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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘What do we say?’

  ‘Make the same objections as last time. Visual impact, noise and shadow flicker. Remember these are large and close to dwellings. And the environmental damage, don’t forget. One letter each. One signed by two people counts as one objection so everyone in the household must write separate letters. Got that?’

  ‘What’s the point if they take into account the letters we wrote before?

  ‘The alternative is to do nothing and hope for the best,’ replied the chairman.

  ‘We can’t take that chance.’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  More voices from the floor.

  ‘Will the inspector do a site visit?’

  ‘He will,’ replied the chairman. ‘So, it’s important we have a huge poster campaign for him to see when he comes. I want a “No Wind Farm” poster in every window.’

  ‘What about arranging a demo when he comes? Show him the strength of feeling?’

  ‘I’ve taken advice on that and the general feeling is that would be counterproductive. We will be represented at his site visit. And have the opportunity to tell him what we think and why. But a mob following him around, shouting at him, is likely to have the opposite effect.’

  ‘Who will be there then?’

  ‘I will. And our newly elected MP, whoever that is. Maybe two others, but the committee will decide on that.’

  ‘What about Westricity?’

  ‘They will be there, of course, they will. It’s their appeal.’

  ‘Wankers.’

  ‘Whatever we think of them, this is a planning process and if the appeal is to be thrown out, it will be on planning grounds. It’s emotive, of course it is, but we must keep emotion out of it. Planning objections. Visual impact, that sort of thing. All right?’

  ‘Did you see that piece in the papers, calling us NIMBYs?’

  ‘May I?’ asked Tom Perry, catching the chairman’s eye.

  ‘By all means.’

  Perry stood up and turned to face the audience.

  ‘“Not in my back yard” is a shabby accusation. Ignore it. I’m sure I speak for all of the candidates here tonight when I say that it is my back yard, and I’m proud of my back yard. I love it. And, no, I don’t want a wind farm in my back yard.’ Perry waited for the applause to subside. ‘And what’s more, anyone who says they do want a wind farm in their back yard is a liar.’

  ‘Let ’em have it in their back yard, then.’

  Perry smiled and sat down.

  ‘What about Rod Brophy? You were at the planning meeting. What do we do about Brophy?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied the chairman. ‘He sits on the committee and is entitled to his opinion. But the committee made the right decision anyway so what does it matter what he thinks?’

  Dixon leaned over and whispered in Jane’s ear.

  ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘What did you make of that then?’ asked Jane, as she drove back towards Brent Knoll.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve learned anything new,’ replied Dixon. ‘Although Brophy’s enthusiasm for the wind farm seems to be common knowledge.’

  ‘Do they know why?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘And the relevance to Elizabeth’s murder?’

  ‘None. It sheds more light on Brophy’s enthusiasm to get selected, perhaps, and the concerted effort to get Tom’s selection overturned, but that’s about it. And I’m not sure even that is relevant to Elizabeth’s murder.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you wanted rid of Tom, you’d kill Tom, not his wife, surely?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘We speak to Brophy tomorrow, as planned. We have to follow that through, but I’m not sure we’re any nearer finding the motive for Elizabeth’s murder. Not that I’d tell anyone that.’

  Jane sighed.

  ‘Put your foot down and we can get to the Red Cow before they stop serving food.’

  Jane tiptoed down the stairs to find Dixon fast asleep on the sofa, with Monty curled up beside him on a pile of papers. Dixon’s laptop had shut down and the only light came from the credits on an old black and white film that was just finishing.

  She tapped him on the knee.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked, yawning and stretching his arms.

  ‘Fourish,’ replied Jane. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Research,’ replied Dixon. He closed his laptop and put it on the arm of the sofa, then he began pulling various documents out from underneath Monty.

  ‘What’s the film?’ asked Jane, switching the light on.

  ‘The Train. Burt Lancaster. Haven’t you . . . ?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ replied Jane. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  ‘Too late now. I’ll take Monty for a walk, I think.’

  ‘It’s pissing down out there.’

  ‘I’ve got a brolly and he’s got a coat.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Jane was right, it was raining hard. Cold too. But it was a chance to think. He was missing something. Where the killer has done the killing, more often than not you could place them at the scene, have some physical evidence, but here there was none. The true killer, the money, was removed, one or perhaps even two steps removed, from the killing itself. The physical evidence had led them to the foot soldiers and the only thing he was going to get from the go-between was some ramblings about insurance and ‘the shoemaker goes barefoot’.

  Perry probably had neglected Elizabeth’s needs, if his statement was anything to go by. But he had been focussed on the election campaign and could, perhaps, be forgiven for that. It was the nature of a political marriage, although Elizabeth hadn’t known she was getting into one until it was too late. It was a long and detailed statement and Perry’s guilt shone through. Guilt that he had been dedicated to his political career, which had gathered a momentum of its own at the expense of his marriage, and guilt that Elizabeth might have died because of it.

