by Damien Boyd
‘We never told her the truth,’ said Wood as Dixon handed him a glass.
‘Why not?’
‘She didn’t need to know. No one did.’
‘And what was the truth?’
‘He broke. The last one you’d expect to run, but he did. He came back though and redeemed himself.’
‘What about the marines who went after him?’ asked Dixon. ‘Were they ever identified?’
‘Yes. There were five of them.’
‘Names?’
‘I can’t remember now. Not all of them anyway.’
‘How many do you remember?’
‘Three.’
Dixon took his notepad and a pen out of his pocket while he waited.
‘They were all F Company men,’ said Wood. ‘Corporal Absolon was one. And I remember Hagley was there too. But we never did find out who bashed Fletcher.’
‘And the third?’
‘Foster. But the others have gone, sorry. There were definitely five though.’
‘And you conducted an investigation with Colonel Byrne?’
‘Yes, informally. I kept some notes but destroyed them when we finished. We came into Southampton on a troop ship, Inspector, bands playing, flags waving. No one wanted an investigation.’
‘What reason did you give for not recommending Kandes for a VC?’
‘I did recommend him. But I was ordered to withdraw it.’
‘What reason did they give?’
‘Lack of witnesses, confusion of the battlefield, risk of a scandal. It was a travesty. He turned the battle. The whole of F Company on the left were pinned down by two geeps at the base of the rocks . . .’
‘Geeps?’
‘GPMGs – general purpose machine guns,’ replied Wood. ‘Manned by regulars too, not conscripts. He saved us all that day, including the Guards in reserve.’ Wood drained his whisky.
‘Can I get you another?’
‘I’d better not.’
‘These five marines – were they the same marines who had a run-in with Fletcher a few days later on the road outside Port Stanley?’
‘You’re well informed, Inspector. Yes, they were.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘There was an allegation of insubordination, but it wasn’t pursued after Fletcher was injured in the fire.’
‘Why not?’
‘The rest of it would have come out. And no one wanted that.’
‘So, tell me what happened.’
‘This was over thirty years ago.’
‘Try.’
‘Well,’ said Wood, shaking his head, ‘Fletcher ordered the lads to dismantle some enemy radar cabins. Two sappers were trying to get them on a ship back to the UK. As you can imagine, it turned nasty pretty damn quick and would probably have got out of hand if the military police hadn’t turned up.’
‘So, they dismantled the cabins?’
‘Yes, they did. Took them three days. We should’ve countermanded the order but didn’t. Couldn’t really in the circumstances I suppose.’
‘And now all these years later Fletcher’s been murdered. What d’you make of that?’
‘Wounds fester, Inspector. I’m not excusing it, but Kandes was well respected, and a lot of men were very angry he didn’t get the medal he deserved. Myself included. But I didn’t kill him, before you ask.’
Dixon kicked Monty’s tennis ball along the sand at Broadsands Beach and watched Monty take off after it, although he lost interest before he had gone halfway, distracted by a large pile of rotting seaweed.
The ferry across the River Dart had seemed a reasonable way to get home, via a beach, although Dixon’s last visit to Torbay had not ended well. Two people had died that day.
He thought about what he had learned from Colonel Wood. Not much, except that Fletcher had ordered the marines to dismantle the radar cabins. Or tried to anyway. From the sounds of it the military police had been needed to enforce the order. No doubt he would have learned some new words if he had been a fly on the wall.
He took his phone out of his pocket and rang Louise.
‘Got anywhere with the Royal Engineers?’
‘Not yet, Sir. Just waiting to hear back.’
‘What about the service records?’
‘Dave’s sorted that and they’re on the way.’
‘Good.’
‘There are some missing though.’
‘How many?’
‘Five.’
‘Have you got a list of names?’
‘Dave has.’
‘Get it.’
‘Hang on.’
It was just after 4 p.m., and Dixon wouldn’t get back until gone 6 p.m. even if he cut short his walk on the beach.
‘Here it is,’ said Louise.
‘Don’t tell me,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘Absolon, Hagley and Foster.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And Jones and Hampton.’
‘Where have their records gone?’
‘They’re finding out.’
‘Make sure they do.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let’s have everybody in for an 8 a.m. sharp. Then we’re off down to Bickleigh, all right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon rang off. Shame. If he’d had his night insulin with him, he could have stayed over in Devon.
‘She was sixteen.’
‘Who was?’ asked Dixon, closing the front door behind him.
‘My mother,’ replied Jane. She was sitting on the sofa with a glass of red wine in her hand.
‘You opened the envelope?’
Jane nodded.
‘What about your father?’
‘There’s no name given, but she wasn’t raped or anything like that. He was just a boy she was in a relationship with.’
‘Do you know your mother’s name?’
‘Sonia.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s Carlisle social services.’
Dixon dropped on to the sofa next to Jane and took her free hand in his. Monty jumped up and sat on her lap.
‘What d’you want to do?’
