Dead Lock (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 8)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Only some of them.’

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘Trying to find his daughter.’

  ‘And why does that involve his clients?’

  ‘His daughter’s been kidnapped and he goes into work.’ Dixon scowled. ‘Don’t you think that a bit odd?’

  ‘So, what do I tell him?’

  Dixon was looking at the piece of paper in Potter’s hand. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s come over from Scientific. A handwritten note they got off the pad you took from the bank.’

  ‘The pad was on Jeremy’s desk, Ma’am,’ said Jane.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Here, you take it,’ said Potter, handing the piece of paper to Dixon. ‘It’s your “Get Out of Jail Free” card.’ She smirked. ‘And what’s Markhams?’

  He smiled at Jane. ‘A vintners in Trowbridge.’

  ‘Not the same one Savage worked for?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Yes, now can we come in out of the rain?’

  Meeting room 2 was more crowded than usual, Potter sitting at the head of the table, with DCI Chard standing behind her.

  ‘What’ve you got, Louise?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘They’re—’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’ snapped Chard.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Renner, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘They paid five hundred and fifty thousand for Old School House two years ago, according to the Land Registry, and they’ve got a mortgage with Svenskabanken. That’s probably at preferential staff rates, but I can’t tell how much is outstanding on it. I can’t find any other loans and there’s cash in the bank. Their credit score is good too.’

  ‘What about directorships?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘None current for either of them, Sir, but she’s got Polgen Communications Limited and Vectra Network Technologies Plc; both companies have since been wound up, though.’

  ‘Do full company searches against both.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about their cars, Dave?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir. The cars haven’t moved except for Jeremy’s trip to work, which we know about anyway.’

  ‘And phone calls?’ Dixon frowned. ‘Someone must’ve rung him and told him we were looking at his customers.’

  Harding shrugged his shoulders. ‘Someone at the bank, I reckon. It was a Bristol landline number.’

  Dixon sighed. ‘What did you find out, Mark?’

  ‘Not a lot, Sir. There are a few old press releases archived on some of the news sites mentioning Adele Poland and a release announcing that Jeremy is joining Svenskabanken. Even that’s ten years ago now.’ Pearce looked down at his notes. ‘He’s on LinkedIn, which you’d expect for a banker. I’ve printed off a list of who he’s connected to.’

  ‘Is there a Simon Gregson on the list?’

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Potter.

  ‘The owner of Markhams, Ma’am,’ replied Jane.

  Pearce scanned down the list. ‘Yes, he’s here, Sir.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘And he’s got an Instagram account,’ continued Pearce, ‘but it’s mainly sailing photos. She’s on Twitter with seven followers. Never tweeted, though.’

  ‘Facebook?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Tell us about the handwritten note,’ said Potter.

  ‘It came from a pad of paper in Jeremy’s office at the bank. In it,’ said Dixon, ‘Jeremy is ordering a junior colleague to withdraw a winding up petition scheduled for hearing in the Bristol District Registry of the High Court on Monday.’

  ‘That’s the day after tomorrow,’ said Louise.

  ‘The company in question is a vintners in Trowbridge, the same one Savage used to work for.’

  ‘And the “or else” is killing Hatty, I suppose?’ asked Chard.

  ‘He went into the office for one reason – and one reason alone – to send this.’ Dixon picked up the email with the transcribed handwritten note taken from the pad. ‘“Miriam. Please fax the court withdrawing the Markhams petition first thing Monday morning and text me to confirm you have done so. I will take full responsibility for this decision. Jeremy.”’

  ‘So, we know who’s got her,’ said Chard. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘We don’t know who’s got her, or where she is,’ snapped Dixon. ‘All we have is the motive. If we wade in now and pick up Gregson, God alone knows what might happen to Hatty – and I sure as hell am not explaining to Roger that his granddaughter’s dead because we fucked up.’

  ‘Nick’s right,’ said Potter. ‘We wait.’

  ‘Gregson can’t know we’re on to him. When we’ve got Hatty then we pick him up, but not before.’

