Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Has he worked since the assault?’

  ‘Not in the prison service. He was on long term sick, then took early retirement. It was after that we divorced and he lost his pension.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was doing with his pension?’

  ‘First I heard of it was at the christening and it was done, dusted and gone by then. And anyway, it’s none of my business, really, is it?’

  ‘Does the name Craig Pengelly mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘James Bowen and Miranda Mather?’

  ‘No.’ She folded her arms. ‘Look, what’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘We’re keen to speak to him to rule him out of four murders that have taken place in the last seven days. Two in this country and two on the Costa del Sol. All of the victims were involved in some way in the pension scam that cost your husband his pension.’

  Mrs Allan took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose, her fingers twitching as if she was holding a cigarette. ‘It’s just one of those things you say, isn’t it?’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘At the christening. He said he was going to see to it they got what was coming to them, the bastards who’d ripped him off. He’d had a few and I thought it was just piss and wind.’

  ‘And you still say you have no idea where he is.’

  ‘Frank, you bloody idiot,’ she whispered. ‘Last I heard he was living in a van and doing cash-in-hand work in the arcades down Burnham and Brean, places like that. A friend of mine said she saw him in the kiosk at one of them.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Can we speak to her?’

  ‘I’d really rather not trouble her.’

  ‘We need to find him, Mrs Allan.’

  ‘This was a couple of months ago, but she said she saw him at Brean Leisure Centre, in the amusement arcade there.’

  ‘Look after that for me, will you?’

  Cole knew better than to ask, sliding Dixon’s wallet into his jacket pocket. Dixon had noticed the frown, too, when he had emptied all his change into the driver’s door pocket of the Land Rover.

  Cole didn’t know, didn’t understand, but then how could he when nobody did?

  Fruit machines.

  He’d taken refuge in the flashing lights, the bells, the whistles; saved only by his friend Jake and their rock climbing partnership that long hot summer all those years ago. Getting the next nudge hardly matters when you’re clinging on by your fingertips several hundred feet off the ground.

  Dixon stopped in the doorway of the amusement arcade at Brean Leisure Centre, a cold sweat gathering in the small of his back. He felt the same sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach all over again. It was a mild form of self-harm; he’d been told that by at least two beer-swilling amateur psychiatrists in the pub, trying to analyse his apparently irresistible urge to push all his money into those bloody machines.

  But the simple answer was that it was an escape: from the pain of loss. Or was he just replacing the pain of losing Fran with the pain of losing all his money? Either way, he’d stand there until he had.

  Dixon had never thought of himself as stupid. He knew the seventy per cent rule, and he knew full well he’d lose in the end, no matter how many times the jackpot came cascading down the hopper into the metal tray; in tokens usually, so you had no choice but to push them straight back in again.

  And that noise!

  Even when the arcades were empty you could hear it from time to time, played on a loop by one or more of the machines. It reminded Dixon of a duck caller, attracting birds to the slaughter.

  He walked along the line of machines, mesmerised already by the lights, some of the wheels spinning even though there was no one standing there feeding coins in; the sound of a jackpot behind him – there was no one there, either.

  Cole appeared behind him. ‘They’ve paged the manager, Sir. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Dixon had his hands in his pockets, rummaging amongst his keys for any loose change.

  ‘You left it in the car,’ said Cole. ‘I think I might have a go, though.’ He was looking down at three one-pound coins in the palm of his hand.

  ‘You might as well save yourself the trouble and just give it to the manager when he gets here.’

  ‘I might find a machine someone’s filled up and it’s ready to drop the jackpot.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Dixon sighed. ‘If only it did.’

  ‘Someone told me—’

  ‘He’s right. Sorry.’ Jeans and a blue Brean Leisure Centre polo shirt. ‘It’s all random. There’s no such thing as a full machine bursting to pay out; not any more.’

  ‘Mr Jackson?’ asked Dixon, his warrant card in hand.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him about the seventy per cent rule.’