‘Nothing. For a while. Then I’ll see.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘If you want to,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s on the side over there.’
‘How was work?’
‘Who was it who said never work with children and animals?’
‘It was an actor I think,’ replied Dixon.
‘Should’ve been a police officer.’ Jane took a large swig of wine.
‘You eaten?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll bung something in the oven.’
Monty followed Dixon into the kitchen.
‘Yes, yes, and you, I know.’
‘I don’t know whether I can risk her dumping me again,’ said Jane. ‘She’s done it once.’
Dixon was putting Monty’s bowl on the floor and looked up to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks. He walked over and put his arms around her.
‘What’ve you got to lose?’
‘Nothing I suppose.’
‘Exactly. D’you think your parents will love you any less?’
‘No.’
‘Or me?’
‘No.’
‘Then if she doesn’t want to know, you’ve lost nothing, and at least you’ll know.’
‘What if I hate what I find?’
‘Then you cut her loose. It’ll be your decision, and you’ll be dumping her.’
‘I suppose I just need to toughen up a bit.’
‘Bollocks,’ replied Dixon. ‘Why should you change because of her? If you’ve got a wasp in your car, you don’t toughen up; you wind down the window and get rid of it.’
‘A wasp? Where the bloody hell did that come from?’
‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe it got in through the air vent.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Look, you owe her nothing. If you don’t like what you find, wind down the window
and let her go.’
‘And you’ll be there?’
‘Yes.’
Jane smiled. ‘Tell me about your day then.’
‘Getting close I think. Lots of jigsaw pieces on the table, and I’ve got the edges all nicely laid out. Trouble is I haven’t got the lid with the picture on it.’
‘Any pieces missing?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You’re talking crap.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Dixon had never questioned why it was that he did his best thinking when he was doing something else – in the shower, walking his dog, driving. There was no pattern to it, and it was best not to analyse it. Just go with the flow. And if all else failed, stop dwelling on it and put on a good film.
Tonight it had been Jane’s choice, and Dixon had got off lightly thanks to a screening of 12 Angry Men on Channel 4. Back in the old days a police officer was excused jury service, but not any more. That all changed in 2004, and the prospect sent shivers down his spine. He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. Again. But each time the same picture appeared of him sitting in the jury box, watching himself giving evidence. Still, at least Henry Fonda wasn’t on the jury.
He woke just after 7 a.m. to find the bed empty next to him. The familiar sound of a tin dog bowl scraping along a tiled floor was coming from downstairs, soon drowned out by the kettle and closely followed by the smell of coffee. It was enough to get anyone out of bed.
‘What’s the plan for today?’ asked Jane.
‘I’m off down to Plymouth to begin with,’ replied Dixon. ‘After that it’s anyone’s guess.’
‘Are you taking Monty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Twenty minutes later Dixon was leaning on a fence post watching Monty wandering around the field behind the cottage. It was milder, and the last traces of snow on the ground had gone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the air to fill his lungs and holding it in for as long as he could before letting it out.
Oh shit.
He bundled Monty into the back of the Land Rover and then flung open the back door of the cottage.
‘Gotta go, sorry.’
‘But you haven’t had your toast.’
‘I’ve got it,’ said Dixon, climbing into the driver’s seat of his Land Rover. ‘My jigsaw puzzle lid.’
‘Have you done your jab?’ shouted Jane from the back door, but it was lost in the revving of the old diesel engine.
He ignored Junction 23 on the M5 and sped past Bridgwater, heading south, a diesel stop at Taunton Deane giving him the chance to ring Louise.
‘Where are you?’
‘Meeting room two, Sir. Where are you?’
‘Taunton Deane. I’m going straight down to Plymouth, but I’ll get back as quick as I can. Tell Dave to sort the service records into companies and then troops. I want to know who was in Kandes’s troop.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And let Mark chase the engineers. I want you to ring that Draper chap at Porton Down and find out exactly who has been to see that radar cabin in the last two years. I want names and addresses, the lot.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘They’ll have the records. And I need them before I go in to see the lieutenant colonel at ten. All right?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Dixon rang off. It was going to be an interesting meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Hatfield.
Chapter Thirteen
Another guardhouse, this time inside high steel gates with a roll of barbed wire along the top. A sign on the grass verge – a red cross on a yellow background with a crest in the centre: 42 Commando, Royal Marines. Dixon was in the right place.
He parked opposite the entrance and rang Louise.
‘You said you wanted two years?’
‘I did.’
‘He’s got two so far, but he thinks there was a third before that. He’s ringing me back with it.’
‘Give me the ones you’ve got.’
‘Simon Taylor from Asbestos Solutions Limited. They’re in Salisbury. He visited last July and quoted for disposing of it.’
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon. He had his phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder and was scribbling in his notepad.
‘And Anthony Fripp. Just says Bangor. Draper says he doesn’t know why he was there, but it wasn’t to quote for getting rid of it. Or if it was, he never gave a quote. That’s all he can remember.’
