Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Or a screenshot of a fish he’d caught years ago,’ said Cole, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Let’s get a team outside his house, discreetly, and we’ll need Armed Response. I want everyone on scene wearing body armour too.’ Dixon emptied his coffee into the sink. ‘We’ll catch them up later.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Longleat.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘You been to Longleat before, Sir?’

  Dixon was sitting in the passenger seat of Cole’s pool car as they sped east on the A361, looking at the map on his phone.

  ‘It’s a grand day out.’ Cole was adjusting the rear view mirror. ‘I’d take Jane’s car though, if I were you. The monkeys will have your windscreen wipers and your aerial. They’ll love that snorkel you’ve got on your air intake too.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

  ‘The house is a far cry from the Bearpit too,’ continued Cole. ‘How the other half live, eh, Sir.’

  Dixon was busy dialling a number on his phone.

  ‘Tim Robinson, Shearwater bailiff.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset police. You gave a statement a few days ago about John Sims.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m on my way now and I’d like to speak to you about it. Are you at the lake?’

  ‘I’m a bit busy . . .’ Robinson admitted defeat before his protest had really got going. ‘I’m on the other side of the estate; I can be there in half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon. ‘We’re in a dark blue Skoda.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

  Cole followed the track past the Shearwater Lake Tea Rooms and along the side of the lake, the concrete slabs making a dull rhythmic thud under the wheels of the car. ‘You wouldn’t want to fish too near this, the noise’d put the fish off.’ He was craning his neck to see the nearside as he squeezed past cars parked on the grass verge.

  ‘They get used to it,’ said Dixon. ‘On a quiet evening they’ll patrol up and down here looking for the bread people have thrown in for the ducks.’

  There were a few cars scattered around the gravel car park in the trees, rowing boats lying upside down on the grass. And a dark green Land Rover, sign written Longleat Estate.

  ‘That must be the bailiff’s.’ Dixon was out of the car before Cole had taken off his seatbelt, striding out along the vacant pontoon, his reflection following him on the surface of the lake. Small fish were flitting in and out of the weed, which was starting to die back as the nights drew in.

  A light drizzle smoothed out the faint ripple on the surface, blurring the mirror image of the trees on the near bank, a few anglers occupying pegs, the tips of their rods sticking out into the lake from between the bushes.

  ‘You a fisherman, Inspector?’

  He turned to find the bailiff walking along the pontoon towards him. The logo on his green coat was the giveaway: Longleat Estate: Water Bailiff.

  ‘When I was a lad.’ Dixon smiled – best to get him onside before asking the difficult questions. ‘I keep threatening to dig out my rods. They’re in the loft, I think.’

  ‘You’d be most welcome here.’ Robinson was rubbing his hands together. ‘We’ve got some great fishing.’

  ‘Pike?’

  ‘Carp, mainly.’

  Dixon nodded his ‘oh, well’ rather than saying it out loud, but Robinson understood it well enough. ‘We need to ask you about John Sims.’

  ‘I’ve printed off the bookings sheet so you can see when he was here.’ Robinson took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Dixon. ‘He’s become quite a regular since he retired. Three nights most weeks, sometimes longer. What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Didn’t our colleagues tell you when they took your statement?’

  ‘No. It was just a phone call, to check he was here when he said he was. And he was.’

  ‘We’ll come on to that in a minute.’ Dixon unfolded the piece of paper, shielding it from the rain as best he could. ‘He told me he was here for four days last time. On peg six.’

  ‘It’s along that bank.’ Robinson gestured along the near bank.

  ‘You allow night fishing?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look then.’

  Dixon and Cole followed Robinson along the narrow path that weaved through the trees, tyre tracks from anglers’ trolleys visible in the wet mud. Dixon could just imagine Donald Watson’s reaction if he asked Scientific to take plaster casts of the tyres; and besides, there was no question that Sims’s fishing tackle had been at the lake. Robinson had been quite clear in his statement that it had been on peg six for the days and nights booked.