  ‘The machines are set to pay out seventy per cent of the money paid in to them. That’s it, really.’

  ‘Seventy per cent?’ Cole made no effort to hide his disgust. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Some used to pay out more, up to ninety per cent, but then the government capped the stake at two quid so that was the end of that.’

  Cole stuffed his coins back in his pocket. ‘Bloody fruit machines.’

  ‘Fixed odds betting terminals, to give them their proper name, Nigel,’ said Dixon.

  ‘People enjoy them.’ Jackson was bristling visibly now.

  ‘People get hooked on them,’ Dixon snapped back, hoping no one had noticed the beads of sweat on his temples. ‘We’re looking for this man,’ he said, changing the subject with his phone held out in front of Jackson. ‘We’ve been told he worked in your kiosk.’

  ‘That’s Frank Allan.’ Jackson nodded at the photograph on the screen. ‘He was here for about four weeks earlier in the season, then we had to let him go.’

  ‘How much was he paid?’

  ‘Ten pounds an hour. He did the late shift; four till eleven and then closed up.’

  ‘Have you got an address for him?’

  ‘He was staying on a local campsite and it was cash in hand. Sorry.’

  Dixon waited for another vacant machine to finish its jackpot jingle. ‘And why did you let him go?’

  ‘The usual reason,’ replied Jackson. ‘We had money going missing. Nothing we could prove, though, so we just let him go. We didn’t notice it for a few weeks, until the machines were cashed up.’

  ‘Not the kiosk?’

  ‘We’d have noticed the kiosk float down straight away; that gets balanced daily. No, it was a couple of the machines were well down on where they should have been for the height of the season. We had no way of proving anything, mind you, because the CCTV was switched off every night, late, for a couple of hours like.’ Jackson was sucking on his e-cigarette, but hadn’t switched it on. ‘The bloke from the supplier said there was no way it could’ve been done, but that’s bollocks. We’re talking two machines, a couple of hundred quid down every day for three weeks. It’s no bloody wonder Frank was happy to work seven days a week.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Which machines were they?’ Dixon was watching an elderly lady pick coins out of her purse by a machine on the other side of the small arcade.

  ‘We got rid of them. Look, I suppose I should make it clear we never proved anything, and the bloke from the supplier said it was impossible, so it could just have been a software glitch that caused the losses. We weren’t taking any chances, though, so we got rid of Frank and the machines.’

  ‘Why was the CCTV switched off?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Quite.’ Jackson gave an emphatic nod.

  ‘Can you let me have the supplier’s contact details?’

  ‘It’s on the back of that machine,’ replied Jackson. ‘There’s a sticker.’

  Dixon slid his iPhone out of his pocket and took a photograph of the information he needed. ‘And the machines, what w
ere they called?’

  ‘There were two, both the same. Called Crossbow Ninja.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ping of Louise’s text arriving had been lost in the bells and whistles of the amusement arcade.

  Ian Staveley 5pm with his solicitor at Weston, interview room booked

  Cole leaned across from the passenger seat of the Land Rover, craning his neck to read the message on Dixon’s phone. ‘Wonder why he’s bringing a solicitor? It always makes me think they’ve got something to hide.’

  Dixon was watching the rollercoaster looping the loop in the park behind the amusements. It was bigger than the old wooden one that used to be there; his one brush with cash-in-hand work, a few weeks one Easter spent bolting the track on to the high rails with Jake, their head for heights and rock climbing equipment proving ideal for the job. It had been great fun, and had paid for a trip to the Alps. The rollercoaster had even passed its inspection too, much to his surprise.

  A big dipper, spinning things that would have had his breakfast making another appearance, giant swings and waltzers, dodgems, go-karts; he could hear the screams inside his Land Rover on the far side of the car park.

  ‘I went on a rollercoaster once.’ Cole cringed. ‘Never again.’

  ‘You threw up?’

