by Damien Boyd
‘Er, I’ll see if I can track them down. Please hold.’
‘And I need to speak to them now.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon waited. He checked his watch. It was just after 11 a.m. and it would be lunchtime before he was back at Express Park, teatime before he could get to London.
‘It’s Mr Sharma, but he’s in a meeting I’m afraid. He’ll be free just before lunch if that’s any good?’
‘Get him out of it.’
The receptionist sighed.
‘This is a murder investigation. Please get him out of the meeting. Now.’
Dixon was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath.
‘Please hold.’
He watched a lorry approaching in his rearview mirror and then pass him, slowing as it began to struggle up the hill.
‘This is Virat Sharma.’
‘Mr Sharma, my name is—’
‘I know who you are. How can I help?’
‘Are you dealing with mesothelioma claims dating back to the Falklands War? Five marines dismantling Argentinian radar cabins.’
‘Yes. There’s a hearing next week. It’s four and the executors of the fifth.’
‘Is Captain Alan Fletcher a witness?’
‘Yes, although his statement’s been agreed.’
‘He’s dead and I’m investigating his murder.’
‘What happened?’
‘What time are you going to be there until tonight?’ asked Dixon.
‘I usually finish at 5.30 p.m.’
‘I’m going to travel up to London now. Please do not go home before I get there.’
‘Of course.’
Dixon gave Sharma his mobile phone number.
‘How many files are you running?’
‘Two,’ replied Sharma. ‘Four of the claimants are represented by one firm of solicitors, and the fifth by another.’
‘I’ll need two copies, please,’ said Dixon. ‘Correspondence, pleadings, expert reports, witness statements, the lot.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘It is a murder investigation, Mr Sharma.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you got their service records?’
‘They’re on the file.’
‘Them too then, please.’
‘That’ll take two people all afternoon. And two photocopiers,’ muttered Sharma.
‘And don’t tell anyone either.’
‘I need to notify the other side.’
‘Not before I get there. Do you understand?’
‘You’ve got me worried now.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Dixon.
‘Well, that’s two now, isn’t it?’
‘Two?’
‘I took over the case at the end of last year when a chap here was murdered.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Robert Fryer.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was pushed under a train at Wimbledon station.’
‘Get us on a fast train to London. Not before 1.30 p.m.,’ said Dixon, looking at his watch.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise.
‘Let me know the time, and line up a traffic car to get us to the station. If we go from Taunton, we can get a direct train to Paddington.’
‘I know.’
‘And get DCI Lewis to speak to his opposite number at Wimbledon. I need a meeting with whoever’s dealing with the murder of Robert Fryer. He was pushed under a train at Wimbledon station last year. All right?’
‘Who was he?’
‘A solicitor at the Government Legal Department.’
‘What’s his—?’
‘I haven’t got time to go through that now.’
‘OK.’
‘Are you all right for an overnighter?’
‘Yes, should be. My husband can look after Kate.’
‘Book us two rooms at a cheap hotel. We should be out at Wimbledon by then.’
‘Dog friendly?’
‘No, he can go home with Jane.’
‘What about the Royal Engineers?’
‘Leave that with Dave and Mark.’
Dixon rang off and turned on to the A38. He floored the accelerator in third gear, but it would probably have been quicker to hitch a lift on that lorry that had crawled past.
We’re on the 1.35. Wimbledon SIO is DCI Gresham, expecting your call
Hannah Gresham a DCI? A lot had changed at Wimbledon in the six months since he’d worked there. He checked his watch, deleted the text message and then rang Louise.
‘I’m still south of Exeter and not going to make it in time, so I’ll meet you at Taunton. Make sure there are two officers with you and one of them can drive my old bus back to Express Park.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘They’ll need to give the keys to Jane so she can sort Monty out.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Then Dixon rang Jane.
‘What’s up?’
‘Got an overnighter in London I’m afraid.’
‘But you haven’t got your night insulin or your blood testing kit. Not to mention a toothbrush.’
‘I’ll be all right for one night. I’ll have to be.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get back. Look, I’m picking up the train at Taunton, so someone’s going to drive my car back to Bridgwater and give you the keys. Don’t forget Monty!’
