Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  The television had been left on stand-by. But nothing appeared to have been taken, although the owner could confirm that when he arrived. And the leather sofa had been sat on by someone; either that or the cleaner had forgotten to plump up the cushions.

  ‘Looks like Steiner sat here,’ said Dixon. ‘SOCO may get something off the back to confirm it’s him.’

  ‘Otherwise, we can’t prove he’s even been here,’ muttered Bateman.

  Dixon was standing by a leather topped desk in the corner, leafing through the cottage handbook. ‘We hope you enjoy your stay at Groom’s Cottage,’ he said, reading aloud. ‘There’s even the instruction book for the kettle.’ Then he picked up a pen and flicked open the guest book, turning the pages one by one.

  ‘What did he break in for if he didn’t take anything?’ asked Louise.

  ‘The satellite broadband password,’ replied Dixon. ‘Get on to Eurosat for a list of the websites he visited.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We still don’t know it’s him, though, do we?’ said Bateman.

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Dixon dropped the pen on to the desk in front of him, his wry smile hidden from Bateman. ‘He’s signed the guest book.’

  Chapter Eight

  It seemed odd somehow, being on a beach without his dog, even if it was shingle and mud. Dixon was standing at the top of Kilve Beach, looking down at a fossil in the base of the short cliff – an ammonite; he remembered that much from a school trip.

  He could just about hear the petrol mower again, on the cricket pitch behind the trees, the helicopter having moved off when the area had been declared safe. The birds too, not quite drowning out the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.

  ‘Tell me exactly what it said.’

  Bateman hadn’t taken long to ring Lewis.

  ‘“Hope to see you again soon.” Then in the name and address column he put “Nick Dixon, Brent Knoll”.’

  ‘He knows where you live then. Did he date it?’

  ‘Ten days ago. We’re staying with Jane’s parents over at Worle. For now anyway.’

  ‘Good. You’d better get back to Express Park too. You can run the investigation from here.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I know that tone.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, you’re breaking up—’ Dixon rang off. Give it ten minutes and Jane would be on the phone, Lewis sitting on the corner of her desk. Crafty sod.

  ‘We’ve got a sighting, Sir.’ Louise was standing on the top of the cliff, only fifteen feet or so above his head.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Lilstock. It’s just over the headland there,’ with a wave of the hand east along the clifftops.

  Shame; he’d liked Kilve. And so would Monty.

  A couple of houses and a church – house to house wouldn’t have taken long, thought Dixon when they sped down into Lilstock ten minutes later. He parked across the entrance to the church and walked back to the small group of uniformed officers standing on the corner.

  PCSO Sharon Cox stepped forward. Again. ‘It’s Mr Plemons, Sir. He’s got a mobile home just behind the farm. It’s down that lane,’ she said.

  The sign on the corner – ‘To the Beach’ – had already caught Dixon’s eye.

  An old light green corrugated mobile home was rusting away in the corner of a farmyard that was more junkyard.

  ‘That surely can’t be it,’ said Louise.

  ‘Yes, it can,’ replied Dixon when the door opened and a dog jumped down the steps. Some sort of terrier, by the looks of things, but it seemed more interested in rats behind the rotting silage bales. ‘Mr Plemons?’ he asked, peering in.

  ‘Come in.’

  Must we?

  ‘You’ve got something for us?’ asked Dixon, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness. It looked like blankets pinned up at the windows.

  ‘Couple of weeks ago, it were. Late. I’d been down the Hood.’ White hair. Hunched over in the corner. Blue overalls and an old pair of army boots. Arms folded. That was about all Dixon could make out.

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘I walks down the pub, along the clifftop over yonder. Then down the lane past the cricket club. Anyway, I sees a light at Groom’s Cottage.’

  ‘A torch?’

  ‘No. There was no beam. Weird it was.’

