by Damien Boyd
‘He’s protecting someone?’
‘Exactly.’ Dixon stood up. ‘When will we get High Tech’s report?’
‘Should be available first thing in the morning, Sir.’
‘In that case, he can sweat it out overnight. I’m going home, and I suggest you do the same.’
Dixon sat down on the red leather sofa in the window of the Zalshah Tandoori Restaurant in Burnham-on-Sea, let his head tip back against the glass and closed his eyes, trying to escape the blood.
There was blood everywhere.
Blood red wallpaper; blood red tablecloths; the carpet a darker red – congealed blood; even the sofa was artery red.
The spray of Steiner’s blood hit him again. He flinched, turning away sharply, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. He wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand and looked at it, expecting to see more blood seeping through his fingers.
Nothing.
A hand on his shoulder. ‘Mr Nick, are you all right?’
He squinted, trying to focus on Ravi frowning at him.
‘Cancel the takeaway, will you?’ he mumbled, standing up.
‘No worries,’ said Ravi, smiling. ‘I’ll put the money on your account,’ he shouted, as the door slammed behind Dixon.
Music was pumping out of the Railway Inn when Dixon stumbled past, heading for the seafront. He glanced in the window at the people shouting at each other, trying to make themselves heard over some pop song. Most of them smiling, laughing or watching the cricket on the big screen, not that they could hear the commentary.
He walked out to the end of the Pavilion, the bells and whistles of the fruit machines inside not quite drowning out the waves lapping at the base of the sea wall, the lights twinkling in the drizzle and reflecting off the water.
More lights in the distance, on the other side of the estuary. Red lights on the tower cranes, bright spotlights down by the sea wall, the third tunnel boring machine visible even from this distance, about to start its journey under the seabed.
‘Are you all right, mate?’ Two anglers fishing off the end of the Pavilion were staring at him.
‘Never better,’ he replied, with a wave of the hand.
He walked back along the seafront, down the steps and along the ramp below the wave return wall, the water lapping at his feet, the reek of fish and chips following him.
Would Stella think it had been worth it? Worth dying for? Possibly. He wondered whether she was resting in peace, wherever she was.
Maybe not.
She died knowing her whole family had been shattered and that Scanlon would get away with it. Again.
A funny thing, justice. What good would it do her now? Or Amy? Or Liam for that matter. But it was Dixon’s job to give it to them all the same. Finding Stella, so she could be laid to rest with Liam and Amy, seemed more useful to them.
The rest was about punishment. Scanlon, and whoever he was covering for, had a price to pay. And it was Dixon’s job to see that they paid it. Whether or not that resulted in more blood was up to them.
Dixon would dust himself down and, God willing, take his dog for a walk on the beach. And all would be well with the world. Until the next time he was drenched in blood.
‘You’re all wet,’ said Jane, opening the back door of the cottage. ‘And you’ve forgotten the food.’
‘How is he?’
‘Tabi took the catheter out of his leg, but he’s back tomorrow for more blood tests.’
Maybe he’d stick to shoplifting cases in future? There’s very little blood involved in most thefts. And Lewis had given him the chance when he’d threatened to take him off the hunt for Steiner. Dixon had seen enough blood to last a lifetime. He shuddered. ‘Blood and death.’
‘What about it?’ asked Jane, putting her arms around him.
‘I’ve seen enough. More than enough.’ He sighed. ‘I’m still washing Steiner’s brains out of my hair.’
‘I thought you’d had a shower.’ She ran her fingers through his hair.
‘Not literally.’
Jane kissed him. ‘And what would you do instead?’
‘God knows.’
‘Did you get Scanlon?’
Dixon nodded.
‘So, that’s it then?’
‘He’s covering for someone. And I still have to find Stella.’
‘Why don’t you take some time off when this is over?’ asked Jane. ‘We haven’t finished that holiday in the Lakes yet.’
‘Not without him,’ said Dixon. He was standing in front of the sofa, looking down at Monty. Sound asleep with his tongue hanging out.
‘She gave him a mild sedative.’
‘Has he had his tablets?’
‘He took them in a bit of turkey,’ replied Jane. ‘His appetite’s coming back, that’s for sure.’
‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘In the shower.’
‘You two go over to the pub and get something to eat. I’ll stay with him,’ said Dixon, slumping down on to the sofa next to Monty. The dog woke up and lifted his head, resting it on Dixon’s knee. ‘When’s he due his next feed?’
‘Midnight, but he’s eating from his bowl now.’ Jane smiled. ‘No syringe. There’s some cooked fish and veg in the fridge. It just needs thirty seconds in the microwave. All right?’
It was just before 11 p.m. when Jane and Lucy opened the back door of the cottage. The lights were off, the credits of an old black and white film paused on the TV screen.
They crept into the living room, finding Dixon fast asleep on the rug, his head resting on a cushion. Monty was curled up next to him, his eyes clamped tight shut.
‘I think we ought to leave them where they are,’ whispered Lucy.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dixon woke early and was sitting at a vacant workstation in the CID Area at Express Park by 7 a.m. scrolling through his emails, all of which he deleted apart from those from the High Tech Unit.
