by Damien Boyd
‘What are those on her feet?’
‘High-top trainers,’ replied Louise. ‘Not my cup of tea.’
‘Did she say anything when she arrived?’
‘No. She just asked to speak to you.’
‘Me personally?’
‘She asked for you by name.’
‘Well, let’s see what she wants.’
Once in the interview room, Dixon waited while Louise closed the door before sitting down opposite Steiner’s half-sister. She was hunched over, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
‘Monique?’
She looked up. Pale skin and dark, sunken eyes; her hair straggly on closer inspection, the purple dye fading to bleached blonde at the roots. Either she had a cold or she’d been snorting something.
‘Are you Dixon?’ she whispered.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon, yes. You’ve met Detective Constable Willmott, I believe?’
Monique nodded.
‘Louise will be taking notes. You’re not under arrest and are free to leave at any time. D’you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I need to tell you about my brother.’
‘And what’s his name?’ Matter of fact.
Monique stared at Dixon, her head tipped to one side. ‘You know.’
‘Do I?’
‘Tony Steiner.’
‘So, let me make sure I’m understanding you correctly, Monique. You’re saying that you are Tony Steiner’s sister.’
‘Half-sister.’
‘The same Tony Steiner who is wanted for multiple murder and child abduction?’
She nodded.
‘All right then.’ Dixon leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘What d’you want to tell me?’
Monique drained the water from the plastic cup on the table in front of her and began picking at the edge of it with her fingernail. ‘He rang me.’
‘When?’
‘Six weeks ago. He was in money trouble. Someone was after him for a gambling debt – trying to kill him, he said – and could I pick him up from Chippenham? He didn’t even have the train fare.’
‘Go on.’
‘He was hiding in a commercial waste bin behind the Premier Inn.’
‘You didn’t think that a bit odd?’
‘Not really. Tony’s had gambling problems before. Anyway, he hid in the boot and I drove home.’
‘Which way?’
‘He told me to stick to the lanes and we ended up in Wotton-under-Edge. And Badminton, I remember that. Then I got on the M5 somewhere up north and came home. When I stopped on the edge of Cannington he said he needed to find somewhere to hide and told me to drive up to Exmoor. Anyway, when I stopped for petrol at Wheddon Cross he’d gone. He must’ve got out when I was paying for the fuel.’
‘And you’ve not seen him since?’
‘No.’
‘When did you find out he was wanted for murder?’
‘A couple of days later. I saw his photo on the front page of a newspaper.’
‘What was he wearing when you picked him up?’
‘A red baseball cap. Black jeans and green coat.’
Dixon reached over and slid Louise’s notebook across the table. Then he took his pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote down one word, before sliding it back. He watched her look down.
Rehearsed
Louise nodded.
‘When you found out what he’d done – was alleged to have done, I should say – why didn’t you contact us then?’ continued Dixon.
‘He’s my brother.’
‘Half-brother.’
‘That’s still family.’
‘You share the same father, is that right?’
‘His mother died. Well, he was adopted. You do know that, don’t you?’
Dixon didn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Best poker face. ‘Go on.’
‘They couldn’t have kids, so they adopted him. Then his mum died, his father married my mother and I was born. Actually, I had an older brother, Paul, but he died in his cot.’
‘How old was Tony at the time?’
‘Eight, ten maybe, something like that.’
‘Tell me about Tony’s friends.’
‘He doesn’t have any.’
‘He’s never mentioned anyone?’
‘Not to me. I don’t see him much these days though.’ Monique looked up.
Time to make her squirm, just a little.
‘He stabs his victims in the ears with knitting needles, perforating their eardrums, sometimes through to the bone.’
Monique winced.
‘D’you know why that might be?’ continued Dixon.
‘After Paul died, my father beat him up really badly. I only found out about it years later, but it happened more than once and left him with ear problems. He had to have grommets in for a while. And he’s had tinnitus ever since. He’s even tried suicide several times. It drives him mad.’ Monique’s shoulders drooped, her voice tailing off. ‘Really loud tinnitus . . .’
Chapter Five
‘You let her go?’
‘Louise got a detailed statement from her and on the face of it she’s done nothing wrong, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘What about assisting an offender?’ snapped the Assistant Chief Constable, David Charlesworth – dressed in civvies this time; Dixon wondered whether he’d finished his round of golf before coming in.
Charlesworth was sitting at the head of the table in meeting room 2, with the press officer, Vicky Thomas – blonde bob framing a sharp face, to match the sharp pinstripe suit – to his left, and DCI Lewis to his right.
‘She didn’t know what he’d done when she picked him up from Chippenham and we can’t prove she did.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘She thought he was running from gambling debts, Sir. And there was a news blackout in place at the time.’
Pennies dropping rarely make a sound, but Dixon could have sworn he heard that one.
‘Yes, of course,’ muttered Charlesworth. ‘I’d forgotten that.’
‘What about the surveillance?’ asked Lewis.
‘It needs to continue, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘Her story was clearly rehearsed, so she may well still be in touch with Steiner.’
