Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Just pull the door to on your way out.’

  ‘These are all his belongings?’

  ‘The council came for the mattress, but I haven’t got round to clearing the rest yet. There’s someone coming on Monday. The pictures on the walls are mine.’

  Dixon waited for the door to close and then looked around the room. A dark oak double bed frame, the mattress gone, revealing springs underneath; an antique, almost. A few clothes were hanging in the wardrobe, the pockets all turned inside out, either by Zephyr or the landlord perhaps. Fingerprints on the white painted mantelpiece over the electric fire stood out in the grey powder left by Scientific Services. The sink in the corner doubled as a urinal, judging by the yellow stains on the porcelain. And the smell.

  A few letters and other post lay on a table in the bay window, all of it rifled through and none of it remotely interesting. Two empty window envelopes of the type that usually contain bank or credit card statements reminded Dixon to get Collins’s bank records, unless Zephyr already had, not that they would be terribly enlightening.

  The drawers of the bedside cabinets were open, revealing nothing inside except a box of paracetamol one side and an empty glasses case the other.

  Dixon stood in the bay window, watching the world go by. It was easy to see why Zephyr hadn’t got very far with Collins’s movements the night he died. It was the sort of place where the neighbours heard nothing and saw nothing, even before they’d been asked the question. And the nearest CCTV cameras were out on Lower Ashley Road.

  He glanced around the walls: a tarnished mirror in a chipped frame above the mantelpiece, a faded watercolour either side; above the bed was a pair of etchings of Bristol scenes covered in damp spots. He recognised the suspension bridge and Bristol Cathedral.

  A postcard had been stuck to the window frame with a blob of Blu Tack; a beach scene somewhere, Scotland perhaps. Many weeks in the sunlight had warped the card, curling it over so Dixon could see it was blank; no stamp in the top corner or any writing. He pulled it off the frame and turned it over.

  Maybe his visit hadn’t been a complete waste of time after all, he thought, smiling at the sight of the Blu Tack flattened against the back of the card, a micro SIM card embedded in it.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Where are you?’ Dixon was sitting in his Land Rover on a garage forecourt on the A369; mercifully he’d had a pound coin for the toll on the Clifton Suspension Bridge, although the crossing had brought back memories he’d rather have left forgotten – of standing on the rail looking down over the suicide fence at two coastguard officers recovering a body from the mud below.

  ‘Portishead,’ replied Louise. ‘The tax office will let us have the list by the end of tomorrow, they said. Collins’s computers are in store and we can’t get our hands on those until Monday.’

  ‘What about the Marine Accident Investigation Branch?’

  ‘I got them on the emergency contact number. They’re sending over his laptop by courier first thing on Monday. How did you get on?’

  ‘Good.’ The micro SIM card was burning a hole in Dixon’s jacket pocket.

  ‘Nige says there’s an archery shop at Puxton, in an old barn. It’s got a range behind it and there’s a club that meets there on a Sunday; opens at ten.’

  ‘Tell him to meet me there in the morning.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Is your computer on?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘About five years ago there was a young twerp shooting cats with a pistol crossbow in Cheddar. I’d like to pay him a visit.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  Forty minutes later Dixon parked on the pavement outside a small terraced cottage in the middle of Cheddar, oddly enough opposite the vet’s surgery.

  ‘Who is it?’ came the shout when Dixon banged on the door.

  ‘Police. I need to speak to Luke.’

  ‘Can’t you bloody people leave him alone?’ The door was snatched open from the inside, the woman’s anger soon dissipating when she saw the smile on Dixon’s face. ‘What is it?’ She was peering at his warrant card.

  ‘I’m just here to rule him out of some sheep killings, Mrs Bales.’

  ‘Sheep?’

  ‘And two people.’ Cool and calm.

  ‘A crossbow, I suppose?’ She stepped back into the hall, opening the door wider. ‘He’s in the back. There’s a copper here to see you, Luke.’ Shouted over her shoulder.