They had managed to crack Scanlon’s iPhones, his passcode for both turning out to be his date of birth. Dixon shook his head. And who said accountants weren’t imaginative?
His work phone contained nothing of interest whatsoever: several calls to and from colleagues, which was to be expected, perhaps; no internet search history and no photographs. A chess game had been installed, but never played.
His personal phone was a different matter entirely, the report extending to eleven pages, with appendices. Multiple unidentified mobile phone numbers, which would keep Mark Pearce busy, and an internet history that included the online bitcoin wallet, Bitfly.com.
Just like Steiner.
Dixon opened a web browser and typed in ‘bitfly.com’. Then he clicked on ‘Open an Existing Wallet’, which took him to the login screen that asked for a twelve word passphrase – the digital equivalent of a brick wall.
‘Morning, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘How’s Monty today?’
‘Back to the vet at eleven. She thinks we’re winning though.’
‘Are those the reports from High Tech?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the printer that was churning out page after page.
‘That’s just the one on his personal phone. There’s bugger all on his work one.’ Dixon stood up and flicked on the kettle, leaning back against the worktop, watching the paper piling up in the tray. ‘Where’s the one on his desktop computer?’
‘They said that might take a few days. The hard drives were encrypted, apparently.’
‘What about Bitfly? Did they come back to you with details of Steiner’s account?’
‘Not yet, Sir.’
‘Chase them up again, will you? And make sure they know he’s dead. They might be a bit more cooperative if they know he won’t be suing them.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The pile of paper was nearly half an inch thick when the printer finally stopped. Dixon picked it up and began flicking through it, the top corner clamped in his right hand.
‘The son’s due in today, Sir,’ contin
ued Louise. ‘He got in last night and is staying with a friend in Weston.’
‘Is he coming here?’
‘Didn’t say. He’s going to ring in when he wakes up.’
‘Tell him I’ll meet him wherever he is. There’s no need to drag him all the way down here.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What time are Dave and Mark due in?’
‘Eight, I think. DCS Potter is coming down for a briefing at nine too.’
Dixon parked on the beach at the northern end of Weston-super-Mare seafront and looked along Brean Down, jutting out into the Bristol Channel to the south. The tide was turning, just as it had been that day he had been plucked from the base of the cliffs by the lifeboat; a pair of binoculars and he might even have been able to see the fishing ledges he had climbed down from.
He glanced along the beach, spotting a figure in the distance walking towards him, hands thrust deep into coat pockets. No dog either.
‘What is it, Lou?’ he asked, putting his phone to his ear.
‘Potter’s here and she’s not a happy bunny.’
‘What about?’
‘She was expecting a briefing, apparently.’
‘Have you heard from Bitfly?’
‘They’re going to email the stuff over. It’s the crack of dawn over there, but they promised to do it by lunchtime, our time.’
‘Ask Potter to extend Scanlon’s custody by twelve hours. I want to interview him again when we’ve got the bitcoin wallet stuff.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about Dave and Mark?’
‘Dave’s still looking at traffic cameras and Mark the phones. Nothing yet.’
‘All right. Tell her I’m meeting the son and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘I tried that.’
Dixon rang off and slid his phone back into his pocket; the figure walking towards him along the beach a little closer now. Straggly dark hair blowing in the wind, ripped blue jeans and a green coat. He was still too far away to see facial features, but he seemed to be walking towards Dixon’s Land Rover with purpose. It must be Nathan, he thought, sliding out of the driver’s seat.
‘Are you the police?’
Bags under the eyes on one so young. Jet lag might explain that, or some chemical or other. Both, possibly. And a chipped front tooth, but then cosmetic dentistry was hardly going to be a priority when you’re bumming around the world.
‘You’re going to tell me she was right all along, aren’t you?’ Nathan kicked a broken tennis ball along the sand.
‘Let me start by saying how sorry I am, Nath—’
‘How did she die?’ Jaw clenched, fighting back the tears.
‘I can’t confirm that because we haven’t found her body yet, I’m afraid. What we do have is a man in custody who has confessed to killing her.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Philip Scanlon. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Nathan sighed. ‘The accountant bloke from the bridge. She always thought he must’ve been in on it.’ He was staring out to sea. ‘You didn’t say what happened.’
‘I can only tell you what Scanlon has told me. Are you sure you want to kn—?’
‘Yes.’
‘He says he used a knife and the leg of a coffee table. And that he buried her body. He hasn’t told me where yet.’
‘Will he tell you?’ The tears were flowing freely now.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I need to speak to Amy. Where is she? She’s not answering her phone.’
Dixon cleared his throat. ‘What exactly have you been told?’
‘Just that my mother has been murdered,’ replied Nathan. ‘It was some bloke from the consulate. He didn’t say how or why or anything like that.’
‘Get in.’ Dixon opened the passenger door of his Land Rover.
‘Where are we going?’
‘When did you last speak to your mother?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a year ago. We didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’
‘And Amy?’
‘A month, maybe. I’d Skype her when I got the chance.’
