by Damien Boyd
‘You’re not serious?’ she asked, shaking her head.
‘Where were you in the early hours of Saturday morning?’
‘At Ian’s house.’
‘You don’t live together?’
‘I rent a flat in Oakengates.’
Dixon nodded. ‘Has he travelled down with you today?’
‘No.’ Mrs Fletcher stood up and walked over to the window. ‘Look, why would I want to kill him after all this time?’
‘How much did you know about his mother’s failing health?’
‘Eve told me she didn’t have long, but I shouldn’t think for a minute I’m a beneficiary in her will, if that’s what you’re getting at. Or his for that matter.’
‘No, but if Alan was dead you’d be able to claim against his estate, wouldn’t you? You are still married after all.’
‘That’s not the reason we’re still married.’
‘What is?’
‘I told you.’ Mrs Fletcher hesitated. ‘There was no point in divorcing. I don’t want his bloody money.’
Dixon stood up.
‘Right, thank you for your time, Mrs Fletcher. We may need to have another word with you, and with Mr Newby at some point, but that’s all for now.’
‘She cleared out the client account, didn’t she?’ asked Louise as Dixon drove up the drive to the main road.
‘Probably.’
‘And what was all that stuff about the will? Alan needed to survive his mother surely. Otherwise he’d have had nothing for her to claim against. And he didn’t.’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t know that, does she? We haven’t released the order of death yet.’ Dixon was looking left and right before turning out of the drive.
‘There’s another reason they didn’t divorce, which she forgot to mention too,’ said Louise.
‘His army pension?’ asked Dixon.
It was just before 4 p.m. by the time Dixon slumped into an office chair at a vacant workstation in the window at Bridgwater Police Centre. He swivelled round and watched DCI Lewis walking towards him in the reflection. The street lights were just coming on outside, although the nights were starting to draw out a bit at last as winter gave way to early spring, the first shoots from daffodil bulbs just visible through the thin layer of snow on the grass verges.
‘How are you getting on?’ asked Lewis.
‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ replied Dixon, turning around. ‘I’ve gone from a case where we couldn’t find a motive to one where everybody’s got one.’
‘Any good?’
‘Probably not. The sister was bitter about their mother’s will, and the wife was either preserving her chance of an inheritance or her army pension. Or both.’
‘Ex-wife, surely.’
‘Separated but not divorced, so she’ll get the widow’s benefit – half, probably. Conveniently failed to mention it too.’
Louise walked over and placed a mug of coffee on the desk in front of Dixon.
‘How are the others doing?’
‘Nothing yet, Sir.’
‘Find out everything you can about the army pension, will you? How much is the widow’s benefit? And let’s see if the landlord had to take Fletcher to court to get him out of that last place they were living.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There’s nothing like a court case to stoke up a bit of angst,’ said Lewis.
‘He’s had a few of those in his time has our victim.’
‘What about the mother?’ asked Lewis.
‘Coincidental. There’s no sign of foul play, and she was terminally ill too,’ replied Dixon.
‘Is that official?’
‘Not yet. The timing of her death might be relevant to the sister’s motive, but that’s it.’
‘To ensure he didn’t inherit under her will?’
‘That’s right. I’m not convinced though. The sister is married to a consultant orthopaedic surgeon and doesn’t look short of a bob or two. We’ll have a close look at their finances, but they don’t seem to need the money. The wife on the other hand . . .’
‘Skint?’
‘Hasn’t got a pot to piss in. There’s plenty of bitterness there too.’
‘Well, keep me informed,’ said Lewis, checking his watch.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon switched on the computer on the desk in front of him and then turned back to the window. Shame. It was a perfect evening for a walk on the beach. Cold, crisp and the sky on fire as the sun set.
He logged on and began scrolling through his emails, deleting most without opening them, and had almost finished when he heard the soft ping sound of a new email arriving. It came from Donald Watson, forwarding the lab results on the brown powder found around Alan Fletcher’s mouth and in his lungs. This one he opened.
Silica 60%, aluminum oxide 30%, iron oxide 6%, calcium oxide 4%, magnesium oxide trace.
Dixon jabbed the off button on his computer, holding it in until the screen went blank. Then he jumped up. Louise was standing by his workstation with a piece of paper in her hand.
‘What does it all mean?’
‘Sand, clay and lime. Ring SOCO and get a photographer to meet us at the pillbox. Then get your coat.’
‘I don’t understand. What is it?’
‘Dust,’ replied Dixon. ‘Red brick dust.’
Chapter Five
‘You haven’t forgotten Valentine’s Day, have you?’ asked Louise as Dixon sped north towards the motorway roundabout. It was a bit of a detour, but a mile north, then one junction south was going to be far quicker than trying to negotiate Bridgwater town centre at rush hour.
‘What did SOCO say about the photographer?’
‘He’s on the way, but he may have to go back in the morning if he needs daylight.’
Dixon nodded.
‘So, you reckon the brick dust came from the pillbox?’ asked Louise.
