Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘What d’you want?’

  Dixon said nothing. It was a tactic he always used with telephone call centres that insist you key in your card number or crap like that before they put you through; stay silent, wait, and you soon get through to a real person.

  A light came on in the back of the office, then the outside light, the door opening just as Dixon raised his warrant card.

  ‘You’ve got someone staying here in a converted Transit minibus; goes by the name of Frank Allan, or he may be calling himself Harry.’

  ‘He’s been here a couple of weeks,’ replied the woman. ‘Harry, he said his name was. He’s down there on the left, pitch twelve. He’ll be at work now if you want to speak to him.’

  ‘Is he alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are there people either side of him?’

  ‘Just the far side; a couple in a campervan.’

  ‘You’ll need to move them, please.’ He was already on his way back to his Land Rover. ‘And if you can lift the barrier and leave it up, there’s a Scientific Services team on the way.’

  ‘Look, what’s this all about?’

  Proud of a long wheelbase minibus with black curtains up at the side windows? It had better be nice inside, thought Dixon as he parked facing it, his headlights on full beam.

  The minibus had been reversed on to the plot, its rear doors facing the hedge. An orange cable ran from the electric hook-up and in one of the side windows that had been left open a crack. A canopy had been attached to the roof rack and offered some shelter to sit out at night, a pair of deck chairs lying on the ground under the bus.

  Dixon flicked on the light on his phone and walked around, peering in the windows, listening to the animated conversation taking place on the far side of the campervan parked on the adjacent plot. Then an elderly man in pink boxer shorts and a vest appeared around the front.

  ‘What’s this about? Why have we got to move?’ He was standing with his hands on his hips. ‘It’d better be something bloody important, like a murder.’

  ‘Four murders, actually, Sir,’ replied Dixon, allowing the pain to shine through in his expression.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s all right then.’

  ‘If you say so, Sir.’

  All six wheels were rusting, P registration – although that was probably false – so at least twenty-five years old; older by the looks of things. It was miracle it had got through its MOT, assuming it had.

  He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and tried the doors; locked. Then a uniformed officer appeared, rattling a set of keys.

  The seats were new and rotated to face into the rear of the minibus, where there was a bed at the far end, a small kitchen area with a sink and hob, and even a shower cubicle. Dixon disconnected the gas bottles behind the passenger seat and began opening the cupboards one by one, using the light on his phone.

  The uniformed officer was standing on the ground outside, leaning in the driver’s door.

  ‘Where would you hide a crossbow?’ asked Dixon. ‘Assuming it comes to pieces.’

  ‘Under the bed, Sir?’

  Dixon lifted the thin mattress clear and shone his light down between the slats; two suitcases, an overnight bag, and an air rifle with a telescopic sight. ‘Looks like we’re getting warm.’

  ‘What about under the—?’

  ‘Out!’

  Dixon recognised Donald Watson’s voice and knew arguments with the senior Scientific Services officer never ended well. It was Watson’s crime scene now, and that was all there was to it.

  ‘We’re looking for a crossbow.’

  ‘I know.’ Watson was shining a torch in through the windscreen.

  Dixon slid out of the driver’s seat. ‘You got here quick.’

  ‘Bloody good job, with you stomping about in there in your size tens.’

  ‘There are a couple of suitcases under the bed.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to look there, fear not.’ Watson’s frown was visible even in the half-light from Dixon’s Land Rover. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere you need to be?’

  ‘I have. And it would be useful if I had a crossbow tucked under my arm when I got there.’

  ‘Give me a minute, will you?’

  The campervan pulled off the adjacent pitch and Dixon watched the headlights in the dark as it made its way across the site to the far side, reversing on to a pitch near the shower block. By the time he turned around more Scientific Services officers were setting up arc lamps and the photographer was in the minibus, flashes going off one after the other.

