by Damien Boyd
‘She looks asleep, doesn’t she?’ said Dixon.
‘That’s what happens. You go to sleep,’ replied Poland, ‘then the breathing goes.’
‘Any sign of foul play?’
‘What makes you think...?’
‘She tried to ring me at 9.37pm last night. Then this.’
‘But...’
‘And there’s no suicide note.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything. You know the statistics for that.’
‘These Albanians are good, Roger. They’d know she took sleeping pills. She takes a pill and is sound asleep. They creep in. Two hold her down. Two others pour the pills and scotch down her throat using a funnel so there’s no mess. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
‘But, there’s no sign of restraint...’
‘What if they were wearing soft gloves when they held her wrists? That wouldn’t leave a mark.’
‘No, it wouldn’t, I suppose.’
‘And the scotch. She was a drinker. You only have to look in the living room to see that. But there’s no sign of whisky anywhere.’
The uniformed officer appeared in the doorway.
‘Her doctor’s here, Sir.’
‘Send him up, will you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that we’ve got no suicide note and she didn’t like whisky, therefore it must be murder. Is that it?’ asked Poland.
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that...’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Nick.’
‘I’m Doctor Carpenter, Mrs Harcourt’s GP.’
‘Come in,’ said Dixon.
‘It’s very sad. I always hate suicides,’ said Carpenter. ‘Never commit suicide, you might regret it later.’
‘Who said that?’
‘Winston Churchill, I think. He was talking political suicide but it still applies.’
‘It does,’ replied Dixon. ‘Forgive me, I’m Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Roger Poland, Pathologist at Musgrove Park.’
They shook hands.
‘Scotch and Restoril,’ said Poland. ‘Had you prescribed her Restoril?’
‘Yes. I started her on Zopiclone but after a while it didn’t work for her so we tried Restoril.’
‘There are eighty here. Could she have stockpiled that many?’
‘Yes, probably. She’s been on it for a while.’
‘Did she have any problems with alcohol?’
‘Not that she told me about. She was a social drinker. Nothing excessive that I saw.’
‘Any other medication,’ asked Poland.
‘She took a statin but apart from that, no.’
‘What about her mental state?’
‘Prone to bouts of depression but nothing too dramatic. I seem to recall one prescription of Fluoxetine some time ago but that’s it.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Dixon.
‘The trade name is Prozac,’ replied Poland.
Dixon nodded.
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Poland.
Doctor Carpenter left and Poland turned to Dixon.
‘I’ve got to do a PM anyway so I’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious but I think you are way off the mark with this one, Nick.’
‘Looks like it. I’ve just got this alarm bell going off...’
‘Even if you’re right, there’s no physical evidence to prove it.’
‘So, if it was murder...?’ asked Dixon.
‘…it was a thoroughly professional job,’ replied Poland.
Dixon stood under the canopy on the corner of the stable block and watched Georgina Harcourt being carried out of the farmhouse to the waiting mortuary van. It looked disturbingly similar to the Albanians’ Range Rover. Black with tinted windows. The Scientific Services van had left a few minutes before and Roger Poland was almost finished at the scene as well. The next step would be the post mortem. He shouted across to Dixon.
‘I’ll let you know if I find anything.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You owe me another one for this.’
‘Curry?’
‘After last time?’
Poland followed the mortuary van out of the courtyard on foot and got in his car. Then he sped off down the drive after the van. Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly midday.
‘Let’s get some lunch.’
‘Ok,’ replied Jane.
‘What’d you make of it then?’ asked Dixon.
‘If it wasn’t for the telephone call the night before, I’d say it was suicide. That’s the only issue for me. It still could have been suicide, couldn’t it? But...maybe she couldn’t live with whatever it was she was going to tell us?’
‘Or maybe she was killed for it?’
‘It’s a tricky one,’ said Jane.
They were sitting at a small table in the corner of an otherwise deserted lounge bar in the Lamb in Spaxton. A dreary Monday lunchtime in November was clearly not their busiest time. Two cheese sandwiches and a bowl of chips arrived.
‘She couldn’t just disappear after Zavan told me that was their speciality. So it had to look like suicide...’ Dixon’s voice tailed off.
‘What?’
‘Do you remember when Collyer said that Georgina was a reluctant participant in whatever was going on, or something like that? I asked him how he knew...’
‘And he said ‘we listen’. I wondered what he meant by that.’
‘I reckon they’ve got the house bugged.’
‘Zephyr?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could just be a telephone tap,’ said Jane.
‘We’ll get Lewis to find out. About time he did something useful.’
Jane parked on the pavement outside The Glastonbury Music Shop in Benedict Street, a narrow side road off Market Place, Glastonbury. A little further down on the opposite side of the street was a red brick terraced cottage with hanging baskets either side of the front door. It had once been a residential address but was now the offices of Stockman Accountancy Services, as evidenced by the brass plaque on the wall. Dixon moved the flowers to one side and read aloud from the plaque.
