Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘May have seen him down the Bearpit a few days ago,’ mumbled the third.

  ‘Thanks. We’ll try down there.’ Dixon dropped his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Cole. He was standing in front of the noticeboard with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘One of them saw him a couple of days ago down at the Bearpit.’

  ‘He was only released from Leyhill this morning.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Andrea hung a sign in the Perspex window – back in 5 minutes – and then locked the door of the office behind her. ‘You said he was in danger.’ She hesitated by the keypad to the inner door, her finger hovering over the numbers. ‘What sort of danger?’

  ‘We have reason to believe someone will try to kill him if they find him before we do.’

  ‘And he’s done nothing wrong?’

  ‘Nothing that he hasn’t already been punished for. He was released from prison this morning.’

  She turned to face him, her face paler, if that was possible, although it may just have been the light. ‘He’s not here.’ Her eyes darted from Dixon to the three in the corner and back again, clearly nervous at being seen talking to the police. ‘He came in this afternoon, but we’re full, so I had to turn him away. He said he’s got a tent so he could be anywhere. He had money for food too.’

  ‘His fiancée’s parents gave him fifty quid,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Fiancée?’ Andrea frowned. ‘There was nobody with him.’

  ‘She drowned. She was on a yacht that capsized.’

  ‘A sad story. Everyone here has one of them.’

  ‘Let’s try the Downs,’ said Dixon, when Cole climbed into the Land Rover in the Trenchard St car park. He’d watched Cole pay for the parking on a card and keep the receipt, even turning out his pockets to prove to the young couple still hanging around the paystation that he had no change.

  The light was starting to fade as they drove along Circular Road, a few dog walkers on the Downs to their right, the cliffs of the Avon Gorge to their left, warning signs at regular intervals along the wall in front of the seating areas: Danger, Cliff Edge, Keep Out.

  An easterly wind cooling the air was bringing with it the smells of the zoo. Dixon wound up the window of the Land Rover. ‘Cows I can deal with, but that.’

  ‘Beats the car park,’ said Cole.

  Dixon was inclined to agree. ‘You’d be in or near the trees, wouldn’t you, rather than out in the open.’ He was thinking aloud as he drove. It was a familiar spot, although it had been a while, and he’d never lingered long at the top of the cliffs anyway; loop the ropes round a tree and abseil straight back down to start another climb had always been the order of the day. ‘Plenty of time to rest when you’re dead,’ his old climbing partner, Jake, had said with a broad grin the last time they had climbed together. Dixon smiled at the memory.

  Jake was getting lots of rest now.

  ‘There are some down there.’ Cole was pointing into the trees out of the passenger window when Dixon parked the Land Rover. ‘There’s a light on in one of them.’

  They followed the path behind the bin at the end of the seating area, the undergrowth opening out into a small clearing, the light going off in the tent furthest from them as they approached.

  ‘Hello?’ Cole grabbed hold of the hooped tent pole and shook it. ‘Police, we saw the light. You’re not in trouble and we won’t be moving you on. We just need to ask if you’ve seen someone.’

  No reply.

  ‘They’re not in trouble either, so you won’t be snitching.’

  The zip started to open slowly, then a head poked out, blinking furiously in the light from Dixon’s phone. ‘I haven’t got any drugs.’

  ‘We’re not buying, thanks,’ he said.

  The girl gave a nervous smile before crawling out of the tent on her hands and knees.

  ‘Is there anyone else in there?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Just me.’ She stood up and began zipping up her padded coat.

  ‘We’re looking for this man.’ Cole held his phone out. ‘He’s got a tent, so we wondered if you might have seen him up here?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘What about that tent over there?’

  ‘They’ve gone down the Bearpit for some food; won’t be back for ages.’

  ‘You got money?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘Nobody gives a shit.’

  ‘Eighteen or nineteen, I’d say,’ Cole said, when they climbed back into the Land Rover a few minutes later.