Lewis looked at Charlesworth, whose shake of the head morphed into a nod. ‘You’ve got a week, Dixon,’ he said.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Find him. And if you can get Armed Response to finish the job, so much the better.’
‘What’d he say?’
‘A week.’ Dixon was sucking his teeth.
‘A week?’ Louise frowned. ‘Is that it?’
‘For now.’
The CID Area on the first floor was deserted, the printers quiet. Not even the kettle was boiling.
‘They’re all up on Exmoor, Sir,’ said Louise, glancing around at the vacant workstations. ‘DCI Lewis has lined up a team of PCSOs to take the calls when the press conference goes out on the evening news. The Incident Room upstairs hasn’t been dismantled yet, so they’re up there, getting ready.’
‘Let’s start checking the holiday cottages again,’ said Dixon. ‘Steiner’s moved on, so he’s going to be holed up somewhere else, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Uniform can check the empty cottages. And get the agencies to speak to the owners. We’re looking for anything out of the ordinary. Start with Exmoor and then expand the area. He’ll have been on foot, moving at night, probably, so it’s hard to imagine him getting too far.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Get on to the council and see if they can give us a list of furnished holiday lets registered for business rates. That should bring up those not let through an agency.’ Maybe that time spent in the property department when he had been training as a solicitor hadn’t been wasted, after all?
‘What do we do about second homes that aren’t let out?’
Dixon shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do, unless they can tell us which properties have no occupier on the electoral roll. Second homes pay council tax at the full rate these days.’
‘I’ll try that.’
‘And I’ll make sure Lewis covers it in the press conference.’
Dixon hated press conferences, watching from a safe distance behind the cameras. Charlesworth had swapped the Pringle sweater for his uniform. At least he hadn’t been wearing plus-fours. Lewis seemed to be enjoying the moment though.
They both emphasised the point, although ‘laboured’ was probably a better word, that Steiner was highly dangerous and should not be approached under any circumstances. And they managed to duck the question about why the public had not been informed that Steiner was at large in the area. Davidson would need to hurry up with that post mortem.
Lewis even remembered the bit about the holiday cottages.
Dixon headed for the door when Charlesworth called for one final question from the gathered journalists, ignoring the iPhone that was thrust under his nose and the whispered question that went with it – something about letting him get away in the first place. Tempting, but now was not the time.
Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were back from Exmoor by the time Dixon made it up to the CID Area, both leaning against Louise’s workstation, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Harding had hung his grey suit jacket over a chair, although it would take months for the creases to drop out. He had taken his brown suede shoes off and was stretching his toes out on the carpet, still enclosed in black socks, mercifully.
Louise looked at Dixon and rolled her eyes.
‘Put those away, will you, Dave?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I think I’ve caught the sun.’ Pearce was peering at the back of his right bicep, just below the short sleeve, the white shirt making a stark contrast with the pink skin. His tie was hanging around his neck undone.
‘Did you find anything?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Harding, stamping his foot into his shoe. ‘I think my foot must’ve swollen up or something.’
‘It’s your age.’
‘Shut up, Mark.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘How much longer are you here for?’ asked Dixon, looking at his watch.
‘As long as you need us.’ Harding had his foot up on the desk and was tying his shoelace.
‘Take over from Louise with the holiday cottages then. You can go, Lou, you’ve been here since the crack of dawn.’
‘I wanted to come to the post mortem, Sir,’ said Louise, standing up.
‘Wanted to?’
‘Think I ought to.’
‘If you insist,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘You can drive then. Jane’s buggered off with my car.’
‘He should’ve been a mime artist.’ Dixon was watching Poland tapping on the window of the anteroom and jabbing his finger at a box on the shelf behind them. Then at the top drawer of the desk, at the same time opening and closing an imaginary drawer with his right hand.
Masks in the box and a large pot of VapoRub in the top drawer.
‘Better had,’ said Dixon, handing the pot to Louise.
She grimaced. ‘Is it that bad?’
‘Worse.’
Poland again, tapping on the glass, this time pointing at lab coats hanging on the back of the anteroom door.
White coats and masks on, top lips plastered with Vicks VapoRub, Dixon opened the door to the lab.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Poland, looking up from the body of Mrs Boswell lying on the slab.
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon and Louise in unison.
Davidson was sitting on a chrome stool staring at something under a microscope. Each was wearing identical standard issue dark green trousers and smock, with a mask and hat. Only Davidson’s glasses enabled Dixon to tell them apart. That, and Poland being a good six inches taller.
‘Definitely a heart attack,’ said Davidson, sitting back on the stool.
Poland covered Mrs Boswell with a sheet and walked over to the microscope on the steel workbench.
‘Be my guest.’ Davidson slid off the stool and stepped to one side.
‘You’re right.’ Poland nodded. ‘Myocardial infarction. You can see the scarring.’
‘Is this it?’ Dixon was looking down at a shrivelled human heart in a glass bowl on the workbench. It had been cut open, revealing the chambers, the various arteries and veins also opened in cross section.