Dixon slammed the passenger door and then climbed in the driver’s seat. ‘Amy’s dead, Nathan.’ He was holding the steering wheel in his right hand and turned in his seat to face him. ‘I’m sorry, there’s really no easy way to—’
Nathan swallowed hard. ‘Scanlon?’ he asked.
‘He’s confessed to arranging it.’
‘How did she . . . ?’ His voice tailed off.
‘Her neck was broken. It would’ve been instant, painless.’
‘Have you got the man who did it?’
‘He’s dead; shot by a police marksman.’
Nathan was rocking backwards and forwards in the passenger seat, his arms folded tightly across his chest. ‘I thought they were deluded,’ he mumbled. ‘And they were right all along.’
‘Scanlon has made a full confession of his part in the Severn Bridge deal. The platform was sabotaged. A lot of money changed hands to see to it that the contract was taken away from your father.’
Nathan’s eyes were clamped tight shut. ‘He was innocent all along?’
‘He was.’
‘Why did he kill himself then?’
‘He couldn’t prove it.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Your mother found evidence: photographs – we don’t know exactly what of yet – confronted Scanlon with it and he killed her. Then he arranged for Amy to be killed as well. Did you know she was working in Hinkley Point?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was there to keep an eye on Scanlon. He was working as finance director for a Tier 1 contractor.’
‘She never told me that. They both stopped talking to me about it after I left.’ Nathan’s shoulders sagged, his head bowed. ‘For years and years all Mum cared about was proving it wasn’t Dad’s fault. She was obsessed. It came first, all the time. She even sucked Amy into it.’ He wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his coat. ‘There was a big bust-up one Christmas. I told her I’d had enough and left.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen. It was after she broke up with Neil.’ Nathan looked at Dixon, his eyes glazed over. ‘She’d said things would change after that, but they didn’t.’
‘Tell me about your father.’
‘I was three when he died, so I’ve only got photos, and what my mother told me. She loved him, I know that much. She scattered his ashes at Severn Beach, down under the bridge.’
‘What about aunts and uncles?’
‘None. There’s just me now.’ The tears began to fall again. ‘Can I see Amy?’
‘Family Liaison can arrange that,’ replied Dixon. ‘There needs to be a formal identification anyway, if you feel up to it?’
‘Mum always said she’d prove him innocent or die trying. And in the end she did both. Silly sod.’ He forced a smile. ‘It was a price she was prepared to pay though. I know that.’
‘She loved him,’ said Dixon.
‘You will find her, won’t you?’
Dixon dropped Nathan back at his friend’s flat and was turning into the visitors’ car park at Express Park when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He wrenched on the handbrake, sliding his phone out of his pocket with his other hand.
Made you an appointment with Tabi at 5 Jx
He tapped out a reply, before switching the engine off.
What for?
She wants to go over the blood results with you.
Potter was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. It was one disadvantage of the visitors’ car park – you could be seen from the front windows; the only alternative was the staff car park and wait for someone else to open the door with their pass. Fine first thing in the morning, but he was in too much of a hurry.
‘How was the son?’ she asked, blocking the landing.
‘He didn’t know Amy was dead.’
‘Really?’
‘Someone at the consula
te bottled it.’
‘You’ve got an extra twelve hours to charge Scanlon,’ said Potter. ‘Will that be enough?’
‘We’ve got enough to charge him now, even without a body. I just want to have another go at him. He’s protecting someone.’
‘We’ve got the stuff on Steiner’s bitcoin wallet,’ said Louise, when Dixon sat down at the workstation in front of her. ‘I emailed it over to Donald Watson at Scientific. He’s had a look at it and wants a word.’
‘Donald?’
Louise shrugged her shoulders. ‘Our resident expert, apparently.’
‘How come you know so much about bitcoin then, Donald?’ asked Dixon, the phone clamped between his shoulder and his ear.
‘I bought ten back in 2011,’ replied Watson. ‘A pound each they were then.’
‘Ten at five grand each . . .’
‘Ah, but I haven’t got them anymore,’ said Watson. ‘I sold them a couple of years ago.’ He hesitated. ‘Fifteen thousand each they were back then. Paid off my mortgage.’
‘I’m in the wrong business,’ said Dixon. ‘I hope you paid your tax.’
‘Louise sent me the stuff from Bitfly,’ continued Watson, ignoring him. ‘There’s not a lot. He hadn’t sold any, so there’s just the one bitcoin sitting in there. What’s interesting though is the last-sent-to address.’
‘You mean the address it was received from, surely?’
‘No, there’s no such thing. All you can see is the address that particular bitcoin was last sent to.’
Dixon frowned. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘It’s incredibly complicated.’ Watson cleared his throat. ‘All you need to know is that all transactions are recorded in the blockchain – it’s a computer program – and there are various explorers you can use to look at it. Now, you can’t see a “from” address, because there’s no such thing. Imagine it’s like cash. You can’t see where you received a five pound note from, can you?’
‘No.’
‘You might know where you got it from, but if you don’t, you can’t find out. And bitcoin is the same.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s all about privacy, really. To stop the likes of you and me tracing it. Are you still with me?’
‘Sort of.’