky,’ continued Lewis.

  ‘Am I allowed to tell a senior officer to piss off?’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  Dixon sighed again, louder this time.

  ‘And what were you gonna do?’ asked Lewis. ‘Steam in there and ask them . . .’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’d be at the bottom of the channel by now.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Anyway, how far have you got?’

  ‘It must be connected with politics somehow,’ replied Dixon. ‘Perry’s selection was a shambles, so we’re looking into that. And the various campaigns he was running.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not yet. And the big question still bugging me is why kill Elizabeth and not Tom? If it’s politically motivated, that is.’

  ‘It may not be,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Then we really are back to the drawing board.’

  ‘Find the motive and hope it’ll lead you to the killer,’ said Lewis, shaking his head.

  ‘It will.’

  ‘If you can find it.’

  Dixon never slept well in a strange bed, although neither Jane nor Monty appeared to be having any trouble. It was almost 2 a.m. and Dixon had read the file on Westricity twice. There had been no mention of Tom or Elizabeth Perry, but tha
t would have been too easy, and the names listed in the shareholders register meant nothing to him. One would require further investigation, Welmore Holdings Limited, but that was it. It had been a nice evening though. A meal in the Farriers Arms, followed by a few beers in front of the fire. It was the only bit of good news Dixon had had in recent days.

  ‘The B&B’s opposite a nice pub, apparently.’

  And it was. The only downside was the lack of Wi-Fi.

  What struck him as even more unusual was that they hadn’t mentioned the case once in the entire evening. Unusual, that, in the heat of battle. But then some things are more important, perhaps, and even police officers are allowed a private life.

  Jane had talked about finding her birth parents, although she hadn’t yet discussed it with her adopted parents. That had been Dixon’s first suggestion, although he had to admit he was not exactly an expert in this situation. She must have been watching too many episodes of Long Lost Family.

  ‘See what they say,’ had been his advice. ‘You never know, they may even know who they are and just never told you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they be hurt?’

  ‘Not half as much as they will be if you just do it and they find out.’

  Jane had agreed with that one.

  Dixon switched off the reading light on his side of the bed and slid down under the duvet. He knew that when he closed his eyes he would see the picture of Harry Unwin’s body swinging on the end of the rope. Only this time it was the body of Wendy Gibson that appeared, lying on her back in the field gateway. Dixon could tell from the angle of her feet and the zip on her coat. He opened his eyes and she was gone.

  He thought about the one person he had kept in touch with from college, now a solicitor in Swindon dealing with wills and probate, complaining that his life revolved around death.

  ‘You wanna try seeing it from my end,’ had been Dixon’s reply.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s UHT milk,’ said Dixon, dropping the small pot back into the bowl.

  ‘I’m sure they’d give you some . . .’ Jane’s voice was lost in a yawn, ‘proper stuff, if you asked.’

  ‘Haven’t got time for that,’ said Dixon. ‘C’mon, we said we’d be down for breakfast at 7.30 a.m.’

  ‘You don’t eat breakfast.’

  ‘I do when I’ve paid for it. And it’s a fry up.’

  They arrived at Express Park just before 9 a.m. Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were leaning against the filing cabinets, talking to Louise Willmott, who was sitting at a computer.

  ‘Morning, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to Elizabeth’s friends yet?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The Met did. Briefly. Didn’t find anything relevant.’

  ‘Let’s speak to them again then. Dave, Mark, that’s your job. I want them all spoken to. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Ask them about the politics, people she may have met, anything unusual she may have said. All right?’

  ‘Will do,’ replied Harding.

  ‘What about her phone?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘High Tech have got it. They checked her calls,’ replied Jane.

  ‘What about her iPad?’

  ‘They’ve got that too. Nothing on it except photos. We looked at her Facebook . . .’

  ‘Look at it again.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘And I want a company search for Welmore Holdings Limited. Then background checks on the directors and shareholders. All right?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Who’s Welmore Holdings?’ asked Louise.

  ‘It’s a holding company that owns 20 per cent of Westricity,’ replied Dixon. ‘You’re with me again, Louise. Just give me twenty minutes.’

  Dixon switched on a computer and fetched himself a cup of coffee while he waited for it to start up. Then he sat down, opened Google and typed ‘probate find’ into the search field. Seconds later he was on GOV.UK learning about finding a will for people who died in or after 1858. He clicked on ‘Start Now’.

  On the next page he selected ‘Wills and Probate 1858–1996’ and entered Gibson under surname and 1994 for year of death. There were thirteen pages of the Probate Calendar returned for Gibson in 1994. A lot of Gibsons died that year.

  They were listed alphabetically so he jumped forward to page ten, then twelve.

  ‘There you are,’ he muttered.