  ‘There’s nothing in these suitcases,’ shouted Donald Watson. ‘D’you want the air rifle?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘There’s a Sainsbury’s carrier bag full of old correspondence in this cupboard above the bed.’

  ‘Better have that.’ Dixon was watching through the rear doors, which had been opened to allow an arc lamp to light up the interior.

  Watson dropped the file into an evidence bag. ‘No telly. Probably watches stuff on his phone.’

  ‘We’ve got that.’

  ‘It’s not a bad job, y’know,’ said Watson, looking around. ‘Just a shame he’s gone to this much trouble on such an old heap of a minibus.’ He turned on the tap and watched the water running into the sink. ‘It even drains.’

  ‘There’s a hole in the floor.’ Dixon’s attention had been drawn by the sound of running water under the minibus. ‘It’s pouring straight out on to the ground.’

  ‘Well, at least the loo doesn’t.’ Watson grinned. ‘It’s a cassette so it collects underneath.’

  ‘Any sign of the crossbow?’

  ‘There’s fresh silicone around the shower tray. Hang on. Pass me a Stanley knife, someone.’ Watson appeared at the back of the minibus a few minutes later holding the shower tray. ‘Cut the silicone and it just slides out. The pipe goes straight out through the floor just like the sink, the cheeky sod.’

  ‘And the crossbows?’

  ‘They’re here.’ Watson turned the shower tray upside down to reveal two crossbows taped to the underside: a smaller recurve pistol crossbow and a larger rifle bow. Both were in pieces, the stock of the rifle bow taped diagonally across the underside of the tray, the limbs either side. The smaller pistol bow sat under the rim of the tray.

  ‘I was wondering why it was up on a little plinth.’ Watson shrugged. ‘It makes a nice little hidey-hole and a nice change from the old bath panel, I suppose.’ He set the shower tray down on the end of the bed and turned back to the shower cubicle. ‘These were in there too.’ He leaned over and picked up two sets of bolts held together by elastic bands, one set short and the other much longer. ‘It’ll all need to go for DNA testing. With these.’

  Dixon recognised the same size of padded envelope. ‘What’s the address on it?’ he asked.

  ‘Gavin Curtis, 13b Loxton Road, Weston.’

  ‘How many are left?’

  Watson reached in and pulled out a small plastic bag. He held it up to the arc lamp, the light glinting on the razor sharp curved blades of the broadheads. ‘Two,’ he said. ‘Nasty bloody things, aren’t they?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Charlesworth and Potter were waiting for him when he arrived at Express Park just before midnight. Dixon spotted their cars in the visitors’ car park as he turned in and so opted for the staff car park, the top floor deserted apart from Louise’s old Ford Focus.

  ‘You’re flavour of the month, Sir.’ She was holding open the back door for him. ‘The bad news is they know you’re here.’

  ‘Where’s Nigel?’

  ‘He got a statement from the bloke at the arcade, then went back to Portishead with Scientific. He said he’d come down in the morning with the bow.’

  ‘All right, Gavin first.’ Dixon was watching over Louise’s shoulder, Charlesworth and Potter striding towards him along the landing. ‘We’ll interview Allan i
n the morning.’

  ‘Sam West’s here and ready to start the interview. He’s just waiting for Gavin’s solicitor to finish with him; they’re in a private conflab now.’

  ‘Well done, Nick!’ Charlesworth was beaming. Potter looked less impressed, although that may have been because she’d been dragged out of bed. ‘I’ve asked Vicky Thomas to lay on a press conference tomorrow afternoon. You should have it all sewn up by then.’

  ‘Why did you intercept Gavin Curtis?’ Potter was standing with her hands on her hips. ‘I thought the plan was to catch them hacking the fruit machine?’

  Dixon had known that was coming, but had expected it from Charlesworth. After all, catch Gavin in the act and it’s an easy addition to the statistics: another crime committed and solved in double-quick time. Always looks good for the force performance tables. ‘The plan was for Gavin to lead us to Allan, which he did.’

