by Damien Boyd
‘I always felt sorry for her, to be honest. Poor kid. She never even met Liam and yet Stella sucked her into it all. Nathan wasn’t having any of it and got out. Like me, I suppose. A waste of fucking time, all of it. She’ll never find anything now.’
Dixon’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think she did, Mr Hayward,’ he said, picking his words carefully. ‘And I think someone killed them both for it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Dixon parked on the top floor of the car park at Express Park, the sound of Louise tapping on the glass just carrying above the ratchet of the handbrake.
‘What is it?’ he asked, winding down the window.
‘You need to see this, Sir.’ She handed him a plastic document wallet. ‘Before you go in. And there’s a welcoming committee in meeting room two.’
‘Chard?’
‘Potter, Charlesworth and Lewis.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘The missing stuff from the forensic report and the handwritten statements.’
‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Best make them from here, I suppose.’ He started winding up the window. ‘You haven’t seen me.’
‘No, Sir.’
Fifteen minutes later Dixon walked slowly past meeting room 2, relying on his peripheral vision to see in. Charlesworth had his back to the glass, as did Lewis. Not so Chard, who pointed at him, Potter jumping up from her seat at the head of the table and opening the door. ‘In here, Nick.’
Charlesworth took the lead. ‘Chief Inspector Chard is complaining that you’re undermining his investigation, re-interviewing his witnesses. Is that correct?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Dixon, sitting down in between Potter and Lewis. ‘They are not his witnesses and it is hardly surprising that the same people might have information relevant to both investigations. The neighbour, Mrs Westmacott, for example. She knew both Stella and Amy.’
‘What about her ex-husband?’ snapped Chard. ‘I decided he wasn’t relevant and that decision is recorded in my Policy Log.’
‘I decided that he was and that decision is recorded in my Policy Log.’ Dixon folded his arms.
‘We need to clear this up once and for all,’ said Charlesworth. ‘It’s clear to me we can’t rely on you two to work together so we need to put one of you in overall charge.’ He turned to Potter. ‘I’m content to leave that decision to you, Deborah.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I’m the senior officer,’ said Chard, staring at Potter.
‘Let me have a word with Dixon,’ she replied. ‘I’ll catch you up, Simon.’
Chard stood up and followed Charlesworth out of the room. Dixon watched them walking along the landing – Chard muttering away – Dave, Mark and Louise also watching from the CID Area on the other side of the atrium, the tops of their heads just visible over their computer screens.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on, Nick?’ asked Potter, closing the meeting room door. ‘I told you to keep out of Chard’s way.’
Dixon glanced at Lewis.
‘I’m your line manager,’ said Lewis, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m staying.’
‘All right.’ Dixon was sucking his teeth. ‘I’ll give you the evidence. What you do with it is up to you.’
‘What evidence?’ demanded Potter.
He opened the plastic document wallet and took out a handwritten witness statement. ‘This is a statement from Stella’s neighbour, Mabel Westmacott. I just spoke to her on the phone and she confirms it is not an accurate contemporaneous record of what she said at the time, nor is it the statement she signed.’
‘What?’
‘It’s been doctored. The last page has been rewritten and her signature on the bottom forged.’
‘Why?’
‘To remove reference to a gentleman caller. Stella was in a relationship with someone at Portishead – her work colleagues had heard rumours – and that someone is trying to see to it that it doesn’t come out.’
‘Rumours are no bloody good,’ muttered Potter.
‘That same someone was at the property when PC Bolt broke in,’ continued Dixon. ‘It explains Bolt’s sudden loss of memory – he’s covering for a fellow officer. How else would he have known the rug and coffee table had gone? And that Stella was possibly at risk?’
‘At risk?’ Potter raised her eyebrows.
‘It’s a long story.’ Dixon sighed. ‘Her first husband committed suicide the night before his trial for corporate manslaughter. There was an accident during the construction of the Second Severn Crossing and Stella was convinced it was sabotage. My guess is she found something and was killed for it.’
