by Damien Boyd
‘He’s diabetic.’
‘It’s sugar free.’
‘Is it?’
‘Not really, but he can have a small piece. It’s not every day you get shot by a crossbow bolt, is it?’
‘A small piece then.’
Dixon was starting to like his future sister-in-law more and more each day. ‘I can walk it off on the beach.’
‘Are you sure you should be going?’ asked Jane.
‘We’ll drive round and park on Berrow Flats.’ He sat down on the sofa, patted the seat and Monty jumped up, sitting quietly next to him, nuzzling his ear.
‘It’s almost like he knows there’s something wrong with you,’ said Lucy.
‘Of course he knows.’ Jane was in the kitchen, raising her voice over the boiling kettle. ‘And it’s six quid to park on the beach. They don’t stop charging till October.’
‘I’ll be able to afford it on a super’s salary. And besides, the bloke in the kiosk will have gone by the time we get there.’
Lucy dropped down on to the sofa next to Dixon. ‘Here.’ She handed him her phone. ‘This one’s the soft Kevlar and the bolt goes straight through – it’s the sharp point, it cuts straight through the fibres, only a couple of inches so you’d probably survive it.’ She didn’t take the hint and held her phone in front of him when he tried to ignore it. ‘Was your body armour hard or soft?’
‘Hard.’
‘Let me see if I can find a video of that.’
‘Really, don’t bother.’
‘For God’s sake, Lucy, he doesn’t want to sit there watching bloody videos of people firing crossbows at body armour.’ Jane was standing over them with a mug of tea in each hand. ‘Go and cut the cake.’
‘Sorry.’
‘How’s your chest?’
‘The bruise is coming out, and it’s going all sorts of different colours.’
‘C’mon, get this down you.’ Lucy handed Dixon a wedge of cake, just out of Jane’s reach. ‘Monty’s had a stressful time as well, y’know, and he needs a run.’
Twenty minutes later they parked on the beach at Berrow. The tide was out, revealing a vast expanse of glistening wet sand, mud shimmering in the distance down by the water line. Dixon opened the back of the Land Rover and Monty jumped out, heading for Burnham. ‘Looks like we’re going that way. You’ll have to throw this for him,’ he said, handing the tennis ball launcher to Lucy.
‘There’s nothing in for supper,’ said Jane, as they strolled along the sand.
‘Red Cow it is then.’ Dixon was watching Lucy playing with Monty, pretending to throw the ball then running off with it when Monty went in the opposite direction. He soon caught her up, until she did it again; the silly arse fell for it every time.
‘I think I’m putting on a bit of weight.’
‘You’re probably pregnant.’ Matter of fact.
Jane stopped in her tracks. ‘What on earth makes you say that?’
‘You’re not eating any more than you were before, and we decided to let nature take its course, so what else could it be? It’s obvious when you think about it.’
‘It was supposed to be a surprise . . .’ Jane jogged the few steps to catch him up.
‘The obvious answer is always the best one. And the most likely.’
‘How would you feel if I am?’
‘Over the moon.’
‘I haven’t done a test yet.’
‘Well, you’d better do one, sharpish. Until we know one way or the other, there’s no gin for you.’
‘Yeah, but I might not be!’
‘If there’s no sugar for me, there’s no gin for you. Unless and until we know for sure you’re not.’
‘Fascist.’
‘Now you know how it feels.’ Dixon wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her.
‘Get a room!’ shouted Lucy, throwing the ball at them, Monty tearing after it, spraying them with sand as he belted past.
‘I suppose it is obvious, when you think about it,’ said Jane. ‘What other explanation could there be?’
‘I wish you’d bloody well told me before you went undercover on the streets.’
‘I didn’t know for sure. I still don’t.’
‘What’s that old wreck over there?’ asked Lucy, running over with Monty jumping up at her.
‘It’s what’s left of the SS Nornen,’ replied Dixon. ‘It ran aground in a storm in 1897. The local lifeboat got everybody off, even the dog. It’s on the honours board in the lifeboat station.’
