Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  ‘You’re going to wish he really had killed you when Jane’s finished,’ she had said, forcing a smile.

  Louise had been trying to cheer him up, making light of it, of course she was. Always best, he thought. Shame it hadn’t worked though.

  He looked down at the black bin liner on the floor. His clothes could spend all night in the washing machine, but quite how he would explain the state of his jacket to the bloke at the dry cleaner’s was beyond him. He had scrounged a T-shirt and an Avon and Somerset Police fleece top, which would do to get him home. Nothing for it. He had sat there so long he was dry now anyway.

  He glanced at his phone. Six missed calls.

  ‘Home to face the music it is then,’ he muttered.

  The back door of his cottage flew open, the burst of light catching Dixon still sitting in his Land Rover, staring at the stinging nettles in the flowerbed.

  Jane opened the driver’s door and leaned in, putting her arms around him and kissing him.

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ she whispered, holding his face in her hands, a smile of sorts on her lips.

  He leaned forward, his forehead pressed to hers. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw it on the telly. Then Lewis rang to let me know you were all right. He said Steiner was dead, so I thought it would be safe to come home.’ She stepped back, letting him climb out of the Land Rover. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘The crane operator was twenty-seven with two children. And Steiner said he just wanted a chat. What else could I do?’

  ‘Lewis told me about Chard too. The bloody hypocrite; making your life a misery and all the time he was—’

  ‘Let it go. He’s not worth it.’

  Then Monty was jumping up at him in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve lost count now,’ said Jane.

  ‘What of?’

  ‘How many of your nine lives you’ve got left.’ She smiled. ‘C’mon, there’s a beer in the fridge. No bloody milk, I expect.’ She opened a bottle, sniffed it, shuddered, and then tipped it down the sink. ‘We left in a bit of a hurry.’

  Dixon was standing by the open back door, still holding the bin liner of clothes.

  ‘That lot can go straight in the bin,’ Jane said, running the tap. ‘Are you seriously going to wear it again?’

  ‘Good point,’ replied Dixon, dropping the bag outside by the step.

  ‘Your other stuff’s upstairs on the bed, but I forgot your insulin. It’s still in the fridge at Worle.’ She lifted the lid on the bread bin and took out a bag, holding it at arm’s length. Then she put her foot on the pedal and dropped it in the bin. ‘I can pick it up in the week. I’ll be popping over to see Mum and Dad, I expect. Will you be all right till then?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Dixon, turning for the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m just going to get out of this stuff.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I had something earlier.’

  He sat down on the bed and allowed himself to slump back, watching the shadows and the headlights of passing cars on the ceiling.

  ‘Nick!’ Jane’s voice, shouting from the yard at the back of the cottage. ‘You’d better come and see this.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Eyes closed, still lying on the bed.

  ‘Now!’ screamed Jane.

  Dixon ran down the stairs to find her standing by the back door.

  ‘Look at him,’ she said. ‘It’s like he’s drunk.’

  Monty staggered over to Dixon’s feet and slumped back on to his haunches, swaying from side to side. ‘What’s he eaten?’

  ‘Just his biscuits. He was drinking from that thing over there, but I stopped him as soon as I—’

  ‘Has he been sick?’

  ‘No.’

  Dixon ran over to the far side of the yard and picked up a small terracotta dish, the dregs of a pink liquid in the bottom. He sniffed it. ‘How much did he have?’

  ‘Not a lot, I don’t think. What is it?’

  ‘Antifreeze,’ replied Dixon, his face flushed, tears welling up.

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody well is.’ He handed the dish to Jane. ‘Take this, the vet will need to see it.’ Then he slammed the back door of the cottage, before bending down and picking up Monty, the dog’s head hanging over his arm like a rag doll’s. ‘My car keys are in my pocket. Quickly!’

  Jane fished the keys out of Dixon’s fleece pocket and opened the rear passenger door of the car. ‘Get in the back with him,’ he said, gently laying Monty down across the seat. ‘Make sure he doesn’t slide on the floor.’

