Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ALSO BY DAMIEN BOYD

  As the Crow Flies

  Head in the Sand

  Kickback

  Swansong

  Dead Level

  Death Sentence

  Heads or Tails

  Dead Lock

  Beyond the Point

  Down Among the Dead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Damien Boyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542023597

  ISBN-10: 1542023599

  Cover design by Ghost Design

  For Jeanie

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Did you enjoy . . .

  Prologue

  It was a simple enough question, surely?

  Can you kill someone with an eighty-pound draw weight pistol crossbow?

  Hours he’d spent, trawling the internet looking for the answer. In the end, he had posted on an American preppers forum and waited, refreshing the page every couple of minutes, even though they’d still be asleep over there. Crossbows seemed to be the weapon of choice for those prepping for the end of the world.

  The first response came from a sarcastic git hiding behind the username WildBill: ‘You could always beat him to death with it!’ followed by a smiley face.

  You should’ve stayed in bed, mate.

  Next came Trashcan, who had clearly been watching too much of The Walking Dead: ‘If it’s a zombie that’s been dead for a while the skull will have gone soft so you should be alright.’

  Some people . . .

  Another tried a more scientific approach. ‘Force equals mass times acceleration,’ whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Maybe he should have paid more attention in physics class; although going to school in the first place might have been a good start. ‘It’s all about the weight of the bolt and the speed it’s traveling. Don’t be confused by the draw weight, that’s just the effort needed to cock it. What’s the fps?’

  Fps turned out to be feet per second – the speed the bolt leaves the bow – so it was back to the specification on the online archery shop listing: Scorpion 80lb draw weight pistol crossbow – he scrolled down – 145 fps.

  ‘That won’t be enough,’ came the reply. ‘A 6.5 inch bolt is light as a feather and traveling at that speed it certainly won’t penetrate bone. A Coke can maybe, but not a skull. You might get lucky and hit soft tissue, so the eye socket is your best bet. If you aim for the heart and hit a rib, you’re in deep trouble. What’s the range? It’d need to be pretty much point blank, in which case you might just as well stab him and be done with it.’

  It was a pleasant surprise how helpful some people could be – sort of restored his faith in human nature – but stabbing was out of the question; far too up close and personal.

  ‘At the very least make sure you get the aluminum bolts with the steel tips. The plastic ones they come with are useless. And don’t forget to sharpen them,’ offered another user calling himself Urthe14me. ‘Really it’d be best to get a more powerful bow to be on the safe side. What’s your budget?’

  That was a good question. What was his budget?

  A Scorpion pistol crossbow was only £15.99, but what good was that if it didn’t do the job?

  ‘You can get an Anglo Arms Jaguar for 154 bucks. That should be enough. It comes with a red dot sight that’s not too bad – good battery life and the red dot is easy to acquire. Go for a carbon fiber bolt (less wobble in the flight); minimum 20 inches with a broadhead on it, nice and sharp. That’ll leave a decent drip trail to follow if your quarry gets away. And remember a heavier bolt will hit harder even if it’s traveling at a slightly slower speed. That’s what you’re looking for in a kill shot. A Desert Hawk is a bit more expensive but will do the job at 30 yards.’

  Thirty yards? He’d won his wife a small teddy bear at the fairground once, but that had only been about five yards and she’d had to snatch the gun, hitting most of the ducks herself.

  Unclesam76 had been very helpful all the same, although he clearly hadn’t read the original post properly.

  ‘What are you hunting by the way, bud? Deer?’

  Chapter One

  ‘Highbridge Neighbourhood Watch Liaison Committee.’ Detective Chief Inspector Nick Dixon slammed his papers down on a vacant desk in the Safeguarding Unit, on the second floor of the police centre at Express Park, Bridgwater. ‘Two bloody hours,’ he said, slumping down on to the chair opposite Detective Sergeant Jane Winter.

  ‘How was the meeting with Building Maintenance?’ she asked, without looking away from her computer.

  ‘Forty minutes on the state of the changing rooms. As if I give a flying—’

  ‘Charlesworth’s got you by the short and curlies now your promotion’s been confirmed.’ Jane almost stifled her chuckle.

  ‘The crafty sod.’

  ‘How d’you think he got to assistant chief constable?’

  Dixon began tearing a piece of paper into strips, folding each strip neatly before dropping it in the bin with a flourish. He was watching Jane out of the corner of his eye, her frown growing ever deeper.

  Curiosity finally got the better of her. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The meeting agenda. Antisocial behaviour at Highbridge Railway Station; boy racers in the car park; graffiti; any other business; date of next meeting. Two bloody hours.’

  ‘You know what you’ve got to do.’

  ‘I am not going to work at Portishead.’