‘The lifeboat was a rowing boat back then,’ said Jane. ‘Which makes the rescue even more impressive. Sort of makes you wonder where that yacht is now.’
‘The Sunset Boulevard?’ Dixon was staring at the wreck, deep in thought.
‘And the people on board. How many was it?’
‘Four.’
What other explanation could there be?
‘Right then.’ Dixon snatched the tennis ball launcher from Lucy. ‘We need to go.’
‘Where?’ she demanded.
‘There’s a twenty-four-hour chemist in Bridgwater.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘We need a pregnancy testing kit,’ he replied, smiling.
‘Three Diet Cokes, please, Rob,’ said Dixon, standing at the bar in the Red Cow an hour and a half later. ‘Two fish and chips and a chicken curry.’
‘Diet Coke? Are you all right?’ asked the barman.
‘I’m on painkillers and Jane’s pregnant.’
‘Congratulations!’
‘Thanks.’
‘We should crack open a bottle of . . .’ He thought better of it. ‘There’s not a lot of point, is there?’
‘Not really. Keep it under your hat, though. It’s early days.’
‘Yes, of course. Look, you go and sit down, I’ll bring it over.’
Dixon slid into the corner of the bench seat, stepping over Monty who was stretched out in front of the fire, and downed a couple of Tramadol with a swig of Coke when Rob placed the drinks on the table.
‘I should tell my mum and dad.’ Jane leaned across and put her arm around Lucy – Dixon spotted the flash of guilt. Jane had been the lucky one, adopted at birth by parents who had doted on her ever since; Lucy, on the other hand, had stayed with their biological mother, although she had spent much of her time in and out of foster care.
‘They’ll be chuffed to bits,’ said Lucy, still grinning from ear to ear.
‘I think we should wait.’ Dixon took another swig of Coke. ‘You’re not supposed to tell people until three months, or something like that.’
‘It’s thirteen weeks, I think,’ said Jane. ‘But, you’re right. We’ll wait. I must be about seven or eight now, so it’s not long anyway.’
‘Tell me about the case you’re working on,’ said Lucy.
‘Everybody’s either dead or in custody, but he still has questions, apparently.’ Jane raised her eyebrows.
‘Questions which you answered,’ said Dixon.
‘Me? What did I say?’
‘You said, “It’s obvious when you think about it, what other explanation could there be?” And it is obvious. Answer every single question with the most obvious answer there could be and the whole thing drops into place.’ Dixon slid a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Lucy. ‘Here, clever clogs, tell me where this is.’ He unfolded the printed copy of the postcard found in Godfrey Collins’s bedsit. ‘It doesn’t say on the back,’ he said, when she turned it over.
‘It looks cold, so it’s not tropical. Could be Scotland or somewhere like that.’
‘You’re not far off. Actually it’s Old Grimsby Beach on Tresco,’ said Dixon. ‘I put it on the force’s Facebook page and someone identified it for me.’
‘There you are, I told you.’ Lucy looked at Jane and gave an emphatic nod. ‘Where’s Tresco?’
‘The Scilly Isles.’
‘Is it significant?’ asked Jane.
‘It’s the missing piece o
f the jigsaw puzzle.’
The ripple of applause that started when Dixon opened the glass doors on the second floor of the operations building had become a standing ovation by the time he reached Area J.
Deborah Potter was standing in front of the whiteboard, the whole major investigation team assembled for debriefing and reallocation; Jez was hovering at the back armed with her clipboard. Dixon knew the drill: a skeleton team would be left to prepare the file for the CPS and the rest would move on. It was a tried and tested strategy and it worked well, provided the current case had been resolved. And, contrary to popular belief, this one had not.
Much to his embarrassment, Potter ushered him to the front of Area J, stepped back and joined in the applause. Charlesworth too, striding along the aisle.
‘I heard you were in,’ he shouted in Dixon’s ear. ‘You’re supposed to be off sick.’
‘It isn’t over,’ said Dixon.
Potter frowned, shaking her head while she waited for the applause to subside. ‘Take fifteen minutes, everybody,’ she said, with a final clap of her hands.
