by Damien Boyd
‘Let’s assume I’m right and someone else really did kill Finch. Why kill him the same day Allan kills Bowen and Mather?’
‘Finch would have been at work Monday to Friday,’ offered Cole. ‘So, Saturday morning would have been the first chance to catch him in his back garden.’
‘We’re supposed to think all four were killed by the same person, aren’t we, so maybe they timed it deliberately to make us think the killer flew down to the Costa del Sol?’ replied Louise. ‘If he went another way, we’d be checking flights to and from Malaga from here, there and everywhere, chasing our tails for months on end and coming up with nothing.’
Dixon turned to Mark. ‘Check the ferries and Channel Tunnel. Give them Gavin’s car registration number and see if it pops up anywhere.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘The bolts had been wiped clean and there was no DNA either,’ replied Louise. ‘Apart from the victim’s, of course.’
‘Finch was killed by someone else.’ Dixon was sitting on the windowsill talking to himself. ‘Someone who must have been driving a different car because Allan had Gavin’s. Let’s get the crime scene photographs from the sheep killings over to Scientific, Nigel. Ask their photo boffin to see if they can identify three sets of footprints. Allan’s, the farmer’s and A. N. Other’s.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We need Dave to start checking cars again, really. When are they due back?’
‘They get in at ten-thirty tonight and he said he’d come in,’ replied Mark, his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.
‘Anything popping up on the mobile phones?’
‘Allan’s had a pay-as-you-go SIM in it, Sir,’ replied Louise, from behind her computer screen. ‘Only activated a couple of days ago. A trace shows he never left the Burnham area in that time, just moving between the seafront and the campsite.’
‘No calls on it?’
‘None. Just data usage.’
‘How are we doing with the rest of the pension scam victims?’
‘We’re going through them now, Sir.’ Louise sat back in her chair and pushed herself away from her workstation. ‘None own a crossbow, or rather none will admit to owning a crossbow. We found a couple more who’d used Ian Staveley to help them with the income tax. He’d done a bit of advertising, apparently. “Have you transferred your pension and been landed with an income tax bill?” – that sort of thing. He picked up a few clients from that. Oh, and that prepper bloke Tressider, it turns out his stepfather is one of the pension scam victims.’
‘He was on the crossbow list,’ said Cole, looking up.
‘His stepfather’s lost his pension, his fiancée’s up to her armpits in the loan charge thing and he owns three crossbows.’ Dixon sighed. ‘Let’s pick him up and see what he’s got to say for himself.’
‘Shall I see if Nailsea police station have got an interview room?’ asked Louise. ‘Although it’s only a back office in the fire station, these d—’
‘You’re sure?’ Mark’s voice had gone from background murmur to drowning out those around him, the phone still clamped to his ear. ‘Thursday night; Plymouth to Santander. Who was driving the car?’ He turned to Dixon and raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t know. What about the ticket?’
Dixon waited.
‘A prepaid credit card in the name of Gavin Curtis; departing Plymouth Thursday night, arriving Santander Saturday morning. What about CCTV at the ferry terminal and on the ferry? Yes, Portishead. Thank you.’ Mark finished scribbling a note of the conversation before replacing the handset.
‘Get on to Sergio Alvaro and see what they’ve got at the Spanish end,’ said Dixon. ‘And we’d better get someone down to Brittany Ferries to keep on top of that CCTV footage.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I wonder how long it takes to drive from Santander down to Malaga?’
‘Nine hours and thirty-seven minutes. I’m googling it now,’ replied Cole. ‘The crafty buggers.’
‘That’s it then.’ Dixon curled his lip. ‘Allan couldn’t have killed Keith Finch – he’d have been on a Spanish motorway at the time – which means there really is another shooter with a crossbow out there.’
‘We were supposed to believe his confession and not be looking for anyone else.’
‘You’re starting to sound like the assistant chief constable, Nigel,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ll use Weston to see Tressider. Then we’ll go and see Craig; see what he remembers about Frank Allan.’
‘I’ll ring Leyhill.’ Louise picked up her phone.