  ‘Tell uniform and get them to keep an eye on her.’ Dixon turned the key, the diesel engine taking longer than usual to stop rattling. ‘Make sure they don’t move her on.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We’ll try down the Bearpit, then call it a day, I think.’

  The damp, stale smell of urine – the stench of despair; at least the wind had whistled through the car park, but the Bearpit was underground. Five pedestrian subways leading to an open space in the middle of the A38, oddly quiet despite the traffic racing around the roundabout above their heads.

  Flickering streetlights casting an orange glow added to Dixon’s feeling of unease as they walked down one of the tunnels, two people sleeping in the gutter beside them.

  All the cafes and kiosks had closed some time ago, and metal shutters protected what was left of them. High metal fencing blocked the areas around the edge that were under cover of the road, where the homeless had built their shelters.

  ‘You need to watch yourself down here, Sir. I don’t care what that Molly says, there’s lots of spice about and most of it’ll be down here.’

  Dixon was stepping over pavement art chalked on the ground. ‘A good place to find Craig then.’

  One kiosk remained open. Dixon watched the queue shuffling forward; food and a hot drink handed out, no money taken. The sign over the shutter explained why: The Hobb’s Lane Collective.

  ‘They’d be better off filling it in with concrete and putting footbridges over the roundabout,’ said Cole.

  Suddenly the people at the far end of the Bearpit started to disperse, some running down the subways.

  ‘Hello, Nige! What are you doing here?’

  Dixon turned at the sound of a hand landing on Cole’s shoulder, to find two uniformed officers standing behind them.

  ‘We’re supposed to be making discreet enquiries as to the whereabouts of a witness, Constable,’ said Dixon, impatiently.

  ‘This is DCI Dixon.’ Cole dived in before anyone could put their foot in it.

  ‘No chance of that down here, Sir.’ The officer was shining his torch at Dixon’s warrant card. ‘They’re all off their boxes on spice. It’s not safe down here, either, so I wouldn’t hang about if I were you.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable.’

  ‘If it’s that Pengelly lad you’re after, we’ve had the alert and we’re keeping an eye out for him, Sir, don’t you worry.’

  Chapter Thirty

  It had been an unfortunate turn of phrase and Dixon was still stewing on it when he arrived home; the idea of anyone ‘keeping an eye out’ was enough to turn his stomach at the moment. Still, the uniformed officer couldn’t have known – the murderer’s preferred kill shot having been kept a closely guarded secret.

  The familiar sound of his diesel engine had been enough and Monty was waiting for him behind the back door when Dixon pushed it open, the cottage dark except for the flicker of a black and white film on the television screen.

  ‘What’s she fallen asleep in front of this time, old son?’ whispered Dixon, squatting down and scratching his dog behind the ears.

  ‘The 39 Steps.’ Jane sat up on the sofa, yawning and pausing the film with the remote control.

  ‘Has he been out?’

  ‘Just in the field at the back.’ Another yawn as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I ripped my jeans on that bloody barbed wire. I was going to cu
t it, but if he reported it, that’d be criminal damage, wouldn’t it? Career over.’

  ‘I’ll cover it with some tape when I get a minute, or maybe some polystyrene. Then we haven’t damaged anything, have we.’

  Jane held up the kettle. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Ta.’ Dixon was squatting down in front of the fridge, his fingers hooked in Monty’s collar.

  ‘There’s one of your Slimming World veggie things in the freezer.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ He dragged it out and started piercing the film lid with a sharp knife. ‘Is Lucy still down at the weekend?’

  ‘She’s grounded.’ Jane shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘Try me.’ Dixon was watching his curry on the turntable, waiting for the ping.

  ‘Judy caught her exchanging messages with grown men in some online chat room. She was telling them she was fourteen and had even arranged to meet one of them at Birmingham New Street; paedophile hunting, apparently.’ She banged two mugs down on the worktop. ‘The idiot. She’d been in touch with one of those vigilante groups on Facebook, so it seems to be true.’