  Dixon had spent hours trawling through all of Perry’s political activity since he had been selected to stand for parliament. Much of the legwork had been done by Jane, Mark and Dave, and it made for a thick file on each of the major campaigns. He had been through the wind farm file three times and yet nothing leapt out at him. Yes, Elizabeth had been there throughout, supporting her husband, but she had played no active part in any of the campaigning.

  The cold case had more sense of direction. Or at least, it felt like it. It may turn out to be the wrong direction but he felt as if he was making progress, although that could probably be explained by self-delusion. As for Elizabeth Perry, what direction the investigation had was gone, despite Zavan’s riddle. Dixon hated riddles as much as he hated cryptic crosswords.

  He watched the rain bouncing off the parked cars, as he walked along Brent Street towards open countryside. He turned left at the end of the road, heading towards Berrow, folded up his umbrella and tucked it under his arm. Maybe the rain would wake him up.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going with Louise?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I’m not driving all the way to Bridgwater and back again just to collect Louise,’ replied Dixon.

  He was driving along Rectory Road, looking up at the house numbers. They were large houses, set back from the road down private drives, but most had the name or number on the gatepost. He slowed down outside a large house with a huge tree in the front garden. Jane leaned across him and looked up.

  ‘The Vicarage?’

  ‘Picture a ten year old boy playing cricket in the drive,’ said Dixon, smiling.

  ‘You?’

  ‘We must’ve missed Brophy’s place. I’ll turn round.’

  They drove back along Rectory Road, peering at the house numbers. Jane was looking out of the passenger window and Dixon, the windscreen. Not easy, despite his wipers on full speed.

  ‘That must be it,’ said Jane, pointing to a house with high wooden gates and an entry phone on the gatepost.

>   ‘Wait here,’ said Dixon, parking across the drive. ‘I’ll see if he’s in.’

  ‘We should’ve made an appointment.’

  ‘Much rather catch him on the hop,’ replied Dixon.

  He ran around the front of the Land Rover and rang the buzzer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon to see Mr Brophy.’

  ‘I’m just going out.’

  Dixon waited. A loud sigh came over the intercom, then the gates began to open. Jane jumped out of the Land Rover.

  The house was large and modern, with a new Mercedes and a BMW X3 parked outside a built in double garage. It was difficult to tell whether the fountain was on, it was raining that hard, but the koi carp were obvious; large orange and white fish circling just below the surface of the pond in the middle of the front lawn.

  Brophy was waiting on the doorstep. He was in his early fifties, with greying hair and an obviously dyed moustache. He’d put on a few pounds too and Dixon hardly recognised him from his photograph on the Somerset County Council website.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon.

  The lounge was best described as minimalist. Almost austere. Two white leather sofas, a red rug in front of a white tiled fireplace and nothing on the mantelpiece. No television either. And no pictures on the walls.

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

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Not very. Look, I’m sure you know that Tom and I were opponents throughout the selection process and when he was selected I took the deliberate decision to step back. Let him get on with it, as it were.’

  ‘Tell me about the selection process.’

  Brophy sat down on the edge of one of the sofas and gestured to Dixon and Jane to sit on the other.

  ‘It was unfortunate.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Central Office imposed an open primary on us. Bloody waste of time that was. There was a suspicion that Perry stuffed the primary with his supporters and skewed the result.’

  ‘Where did this suspicion come from?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How could he have done that though? He doesn’t even live in the constituency, does he?’

  ‘He was campaigning in advance of the meeting . . .’

  ‘So were you,’ replied Dixon. ‘And that’s allowed under the rules. I checked.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Did none of your supporters attend?’

  ‘They did, of course they did.’

  ‘Not enough though.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, whose idea was it to stuff the executive council meeting?’

  ‘Now, steady on . . .’

  Jane smiled. How to win friends and influence people, by Nick Dixon. Essential reading.

  ‘How did you react when Perry won the primary?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I was disappointed.’

  ‘Is it true that you regarded this seat as yours when Kenneth Anderson stood down?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘I very much hoped that the local party would recognise my long standing track record of work as a councillor and select me, yes.’

  ‘And you made no secret of that?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘So, how did you feel when Tom won?’

  ‘I felt let down, I suppose,’ replied Brophy. ‘Look, I don’t understand your interest in this. The selection was done and dusted last year.’

  ‘A concerted effort is made to get rid of Tom Perry, when he’s won the selection fairly and squarely,’ said Dixon, standing up. ‘And then his wife’s murdered.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think . . .’

  Dixon was standing in the front window, looking out at the fish still circling the pond.

  ‘Let me ask you again, whose idea was it to stuff the executive council meeting?’

  Brophy sighed. ‘Mine, but it’s a perfectly legitimate tactic. I just made sure that everyone who supported me and was entitled to be at the meeting went to it and voted.’

