by Damien Boyd
‘Did they give him any?’
‘Three hundred quid.’ She picked up the phone on her desk when it started ringing, pressing mute with her index finger. ‘He said it was for the deposit on a bedsit.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Just before eleven. They asked him if it was for drugs and he said he was clean. They told him we were looking for him as well, and why, but he just left.’ Louise ducked down behind her computer, talking into her phone. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting . . . Oh, shit, really?’ Hand over the mouthpiece. ‘We’ve got Sims’s car, Sir,’ she said. ‘The Mondeo. It’s in the car park behind Gavin’s flat. No sign of Sims.’
‘What about Gavin?’
‘They knocked but there was no answer. Shall I tell them to kick the door in?’
‘Tell them to wait for Armed Response. They can go in as soon as they get there. We’re on our way.’ Dixon left the kettle boiling and ran towards the door, then stopped and turned back to Louise. ‘Better have an ambulance standing by too.’
He’d got as far as the top of the stairs, Cole right behind him, when they were intercepted by Charlesworth and Potter.
‘We were just on our way to see you, Nick.’ Charlesworth’s top button was undone, which was a first. ‘Have you got a minute?’
‘Not really, Sir.’
‘Oh, well, it’s another case safely put to bed anyway. Well done.’
‘Hardly, Sir. We’ve got a killer on the loose with a high-powered crossbow and his next victim is on the streets somewhere.’
‘Yes, but that’s a job for uniform – a standard manhunt situation.’
Potter averted her gaze when Dixon glared at her; a slight raise of the eyebrows and the tiniest of shrugs was as close as he was going to get to an apology.
‘It’s just a matter of preparing for trial now, surely?’ continued Charlesworth. ‘We know who the culprits are and they’ll both be in custody soon enough.’
‘The reallocation of resources,’ mumbled Potter.
Dixon had known it was coming, but had hoped they would at least wait until the arrest had been made, or Sims charged even; that would be traditional.
‘There’ll be witness statements and getting the file ready for the CPS.’ Charlesworth was massaging the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb – probably snorting too much coke, thought Dixon. ‘And we were wondering how many people you thought you might need, now the legwork’s done, as it were?’
‘As many as you can spare, Sir.’ Dixon’s voice was loaded with sarcasm as he and Cole set off down the stairs.
‘I’ll leave it to Deborah then,’ replied Charlesworth, shouting over the echo of their footsteps in the stairwell.
‘You have to deal with this sort of thing all the time, I imagine, Sir,’ said Cole, when he judged that Dixon had finally calmed down enough for conversation. It had taken twenty-five minutes and they were turning off the M5 at Weston by then.
‘Welcome to my world.’
‘It’s been tight in uniform for ages.’ Cole shook his head, his unfortunate turn of phrase passing him by. ‘Sending two to a disturbance when before they’d have sent four or six. It makes you wonder how they expect us to do the job at all, let alone properly.’ He slid his phone out of his pocket. ‘It’s Louise.’
Dixon listened to Cole’s end of the call, but somehow he knew what was coming.
‘They’ve gone in, Sir,’ said Cole. ‘Gavin’s dead.’
‘Poor sod never stood a bloody chance, did he?’
‘Dr Petersen’s elsewhere, so Roger Poland’s on his way from Taunton. She wants to know if she should get the local lot in Bath to tell his mother.’
‘Better had, although I doubt very much she’ll bat an eyelid.’
The car park behind the small parade of shops was full of vehicles by the time Dixon turned in ten minutes later, the sound of sirens still rising above the noise of the police helicopter hovering overhead.
Two Scientific Services vans, three ambulances, an Armed Response team in an unmarked car, and four other police patrol vehicles had crammed into the car park at the back. A Ford Mondeo was parked against the back wall, all four doors and the boot standing open, two Scientific officers in hazmat suits circling it with cameras.
A uniformed officer barring their way at the bottom of the steps soon shifted when he recognised Cole.
‘All right, Nige?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s a LOB, if you ask me. Got what he deserved.’