  ‘Someone put that there deliberately,’ said Jane, tears streaming down her cheeks as Dixon accelerated away from the cottage. ‘They must’ve done.’

  Left at the end of Brent Street, Dixon was still accelerating when the Land Rover sailed over the railway bridge. ‘Hold on to him!’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Ring the vet and let them know we’re on the way,’ he said, passing his phone to Jane. ‘It’s in my contacts.’

  Jane dialled the number and flicked on the speakerphone.

  ‘Drakes emergency line. Tabi speaking.’

  ‘This is Jane Winter. We’re on our way with Monty. He’s a large white Staffie and he’s been drinking antifreeze.’

  ‘I know Monty. Are you sure it’s antifreeze?’

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Dixon from the driver’s seat.

  ‘We’ve got a sample,’ said Jane.

  ‘When was this?’ asked Tabi.

  ‘Five or ten minutes at most.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you by the back door. How far away are you?’

  ‘Two minutes,’ replied Jane, as Dixon accelerated along Berrow Road, flashing his headlights as he overtook a line of cars, hazard lights on, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the palm of his hand.

  Jane leaned forward and peered at the speedometer over his shoulder: sixty-five. He slowed at the pedestrian crossing, then the metallic click of the accelerator pedal hitting the floor again.

  ‘He’s asleep, I think,’ she said, looking down at Monty.

  ‘Wake him up!’

  ‘C’mon, boy, wake up.’ Shaking him now.

  Dixon glanced into the back to see his dog lift his head, his eyes rolling.

  ‘He’s not going to d—?’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he snapped, cutting Jane off mid-sentence.

  Dixon screeched to a halt outside Drakes Veterinary Surgery and jumped out, leaving his Land Rover across the zig-zag lines on the zebra crossing, the yellow lights casting an eerie glow. He reached into the back and picked up Monty. ‘Bring that dish,’ he said, kicking the door shut.

  Tabi was waiting for them at the back door when they ran around the corner, Monty’s head hanging over Dixon’s shoulder. ‘Bring him straight in.’

  Through a set of double doors and into a large room with shelves all around, medicine bottles lined up along them.

  ‘You’re sure it’s antifreeze?’ she asked, running across to an operating table. ‘Put him here.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘Where’s the dish?’

  Jane handed it to the vet.

  ‘Ten minutes ago, you say?’ Tabi was sniffing the pink liquid.

  ‘Yes, no more than that.’ Dixon was looking up at the ceiling. ‘We came straight here.’

  ‘Has he eaten?’

  ‘Dry biscuits, a whole bowl of them just before that,’ replied Jane.

  ‘Has he been sick?’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘All right, I’m going to make him vomit,’ said Tabi, filling a syringe. ‘A bit of diluted hydrogen peroxide should do the trick. You may want to wait outside?’

  ‘No bloody fear.’

  ‘Can you hold his head?’

  Tabi emptied the syringe down Monty’s throat and began rubbing him under his chin. Then he lurched to his feet and vomited over the side of the operating table, his sides heaving with the strain.

&nbs
p; Pink dog biscuits, the fluid dark pink too.

  ‘Looks like they’ve absorbed some of it, at least,’ said Tabi. ‘We’ll give him a minute and then do it again.’

  Jane leaned over Monty, his head in her hands, and pressed her forehead to his. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

  Tabi refilled the syringe. ‘Let’s make him vomit again.’

  More pink biscuits, the fluid clearer this time.

  ‘Once more should do it.’

  ‘Is he going to die?’ asked Dixon, holding back the tears. Just.

  ‘Ethylene glycol poisoning is usually fatal,’ replied Tabi, with a grimace. ‘But you got here quickly and the biscuits have absorbed a lot of it, so there’s a good chance.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ gasped Jane. ‘I didn’t see him quick enough.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Dixon. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘Let’s make him vomit again.’ Tabi was flicking the syringe. ‘Last time, all right?’

