Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  ‘It’s why we built the bungalow. 1972, that was. Been here ever since,’ replied Mrs Harper, pouring the tea.

  Definitely a hint of blue. Smartly dressed too. Either she had made the effort or she had been out for Sunday lunch. No one wears a three strand pearl necklace for a visit from the police, do they?

  ‘Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘Your late husband’s company, Centrix Platforms,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘We sold that when he died. Our accountant was the executor of the estate and he managed to sell it as a going concern, I think that’s the phrase. Another company bought it, took on the staff and contracts and then wound it up.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ray died in 2004. On his sixtieth birthday.’ Mrs Harper stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece, handing Dixon a photograph that had been hidden behind a council tax bill. ‘That’s us at a Rotary do.’

  Black tie and a big smile for the camera, an arm around his wife.

  ‘Was it sudden, his death?’

  ‘We had time,’ replied Mrs Harper, a hint of a tremble in her voice. ‘He had a heart bypass, which bought him a year or so. We managed a cruise before the end.’

  ‘How long had he been running Centrix?’

  ‘He started it from scratch in the early eighties, hiring out hydraulic platforms. Then it went from there, really.’

  ‘Where was he based?’

  Mrs Harper smiled. ‘We started out in a barn on a farm over at Puxton. It was cheap, and got us going, but then the farmer built a golf course and we had to move. Ended up in a unit over at Walrow, the industrial estate at Highbridge. It had plenty of yard space for the platforms, tow trucks and what have you.’

  ‘You expanded rapidly?’ asked Dixon, watching Louise scribbling in her notepad.

  ‘We did. It was a competitive market, and there were lots of fly-by-night companies setting up using climbers on ropes, so hiring platforms was never going to last. That’s when we got into the bigger construction contracts, fixed platforms, that sort of stuff. Window cleaning firms won’t bother hiring a platform when they can send a couple of lads down on the end of ropes, a bucket hanging on their harness.’ She put a plate of biscuits on the coffee table in front of Louise. ‘Having said that, it was the best thing that ever happened to us.’

  Dixon raised his eyebrows. If someone wants to talk, let them.

  ‘Ray put a lot of effort into growing the business,’ continued Mrs Harper. ‘Lots of entertaining and corporate hospitality. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. We grew by acquisition too. He bought a small company in Bristol, which gave us the contract for the Clifton Suspension Bridge and the old Severn Crossing. We had nearly fifty staff at one point.’

  ‘Have you heard of a company called Crook Engineering?’

  Mrs Harper took a swig of tea. ‘They were becoming our main competitors in this area. An aggressive young man he was. Liam somebody. Ray suggested a merger at one point, but he said no. Then he undercut us on the Second Severn Crossing contract. We had to lay a few men off when that happened, but he took them on, so it wasn’t the end of the world. It’s quite specialist work.’

  Dixon nodded. And waited.

  ‘One of our lads died.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember his name. Ray went to the funeral though, I remember that much. It was after that we got the contract. It was for the monorail under the bridge. We had to drop everything and get it done. I think it shook Ray.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because it could just as easily have happened to us.’

  ‘What did your husband say about the accident?’

  Mrs Harper hesitated. ‘Three men died, Inspector. It shook him up. I know it did.’

  ‘But what did he say to you about it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that the bolts sheared off. I remember he went out and replaced every single one on all our platforms. And the safety harnesses too. Health and Safety were all over us. Everything had to be done properly.’

  ‘Liam Crook alleged that the nuts and bolts had been tampered with. Sabotaged. Did your husband ever mention that?’

  ‘Not to me.’ Mrs Harper sat up. ‘I know Crook tried to say that, but it never went to trial because he . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Do you know who he alleged was behind it?’

  ‘He tried to make out it was us, because we got the contract. Look, it was nonsense. We got the contract because there was no one else who could do it in the time allowed. And even then the Prince of Wales opened the bridge with us still underneath fixing new platforms. The monorail wasn’t finished for another six months.’