‘A twenty year old autistic boy is dead and you think it’s a load of bollocks, Constable.’ Dixon glowered at the uniformed officer.
‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘Haven’t you got somewhere else you need to be?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Find somewhere. Now. And you’d better hope I don’t remember your badge number.’
Cole raised his eyebrows and tipped his head sharply, the officer getting the message.
‘He’s not a bad bloke, Sir,’ Cole said, catching Dixon up on the landing.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Scientific Services hadn’t wasted much time, stepping plates leading through to a living room now brightly lit by arc lamps, the feet of a body lying on the sofa visible behind the door.
Camera flashes were going off at regular intervals, then a shout came from the bottom of the steps. ‘Pathologist’s here.’
Nice to see a familiar face, thought Dixon, watching Poland climb the steps and lumber along the landing, his metal case in one hand and three hazmat suits in the other.
‘I thought you might need this,’ said Poland, handing one to Dixon. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll wait outside.’ Cole leaned back against the balustrade and folded his arms. ‘Seen it all before; a crossbow bolt in the eye socket.’
‘Has he been in there?’
‘We’ve had four already, Roger.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Poland was steadying himself on a concrete pillar, sliding his feet into the legs of his suit. ‘I suppose I’ll be seeing less of you if you make the move to Portishead?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Right.’ Poland paused while Dixon zipped up his own hazmat suit. ‘Let’s go and have a look at . . .’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Gavin.’
‘And what’s Gavin’s part in all this?’
‘Victim. Used and abused by the prison officers charged with looking after him while he was in Bristol.’ Dixon was following Poland along the stepping plates. ‘Abandoned by his bloody mother and exploited by everyone else.’
Gavin was sitting up, a crossbow bolt buried in his right eye up to the fletch, the broadhead pinning him to the stud wall behind the sofa. A trickle of blood had run down his cheek, dripping on to his white polo shirt just above the Nike ‘swoosh’.
‘Do you know who did it?’ asked Poland.
‘I do.’ Dixon was looking around the room; two mugs were sitting on the dining table, both full of cold tea. The television was on, the sound muted. The curtains were closed too, not that Sims could have been overlooked, unless a double decker bus had gone past, perhaps.
‘Find out if this is on a bus route, Nigel,’ shouted Dixon.
Cole was still out on the landing. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I take it you don’t need a cause of death?’ asked Poland.
‘Just the time.’
Gavin’s skin was pale but there was no discolouration yet.
‘It’s not overly warm in here.’
‘The thermostat was on fifteen degrees when we came in, Sir,’ replied a Scientific Services officer. ‘And the front door’s been open since then.’
‘Four to six hours ago, then.’ Poland looked at his watch. ‘So, that’s between eight and ten this morning. Rough estimate at this stage, with the usual caveats.’
Dixon leaned over and looked at the wall behind Gavin’s head. The curved blades of the broadhead had left circular cuts in the magnolia p
aintwork, stained red with Gavin’s blood; three red rings around the shaft of the bolt, strands of hair sticking out of the holes.
‘The hair will be Gavin’s.’ Poland was looking over Dixon’s shoulder. ‘From the exit wound at the back of his skull.’
‘I get it,’ muttered Dixon, deliberately not looking too closely at the back of Gavin’s head, the collar of his shirt stained red behind his neck.
‘His social worker’s here, Sir,’ said Cole, from out on the landing.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, Roger.’
‘Have you told his mother?’ The question was abrupt and barked at Dixon before he had stepped off the last plate at the front door of Gavin’s flat.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Dixon,’ said Dixon, making a conscious effort not to lose his cool. ‘And you are?’
The man sighed, in his brown corduroys and cable sweater. ‘Raymond Bryant. Gavin’s social worker, as you well know.’
‘I don’t actually.’ Dixon looked him up and down. ‘For all I know you’re here to read the electricity meter.’
Bryant placed his leather satchel on the balustrade and began rummaging inside, soon producing an ID card on a chain. He thrust it under Dixon’s nose. ‘There. Now will somebody please tell me what’s happened to Gavin?’