  Dixon took out his phone and clicked the ‘Home’ button, lighting up the screen. ‘Like this?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothin’. The light went out after a bit and that was that.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘I’d been booted out at closing time, so ’bout harf eleven. I just thought it was one of them hippies from the Great Plantation. I saw no one, see, so reckoned he must’ve gone across the fields.’

  ‘Hippies?’

  ‘They calls ’emselves anti-nuclear protestors. I suppose it’s better ’an working for a living. They started out in East Wood, but they’s kicked out of there and his flamin’ lordship over at Kilverton ’ouse lets ’em live in the Great Plantation now.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘Ten or twelve, maybe.’

  Dixon thanked the old man and left a business card on the side, wondering if he’d get it back at some point with more letters after his name.

  ‘Surely the helicopter would’ve picked them up in the woods?’ asked Louise, as they stepped back out into the sunlight.

  ‘Well, if they are who they say they are, they should be out protesting, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Two missed calls from Jane – she was probably just keeping Lewis happy; if it had been urgent she’d have left a message or sent a text.

  ‘Where to now?’

  ‘The beach,’ replied Dixon.

  They followed the lane, past the farm, leaving the trees behind them as they walked out to the coast path, a high hedge on their right screening the view along the coast to the east. In front of them Wales was visible on the horizon, across the Severn Estuary.

  Large boulders acted as rudimentary sea defences, protecting the coast path from the high tides, and beyond them a shingle beach shelved away to the water’s edge, the mud covered by the rising tide.

  Louise gasped. ‘Look at the size of that.’

  Dixon spun round. ‘Oh, that. Haven’t you seen it before?’

  ‘Only from Burnham.’

  ‘A has been decommissioned, so B is the only one generating power. For now anyway. The cranes are what the protestors are protesting against – that’s the building site that will become Hinkley Point C.’

  ‘On the left just beyond Stringston, he said.’ Dixon parked in a field gateway and looked at the map on his phone. ‘That’s Kilverton House over there, which makes that the Great Plantation. And there’s a public footpath across that field.’

  Louise peered over the gate. ‘Is there?’

  ‘There must be, there’s a stile.’

  Kilverton House was screened from them by a stand of pine trees as they crossed the field; either that or they were screened from Kilverton House, several sets of chimney pots all that was visible. And two flagpoles, a Union Jack and the Cross of St George fluttering in the breeze.

  ‘If that’s Lewis, don’t answer it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Louise, fumbling in her pocket.

  A plume of smoke was rising from somewhere near the middle of the wood. A mixture of trees, mostly in leaf, the canopy differing shades of fresh green; it had looked circular on the map.

  ‘Someone’s at home anyway,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It was Dave,’ said Louise, looking at her phone. ‘Shall I ring him back?’

  ‘Later.’

  The path skirted around the edge of the wood, so Dixon followed it away from the house in the hope of finding a gate. It was either that or take on the barbed wire fence.

  ‘There’s a path there.’ Louise was pointing into the trees. ‘So there may be a gat
e up ahead.’

  It was locked – a padlock and chain – but far easier to climb over than four strands of barbed wire, and with less chance of ripping your trousers, despite the strand wrapped around the top bar of the gate.

  The forest floor was carpeted in ivy, the odd sapling shooting where sufficient light made it through. Dixon listened for voices; birdsong and the crunching of twigs and dead leaves beneath their feet were the only sounds, the volume amplified by the deathly quiet.

  ‘See the washing line?’ he whispered, pointing through the trees.

  Louise nodded.

  ‘Just make sure you don’t put your foot in the latrine,’ muttered Dixon.

  Three tents had been pitched in a small clearing, the guy ropes tied to trees. Green and blue tarpaulins had been draped across timber shelters too; one even had corrugated iron walls. In the centre of the camp stood a round house, the roof partially thatched; beyond that a kitchen area with pots and pans hanging from wooden pallets used for walls on three sides.

  A homemade stove was the source of the smoke, a kettle sitting on top of it, a wisp of steam coming from the spout.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who is it?’ The voice came from one of the tents, although Dixon wasn’t sure which one.