  ‘How can we help?’ asked Potter.

  ‘A tail on Gregson would be useful, but it’s a remote rural area so it’s not going to be easy. Two cars pointing in different directions and a spotter hidden in the trees, ideally.’

  ‘We’re not the bloody SAS,’ muttered Chard.

  Potter ignored him. ‘Just organise it.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Phones too,’ said Dixon. ‘Dave?’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘We also need surveillance on the other shareholders in the vintners. Gregson’s wife, two brothers, aunt and her two children. You never know, one of them may lead us straight to Hatty.’

  ‘I can do a company search,’ said Louise.

  Potter nodded. ‘I can authorise all of that.’

  ‘I’m sorry if this sounds a bit dim, but what happens if the bank won’t agree to withdraw the petition and the hearing goes ahead on Monday?’ asked Jane.

  Potter raised her eyebrows. ‘The company gets wound up.’

  ‘We need to find Hatty first,’ said Dixon.

  ‘At least we know she’s alive,’ said Louise.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Potter.

  ‘I’m just waiting for a copy of the winding up petition to arrive,’ replied Dixon. ‘Then I’m going back over to Catcott.’

  ‘Be careful.’ Potter frowned. ‘He’s already complained about you once.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The front door opened as Dixon reached up for the bell.

  ‘I was just leaving, Inspector,’ said Ros Hicks, her voice raised. ‘Would you like me to let them know you’re here?’

  ‘I think you just did.’

  She stepped back to allow Dixon and Jane into the hall, then left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Any news?’ Roger was striding across the living room towards them, his stubble almost a beard now; the same clothes too. Probably hasn’t been home for days, thought Dixon.

  Poor sod.

  ‘Where’s Geraldine?’

  ‘Gone home.’ Poland frowned. ‘What’s going on?’

  Karen Marsden put her book down and got up from the dining room table. ‘Anything I can do, Sir?’ she asked.

  ‘The journalists have reappeared outside in the lane. Get someone to move them on, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And show Dr Poland out,’ said Dixon. ‘It may be better if you went home too, Roger.’

  ‘Why?’ Poland was rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘You’ll just have to trust me, Roger.’

  Jeremy and Adele were sitting on the sofa with their backs to the door, both of them looking over their shoulders.

  ‘I do,’ muttered Poland.

  Dixon’s eyes widened. ‘This might get a bit—’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m staying. I want to hear it. Whatever it is.’

  Jeremy stood up, nudged by Adele. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I spoke to DCS Potter and she said—’

  ‘What d’you mean, you “spoke to DCS Potter”?’ snapped Poland.

  ‘There have been some developments, Sir,’ said Dixon.

  Jane sat down at the dining table and took out her notebook.

  ‘What developments?’ Jeremy glanced at Adel
e, then back to Dixon.

  ‘Sit down, Sir.’ Dixon walked around the front of the sofa and stood with his back to the wood burner. ‘Now.’

  Jeremy sat down next to Adele and took her hand, both of them staring at the rug on the floor in front of them.

  ‘When did they make contact with you?’ asked Dixon.

  Silence.

  Dixon waited. He glanced at Karen, who shook her head.

  ‘Who?’ asked Poland, hands on his hips. ‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’

  ‘I’m hoping someone will tell me, Roger.’ Dixon was looking down at Jeremy and Adele. ‘All right then, I’ll tell you.’ He slid a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and unfolded it. ‘This is a transcript of a handwritten note lifted from a pad of paper. I get it. I do. If someone had my daughter and told me they’d kill her if I contacted the police, I’d do what they said. Really.’

  ‘So would anyone,’ said Jane.

  Adele leaned forwards over her knees, her shoulders heaving. Jeremy started rubbing her back.

  ‘“Miriam.”’ Dixon was reading from the note. ‘“Please fax the court withdrawing the Markhams petition first thing Monday morning and text me to confirm you have done so. I will take full respons—”’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Jeremy stood up.

  Adele was sobbing uncontrollably now.

