by Damien Boyd
‘Go and ask Jane.’
Louise returned a few seconds later.
‘It’s Simon King, Lizzie’s brother.’
‘Not the marine?’
Louise nodded.
‘Oh shit, that’s all we need.’
‘Who’s that in the top hat?’
‘That’ll be the Monster Raving Looney.’
‘There’s even a white rabbit,’ said Louise.
‘They all come out for by-elections,’ muttered Dixon.
Robert Sampson stepped back from the table and the crowd began to disperse to join their supporters as the candidates made their way onto the stage. Dixon watched Perry step back to allow the other candidates up the steps.
‘We’ll be live on Newsnight soon,’ said Louise.
‘There he is,’ said Dixon.
‘Where?’
‘Sitting down at the front.’ Dixon turned to Jane and nodded.
Louise stepped forward.
‘Wait.’
Barry Dossett stood up, straightened his jacket and then made his way to the back of the crowd of Conservative supporters. He was unmistakeable, standing several inches taller than everyone else. The padded jacket had been replaced by a blazer and red tie. Odd that. There was no blue rosette either.
Dixon was distracted by the noise of Sampson tapping the microphone. Then Sampson glanced down at the TV crews and nodded.
‘I, Robert Frederick Dunning Sampson, being the returning officer in the parliamentary election for the Bridgwater and North Somerset constituency held on Thursday 23 January do hereby give notice that the number of votes recorded for each candidate at the said election is as follows.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Louise.
Dixon glanced across at Jane and nodded. The two uniformed officers appeared in the doorway. Then he looked at Mark, who leaned forward and whispered in Dave Harding’s ear.
‘Follow me,’ said Dixon.
‘Abbot, Peter Benjamin Thumper, White Rabbit Liberation Party, thirty-nine.’
‘Democracy is a wonderful thing,’ muttered Dixon, but it was lost in the cheer of a small group of people to his left.
‘Blythe, John Joseph, United Kingdom Independence Party, UKIP, seven thousand seven hundred and nineteen.’
‘I’ll go right, you go left,’ said Dixon.
‘Crowther, Lauren, Green Party. Three thousand and eighteen.’
Dixon walked forward, the noise in the hall masking his footsteps, and took up position on Dossett’s right shoulder. Louise was standing to his left.
‘Holland, Benjamin Michael, Labour Party, three thousand six hundred and ninety-nine.’
Dixon’s heart was pounding. Much louder and Dossett would surely hear it? Even over the noise of the Labour supporters cheering.
‘Hunt, Vanessa Milburn, Liberal Democrats, fifteen thousand four hundred and five.’
Dixon glanced up at the stage. Perry was smiling, but for how much longer?
‘Jackson, Rupert Walter, Monster Raving Looney Party, three hundred and twelve.’
Jackson stepped forward and his wave was greeted with a loud cheer.
‘Oliver, Marcus Ralph, Independent, seventy-seven.’
Another loud cheer, this time from the supporters of all the parties.
‘Perry, Thomas James, Conservative Party, twenty-two thousand three hundred and forty-one.’
A louder cheer drowned out the few boos. Perry glanced down at his group of supporters in front of the stage. Then he spotted Dixon standing next to Barry Dossett, his area campaign director. The smile was gone. He looked quizzically at Dixon and shook his head.
‘The total number of votes cast was fifty-two thousand six hundred and ten and I hereby declare that the said Thomas James Perry is duly elected Member of Parliament for the said constituency.’
Perry was staring at Dixon and appeared unmoved at the huge cheer that went up from his supporters. It took a nudge before Perry noticed that the Labour candidate had been trying to shake his hand. Perry then shook hands with all of the candidates before stepping forward to the microphone at the invitation of Sampson.
Perry hesitated, staring at Dixon. Dossett was clapping and cheering but stopped when he noticed Perry staring in his direction. Then he turned and saw Dixon standing next to him. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and made a half hearted attempt to turn for the door.