‘You’re not suggesting this officer is involved in her murder?’
‘No. He was in a relationship with her and is trying to keep it quiet.’ Dixon shrugged his shoulders. ‘And let’s face it, I can hardly criticise someone for having a relationship at work.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘You never doctored witness statements to cover it up,’ said Lewis.
‘No, I didn’t. I never gave out confidential information either.’
‘What?’ Potter lobbed her reading glasses on to the table.
‘The original corporate manslaughter file from 1995 is not in the archive. It was signed out a couple of months ago.’
‘Long before Stella’s murder,’ said Lewis.
‘Precisely.’
‘Who to?’ asked Potter. ‘Do we know?’
Dixon nodded. ‘The forensic report on Stella’s house that’s been scanned on to the system is incomplete. The appendix listing trace DNA and fingerprints from known sources is missing, although I can’t tell whether it’s been deleted or was just never uploaded. It documents PC Bolt’s fingerprints on the door handles – front and back – the telephone handset, stuff like that. And a hair of his on the floor in the kitchen. Nothing unusual in that, you might think.’
‘That’s why we’re on the database,’ said Potter.
‘It also lists DCI Chard,’ continued Dixon. ‘His DNA and fingerprints were found at the scene as well.’
‘He’s the investigating officer.’ Lewis frowned.
‘He is.’ Dixon slid the missing appendix across the table. ‘Louise got it direct from the lab.’
Potter snatched it off the table and began flicking through it. ‘Oh shit,’ she mumbled, her teeth gritted.
‘What?’ asked Lewis.
‘His DNA was found on the bedhead.’ She slid the report across the table to Lewis. ‘Hair in the plughole. Fingerprints on the TV gizmo. He was the bloody gentleman caller, wasn’t he?’
Lewis cleared his throat, trying to hide a nervous laugh. ‘Either that or he watched a bit of telly, then had a shower and a lie down while he was investigating the crime scene.’
‘It also explains why the second husband has never been interviewed,’ said Dixon. ‘The Severn Crossing investigation would’ve come out. Then the fact that Chard already had the file out of the archive. And I’m guessing that Amy’s statement was doctored for the same reason.’
‘Amy’s statement has been doctored?’ asked Potter.
‘Have you read it?’
‘How did he ever think he was going to get away with it?’
‘The investigation was winding down already,’ said Dixon. ‘No body’s been found. And if it wasn’t for Amy’s death the file would’ve been closed and that would’ve been that. After all, he hasn’t got long to go now until he retires on a full pension.’
Potter grimaced. ‘Well, he can bloody well kiss goodbye to that now, can’t he?’
Dixon was leaning back against a filing cabinet waiting for the kettle to boil when Potter and Lewis finally emerged from meeting room 2, Chard striding along the landing on the other side of the atrium towards them.
He flicked off the kettle and listened, watching the blood drain from Chard’s face as Potter spoke.
‘Simon Chard, I am arresting you on suspicion of perverting the cour
se of justice . . .’
Dixon had heard enough. He turned away and switched the kettle back on, turning back just in time to see Potter and Lewis leading Chard towards the lift. It was a short ride down to the custody suite.
Twat.
Twenty minutes later the lift doors opened and Lewis stepped out on to the first floor, Potter continuing up to the second floor and the Professional Standards Department, a plastic document wallet tucked under her arm.
‘She’s referring it to the PSD,’ said Lewis, walking up behind Dixon’s workstation in the window. ‘You’re taking over both investigations. The files’ll be brought down overnight.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about Chard’s team?’ asked Lewis. ‘There’s four of them.’
‘They’d better start by re-interviewing all of the witnesses.’
‘I’ll sort it out, although Professional Standards will need to speak to them first, so it’s likely to be a few days.’ Lewis shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe it.’
‘We need to find out exactly what information he gave her, Sir.’
‘Well, there’s no way you can interview him. You’ll have to give a statement to Professional Standards, so you can brief them then and they can ask him.’
