Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘A good quick result.’

  ‘A little too quick for my liking. They’d been ripping off fruit machines too; four hundred quid a day – nice work if you can get it.’ He glanced into the back yard. ‘Come on, in!’ he said, shutting the back door behind Monty, who came trotting in; either the obedience training had paid off or it was the packet of biscuits in Dixon’s hand. ‘Where’s her ladyship?’

  ‘Gone back to Manchester. She’ll be down for the weekend on Friday night. I said I’d pick her up from Highbridge station at nine.’ Jane brushed her hair back off her face. ‘I had another visit from Charlesworth today, or yesterday I suppose it was. He wanted to know if you’d had any further thoughts about the superintendent’s job. There’s a vacancy for a DS in CID, apparently; mine if I want it, he said, but not while there’s a conflict, what with you being—’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I hadn’t seen you for a few days – which is true – and that he’d need to ask you what you wanted to do.’

  Dixon handed her a mug of tea. ‘How about Christmas Eve?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Getting married. There might be some decent snow and ice in the Lakes for our honeymoon.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Don’t forget, Sir, this interview is being audio and visually recorded on to a secure digital hard drive.’

  ‘The wonders of modern science.’ Dixon sighed. ‘You’ll have to operate the machine. I must’ve missed the training.’

  He had pulled rank to get the interview room with the table, and now Dixon and Louise were sitting opposite two empty chairs.

  ‘Bet you he goes “no comment”.’

  ‘Did you get home last night?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Gave Katie her breakfast too.’

  A hushed voice outside: ‘If you accept my advice, you’ll answer no—’ Stopped mid-sentence by the door opening.

  Frank Allan walked in briskly and sat down on the plastic chair in the corner, sliding it back until he was able to lean against the wall behind him, arms folded as he watched his solicitor sit down next to him, notebook and pen at the ready.

  Thinning closely cropped hair, shorter than his greying beard, and piercing eyes. Allan was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a blue sweatshirt – standard issue when your own clothes have gone to Scientific. He rested his head back in the corner of the interview room and closed his eyes.

  Louise switched on the recorder.

  ‘This interview is being audio and visually recorded on to a secure digital hard drive,’ said Dixon. ‘You have been arrested on suspicion of four murders and remain under caution, Frank. D’you understand?’

  ‘It’s Mr Allan to you.’

  ‘Identify yourself for the recording, please. Frank.’

  Allan’s eyes opened and focused on the camera above his head. ‘Francis James Allan.’ Then he closed his eyes again.

  ‘Katherine Bradbury, Harding and Rowe Advocates, Bridgwater.’ She looked up from her notebook. ‘For the record, I have advised my client not to answer any questions at this time.’

  ‘You had a busy day on Saturday, didn’t you, Frank?’ Not a hint of sarcasm in Dixon’s voice – he could have gone on the stage, he really could. ‘Keith Finch in the morning, then you got all the way down to the Costa del Sol in time to kill James Bowen and Miranda Mather later that same day.’

  Allan sat forward and took a deep breath through his nose.

  ‘Miranda Mather in the left eye at twenty-five point two metres,’ continued Dixon. ‘So, what’s that in yards?’

  ‘Twenty-seven and a half.’

  ‘Was there a crosswind?’

  ‘It was downwind.’

  ‘We’ve got the weather report here somewhere.’ Dixon was flicking through the papers in the file on the table in front of him. ‘Here it is. From the south-west, seven to ten, gusting to ten to fifteen; that’s kilometres per hour, mind you.’

  ‘I had to wait for the wind to drop,’ Allan said, smugly. ‘She was moving around the bed too. The bolt’s a bit heavier with the broadhead on it – four hundred and twenty grains – so that’s a drop of about seven inches at twenty-five yards from my bow. I was aiming above her head to make allowances. There was no time to adjust the sight after I killed Bowen, either. It was a hell of a shot, even if I say so myself.’

  ‘Bowen was easy, by comparison; a sitting target.’

  ‘He saw me. Sat up on the sun lounger and looked straight at me.’ Allan closed his left eye and mimed the pulling of a trigger. ‘I couldn’t miss.’

  ‘They measured that one at nineteen metres.’

  ‘I was lying down on the top of the outcrop – a single shot fired up through the balustrade.’

  ‘The bolt was on a rising trajectory, according to the post mortem.’ Dixon closed the file in front of him. ‘Let’s deal with the mechanics of it then, so we can verify the details. You know what the CPS are like for details. How did you get down there?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You must’ve flown, otherwise you wouldn’t have got there in time. Where did you fly from?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Bristol?’

  Allan sighed, a faint smile creeping across his lips. ‘I took Gavin’s car, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘We’ll talk about Gavin in a minute, if that’s all right. How long’s the flight?’

  ‘You know you’ve got to pay extra for a meal these days. It’s a bloody rip-off.’

  ‘Where did you fly from?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘And you hired a car down there, I suppose?’

  Silence.

  ‘How did you get your crossbow on the plane?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I bought one down there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘I dumped it in the sea opposite their villa.’

  ‘So, that’s six hours travelling and, say, twelve hours down there.’