  ‘What’s so wrong with HQ? And I rather like the idea of being engaged to a detective superintendent. Think of the salary. It’s either that or you’re stuck here as the office manager.’ She shrugged, trying to soften the blow. Or rub it in, perhaps. Dixon couldn
’t tell.

  ‘I’d rather go back to being a DI.’

  ‘What’ve you got on this afternoon?’

  ‘Performance reviews, then a webinar on building better teams.’

  The Safeguarding Unit may have been soundproofed, but the walls were glass and the sight of Police Constable Nigel Cole shifting from one foot to the other on the landing outside did little to improve Dixon’s mood.

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’ Cole had finally summoned up the courage and was pushing open the door inch by inch.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dead sheep.’

  Dixon ignored Jane’s laughter, instead preferring to enjoy the choking on her coffee that followed.

  ‘Is she all right?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Pat her on the back.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ spluttered Jane, wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

  Dixon turned back to Cole, determined to take him seriously, and not just because it was only nine months or so ago that Cole had saved his life, jumping into an icy drain out on the Somerset Levels and pulling him to safety. The truth was that dead mutton was far more interesting than building better teams. ‘What’s with the sheep then?’

  ‘There’s a farmer outside with six of them on the back of his tractor. He says he either gets to see someone senior or he’s going to dump them on the steps. They don’t half stink, and you’re the most senior officer in the building. I thought about nicking him but then we’ve still got the problem of the sheep.’

  They left Jane dabbing the coffee off her keyboard with a tissue and walked along the landing, Dixon stopping in the floor to ceiling windows at the front of the building while Cole summoned the lift. He looked down at six rotting sheep carcasses stretched out on a flatbed trailer hitched to a huge green tractor parked across the entrance. A small crowd had gathered on the far side of the visitors’ car park to enjoy the spectacle, some holding iPhones aloft.

  ‘His name’s Gordon Bragg, Sir,’ said Cole when they stepped out of the lift on the ground floor. ‘He’s locked himself in his cab.’

  The receptionist was unlocking the front doors to let them out. ‘He’s not bringing those bloody sheep in here.’

  ‘Quite,’ replied Dixon.

  An elderly lady waiting upwind of the trailer rushed forward, hoping to get in. ‘I’ve got to report a missing dog,’ she said.

  Dixon stepped back to let her in, then followed Cole down the steps, listening to the jangle of keys in the lock behind him. He headed for the trailer while Cole banged on the door of the tractor.

  Not that he needed to; the old farmer had been watching their every move. ‘I seen you on the telly.’ He was climbing out of the cab on the opposite side to Cole. ‘What rank are you?’

  ‘Detective chief inspector,’ replied Dixon, staring at a neat hole in the forehead of the sheep at the back of the trailer. ‘Nick Dixon.’

  ‘You’ll do.’ The old farmer had come dressed for battle: clean shirt, tweed jacket and tie, grubby corduroys, baler twine belt and wellington boots. ‘Now, what the bloody hell’s going on with my sheep? This is the third lot.’

  ‘Gordon Bragg, isn’t it, Sir?’ interrupted Dixon, taking the opportunity to put his opponent on the back foot.

  ‘Er, yes, sorry.’ The weather-beaten face made it impossible to tell if the old man was blushing.

  ‘What breed are they?’ Not that Dixon knew many, apart from the Herdwick, perhaps, a familiar sight on the fells of the Lake District.

  ‘Dorset Downs.’ Bragg was following Dixon around the back of the trailer. ‘The rams are worth five hundred quid each and I’ve lost four. The ewes two-fifty.’ He pulled a torn envelope from his jacket pocket and looked at the back. ‘So, that’s five thousand five hundred pound I’ve lost all told.’

  The fleeces were matted with blood, maggots visible in gaping wounds on their flanks.

  ‘Are you insured, Sir?’ Cole was standing on the bottom step, upwind and keeping a safe distance.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the point, is it. Dorset Downs are a rare breed.’

  ‘Where d’you keep them?’ asked Dixon, changing the subject with a sideways glance at Cole.

  ‘I lives over at Mark, but I’ve got ten acres just east of Blackford and the flock’s over there. I does a bit of contracting too.’

  ‘And it’s happened three times?’

  ‘It’s all on your records. I reported it each time and was told it’d be referred to the Rural Crimes Unit.’

  ‘He’s retired, Sir,’ mumbled Cole. ‘And Mr Bateman hasn’t replaced him yet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s bloody marvellous.’ Bragg folded his arms and leaned back against his trailer, apparently oblivious to the smell of rotting sheep. ‘Well, I said it before and I’ll say it again, I ain’t shifting this lot ’til something’s done.’