  Smart trousers, snappy shirt open at the neck; Saturday night uniform. ‘I was just going out.’ Luke was brushing his short dark hair in the mirror over the fireplace.

  ‘Where were you on the night of seventeenth July?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘What day of the week was it?’

  ‘Monday, between say ten on the Monday through to six the following morning, Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s easy, I was at work. I do nights at Morrisons – eight till six. It’s on the Express Park industrial estate, not far from the pig farm.’ Luke was watching Dixon in the mirror.

  ‘Do you still own a crossbow?’

  ‘No. Look, when are you people going to let me forget that? I was fifteen, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘These cats are his.’ Mrs Bales gestured to a tortoiseshell and a tabby, their faces buried in a feeding bowl, their tails gently swishing in the air.

  ‘I rescued them as kittens. To make up for . . .’ Luke’s voice tailed off.

  ‘What about last Thursday night?’

  ‘If it’s a weekday night I’ll be at work; check with Morrisons if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I believe you, Luke, but I’ll have to check anyway.’

  ‘Fine, now can I go? I’ll miss the bus into Weston.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  Louise had entered the micro SIM, the Blu Tack and the postcard into the evidence log and then headed for the accommodation block for a FaceTime session with Katie, late for the child’s bedtime, leaving Dixon sifting through the box of papers that had come over from Zephyr. Dave and Kevin were still watching the CCTV and Mark was on his way back from Bradley Stoke, bringing pizza.

  Dixon dropped a file back into the box. ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘We’re sitting in the Zalshah,’ Jane huffed down the phone. ‘Your best man’s birthday. Where are you?’

  ‘Portishead.’

  ‘Give me the phone.’ Roger Poland’s voice in the background. ‘I quite understand, Nick. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Roger,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m on my way.’

  I need a word with you anyway.

  He parked on the forecourt of the bookmaker’s opposite the restaurant forty minutes later and ran across the road.

  ‘Kingfisher?’ asked Ravi, when he burst in.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘They’re in the far corner.’

  ‘We’ve eaten, but I’ve ordered for you.’ Jane scowled at Dixon as he sat down next to Poland.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You two’ll be going on Mr and Mrs before you know it.’ Poland was holding aloft the dregs of a pint of lager. ‘I had David Charlesworth on the phone earlier; wanted to know what I thought about the crossbow business.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Same as I told you.’ Poland drained his glass. ‘The same pattern of broadhead was used on the sheep and on Godfrey Collins.’

  ‘And on a taxman from Bradley Stoke,’ said Dixon, looking in the direction of the bar. ‘I still can’t get my head around the fact you can buy the bloody things at all.’

  ‘I had a look online,’ said Jane. ‘It seems most of them are coming into the UK direct from sellers in China. I only found one archery shop selling them. Leicester somewhere.’

  ‘Well, they’ll be getting a visit.’ Dixon smiled at the waiter placing a pint of lager in front of him. ‘Cole’s putting together a list.’

  ‘Cole?’ Jane frowned. ‘
He’s on your major investigation team?’

  ‘Bridgwater’s new Rural Crimes team. He’s been working on the sheep killings.’

  ‘He’ll be insufferable.’

  ‘Jane said you were talking about setting a date.’

  ‘We are,’ said Dixon, allowing Poland to change the subject, for the time being at least. ‘It’ll be next year now, I expect.’

  ‘What about Christmas Eve, or Valentine’s Day?’ Poland flashed a mischievous grin at Jane, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘And the honeymoon somewhere exotic, I think.’

  ‘The Lakes, or Scotland possibly.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘He won’t leave Monty,’ mumbled Jane. ‘And neither will I, for that matter.’

  ‘Quite right too.’ Poland raised his empty glass. ‘Here’s to Monty.’

  Dixon’s food had come and gone before he brought the conversation around to where he wanted it. ‘Did you get a chance to have a look at my email?’