  ‘How much was the contract worth?’

  ‘I don’t remember that sort of detail, I’m afraid. In fact, I’m not sure I ever knew.’

  ‘A six month expedited contract on the Second Severn Crossing?’ Dixon stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece, picking up another photograph of Ray Harper, this time in hi-vis jacket and white hard hat. He was standing on a platform holding a clipboard, the old Severn Bridge in the background.

  ‘It would’ve run into the millions, I can say that much,’ said Mrs Harper. ‘That one was taken under the viaduct the day the monorail was finished.’

  ‘And your husband had nothing to do with the monorail?’

  ‘No. Another company did that, using our platforms.’

  ‘Did he give a statement to the police?’

  ‘No. Why would he?’

  ‘In response to the allegations made by Liam Crook.’

  ‘Nobody took them seriously, Inspector. He was cutting corners, using cash in hand staff and old equipment. It was the only way he could undercut us. Then he made up those lies to try to wriggle out of it.’

  Dixon was sitting in the driver’s seat of his Land Rover, staring at the telegraph pole outside Mrs Harper’s bungalow. Louise was talking into her mobile phone, but he wasn’t listening.

  The phone in the bungalow had been on the sideboard in the living room, so no amount of loitering on the doorstep would allow him to eavesdrop on Mrs Harper’s conversation. And there would be a conversation, with someone, even if it was just her sister – assuming she had one, of course. It was probably going on already, he thought, watching a starling land on the telephone cable.

  ‘That was Dave,’ said Louise. ‘They’ve got Amy’s friend, Michelle, at Express Park and he thinks you need to hear it yourself.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘What she’s got to say.’ Louise frowned.

  The southbound on-slip at junction 22 on the M5 always brought back memories. A school bus going over on two wheels, cricket bats and pads flying everywhere. The huge loop had caught out other drivers too, shiny new sections of Armco barrier testament to that.

  ‘If you think about it, we know no more than Stella at the moment. A rusty bolt fished from the sea and allegations made by her husband, Liam, in his defence.’

  ‘And look where it got her,’ said Louise, under her breath.

  Dixon ignored her. ‘We need to know what it was that she found out. And it must be on the prosecution file Chard gave her access to.’

  ‘You said all the papers had gone from her house?’

  ‘There was an empty concertina file and shoeboxes.’

  ‘Cleared out by her killer or killers?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Either that or by Chard trying to cover his tracks.’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  A bit late indeed. Dixon accelerated into the outside lane, wondering how long Chard’s relationship with Stella had been going on. It would be interesting to know if it had started before or after he had reported Dixon for failing to disclose his personal relationship with a murder victim. Not that it made a difference. Dixon hadn’t disclosed it, and so he had been guilty of misconduct. Not that he had ever had any intention of doing so. A chance to catch Fran’s killer would have been worth it, even if ‘it’ had been a career in
supermarket security, or worse still, a return to the legal profession.

  He wondered whether Chard would feel the same.

  And what was it on that file that had got Stella killed? Chard’s statement would make interesting reading.

  He parked on the top floor of the staff car park and followed Louise through the security door.

  ‘You haven’t swiped your—’ She thought better of it.

  ‘Dave’s checking the traffic cameras again,’ said Pearce, when Dixon sat down at a workstation opposite him. ‘He’s doing number plate recognition in Yatton for the weekend of Stella’s disappearance. Chard’s team are redoing the witness statements too. Potter is keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I left Michelle sitting in reception. She was happy to wait for you.’

  Louise ran along the landing and looked over into the atrium below. ‘Leggings and a red top?’ she asked, reappearing next to Pearce’s desk.

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘What’s she said so far?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Just that she was happy to come in, but owed it to Amy to speak to the top man. We figured that was you.’

  Dixon took the lift and was sitting in a ground floor meeting room when Louise opened the door for Michelle.

