Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘That too.’

  ‘There’s an Audi that looks a bit—’ Cole stopped mid-sentence, mercifully getting the message from Dixon’s weary sigh.

  ‘What about the computers?’ Dixon asked, ripping the film off a pack of egg and cress sandwiches.

  ‘I’ve printed off the HMRC file on Collins – all the correspondence and what have you.’ Louise gestured to a pile of paper in a wire basket on the corner of her workstation. ‘I’ve still got to sort through it. There’s nothing on the old hard drives from his office computers, except a few emails from people complaining about the loan charge thing when it kicked off in 2016. I’ve printed those off as well and they’re being spoken to this afternoon: top of the list. There’s nothing on his laptop, either, really, except the HMRC correspondence.’

  ‘Web browsing history?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want your grandmother to see it.’

  ‘Emails?’ mumbled Dixon, through a mouthful of sandwich.

  ‘There are some Zephyr might be interested in. From a while ago, mind you. And he’s got that encrypted chat thing installed; I don’t know whether they can crack that. Otherwise the emails are about the boat.’

  ‘And the micro SIM?’

  ‘It’s a Vodafone pay-as-you-go. I’ve been on to Voda and no calls have ever been made or received on the number, just data usage and not much at that – less than half a gig. Email, they reckon, or WhatsApp, something like that. Whatever it was, it was encrypted. There are no contacts on it either and it’s never been topped up since it was bought.’ Louise glanced down at her notebook. ‘That would’ve been at the Tesco Express in Victoria Street.’

  Footsteps running towards them along the aisle between the workstations; Dixon turned to see Mark, a bacon roll in each hand, tomato sauce dripping off the paper napkins. He started weaving through the vacant desks, taking a shortcut to the gap in the Area J partition nearest Dixon.

  ‘Stand by to repel boarders,’ he whispered, his eyes wide.

  More footsteps now, several people walking purposefully; Dixon was about to ask who it was when Charlesworth, Potter and the press officer, Vicky Thomas, came striding along the aisle from the lift. Potter and Vicky Thomas diverted into a vacant meeting room while Charlesworth stopped by the open door, beckoning him. ‘Have you got a minute, Nick?’

  ‘No’ was tempting, but the truth of the matter was he did have a minute. The investigation was going through the motions, ticking the right boxes; everything that should be done was being done, but still he couldn’t shake it off – that feeling of working on a jigsaw puzzle when you know there’s a piece missing.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Potter, when Charlesworth closed the meeting room door behind them.

  ‘Slowly.’

  ‘I can’t argue with your decision making, if your Policy Log is up to date.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Two o’clock this morning.’ Charlesworth sounded impressed. ‘Burning the midnight oil, I see.’

  ‘Catching up on Zephyr’s file; you know how it is.’

  ‘We do.’ Potter looked almost apologetic; it made for an uneasy feeling.

  Almost as unnerving as Charlesworth smiling at him. ‘Deborah’s got some news.’

  ‘We’ve got two more.’ Potter blurted it out, making no attempt to soften the blow. ‘The same distinctive pattern on the bolt.’

  Dixon reached into his pocket, took out the broadhead and slid it to the middle of the table.

  Charlesworth picked it up and rolled it around in the palm of his hand. ‘How the bloody hell this stuff is on sale is beyond me.’

  ‘A Mr James Bowen and his partner Ms Miranda Mather, both British citizens and both killed with a crossbow bolt to the head.’

  Potter’s reference to British citizens was telling. ‘Where?’ asked Dixon, trying to remember where he’d put his passport.

  ‘Sitio de Calahonda.’ Charlesworth sounded like a pisshead in a tapas bar on a Saturday night. ‘It’s between Marbella and Fuengirola on the Costa del Sol.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘They were found yesterday morning by their cleaner.’ Potter was watching Charlesworth still fiddling with the broadhead. ‘This is what we’ve got on them,’ she said, sliding a thin document file across the table. ‘You’ll need to send someone over there to liaise with the Spanish police.’

  ‘Were they on holiday or living there?’ asked Dixon, reaching for the file.

