Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  ‘We’re police officers and he’s a fugitive.’

  ‘He could always pay someone to—’

  Dixon’s loud sigh was enough to stop Louise mid-sentence. But not for long.

  ‘Where did he get your business card, I wonder?’

  ‘I gave enough of them out when we were looking for Alesha and Hatty.’

  They spent the rest of the journey in silence, Dixon busying himself checking his emails on his phone – mainly junk, but Louise hadn’t needed to know that. She had flicked her headlights and windscreen wipers on by the time they reached Worle.

  ‘You go home,’ he said, opening the passenger door. ‘I’ll take my Land Rover.’

  ‘Are you going back to Express Park?’

  ‘Just go home, Lou. Put your daughter to bed and make sure you still have a life.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  He turned to look up at the grey stone terraced house as Louise sped off. Jane was standing in the downstairs bay window, with Monty sitting on the window seat. Then the barking started, followed by a thud against the inside of the front door as Dixon walked up the short tiled path.

  Jane had the fingers of her right hand hooked in Monty’s collar when she opened the door with her left and was strong enough to avoid being pulled out into the rain, but only just.

  ‘Roger says you’re going to rest in peace,’ she said, frowning.

  Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘As if.’

  ‘So we can go home then?’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  Jane’s loud sigh was lost in the slamming of the front door.

  Dixon raised his eyebrows. ‘D’you want to take the chance?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Hello, Nick.’

  Jane’s adoptive father, Rod, was small in stature with closely cropped grey hair – a number three with the clippers, two even – and a big grin. He was carrying a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other; always tinkering with something.

  ‘What is it this time?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The downstairs loo.’ Rod shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How was your holiday?’

  ‘We’ve seen you since then.’ Sue was standing behind Rod in the kitchen doorway, a tea cloth draped over her shoulder.

  Jane frowned. ‘They’ve only been back a week,’ she said, turning to Dixon. ‘When have you seen them?’

  He scowled at Sue.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she said, hastily. ‘It was before. That time you both came over. Sorry.’

  ‘We need somewhere to stay for a few days, Rod.’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ he said, with a smile and no hesitation. ‘You can help me with the tiling.’

  ‘I’ll be a bit—’

  ‘Of course you will. What about his lordship?’ asked Rod, gesturing to Monty.

  ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Corky’s got used to him now.’

  ‘They were curled up together on the sofa earlier.’ Sue was shouting from the kitchen. ‘I was going to take a photo and put it on Facebook. A ginger cat and a Staffie.’ She appeared in the doorway, drying a plate with the teacloth. ‘They looked cute.’

  ‘Best not, if you don’t mind. We don’t want anything that might lead—’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Rod winked at him.

  Dixon was watching Jane out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at each of them in turn, her frown getting larger by the second.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring some of his food back with me.’

  ‘We’ve got some left over from last time he was here, so he’s had supper.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Dixon turned towards the door, closely followed by Jane. Once out on the front step, she closed the door behind them.

  ‘How long?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as it takes.’ He put his arms around her waist. ‘I’ll call in at the cottage on the way back later and pick up some stuff.’

  ‘You’ve been over here since they got back from holiday, haven’t you?’

  Dixon could feel her eyes burning into his.

  ‘You have.’ Jane leaned back, folding her arms. ‘I knew it. You came to ask my father’s permission to marry me.’

  ‘It’s something you do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did.’ Jane sighed. ‘A hundred years ago.’

  ‘They appreciated the gesture. All the more seeing as you’re adopted.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s what they said. Well, Rod said. Sue couldn’t stop crying.’ Dixon kissed her and then turned towards his Land Rover parked on the other side of the road. ‘Actually, I was hoping they might say no.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  The TV vans had gone by the time Dixon parked in the visitors’ car park in front of the Police Centre at Express Park. Most had descended on Withypool, according to the text from Mark Pearce.

  Various sightings moving east possibly. BBC and ITN broadcasting live from Withypool

  Must be the News at Ten, he thought, his finger on the Entryphone buzzer.

  ‘You’re supposed to use the staff entrance.’

  Dixon pressed the buzzer again.

  ‘I give up.’ Followed by a loud sigh over the intercom, then the click of the door unlocking.

  ‘Thanks, Reg,’ said Dixon.

  ‘The phones have been jumping all evening, apparently.’ Reg paused, listening for the click of the front door lock. ‘And Lewis was looking for you.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nope. Shall I let him know you’re—?’

  Dixon was halfway up the stairs when the security door at the bottom slammed behind him, cutting Reg off mid-sentence.

  Reg needn’t have worried though; Lewis was waiting for him at the top.

  ‘You’re supposed to use the staff entrance. Then I can see when you’ve swiped in.’

  Dixon didn’t take the bait.

  ‘Is it true?’ continued Lewis. ‘You’re going to rest in peace?’

  ‘We all do. In the end.’

  ‘Just be careful. That’s all.’

  ‘Always am.’

  ‘How many times have you been in hospital since you got here?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Four,’ said Lewis, his hands on his hips. ‘There was the bang on the head you got up at Priddy.’