‘Philip Stockman FCA, trading as Stockman Accountancy Services.’
‘FCA?’ asked Jane.
‘Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants.’
Dixon tried to peer through the front window but it was obscured by a dirty net curtain. He tried the door, which was locked, so Jane rang the doorbell.
The door was answered by a woman in her early sixties, smartly dressed in a two piece navy wool suit.
‘We’re looking for Philip Stockman,’ said Dixon.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Yes. I am Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Winter. We have an appointment at 2.00pm.’
‘He sends his apologies, I’m afraid. He wasn’t feeling well and has gone home.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t...’
Dixon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was enough to stop the woman mid sentence.
‘Let me explain. This is a murder investigation, Mrs...?’
‘Stevens. Ms Stevens.’
Dixon showed her his warrant card.
‘Now, I can get his address the hard way unless you’d like to save me the trouble.’
‘Beck House. It’s off Turnhill Road, High Ham.’
‘Do you know it, Jane?’
‘I know High Ham.’
‘Head out of the village on Turnhill Road. It’s about five hundred yards on the left. A gravel drive. If you reach the sharp right hand bend, you’ve gone too far.’
‘And what did he say was wrong with him?’
Hesitation.
‘A headache.’
‘Thank you, Ms Stevens.’
‘I bet she rings him,’ said Jane, as they drove out of Glastonbury.
‘Of course she will. She’s got to tell him what’s wrong with him for a start. But if
he’s done a bunk before we get there, he’s got something to hide, hasn’t he?’
‘He has.’
‘C’mon, Jane, step on it. This isn’t an old milk float, you know.’
‘Might just as well be.’
It took no more than ten minutes to find Beck House. They turned into the drive and, for once, noise from outside the car drowned out the diesel engine. Dixon was surprised at how loud crunching gravel could be. It would certainly announce their arrival to anyone in the house.
Jane parked next to a red BMW estate. Dixon looked up at the large grey stone double fronted manor with a columned porch.
‘Plenty of money in accountancy, isn’t there?’
‘He may have inherited it,’ replied Jane.
The front door of the house opened and a man wearing a red silk dressing gown stepped out and waited under the porch. He was in his late fifties or early sixties with very short grey hair. A number two cut with clippers, thought Dixon.
‘Nice of him to get off his death bed just for us, isn’t it?’
‘Behave,’ said Jane.
Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover as he got out. Monty was fast asleep.
‘Mr Stockman?’
‘I’m sorry to have mucked you about. I’ve got one of my migraines.’
‘That’s alright, Sir, we won’t keep you long,’ replied Dixon, handing his warrant card to Philip Stockman. ‘May we come in?’
Stockman did not reply. He stood staring down at Dixon’s warrant card. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
‘I loved him, you know.’
‘Noel?’
‘Yes. He didn’t love me though. I was just a meal ticket.’
‘Shall we go inside, Mr Stockman?’
‘Yes, sorry. Come in.’
Dixon and Jane followed Stockman into the living room. There was a large sofa opposite an open fire, with an ornate marble mantelpiece. Above that was hanging a huge gilt framed mirror. At the front of the room was a large bay window with full height sash windows and velvet curtains.
‘This is a beautiful room,’ said Jane.
‘Thank you,’ replied Stockman.
Jane sat on the sofa next to Philip Stockman. Dixon stood looking out of the window before sitting on the window seat.
‘You were saying about Noel...’
‘There’s not a lot else to say, really. ‘
‘When did you meet him?’
‘Two years ago, give or take.’
‘Where?’
‘We met in the car park. That’s where I meet all my friends.’
‘Which car park?’
‘On the A39. Just by the bridge there over the King’s Sedgemoor Drain.’
‘Were you a customer of his?’
‘Only the first time.’
‘Then he moved in here?’
‘Not straightaway but eventually I persuaded him to.’
‘Where was he living at the time?’
‘I don’t know. He moved around.’
‘And when he came here, what happened?’
‘I gave him money. Trying to stop him...selling himself. I could cope with the infidelity. Just not the risk.’
‘And did he stop?’
‘For a while. Until one day he came home all battered and bruised and I knew he’d been doing it again.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you were giving him money...’
‘It was the danger, Inspector. He loved the danger of it.’
‘How did he come to get involved with horses?’
‘I used to go riding and he came with me a few times. He was a good rider. Confident in the saddle. So I introduced him to Georgina Harcourt. I thought it would give him a direction and it did. The first time he rode a horse on the gallops there he was hooked.’
‘The speed?’
‘Yes. He must have been an adrenaline junkie, or whatever they call it.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He got the job there and went to live in that stinking caravan. But he loved being near the horses.’
‘Did you keep in touch?’