  Robinson tiptoed past a zipped up tent in the trees by the path, turning to Dixon with his index finger across his lips. Opposite the tent were three fishing rods on a stand, little red lights on bite alarms ready to wake up the slumbering angler inside if – or when, if you believed Robinson – a fish took the bait.

  ‘They’ll have been on the go all night, I expect,’ whispered Robinson. ‘It fishes well along this bank in the dark. Just before dusk and just before dawn are the best times.’ The trees opened out again at peg four, an elderly man sitting on a deck chair, his one rod propped up on a small tackle box. ‘Some just come for the day,’ said Robinson. ‘Night fishing’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’

  Another gap in the bushes along the water’s edge, vacant this time, an overhanging tree jutting out into the water, its lower branches submerged.

  ‘I’ve got to do something about that.’ Robinson was talking to himself now, surely? ‘Get a good fish on and chances are it’ll snag; another job for the winter.’

  He stopped in the next swim; vacant, but there were footprints in the soft mud down at the water’s edge, holes in the ground where bank sticks had been driven in for fishing rods to sit on, and an area of grass behind the path flattened, presumably by a tent or bivvy.

  ‘This is peg six,’ said Robinson. ‘John was here.’

  ‘Where was his tent?’

  ‘It was here.’ Robinson gestured to a narrow strip of grass on the lake side of the path. ‘It’s not flat but he’d have been nearer his rods. Most people camp the other side of the path.’

  ‘Let’s start with his most recent visit. How many times did you see him during the four days and nights he was here?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Several times.’ Robinson frowned, maybe sensing he was in for a rigorous cross-examination. ‘I saw him the first morning to take his money in the lodge over there. Then I’d do my rounds every morning and late afternoon.’

  ‘And what does doing your rounds consist of?’

  ‘Just walking around the lake, chatting to people, seeing if anyone’s had any good fish overnight, that they’ve got the proper kit and are complying with the rules.’

  ‘The bloke asleep in the tent back there, have you seen him this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake him up. He’s there, though. You can tell because he’s cast out. He’d never have left his rods unattended in case a fish took the bait. And if I found anyone doing that they’d get a ban as well.’

  ‘And John Sims the same. You didn’t actually see him because you didn’t want to wake him up. Is that right?’

  ‘His rods were in the water, so he must’ve been there.’ A slight tremble was creeping into Robinson’s voice. ‘And he’s one of our regulars.’

  ‘So, he’d have known you wouldn’t wake him up in the morning?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Let me make sure I understand this correctly then,’ said Dixon, ignoring the smile creeping across Cole’s face. ‘You didn’t actually see him. You made an assumption he was here because his rods were in the water and his tent was zipped up.’

  ‘Er, that’s right.’

  ‘Let me give you another scenario then,’ said Dixon, scuffing the ground with his foot. ‘He needs
an alibi, so he comes here, pays for four days and nights, sets up his fishing tackle, casts out without any bait on the hook, zips up his tent and buggers off in the sure and certain knowledge that you’ll tell us he was here all the time.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Robinson’s face flushed. ‘I’ve mucked up, haven’t I?’

  ‘He’d have been back by lunchtime, all smiles when you did the rounds in the evening.’

  ‘Yeah, he was. I definitely saw him each evening.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘About five or so.’

  ‘So he could’ve gone anywhere after that too?’

  Robinson was making eye contact with Cole, but avoiding Dixon. ‘His car was here.’ Defensive now. ‘I’ve got it on the CCTV on the lodge.’

  ‘Easy enough to park another car on the grass verge or down at the tea rooms.’ Dixon sighed.

  ‘Allan had taken Gavin’s car down to Malaga,’ offered Cole.

  ‘He could’ve hired one. We’d better get that checked.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon turned back to Robinson. ‘Did he catch anything?’

  ‘Not this time, not that he told me anyway. He’s had some good fish in the past.’