  ‘Has a vet looked at them?’

  ‘I had to have a post mortem done for the insurance. You’ve had the reports from the first two.’

  ‘Not this time?’ asked Cole.

  Dixon winced. He knew the answer to that question before Cole asked it and braced himself for the sarcastic jibe.

  ‘I was waiting for you useless buggers to come and ’ave a look before I got the vet out.’

  ‘And who is your vet?’ Dixon asked, changing the subject again.

  ‘Clive Docherty over at Beaumont Agricultural. They’re on the industrial estate at Cheddar. He said they were killed with a crossbow, before you ask.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say it was a dog attack,’ said Cole. ‘The injuries . . .’

  ‘He’s using bolts with broadheads on ’em and cuts ’em out when he’s finished.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The first lot was a couple of months ago, then maybe a month or so ago – you’ve got the dates – and this lot was last Thursday.’

  ‘Six days ago,’ said Cole.

  ‘I’m staying over there in my caravan now, to keep an eye on ’em.’

  Dixon spun round at the sound of tapping on the window behind him to find Jane pointing towards the visitors’ car park, where Charlesworth was parking his car. ‘All right, I’ve heard enough. The assistant chief constable’s here. Get this lot shifted and I’ll look into it. You have my word.’

  Bragg hesitated.

  ‘The new Rural Crimes Unit here will help me,’ continued Dixon, pointing to Cole.

  ‘I have your word on it?’

  ‘You do.’ Dixon slid his phone out of his pocket and walked along the trailer taking several photographs of the sheep carcasses.

  It was enough for Bragg, who climbed into the cab of his tractor.

  ‘I’ll need to speak to your vet, if you could let him know,’ said Dixon, reaching up and holding the door open when the old man tried to close it.

  ‘I will, thank you.’ Bragg tore the used envelope in half and passed one piece down to him. ‘These are the crime numbers they gave me.’

  Dixon slammed the door just as Charlesworth appeared at his elbow, the sight of the assistant chief constable in uniform striding towards him prompting Bragg to start his engine and accelerate away, the trailer bouncing over the pavement as he turned for the exit.

  ‘Everything under control, Nick?’ Charlesworth suddenly noticed the receptionist unlocking the doors of the police centre and the smell lingering in the air. Not even the diesel fumes had been enough to mask it.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Jolly good. I gather you’re joining us for the webinar later?’

  ‘I am, Sir.’

  ‘Building better teams; it should be very exciting.’

  Stinging nettles up to his armpits and a short-sleeved shirt.

  Sod it.

  He should have known better and would have to come back later with the strimmer.

  Shafts of light flooded through the lush green canopy, the familiar screech of a buzzard wheeling overhead cutting through the chatter of blac
kbirds as he weaved his way along the path, the chainsaw held above his head to keep his arms clear of the nettles.

  The path took him further into the wood, not a breath of wind to rustle the trees; the air colder, the birdsong louder, the puddles deeper, brambles to contend with now too. He stopped to take off his sunglasses, hooking them over the collar of his shirt.

  A short detour along a deer run below the path to check on the badger sett; several large tunnels dug deep into the hillside beneath the stumps of trees long since cut down. Something had been digging at the top entrance, scattering the carpet of ivy, leaves and twigs.

  Bloody dogs.

  Branches above his head sprang back under the weight of squirrels leaping to safety when he jerked back the cord and the chainsaw spluttered into life. He cut through the trunks of a large ivy strangling a big oak, careful not to damage the bark of the old tree, and switched off the motor just in time to hear something crashing through the undergrowth below him. He peered through the trees, catching sight of a small herd of deer bounding off across the field at the bottom of the wood.

  Eight; one more than the last time he’d seen them, in the spring.

  He was back on the path when his phone rang in the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ barked Mike, before he’d even put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Harptree Combe,’ he replied, flicking a dog turd into the bushes with the toe of his boot. ‘We had that call about a tree down across the bottom path.’

  ‘Have you finished clearing up at Priddy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re supposed to be helping me over at Cheddar. We don’t get effing well paid to ponce about in that wood.’

  ‘You said we get five hundred quid a year to keep the paths clear. A container, or something.’

  ‘Retainer, and we get that anyway, that’s the whole point. Now get over to Cheddar. You’ll have to meet me there; I’ll text you the address.’

  Mike rang off, leaving him searching for the woodpecker somewhere above him, the telltale knocking echoing in the trees. He spun around, his phone still clamped to his ear in his right hand, the chainsaw in his left.

  ‘The traffic was shite.’ He looked at his watch as he continued along the path, the bottom track now visible as the vegetation thinned out. ‘Roadworks.’ Rehearsing his excuses.