‘Yes. We’d meet up occasionally. I saw him in the car park once so I knew he was up to his old tricks too. He didn’t see me, thankfully.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Two weeks before he died. He came here for the weekend.’
‘Did he ever mention anyone in particular? Someone who had been violent towards him, perhaps?’
‘No. We never spoke about his other encounters.’
‘What about money?’
‘He didn’t ask for any and I didn’t offer it. He was getting paid by Michael Hesp, don’t forget.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that he had an iPad, a PlayStation and six hundred quids worth of Canon digital camera?’
‘Yes, it would. Definitely,’ replied Stockman. ‘Where on earth did he get that lot from, I wonder?’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ replied Dixon. ‘And you know Georgina Harcourt?’
‘Yes, we’ve been friends for years.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr Stockman, but Mrs Harcourt is dead.’
‘What?’
‘She was found this morning, in her bed. I’m afraid that it looks like suicide.’
Jane looked at Dixon and raised her eyebrows. Philip Stockman began to sob.
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘What?’
‘That Mrs Harcourt committed suicide?’
‘It saddens me. No, it doesn’t surprise me. She’d been unhappy for some time, bless her.’
‘Did she tell you why?’
‘No. Which is odd because we used to talk about anything and everything, but I could never get her to open up about it.’
‘It?’
‘Whatever it was that was bothering her.’
‘Did she like whisky?’
‘What an odd question?’
‘Humour me.’
‘No. She hated it. Never touched the stuff.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stockman. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ll be wanting to get back to bed, I expect.’
Jane waited until the Land Rover was off the gravel drive.
‘What was all that about suicide?’
‘I never thought much about your murder theory, to be honest, Jane. It’s interesting that she hated whisky but it’s the only thing you’ve got on your side. You have to admit, it’s pretty thin, isn’t it?’
‘Git.’
‘Let’s get back to the station and see what Louise has been able to rustle up.’
Nine
‘There’s nothing on the camera or the iPad but we’ve got two numbers unaccounted for on Noel’s phone,’ said Louise.
‘Two?’
‘Yes, all the rest we can identify. His brother and sister, Kevin Tanner, Clapham, Hesp and Philip Stockman. There are a couple of landlines too. His doctor, father’s house and Stockman’s office.’
‘Father’s house?’ asked Jane.
‘Don’t forget Natalie lives there,’ said Dixon.
Jane nodded.
‘What about these other two then?’ continued Dixon.
‘One’s a Vodaphone number. I’ve been onto them and am just waiting for a call back. The other is an unregistered pay as you go number with Tesco Mobile.’
‘Buy it at the checkout. Stick some money on it and then away you go. Untraceable,’ said Dixon.
‘Here’s the list,’ said Louise, passing the printout to Dixon, ‘dates, times and call length.’
‘Get onto the phone networks. We need positioning records for both numbers when the calls were made and received. I want to know where Noel was when he rang that number and where that number was when it received his call. Ok?’
‘Can they do that?’
‘Yes. A mobile phone communicates with any base station within range. Th
e strongest signal will be with the nearest base station and then you triangulate from there. It’ll give us a rough idea where he was.’
‘But in the countryside the base stations are further apart…?’
‘They are, Jane. I did say a rough idea.’
‘DCI Lewis will need to authorise it, surely?’ asked Jane.
‘It’ll come from higher up the food chain, but he can sort it out,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the background checks on everyone else, Louise?’
‘Still working on it, Sir.’
Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly 4.30pm.
‘How far have you got?’
‘I’ve got a list of names and addresses, landlines where they’ve got them, and mobile phone numbers. I’ve also got their previous convictions where they’re known to us, and I’ve been digging around on the internet too. Employment, businesses, company directorships, that sort of thing.’
‘How many are there?’
‘Lots. Sixteen horses, eleven private owners and five syndicates. A total of forty two people.’
‘Shit,’ said Jane.
‘We’ve got our work cut out then haven’t we,’ said Dixon.
The phone rang on Janice Courtenay’s desk. Louise answered it.
‘Yes.’
She reached for a notepad and pen and began making notes.
‘Thank you, very much.’
She rang off.
‘Jason Freer. Vodaphone contract customer. Lives at 51, Berryvale Avenue, Bridgwater.’
‘Well done, Louise,’ said Dixon.
Dixon looked at Jane.
‘Don’t just sit there then, go and interview him,’ he said. ‘And take Louise with you.’
‘Me?’ asked Louise.
‘Yes, you. It’s about time you got out and about a bit.’
Jane looked at Louise and shrugged her shoulders. They got up and left.
Dixon made himself a coffee from the machine and then turned back to the list of mobile phone calls. It started with the most recent and worked backwards. He highlighted the calls Noel made to and received from the unidentified pay as you go number and wrote them out on a separate piece of paper. He reversed the order of the list so that they now appeared in chronological order, starting with the first. Dates, times and call length. Made or received.
He sat staring at it for several minutes.