  ‘Hiding there is probably a more accurate description. They’re both wanted in this country. I’ve asked someone from the Economic Crime Unit to brief you.’

  Charlesworth passed the broadhead to the press officer. ‘Vicky’s going to put out a release saying we’re liaising with our European partners etcetera etcetera, and I’ve asked Jesminder to rustle up some more people for you as a matter of urgency.’

  Dixon turned back to Potter. ‘Wanted for what?’

  ‘Pension fraud.’

  ‘OK, let’s start with the basics, shall we?’

  ‘Like what’s the Economic Crime Unit?’ Dave’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Fraud squad to you.’

  ‘Just shut up, Mark, and let her get on with it, will you?’ Dixon had never met a criminal intelligence analyst before. Sharon Beech wore a sharp suit, hair tied back tight; only the red braces were missing.

  ‘We all build up a pension fund while we’re working, don’t we?’ She paused, but not long enough for anyone to draw breath. ‘Well, we’re supposed to. We do it through an employer’s pension scheme and some people do it through a private pension, but the idea is that you have a pension pot built up during your working life to provide you an income in retirement, on top of the state pension – what’s left of it.’

  Dave and Kevin were sitting on the windowsill, grateful to get out of the CCTV suite for a minute or two, by the looks of things. Mark and Louise were sitting with their backs to Dixon, with Cole behind him slurping his coffee. All seemed to be paying attention, although Dixon suspected they were more interested in who was going to the Costa del Sol.

  ‘That pension pot is transferrable. So, let’s use you as an example, Sir.’ Sharon turned to Dixon. ‘You decide that your pension would give you a better return if you transferred it out of the police pension fund and invested it in, say, XYZ Pensions Plc. You’re allowed to do that, and if XYZ Pensions are regulated and authorised there are no tax implications; the transfer is tax free. You’d take independent financial advice and—’

  ‘The problem comes if your financial adviser’s a crook,’ muttered Kevin.

  ‘Exactly.’ Sharon took a deep breath. ‘So, if your financial adviser transfers your pension to a fund that is not regulated and authorised, then that is treated as a withdrawal from your pension fund and not a transfer. And a withdrawal is subject to income tax on top of your earnings for the year.’

  ‘So, they’re landed with a big tax bill as well?’ asked Louise, turning to Dixon.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all. A lot of people who withdrew their money moved it to overseas pension funds, and some ripped them off with huge fees and made bad investments; others were scams and just blatantly stole the money. There are lots of people out there who’ve saved for their retirement all their lives and now find themselves with nothing to show for it. Not only that, but they’ve got the added headache of the taxman after them for a big income tax bill.’

  ‘You can just imagine the bitterness, can’t you?’ Cole grimaced. ‘I’d be bloody livid.’

  ‘There are police officers who’ve been caught by it; armed forces, fire service, doctors, nurses, solicitors; tens of thousands of people,’ continued Sharon. ‘It adds up to billions of pounds scammed off unsuspecting people doing their best to plan for their retirement.’

  ‘Motive enough.’ Dixon sat up.

  ‘Imagine being caught by both the loan charge and this?’ said Louise, shaking her head.

  ‘We can soon cross-check the lists,’ replied Mark.

&n
bsp; ‘Tell us about James Bowen and Miranda Mather then,’ said Dixon.

  ‘He ran Clearwater Wealthcare in the UK.’

  ‘Wealthcare?’ Mark threw his pen on to the desk in front of him. ‘Snappy.’

  ‘They had an office in Bristol,’ continued Sharon. ‘And Miranda Mather was down on the Costa del Sol, running Clearwater Pensions. Needless to say, not authorised and regulated.’

  ‘How much did they take and from how many people?’ asked Dixon, cutting to the chase.

  ‘Thirty-one million from two hundred and two clients. The average pension fund size was one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, but some were much bigger.’ Sharon paused, allowing that to sink in for a moment. ‘They had some private pensions, but their clients were mainly police, fire, prison service, armed forces, NHS, people like that.’

  ‘And the pension fund trustees allowed these transfers?’