‘When?’
‘January last year.’
‘OK,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m going in now, so text me when you get the other one.’
‘Will do.’
Dixon rang off and opened a web browser. He typed ‘Anthony Fripp Bangor’ into Google and hit the ‘Search’ button. The first result came from the UK Register of Expert Witnesses. He clicked on it.
‘Dr Fripp in Bangor; industrial lung disease, occupational asthma, asbestosis, respiratory diseases, lung injury, mesothelioma, pulmonary function testing, Certificate of Expert Witness Accreditation.’
Dixon smiled. He was looking at his jigsaw puzzle lid.
‘Park there, Sir. That’s the HQ building over there.’
‘Thank you.’
It was an odd looking building for a Marines headquarters – not that Dixon had seen one before. Dark red, almost black bricks at ground floor level, with the first floor clad in light green corrugated iron.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon to see Lieutenant Colonel Hatfield,’ he told the marine on duty at reception.
‘Take a seat, Sir. I’ll let him know you’re here.’
Dixon was flicking through a loose leaf folder of newspaper clippings, ‘42 Commando in the News’, when the inner doors flew open.
‘Inspector Dixon?’
‘Yes.’
‘This way, Sir. The CO’s expecting you.’
He followed the marine along the corridor, trying not to get in step, and into a meeting room at the back of the building, overlooking the war memorial.
‘Can I offer you a coffee, Sir?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Colonel Hatfield will be along in a minute.’
‘Thank you.’
Dixon was still staring at the memorial when the door opened behind him.
‘Rather puts it all in perspective when you see that, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, Sir,’ replied Dixon, recognising Hatfield from his picture on the Internet. They shook hands.
‘Do sit down.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Look, I don’t think there’s any harm in me telling you that I’ve spoken to Colonel Wood. He rang me.’
Dixon nodded.
‘We’re both benevolent fund trustees,’ continued Hatfield. ‘And I’m not sure there’s much I can usefully add to what he’s told you.’
‘You’ve heard of Adrian Kandes?’
‘Every marine has. Certainly everyone in 42 Commando.’
‘And is there much bitterness about it?’
‘Not these days. All of his contemporaries have long since retired, and we’ve lost too many men in Iraq and Afghanistan since then, Inspector. I guess you could say he’s passed into corps legend.’
‘Are there regular meetings of veterans?’
‘Oh yes. There’s a veterans’ association, a magazine and regular get-togethers. I can let you have a copy of the magazine before you go.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you saying that you think a marine killed Fletcher?’ asked Hatfield, frowning.
‘Not a serving marine, no,’ replied Dixon. ‘But a Falklands veteran possibly.’
Hatfield nodded.
‘One of the men Kandes gave his life to save,’ continued Dixon.
‘That would give you a lot of suspects. Although some might say they saved him rather than the other way round.’
‘What from?’
‘A court martial, dishonourable discharge.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Have you looked at their service records?’ asked Hatfield.
‘We’re doing that now, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out I think.’
‘Can you tell me whether there are any records of the investigation carried out by Colonel Wood in the days after the battle?’
‘There aren’t, I’m afraid. I had someone look after we spoke on the phone.’
‘Are there any sets of court proceedings going on involving 42 Commando?’
‘That’s an odd question.’
‘Humour me,’ said Dixon.
‘We’ve got a couple of speculative claims from Iraq and Afghanistan, but I don’t usually get involved in that. They’re made against the Ministry of Defence, and the Government Legal Department deals with them. The old Treasury Solicitor as was.’
‘Who deals with them here?’
‘My adjutant, David Shaw.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘Er, yes. He’s here today. Give me a minute.’
Hatfield left the room and returned a few minutes later with another officer. Dixon was back in the window, looking at the war memorial.
‘Does it have names on it, the memorial?’ asked Dixon, turning around.
‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Hatfield.
‘And is Adrian Kandes on it?’
‘He is.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Inspector, this is Captain Shaw. You were asking about court proceedings.’
‘Yes. Are there any, Sir?’
‘We’ve got several claims under investigation,’ replied Shaw. ‘But only one set of court proceedings at the moment. That dates back to the Falklands.’
‘Asbestosis?’ asked Dixon.
‘Mesothelioma to be precise. How could you possibly know that?’
‘Dismantling Argentinian radar cabins lined with asbestos?’
Shaw nodded.
‘Five of them?’
‘One’s died, sadly, so it’s down to four now. There’s a hearing next week at Bristol County Court.’
Chapter Fourteen
Cars flashed past the lay-by on the A38 as Dixon switched his engine off and clamped his phone to his ear.
‘Government Legal Department. How can I help you?’
‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon, of Avon and Somerset Police. I’m investigating the murder of Captain Alan Fletcher, a retired Welsh Guards officer and need to speak to the solicitor dealing with a mesothelioma claim against the MOD. It’ll be Absolon, Hagley and Foster versus the Ministry of Defence.’