‘Where else could it have come from?’ replied Dixon. ‘But let’s check. Ring SOCO and get them to test for a match with the brickwork at the scene.’
Dixon waited for Louise to finish her call to Donald Watson.
‘The other question you have to ask yourself is why,’ he continued.
‘I dunno.’
‘Neither do I, but it must be significant. The dust, or the fact that it was red brick, or that he inhaled it.’
‘Or all three?’
‘We’re looking for fresh marks in the brickwork,’ said Dixon. ‘It might be random scratches or it could be sending a message.’
‘Who to?’
‘Alan Fletcher. Perhaps it’s his epitaph.’
‘Or us?’ asked Louise.
‘Exactly. And we won’t know until we find it.’
‘Are the lights on full beam?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t see a bloody thing,’ muttered Louise.
Dixon had parked at the end of the lane, facing the pillbox with his headlights pointing straight at it, although they only illuminated one side of the hexagon, the side he was examining. Louise was using the light from her phone and peering at the adjacent section of brick wall, to the left of the entrance.
‘Here, take this,’ said Dixon, passing her his torch. ‘And keep an eye on where you’re treading.’
Louise shone the torch at her feet and breathed a sigh of relief that her footprints had missed the two piles of dog mess just visible under the snow.
‘What about inside?’ she asked, stepping back on to the path.
‘It’s lined with concrete.’
‘This looks recent.’ Louise was pointing at several areas where slivers had flaked off, revealing fresh brick underneath.
Dixon peered around the corner of the pillbox.
‘Shine the torch at it, will you?’
He was looking at an area the size of a large oval dinner tray where the brickwork appeared new, or at least not weathered and dirty like the rest. There were faint traces of black spray paint, but the message was no longer l
egible.
‘Looks like it’s been cleaned with a pressure washer to me, to remove graffiti I expect. Probably brought the outer layer of these bricks off at the same time. Check for any scratch marks.’
Dixon turned back to the side of the pillbox and shook his head. Almost every brick had a message etched into it, except those where the brick itself had crumbled away. It was almost impossible to tell whether a message was fresh too, unless the scratches were shallow, in which case they appeared to weather more quickly. The deeper they were, the more recent they appeared, or so it seemed. In some cases lichen had grown over some or all of the message, and that would have taken months, so Dixon could ignore those. But that still left too many to count. And this was only one side of the pillbox.
Just below the machine gun slit was a message that the author had clearly taken some time and trouble over.
DAVE SOLOMON 22/6/81
He had even bothered to underline it. The carving was deep into a dark brick and appeared bright orange. Was it fresh though? Had Dave been there recently and etched his date of birth into the brick, or had he been there on that day in June 1981? If the latter, then it had not weathered at all and still looked fresh. As did several more messages.
KEV P; DAISY 9.6.68; PHIL H; MANDY; ADAM 17/10/91
It looked as though Lisa had forgotten the year she was born: LISA 7/8/
Lots of people ‘4’ someone else, but that was hardly a suitable epitaph for a murder victim, unless it was a crime of passion perhaps. Dixon grimaced. And someone called ME, although it might have been MEL, had etched his or her postcode into a brick, TA8 2HE. What the bloody hell was all that about? Several names had been scratched out too.
‘We’re wasting our time here,’ muttered Dixon.
‘I can’t tell what’s new and what isn’t,’ said Louise.
‘Neither can I.’
‘Some look old, but lots of them look like they could be new.’
‘And that’s assuming no attempt has been made to disguise it.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘Rub mud into it?’
Louise nodded. She stepped back and shone the torch at the top corner of the pillbox.
‘Looks like it’s going to fall down soon anyway.’
There was a large crack along the top of the wall, wider at the corner and with grass growing out of it.
‘It’ll take more than that,’ replied Dixon. ‘These things were designed to take a direct hit from a high explosive shell don’t forget, and the walls are three feet thick.’
‘D’you mind if I wait in the car? My feet are freezing,’ asked Louise.
‘Switch the engine on,’ replied Dixon, handing her his car keys. ‘The heater’s on full blast.’
‘Thanks.’
Dixon turned back to the pillbox and brushed the long grass away from the base with his foot, revealing more bricks and a few more etchings. He crouched down and peered at them, but it was more of the same. The blue tape – POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS – that SOCO had left wrapped around the pillbox had been torn down and was lying in the snow at his feet.
The headlights of his Land Rover flickered as Louise started the old diesel engine. He could hear the fans over the rattle of the engine and watched Louise sitting in the driver’s seat, rubbing her hands together.
Where the bloody hell’s that photographer?
Dixon reversed his Land Rover into the field gateway to allow the Scientific Services van to get closer to the pillbox.
‘Cold, innit?’ said the photographer, blowing on his hands.
‘You haven’t been sitting here for half an hour twiddling your thumbs,’ said Dixon, slamming the door of his Land Rover.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Scott Pilling.’
‘Well then, Scott, we need you to photograph this pillbox.’
‘That’s easy enough.’
‘Each and every brick. Separately.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Nope,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘I want a separate photo of each brick with any writing on it, and I’d like the album on my desk by the end of tomorrow.’