‘The blood’s long gone,’ said Poland. ‘That was on the floor of the barn. What was left of it anyway.’
‘Definitely a heart attack though,’ said Davidson. ‘That was what killed her.’
‘So, the hanging and the knitting needles . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off.
‘She was already dead.’ Poland adjusted his face mask. ‘Mercifully.’
‘When?’
‘Our best estimate is six weeks,’ replied Davidson. ‘We’re going to get a forensic entomologist to see if they can get anything from the insects we found. We’ve collected lots of samples of maggots, pupae and dead flies at various stages, so they may be able to add something. Want to see?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a Doctor Francine somebody up at Bristol University.’ Poland had walked back over to the body and was standing behind her head, looking down at her skull.
‘Could it be less than six weeks?’ asked Dixon.
‘A day or two either way, but that’s it,’ replied Poland.
‘Probably the same day he got away from Chippenham, Sir,’ said Louise.
‘Certainly within a day or two of that.’ Davidson picked up a piece of paper. ‘The night time temperature was down to only two or three degrees above freezing on Exmoor until a couple of weeks or so ago, don’t forget. Daytime temperatures were much higher though, and the barn was sheltered from the wind. It’s a bit of a sun trap down there from what I can gather.’
‘It was a week later we found the sister in Cannington.’
‘She was long dead by then,’ said Poland.
Dixon nodded. ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t killed anyone else.’
‘Quite.’
‘Can I see her?’ asked Louise.
‘Er, yes, of course,’ replied Poland. He folded back the sheet to Mrs Boswell’s neck, revealing her facial features. What was left of them.
‘Partially skeletonised, we call that,’ said Davidson.
‘Where are the knitting needles?’ asked Dixon.
‘Bagged up,’ replied Poland. ‘They hadn’t gone right in. Just as far as the inner ear.’
‘She was already dead, remember.’ Davidson shrugged his shoulders.
‘We’ve spoken to the sister and she’s confirmed he suffers from tinnitus.’
‘Well, that explains that then.’ Poland replaced the sheet. ‘He’s making his victims suffer the same fate.’
‘Would they?’
‘If they were still alive when he did it, yes. Otherwise, it’s symbolic, I suppose. But then I’m not a psychiatrist, am I?’
‘There’s nothing in his medical records?’ asked Davidson.
‘No. Not that we’ve been able to find anyway,’ replied Dixon. ‘But we’ve only got them starting when he joined the RAF.’
‘How old was he then?’
‘Seventeen. He went straight in when he was expelled from school.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be in his medical records?’ asked Louise.
‘He probably never mentioned it.’ Poland had lifted his mask and was applying another blob of VapoRub under his nose. ‘There’s not a lot of point because they can’t do anything about it anyway. Except help you learn to get used to it.’
‘And he clearly hasn’t done that,’ muttered Dixon.
Davidson held up the edge of the sheet covering Mrs Boswell. ‘More?’ he asked, turning to Louise.
Dixon turned away when Louise nodded.
‘What are
those marks?’
The conversation was going on behind him and Dixon couldn’t see what Louise was looking at.
‘Teeth.’ Davidson’s voice. ‘A fox, most likely. The flesh on the ankle and heel is quite well preserved, compared to the rest of her. Hanging her in the way he did has helped from that point of view. There’s very little damage from animals. Otherwise, she’d have been—’
‘I think they get the picture, James,’ interrupted Poland.
‘Seen enough?’ asked Davidson.
‘I think so,’ replied Louise.
‘He tied a rope around her neck and hoisted her up using the ride on mower. Why the bloody hell would he do that if she was already dead?’ asked Dixon, spinning round when he heard the sheet being replaced over the body.
‘Ah, we were coming to that,’ said Poland, raising his eyebrows. ‘We think that was for your benefit.’
‘Mine?’
‘We found this in the pocket of her cardigan.’ Poland handed Dixon a sealed plastic envelope. ‘Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying. Be very careful.’
‘A business card?’
Poland nodded.
‘Mine, I suppose?’ Dixon held the clear plastic envelope up to the light, the small card in the bottom corner, the Avon and Somerset Police crest visible on the back. He turned it around. ‘I always did want letters after my name,’ he said, a wry smile the best he could muster. Blue biro, block capitals, the handwriting neat.
Davidson stifled a small chuckle behind his face mask. ‘Maybe not those, eh?’
‘Maybe not.’
‘What does it say?’ asked Louise.
‘Detective Inspector Nicholas Dixon.’ He took a deep breath. ‘R.I.P.’
Chapter Six
Louise floored the accelerator as they raced up the slip road on to the northbound M5.
‘I’ve already spoken to her and she’s gone to her parents’ place in Worle,’ Poland had said. ‘And, yes, of course she’s got Monty with her.’
‘Step on it, Lou,’ snapped Dixon, tapping out a text message to Jane with his thumbs.
Stay where you are. On way. Nx
Louise waited until he slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. ‘So, he’s after you then?’
‘Let’s just focus on the fact that we’re after him. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’