‘She finally gets access to that file via Chard and what she finds ends up getting her killed.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Not yet.’
‘He’s going to pay a high price.’ Lewis sighed. ‘Should’ve kept it in his trousers. His wife’ll divorce him too.’
‘D’you know her?’
‘We’ve met a couple of times.’
‘As soon as Amy was murdered, he was stuffed,’ said Dixon.
‘I should imagine a case review would’ve picked it up,’ replied Lewis, ‘but he’d have been retired by then. Anyway, I thought you handled it very well. Most people would’ve confronted him in front of Charlesworth.’
‘My job is to report to my line manager, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘And I can’t say I enjoyed it, in spite of everything.’
‘Quite.’
Dixon spent the rest of the afternoon doing his witness statement for Professional Standards. Do the statement and email it to them – it was preferable to an invitation upstairs. He shuddered. His last visit to the Professional Standards Department had not ended well.
Chapter Seventeen
Footsteps running along the landing, the relative peace and quiet of the deserted canteen shattered before he had even taken his first sip of coffee. ‘What is it, Lou?’ Dixon asked, looking up to see her head peering around the door.
‘There you are, Sir. Potter’s doing her nut.’
‘What now?’
‘They’ve got Steiner cornered in Hinkley Point. He’s up one of the tower cranes holding the crane operator hostage and they’re saying he’s got a sawn off shotgun.’
‘How the hell did he get that in there?’ Dixon jumped up, sending the plastic coffee cup flying.
‘No idea, Sir.’
‘Armed Response?’ He snatched his Kit Kat off the table before the tide of spilt coffee reached it.
‘They’re arriving on scene now. Steiner’s asking for you, though, Sir.’ Louise grimaced. ‘Says he’ll release the crane operator when you get there.’
‘Does he now,’ muttered Dixon, dropping a handful of napkins on to the puddle of coffee.
‘Can I tell DCS Potter where you are? Only she’s giving me a hard time.’
‘Tell her I’m leaving now and I’ll get there as quick as I can.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The news vans had beaten him to it, the visitors’ car park overflowing with them. So had the helicopters, the police helicopter hovering directly over the site, three others out to sea, their red tail lights visible through the drizzle.
It had taken him twenty minutes just to get through the queues on the outskirts of Bridgwater, even with the blue light on top of his Land Rover. Then he’d picked up a marked car, which escorted him the rest of the way – sirens wailing – through the roadblocks on the A39 at Cannington and into HPC.
Another shutdown. Pickles would be hopping.
Dixon left his Land Rover on the grass verge opposite the entrance to Hinkley and ran across to the turnstiles, Potter pacing up and down behind them with the head of security, Jim Crew.
‘Here he is,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Let him in.’
Crew opened a security door to the side of the turnstiles. ‘This way,’ he said.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I’m here now,’ replied Dixon.
‘We’re in the Incident Room. Firearms are on scene.’
Dixon followed Potter across the concourse behind the turnstiles to Welfare Block East, and up to the first floor.
‘You can see it from here.’ She pointed at a yellow crane in the distance, surrounded by blue lights on the ground. ‘We’ve got Armed Response out there already. Four on the ground and one up each of the adjacent cranes. And we’ve evacuated all of the workers down there to Welfare Block West.’
‘I thought the site was shut down?’
‘We let some of them start again when they’d been interviewed,’ replied Potter. ‘And there’s work going on seven days a week.’
‘Steiner’s in the cab with the operator and there’s no clear shot,’ said the Armed Response officer standing behind her. ‘It’s howling a gale too, so the cranes are moving.’
‘You know Inspector Watts, I gather, Dixon?’
‘We’ve met.’
‘I don’t want a repetition of last time either.’ Watts folded his arms.
Chief Inspector Bateman walked over to the window, a mobile phone pressed to his right ear. ‘Still no shot, Sir,’ he said, his left hand across his forehead. ‘Yes, of course, Sir.’ He rang off and turned to Dixon. ‘That was the ACC. He’s given the order. If Steiner brings the gun up and they get a clear shot, they’re to take it.’