  ‘Worse. The kid in front of me did.’

  Dixon turned the key, the diesel engine drowning out the shrieks and screams. The sounds had gone but not the smells, the sickly sweet stench of fish and chips, coffee and candyfloss all rolled into one still lingering in his nostrils. Low tide and an onshore breeze didn’t help, the mudflats adding a fetid tinge.

  ‘Where to now?’ asked Cole.

  ‘We’ve got time to drop in on Arbern Gaming. Then it’s over to Weston to see what Staveley’s got to say for himself.’

  Half an hour later he parked on the forecourt of a small industrial unit on the outskirts of Clevedon. The units either side announced their occupiers with huge signs, Avon Kitchens on the left and Brightview Windows on the right, but Arbern Gaming obviously wished to remain anonymous. Dixon knew he was in the right place all the same, the roller doors at the front open and revealing lines of fruit machines standing idle; no flashing lights or jackpot jingles. It felt a bit like a graveyard, or a mortuary perhaps.

  The only flashing lights came from the charger on a forklift truck and the small red dot on a CCTV camera watching their approach. Lights were on upstairs, on the mezzanine floor, the office door open.

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ Then a figure leaned over the metal balustrade. ‘Can I help you?’

  Warrant cards were followed by footsteps on the metal staircase.

  Dixon noticed the tattoos first, then the earrings and grey stubble; ripped black jeans and a sleeveless Motörhead T-shirt. The only thing missing was the leather waistcoat.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Andy.’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘Andrew Digby.’

  ‘Are you the owner?’ Dixon was wandering along the lines of dead fruit machines, strangely comforted by the peace and quiet, at the same time not dropping his guard in case they woke up; a bit like a gazelle stumbling on a sleeping cheetah.

  ‘That’s Phil and Lynn. They own it and I do all the bloody work.’

  ‘What work?’

  ‘Servicing and repairs, all the installations. They deal with the contracts and the money, I s’pose, but I do everything else.’

  Dixon stopped in front of Crossbow Ninja and looked down at the reels, shrouded in darkness; two crossbows on the winning line and one just above. ‘Tell me about this machine.’ He resisted the temptation to put his hands in his pockets.

  ‘It’s an upgraded version of Agent Crossbow that came out in 2017. It’s quite popular. What more can I say?’

  ‘Why have you got four of them here? Surely they should be in arcades and pubs?’

  ‘We’ve had a couple of them returned, if you must know.’ Andy picked up a cloth and started dusting the machines, slowly working his way along the line to where Dixon was standing. ‘They were losing money.’

  ‘Start from the beginning and treat me like an idiot.’

  ‘They’re category B3 machines; so that’s a maximum stake of two quid and a top jackpot of five hundred. You’ll only see them in betting shops, bingo halls and what they call “adult gaming centres”; they’re the adults only sections of ordinary amusement arcades. They’re always near the kiosk so they can be supervised, like.’

  ‘Still subject to the seventy per cent rule?’ Cole was leaning on a machine with his notebook in his hand.

  ‘It’s not just us, that’s the industry standard.’

  ‘How much money is in one of these machines at any one time?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘A lot.’ Andy start polishing the first of the Crossbow Ninja machines. ‘Stands to reason, dunnit, if it pays out five hundred quid. I dunno, three grand maybe?’

  ‘And how does it work?’

  ‘It’s all computer generated these days, not like the good old days when you could watch out for some pillock to fill up the machine and then use a magnet.’ Andy gave a sheepish grin. ‘We’ve all got to learn somehow.’

  ‘There’s a computer in there?’ Cole failed to hide his disbelief.

  ‘A hard drive, yes. The machine works on a computer algorithm; it’s basically just a random number generator. Impossible to crack.’

  ‘Why were these machines losing money then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Fuck knows. A design flaw in the software maybe. We got on to the manufacturer and they said they’d have a look at it and issue an update.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘I’ll have to go round and update all the machines.’

