by Damien Boyd
The stairs creaked beneath the highly patterned red carpet, reminding him there would be an understairs cupboard to check on the way out.
An old enamel bath, heavily stained. No taps – water from the pump it is then.
Steiner had at least had the decency to use the spare bedroom, Mrs Boswell’s identifiable only by the clothes in the wardrobe. Spartan, or minimalist they called it these days: an old wooden bed, a dark oak bedside table with an empty jug, a glass and well-thumbed bible. Bare floorboards that creaked, a wardrobe and a dressing table with a mirror and a hairbrush sitting on a piece of old lace stained brown at the edges. The framed etchings on the walls were covered in mould spots too.
There was a rug on the floor in the spare room, in front of a small fireplace still littered with ash. Hospital corners on the bed, just like you learn in prison. Or boarding school. Steiner had done time in both.
Dixon reached up and opened the curtains.
Oh shit.
Chapter Three
Dixon ran out of the front door of the cottage to find another Scientific Services team piling up their equipment by the water pump.
‘We need to get that shifted,’ he said. ‘And shut those doors.’
‘Why?’ asked Poland, emerging from the barn. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Upstairs window, bottom right hand corner, on the windowsill.’ Dixon grimaced. ‘There’s a webcam.’
‘The satellite dish on the back of the stable block,’ said Donald Watson. ‘I wondered what that was for, seeing as there’s no telly.’ Dixon recognised the senior Scientific Services officer’s frown behind the face mask.
‘Sir!’ The shout came from a uniformed officer running down the track and out into the sunshine at the bottom.
‘What is it?’
‘The sister is on the move. She left her house and got in a taxi about ten minutes ago. The surveillance team are following her towards Bridgwater now.’
‘Tell them to keep us posted.’
‘I’ll need to go back up to the road for that. There’s no radio signal down here, let alone mobile phone.’ The uniformed officer was breathing hard, sweat dripping off the end of his nose.
‘Let’s get someone from High Tech out here as well.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon turned back to stare up at the webcam.
‘That’s it then,’ said Poland. ‘Steiner knows we’re here.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘How often d’you think the picture refreshes?’ asked Watson.
‘No idea,’ replied Dixon. ‘The one on Burnham seafront used to update every twenty seconds. Now it’s a live feed.’
‘Either way, he’s seen us then, you’re right.’ Watson turned towards the front door of the cottage. ‘I’ll go and cover it with something. Better not switch it off until High Tech get here.’
‘Ready for me in the barn?’ asked Dixon, turning to Poland.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Poland handed Dixon a small pot of Vicks VapoRub. ‘Here, put a blob of that under your nose.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘If I’m not, you won’t be,’ snapped Poland.
Dixon did as he was told.
‘Whatever you’re expecting, it’s worse. Far worse,’ said Poland. ‘Brace yourself.’
‘Let’s just get it over with, shall we?’ replied Dixon, replacing his mask over the large blob of Vicks plastered across his face.
The buzzing was louder behind him now, coming from the bees on the wisteria, most of the flies having dispersed across Exmoor when the barn doors had been opened. Some still lingered, flitting about in the light from the spot lamps. A Scientific Services officer was at work photographing the scene, each camera flash preceded by a swat of the hand.
‘Bloody flies!’
Dixon took off his sunglasses – no pain despite the glare from the spot lamps; the eye drops must have worn off.
He noticed the rope first, tied to the steering wheel of a ride on mower, and followed it up over the beam and down to Mrs Boswell. Or what had once been Mrs Boswell. He tipped his head, trying to make sense of what he was looking at.
‘Five weeks, maybe longer,’ said Davidson, recognisable only by his horn-rimmed spectacles.
A summer dress and a cardigan – bits of the dress light blue with small flowers and the cardigan cream possibly, it was difficult to tell – made a stark contrast with her skin. Purple, yellow, black, and all shades in between.
The noose had cut through the flesh of her neck to the bone, tipping her head forward, a small wooden knitting needle sticking out of her left ear. The cable tie binding her hands behind her back was through to the bone too.
‘As the body decomposes, the flesh swells and—’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll shut up then,’ said Poland.
Dixon looked down at the floor beneath her, a thin layer of straw on the bare earth stained dark red and black.
‘The internal organs liquefy and then gravity takes over,’ said Davidson, raising his eyebrows. ‘The legs swell, the skin ruptures, and you get this on the floor.’
The Scientific Services officer was squatting down, taking photographs. Dixon wasn’t quite sure what he was taking photographs of though. It looked like a raspberry jelly that hadn’t set properly. Or blackcurrant, perhaps. And it was moving.
‘You wouldn’t want to put one of these maggots under your tongue if you were out fishing on a cold morning,’ said the Scientific Services officer, his broad grin visible even behind his mask.
‘Get out!’ snapped Dixon.
‘But—’
‘Out.’
The officer turned to Donald Watson, who was behind them, picking up cigarette butts and dropping them in an evidence bag.
‘Better do as he says.’ Watson shook his head. ‘Make a start on the cottage and send Sal in here.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Dixon when the officer had trudged out of the barn.