  ‘And Liam Dobbs organised it?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Dobbs suggested that I be selected as an emergency measure. At an extraordinary meeting of the executive council.’

  ‘A shoe in?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘And that’s when Central Office stepped in?’

  ‘They did. Perry’s supporters tipped them off.’

  ‘Perry’s supporters or your opponents?’

  ‘We make enemies, Inspector. It goes with the territory.’

  ‘So, leaving aside vanity and ambition . . .’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘My understanding is that most politicians are motivated by vanity and ambition,’ said Dixon. ‘Is that not true?’

  ‘Some perhaps.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you motivated by then?’

  ‘A desire to serve my local community. A sense of duty.’

  ‘Not money?’

  ‘I’m not sure I . . .’

  ‘Tell me about Welmore Holdings Limited.’

  ‘I’ve never . . .’ Brophy’s voice tailed off. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

  ‘Never what?’ asked Dixon.

  Silence.

  ‘Never disclosed your financial interest in the company?’

  ‘No.’ Brophy was staring at the floor in front of him.

  ‘It was a rousing speech in support of the wind farm you made at the planning committee meeting. I’ve seen the minutes. They even remarked on it at the protest meeting last night.’

  ‘We have to invest in sustainable . . .’

  ‘We do. Particularly when your sister owns 50 per cent of a holding company that owns 20 per cent of Westricity.’

  Brophy was pulling at a thread on the rug in front of him.

  ‘And who owns the other half?’ asked Dixon. ‘I don’t recognise the names, so I’m guessing they’re trustees?’

  Brophy nodded.

  ‘And the beneficiaries of the trust?’

  ‘My children.’

  ‘So, did Elizabeth Perry find out about this, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Brophy, jumping up. ‘She . . . the two things are completely separate. She couldn’t possibly have known about this.’

  Dixon turned to Jane.

  ‘It used to be called obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception, Constable. That’ll be before your time, though. Now it’s just section 3 of the Fraud Act. Failure to disclose information that you are legally obliged to disclose. Dishonestly, of course.’

  ‘But the planning application was turned down,’ screamed Brophy.

  ‘I’m sure the Crown Prosecution Service will take that into account, Mr Brophy,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘But don’t leave the country. We’ll show ourselves out.’

  Dixon paused on the front doorstep, watching the rain bouncing off the pond.

  ‘Shall we check his phone and the cars?’ asked Jane. ‘See if either pop up in Bristol or Torquay?’

  ‘Better had. But it wasn’t him.’

  ‘What if Elizabeth had found out and been threatening to expose him if he was selected?’

  ‘Check his bank statements too,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Will the CPS prosecute him for fraud?’

  ‘I doubt it. But one thing’s for sure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can feel a resignation coming on.’

  ‘Aren’t we going home?’

  ‘No fear. They’re out canvassing today, don’t forget. We’ll be safer at Express Park,’ replied Dixon, turning onto the M5.

  And it had been safer. At least until lunc
htime, when DCI Lewis caught up with them in the staff canteen. ‘Meeting room two in twenty minutes’ had been the order, which gave Dixon just enough time to give Monty a run in the field behind the police centre.

  ‘I’ve had the chief super on the phone. Have you been hassling Rod Brophy?’

  ‘I interviewed Mr Brophy in connection with Elizabeth Perry’s murder, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘And we explored possible motives. Such as his failure to disclose his financial interest in the wind farm at the planning committee.’

  ‘He says you threatened him.’

  Dixon laughed.

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Dixon. ‘He was behind a determined effort to get rid of Tom Perry, only a matter of weeks before Tom’s wife is murdered. Then we discover he’s got his fingers in the till. Are you telling me we shouldn’t explore whether those two things are connected?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are then,’ said Dixon, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.

  ‘He says you were aggressive.’

  ‘Was I aggressive,’ asked Dixon, turning to Jane.

  ‘No, you . . .’

  ‘You took Jane?’ asked Lewis. ‘What did I tell you about working with Louise?’

  ‘Brophy’s just up the road from me. I’m hardly gonna drive all the way to Bridgwater to pick up Louise and then drive back again, am I?’

  ‘Well, you bloody well should’ve done. For this very reason.’

  ‘And anyway, Louise has got the day off,’ said Dixon.

  Lewis shook his head. ‘He’s threatening to sue us if this gets out.’

  ‘Look, we’re doing some checks but we’ve pretty much ruled him out of the murder investigation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The only way it works is if Elizabeth found out about his financial interest in Westricity and threatened to expose him. And how likely is that?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ replied Lewis.

  ‘It is. Tom won the selection easily when it was rerun,’ said Dixon. ‘There’s more to this than that.’

  ‘Where does that leave us with Brophy?’

  ‘Someone’ll have to decide whether to prosecute him for fraud, but even that’s unlikely. I expect when he calms down he’ll just resign quietly and that’ll be that.’