  Dixon dragged the Crossbow Ninja machine out into the aisle. ‘Show me,’ he said, gesturing to the lock in the rear panel.

  ‘This one’s open.’ Andy pulled open the panel in the back of the machine. ‘I had a look at it when it came back; these two from Brean Leisure Centre, this one from the Pavilion at Burnham and that one was at Sedgemoor motorway services.’ He squatted down and pointed at a black box inside. ‘See, here’s a USB port so I connects my laptop and can update the software.’

  ‘What other maintenance do you have to do?’

  ‘There really isn’t any these days. Back in the old days we’d have to oil the reels and make sure it was all working like a clock, but nowadays it’s just software updates and cleaning.’

  ‘And everybody who’s returned a Crossbow Ninja gave the same reason?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you got any others out there?’

  ‘A few. There’s one at Burnham in the arcade along from the Reeds Arms, a couple over at Minehead; one at Bridgwater services, there’s one in the Ritz at Burnham as well. That’s it, I think. I can let you have a complete list on the email.’

  ‘Who holds keys to those panels?’ Dixon was watching Andy close it and push the machine back into line.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Not the arcade wherever they are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, if you wanted to hack one of them, what would you do?’

  ‘Way beyond me, I’m afraid.’ Andy puffed out his cheeks. ‘I just update the software, I don’t write it. Wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘But it could be done?’

  ‘I suppose it could. You’d need to pick the lock, take the back off and connect a computer, write the software program to hack it, but I s’pose it could be done, yeah.’

  ‘If you can get the back off, why not just take the money?’ asked Cole.

  ‘That box is separately locked,’ replied Andy. ‘And it’s built like a mini safe.’

  Dixon leaned back against a machine and folded his arms. ‘So, while your laptop’s connected at the back you play the machine and take it to the cleaners.’

  ‘I couldn’t see that anything had been uploaded to the hard drive, so that’s the only way
it could be done.’ Andy frowned. ‘Hang on a minute, are you telling me that’s what someone’s been doing?’

  Put a tail on Gavin Curtis. He’ll lead us to Allan.

  ‘Why don’t we just pick Gavin up?’ asked Cole, reading the text to Louise over Dixon’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re trying to catch a multiple murderer, not a thief, Nigel,’ replied Dixon, tapping out a second message. ‘He’s doing cash-in-hand work, almost certainly under a false name, so we’ll let Gavin show us where he is.’

  Check if Allan has worked at the Burnham Pavilion and Brent Knoll mway services

  ‘Shouldn’t we warn the other arcades that have got a Crossbow Ninja in them?’ asked Cole, putting on his seatbelt.

  ‘We need one of them to give him a job and if we warn them, they won’t. And if I’m right, we’ll catch him before they have the chance to hack the machines anyway.’

  Dixon parked in front of the bike racks outside Weston police station twenty minutes later and watched Staveley having an animated conversation in the reception area with a woman in a grey two piece suit. Arguing with your solicitor – never a good sign.

  ‘We’ve booked an interview room for five o’clock,’ said Dixon to the receptionist when he walked in.

  ‘Number one, Sir. Just through there.’ Gesturing towards the door, the lock buzzing.

  ‘This way, Mr Staveley, if you will.’ Cole was holding the door open.

  Dixon waited until everybody had sat down. ‘You’re not under arrest, Mr Staveley, and I’m not recording this interview. You’re simply helping us with our enquiries and I’m most grateful to you for that.’

  Staveley visibly relaxed, although the sigh of relief came from his solicitor.

  ‘I brought Miss Smith along, thinking I’d—’

  ‘My client has been dragged through investigation after investigation purely by reason of his business association with Godfrey Collins, so I’m sure you’ll forgive us if he, and me on his behalf, are a little defensive.’

  ‘It’s quite understandable.’ Dixon gave his best disarming smile. ‘What I’m trying to do is understand why Mr Collins was murdered.’