  ‘Silly arse could’ve ended up in deep shit.’

  ‘I spoke to her and she promised me faithfully she wasn’t going to the meeting on her own. And she’d probably have chickened out anyway.’ Jane handed Dixon a mug of tea. ‘Judy threatened to tell her social worker, which put the fear of God into her, so hopefully that’s the end of it. I told her it would be the end of any chance of a career in the police, so she’s promised me she’s not going to do it again.’

  ‘How long have we got?’ Dixon couldn’t help a mischievous grin.

  ‘She’s grounded for two weeks.’ Jane smiled as she blew the steam off her tea.

  ‘I wonder if he turned up?’

  ‘Judy told the local police, so if he did the nonce would’ve got more than he bargained for.’ Jane watched Dixon sit down on the sofa, Monty jumping up next to him, sniffing his curry. ‘Shall I switch the film on?’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ He pushed Monty on to the floor. ‘And you can hop it.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Two shooters, one still at large and the powers that be at Leyhill decide to release their next victim from his comfy cell.’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘You couldn’t make it up.’ Dixon took a mouthful of curry. ‘We’ve spent the day traipsing around Bristol looking for him; just missed him at St Govan’s and he told them there he’d got a tent, so the local lot are keeping an eye out for him on the Downs. He’d been at the Hobb’s Lane Collective too, I think.’

  ‘Knows his way around then.’

  ‘He certainly seems to. And he’ll know we’re looking for him by now as well.’

  ‘How’s Lou and everybody getting on at Portishead?’

  ‘Fine, I think. Nigel’s enjoying swanning about in plain clothes.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘He is, actually. And when the shit hits the fan, he’s the one I’d want watching my back.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t.’ Jane stood up and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Rural Crimes team, my backside.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Dixon was holding the empty plastic tray for Monty to lick the last of the curry sauce. ‘I’m going to take him out, I think. Clear my head; too many unanswered questions going round and round. I’ll never sleep.’

  ‘Wake me up when you get back,’ she said, turning for the stairs.

  Cold nights and warm days; autumn had arrived with a vengeance, a week or two early compared to last year, thought Dixon, as he reached into the back of the Land Rover for his coat. It was no time to be bedding down for the night in a shop doorway somewhere, and even a tent would be pretty bloody miserable come winter. He’d done it, of course he had, ice climbing in Scotland and the Alps, but then he’d had the proper stuff: winter sleeping bag, down jacket, thermal boots. Craig and the other poor buggers on the street had none of that, and what little they did have some hooligan would merrily set fire to if he had half the chance. Now there was someone for Dixon to focus his energies on; maybe he’d pay the would-be arsonists a visit when this crossbow business was over.

  One way or the other.

  The spice sellers too. How hard could it be? He’d never worked the Drug Squad, so maybe there was more to it than following a drug dealer home and then raiding his crack house; following the county line back to London perhaps? No matter how many you arrest, more step forward to take their place and off you go on the merry-go-round again.

  Maybe he’d stick to murder after all? At least murder cases have a beginning, a middle and an end.

  A walk up Brent Knoll by moonlight always helped to clear his head, although tonight was more about identifying the questions than finding answers to them.

  He started counting them out on his fingers, but didn’t get past number one: what was the connection between Godfrey Collins and the other victims? Try as they might, Louise and Mark had still drawn a blank. There was that twerp Tressider, but was he really going to kill four people because his stepfather had lost his pension and his fiancée owed twenty-seven grand in tax? Was he even capable of it?

  Was he bollocks.

  Dixon had looked plenty of murderers in the eye, all of them different, with different methods and motives, and one thing he knew for sure was that Tressider was no killer – capable of theft, and speeding in that flash car, drugs possibly, but killing?

  So, round we go again: what is the connection between Godfrey Collins and the other victims?