  ‘He showed me a picture on his phone of a large mirror carp he said he’d caught on his previous visit: thirty-five pounds twelve ounces.’

  ‘Did it have a slightly deformed mouth?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘That sounds like Little Orphan Annie. John caught her last year at thirty-five pound twelve. She was the only big mirror we had.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yeah, she died in February. I found her one morning over by the far bank, upside down in the margins.’

  ‘Did anyone know?’

  ‘A couple of lads were here on the day and saw her, but we kept it quiet. It’s not something you want to advertise too much, is it.’ Robinson’s face reddened. ‘Hardly a great selling point for a fishery – your biggest fish is dead. We’ve got a common called Big Orphan Annie, but she was only thirty-three the last time she came out.’

  Dixon looked at Cole and nodded. ‘Tell them to go in now. Get Scientific on scene and get a trace on his phone. We’re on our way.’

  ‘Please tell me John hasn’t killed anyone.’ Robinson was watching Cole sprint off along the path towards his car.

  ‘Anyone else.’

  Dixon squeezed past the concrete mixer truck, its huge drum rotating slowly, and ducked under the blue tape, ignoring the small crowd gathered in the car park in front of the show home at Eastfield Park. Cole had left the pool car out on Staunton Lane, behind two more ready mix concrete trucks, and they had walked the rest of the way.

  ‘Are you in charge of this lot?’ A man wearing a white hard hat and fluorescent tabard was waving a clipboard at him.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘How much longer are you going to be?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be laying foundations down the far end. I’ve got two mixers out on Staunton Lane and two more on the way.’

  Cole stepped in front of the site manager. ‘We’ll let you know, Sir.’

  It was self-sacrifice of the highest order, given that the residents of the other new houses on the small estate had seen them through the windows of the show home and were converging on them, red-faced, no doubt annoyed they had been told to evacuate their homes.

  ‘They can all go home, Nigel,’ said Dixon, ducking behind the first of the Scientific Services vans parked outside John Sims’s house; an Armed Response car was still on scene, as well as two other marked police cars, their blue lights flashing.

  ‘We’ve got an alert out for his car, Sir,’ said a uniformed sergeant striding towards him down the garden path.

  The Armed Response team had gone in as soon as Dixon left Longleat and he knew Sims was not at home, so it hardly came as an unpleasant surprise; unpleasant possibly, but no surprise. ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘She’s in the sitting room. Not a happy camper.’

  ‘Has she said anything?’

  ‘Plenty of choice language. She did try ringing him for us, but it turned out his phone was on the bedside table.’

  That ruled out a trace. ‘Scientific?’ Dixon asked.

  ‘Mr Watson’s in the garage going through his fishing tackle and there’s someone else in the shed, I think.’

  A battering ram was lying on the grass by the front step, but there were no corresponding marks on the door.

  ‘She opened it in the nick of time, Sir,’ said the sergeant.

  Dixon stepped into the hall, all the doors on the ground floor open. He glanced into the sitting room, where two uniformed officers were trying to placate Mrs Sims, before walking through to the kitchen and into the garage.

  Watson looked up. ‘No sign of a crossbow.’

  ‘He’ll have it with him.’

  ‘There’s an old tin trunk under the workbench he probably hid it in.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Watson dragged a black metal box out into the middle of the garage floor and lifted the lid, revealing several clear plastic boxes containing fishing tackle; enough to open a small shop. Plenty of room for a crossbow too. Dixon pointed to a piece of black cord with a plastic hoop on either end. ‘Bag that up, will you?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A crossbow stringer. You try putting the string on a powerful crossbow without one; it’s impossible if you’re on your own.’

  ‘He is our man, then.’

  ‘Let’s see if his wife knows what he’s been up to.’

  He glanced into the back garden where a photographer in a hazmat suit was kneeling on the grass, pointing his camera at a post in the back fence with one hand, holding the conifer branches out of the way with the other.