  ‘He’s a solicitor,’ whispered Louise, leaning forward.

  Sharon raised her eyebrows, her surprise thinly veiled. ‘Clearwater Pensions were registered with HMRC so they looked above board on the face of it. That was part of their marketing: “We’re registered with HM Revenue and Customs”, but it’s just a few clicks to register online. It’s not the same thing as being authorised and regulated by the pension regulator.’

  ‘Which idiot was responsible for that?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Tony Blair.’ Sharon rolled her eyes. ‘It was a bit of a free-for-all after that. The Wild West, someone said; pension scams became big business and pretty bloody easy too. There are still hundreds, possibly thousands, of people out there who have no idea their pension pots have been ripped off.’

  ‘They’re in for an unpleasant surprise when they get to retirement.’ Cole cleared his throat. ‘I transferred my pension; I suppose I’d better check it.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Did you get advice?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Yeah, it was some bloke in Weston.’ He looked ashen faced. ‘I get a pension statement every year, but I just stick it in a box file. I don’t remember it being overseas. I think I’d better ring my wife.’

  ‘Do it now,’ said Dixon.

  Cole broke into a trot along the aisle, his mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  ‘So, you work hard and save hard all your life, only to find your pension has gone.’ Dixon stood up and started pacing up and down between the workstations. ‘You blame HMRC because they registered the fraudulent pension company, thereby giving them some credibility, and HMRC’s only response is to come after you for a big income tax bill.’

  ‘How big?’ asked Louise.

  ‘The fund withdrawn is treated as extra income for the year,’ replied Sharon. ‘So, a fund of three hundred thousand on top of a salary of, say, thirty thousand, would push you into the forty-five per cent additional rate tax bracket. That’s a bill of roughly a hundred and thirty grand.’

  ‘And you’ve lost your pension fund, don’t forget,’ said Dixon. ‘So, Bowen is the rogue financial adviser, Mather is the rogue pension fund trustee and Finch is the taxman pursuing the income tax bill.’

  ‘At least the loan chargers had had the money in the first place.’ Kevin leaned back against the glass. ‘It makes a lot of sense.’

  ‘More sense than the loan charge. We’ve got the agencies telling us their staff probably didn’t know who Collins was anyway and—’ Dixon hesitated. ‘In fact, it makes perfect sense apart from Collins. How does he fit into it?’

  ‘The accountant?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘He had nothing to do with the pension scam, did he?’

  ‘There’s no mention of it anywhere in his stuff, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You two.’ Dixon turned to Kevin and Dave. ‘Next plane to Malaga. An Inspector Alvaro will meet you at the other end.’

  Mark folded his arms. ‘Why Dave?’

  ‘I’m not fussed, Sir,’ said Dave. ‘I never do well in hot places; I get prickly heat.’

  ‘You’re going precisely because you don’t want to. And you’re not going, Mark, precisely because you do.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ sighed Mark.

  Cole came jogging along the aisle. ‘It’s all right, it’s legit.’ Beads of sweat were drying on his temples.

  ‘What have you got on Clearwater, Sharon?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Lots. We were working on a prosecution with the Serious Fraud Office when Bowen and Mather did a runner. We did get someone for it, though: their junior salesman was sent down for eighteen months.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Craig Pengelly.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  A sensational luxury property on a large plot above the beach with unrestricted views of the shimmering Mediterranean sea; it had sold for 3.7 million euros four years earlier, according to the old listing on the Spanish property website. The pool on the terrace looked nice, sun loungers and all. Palm trees and a perfectly manicured lawn too.

  Dixon scrolled through the gallery: terracotta roof tiles, freestanding kitchen, double beds overlooking the sea; undoubtedly nice, but he was more interested in the next set of photographs, taken that morning and marked ‘Policía, privado y confidencial’.

  Bowen had been enjoying a smoke on a sun lounger by the pool; the crossbow bolt embedded in his eye socket up to the fletch, his head tipped back, the broadhead resting on the back of the lounger, blood staining the white fabric. The remains of a dinner enjoyed al fresco were visible on the table in the background. A trickle of blood had followed the edge of the floor tiles and reached the pool, the few drops that had made it all the way having long since dissolved in the crystal clear water.