  ‘The vet had been very thorough,’ replied Poland. ‘And the broadheads are clearly visible in the photographs, where he’d cut away the fleece. It’s interesting that they don’t penetrate the bone at the front of the skull.’ He was pointing at the middle of his forehead with his index finger. ‘An ordinary bolt clearly does, but not the curved broadhead, which may explain why your killer is hitting his victims in the eye.’

  ‘But, why use them at all?’ asked Jane. ‘And why when the victim is already dead?’

  ‘Collins certainly was,’ said Dixon. ‘And the taxman, Finch, possibly, according to Petersen; let’s hope so anyway.’

  ‘Then your killer is sending a message, isn’t he?’ Poland was staring at the dessert menu.

  ‘Who’s he sending this message to?’ Jane took the menu from Poland before he could pass it to Dixon.

  ‘I gave myself a couple of extra units,’ Dixon grumbled, snatching it from Jane’s hand.

  ‘To you lot, I suppose,’ said Poland.

  ‘Or his next victims.’

  ‘Last one for a while, old son,’ Dixon said when he dropped Monty at home after an early Sunday morning walk along the beach to Brean Down. It was never time wasted – he did all his best thinking when following his dog along the beach; not that there had been that much to think about this morning. It all seemed straightforward – too straightforward, almost: two murders, the motive obvious and the killer almost certainly coming from a pool of two hundred or so taxpayers who had been landed with hefty bills. It still left an uneasy feeling in his gut, but he couldn’t work out whether that was down to him missing something or because he knew there were surely more killings to come; and two hours on the beach hadn’t been able to answer that question.

  He turned into the large gravel car park of Bowman Archery at Puxton to find Cole waiting for him, leaning against a patrol car and watching a small group putting up archery targets on trestles on the far side of the field adjacent to the converted barn. Beyond the targets a long low haystack waited for those who missed.

  Cole clearly hadn’t been able to resist the burger van.

  ‘Bacon butty, Sir?’ He was holding up a half-eaten roll in a paper serviette. ‘Damned good. He comes on a Sunday morning for the club meets.’

  The blob of ketchup running down Cole’s chin turned Dixon’s stomach. ‘No, thanks.’ He blinked away the vision of Finch and the blood congealed on his chin.

  The front doors of the barn were standing open, a few people milling about inside.

  ‘Did you tell him we were coming?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ replied Cole, spraying crumbs over the bonnet of the patrol car. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he’s used to seeing a marked car on a Sunday morning. This place was on my patch when I was over at Cheddar and I’d always stop for a bacon roll if I had the chance.’

  ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Aaron Bowman.’

  ‘Bowman?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I asked him once and he said he’d changed it by deed poll. You can’t miss him, he’s the one with the tattoos.’

  ‘I’m going in to have a wander round. You’d better wait out here.’

  Dixon made a beeline for the crossbows, the irony of arrows on the floor directing him up a flight of steel steps to a mezzanine floor not lost on him. A bewildering array of bows of all shapes and sizes were locked in glass cabinets on the far side, some with telescopic sights, some with red dot sights. He decided that price must be a good measure of the power of the bow, quickly navigating along the display to the compound bows at the far end; a complex system of pulleys offering the archer even more power, at a price.

  The bolts were arranged in wooden trays under the counter; aluminium, carbon fibre and wood of varying lengths, some smaller ones – the pistol crossbow bolts – hanging in packets on hooks mounted on the back wall. Packets of broadheads too; two and three-bladed, some with prongs, but none curved.

  ‘Would you like to try one?’

  Dixon spun round, his eyes immediately drawn to the tattoos: Bard the Bowman slaying Smaug the Dragon on the right arm; Cupid on the left, with a woman’s name that looked like it had been changed more than once. The Bowman Archery T-shirt confirmed it.

  ‘Mr Bowman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Time for the warrant card.

  ‘The offer still stands.’ Bowman looked unimpressed. ‘I’ve got a range out the back.’

  ‘Maybe later, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘D’you have a minute?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Bowman nodded, obligingly. ‘The archery club lot are all recurve bow people anyway and Ryan’s downstairs.’