  ‘You know who’s got Hatty?’ asked Poland.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘And so do you?’ Poland glared at Jeremy.

  ‘We do, Dad,’ gasped Adele. ‘We both do.’

  Poland shook his head. ‘Who the hell are Markhams?’

  ‘They’re a vintners in Trowbridge, Roger,’ said Dixon. ‘The same one that Savage worked for. I’ve got the winding up petition here.’ He unfolded another piece of paper. ‘“The petition of Svenskabanken AB. Company subject to the petition; Markhams South West Limited. The grounds on which a winding up order is sought is that the Debtor is indebted to the Petitioner in the sum of four hundred and seventy-one thousand, five hundred and twelve pounds and seventeen pence. A statutory demand was served on the company on—”’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Jeremy.

  Adele lit a cigarette.

  ‘“For the reasons stated in the statement of truth of Jeremy Renner filed in support . . . ”’ Dixon turned over the page. ‘“This petition . . . will be heard at Bristol District Registry of the High Court on Monday—”’

  ‘Enough, I said.’

  ‘Where is Hatty then?’ asked Poland.

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied Dixon. ‘We know who’s behind it but not who’s got her or where she is. Yet.’

  ‘How did you find out?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘You went to work, which seemed a bit . . . odd, so – as you know – we followed you there.’ Dixon frowned. ‘Then we made a few routine enquiries. We spoke to Malcolm Clarke, who sends his best wishes. And Simon Gregson.’

  ‘Oh God, not Simon.’

  ‘That was before we saw the winding up petition. He rang six times to speak to you last week. Unusual that, in the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?’ Dixon raised his eyebrows. ‘Or maybe he was just behaving normally, or trying to make it look like he was behaving normally.’

  ‘Did he suspect anything?’

  ‘We told him it was just routine enquiries. He has no idea we’re on to him or that we’re watching his house.’

  ‘He’d better not.’

  ‘He seems to think he’s refinancing?’ Dixon frowned. ‘Any day now, apparently.’

  Jeremy shook his head. ‘It’s not happening. No other bank will touch him.’

  ‘But he says he’s making a tidy profit. If that’s true, why are you winding up the company?’

  ‘Profit? Three or four years ago maybe, but not since then. His losses are growing each month and his overdraft’s just getting bigger and bigger. His gross profit’s hardly covering the interest now.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jeremy sighed. ‘Pubs are closing, people’s drinking habits are changing and his income’s falling every month. He was breaking even a couple of years ago, but not since then; and the longer we leave it, the bigger the debt. His assets will just about cover it now, but not for much longer.’

  ‘And the bank has a floating charge over the company assets so you can step in and take everything?’

  ‘There isn’t much. The vans are leased and the unit is rented. There’s just the stock.’ Jeremy shrugged his shoulders. ‘We have the personal guarantees, too – although there’s a mortgage of over three hundred thousand on his house to take into account.’

  ‘Which means you get his house too?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It’ll be sold.’

  ‘And the land?’

  Jeremy nodded.

  Poland pulled a chair out from under the dining table opposite Jane and slumped down on to it. ‘More than enough motive, I’d have thought,’ he muttered.

  Adele looked up, her eyes full of tears. ‘But he’s got no idea you’re on to him?’

  ‘None at all. It was just routine: we’re speaking to all Mr Renner’s customers; that sort of thing,’ replied Dixon. He turned to Jeremy. ‘So all that stuff about refinancing any day now was bollocks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will he go bankrupt?’

  ‘I can’t see how he can avoid it.’

  ‘I can,’ said Poland. ‘Kidnap your daughter and get you to withdraw the court case.’

  ‘How many people will lose their jobs?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There are twelve employees, plus Simon and his wife too, I suppose.’

  ‘Is it your decision?’

  ‘Simon thinks it is, but it isn’t. Decisions like that are taken by the board.’

  ‘And you saw no sign of Hatty when you went to his house?’ asked Poland.

  ‘None at all,’ replied Jane.