  ‘What is it?’ shouted Dixon out of the back door.

  ‘Whatever he was aiming at, he missed,’ the photographer replied over his shoulder. ‘There’s a hole; the outline matches the broadhead.’

  ‘Plastic milk bottles filled with water are quite popular, I’m told,’ said Watson, still on his knees in the garage. ‘But they’ll have gone in the recycling, I expect. There’s nothing in the bin. I did look.’

  All was quiet in the sitting room, Mrs Sims having run out of steam. Both uniformed officers rolled their eyes at Dixon when he walked in and sat down on the armchair opposite her.

  She looked up and glared at him. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Where is he?’ Dixon resisted the temptation to remind her that it was his job to ask the questions, hers to answer them.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

  ‘He didn’t come home last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he own a crossbow?’

  ‘A crossbow?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Not that I know of, no. Why would he have a crossbow?’

  Watson stopped in the doorway, holding up an evidence bag.

  ‘That’s a crossbow stringer,’ said Dixon, pointing at the bag. ‘We found it in the tin box in your garage.’

  ‘That’s his precious fishing tackle. I never go in there; more than my life’s worth.’

  ‘And there’s a bolt hole in the fence post at the back of your garden. It seems he’s not a very good shot.’

  ‘News to me. I’ve never seen a crossbow and I’ve certainly never seen him shooting one, here or anywhere else. What’s he been doing with it?’

  ‘Killing people,’ replied Dixon, matter of fact.

  ‘You’re joking! Killing people?’ She forced a laugh. ‘He’s a terrible shot; I had to snatch the gun off him at the funfair.’

  ‘You’ve got two armed officers standing on your front lawn, Scientific Services vans parked outside, people in hazmat suits searching your house, and you think I’m joking?’

  ‘Who’s he supposed to have killed?’

  ‘The people who stole his pension.’

  Mrs Sims took a deep b
reath as the possibility – probability – hit home, her eyes darting to a wedding photograph on the fake mantelpiece over the electric fire. ‘Oh, John, John,’ she whispered. She closed her eyes, releasing tears that trickled slowly down her cheeks. ‘He never told me anything about it.’

  ‘Forgive me, but you don’t seem surprised,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I’m not, really. And I don’t blame him.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not saying anything against him either. You can’t make me.’

  ‘We need to find him before he kills someone else.’

  ‘You won’t. And if you do, you won’t take him alive. He always said an ex-prison officer wouldn’t last five minutes as an inmate – worse than a copper – prisoners coming at him with razor blades and home-made knives. He’d seen it often enough and swore blind he’d never let it happen to him.’

  Dixon stood up and walked through the arch into the open plan kitchen-diner, picking up a photograph of Sims holding a mirror carp from the bookshelves behind the dining table. Not the same picture he’d seen on Sims’s phone – that one had been taken at night; the framed photograph had been taken in daylight, the fish kept alive in a carp sack until dawn broke.

  He unclipped the frame and slid out the picture, turning it over and reading aloud the handwritten note on the back: Little Orphan Annie, 35lb 12oz.

  ‘He had that printed online and I framed it for him.’ Mrs Sims spoke quietly between the sobs.

  ‘Trouble is, the fish died in February,’ said Dixon. ‘And he told me he’d caught it last week. Drives a coach and horses through his alibi, doesn’t it?’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dixon flicked on the kettle at the back of Area J half an hour later. ‘Let’s see if Sims’s phone pops up at Harptree Combe and Bradley Stoke at the time of the murders. He probably left it at home, but it’s worth checking.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Cole. ‘There’s no sign of his Mondeo, but he may be on foot by now anyway. And I’ve been on to the CCTV Hub; they’re keeping an eye out for him.’

  Louise had spotted them and stood up behind her workstation, an empty mug in her hand. ‘I’ve had Craig’s parents on the phone,’ she said. ‘He turned up there late last night asking for money.’