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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘What about Elizabeth Perry?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘No nearer,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘I gather the Albanians came to see you?’

  ‘Some bollocks about insurance and the shoemaker goes barefoot.’

  ‘Make the most of it because that’s all you’re gonna get from them,’ said Lewis.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Zephyr went in there last night and they’ve gone. Cleared out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘No idea. Tirana, probably.’

  ‘What about Collyer’s mole?’

  ‘Disappeared.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.

  ‘Did you send a copy of your statement to Collyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘We start at the beginning and go right back through everything,’ replied Dixon. ‘You don’t pay to have someone killed without good reason. It’ll be there, we just have to find it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to do it without Mark Pearce and Dave Harding, I’m afraid. They’re needed elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re taking people off the case? Now?’

  ‘No choice.’

  ‘What do I tell Tom Perry?’

  ‘You could try reminding him about the budget cuts?’ replied Lewis, shrugging his shoulders.

  Dixon looked at Jane and rolled his eyes.

  ‘And there’s a memorial service for Elizabeth next Friday at St Mary’s.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ replied Dixon.

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday 10 January

  The water levels were dropping, there was no doubt about that. It may have had something to do with the pumps Dixon could see off to his left as he drove past Huntworth and out towards Moorland. Large plumes of water were spouting from four huge steel pipes, taking the water off the fields and back into the River Parrett. Another eight had been installed at Dunball on the King’s Sedgemoor Drain, all of them brought in from the Netherlands.

  How long it would last was a different story. Another band of Atlantic storms was due to sweep in over the weekend. It was still only mid-January, after all. But today the sun was shining, offering a little hope that things might improve. Now all Dixon had to do was find Tom Perry.

  ‘He’s gone home,’ his father had said. ‘He said he’d be back in time for the funeral.’

  Dixon forked left at the bend and drove along the farm track. The road to Moorland was still under water and beyond the village it was still over ten feet deep. Eleven at Northmoor Green. He passed a blue Honda Civic, which had been left in a field gateway just before the track disappeared into the water, much like a jetty at high tide. Perry must have continued on foot.

  The line of the track was easy to follow, assuming it was midway between the hedges on either side, and beyond the farmyard it continued up the earth bank and then along the River Parrett behind the farm, curving away towards Northmoor Green. The fields in between were all under water, the lines of the hedges marking their boundaries, and a lone figure was visible in the distance, standing on the riverbank, staring down at Waterside Cottage.

  Dixon accelerated along the track. The water was shallow, which was evident from the debris hanging in the hedges on either side; an assortment of plastic bags, a bucket, what was left of several bales of hay and eight dead rabbits. He suspected that the farm slurry tank had overflowed and possibly also the septic tank too. The Land Rover would need another hose down.

  He glanced across at the farmhouse as he drove past, the water gently lapping at the letter box, and thought about Mrs Freeman and old Mr Grafton. God knows what would be left of their houses when they eventually got back to them.

  The gate at the back of the farmyard was closed but not on the latch, so Dixon edged forward, shunting it open with his bumper rather that than getting wet feet. Once it was clear of the front, he accelerated through the gap, listening to the gate bouncing down the side of the Land Rover. A few more dents to add to the many. Adds a bit of character to the old bus, he thought, as he accelerated up the track, clear of the water, and onto the top of the riverbank.

  He watched a dead sheep float past in the current, just visible beneath the waves being whipped up by the wind. Then he accelerated along the track, glancing at the water on either side, to his left the river and below and to his right, submerged fields.

  Tom Perry was on his hands and knees by the time that Dixon reached him, his tears leaving tracks in the mud on his cheeks, his fists clenched in the muddy puddle in front of him. Dixon ripped off his black tie and threw it in the back of the Land Rover. Then he jumped out.

  ‘C’mon, Tom, get up,’ he said, helping him to his feet. ‘You’re wet through.’

  ‘I tried to get in,’ replied Tom. ‘The water’s too deep.’

  Dixon glanced down at the cottage. The high water mark, a line of brown sludge, was a foot or so above the water, making it eleven feet deep and still over first floor level. Several windows on the first floor were broken.

  Suddenly, Perry bent down, picked up a stone off the gravel path and hurled it at the cottage, this time shattering a roof tile.

  ‘I just can’t do it anymore,’ he screamed, dropping to his knees. ‘I just can’t do it.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ said Dixon, squatting down in front of him. ‘You can do it for Lizzie.’

  ‘Putting on a brave face, all the time. You were at the wind farm meeting. I don’t give a toss about the fucking wind farm. My wife’s been murdered, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You don’t care about the wind farm, Tom, you care about the people. And Lizzie cared about you.’

  Perry began to sob, his head bowed. Dixon put his hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let it out, Tom. Let it all out.’

  Dixon watched Perry sobbing, the sound of the River Parrett swirling past, the wind and the waves drowning out all but the loudest of his screams. He knew how Perry felt. He had been through it seventeen years ago and then again only a few weeks before, when he had finally found Fran. He’d let it out all over again, one quiet afternoon on the beach and with only Monty for company, and now the box was back on its shelf.