Watts turned away, talking into his radio.
‘Tell me about the crane operator,’ said Dixon.
‘His name’s Alistair Curran,’ replied Pickles, spinning round on an office chair, tapping the screen of his phone with his thumbs.
‘Is he married?’
‘Yes.’
Bateman frowned. ‘Two kids . . .’
‘Has anyone spoken to him?’ asked Dixon.
‘Not since Steiner first got up there. He smashed the radio, but we’re in touch with him by mobile phone. He let us speak to Curran, just to confirm he’s unharmed, and he’s answered it when we’ve rung so far. Seemed quite calm, oddly enough.’
Dixon turned back to the window and looked at his watch. An hour of daylight at most; less with the cloud and rain. ‘What’s the weather forecast?’ he asked.
‘Rain until midnight, getting heavier,’ replied Bateman. ‘The wind is strengthening too, gusting up to fifty miles an hour.’
Vehicles on the service road were driving with headlights on. Dixon grimaced. Lights all around the site were already starting to twinkle in the gloom: Welfare Block West, a mile away at least; the cranes, with red and white lights on the jibs. And the police helicopter, the searchlight underneath dancing in the wind, trying to keep a fix on the cab of the tallest crane. Steiner had chosen well.
Dixon had never been a fan of sci-fi, but it reminded him of a scene from Blade Runner, or The Terminator, perhaps.
‘They’ve got night vision scopes,’ said Watts. ‘But it’s not easy to identify the target when the light goes. And they’ll be trying to hit a moving target from a moving platform. Hardly ideal.’
‘What’s he said so far?’ asked Dixon.
‘Just that he wants you for the crane operator,’ replied Potter.
‘No demands?’
‘Just you.’
‘Talk him down,’ snapped Bateman, a mobile phone in his outstretched hand.
‘And if he won’t come?’
‘We wait h
im out.’
Dixon took the phone from Bateman and pressed the green button.
Two rings. ‘Steiner.’
‘It’s Nick Dixon. You wanted to speak to me.’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘We can arrange that. Let Alistair go—’
‘He prefers Al. Don’t you, Al?’
‘All right, let Al go, leave the gun and climb down. I’ll meet you at the bottom. That’s the only way this ends well, Tony.’
‘For me or him?’
‘Both of you.’
‘Are you sure?’ snapped Steiner. ‘Because, let me tell you, he’s not.’
‘We found the business card. And you signed my name in the guest book at Groom’s Cottage. What was that all about?’
‘Kept you interested, didn’t it?’
‘You didn’t seriously think I’d lose interest, did you?’
‘Look, stop playing games. Are you coming up here, or not? I’ve got two cartridges, and they’re both for Al, if you don’t.’
‘My superiors won’t let me,’ said Dixon, glancing at Potter, then Bateman. ‘They seem to think I’m a target.’
‘You have superiors?’ The sarcasm was dripping from Steiner’s voice. ‘I doubt that very much. You’ve got ten minutes.’
Then the line went dead.
‘How the hell did he get up there?’ asked Dixon, handing the phone back to Bateman.
‘God knows.’ Potter rolled her eyes.
‘How old is Al?’
‘Twenty-seven,’ replied Pickles.
‘With two children? They must be young.’ Dixon was watching the rain running down the window. ‘I have to go up.’
‘It’s out of the question.’ Bateman was shaking his head.
‘And I have to go before it gets dark. It’s the only way this ends well for Al Curran.’
‘No.’ Potter folded her arms.
‘Can you get me out there?’ asked Dixon, turning to Crew.
‘Er, yes I can, but . . .’
‘I’ve got body armour on.’ He tapped his chest with his knuckles. ‘And I can stay below the cab. He’ll have to come out on to the jib if he wants to get a shot at me and then—’
‘We’ve got him,’ interrupted Watts.
‘There’s a trap door in the floor of the turntable,’ said Crew. ‘He’d have to open it but then he could fire straight down the ladder.’