  A single shot, probably from behind the balustrade on the terrace; ten paces at most.

  Miranda Mather was lying face down on a king sized bed, the broadhead clean through the back of her skull and pointing at the mirror on the ceiling. The white duvet was stained red beneath her head.

  Clean kills, both; in, out and back to the airport before the bodies had been found. Louise was checking flights to and from Malaga during the two days since Keith Finch had been pinned to the tree in his back garden. Another list to cross-check.

  ‘Craig Pengelly’s still at Leyhill, Sir,’ said Cole, his hand over the speaker.

  ‘We’ll need to see him this afternoon,’ replied Dixon. ‘And ask them to notify us as soon as he gets a release date.’ He was watching Louise pin a photograph on the whiteboard; three blue rings of different shades. It looked like someone had been colouring in the outline left by the broadhead with crayons – turquoise, sea and sky blue. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I thought you might be interested in that, Sir,’ replied Louise. ‘It’s the Clearwater Pensions logo.’

  ‘Do I need a solicitor?’

  ‘No, Craig,’ replied Dixon. ‘You can have one if you want, but you don’t need one.’ He’d had a bit of trouble getting the broadhead past security at HMP Leyhill, but had got there in the end; another advantage of his new rank. ‘James Bowen and Miranda Mather were found dead at their villa on the Costa del Sol yesterday.’

  ‘Best news I’ve had in a long time.’ Craig glanced up at the prison officer standing with his back to the door of the interview room. ‘Did they top themselves?’

  ‘They were murdered.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’ Craig’s eyes were glazed over, the pupils dilated. ‘And I was in here, before you ask.’

  In here and topped up with spice, no doubt, thought Dixon. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill them?’

  ‘Any one of two hundred clients. And me. Look what they’ve bloody well done to me. I was a trainee, sitting my exams, and they stitched me up.’

  ‘Any clients in particular?’

  ‘Mine were mainly the small fry.’ Craig’s speech was slow and deliberate. ‘I was getting nurses and a couple of soldiers; a couple of your
lot. The commission was hardly enough to get by on, really. Bowen dealt with the bigger clients.’ He paused. ‘There were a couple who were ex-SAS. Good funds too, they had. And some bloke came charging into the office with a pension statement in his hand; he was a planning officer at Sedgemoor District Council. He had a temper on him.’

  ‘Did anyone have a go at you?’

  ‘I had a few stroppy emails and calls, but it never came to anything. I just explained that I’d been conned too. And I’d left before the shit hit the fan anyway; got out when I realised what was going on.’ Craig gave a half-hearted sneer. ‘Still got sucked back in, didn’t I?’

  Dixon leaned back in his chair. ‘My understanding is that the pension pots were transferred to a non-regulated fund run by Miranda Mather, so they were treated as withdrawals by the taxman, triggering an income tax bill.’

  ‘That’s right. So what?’

  ‘The head of enforcement at HM Revenue and Customs in Cardiff is also dead.’

  ‘Karma, they call that.’

  ‘Do they?’ Dixon took a deep breath. ‘He was just doing his job.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘Which of the clients had the biggest tax bills?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘The Serious Fraud Office—’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about those tossers.’ Craig folded his arms. ‘I had a deal with them, then when James and Miranda ran for it the deal was suddenly off the table. My solicitor said it was because they had to be seen to be prosecuting someone and there was only me left.’

  Dixon slid the broadhead across the table, the prison officer watching intently. ‘They were killed with a crossbow and the bolts had one of those on the end.’

  ‘Nice.’ Craig resisted the temptation to pick it up.

  ‘Recognise the pattern?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pick it up and have a look at it.’ Dixon was watching for any reaction. ‘Think about the shape of the entry wound.’

  Craig held the tip of the broadhead between his thumb and index finger. ‘The Clearwater logo.’ He was looking at the curved blades from behind, a wry smile creeping across his lips. ‘Someone’s got a sense of humour.’