by Damien Boyd
‘The fletchings, you mean?’
‘Flights, fletchings, it’s all the same.’ Docherty pointedly failed to hide his impatience. ‘I’ve seen it before, a few years ago; it was cats that time and your lot arrested some local yob for it. Got community service or something useless like that. I tell you I’d have wrung his bloody—’
‘When exactly was that?’ asked Dixon. ‘Can you remember?’
‘Five years ago, maybe. The cats came in to our small animal clinic in the town, but they were already dead. One had been left by the side of the road to make it look like it’d been hit by a car.’
‘And the injuries were the same?’
‘The lout had been using a pistol crossbow with six and a half inch plastic bolts. A bow and four bolts for under a tenner it was back then; no age checks, nothing. You can still get them on the internet for under twenty quid, would you believe it? I wrote to our MP about it, but a fat lot of good that did.’ Docherty took out his keys and unlocked his car. ‘The injuries on the first lot of sheep were four inches deep, so that’s about right, isn’t it, if the bolt went in up to the fletchings?’
‘I suppose it is,’ agreed Dixon.
‘There wasn’t a lot of power behind it either. There were wounds on the forehead where the bolts had failed to penetrate the skull. So, my best guess is he was using a pistol crossbow.’
‘But you can’t tell how far away he fired from, surely?’
‘The sheep were in a pen, so pretty much point blank range would have been easy. You could say he had a captive audience.’
‘And the second time?’
‘Something much more powerful. The bolts penetrated the skull easily and to quite a depth. They were longer too; a couple went clean through – those that didn’t hit bone. He’d fitted broadheads on some of them as well.’ Docherty opened the back door of his car and threw his bag on to the seat. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘I can imagine.’ Dixon blinked away the image of a body pinned to a tree.
‘No, you can’t. Take it from me; the damage they do internally.’ Docherty breathed in sharply through gritted teeth. ‘Vile bloody things. Hunting with a bow is illegal in this country so can you please tell me how on earth it’s legal to own them, let alone sell them? They’re not used for target shooting so what the hell are they used for?’
‘Were you able to tell what sort of broadheads he was using?’
‘Two and three blade; the ones that had gone clean through left the incisions from the blades. With the rest, the flesh was lacerated almost beyond recognition by the time he’d cut the bolts out, so I really couldn’t say what they were, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you recall seeing any curved incisions?’
‘No, sorry.’ Docherty shook his head. ‘What’s your interest in it?’ he asked. ‘A detective chief inspector, no less.’
‘These things have the potential to escalate.’
‘Ah, the old psychopath.’ Docherty dropped into the driver’s seat of his car. ‘He starts out pulling the wings off daddy long legs as a child and before you know it he’s a serial killer.’
‘Something like that, Sir. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
And it’s far more interesting than building better teams.
‘Gordon told me there’s been a third lot.’ Docherty slammed his car door and wound down the window. ‘I’m over there in the morning to have a look and do another report for his insurers.’
Dixon handed him his business card. ‘Will you let me know if you see any sign of a curve in the broadhead? Three curved blades, so the entry wound looks a bit like a clover leaf.’
Docherty looked at him quizzically as he started his engine. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Half an hour on the beach with Monty had been perfect, getting him back to Express Park while the webinar was still going on. In and out in two minutes flat, provided Jane was ready to go; an encounter with Charlesworth was to be avoided at all costs.
Dixon parked across the entrance, leaving the engine running, and sent her a text – outside take back stairs Nx – keeping a careful watch on the front doors as he did so. Charlesworth’s car was still in the visitors’ car park, but that was where it should be if he was in the training session. It made Dixon nervous all the same, his eyes darting from wing mirror to front doors to rear view mirror and back round again.
As it turned out, Jane was late and Charlesworth was early, the tap on the driver’s window catching him unawares as he watched her emerging from the side entrance in his rear view mirror. Still, there was an argument for getting it over with before Collyer could complain about his appearance at Harptree Combe.