‘I’ll speak to him,’ replied Watson.
Dixon turned back to Mrs Boswell.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Poland.
‘Cause of death hanging, I suppose?’
‘We won’t know for sure until we get her down.’
‘What about the knitting needles?’
‘Before or after, you mean?’
Dixon nodded.
‘We won’t know that until we get her down either.’
‘Sixteen fag butts,’ said Watson, behind them. ‘Looks like he sat on this straw bale and watched. Probably came back several times too. You’re not going to smoke sixteen cigarettes one after the other, are you?’
Dixon sat down on the bale of straw and looked around the barn. A few bales of dusty hay piled up against the wall behind him; a small tractor that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum; various garden tools leaning up against a cart, the wheels rotten; mouldy leather tack hanging on nails on the wall and a leather saddle on a rack; all of it covered in a thick layer of dust and bird droppings.
The hayloft was empty, a shiny aluminium ladder leaning up against it, next to a wooden one – rotten, with several slats missing.
He looked up at the body hanging motionless on the end of the rope, the only movement the seething mass of maggots beneath her feet. And a swallow flitting about in the rafters above her head, several nests tucked under the beams.
‘Seen enough?’ asked Poland.
Dixon stood up. ‘I suppose we should be grateful he fed her dog.’
‘We should.’
‘When you’ve finished, leave the hayloft open.’
‘Why?’ asked Watson.
‘So the birds can get in and out,’ replied Dixon, walking over to the door. ‘It’s what she would’ve wanted.’
Dixon stepped out into the sunlight and looked up at the front o
f the cottage, the webcam now safely covered by an upside down jug. Blue and white. It would end up at a house clearance sale along with the rest of the contents, probably, the cottage sold off by her estate to be turned into a holiday rental. He’d seen enough probate cases before he’d left the legal profession to know the way these things usually went.
A uniformed officer was standing by the water pump with her hands in her pockets, watching the Scientific Services officer photographing the stables.
‘What’s your name, Constable?’ asked Dixon.
‘Sarah Paulson, Sir.’
‘Do me a favour, will you, Sarah? When SOCO have finished in the cottage, fill the bird feeders. The stuff’s in the pantry.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘And I want to know what’s happening to her dog.’
‘Now, Sir?’
‘Yes, now. I’ll be in the cottage.’
An old Ewbank floor sweeper and a vacuum cleaner straight out of Downton Abbey; an ironing board; shelves along the wall to his right covered in jars full of screws and nails of varying sizes; a tool box on the floor; and an old mangle at the back. It was like going back in time in the cupboard under the stairs, not that Dixon should have expected anything else. He spun round when he heard Jane’s voice in the courtyard outside.
‘Where’s Inspector Dixon?’
‘In there.’ Constable Paulson’s voice, still leaning against the water pump with her hands in her pockets, probably.
‘Nick?’
‘What’s up?’ replied Dixon, closing the cupboard door.
‘Louise rang. I got a signal on the hill behind the cottage.’ Jane was standing in the doorway, her mask around her neck. ‘Steiner’s sister just walked into reception at Express Park. And she’s asking for you.’
Chapter Four
One bar. It would have to do. Dixon stopped near the top of the track and put his phone to his ear.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Still sitting in reception,’ replied Louise.
‘Is there anyone with her?’
‘Not that I know of. Hang on.’ A clunk as the handset was dropped on to the desk. Footsteps, then the handset snatched up again. ‘She’s on her own. I can see her from the balcony.’
‘Stick her in an interview room and give her a cup of coffee or something. I’m on my way.’ Dixon was craning his neck, watching a vapour trail through the willow canopy above his head.
‘DCI Lewis is on the prowl.’
‘What now?’
‘He wants to know what’s going on.’
‘I spend my entire life wanting to know what’s going on. He’ll get used to it.’
‘And Mark rang from the post office in Withypool. No one’s seen anything down there, apparently.’
Dixon sighed. ‘Let’s go public now, Lou. Get on to the press officer. And I want the helicopter back. House to house in Withypool, Hawkridge, Dulverton and anywhere else you can think of. Arm them with the photofit. Maximum noise, alerting the public, not to be approached, highly dangerous. You know the drill.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘See if you can get hold of Mark again. I want him down at the cottage. Dave can organise the house to house. All right?’
‘It may be difficult if they’ve left the post office. They had no mobile signal.’
Dixon stopped in the shade at the top of the track, his phone still clamped to his left ear. He watched Jane open the back of the Land Rover to let Monty out into the field. ‘We’ll drop down there on the way back and see if we can see them.’
‘What do I tell Lewis?’
‘Tell him it’s going to get expensive.’
‘That’s a stroke of luck,’ said Jane, screeching to a halt in the middle of the narrow lane. She switched off the engine while Dixon got out to speak to Detective Constables Dave Harding and Mark Pearce, who had pulled into a passing place on the bend.
‘House to house coordinator, please, Dave,’ said Dixon, before Pearce had finished winding down the window. ‘We can drop you back down in Withypool.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Harding unclipped his seatbelt and got out of the passenger seat, knocking the door on a tree trunk sticking out of the bank on the nearside.