  GIBSON, WENDY MAY

  OF STICKLAND BARN MUCHELNEY BRIDGWATER SOMERSET

  DIED 25 MARCH 1994 PROBATE BRISTOL 12 DECEMBER £411308 9451764579C

  He entered the details in the required fields on the right of the page, clicked ‘Add to basket’ and then reached for his wallet.

  Barry Dossett was just coming out of the Bridgwater Conservative Association office when Louise turned into the car park and parked in a vacant space in front of Dobbs Design.

  ‘Will he be all right in here?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Monty.

  ‘Yes, he’s fine,’ replied Dixon. ‘He doesn’t chew cars.’

  Dossett saw them getting out of Louise’s car and waited by his own. Dixon walked over to him.

  ‘Lawrence has gone, Inspector. If . . .’

  ‘Actually, it was you I was looking for,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m due at a meeting in Bristol, then I’m off home.’

  ‘Where is home?’

  ‘Ascot. I do the weekly thing and stay in digs during the week. I’ll be back tomorrow though. We’ve got an action day.’

  Dixon frowned.

  ‘The environment secretary’s coming down to see the floods and support Tom’s campaign. Plus we’ve got several coachloads of supporters coming down to knock on doors.’

  ‘How involved were you with the open primary?’

  Dossett looked at his watch.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ continued Dixon.

  ‘I was just overseeing it, really. I cover a large area and several other constituencies were selecting at the same time so it was pretty hectic. Lawrence ran it.’

  ‘Is there a lot of extra work with an open primary?’

  ‘Some. My own view, if you must know, is they’re a complete waste of time,’ replied Dossett, shaking his head. ‘I can’t think of one election we’ve won after going through this charade that we wouldn’t have won anyway.’

  ‘Why hold them, then?’

  ‘I just do what I’m told, Inspector. That’s the lot of us staffers. They’ll tell you it’s the publicity.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘Our political lords and masters.’

  ‘So, how did you react when the executive council ignored the result?’

  ‘I warned them what would happen but they went ahead and did it anyway,’ replied Dossett, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It was my first real involvement with the association, so I didn’t know any of them that well. There’d always been a sitting MP before so we never had candidate selections to worry about. Anyway, they avoided special measures. Somehow.’

  ‘Were you aware of the plot to . . .’

  ‘You think this has something to do with Elizabeth’s murder?’

  Dixon ignored the question.

  ‘Lawrence filled me in,’ replied Dossett, with a sigh. He opened his car door. ‘But it was no big deal. Every association has its factions. And they got the right result in the end.’

  ‘Was Tom under pressure to stand down after Elizabeth’s murder?’

  ‘God, no. We just needed to know so we could get on with finding another candidate, that’s all. Thankfully, we didn’t have to. He’s a good lad, is Tom. He’ll go far. And he’s got guts.’

  ‘How well did you know Elizabeth?’ asked Dixon, holding the car door while Dossett climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Hardly at all, really. I met her briefly at the primary. Then again at the final selection. That’s it, I think. It’s rare for me to go to association social events.’

  Dossett switched on th
e engine.

  ‘What time does the action day start?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Moorland to begin with then canvassing in the Burnham area for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dossett,’ said Dixon.

  He waited until Dossett had driven off before turning to Louise.

  ‘Remind me to make sure I’m out tomorrow.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Louise, smiling.

  ‘Let’s go and see what Mr Dobbs has got to say for himself, shall we?’ said Dixon, nodding at the light in the window of Dobbs Design.

  The front door was open, so Dixon followed Louise into an open plan office area, with one light on at a workstation in the far corner. Dixon coughed, expecting to see a head pop up from behind the partition. Nothing.

  Louise tiptoed over and peered around the partition, then she walked back towards Dixon, shaking her head.

  ‘He’s busy.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Watching a film.’

  ‘What sort of . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ replied Louise, rolling her eyes. ‘He’s got headphones on.’

  Dixon tiptoed forward and dropped his warrant card over the partition onto the desk in front of Dobbs. He sat up sharply, fumbling for his headphones.

  ‘We’re looking for Liam Dobbs,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Er . . . yes . . . that’s me.’

  ‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Dobbs. I can see you’re busy.’

  It was an interesting shade of red. Anger, fear, embarrassment, Dixon had seen it all. But seldom had he seen anyone go as red as Liam Dobbs. He was tall, even sitting in an office chair, and had the look of someone who spent far too long in front of a computer.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Well, you can get rid of that, for a start,’ said Dixon, pointing at the computer screen.

  ‘Sorry,’ replied Dobbs, reaching for the mouse.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Elizabeth Perry.’

  ‘I thought you’d caught . . . ?’

  ‘We have all sorts of leads we have to follow up. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  Dixon picked his warrant card up and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘Why were you so keen to see Rod Brophy selected?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Really?’