He undid his seatbelt and opened the door.
‘I had a call from DCS Collyer this afternoon,’ said Charlesworth, before Dixon’s feet had touched the ground.
Oh, shit.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let me run through it for you one more time, Nick.’ Charlesworth put down his briefcase, took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘You’re the detective chief inspector in charge of the Bridgwater Criminal Investigation Department. That is a managerial role. There are four teams of eighteen detectives, which means you’re responsible for the wellbeing of seventy-two officers, and then there are the fifty-six civilian staff as well. It is an onerous task.’
Dixon was watching Jane sneaking across the car park, until she disappeared silently behind the Land Rover.
‘Is. That. Clear?’ continued Charlesworth. It didn’t help that he was standing on the bottom step, towering over Dixon.
‘What happened to the webinar?’ he asked.
‘There was only me in the end so we’ve put it back to Friday afternoon. I hardly need tell you I expect you to attend.’
‘No, Sir.’
Charlesworth took a deep breath. ‘Look, we know the gangs are using crossbows; they’re cheap as chips, readily available, easy to use and silent. We also know that kids sometimes play with them.’
‘Play?’ Dixon knew a conciliatory tone was called for, but try as he might . . . ‘Eighteen sheep isn’t playing.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Charlesworth, menacingly. ‘I’ve spoken to Chief Inspector Bateman and he’s going to make sure that the Rural Crimes team looks into it as a priority. You did well defusing that situation this afternoon; dead sheep on the front steps would have been a PR disaster, but it is not your job to go gallivanting off investigating the matter. If it warrants CID involvement – which it does not – you delegate it to one of your teams.’
‘There’s a clear escalation in the power of the crossbow and the destructiveness of the bolts. It’s always been leading up to something, Sir, and now we’ve got a dead accountant on our hands.’
‘Zephyr have got a dead accountant on their hands.’
‘And who’s to say this isn’t just the start?’
Charlesworth stepped down on to the pavement and made eye contact with Dixon. ‘I’m not an idiot, Nick. I’ve been a police officer for twenty-seven years and I know the way these things work; and yes, sometimes there is an escalation.’ He sighed. ‘There is a way out of this and you know very well what it is.’
‘Portishead.’
‘Peter Lewis’s death leaves a vacancy for a detective superintendent and you are the outstanding candidate for the job, head and shoulders above the rest, only you’re not a candidate for the job because you haven’t applied for it.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Apply for it and you’ll get it.’ Charlesworth picked up his briefcase in his free hand. ‘Then you’ll have all the resources of your own major investigation team behind you. Applications close on the twenty-seventh, so you’ve got two weeks. In the meantime, you’ve got some performance reviews to catch up on, haven’t you?’
Dixon grimaced.
‘You didn’t even tell your assistant where you’d gone today. He tried ringing you thr
ee times while I was there.’
‘It was one of the first things I learnt in the legal profession, Sir.’ Dixon tried a wry smile. ‘The fact that someone is ringing to speak to you doesn’t necessarily mean you want to speak to them.’
‘That explains why solicitors never return telephone calls.’ Charlesworth smiled back. ‘And don’t think I don’t know what happens now,’ he said, as he turned for his car.
‘What’s that, Sir?’
‘You look into it anyway and hope I don’t notice.’
Chapter Four
The final credits were rolling on A Matter of Life and Death when Dixon finally looked up from his phone.
Jane was lining up the gizmo on the arm of the sofa, nudging it until it was exactly parallel to the pattern on the fabric. ‘I had a visit from Charlesworth today. He wanted me to get you to apply for the superintendent’s position at Portishead.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That it was your decision.’
‘What did he offer you?’
‘A return to CID. Once you were out of the way, there’d be no conflict of interest, he said, and I could transfer.’
‘You don’t like safeguarding then?’