‘Then there’s Collins,’ said Cole, nodding. ‘Did you see Allan’s reaction when you asked him why he killed him?’
Dixon had become distracted listening to Louise’s end of the conversation with someone at Leyhill open prison.
‘What? When?’ She looked at him, her mouth pinched in fury. ‘You were supposed to let us know when he was being released! What address did he give?’ She was scribbling on the notepad in front of her. ‘Postcode? Yes, I know it’s not your fault.’ She mouthed ‘his parents’ as she handed the notepad up to Dixon, who was leaning over the partition. ‘I’m sorry if I—’ She stopped mid-sentence when she heard the dial tone.
Dixon had disconnected the call, his finger still pressed down on the hook. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘There’s someone out there killing the people who ripped off his pension and some bright spark at Leyhill has just released his next target. “Sorry” doesn’t come into it.’
‘I came in here for a burglary once.’ Cole was admiring the immaculate front lawns as Dixon turned in to Wavering Down Rise. ‘They’ve all got alarms on them now; the crime prevention officer saw to that.’
‘They’re nice houses.’
‘Prime targets, more like. You’ve got the A38 and the A371 for your getaway, then there’s the motorway. And they stick out like a sore thumb on the side of the hill here.’
That much was true. Dixon had often noticed the small development of big houses as he sped by on the A38. Maybe on a detective superintendent’s salary he might just be able to afford the smallest one, tucked away in the corner?
Cole was scrolling furiously on his phone in the passenger seat. ‘Number one went for six hundred grand in 2006, according to the sold prices on Rightmove.’
Maybe not, then.
‘Who needs a six bedroom house, I ask you?’ Cole was warming up, his rant gathering pace and volume.
‘A family with four kids?’
‘Bollocks. Get ’em bloody bunk beds.’
Number fourteen was in the far corner. The view from the back might be worth seeing – looking south-east over Cheddar Reservoir, unless it was blocked by a hedge or trees.
‘They bought it in 2007 for five-seven-five.’ Cole swiped across, glancing at the old estate agent’s photographs. ‘And what’s that small bay window above the front door all about? The flat roof’s a recipe for disaster.’
‘We’re not here for a bloody viewing, Nige,’ said Dixon, looking up at the house as he turned off the engine. Rendered and painted cream, three dormer windows on the second floor set into the terracotta roof tiles; and he had to admit Cole had a point about the bay window, perhaps. The leaded windows would be a pain to clean too.
Dixon knocked on the solid oak front door, peering through the narrow windows either side. They looked more like the arrow slits you’d find in the ruins of a medieval castle and were a trifle disconcerting, given the current situation.
‘Mrs Pengelly?’ he asked, when the door finally opened. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Dixon, and this is Constable Cole.’
‘What’s he done now?’ She sighed. ‘Is he even out yet?’
‘I take it Craig isn’t here?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not welcome here. He knows that, even if you don’t.’
‘Only he gave this address.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have done.’
‘May we come in?’ Dixo
n was conscious that the neighbour pruning the hedge was craning her neck to listen.
Mrs Pengelly stepped back into the hall. ‘I was just going out.’ She gestured to a Land Rover Discovery parked on the drive, two black labradors watching them from the side window at the back. ‘This way,’ she said, making no effort to hide her reluctance. Blue jeans, a navy blue pullover, blue waxed jacket; at least the wellington boots sitting on the mat inside the back door were green. Someone was sitting on the verandah outside, his or her face buried in a broadsheet newspaper. ‘That’s my husband. He’s a management consultant and works from home.’ She leaned out through the open patio doors. ‘Michael, the police are here. Again.’
Cole sat down at the kitchen island and placed his notebook on the black granite worktop, the rustle of the broadsheet newspaper outside carrying over the scraping of the wooden stool on the tiled floor. There was a good deal of huffing and puffing too, although Dixon couldn’t hear what was being said; apart from the expletives.
Michael slammed his folded newspaper down on the worktop as he stepped into the kitchen. ‘I take it this is about Craig?’ Red corduroys and a check shirt open at the neck.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘Is he out yet?’