  Two pink biscuits this time, the fluid clear. Monty collapsed on the table, panting.

  ‘I’m going to need to keep him in. I’ll put him on a drip to keep him hydrated and there’s some stuff I can give him to support his kidneys. That’s the risk in these cases, kidney failure, but we should know within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Can we stay with him?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Let me get him settled. I need to get a catheter in his front leg and take some blood.’

  Dixon was scratching Monty behind his ears. ‘How long?’

  ‘Give me half an hour or so.’

  Dixon sat down on a bench in one of the shelters on the seafront and looked across at Hinkley Point, blue lights still flickering away in the middle of the site, just visible through the drizzle across the estuary.

  The streetlights had gone off, making it well after midnight.

  ‘You’ve had a helluva day,’ said Jane, taking his hand.

  ‘I’ve had better.’

  ‘He’s going to be fine, I know he is.’

  ‘You heard what she said.’

  ‘Tabi wanted to know if he’s insured.’

  Dixon swallowed hard. ‘That dog is going to the beach one last time, even if I have to carry him all the way.’

  ‘What about the money?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Fuck the money.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  A short walk down through the churchyard, using the torches on their phones; the back door of the surgery was standing open when they got back twenty minutes later. It was a small waiting area, separate from the main surgery – Dixon hadn’t really noticed it on the way in. A few posters on the walls and a box of tissues on the windowsill.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Tabi, opening the inner door. ‘It’s just a question of how much he’s ingested. The blood results are normal, as far as I can see, but I’ll do some more in the morning and send them off to the lab. Our machine’s pretty basic, I’m afraid. He’s on a drip and I’m giving him fomepizole for his kidneys. He’s had a light sedative too.’

  ‘Will he live?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I really don’t . . .’ Tabi’s voice tailed off.

  ‘I don’t want him to suffer.’

  Tabi nodded.

  ‘If a decision needs to be taken,’ mumbled Dixon, ‘I want to know straightaway. I don’t care what time of the day or night it is.’

  ‘I’m on duty and will be keeping an eye on him all night. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I just want to be here if . . . if you have to . . .’ Dixon could feel his eyes welling up again. He squinted, trying to hold back the tears, but it just made it worse.

  ‘He’s not showing any signs of distress at the moment,’ said Tabi, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I will tell you if I think he is.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Go in and see him.’ She opened the door. ‘It’ll do him good to hear your voice.’

  The back wall of the recovery room was lined with cages, a chihuahua sitting in the cage to Monty’s left wearing a surgical collar and looking none too chuffed about it. A black and white cat too, in a cage above.

  Monty hadn’t noticed.

  Dixon squatted down in front of the cage, reached in and stroked his dog behind the ears. Monty was lying on his side, his eyes closed. He opened them, stood up slowly and tottered to the front of the cage, trailing a saline tube behind his bandaged front leg, the bag hanging from the rungs above his head.

  ‘Don’t come out,’ said Dixon, gently pushing him back in. ‘C’mon, lie down, old son.’

  Monty slumped down on to the blanket and rolled on to his side as Jane knelt down in front of the cage.

  ‘I’ll try him with some food later,’ said Tabi. ‘If there’s any change, I’ll let you know, I promise.’

  ‘We’ll go,’ said Dixon. ‘Let him sleep.’

  ‘And ring me if you’re worried.’ Tabi smiled. ‘Any time.’

  A patrol car was parked behind the Land Rover on the zig-zag lines, the only light in the road the flashing yellow beacon on the zebra crossing.

  ‘We’d better not be getting a ticket,’ snapped Jane.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ said PC Cole, appearing around the side of the Land Rover. ‘I recognised the—’ His grin quickly faded. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Monty’s been poisoned,’ said Jane.

  ‘Is he going to be OK?’

  Dixon kicked the front tyre. ‘We won’t know for a couple of days.’

  ‘Poisoned deliberately?’