  ‘This is Michelle Croxton, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘Has someone offered you a drink?’ he asked, gesturing to a chair.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she mumbled, glancing around the room. Mousey brown hair down her back, black leggings and a red sweatshirt, the logo hidden behind folded arms. She placed her phone on the table in front of her face down.

  ‘We wanted to ask you about Amy,’ said Dixon, as Louise sat down next to Michelle. ‘You’re not under arrest or anything like that.’

  ‘I know.’ She was running her fingers through the ends of her hair, pulling out knots.

  ‘How long had you known her?’

  ‘We were at school together. Then we went to the same uni. I studied psychology and she did engineering.’

  ‘An odd choice, engineering.’

  ‘It was because of her father. Everything was because of her father.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘About a month ago. We went for a night out in Weston.’

  ‘You knew she was working at Hinkley Point?’

  ‘She was watching someone,’ replied Michelle. ‘It was as close as she could get, she said.’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘I don’t know the bloke’s name, but they’d found out the man responsible for awarding the bridge contracts was working at Hinkley. He’d been in the . . .’ – she looked blankly at Dixon – ‘. . . procurement, is it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s it, the procurement department at the company that built the Second Severn Crossing. And now, here he was, working at Hinkley Point. It was too good a chance to miss, apparently, so Amy got herself a job there.’

  ‘Do you know which company he’s working for at Hinkley?’

  ‘No, sorry. Amy never said. It wasn’t EDF though, I know that much.’

  ‘Did she mention Tier 1 or Tier 2, perhaps?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘And you’ve got no idea of his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor the company he works for?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘When did they find out about him?’

  ‘About six months ago. Stella, that’s her mum, found out where he was and it seemed too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘And what was her plan?’

  ‘Just to keep watch. It was a good job anyway, but she wanted to see if any contracts were sabotaged. You know they always thought her father was innocent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They reckoned this bloke had something to do with it. He was the one who took the contract away from her father’s company and gave it to someone else.’ Michelle took a deep breath. ‘Then Stella got access to a file or something. Amy said she didn’t want to know how, but I got the impression her mum was shagging someone. That was the last time I heard from her.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the suit Ed was talking about?’ asked Louise, watching Dixon slump down on to a swivel chair in the CID Area.

  He sighed. ‘Let’s assume he works for a Tier 1 contractor. D’you know how many of them there are?’

  Louise shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ten?’

  ‘Ninety. And each of them has multiple Tier 2 companies beneath them, each contract worth millions.’ Dixon leaned back in his chair. ‘We’ll have to come at it from the other end. See if you can find out who was in the procurement team for the bridge. There was a joint venture set up to build it, but God knows where the records will be.’

  ‘The bloke who told Stella might be Chard?’ Louise raised her eyebrows.

  ‘He might. So we need access to that bloody prosecution file.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Consultant, non-prac.’ It was a crafty way of keeping a retired solicitor’s name on the letter paper, as if that would fool anyone. Maybe he was being a bit harsh. Robert Jackman & Co Solicitors would look a bit odd without Robert Jackman’s name on the letterhead somewhere, even with his son, Cris, one of the remaining two partners.

  Dixon had never worked in a small firm and wondered whether he might feel differently about the legal profession if he had done so. He had trained in a large firm, ‘factory’ he used to call it, hot-desking in an open plan office, nine chargeable hours a day his target. Not easy when he spent most of his time photocopying, such was the life of a trainee solicitor.

  He had left the day his training contract finished, starting his police training at Hendon the following Monday. A day off a couple of months later to attend the ceremony at Chancery Lane and he had been admitted to the Roll of Solicitors; a shake of the Law Society president’s hand and Dixon had never looked back.

  He was still on the Roll, which made him a solicitor (non-prac.) too. Maybe when he retired from the police he’d go back to it. That had been the only reason he kept his name on the Roll; keeping his options open. If nothing else, it was better paid than supermarket security. Just.