‘It’s hardly real police work, is it? Monitoring people. I’m just a filing clerk for reports that come in from Social Services. Would you like it?’
‘I’d rather shove wasps up my—’
‘It can be arranged.’ Jane smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s up to you. I told Charlesworth I wouldn’t try to persuade you one way or the other.’
Dixon pushed Monty off the sofa and stood up. ‘He doesn’t need you to and I shouldn’t think for a minute he expected you to, either.’
‘What was it all about then?’
‘He wanted to let me know it was your route out of safeguarding; the crafty sod knew you’d tell me.’
‘Oh.’
‘Fancy a turn round the field at the back?’ Dixon picked up Monty’s lead.
The dog was easy to follow even before their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, his white coat reflecting the moonlight and almost glowing. Dixon lifted him over the fence behind the shed in the corner of the yard behind his cottage and then climbed over, turning to hold the single strand of barbed wire clear of Jane’s trousers as she followed.
The strand of barbed wire on the top of the fence had appeared at some point over the summer, so maybe the farmer had been trying to tell him something, particularly given that the field had never had livestock in it.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s so fascinating on your phone?’ said Jane, weaving between the thistles along the edge of the field. ‘You’ve hardly said a word all evening.’
‘I was researching that accountant. He’s found pinned to a tree with a crossbow bolt through his skull, three more buried in his chest, and before I get a look in, Zephyr steam in and take over the investigation.’
‘Collyer?’
‘I shall have to get myself a pair of red braces if I go to Portishead.’
‘Your birthday’s coming up.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Dixon gave Monty a shove with his foot when the dog stopped in the middle of the path, sniffing something in the undergrowth at the base of the hedge. ‘The victim’s yacht sank mid-Atlantic. There’s lots of stuff about it online, but no mention of the twenty million quid’s worth of cocaine that went to the bottom, according to Collyer. He seems to think it’s got something to do with that.’
‘A reasonable enough assumption, I’d have thought.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Maybe he knows something you don’t?’
‘There’s somebody on our patch killing sheep with a crossbow and I don’t believe in coincidence.’ He flicked on the light on his phone and leaned over to see what was distracting Monty. ‘Leave that,’ he snapped. Then he turned, shining the torch in Jane’s face. ‘There’s a dead rat there.’
‘It could be the Albanians are back,’ said Jane, blinking furiously.
‘Collyer wouldn’t say. And I can’t look at the file or he’ll see I’ve logged in to the system and grass me up to Charlesworth again.’
‘Collyer was behind that?’
‘Yeah, ’fraid so. Charlesworth told me to keep my nose out of it and gave me a lecture about the importance of management; how many people I’m responsible for, etcetera, etcetera. Then he reminded me applications for the super’s job close in two weeks.’ Dixon turned, careful not to shine the light in Jane’s eyes again. ‘Told me he’d be watching me, he did.’
‘So what’re you going to do?’
‘Be careful. I’ll need to monitor the sheep thing to see whether it warrants CID involvement and the rest I’ll have to do on Google. Which reminds me, you went to Weston College, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘We’re going to a memorial service tomorrow afternoon.’
There weren’t many places in the area that Dixon hadn’t visited at some point, but West Stoughton was one of them. A tiny village tucked away off the beaten track, it would be about a forty minute commute to Weston-super-Mare. An early bird who liked to avoid the morning rush hour and arrive in the office bright and early, coffee in hand, might leave home at seven-thirty. It had made for an early start, Dixon parking across the drive just before twenty past seven.
Myrtle House was on the edge of the village, standing in its own grounds, a thin barbed wire fence separating it from the fields behind. Dixon couldn’t tell if it was old or a new build made to look old, not that it mattered. The owner had certainly made an effort with old stone toadstools in the garden and a wisteria just getting going up the front porch. Worth a bob or too as well.
The electric gates started to open just after 7.30 a.m. – inwards, mercifully, otherwise they’d have clattered into the side of Dixon’s Land Rover – revealing a car on the gravel drive, engine running. Dixon ignored the blast of the horn, instead waiting for the driver to approach and tap on his passenger window.