‘He was released this morning and gave this address.’
‘He’s not here.’ Michael was filling the kettle, an offer of a cup of tea not forthcoming even when his wife glared at him and nodded in Cole’s direction.
‘How many children d’you have?’ asked Dixon, turning his back on the view of Cheddar Reservoir.
‘Three.’
‘Two,’ snapped Michael. It was his turn to glare at his wife now. ‘Jasper is up at Oxford and Charlotte works in the City. She’s a solicitor at Clifford Chance.’
‘And what about Craig?’
‘He’s no son of mine.’ Calm and detached.
Dixon had guessed as much from the photo montage mounted on the wall in the hall. He had glanced at it on his way through to the kitchen; a boy and a girl at various stages of growing up. And not a single picture of Craig. ‘Either he is your son, or he isn’t. Now which is it?’
‘We no longer have any contact with him,’ said Mrs Pengelly. ‘He’s our eldest and let’s just say he went off the rails.’
‘You saw him at Laura’s memorial service,’ said Dixon.
‘We went out of respect for her parents, really. Not for Craig.’ She turned away. ‘We didn’t speak to him.’
Now was not the time to pull punches. ‘Let me be absolutely clear about what’s going on here.’ Dixon was bristling and making no real effort to hide it. ‘There’s someone out there with a crossbow killing the people involved in the pension transfer scam. James Bowen is dead; Miranda Mather is dead; Keith Finch is dead; Godfrey Collins is dead. And that leaves Craig.’
‘Well, that’s his lookout, isn’t it.’ Michael Pengelly remained oddly impassive as he poured himself a coffee.
‘Who’s Keith Finch?’ Mrs Pengelly spoke idly, pretending to look for something in her handbag. ‘I don’t remember that name.’
‘He was the enforcement officer at HM Revenue and Customs.’
‘Just doing his job.’ Michael sneered. ‘Did he have family?’
‘A wife and daughter.’
‘There’s a grandchild too,’ said Cole, looking up.
‘Another of Craig’s victims.’ Michael tipped his coffee down the sink and reached for a tumbler. ‘I don’t remember a Godfrey Collins either.’
‘Michael, it’s too early for that,’ whispered Mrs Pengelly, watching her husband take a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard.
A measure of whisky to match the measure of defiance as he raised his glass to her and took a swig.
‘When I met him,’ said Dixon, ‘he told me that he was an innocent victim of the pension scam; that he’d been used by Bowen and Mather. Wasn’t he a trainee financial adviser at the time?’
‘He never studied a day in his life and certainly never sat any of the exams. And he knew full well what he was doing.’ Michael drained his glass and reached for the bottle. ‘The jury didn’t believe that innocent victim story and neither did we.’
‘You were at the trial?’
‘We were.’ Mrs Pengelly jabbed her car keys at Dixon. ‘Each and every day. We’ve stood by that boy through thick and thin, but the guilty verdict was the end. No more.’ Her jaw was clenched, no sign of a tear, let alone a hint of regret. ‘Everyone has their breaking point.’
‘Talk to me about the thick and thin.’
Michael let out an exaggerated sigh, long and loud. ‘It started when he was expelled from school.’
‘What for?’
‘Drugs.’
‘He was an occasional user.’ Mrs Pengelly spoke softly, almost embarrassed to say it. ‘That’s all he’d ever admit to anyway.’
‘Then there was the vandalism.’ Michael raised his eyebrows at his wife. ‘D’you remember that? Cost us a pretty packet to get him out of that.’
‘And he burgled a neighbour’s house. We paid for him to go travelling after that; Australia and the Far East. Then when he got back things started going missing. We didn’t notice it at first, until he took that painting of your mother’s.’ Mrs Pengelly was watching her husband taking another swig of whisky. ‘He was stealing from us, selling it at auction and buying drugs and alcohol. So, we did what we had to do.’
‘Rehab?’ asked Cole.
‘God, we tried that. Three times at the Priory and each time he was back to his old ways within a month. No, we kicked him out.’