  ‘Police.’

  Then a head appeared from the middle tent – goatee beard, straggly dark hair held back by a pair of cheap sunglasses clamped to the top of his head.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  The sides of the tent bulged – arms being thrust into sleeves – then he stumbled forward out into the open, doing up a pair of blue jeans, his red sweatshirt still hooked over his head.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he asked, straightening up and pulling his shirt down.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ed.’

  ‘We’re looking for this man, Ed.’ Dixon was holding the photofits of Steiner, with beard and without. ‘Have you seen him?’

  Ed’s eyes widened. Not a lot, but enough.

  Yes, you have.

  ‘No, he hasn’t.’ The voice came from behind them, on the path, which explained why Dixon hadn’t heard her approach.

  Dreadlocks, nose stud, wooden beads and a hand knitted purple sweater. Was that a cobweb tattooed on her temple?

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’ Arms folded as she circled Dixon, taking up position next to Ed.

  ‘I didn’t say you had. I’m just looking for this man.’

  ‘We haven’t seen him.’

  ‘You might like to try looking at the photograph.’

  ‘We’ve got permission to be here. And we’re exercising our right to peaceful protest.’

  ‘How many are there of you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Twelve,’ replied Ed, before the woman’s elbow connected with his ribs.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘She won’t tell you.’ Dixon spun round at the sound of a new voice. ‘None of them will. And arresting them does them a favour. It’ll be all over the internet before you can say Hinkley Point.’

  Tall, shoulder length straggly blonde hair, jeans and a flowery shirt. Dixon was sure it was a Rolex glinting in the shaft of sunlight. Clean too, so not of the camp.

  ‘“Police Arrest Peaceful Nuclear Protestors”.’ He marked out the newspaper headline with his right hand. ‘“Avon and Somerset Police Brutality”.’

  Dixon forced his best disarming smile. ‘You’ll be their landlord?’

  ‘After a fashion.’ He grinned. ‘Hugh Manners.’

  Older than he looked too.

  ‘Come up to the house,’ continued Manners. ‘I’m afraid I was out when your lot called round earlier. They left a card with a number for me to ring, but you’re here now.’

  Dixon looked back to the camp. Steiner had been there, that much was clear from Ed’s reaction. But when, and where was he now?

  He needed to speak to Ed, but that was going to be impossible in the camp surrounded by his fellow protestors. And plucking him out of the line at the gates to Hinkley Point, placard in hand, was not going to work either.

  Heavy handed. No one had ever called him that before. Still, there was a first time for everything. He looked at his watch. Give it a couple of hours and they’d all be back in camp.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Inspector.’ Manners was ten paces ahead as they followed him back to the house, but Dixon still heard the sigh, a field of solar panels just visible through the trees as the Great Plantation thinned out. Dixon had always enjoyed a good vested interest.

  ‘I suppose you think nuclear power is a technological marvel?’ Manners stopped and turned round, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘I’m just a police officer, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m not paid to think.’

  Manners smiled. ‘Ah, a fan of Inspector Morse.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ replied Manners. Then he ducked through a gate into the walled garden. ‘There’s more than enough for us this time of year,’ he said, with a wave of the arm, ‘so we let them help themselves.’

  Half a football pitch, with a wooden framed greenhouse against the side wall. Dixon had never been blessed with green fingers, but he recognised runner beans from the lines of canes, and lettuces, of course. The rest would need to be bagged up and labelled for him to identify it.

  The house towered over the walled garden: old worn red brick with black painted timber framing and an octagonal tower in each corner with mullioned windows, all of them leaded. Dixon could smell chlorine – a swimming pool somewhere – and that must be a tennis court behind the garden.

  ‘The original bit is sixteenth century, with later additions, of course. We do open days in summer for the local hospice, that sort of thing. You must come back,’ continued Manners. ‘We’ve got a few pigs, on the other side of the house, and some llamas. Even tried ostriches at one point. We produce a bit of gin from the spring water too. It all helps to keep the coffers topped up.’