‘We’ll give him his moment of glory,’ said Dixon, taking hold of his arm. ‘You owe him that much.’
Perry was still staring at Dixon. He nodded.
‘Er, ladies and gentlemen, can I begin by thanking the returning officer and his team here at the count for a very smooth operation? And for sitting up into the early hours counting votes. Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough.’
The council staff waiting at the back cheered.
‘I’d like to thank my opponents for a most enjoyable and clean fight. I have made many friends during this election campaign, on all sides of the political spectrum, and for that I will remain deeply grateful.’
Perry paused to allow the applause to subside.
‘I’d like to thank my agent, Lawrence Deakin, and . . .’ Perry hesitated, frowning at Dixon, ‘. . . my area campaign director, Barry Dossett, for their support during the campaign.’
Dixon saw Simon King turn and look in his direction.
‘And also my team of supporters, volunteers all, who have been out knocking on doors and delivering leaflets in all weathers. Thank you.’
Yet another loud cheer.
‘I’d also like to thank the people of Bridgwater and North Somerset for placing their trust in me. Whether you voted for me or not, my door will always be open. And to the residents of the Somerset Levels I say simply this: dredge the rivers!’
Perry looked down at his feet and swallowed hard. Tears welled up in his eyes and he was fighting to hold them back.
‘Finally, I’d like to dedicate this election victory to my wife, Lizzie. Without her I would not be standing here today and . . .’ The tears began to stream down his cheeks. ‘This is for you.’
Vanessa Hunt stepped forward and put her arm around Perry. He looked up and stared at Dixon, no more than thirty feet from the stage, holding Dossett by the arm. Dixon turned away, dragging Dossett with him.
‘We’ll take this outside,’ said Dixon.
Dossett grimaced.
Once out onto the landing Dossett was handcuffed by one of the uniformed officers.
‘Barry Dossett, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Elizabeth Grace Perry. You do not have to . . .’
Dixon heard footsteps and turned. Too late. The blow caught him on the right side of his jaw, but he felt no pain until he hit the floor.
‘Simon!’
It was Tom Perry’s voice, coming from the double doors at the back of the hall. Dixon looked up. Dossett appeared to be leaning over backwards, with Simon King holding him up by the neck, Dossett’s head under his right arm.
‘Simon, stop!’
One of the uniformed officers stepped forward.
‘One more step and I snap his fucking neck!’ screamed King.
‘Simon, think about Lizzie,’ said Perry. ‘Let him go.’
‘He killed my sister.’
‘And the police will deal with him. It’s what Lizzie would want. You know that.’
King’s nostrils flared as he tightened his grip on Dossett’s neck, lifting him until his back was arched and only his toes were on the ground. Much further and Dossett’s neck would break.
King glared at Dixon, then Jane, then the uniformed officers.
‘I don’t want to lose my brother-in-law as well,’ said Perry, stepping forward. ‘We’ve all lost enough already, haven’t we? It’s got to stop, Simon.’
King’s breathing slowed. He looked down at Dossett over his right shoulder and back to Perry. Then he released his grip and allowed Dossett to slide to the floor. Dossett lay on his back, with his hands cuffed behind him, so
bbing.
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ said King.
Perry stepped forward and stood over Dossett, staring down at him.
‘Why, Barry? Why Lizzie?’
‘You were going to ruin everything,’ stammered Dossett. He tried to sit up but slumped back to the floor. ‘Everything!’ he screamed.
Dixon stood up. He was holding his jaw between his index finger and thumb, moving it gingerly from side to side.
‘Just get ’em out of here.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And those bloody TV cameras!’
‘Nick, about Simon,’ said Perry, turning to Dixon as the two uniformed officers dragged Dossett to his feet. ‘Will you . . . ?’
‘I’ll do what I can, Tom,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday 27 January
Dixon dropped his file of papers onto a vacant workstation and walked over to the kettle.