  ‘Nick’s right.’ Charlesworth smiled, which was always disconcerting. ‘We’ve got him as accessory to four murders, so what’s a bit of theft between friends?’ It was probably a good job Charlesworth hadn’t been pulled over on the way to Express Park; he’d have failed a breathalyser, judging by his breath. ‘He was arrested for the murders, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Only the theft, Sir.’ Dixon took a step back. ‘Just watch his interview.’

  ‘You’ve got the team down from Bristol, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well, Sam West is a trained psychologist. He’ll get it out of him,’ said Charlesworth. ‘We’ll see you downstairs.’

  ‘Where can I find Sam?’ whispered Dixon to Louise, when Charlesworth and Potter drifted off along the landing.

  ‘Down in the custody suite, prepping for the interview.’

  Training as a psychologist and then joining the police; it had virtually guaranteed Sam West the shit end of the stick, spending his entire life locked in a room with no windows interviewing other people’s suspects. Dixon had thought training as a solicitor before joining the police was bad enough, but maybe not.

  ‘Prepping for the interview’ turned out to be listening to music on his earphones.

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ said West, sitting up.

  ‘What d’you know about Gavin?’ asked Dixon, sliding a chair out from under the table.

  ‘I’ve seen his prison record and the statement you got from him. I know he’s on the autistic spectrum.’

  ‘He was a vulnerable inmate at Bristol. Allan would have known that, and it’s my belief that he’s used him and his flat.’

  ‘A form of cuckooing then?’

  ‘Pretty much. I’m getting some house to house done in the morning. I want to know from the neighbours exactly how much time Allan spent there and what he got up to, but my guess is Gavin had no choice in any of it.’

  ‘Acting under duress.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Dixon nodded. ‘Ask the questions and rearrest him if you have to, but start on the basis he was an unwilling participant throughout.’

  ‘A witness rather than a suspect. Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon stood up. ‘And I hope to God I’m right.’

  Charlesworth and Potter had already nabbed front row seats in the anteroom, the screens on the side showing the view from above an empty interview room.

  Four chairs were lined up side by side opposite the recording machine that was sitting on a small table bolted to the wall. The new layout always irritated Dixon – designed by someone who had never conducted a police interview; although, thinking about it, maybe this was one interview where building a rapport with the suspect might prove useful. That said, more often than not, a table between interviewer and suspect was invaluable.

  Sam West and Louise filed in and sat down, soon followed by Gavin and his solicitor.

  Gavin was shuffling along, the laces removed from his trainers, both hands thrust deep into the pockets of baggy trousers.

  ‘If he takes his hands out his pockets, his trousers will fall down,’ said Charlesworth, laughing at his own joke.

  Dixon stopped himself just in time; a reminder that it was either that or risk Gavin hanging himself in his cell with his belt would hardly foster good relations with the ACC. Jane – his anger management counsellor – would have been proud of him.

  ‘My name is DS Samuel West and to my left is DC Louise Willmott. Please confirm your names for the recording.’

  Gavin’s solicitor nudged him with his elbow.

  ‘Gavin Curtis.’

  ‘My name is Jasper Sullivan from Cartwrights.’

  ‘This interview is being audio and visually recorded on to a secure digital hard drive,’ said West. ‘You’ve been arrested on suspicion of theft, Gavin, and cautioned. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s late and I’m sure we could all do with getting some sleep. But there are some questions we have to ask you, Gavin. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you first meet Frank Allan?’

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bristol prison.’ Gavin was rocking backwards and forwards perched on the edge of his plastic chair, his eyes fixed on the recorder on the table in front of him.

  ‘Then you went to Ford before you were released. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you see him after that?’

  ‘He came to my flat.’

  ‘Did you let him in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he force his way in?’

  Gavin hesitated, his movements faster and more agitated.

  Charlesworth turned to Potter. ‘Whose side is West on, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Mine, Sir.’ Dixon was standing behind them, his arms folded.