  ‘How did you meet him?’ Dixon turned back to Jeremy.

  Adele stood up, turned her back on him and walked over to the patio window, blowing her smoke out into the garden.

  ‘He was introduced to me at a business networking event. Said he knew . . .’ Jeremy’s voice tailed off.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Poland jumped up. ‘Simon Gregson? Wasn’t he an ex-boyfriend?’

  Adele stepped out into the rain.

  Dixon spun round and snatched a photograph off the bookshelves behind him. He nodded. ‘The champagne bar at Paddington station,’ he muttered. Five smiling faces, two of whom he now recognised: Adele and Simon Gregson.

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Poland.

  Dixon nodded, as he walked over and handed the photograph to Jane.

  ‘Yes, it’s him,’ she said.

  ‘So, your ex-boyfriend has kidnapped your daughter.’ Poland clenched his teeth. ‘My granddaughter.’

  ‘And killed the man who organised the kidnap of Alesha,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Do we know Simon killed him?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ replied Dixon, ‘but the two events are connected.’

  ‘Get in here now,’ shouted Poland.

  Adele appeared in the doorway. She dropped her cigarette on the patio and stubbed it out with the toe of her shoe, before stepping inside. Poland slammed the door behind her, then locked it.

  ‘We don’t want the whole bloody village knowing our business,’ he muttered.

  ‘When did he contact you?’ asked Dixon, watching Adele sitting down on the sofa, the tears gone.

  ‘The night before last. There was a note on the doormat.’

  ‘Pushed through the bloody letterbox?’

  Dixon glared at Poland.

  ‘All right,’ he said, returning to his seat at the dining table.

  ‘Where is this note?’

  Adele looked at Jeremy and nodded. He walked over to the shelves, opened a large hardback book and took out an envelope. He handed it to Dixon, who had put on a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘There’s a photograph of her in
there,’ he said.

  ‘A photograph?’ Poland jumped up. ‘Let me see it.’

  ‘She’s holding Thursday’s Western Daily Press,’ mumbled Adele.

  Dixon opened the envelope and looked first at the note. It was short and to the point: ‘Wind up the company and she dies. Tell the police and she dies. Withdraw the petition and you get her back in one piece. Try anything and you get her back piece by piece. Issue another petition and we will be back for her. And you.’

  He looked at the photograph, taken on a phone and printed on an inkjet printer. Hatty was looking at the camera, her eyes red and wide – pleading – the mark of a gag recently removed across her mouth. She was holding a newspaper in her left hand, her right tied to the arm of the chair she was sitting on.

  ‘How many people have touched this?’

  ‘Just me and Adele.’

  ‘And Mum.’

  ‘She knows?’ Poland sighed. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because you’d have told him,’ said Jeremy, pointing at Dixon. ‘And we couldn’t risk that. It was my decision, Roger.’

  Jane held open an evidence bag that she had taken from her handbag and Dixon dropped the note and envelope into it. He held the photograph in front of Poland, before dropping it into the bag, watching a tear appear in the corner of Poland’s eye.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ he said, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. ‘And tell me everything.’

  Adele sighed. ‘We met at university.’

  ‘I knew it,’ muttered Poland.

  ‘I was doing business studies and he was doing computer sciences. We were friends and . . .’

  ‘A couple,’ said Jeremy, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you just admit you were a couple and be done with it?’

  ‘We were a couple.’ Adele smirked. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘We split up two years after we left, I suppose. But we kept in touch and he asked for my help when he was starting Anytimenow. He wanted me to form a company and organise some funding, which I did.’

  ‘That’s Polgen Communications Limited?’ asked Dixon, glancing across at Jane scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘Yes. The product was called Anytimenow. It was an internet based email, calendar and document storage website. It sounds old hat now but you have to remember this was nearly twenty years ago. We were the first company in the world to get email working on a mobile phone via the old Wireless Application Protocol.’ Adele shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t pretend to understand the tech side of it, really; that was Simon’s bag. I just dealt with the business end.’