‘Jane gone?’
‘Yes,’ replied Louise.
He filled the kettle, switched it on and then leaned back against the worktop.
‘I’ve had a reply from the adoption agency, Sir.’
‘And?’
‘A baby daughter. Born 7 January 1954. Mrs Gibson was nineteen.’
‘Older than I expected. Does it give a name?’ asked Dixon.
‘Julia Rebecca.’
‘What about a reason?’
‘Her husband was killed in the Korean War. May 1953 at the Battle of the Hook. He’d only been out there a few days.’
‘That doesn’t explain why she gave up the baby, does it?’
‘Maybe she couldn’t afford it? Or perhaps it wasn’t his?’
‘Where’s the child now?’
‘She was adopted by a family in Bristol. Kept her Christian names and became Julia Rebecca Jameson.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She got married in 1998. Julia Woodgates, she is now. Lives in Muchelney, would you believe it?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Dixon, with a wry smile. ‘Children?’
‘Two, from a previous marriage.’
It was a small world, and it explained the flowers on the grave that had always puzzled the vicar. Perhaps the rage that drove her to obliterate her mother had turned to remorse over the years? Maybe it happened when she became a mother herself? Still, those were questions for another day.
‘D’you know her, Sir?’
‘We’ve met.’
‘D’you want to go and pick her up?’ asked Louise.
‘No, you go. You’ve done all the legwork. It’s not every day you get to solve a cold case and it’ll help with your transfer to CID.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Check for a shotgun certificate before you go. Either her own or her adopted parents. And ring me if she denies it.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Take Dave or Mark with you. I’m going home.’
‘You never told me about the cold case,’ said Jane.
They were sheltering in the porch at Berrow Church, watching Monty wandering around the churchyard in the rain.
‘Louise has gone to pick her up now,’ replied Dixon.
‘Who?’
‘Are you sure you wanna know?’
Jane nodded.
‘The victim gave a child up for adoption in 1954. A daughter. Let’s just say the reunion didn’t go well.’
‘It was the daughter?’
‘The daughter no one knew she had, don’t forget. There was no reference to her anywhere, except in some scribbled notes gathering dust in an old solicitor’s will file. It wasn’t even her last will; the one before that.’
‘How did you know to look for it?’
‘I am a solicitor, don’t forget.’
‘And you thought I’d . . .’
‘No, I didn’t think you’d blow your mother’s head off,’ said Dixon, smiling. ‘I thought you might be upset. That it might put you off looking for her.’
‘What frightens me more than anything else,’ said Jane, sitting down on the bench, ‘more even than finding out she’s dead, is that she doesn’t want to know me . . . wants nothing to do with me.’
‘Her loss.’
‘Doesn’t feel like it.’
‘Why not just take it one step at a time. Find the file and then you’ll at least know why. Finding her is stage two and, if she’s still alive, then you worry about whether or not to meet her.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s your decision, but whatever you decide, I’m right behind you. All right?’
‘I know that,’ said Jane, smiling. ‘Idiot.’
‘We really must talk about insubordination at your next staff appraisal, Constable Winter.’
Jane stood up and kissed Dixon.
‘One step at a time, then. I’m just gonna get the file. Then we’ll see if I can find her and if she’s still alive. That’s all.’
‘Fine by me,’ replied Dixon.
‘Where the hell’s Monty gone now,’ said Jane, glancing around the churchyard. She stepped out of the porch, turned and looked up the path to the top of the churchyard.
‘Can you see him?’ asked Dixon.
‘I think he’s trying to tell us something,’ replied Jane, grinning.
Monty was waiting for them at the gap in the wall, where the path veered off across the golf course to the beach.
‘It’s stopped raining,’ said Dixon, holding his hand out in front of him.
They followed Monty across the golf course, out onto the beach, and turned north towards Brean Down. They were level with the wreck of the SS Nornen before Dixon spoke again.