  Dixon lifted Monty over the stile into the field at the top of the lane, the dog landing in a puddle on the other side. ‘You’ll have to go in the bloody bath when we get back now.’

  There were other questions as he scanned the night sky for that comet that was doing the rounds, but whatever they were, they paled into insignificance next to the Godfrey Collins question. Even Frank Allan had resorted to ‘no comment’ when he’d asked him that one.

  Don’t bloody blame him.

  He squatted down and shone the light on his phone at Monty’s paws. ‘You’re covered in mud, old son,’ he said. ‘Just make sure you sleep on your mother’s side of the bed. And for God’s sake don’t wake her up. I’m tired enough as it is.’

  The knock on the door and Monty’s growling were both gradually increasing in volume, Dixon finally being dragged back to his senses by loud banging and barking. Then Monty jumped off the bed and ran downstairs, the thud signalling that he had launched himself at the front door.

  Jane’s eyes were still closed. ‘What time is it?’

  Dixon reached for his phone on the bedside table. ‘Ten to seven.’ He ignored the three missed calls.

  ‘You were supposed to wake me up when you got back.’

  He shrugged. ‘It was late and you looked so peaceful.’

  Jane sat up and stared at the duvet. ‘You didn’t wash his legs off when you got back last night, did you?’

  ‘I’ll go and see who it is.’

  Dixon hastily pulled on a pair of trousers and ran downstairs, catching Monty scrabbling at the front door. The figure visible through the frosted glass could only be one person, judging by the size. ‘It’s the Rural Crimes team,’ he shouted to Jane, who was by now standing at the top of the stairs in Dixon’s bathrobe.

  ‘Invite him in for a coffee.’

  ‘What is it, Nigel?’ Dixon hid a yawn behind the back of his hand as he opened the door.

  ‘It’s not Craig, Sir, don’t worry. I just thought you’d want to make an early start.’

  ‘Have you been into Area J?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Lou’s there, and Mark. Still no sign of Craig, but then I had a bit of a thought overnight.’

  Dixon stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Jane appeared at the top of the stairs in jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Hello, Nige, how’s life in Rural Crimes?’

  ‘My wife’s loving it,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘Sh
e’s not seen me for days.’

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘You eaten?’

  ‘I don’t tend to bother with breakfast.’

  Dixon busied himself with the coffee, Monty sitting by the dog food cupboard wagging his tail. ‘And you, don’t panic.’

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure . . . ?’

  ‘At this time in the morning,’ muttered Dixon, finishing Jane’s sentence for her. ‘He’s had a thought, apparently.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cole. ‘I’m not sure how far it takes us, but . . .’ His voice lost momentum and he frowned, clearly unsure that what he had to say was worth the trouble after all.

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’ Dixon handed him a mug of coffee. ‘There’s no sugar in the house, but there’s a—’

  ‘Without’s fine.’

  ‘C’mon, Nige, the suspense is killing me,’ said Jane.

  ‘Right, well, let’s say for the sake of argument, you’ve got an old photo on your phone and you want to make it look like you took it a couple of days ago. You open the photo, zoom in a bit maybe, and then take a screenshot of it. Then, when you look at the new photo it’ll show the date and time the screenshot was taken at the top,’ continued Cole. ‘Not the original photograph.’

  ‘There’s a separate album for screenshots,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t see that if someone just shows you the photo on their phone.’

  Dixon leaned back against the worktop as the significance of what Cole was saying hit home. ‘Someone checked his alibi?’

  ‘They did, Sir,’ replied Cole.

  ‘Actually went to Longleat and checked?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Let’s hope they asked the right questions.’

  ‘Whose alibi?’ asked Jane.

  ‘John Sims.’ Dixon gritted his teeth. ‘Mr squeaky-clean, happy-to-help, prison officer John Sims. He said he’d been on a three day carp fishing trip when Collins was killed and showed me a picture of the fish he’d caught.’