Pearce glared at him.
‘I want you down at the cottage, Mark,’ continued Dixon. ‘Make sure you wear a mask and Roger’s got some Vicks for under your nose.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘It is.’
‘Are they going to be much longer?’
‘Rest of the day, at least. Another SOCO team was arriving when we left.’ Dixon was watching Harding climb in the back seat of the Land Rover. ‘I want to know immediately if they find anything to indicate anyone else was there. All right?’
‘The sister, you mean?’
‘Anyone.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover as he climbed in the passenger seat.
‘I think he can smell my cat,’ muttered Harding, watching Monty sniffing his trouser leg.
‘You should be fine,’ said Dixon, winking at Jane. ‘Just don’t move.’
‘Oh.’
‘What did the bloke in the post office say?’
‘Not a lot, really,’ replied Harding, nervously. ‘There’s a niece in Christchurch.’
‘Dorset?’
‘New Zealand. They used to Skype each other from time to time and she rang the post office when she couldn’t get hold of Mrs Boswell.’
Slate roofs and limewashed walls, some painted cream, some peach, the cottages in the centre of Withypool had a picture postcard feel to them; even the post office and general stores.
‘I’ll wait here,’ said Jane, parking directly outside the shop. ‘How long will you be?’
‘Five minutes, at most,’ replied Dixon.
He went first to the cold cabinet, although the choice of sandwiches was limited. Egg and cress it would have to be. Diet Coke for them and a bottle of water for Monty. He dropped them on the newspapers laid out on the counter. Then he took his warrant card and the photofit of Steiner out of his pocket.
‘This is Mr Bales, Sir,’ said Harding.
‘Have you seen this man?’ Dixon asked.
‘He just asked me the same thing,’ came the reply, with a finger pointed at Harding.
‘And what did you say?’
‘No, sorry. Not seen him at all.’
‘When did Mrs Boswell’s niece get in touch with you?’
‘Yesterday. Late it was. So, I went straight up there this morning. Her dog was shut in one of the stables, but there was no sign of her. The house was all quiet and locked up. Funny smell too. That’s when I rang you lot.’
‘What sort of dog is it?’
‘He’s a retired greyhound. Murphy, he’s called. He’s asleep in the back. Is she all right, Mrs Boswell?’
‘When did she last come in for her post?’
‘A while ago. I’ve got it here,’ replied Bales. He reached under the counter and picked up a pile of letters. ‘The oldest one’s postmark is . . .’ – flicking to the bottom of the pile – ‘. . . five weeks ago.’
‘And you didn’t think it odd you’d not seen her for all that time?’
‘Not really. She gets very little post. Junk mostly, as you can see.’ Bales handed the letters to Dixon.
‘What about food?’
‘She used to go to Dulverton sometimes. Is she all right then?’ asked Bales.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Dixon, when Jane pulled up outside Express Park.
‘I thought I’d take Monty to the beach.’
‘Lucky sod.’
‘What time d’you want picking up?’
‘I’ll make my own way home, don’t worry,’ he replied, leaning across to kiss her.
‘No fear.’ She recoiled. ‘You stink of Vicks.’
‘And death.’
‘And I don’t know how you could eat that
sandwich.’
‘I had to do my jab.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t you want yours?’
‘No,’ muttered Jane.
‘Well, I’ll see you later.’ Dixon snatched her sandwich off the dashboard and climbed out of the Land Rover.
He ignored the receptionist’s barbed comment about using the staff entrance, but couldn’t get past DCI Lewis, who was waiting for him when he stepped out of the lift on the first floor.
‘Is it him?’
Dixon nodded.
‘There are going to be questions to answer about why we kept his presence here quiet.’ Lewis had his hands thrust deep into his pockets. ‘You do know that.’
‘Firstly, we didn’t know for sure he was here.’
‘You suspected.’
‘And, secondly, she was dead before we made the connection with the sister in Cannington anyway.’
Lewis puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s confirmed?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘As near as they can at this stage.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Lewis looked down at his feet. ‘You know what I mean,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s my job to make sure your arse is covered.’
‘You missed your vocation.’
‘Eh?’
‘You should’ve been a proctologist,’ replied Dixon, setting off along the landing.
‘And what about the overtime budget?’ Lewis shouted after him.
‘What overtime budget?’
‘Ah, there you are, Sir.’ Louise was standing in the doorway of the canteen. ‘Vicky Thomas is here and she’s lined up the Assistant Chief Constable for the press conference. She wants to know if you’ll be avail—’
‘Tell her to ask DCI Lewis. It needs to be someone more senior anyway.’
‘Dave rang. There are teams out in Withypool and Hawkridge so far. More on the way too.’
‘Where’s the sister?’
‘Interview room one.’
Hair dyed purple – interesting; a tattoo on her right shoulder, revealed by a sleeveless T-shirt. Dixon couldn’t see what it was a tattoo of though, not on the monitor. Denim dungarees as well.