  ‘I didn’t go to hospital for that.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs. And it’s five if we include Jane.’ Lewis was following Dixon along the landing. ‘You don’t go anywhere on your own. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Take Louise with you. Armed Response will be on close stand-by at all times, and you’re both to wear body armour.’

  ‘Oh, for—’

  ‘It’s not optional. It’s either that or you’re off the case. Charlesworth’s orders. There’s a shoplifting case that needs looking at.’ Lewis smiled. ‘Tesco’s at Burnham. Your choice.’

  ‘What did they take?’

  ‘A bottle of vodka.’

  Dixon stopped. ‘I never liked vodka,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ said Lewis. ‘Looks like he’s moving east. There are several sightings, and it ties in with a call they took over at Minehead a couple of weeks ago. A farmer this side of Monksilver had a couple of lambs pinched.’

  ‘And we weren’t notified because . . . ?’

  ‘They thought it was probably a fox and he was just after a crime number for an insurance claim.’

  The News at Ten had sparked off the phones again, by the sounds of things, the Incident Room on the second floor resembling a call centre. Dixon stopped at the top of the stairs and counted seventeen officers, including Dave Harding, sitting at workstations, each of them with a phone to their ear, the voices merging into a low murmur.

  Harding spotted him, leaned across and tapped the PCSO sitting next to him on the shoulder. She looked up.

  Dixon was clearly getting bette
r at lip-reading.

  ‘Yes, thank you for your call, Mrs Smith. Goodbye.’ Then she snatched a piece of paper off the desk in front of her and followed Harding.

  ‘This is Sharon Cox, Sir. It was Sharon who found Mrs Boswell.’

  ‘You were supposed to call it in,’ said Dixon. ‘Not go charging in there on your own.’ He glared at Harding. ‘Stop grinning, Dave.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, turning back to Sharon.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘They gave you the rest of the day off, surely?’

  ‘I came in when I got the shout about the phones.’

  Dixon smiled. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘A woman over at Bicknoller rang.’ Sharon glanced down at the note. ‘A Mrs Windeatt. She’s got a bit of land on the side of the Quantocks there and some stables. The horses are out at the moment, but she’s got the farrier coming tomorrow so she went in the stables to muck them out and it looks like somebody’s been sleeping in one of them.’

  ‘Where’s Bicknoller?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘East of Monksilver,’ replied Harding. ‘About five miles, maybe.’

  ‘Someone had had a crap in the straw too,’ said Sharon.

  Dixon winced. ‘She’s sure it’s human?’

  ‘She’s a geriatric nurse at Musgrove Park.’

  ‘Please tell me she left everything as it was.’

  ‘Er, no, Sir. I’m afraid not. She only saw the news when she got home. It’s on the muck heap, though, so I rang Scientific Services anyway and they’re sending a team over there now.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The search teams are on the way over there now as well, Sir,’ said Harding. ‘And the helicopter’s up with its thermal imaging camera checking the woods at West Quantoxhead.’

  ‘When did she last go in the stables?’ asked Dixon, turning back to Sharon.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago,’ she replied, handing him the note. ‘Longer maybe. The weather’s been fine so the horses have been living out.’

  ‘Definitely going east then. Let’s get house to house going in Cannington first thing in the morning, Dave.’

  ‘You think he’s heading for his sister’s?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Not now he knows we know about her.’

  ‘And does he?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ Jane was standing over him with a mug in each hand.

  Dixon yawned. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘It was late and I didn’t want to wake you.’

  His diesel engine had done the trick, the front door opening before he had summoned up the courage to ring the bell. It had been nearly 1 a.m., after all. ‘We were waiting up for you,’ Rod had said, hanging on to Monty by the collar. ‘And besides, Brighton Rock is on TCM.’

  Two holdalls full of clothes were on the floor next to the armchair; Monty’s bed on the rug in front of the fire, although the dog was curled up on the sofa by Dixon’s feet.

  ‘Did Dad watch the end of the film?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No, he’d seen it before. And I’ve—’

  ‘Got it on DVD.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you told them what’s going on?’

  ‘They’re fine with it, don’t worry. They also wouldn’t have minded if you came up to my room.’

  Dixon blushed.

  ‘You’re like a little old man of ninety sometimes,’ she said, perching next to him on the edge of the sofa, before leaning over and kissing him on the lips.

  ‘That was a big sigh.’

  ‘Your phone’s buzzing.’

  Dixon reached down and picked it up off the floor. ‘What is it, Lou?’ he asked, holding it to his ear.

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I, Sir?’

  Twenty minutes later they were speeding south on the M5, the morning rush hour just getting going, Jane brushing her hair. Dixon rubbed his chin. A shave would have been nice, but needs must.

  ‘D’you want to pick up your car?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll wait for you, don’t worry.’

  ‘Rod does know not to let him off the lead, doesn’t he?’

  Louise was waiting for them when they turned into the car park in front of the Police Centre.

  ‘Have they stopped him?’ asked Dixon, winding down the window of his Land Rover.

  ‘Not yet, Sir.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Lewis had been in the queue for the staff car park and jumped out leaving his engine running, his car blocking the entrance.