  Dixon could have driven his Land Rover through the kitchen door. It swung open and a small child burst out into the courtyard, her blonde hair wet.

  ‘Cressida, you get back in here now!’

  ‘That’s my wife, Diana.’ Manners raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s from Texas. They do a lot of shouting in Texas.’ He caught hold of Cressida and turned her back to the door. ‘Do as your mother says.’

  A small foot lashed out at his shin and missed. ‘She has her mother’s temper,’ he said, picking up the child and carrying her inside under his arm, despite the wriggling, her flailing legs knocking boxes of breakfast cereal off the kitchen table. ‘Her brother’s away at school. Francis goes to St Dunstan’s in Taunton. Boards during the week and comes home at weekends. Maybe you’ve heard of it?’

  Dixon had. But he decided to keep his old school tie to himself.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ asked Manners. He put Cressida out in the passageway and closed the kitchen door behind her, then pulled out three chairs from under the table.

  ‘No, thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said, clearing piles of post off the chairs. ‘So, you reckon Steiner came this way? That’s why you’re here, I suppose.’

  ‘We have a sighting of him at Kilve ten days ago.’

  ‘You’ve got a bit of catching up to do then, haven’t you?’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ asked Dixon, handing him both photofits. Then he turned to look at the photographs on the mantelpiece, at the same time watching Manners in the mirror on the wall above.

  Manners paused, staring at the photofits. ‘No, ’fraid not.’

  ‘Have you noticed anything missing?’

  ‘Bit difficult to tell with everybody helping themselves in the garden.’

  ‘Livestock, perhaps?’

  ‘Definitely not.’ Manners sat down at the head of the table. ‘We haven’t got many and they’ve all got names. Cressida would notice straightaway.’
>
  Dixon had never quite understood why parents displayed their children’s drawings with such obvious pride, even when they were – what was the right word – ‘modern’. The tiles either side of the fireplace were covered in them. Maybe he’d find out one day.

  ‘What about Mrs Manners?’

  ‘She’s just back from her parents in Houston, so you’re wasting your time there.’

  ‘And staff?’

  ‘Ha!’ Manners shook his head. ‘We can’t afford staff.’

  Dixon had guessed as much from his hands: large, heavily calloused, with grime under the fingernails.

  ‘Do you know how much a place this size costs to run?’ Manners leaned over and picked up a box of cornflakes off the floor.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘The heating bill is more than you earn in a year. And if you don’t heat it, it gets damp.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Let’s just say it’s something of a burden, ’specially when you haven’t got the proverbial pot to piss in.’

  ‘How many acres do you have?’

  ‘Three hundred, but it’s all let to local farmers, apart from a couple.’

  Dixon gave him the standard advice about not approaching Steiner, left another of his business cards and squeezed past the new Land Rover Discovery parked across the side gate.

  ‘Follow the path round the side, then the drive back to the road. It’ll be quicker,’ Manners had said before showing them out of the kitchen door.

  ‘We must remember to use the tradesman’s entrance, if we come back,’ whispered Louise, doffing an imaginary cap as she ducked under the wing mirror.

  ‘When, Lou.’ Dixon smiled. ‘It’s when we come back.’

  Chapter Nine

  Ten steps behind. Dixon could live with one, two even, but ten? He’d never felt that far behind anyone and it was enough to put him off his cheese sandwich. It had been the last one in the village shop at Stringston and Louise had very kindly said he could have it, seeing as he was diabetic, although he suspected it was more to do with yesterday’s sell-by date. Still, needs must and he’d done his jab.

  They were back in the beach car park at Kilve, parked in the shade of the mobile command unit, Dixon listening to Louise eating a packet of crisps. It had taken no more than five minutes to set up the search of the camp in the Great Plantation. The Hinkley beat officers at the main gate would let them know when the protestors had cleared off for the day, then all they had to do was wait for them to get home. Thirty officers, followed by two Scientific Services teams.