‘He went to Bristol for a while and then came back; ended up living in some shithole in Burnham.’ Michael was leaning against the worktop and starting to sway, a slight slur creeping in. ‘That’s when he met Laura.’
‘A ray of sunshine, she was.’ Mrs Pengelly managed a smile at the memory. ‘He got a job, not that he kept it for long. They had this idea they were going to buy a derelict barn in France and do it up. They were going to live in a caravan and do the work themselves, then sell it on and do another and another.’
‘He came to us for the money,’ mumbled Michael. ‘And we gave it to him.’
‘No, we didn’t. We said we’d buy the barn for them, but we wouldn’t just hand over the cash. God knows where it would have ended up. So, we bought the barn.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ve still got it. The bloody thing’s crumbling away in a field just outside Plouvien. It’d make a nice little gîte, or whatever they call it.’
‘D’you know where he is now?’
‘No.’
‘Would Charlotte or Jasper have spoken to him?’
‘No. I’m not sure he’d even know where they are,’ replied Mrs Pengelly.
‘Where d’you think he could be then?’
‘Laura had a friend in Bristol and they were sleeping on the sofa when Craig was on bail. They had to give an address and we said no.’
‘What about Laura’s parents?’
‘They knew nothing about it until he was sent down. They didn’t even know she was pregnant.’
Dixon thought he saw the first sign of a tear in the corner of Mrs Pengelly’s eye.
‘He or she would’ve been our first grandchild,’ she said, wiping her cheek with her finger.
‘So, what you’re saying is you have no idea where he might be.’
‘He spent time living on the streets in Bristol. Maybe he went back there?’
‘I can tell you exactly where he’s gone.’ Michael was waving his tumbler at Dixon. ‘Back to the bloody gutter where he belongs.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Looks all right when the tide’s in, doesn’t it, Sir?’
‘It’s going out.’ That much was clear from the wet sand under the wheels of his Land Rover as Dixon drove along the beach at Uphill towards the Weston Bay Yacht Club. People were moving about on several boats moored on the River Axe; others further out and motoring in after an early morning’s sailin
g in the Bristol Channel.
The clubhouse was up on stilts, a line of black seaweed marking high water at the bottom of the steps, the waves now lapping on the sand some twenty yards down the beach, the sun shimmering on the first sliver of grey mud as the water receded along the banks of the tidal river. Another couple of hours and the yachts would be sitting on the mud, their keels buried deep until the tide lifted them off again.
Beyond the clubhouse a line of cars and vans had been reversed as tight as possible to the dunes, the high water mark a few feet from their front bumpers.
‘It was a ten point two metre tide.’ Cole was looking at his phone. ‘I suppose they get to know when it’s safe to park on the beach and when it’s not.’
‘I suppose they do.’ Ten point two metres wouldn’t have left enough room at Berrow, but there was always the church car park.
‘They had a spate of break-ins a couple of years back.’ Cole slid his phone into his jacket pocket. ‘Some of the boats and the old clubhouse.’
‘Don’t tell me, that was Craig as well.’
‘No idea, Sir. We never nicked anyone for it.’
Dixon was backing up to the dunes. ‘We’ll ask in the clubhouse. Someone’s bound to know where they are.’
Five minutes later they were walking along the beach towards the pontoon, a small yacht moored on the end facing towards them and out to sea. ‘Summoning up the courage,’ the bar steward had said. ‘It’s their first time out since . . . you know . . .’
Dixon knew.
‘You’re looking for a boat called Laura’s Dream.’
And there it was. They’d managed the short trip from the marina at Uphill on the last high tide, but had sat this one out at the pontoon. It would be dark for the next and they’d only booked the pontoon for three days. The bar steward had been a mine of information.
Louise had rung ahead, so Geoffrey and Pamela Dicken were expecting them, Geoffrey most anxious that they shouldn’t have to go over it all again. He’d been at pains to impress that on Louise and she had passed it on, as she promised she would.
Geoffrey was waiting for them on deck, making a half-hearted effort to polish something.