  ‘I was away for two days all told.’

  ‘Were you working at Castle Amusements at the time?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I started that job on Monday when I got back. I was in between jobs when I went to Spain.’

  ‘Why did you kill them?’

  ‘You know why! I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t worked that out.’

  ‘I need you to tell me, for the tape. You know how it is.’

  ‘They ripped off my bloody pension, didn’t they? And now they’ve got left exactly what I’ve got.’ Allan sneered. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘When did you first meet James Bowen?’

  ‘I dealt with that little shit Craig Pengelly, and he put me on to Bowen. That was two years ago, maybe. Craig contacted me on Facebook; saw that I was a prison officer, I suppose, and suggested I transfer my pension. I was getting divorced at the time and she wanted half of it, so it seemed like a good idea to try and increase the return on what was left.’

  ‘You transferred your pension on the say-so of someone you met on Facebook?’ Dixon tried to hide his small laugh of disbelief. Maybe a career on the stage wasn’t an option.

  ‘I’m not that bloody stupid.’ Allan cleared his throat. ‘I met him for a beer and then had a follow-up meeting at their offices in Weston. That’s when I met Bowen.’

  ‘How long did it all take?’

  ‘About four months. The trustees of the prison service pension fund approved it because Clearwater was registered with the tax office and that was that. The next thing I know Clearwater’s gone under and your lot are on their tails. That’s when I checked my pension statements. Then the tax bill arrived.’

  ‘How much did you have left of your fund?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing.’

  ‘What did you say to the other prison officers you’d recommended to Bowen and Clearwater?’

  ‘What could I say?’

  ‘How many were there?’r />
  ‘Six that I referred to Bowen.’

  ‘Did you get a referral fee?’

  ‘A two hundred quid M&S voucher,’ whispered Allan, clearly too embarrassed to say it out loud.

  Dixon decided it was time to change tack. ‘How many times did you meet Ian Staveley?’

  ‘Who is Ian Staveley?’ demanded Allan’s solicitor.

  ‘He’s the accountant who tried to help us get our money back,’ replied Allan. ‘He was dealing with the income tax demands for us as well.’ He turned to Dixon. ‘We were referred to him by the solicitor; a fat lot of bloody good he was. Ramped up the fees with court proceedings in Spain and we still got sod all back. I met Staveley once. Why?’

  Dixon picked up a large evidence bag on the floor next to his chair and dropped it on the table with a thud. ‘Did you use this bow?’

  No reply.

  ‘We found it under the shower tray in your minibus.’

  Allan gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘For the tape, Frank.’

  ‘That’s my crossbow and I used it to kill Godfrey Collins and Keith Finch.’ He was tipping his head from side to side as he spoke. ‘I used an identical one to kill James Bowen and Miranda Mather.’

  ‘Why did you choose a crossbow?’

  ‘Why not?’ Allan clearly thought it an odd question, turning to his solicitor and frowning. ‘They’re cheap, legal to buy and own, silent, accurate. What more d’you want?’

  ‘Let me ask you about Keith Finch,’ said Dixon.

  ‘The taxman?’

  ‘Tell me about his murder.’

  ‘I was in the field at the back of his house and shot him when he was pruning his roses.’

  ‘Range?’

  ‘Twenty yards, I suppose.’

  ‘What sort of tree was it?’

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to know that? I’m not Monty bloody Don.’

  ‘How many shots?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘You’re sure you fired one bolt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you hit him?’

  ‘In the eye.’

  Dixon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. ‘You see, Finch was hit by two bolts. The first, as far as we can tell, was fired from thirty yards away and hit him in the left cheek, just below the cheekbone.’ He was pointing at his left cheek with his right index finger. ‘About here. The killer then closed in to twenty yards for the kill shot that hit him in the eye.’ He squinted at Allan. ‘And the wind was lighter, if anything, according to the weather report.’

  ‘Yes, two, sorry. The first one pulled a bit. I snatched at it.’

  ‘Why him, though?’

  ‘He was pursuing me for an income tax bill, for fuck’s sake.’ Allan’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘They said I’d made a pension withdrawal and taxed me on it. I’d lost everything and then he lands me with this fucking great bill and tells me to pay up. Just like that!’

  ‘That wasn’t him,’ said Dixon, calmly. ‘He was just the office manager – the poor sod who had the misfortune to have his name on the letters.’

  Allan’s breathing quickened. He looked up at the ceiling, tearing at strips of dry skin on his lips with his teeth.

  ‘What about Godfrey Collins then? Why did you kill him?’

  ‘He was the accountant, wasn’t he?’

  Dixon sensed he was losing Allan, his answers getting shorter as he retreated into his shell, his bragging done; the reality of his situation was sinking in, perhaps. It wouldn’t be long before the ‘no comments’ started coming thick and fast.

  ‘Let’s talk about Gavin.’ Dixon tried a change of subject. ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘At Bristol. I worked my entire life in the prison service until I got the shit kicked out of me, and I’ve got absolutely fucking nothing to show for it, and that little scrotum is released from prison straight into a flat they even furnished for him. And he gets bloody benefits to piss up the wall.’ Allan’s voice was getting louder and louder. ‘While I’m living in a sodding van. So, yeah, I moved in.’