‘He’s been murdered, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘And, yes, we’ve arranged for local police in Bath to visit his mother.’
‘Murdered?’ Bryant puffed out his cheeks. ‘How?’
‘It would have been quick, that’s all I can say at this stage.’
‘Failed by everybody at every turn; myself included.’ Bryant gave a heavy sigh. ‘He should never have been sent to prison. It was a feeble attempt to hack GCHQ and he never got close to getting in anyway. And all the pre-sentencing reports recommended a non-custodial sentence as well.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Dixon sensed that the wind had gone from Bryant’s sails – another unfortunate turn of phrase.
‘I’d see him once a week and he rang me yesterday. He told me about the fruit machine thing and his arrest.’
‘Rang you?’ Dixon frowned. ‘We’ve got his phone.’
‘He must’ve got a new one then. I’ll have the number in my recents.’
‘Not seen a phone,’ said the Scientific Services officer who was waiting patiently in the doorway to get past Dixon. ‘There’s not even a landline.’
‘It was a zero-seven number.’ Bryant was scrolling through the recent calls on his phone. ‘Definitely a mobile. I didn’t recognise it to begin with. You know what it’s like, taking a call from a number you don’t know. Usually I put them through to voicemail, but I took it and it turned out to be Gavin. Here it is.’
‘Let’s get a trace on it, Nigel,’ said Dixon. ‘If Scientific can’t find it in the flat, there’s a chance Sims has taken it with him, thinking we don’t know about it.’
‘Either that or it’s in one of the wheelie bins,’ replied Cole.
‘Good thinking.’ Dixon turned back to the Scientific Services officer. ‘No doubt you’ll be checking them, if you haven’t already.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Jane, when Dixon opened the back door of the cottage.
‘Forgot my bloody insulin, didn’t I. What about you?’
‘I was so bloody bored I took a few hours flexi-time, thought I’d take Monty out. Have you eaten?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You might as well have something while you’re here then. Where’s Nigel?’
‘I haven’t really got time . . .’ He gave up when he realised Jane wasn’t listening and trudged to the front window, banging on the glass and waving at Cole. ‘He’s coming in.’
‘You’ve got to eat. I was there when the doctor said you shouldn’t skip meals, remember?’
Cole appeared at the back step, hesitating at the sight of a large Staffordshire bull terrier blocking the door.
‘Let him in, you twit.’ Dixon grabbed Monty by the collar and pulled him away. ‘You know Nigel anyway.’
‘Thanks.’ Cole closed the back door behind him.
‘I was just doing some cheese on toast,’ said Jane, lying. ‘And there’s a tin of tomato soup in the cupboard, if you’d like that.’
‘Lovely, thank you.’
She opened the cupboard, took out the tin of soup and lobbed it to Dixon. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’
‘It’s called insubordination, Nigel,’ Dixon said, making an effort to lighten the mood. He even managed a smile. ‘I shall be raising it with her at her next performance review.’
‘You could sell tickets for that.’
‘How’s it going?’ Jane chose to ignore the banter.
‘Gavin’s dead.’ Dixon’s face hardened, the anger rising in him. Again.
‘The autistic lad?’
Cole nodded when Dixon didn’t reply.
‘And was it an old photograph?’
‘The fish died in February,’ said Dixon.
‘At least you know who it is.’ Jane was watching the bread under the grill. ‘Now all you’ve got to do is find him.’
‘Before he finds Craig.’
‘We’ve got uniform out in numbers all over the city, and the CCTV people looking out for him.’ Cole pulled a chair out from under the small pine table and sat down. ‘It’s just a waiting game at the moment.’
‘Craig knows we’re looking for him, and why,’ said Dixon, jabbing the button to set the timer on the microwave. ‘I just don’t get why he doesn’t make himself known to us. Most people would want to be in safe custody when there’s someone after them with a crossbow. Or am I missing something?’
‘He’s on spice, right?’ asked Jane. ‘Because that might be it. He’s probably holed up in a crack house somewhere.’