Pilling sighed. Dixon watched him walk around the pillbox and back again.
‘I can do these three sides, but there’s not enough room for the spotlamps the canal side. I’ll need to come back and do those in the morning.’
‘And the album?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Don’t clean them off before you photograph them,’ said Dixon, walking over to his Land Rover. ‘Just as they are will do.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Pilling. ‘You’re not leaving me here on my own, are you?’
It was just after 7 p.m. when Dixon dropped Louise back at Express Park after a miserable hour and a half spent watching Scott Pilling photographing the pillbox brick by brick. Dixon had run the engine of his Land Rover from time to time for warmth, but both of them were cold and fed up, although not as cold and fed up as Pilling.
Dixon had arranged a briefing for 8 a.m. the following morning, and as he sped north on the M5, Louise’s advice was ringing in his ears.
‘Not the Zalshah!’
Odd that, thought Dixon, shaking his head. It seemed the perfect venue for a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner for two.
There were no lights on in the cottage, so he turned into the car park of The Red Cow and spotted Jane, Monty at her feet, sitting by the fire with a gin and tonic in one hand and her phone in the other. He was walking towards her with a pint in his hand when the text message arrived, his phone bleeping in his pocket.
‘Don’t tell me; you’re in the pub,’ said Dixon.
Monty began jumping up at him.
‘You look cold,’ said Jane, standing up. ‘Here, sit by the fire.’ She kissed him and then dragged another chair out from under the adjacent table.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Dixon.
‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Fish and chips’ll do me.’
‘Me too. I’ll go.’
Dixon was standing with his back to the fire, as close as he could get to it without treading on Monty, who had stretched out on the rug, when Jane got back from the bar.
‘It’ll be about twenty minutes,’ she said.
‘How was Child Protection and Internet?’
‘An eye opener,’ replied Jane. ‘You wouldn’t believe what people get up to online. And if you know what you’re doing, you can be almost impossible to find.’
‘Almost?’
‘We’re catching up.’
‘Pleased to hear it.’
‘What about you? Where have you been?’
‘Sitting in the cold watching someone photographing every brick of that pillbox.’
‘Every brick?’
‘The victim had been forced to inhale brick dust, so I’m hoping there’s something written on the wall.’
‘Yes, but it—’
‘I know,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘It could just be random scratches, of course it could, but I can’t ignore it.’
‘What about a motive?’
‘Two so far, tenuous at best and I’m not convinced by either. A will—’
‘You’re obsessed by wills,’ said Jane, grinning.
‘Comes from being a solicitor I suppose,’ replied Dixon, taking a swig of beer. ‘And besides, wills mean money, and that’s a powerful motive as we know.’
Jane nodded.
‘Both the wife and sister could be interested in that though,’ continued Dixon. ‘And then there’s his army pension. The wife gets a half or two thirds of that.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Sixty-five. He’d only just started drawing the damn thing.’
‘Nice income for the wife then.’
‘Better than nothing. She tried to hide it too. Made out they hadn’t got round to divorcing because there was nothing left to fight over. But she could just have
been preserving her pension entitlement.’
‘Sounds plausible,’ said Jane.
‘Maybe, but you can split a pension on divorce these days,’ replied Dixon. ‘So why wait?’
Dixon’s eyes glazed over. He was staring into what was left of his beer, swilling it around in the bottom of the glass.
‘Thank you for that,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘You’ve just driven a coach and horses through my motive.’
‘I knew it would be my fault.’
‘If they’d divorced, chances are the pension would’ve been split and she’d have got half. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So now he’s dead her widow’s entitlement is what? Half or two thirds?’
‘Half is more likely.’
‘Louise is checking, but if it’s a half, then she’s no better off, is she?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I never liked it much anyway,’ muttered Dixon.
‘You’ve still got the will,’ said Jane.
‘It left everything to my victim, but he died first, so it goes to the daughter’s children.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing on the face of it. The daughter’s well off anyway if appearances are anything to go by, so it must be unlikely she killed her brother for it. It’s convenient for her family he died before his mother though, otherwise my victim would’ve inherited the lot.’
‘The lot?’ asked Jane.
‘Well, the house anyway. Not sure there’s much else,’ replied Dixon. ‘And if he’d inherited . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘Has he got a will?’
‘We haven’t found it yet if he has.’ Dixon sighed. ‘If he hasn’t got one, then his wife would’ve inherited under the intestacy rules, which might be the reason why she never divorced him I suppose. And she could claim against his estate, as his spouse anyway. But, and here’s the real flaw in this one, she would’ve needed him to survive his mother first and inherit her estate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because without that he had nothing for the wife to inherit or claim against. As it is he’s died penniless.’
‘That just leaves the sister then?’ asked Jane.
‘She’s the only one who needed him to die before the mother, that’s right,’ replied Dixon. ‘But this isn’t about that, is it? I mean, one of her cars is worth more than you and I earn in a year. Put together. And why the pillbox? Why the brick dust?’