  ‘Recurve?’

  ‘The tips of the bow curve away from the archer, for more power. Some of the crossbows have got it too.’

  ‘Do you sell many of these?’ Dixon gestured to the compound crossbows.

  ‘We sell a few online; rarely in store, to be honest. Actually, most of our sales are on the internet. And I always get ID to prove they’re over eighteen. We’re a reputable business.’

  ‘Of course you are, Sir. And which of these bows would be powerful enough to kill?’

  ‘I assume you’re talking about deer,’ replied Bowman, frowning, ‘which is illegal in this country anyway.’

  Dixon stared at him, letting the question hang.

  ‘Oh, shit . . .’ Bowman took a deep breath. ‘Well, pretty much any of them to be honest. Even the pistol crossbows at close range would do it.’

  ‘Am I right in assuming the more expensive bows are the more powerful?’

  ‘Basically, although there are several ways of measuring the power of a crossbow.’ Bowman unlocked a cabinet and took out a bow. ‘Put your toe in that stirrup and try to cock it.’

  Dixon put his left foot in the stirrup and pulled on the string with both hands, managing to get it halfway up at most.

  ‘Sorry, I should have said.’ Bowman leaned over and took the bow from an out of breath Dixon. ‘This is the Excalibur Micro Axe. It’s got a draw weight of two hundred and seventy pounds; you’ll never cock it without a rope. Some of the medieval ones used to have a pulley system called a windlass to cock ’em, they were that powerful, but then they were trying to kill through a suit of armour.’

  ‘So, it’s about the draw weight?’

  ‘It’s about the kinetic energy, really. Force equals mass times acceleration and all that. People look at the draw weight and the FPS, but they’re misleading.’

  ‘FPS?’

  ‘Feet per second, the speed of the bolt when it leaves the bow. People think the faster the better, but that’s not necessarily true. A heavier bolt will fly slower but hits harder; more force behind it.’ Bowman slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘That’s much better for hunting. It’s about finding the right balance for your quarry, whether it’s a deer or a rabbit.’

  ‘Or a human being.’

  ‘Please tell me someone’s not been using one of my bows to kill—’

&nbs
p; ‘We don’t know whose bow it is, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘Yet. That’s why I’m here.’

  Bowman replaced the crossbow in the cabinet and locked it with the key dangling from his belt. ‘You’re going to want a list of everyone I’ve sold a crossbow to, aren’t you?’

  ‘Three months, please.’ Dixon opted for the friendly smile.

  ‘And it’s a murder investigation?’

  ‘Double murder investigation.’ Dixon walked behind the counter and took a packet of broadheads off the rack. ‘What d’you sell these for?’

  ‘The price?’

  ‘Use.’

  ‘Field archery. There’s a place on the other side of the Mendips; you’re shooting at targets in the trees, varying distances, on the move, that sort of thing. This lot outside know the target’s exactly fifty yards away, but in field archery you’re constantly moving.’

  ‘Why the broadheads though?’

  ‘It’s simulated hunting, really, and that’s what you’d use if you were out for real.’

  Dixon slid a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, laying it flat on the countertop. ‘Have you ever sold any of these?’

  ‘Shit, is that what the killer’s using?’ Bowman bared his teeth at the photograph of a red painted broadhead with three curved blades. ‘No, I wouldn’t give them house room. I’ve seen them before; bought some online once to see what they were like, y’know, but I’d never stock them myself. Never have, never will. You don’t need those things for field archery.’

  ‘Have you still got them?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Bowman opened a cabinet behind the counter and started rummaging about inside. ‘They’re in here somewhere, I’m sure they are. I got ’em on an auction site, the seller in China. How we’re supposed to compete with that I don’t know, but then that’s not your problem, is it?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Here they are.’ Bowman handed Dixon a small padded envelope slit open at one end. ‘It’s come in from China. Look, under “detailed description of contents” it says “metal plugs”.’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘They’re all there. They’re on the heavy side, which reduces the effective range, even with a more powerful bow.’