  ‘We had a call this morning from a Mrs Smart, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘They live in London, but they’ve got a holiday cottage they let out at Kilve. Her husband logged into their Eurosat account last night and somebody’s been using the satellite broadband. And their first guests don’t arrive until this Saturday.’

  ‘The bloody idiot’s on his way down to check on the cottage,’ said Dixon, leaning across Jane in the passenger seat.

  Lewis grimaced. ‘We’ve got to stop him.’

  ‘I’ve got traffic working on it, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘They’re liaising with Berkshire and Wiltshire. Apparently, he comes down the M4 from Kensington, then south on the M5.’

  ‘Which bit of “dial 999” does he not understand?’

  ‘All of it, I think, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘Six, so he’ll still be out on the M4. His wife’s trying him on his phone, but he never answers when he’s driving.’

  ‘And you’re going out to Kilve now, I suppose?’ asked Lewis, turning to Dixon.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Armed Response are on the way, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘Good. And remember what I said about body armour.’

  A ride on mower abandoned in the outfield – at square leg if the batsman was at the pavilion end; an old fashioned Atco lawn mower sitting on the wicket, the petrol engine still running, a small puff of smoke coming from the exhaust. There must be a match this weekend, or maybe an evening T20; still, it was that time of year and the cricket season was just getting going.

  Dixon watched an Armed Response officer appear in the doorway of the pavilion and give the thumbs-up signal. Clear. Another, crouching down behind the roller, peered over at the small cottage beyond the trees; four more creeping along the hedge line off to the right.

  The chug of the two-stroke petrol engine, blackbirds in the trees and the smell of the sea. Dixon grimaced. It was a bit ripe – the smell of the mud then; the tide must be out.

  He was peering over the wall of the beach car park, across the tree lined cricket pitch, at Groom’s Cottage on the far side of the cornfield. White with a slate roof and red roses in flower beds either side of the front door. He wondered how much it was to rent for a week. Maybe he’d ask the owner when he arrived, although he was enjoying morning coffee at Gordano Services on the M5, a pursuit vehicle having finally caught up with him.

  ‘I think I’ve done this up too tight.’ Louise was tugging at her body armour. ‘It keeps catching me under the arms.’

  ‘Better than a bullet catching you,’ said Chief Inspector Bateman, crouching down to her left.

  Lewis had got to him before Dixon had arrived at Kilve and the beach car park was as close as they were going to get. Until it was all over.

  A dog barking in the distance, skylarks having their say. Then the lawn mower engine coughed and died.

  ‘My mower’s run out of petrol.’ A head popped up behind the drystone wall on the far side of the car park.

  ‘Get down, Tom!’ The voice came from behind the wall, Tom unceremoniously dragged back out of sight.

  Dixon glanced across at the estate car under the trees at the end of the car park, an empty cage in the back. There was even a uniformed officer holding dog walkers out on the beach. Some people have all the luck.

  Th
en Bateman’s radio crackled into life.

  ‘AR14 ready.’

  ‘AR15 ready.’

  One word was all that was needed from Bateman, and there was no hesitation: ‘Go!’

  A loud crash. That was the doors, front and back.

  ‘Armed Police!’ The shout drifted across the cricket pitch, more used to cries of ‘Howzat!’

  Dixon waited for the shots, but they never came. The seconds ticked by. And not many at that.

  ‘Clear!’

  ‘Fuck it,’ muttered Bateman.

  ‘He’s long gone,’ said Dixon, standing up. ‘Better get house to house going in the surrounding villages, all the same. Where’s next going east?’

  ‘Kilton and Stringston. We’ll do Holford too.’

  They walked behind the Scientific Services van as it trundled along the track down the side of the cricket pitch that led to the cottage; flat and no ruts this time, which made a change.

  ‘Well?’ asked Bateman.

  ‘Looks like he’s been here, Sir,’ replied the Armed Response officer, his firearm hanging down by his side. ‘Or someone has anyway. There’s a broken window in the kitchen and the sitting room one’s been left open. That’s both ends of the ground floor covered. He knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Escape routes, Lou.’ Dixon was peering in the sitting room window. ‘Once a burglar’s in, their first concern is getting out.’

  Four stars, according to the Visit Britain plaque on the wall by the front door, the helicopter appearing overhead just as Dixon stepped into the cottage. An open plan kitchen-diner – he could live with open plan in a cottage, just not an office – the kitchen clean and tidy, apart from broken glass in the Belfast sink and a footprint on the draining board.

  ‘Open the fridge, will you, Lou,’ said Dixon. ‘You’ve got gloves on.’

  Empty, apart from a bottle of wine. The dishwasher was empty too.

  ‘He hasn’t touched a thing.’ Bateman was standing behind them, looking over Dixon’s shoulder. ‘None of the beds have been slept in either.’

  The sitting room window lock had been levered off the wooden frame with a kitchen knife, both left lying on the windowsill.

  ‘The key’s there,’ said Louise, pointing to the corner of the sideboard.

  ‘It was probably dark when he broke in,’ replied Bateman.