  ‘It’s all right, Gavin,’ continued West. ‘He can’t hurt you now.’

  ‘He took my money and my bank card. I had to sleep on the floor. He took my car too, used it all the time. I had to fill it up with petrol and he used it all.’

  ‘Did he buy things on the internet and have them delivered to your flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘A crossbow.’ Gavin stood up and dropped his trousers, pointing to a scar on the outside of his left thigh. ‘He shot me with it.’

  ‘We’ll get the police surgeon to look at that as soon as we’ve finished, all right, Gavin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about the crossbow.’

  ‘That was the first one. It was small and the bolts were this long.’ Gavin held up his hands, the tips of his index fingers six inches apart. ‘It was cheap and not very powerful. Not powerful enough, he said. The second one was bigger, and the bolts were this long.’ Fingers two feet apart now.

  ‘Not powerful enough for what?’ asked West.

  ‘He didn’t say. He took my phone as well.’

  ‘Did you see him use the crossbows?’

  ‘He fired them in my flat, at empty milk cartons filled with water. Then I had to clean up the mess.’

  ‘The larger bow, what was it like?’

  ‘Bigger, like a rifle, with a telescopic sight on top that used a red dot. He told me if I said anything I’d never see the red dot until it was too late.’

  ‘He threatened to kill you?’

  ‘I think that’s the implication from what my client just said, don’t you?’

  ‘Bloody solicitors,’ muttered Charlesworth, turning away from the screen.

  ‘Were you there when he killed Godfrey Collins?’ West’s voice was suddenly stern.

  ‘No.’ Arms clamped across his chest now, the palms of his hands tucked in his armpits. ‘He told me he’d killed someone but he didn’t say who.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He said they’d taken his money.’

  ‘Did he mention the name Keith Finch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go with him to Spain?’

  ‘No. I haven’t got a passport.’

/>   ‘Where did you get your laptop?’ asked West.

  ‘I’m not supposed to have one,’ mumbled Gavin. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘Frank did. He told me to write a program to override a random number algorithm that he’d downloaded. That was easy. He let me have a burger and chips when I did that.’

  ‘Then you started taking money from the fruit machines?’

  ‘He said if I didn’t help him he’d use the red dot on me. And on my mother too.’ Tears started to trickle slowly down his cheeks. ‘He’d sit in the flat all day with the crossbow loaded, and shine the red dot at me. I’d try to curl up and hide, but he’d kick me and then shine the red dot at me again.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’ Charlesworth jabbed the mute button on the remote control. ‘It seems the poor lad is a victim in all of this.’

  ‘Unless Allan blames him for everything when he’s interviewed tomorrow,’ said Potter, turning to face Dixon.

  ‘We’ll see what Gavin’s neighbours say in the morning,’ he replied. ‘And his story is corroborated by the injury to his leg. High Tech are checking their phones overnight too. Subject to what comes of that and what Allan says, I’ll be releasing Gavin pending investigation.’

  ‘On your head be it,’ said Potter, solemnly.

  Charlesworth had perfected the conciliatory smile. ‘All part and parcel of being the senior investigating officer.’

  Dixon arrived home just before 3 a.m. Time enough for a few hours’ sleep, then back to Express Park to interview Allan at nine.

  He parked in the pub car park and walked across to the cottage, hoping to get in without waking everybody up, although Monty started barking before he had turned his key in the back door. Then the landing light came on.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was watching Monty cocking his leg against the corner of the shed in the back yard.

  Jane was leaning against the door frame, her hair covering her face, Dixon’s favourite T-shirt on inside out.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘We’ve arrested a retired prison officer,’ replied Dixon, getting another mug out of the cupboard above the kettle. ‘I’ve not interviewed him yet, but it looks like he was taking his revenge on the people who’d conned him out of his pension. He’s been living in a van and cuckooing on a vulnerable former inmate, which made him a bit more difficult to find.’