  ‘Did he invite you in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Say you could stay?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. “Leave me be,” he kept saying, over and over.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to hack the fruit machines?’

  ‘Mine. It was easy money once you got the back panel open. A couple of jackpots and leave it at that.’ Allan looked at Dixon and shook his head. ‘Hope some other mug comes along and tops it back up again for you.’

  ‘Was Gavin a willing participant?’

  ‘Look, I tormented the poor lad. It’s not his fault. Really. I suppose I threatened him with the crossbow and the red dot on the sight. I kept shining it at his forehead until he stopped crying and did as he was told.’ He was plucking hairs from his beard and flicking them on the floor. ‘I feel bad about it now.’ Shaking his head at the memory.

  ‘But not the murders?’

  ‘No, not the murders.’

  ‘Did Gavin lend you his car?’

  ‘I took it.’

  ‘Did he know about the murders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, let’s clear up a few loose ends while we’re here. Why the sheep?’

  ‘Got to start somewhere. And you know what they say, practice makes perfect.’

  ‘Why the broadheads with the curved blades?’

  ‘I saw them online and thought it might be fun. They were just like the Clearwater logo and I enjoyed the joke. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  ‘I think my client has cooperated fully, Chief Inspector.’ The solicitor closed her notebook.

  ‘One last question.’ Dixon fixed Allan in a hard stare. ‘How did you kill Godfrey Collins?’

  Allan rolled his eyes. ‘I shot him with my crossbow in Harptree Combe.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How many times did you shoot him?’ Dixon was sliding his pen into his inside jacket pocket. ‘It’s a simple enough question. How many bolts?’

  ‘I . . .’ Allan hesitated. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I think I’d remember,’ said Dixon, turning to Louise. ‘Wouldn’t you, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘He was the first and I panicked,’ mumbled Allan. ‘I really can’t remember how many shots I fired.’

  ‘Was he sitting or standing?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You said Collins was the accountant. He was an accountant, yes, but he had nothing to do with the pension transfer scam; he played no part in it whatsoever. So, I’m wondering why you killed him?’

  Allan bared his gritted teeth. ‘No. Fucking. Comment.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Charlesworth and Potter were lurking in the corridor when Dixon and Louise emerged from the interview room.

  ‘Well done, Nick.’ Charlesworth was rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m looking forward to this press conference.’

  Dixon turned to Potter, hoping the inferences to be drawn from Allan’s interview had not been lost on her, at least. Her response – a shrug – was not altogether encouraging.

  ‘What?’ demanded Charlesworth.

  ‘Do I really have to—?’ Dixon stopped himself just in time, the answer to his question blindingly obvious. ‘Every single piece of information he gave us about the killings on the Costa fits,’ he continued. ‘I have no doubt whatsoever that he was the shooter, but why wouldn’t he tell us how he got down there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charlesworth seemed taken aback. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he knows we’ll check.’ Dixon was on a roll now, his voice gathering momentum. ‘Either way, he didn’t kill Finch, and I don’t believe he killed Collins either. Every single piece of information he gave us about both of their murders is wrong. And look at the accuracy, or rather the lack of it. It must be a different shooter.’

  ‘He admitted it,�
�� protested Charlesworth.

  ‘He lied. He couldn’t even remember how many bolts he’d fired. And if you look at the accuracy with which he despatched Miranda Mather in particular, it’s painfully obvious Collins and Finch were killed by someone else.’

  Charlesworth rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, then allowed his hand to slip down over his eyes. ‘We’ll end up having to extradite Allan to Spain unless you find something on him.’

  ‘A fruit machine scam hardly trumps two murders,’ grumbled Potter.

  ‘There’s conspiracy to murder,’ said Dixon. ‘We can hold him on that and I’ve no doubt the CPS will authorise a charge. There’s clear planning: they’re using the same weapon, the same broadheads, and whoever reconnoitred Finch’s bungalow also used Gavin’s car to do it.’

  ‘Well, Allan’s not going anywhere, is he?’ said Charlesworth. ‘He’ll have spent his whole bloody life in prison by the time he snuffs it.’

  ‘What do we tell them at the press conference?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Dixon, turning for the door. ‘Cancel it.’

  Dixon, Cole and Louise were back in Area J by lunchtime. Allan’s further detention had been authorised and he remained in custody, while Gavin was on his way home to Weston.

  Mark was sitting in front of his computer and some of the other workstations were occupied, but most of the major investigation team were out and about. ‘Jez was looking for you, Sir,’ he said. ‘Something about moving some of the team to other duties now you’ve made an arrest.’

  ‘It’s not over until I say it’s over.’

  ‘She said she’d come back later.’

  ‘How have you got on?’

  ‘Nothing from Bristol airport, so I’m trying Cardiff, Exeter and Birmingham now. That’s just ticket bookings in his name; if he travelled on a false passport then we’re looking at hours and hours of CCTV. It’ll take months.’

  ‘Anything on Gavin’s bank account?’

  ‘Nothing.’