  Perry would get there too. Dixon would see to it.

  ‘We can’t even bury her,’ stammered Perry, between sharp intakes of breath. ‘The churchyard’s under water.’

  ‘You will, Tom. When you’re good and ready, there’ll be a time for that.’

  Perry stood up and turned to the river, his back to Waterside Cottage. He was breathing hard and watching the water racing past.

  ‘Every day I wake up. Then I remember. And I go through it all over again. Every bloody morning.’

  ‘Here’s what you do,’ said Dixon. ‘You put all the memories in a box, close it and put it somewhere safe. In a corner at the back of your mind. Then when the time’s right, and you can face it, you open the box.’

  Perry nodded and did his best to raise a smile.

  ‘Whenever you feel like it,’ continued Dixon. ‘Privately and when it’s just you. These are your memories and yours alone.’

  ‘What about the rest of the time?’

  ‘You put on your brave face and make Lizzie proud of you.’

  ‘What about your box of memories?’

  ‘It’s safely tucked away.’

  ‘D’you open it?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Sometimes.’

  Perry smiled.

  ‘I’ll need to tell my landlord about the broken windows.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘Vandals everywhere these days. The insurance’ll cover it.’

  ‘What did you want?’ asked Perry. ‘You never said.’

  ‘It can wait,’ replied Dixon. ‘C’mon, let’s get you home.’

  Dixon followed Perry to his parents’ bungalow and then drove back to Express Park. He had a couple of hours before the memorial service at 2 p
.m.

  ‘This was floating around, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘Is it yours?’

  She handed Dixon a brown envelope marked HM Courts and Tribunal Service.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A grant of probate for a Mrs Wendy Gibson.’

  ‘Yes, that’s mine, thanks.’

  Dixon sat down at a vacant workstation next to Jane.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Jane. ‘How was he?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘You were ages.’

  ‘I found him on the riverbank at Northmoor Green. Soaked to the skin. He’d tried to get into the cottage.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Not sure he knew. Anyway, I took him home.’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked Dixon, watching Jane staring at her screen.

  ‘No.’

  He slid the grant of probate out of the envelope while he waited for his computer to start.

  ‘IN THE HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE

  The District Probate Registry at Bristol

  Be it known that WENDY MAY GIBSON

  of Stickland Barn Muchelney Somerset TA10 2HE

  died on the 25th March 1994

  domiciled in England and Wales’

  Dixon glanced down at the executors, both at the same address and probably solicitors. Then he turned the page and looked at the will. It was short at only three paragraphs and dated 1991, over three years before her murder. The partners at the date of her death in the firm of Dolley & Freer Solicitors, 10 Market Place, Somerton, were appointed her executors and her entire estate was divided equally between the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the Friends of Bristol Horses Society. The will had been signed in the presence of two witnesses, both of whom gave their occupations as clerks and their address as 10 Market Place, Somerton.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Just something on that cold case.’

  ‘Didn’t you hand that back?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon, opening a web browser. A quick search of Google confirmed that Dolley & Freer were still there, although only one of the executors named on the grant of probate was still a partner in the firm.

  ‘A word, if I may?’

  Dixon looked up from his screen to see DCI Lewis waving at him, so he followed him to a seating area at the end of the landing, overlooking the atrium.

  ‘Getting anywhere?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘At the moment we’re sifting . . .’

  ‘Cut the flannel.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Only the chief con is getting a bit jumpy.’

  ‘Aren’t we all.’

  ‘Questions are being asked, Nick, and we can’t answer them because of the news blackout on the Torquay end. That leaves us with our only suspect washing up dead at Brean Down. We’re not looking too clever, are we?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can . . .’

  ‘And the longer it goes on the worse it gets,’ continued Lewis. ‘The press are having a field day.’

  Dixon sighed.

  ‘I know you wanted to speak to the Albanians,’ said Lewis.

  ‘They wouldn’t have told me anything more than they already have done, even if Zephyr’d got ’em in custody.’

  ‘Have you got anywhere with the insurance thing?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘No. I’d like to have a look around the bookmakers though.’

  ‘It’d been cleaned out,’ said Lewis, shaking his head. ‘Nothing. Not even a fingerprint.’

  ‘We’ll just have to take a bit of bad publicity on the chin then, won’t we, Sir?’

  ‘Vicky Thomas is keen to do a press conference.’

  ‘We need some news for that, surely?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Talking of news,’ said Lewis, ‘I thought you might like to see this.’ He handed Dixon a rolled up newspaper. ‘Today’s Bridgwater Mercury.’

  Dixon looked at the headline.

  ‘Councillor Brophy resigns.’

  ‘Twat,’ muttered Dixon, dropping the newspaper into a rubbish bin as he walked back along the landing.

  Louise dropped Dixon and Jane off in St Mary’s Street, Bridgwater, just after 1.30 p.m. and they waited just inside the churchyard, sheltering under an umbrella beside a large fir tree.

  ‘Do we have to wait out here?’ asked Jane. ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘I want to see who files past, their faces, and I want to hear what they’re saying.’