  ‘Robert Jackman & Co, can I help you?’

  Dixon snatched the phone off the desk, disconnecting the loudspeaker.

  ‘I’m trying to track down Robert Jackman. I’m assuming he’s retired?’

  ‘Can you phone the office tomorrow? This is the out-of-hours emergency line.’

  Dixon rattled off his name and rank.

  ‘I’ll try to connect you with his son, Crispin,’ replied the operator. ‘You’ve come through to a call answering service.’

  Barber’s Adagio. Dixon cringed, hoping he wouldn’t be on hold too long.

  ‘It’s enough to make you slit your wrists,’ he said – under his breath, he thought, but loud enough for Louise to hear.

  ‘What is, Sir?’ she asked, her head popping up from behind the computer on the other side of the partition.

  ‘Listen.’ He flicked on the loudspeaker.

  ‘Inspector Dixon? You wanted to speak to my fa—’

  He cut it off again, watching Louise shaking her head.

  ‘Yes, please, Sir. I’m assuming he’s retired now.’

  ‘He is. What’s it about?’

  ‘Liam Crook.’

  ‘Now there’s a blast from the past. How come you’re involved, can I ask?’

  ‘Stella Hayward is missing, Sir, and I’m investigating her disappearance.’

  ‘Oh, good God. How . . . was she . . . You can’t tell me, of course you can’t.’ A long sigh. ‘Yes, my father would be happy to speak to you, of course he would. He knew the family well. I can’t believe—’

  ‘Where does he live, Sir?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Over at Burrington, do you know it?’

  ‘“Rock of Ages” and all that.’

  ‘That’s it. Rickford Lane, number 5. It’s the turning opposite the pub; a little w
hite cottage a hundred yards or so on the left. He may be in the pub though. Look for a man with a French bulldog.’

  Dixon made a note of the old man’s mobile number, despite being warned that it would probably be switched off. Either at home or in the pub, so they couldn’t go far wrong, Crispin had said. Although, as it turned out, Robert Jackman was midway between the two and heading home, walking in the middle of the road with a newspaper tucked under his arm and his dog on the end of a long lead.

  ‘D’you think he’s deaf?’ asked Louise, frowning as they followed them along the lane.

  The old man turned and watched Dixon park his Land Rover across the drive, blocking in an old BMW, an older Morris Minor rusting away in the carport behind it.

  A brown check shirt full of holes, the sleeves rolled up, black corduroys and wellies covered in mud, a pair of reading glasses on top of his head holding back long, straggly grey hair. He let the dog off the lead and then dropped the newspaper in the bin.

  ‘You found me then?’ asked Jackman, walking over to Dixon’s Land Rover. ‘My son rang the pub. You’d better come in.’

  Dixon and Louise followed Jackman round the back of the cottage and in the back door, squeezing past the piles of magazines stacked just inside.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive the mess. The place was spotless when my wife was alive. Rather gone to pot since then.’ Jackman slid off his wellington boots and flicked them across the kitchen floor. ‘Have a seat,’ he said, gesturing to the kitchen table. ‘So, what’s Stella been up to then?’

  ‘Stella is missing, I’m afraid, Sir. And her daughter, Amy, was found dead in an empty silo at Hinkley Point.’

  ‘Oh, God. When was this? The poor bug—’

  ‘You acted for Stella’s husband, Liam, when he was prosecuted, is that right?’

  Jackman sighed. ‘Cris said Stella had disappeared but he never mentioned Amy was dead as well.’ He began flicking crumbs off the table. ‘Stella never could let go. I felt sorry for her in the end. Stopped charging her too.’

  ‘Tell me about Liam.’

  ‘I’d done all sorts for him. He was one of my first clients when I set up on my own. Employment stuff mainly, and a bit of debt collection to begin with. He was a good client; always paid his bills. Sailed a bit close to the wind at times, cut the odd corner here and there. Then he got the contract for the Second Severn Crossing.’