‘Would you mind moving? You’re blocking my drive and I’ve got to get to work.’
A light blue shirt, open at the neck; fifty or so, balding with wire-rimmed glasses. Polite too.
The electric windows on his new Land Rover were a bonus, thought Dixon, holding his warrant card out in his left hand as he opened the passenger window with his right. ‘Mr Staveley?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder whether I might have a word with you about your business partner, Godfrey Collins.’
Staveley sniffed. ‘I’ve got some of your lot coming to see me at ten.’
‘Different lot, I’m afraid, Sir. It won’t take long.’
Dixon’s disarming smile seemed to work. Staveley looked at his watch, then sighed. ‘D’you want to come in?’
‘No, that’s fine, Sir, thank you. It won’t take long, if you’d like to hop in.’
‘Let me just switch mine off.’ Staveley walked back to his new Audi estate. Gunmetal grey with alloy wheels and low profile tyres – lot of money in accountancy, even in a small firm above a charity shop in the arse end of Weston; Dixon had checked Google Street View.
‘If you’ve got someone coming to see you at ten, I’m guessing you know what’s happened to Mr Collins?’ he said, watching Staveley slide into the passenger seat of his Land Rover.
‘Yes, and I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Dixon opened his mouth to speak but Staveley beat him to it. ‘This is where you ask me who might have wanted to kill him and it’d probably be easier if I told you who didn’t.’
‘Like that, is it, Sir?’
‘Yes, it bloody well is. He’s lucky I didn’t do it.’ Staveley frowned at Dixon. ‘And I didn’t, before you start.’
Dixon turned in his seat to face Staveley. ‘How did you come to be in partnership with him?’
‘We were both sole practitioners and we met at Wedmore Golf Club. That was about fifteen years ago. We were originally just sharing office space, pooling resources, but th
en we went into partnership proper in 2010. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We kept our practices separate, so I never really knew what he was up to.’
‘And what was he up to?’
Staveley puffed out his cheeks. ‘He was running tax avoidance schemes, or perhaps I should say he was running schemes that were borderline at the time but have since been clamped down on by HM Revenue and Customs. The end result is I’ve had the Investigations Unit crawling in and out of every orifice pretty much ever since.’
‘What did these tax avoidance schemes involve? Keeping it simple for a humble police officer.’
‘It’s what they call the “loan scheme”. It’s fairly simple, really. Basically, the employer doesn’t pay their staff, they give them loans instead. Loans aren’t subject to income tax and national insurance so there’s nothing for either the employer or the employee to pay to HMRC.’
‘But surely they have to pay the loans back?’
‘No, they don’t, that’s the whole point. Everybody’s happy, except the taxman.’ Staveley was watching a neighbour turning out of a driveway further along the lane. ‘It’s a little bit more complicated than that in the precise mechanism, but that’s the gist of it. Anyway, as you can imagine, the taxman wasn’t having any of it and has since gone after everyone paid under these schemes for the back tax. All outstanding loans are now treated as income and taxed accordingly – they call that the “loan charge”. They went after the advisers too. An adviser is liable if he is the “enabler” of tax avoidance, and the fine is up to one hundred per cent of the tax avoided.’
‘How much was Mr Collins fined?’ asked Dixon.
‘One point four million.’
‘A lot of money. Did he have it?’
‘No, but he managed to pay just enough of it to keep himself out of prison.’
‘How many employees were there?’
‘They’re the ones I feel sorry for. It’s not just footballers and celebrities using these schemes to duck millions, y’know. There was even a care agency, ordinary people earning ten pounds an hour doing agency work suddenly finding themselves with a four or five grand bill for back tax. And it’s not as if they were given any choice. “That’s the way the agency pays its staff and if you don’t like it you can go elsewhere.” What were they supposed to do?’