  ‘You don’t think her killer will come, do you?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s someone close. Someone who has to come, because it would look odd if they didn’t.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘We’ve spent days going through all of Tom’s political campaigning and come up with nothing. None of it explains why Elizabeth was killed rather than Tom. So it must be something else.’

  ‘You mean we’ve wasted . . . ?’

  ‘Of course we haven’t,’ said Dixon, glancing over his shoulder. Louise was parked in Cornhill, photographing all of the mourners arriving at the church.

  ‘What else then?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No idea,’ said Dixon, looking up at the church spire. ‘I was hoping for some divine intervention.’

  A group of twenty or so people, led by Barbara Sumner, filed through the ornate iron gates. She saw Dixon and turned to her husband, whispering in his ear. Behind her, Dixon recognised the agent, Lawrence Deakin, and the area campaign director, Barry Dossett, Liam Dobbs and most of the Conservative councillors on Sedgemoor District and Somerset County councils.

  ‘That’s Tom’s local ward committee,’ said Jane, pointing to a smaller group following behind. ‘Moorland and Northmoor Green. You’ve seen their statements.’

  ‘No sign of Rod Brophy,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘No.’

  Behind them came several people Dixon had seen at the wind farm protest meeting, including the chairman, then Tom Perry’s opponents in the by-election, Vanessa Hunt, and the Labour candidate, Ben Holland. Nice touch that.

  ‘Shame to miss a photo opportunity,’ said Jane.

  ‘When did you become such a cynic?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It’s living with you.’

  ‘C’mon, we’ll wait inside,’ said Dixon, gesturing towards a large white van that had pulled up on the other side of St Mary’s Street. It had a large satellite dish on the roof and two men were unloading cameras from the back.

  ‘Is nothing sacred?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Dixon.

  They sat down at the back of the church and watched the families filing along the aisle. His and hers, Tom Perry at the back of the group, with the vicar.

  ‘He’s holding it together well,’ whispered Jane.

  ‘It’s an act,’ replied Dixon. Then he felt Jane holding his hand.

  ‘Welcome to this memorial service when we celebrate the life of Elizabeth Grace Perry, beloved wife, daughter and sister.’

  Dixon spent much of the next fifteen minutes or so watching the congregation, singing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and then in prayer. Some sang, some didn’t, some knelt to pray and others leaned forward, pretending to kneel, either because they didn’t believe or perhaps they just suffered from arthritis. It was a familiar scene and one that Dixon would have to face again soon, when Fran was laid to rest at long last. And he would put on an act, just like Tom Perry was doing now. After all, it’s what you do, isn’t it?

  ‘And now Tom would like to say a few words.’

  Perry stood up. He hesitated and then turned to his mother, sitting to his left.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. Really. I want to.’

  He stepped up onto the chancel and turned to face the congregation. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘She was my . . .’ A sharp intake of breath. ‘She was my life. All of you here knew her so I don�
��t need to tell you what a beautiful, sincere, caring person she was, do I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was her mother,’ whispered Jane.

  Perry smiled down at the front row of the congregation.

  ‘We met at a friend’s wedding twelve years ago and they have quite simply been the happiest twelve years of my life. It remains a mystery to me why she chose me, but she did and I will always be thankful for that.’

  More sharp intakes of breath.

  ‘We were never apart. When I broke my neck she never left my bedside. Six weeks that was. And when she was diagnosed with diabetes and we nearly lost her. But she was determined to live. She was a fighter.’ Perry smiled. ‘Then we realised it was her insulin and she . . . she lived life to the full after that. She was always doing something and it always seemed to be for someone else.’

  Perry bowed his head and started to sob. The vicar stepped forward and put her arm around him.

  ‘We did everything together and the prospect of doing everything without her is too horrible to contemplate, but as a man I now count amongst my friends said to me this morning, “Put on a brave face and make her proud of you.” And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to do it for you, Lizzie.’

  Elizabeth’s mother stood up and helped him back to his pew.

  Dixon spent the next fifteen minutes thinking about his meeting that morning with Tom on the banks of the River Parrett, overlooking Northmoor Green. He had gone to tell him, to reassure him, that he was still looking for Lizzie’s killer, but he never got the chance to say it. Perhaps what he had said would prove more useful to Tom.

  Dixon and Jane had been first out of the church and had walked around the side to Louise’s car, parked in Cornhill, avoiding the TV news cameras. They were back at Express Park ten minutes later.

  ‘I’m just popping over to Somerton. I’ll see you at home,’ said Dixon, walking over to his Land Rover.

  ‘What’s in Somerton?’

  Jane got a wave rather than the reply she had been expecting, but Dixon was not going to tell her his theory about the cold case. It was a little too close to home.

  He parked in the loading bay outside Dolley & Freer Solicitors in Somerton just after 4 p.m. It was a grey stone terrace with flags fluttering from a pub at the far end. Each property had black painted railings outside and a stone entrance porch with pillars either side. There was even an entryphone, so Dixon pressed the buzzer and, to his surprise, it buzzed straight away.