‘Why now though?’
‘It just feels right, that’s all,’ replied Jane, staring at another raincloud that was heading straight for them across the estuary. ‘Now that I’m . . . settled.’
Dixon knew not to press the point. ‘Settled’ sounded good to him. And he felt the same.
‘I don’t like the look of that cloud . . .’
Jane was interrupted by the loud blast of a horn and turned to see a car speeding towards them along the beach. It slid to a halt and Tom Perry got out.
‘Thought I might find you here, only they said you’d gone home and you weren’t there, so . . .’
‘You should’ve been a detective.’
Perry smiled.
‘I wanted to thank you.’
‘No need,’ said Dixon.
‘Simon told me Dossett’s not pressing charges against him?’
‘No.’
‘First decent thing he’s done,’ replied Perry. ‘Did you interview him?’
Dixon nodded.
‘What’s his connection to Dr McConnell?’
‘They were lovers,’ replied Dixon. ‘Have been for years. He was the unnamed co-respondent in her divorce, so that dates it to at least twelve years ago but they’d been seeing each other for several years before that. They met at a Conservative Party conference.’
‘Is that it?’
‘He’d put some money into her business in the early days and . . .’
‘Money again!’
‘McConnell was on the brink of selling out to Betalin AB.’
‘And they didn’t want me rocking the boat?’
‘No.’
Perry leaned back on the front wing of his car.
‘It was always going to be about the money, Tom,’ said Dixon. ‘We knew that.’
‘I suppose we did,’ replied Perry. ‘Whose idea was it?’
‘Dr McConnell’s. But Dossett set it up. They both blame each other but that’s the most likely scenario.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘A tip off.’
‘Who from?’
‘I really can’t . . .’
‘No, of course you can’t.’
Perry picked up Monty’s ball and threw it along the beach.
‘I’m not going to rock the boat. I’m gonna sink
it,’ said Perry, watching Monty chase off after the ball. ‘What about you? Simon hit you, didn’t he?’
‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ said Dixon, rubbing his chin.
‘Thank you.’
‘Really, it’s all part of the . . .’
‘I know it isn’t,’ interrupted Perry. He held out his hand. Dixon took it and they shook hands.
‘And you, Constable Winter,’ said Perry, shaking Jane’s hand.
‘Call me Jane, please.’
‘I gather the water level’s going down?’ asked Dixon.
‘It was,’ replied Perry. ‘Till some twit further up opened the sluice gates.’
‘Some people . . .’
‘We must have a bite to eat sometime,’ said Perry.
‘I hope you like curry,’ said Jane.
‘Love it. Anyway, I must go. I’m on my way up to London. I’m being sworn in tomorrow.’
‘Good luck,’ said Dixon.
‘Thanks,’ replied Perry, getting into his car. He wound down the window. ‘And if there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .’
Dixon waved and Perry sped off.
‘You didn’t mention the budget cuts,’ said Jane.
‘No.’
‘You’ll be telling me next you voted Tory.’
‘No,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘He doesn’t need to know that though, does he?’
Author’s Note
Thank you very much indeed for reading Dead Level and I hope you enjoyed it. I wanted to say a few words about the plot, which was born out of bitter personal experience.
On New Year’s Eve 2002 someone very close to me was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. From that point on her experience mirrored that of Elizabeth Perry (except she wasn’t murdered!). No advice was given about the choice of insulin available and you can guess the rest.
Mercifully, I spotted an advertisement in the local paper placed by the InDependent Diabetes Trust—a real organisation that very kindly agreed to appear in Dead Level—and once the switch to animal insulin was made her recovery was both immediate and, thank God, complete.
Who was it who said that ‘fact is stranger than fiction’?
So, my message is simple. If you or anyone you know has been affected by any of the symptoms set out in this book following a prescription of human insulin, please seek immediate medical advice. Further information can also be found on the IDDT website at www.iddt.org.