Charlesworth gestured to a meeting room on the far side of the open plan office. ‘Let’s have a private chat.’
Dave intercepted Dixon on the way, handing him two documents. ‘That’s a copy of Craig’s witness statement and the phone records you asked for, Sir,’ he said. ‘Craig obviously wasn’t expecting us to find out about his new phone. There’s a call to Sims’s landline the day before yesterday and then two from Gavin’s mobile yesterday, the last an hour before Sims died.’
‘Which makes Craig’s statement a pack of lies?’
‘Pretty much.’ Dave was watching Potter standing in the open doorway of the meeting room, her hands on her hips. ‘They think it’s all over, don’t they?’
‘They do.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sit down, Nick,’ said Charlesworth, when Dixon walked into the meeting room. ‘How’s the ribcage this morning?’
‘Fine, Sir.’
‘You said the case isn’t over and yet we’ve got Allan in custody and Sims is dead. What else is there?’
‘I was just going to wind down the major investigation team.’ Potter failed to hide her exasperation. ‘People are needed elsewhere.’
‘You can let them go,’ replied Dixon. ‘I just need Louise, Dave, Mark and Nigel Cole. Nigel was in at the start so it’s only right he should be in at the finish.’
‘What finish?’ snapped Potter.
Dixon took a deep breath. ‘It was a hell of a coincidence, Sims being on the terrace with Craig Pengelly when we got there, don’t you think?’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t a coincidence?’
‘I am.’ He slid the phone records across the table to Potter. ‘That’s Craig’s phone records for the last forty-eight hours. He got himself a new pay-as-you-go phone when he was released from Leyhill – he had it on him last night and had no choice but to give us the number. There are three calls on it: one to Sims’s landline and two from Gavin’s mobile after Gavin’s murder, so we know the calls were made by Sims. The last was an hour before we found them on the terrace.’
‘Does he mention that in his witness statement?’ asked Potter.
‘No.’
‘So, he’s lying,’ muttered Charlesworth.
‘He is.’
‘Do you know what’s gone on?’ asked Potter, holding eye contact with Dixon. ‘And if so, will you please tell us?’
‘I will,’ he replied. ‘Ask the right questions and apply the simplest, most obvious answer to each and the whole thing drops into place like a row of dominoes going over.’
Charlesworth folded his arms. ‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘What’s the connection between Godfrey Collins and the other killings? Allan and Sims were taking their revenge for the loss of their pension funds and yet Collins had nothing whatsoever to do with the pension scam. He was the odd man out.’
‘You never found one,’ said Potter.
‘That’s right, we never found a connection, for the simple reason that there isn’t one.’
‘Why did they kill him then?’ Potter and Charlesworth in unison.
‘Because Craig told them to. He was in Bristol prison at the same time Sims was a prison officer and he fed them the names and addresses they needed. Who else knew about the villa on the Costa del Sol? Because we sure as hell didn’t. The Economic Crime Unit had been looking for Bowen and Mather for ages and yet Allan pitches up there and kills them both with a single shot.’
‘And Craig knew about the villa?’ asked Potter.
‘He went there once or twice, according to Laura’s parents.’
Charlesworth’s brow furrowed. ‘Who’s Laura?’
‘Craig’s fiancée, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘You may remember I went to her memorial service with Detective Sergeant Winter? Laura died when the Sunset Boulevard sank mid-Atlantic; Zephyr thought it was a drug run.’
‘I do remember something about it, yes.’
‘So, Craig gives them Bowen and Mather?’ asked Potter, getting the conversation back to where she wanted it.
‘They’ll have known about Finch anyway – after all, he was the taxman pursuing them as far as they were concerned. And I’m guessing Craig will say he did it under duress and that Sims was making his life hell in prison, threatening to kill him if he didn’t, that sort of thing. And that might convince a jury, had he not given them Collins too. He’ll have convinced them Collins was the driving force behind the pension scam, the scheme accountant, something like that, but it was entirely for his own ends.’
‘What ends?’