‘Out of it,’ mumbled Cole.
‘We tried all the obvious places yesterday, so word will have got round the police are out and about looking for someone.’ Dixon was watching Jane slicing the cheese. ‘What we need to do is put someone on the streets, someone who looks the part. We stick out like a sore thumb, apparently.’
‘What about Louise?’ asked Cole.
‘She’s got a three year old daughter, Nige. I’m not sending her and he knows what we look like. That leaves Mark or Dave.’
‘What about me?’ asked Jane, almost absentmindedly. She was placing the cheese on the toast, lining up the symmetrical slices in perfect straight lines. Then she bent over and slid the rack under the grill. ‘I could be his sister looking for him, or an ex-girlfriend.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ She dropped the knife on the worktop. ‘I’m a police sergeant, let me do my bloody job instead of shuffling paper. I could have his photo on my phone and—’ She ripped the elastic band from her ponytail and ruffled her hair. ‘I’ve got an old dog walking coat in the shed; a green parka covered in mud where Monty keeps jumping up at me.’
Dixon was sucking his teeth. ‘If he’s holed up in a crack house we’ll never find him.’
‘Neither will Sims though, Sir,’ said Cole.
‘And if he’s not, I might just be able to get near him.’ Jane was squatting down, watching the cheese starting to melt under the grill.
Dixon took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. ‘Two cars. You and me in one, Nigel, Lou and Mark in the other. You’re never more than a hundred yards from both; not one, both. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ huffed Jane.
‘And you’ll wear body armour and a wire.’
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll charge up that old iPhone 5 in the drawer and you can have his photo on it; it won’t matter if someone runs off with that old thing.’
‘Fingers or a knife and fork, Nige?’ asked Jane. ‘The cheese has run a bit.’
‘Fingers is fine, ta.’
‘I’ve got an old sleeping bag you can stuff in your rucksack in case anyone checks it; if they pinch it, they’r
e welcome to it.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Dixon, snatching a private moment with Jane when Cole was on the phone.
‘Yes, I am. It’s important and it’s my job.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’ll make a nice change to be doing something useful, instead of filing and looking busy.’
‘You be bloody careful.’
‘I will.’ Jane rolled her eyes. ‘I have done this sort of thing before, you know.’
‘Better take your engagement ring off.’
‘For the first and last time,’ she said, sliding it off her finger and dropping it into Dixon’s open palm.
‘One last thing,’ he said, when Jane slung her rucksack over her shoulder and turned for the door. ‘You’ll need this.’
She looked at the dog’s lead in his outstretched hand, Monty sitting patiently at his feet, looking up at them. It would be a walk with a difference, but a walk all the same.
‘Really?’
‘How many homeless people d’you see with dogs? He’ll help you look the part.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be looking after him as well.’
‘You won’t be.’ Dixon clipped the lead on to Monty’s collar and handed the other end to Jane. ‘He’ll be looking after you.’
They met Louise and Mark at Gordano services on the M5 half an hour later, parking in a quiet spot to fit the wire and body armour, then it was on into the city centre. Louise had got Jane’s size just about right, but the Velcro was a bit tight around her waist. She winced, breathing in and tugging on the tab as hard as she could.
Must’ve put on a bit of weight, she thought, finally pulling Dixon’s old polo shirt down over the solid Kevlar plates. Type IV, it would stop Harry Callaghan’s .44 Magnum, he had assured her, let alone a crossbow bolt.
Not that she was the target, she reminded herself, sitting with her arm around Monty on the back seat of Cole’s car.
As she walked down the subway twenty minutes later, she thought about Dixon’s last words to her. Ever the romantic, he was: ‘Got any dog poo bags?’
Jane made sure her hair covered her earpiece as she stepped out into the late afternoon drizzle of the Bearpit, the smell of stale urine hanging in the damp air. Louise and Mark had left their car in a loading bay just around the corner in the Horsefair and were idly strolling towards her, hand in hand. A nice touch, that.