  ‘Antifreeze in the yard behind the cottage,’ replied Jane. ‘Someone had put out a saucer of it. One of those terracotta plant pot dish things.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today. A couple of hours ago, maybe.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Cole. ‘I’ll make some enquiries. A bit of house to house. See if anyone saw anything.’

  Dixon’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you find anything, you tell me, all right?’

  It felt odd, sleeping without a large dog on the end of his bed, grumbling at him every time he moved. Dixon woke early and spent another half an hour sitting cross-legged in the bottom of the shower; too busy worrying about Monty now to feel sorry for himself. Monty was different. Whether he lived or died was out of Dixon’s hands. A puddle of antifreeze under the Land Rover he could understand and he’d never have forgiven himself. Or the person who sold it to him. But a saucer of it? He grimaced.

  If Monty dies, someone will pay for that. Dearly.

  ‘The vet’s on the phone,’ said Jane, sliding open the shower door a crack.

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Dixon, scrambling to his feet.

  ‘She wants to speak to you. Shall I flip it to speakerphone?’

  He nodded. ‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes wide, the water still running.

  ‘Hi, it’s Tabi. I thought you might like to know I’ve just fed Monty some fish and vegetables.’

  ‘I thought you were ringing to tell me he was—’

  ‘No, no. He’s doing OK so far. I liquidised it and fed it to him through a syringe. Nice and bland. He’s kept it down and now he’s nodded off again.’

  Dixon puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can I come and see him?’

  ‘We,’ said Jane impatiently.

  ‘When d’you want to come?’ asked Tabi.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘You do know what time it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Er, yes, of course then. I’m here all weekend.’

  Monty was covered in a blanket, the clear plastic tube still attached to his foreleg. He slept through their visit after the initial excitement when they walked into the recovery room. And so did Dixon, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall opposite the cage. It was enough that they each knew the other was there, thought Jane.

  By rights they should be out on the beach. Sunday had dawned clear, a full moon still up, the tide out. Perfect.

  ‘I’ll take some more blood and check his kidney fun
ction later,’ whispered Tabi. ‘If he can come home, you’ll need to get a liquidiser. They’re twenty quid in Tesco’s. Or you can borrow mine.’

  ‘I’ll get one later,’ replied Jane.

  ‘Plain fish and vegetables or rice, something bland like that. Every four hours or so. I’ll give you some big syringes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It said on the news you’ve got Steiner,’ said Tabi. ‘There’s a telly upstairs in the staffroom. You could hear the shots on the TV coverage, even over the helicopter.’

  ‘He was the one who went up the crane,’ whispered Jane, pointing at Dixon. ‘They got the operator out then a firearms officer got Steiner.’

  ‘I wondered if it was him. Bloody hell, he’s had a belly full of it, hasn’t he.’ Tabi frowned. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Fine, I think. You never quite know, really.’ Jane shrugged her shoulders. ‘He bottles things up.’

  The CID Area was deserted when Dixon stepped out of the lift on the first floor of Express Park just before 9 a.m. He’d spent several hours at the vet’s, most of them asleep on the floor of the recovery room, but he had held Monty while Tabi took some more blood before he left.

  ‘Are you all right with blood?’ she had asked.

  Dixon had smiled.

  The door of meeting room 2 flew open and DCI Lewis shouted across the atrium as he walked along the landing. ‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be taking a few days off.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘What about your dog?’

  ‘The vet’s going to text me the blood results. There’s nothing I can do except wait and I’d rather keep busy if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘They’re using the Incident Room upstairs, if you’re sure.’ Lewis stepped back into the meeting room. ‘Deborah Potter’s taken over the investigation.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Louise, nodding towards the stairs when Dixon appeared at the top.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Keeping busy.’

  The Incident Room on the top floor still hadn’t been dismantled after the investigation into the missing girls had been wound down, over forty workstations still in situ, only four of them occupied: Dave, Mark, Louise and Potter.