‘Well, for that you need to look more closely at the sinking of the Sunset Boulevard and the Marine Accident Investigation Branch report.’ Dixon leaned back in his chair. ‘The keel fell off in heavy seas; the yacht capsized, four sailors went into the water and yet only three personal locator beacons were activated. Why is that?’
Potter looked at Charlesworth and shook her head. ‘Maybe the battery on one was flat?’
‘Unlikely. These things are serviced annually and have a battery life of seven years. They emit a GPS signal that connects with low earth orbit satellites. But it’s far simpler than that.’
‘Occam’s razor,’ said Charlesworth. ‘The simplest answer is usually the right one.’
‘If only three beacons were activated,’ continued Dixon, ‘then only three people went into the water.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dixon was standing on the pavement just outside the entrance to the St Govan’s Welfare Centre, hidden from the CCTV camera mounted in the porch above the heavy glass door. Cole was standing behind him, with Louise and Mark on the pavement on the other side.
Louise stepped forward into the porch and pressed the buzzer, then the door was opened from the inside by a young girl in a hand-knitted rainbow sweater.
‘Thanks,’ said Louise.
Mark followed her in, then Dixon and Cole.
‘It’s Maisie, isn’t it?’ asked Dixon. ‘From the Hobb’s Lane Collective.’
‘Er, yes.’
Andrea was sitting in the office; the same black hair and clothes. She looked startled, or maybe it was just the black eyeliner?
‘Hello, Andrea.’ Dixon offered his best disarming smile. ‘We’re back again looking for Craig Pengelly.’ He held a photograph to the Perspex screen. ‘We caught up with him yesterday and he gave us a statement, but he’s disappeared and we need to find him. He gave us this address.’
‘He’s not here,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the computer monitor in front of her. ‘And he’s not been in.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look around?’
Andrea stood up behind the Perspex screen and trudged to the office door with a heavy sigh, then opened the inner security door.
‘Has anyone written a message for him on the whiteboard?’ Dixon asked, distracting her enough to allow Lou
ise and Mark to slip through the inner door behind her as she walked into the reception area.
‘I don’t think so.’ Andrea was pretending to look at the board.
‘What about you, Maisie, have you seen him down at the collective?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘You’re sure you’ve not seen him, Andrea?’
‘No.’
He glanced into the office where Mark was holding up a bag in one hand and a phone in the other. Then Louise stood up, holding a baby in her arms. Dixon slid a small booklet out of his jacket pocket and held it in his outstretched hand in front of Andrea. ‘How about this person?’
Her knees buckled and she slumped back on to the leather sofa. ‘How did you know?’ Fighting back the tears now.
‘I went to your memorial service, Laura,’ he replied. ‘It’s a nice photo of you on the order of service, don’t you think?’ Long ginger hair, a red sailing coat, holding the wheel of a yacht in the Bristol Channel, Steep Holm visible in the background.
A blink, and a tear was released from the corner of her eye. ‘That was the first trip out on Mum and Dad’s new boat.’
‘I’m not sure how you’re going to explain it to your mother. She’ll be declaring you dead at the High Court at two o’clock on Monday.’ Dixon turned to Cole. ‘That reminds me, we’ll need to ring the court; find out which solicitors are on the record, then ring them and put a stop to it. Monday morning will do.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He turned back to Laura. ‘Your mother is going to find out from her solicitor she can’t declare you dead because you’re still alive. And that she’s a grandmother after all. Do you think she’ll laugh or cry?’
‘I get a phone call, don’t I?’
‘You do.’
‘I’m sorry. It was supposed to be a fresh start.’ She started to sob. ‘When I was declared dead, the life insurance would pay out and . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
Dixon picked up a pen and started scribbling on the whiteboard: ANDREA LUKIC, then beneath that LAURA DICKEN. He started crossing off each of the corresponding letters in turn. ‘Whose idea was the anagram?’
‘It was just a bit of fun. Please tell me it wasn’t that.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ Dixon dropped the pen on the mantelpiece. ‘Laura Dicken, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Godfrey Collins.’