‘I won’t. And be careful.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Dixon and Louise were sitting in the window of an InterCity 125 watching the Somerset Levels flash by, some of the fields and houses still underwater. Louise was deep in thought, digesting the briefing she had just received. The train carriage wasn’t crowded and they had sat at the far end, but Dixon had still whispered, which hadn’t helped. She had got the gist of it all the same.
‘And you got all of that from the radar cabin?’
‘That and Colonel Wood telling me Fletcher had ordered the marines to dismantle the others. That’s when it all dropped into place. And Dr Fripp of course. But they confirmed it at Bickleigh this morning.’
‘How?’
‘I am a solicitor, don’t forget.’
Louise shook her head.
‘Fletcher was forced to inhale the brick dust, remember? A hand over his mouth,’ continued Dixon. ‘And mesothelioma is a lung disease, as we know.’
‘Actually, it’s the lining of the lung,’ replied Louise. ‘A form of cancer caused by exposure to asbestos. My grandfather died of it.’
‘Really?’
‘He was an electrician. Died when I was four.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Louise smiled.
‘Well,’ continued Dixon, ‘if you dismantle three asbestos lined cabins without the proper equipment and you inhale the dust, chances are you’ll be seeing a solicitor decades later.’
‘How d’you know they didn’t have the right equipment?’
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’
‘Why?’
‘If they did, they wouldn’t be dying now, would they?’
‘No, I suppose they wouldn’t.’
‘And court proceedings wouldn’t have got off the ground.’
Louise nodded.
‘What lawyer would take it to trial on a no-win, no-fee agreement?’ asked Dixon.
‘I can think of a few.’
‘They shipped tons of equipment to the Falklands: weapons, ammunition, food. But equipment for dealing with asbestos? Somehow I doubt it.’
The taxi dropped them outside the offices of the Government Legal Department in Kemble Street just after 4 p.m., and Virat Sharma was waiting for them in reception, Dixon having rung ahead. More concrete and glass, this time arranged like a honeycomb.
‘Don’t say it,’ said Louise, watching Dixon looking up at the building and frowning. ‘You’re starting to sound like Prince Charles.’
&nb
sp; Dixon smiled. At least there was someone else who shared his disdain for modern architecture.
‘Inspector Dixon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Virat Sharma.’ He was tall and thin, dressed in a grey suit with trousers too short in the leg, although he was young enough that he may have just grown out of them.
‘This is Detective Constable Louise Willmott.’
They shook hands.
‘We’re on the fifth floor. The lift’s this way,’ said Sharma, gesturing to the back of the reception area. ‘I’ve got the copies ready, but it’s two boxes I’m afraid.’ He pressed the button and the doors opened.
‘That’s fine,’ said Dixon, stepping into the lift. ‘We’ll take a cab.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Follow me.’
The lift doors opened, and they followed Sharma through large double doors marked ‘Litigation Department’ and into a glass panelled meeting room.
‘These are the boxes,’ said Sharma. ‘I’ll just get my secretary to organise the tea.’
He returned a minute or so later to find Dixon flicking through the witness statements.
‘Right, well, what do you want to know?’ asked Sharma, sitting down at the table.
‘Tell me about the case,’ said Dixon. ‘Are they going to win?’
‘No.’
‘You sound sure.’
‘Section 10 of the Crown Proceedings Act 1947. A member of the armed forces can’t sue the Crown for personal injury. It was repealed in 1987, but still applies to injuries suffered before 1987, which covers the Falklands of course.’
‘Why have they commenced court proceedings then?’
‘They’re relying on Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights. In the determination of his civil rights, everyone is entitled to a fair and public hearing. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it. They say the Crown Proceedings Act denies them a fair and public hearing.’
‘So they’re taking it all the way to the European Court?’
‘They’re threatening to. No one’s ever done it before, so it’ll be a test case. They also have to show they’ve got a winnable case, but the exposure was short-lived and our expert says it wouldn’t have caused mesothelioma on its own. The exposure needs to be more prolonged. That’s our defence anyway.’
‘The European Court will take years though, surely.’
‘It will, by which time they’ll all have died, sadly.’
‘Can’t you settle it?’
‘I had a go when I first took the case over. I offered them the chance to discontinue the proceedings, with each side paying their own costs, but that wasn’t good enough.’
‘Why would they consider that?’ asked Louise.
‘Because when they lose they’ll have to pay all our costs as well as their own. They’ve backed themselves into a corner and commenced proceedings in a case they can’t win, and I was offering them a way out before the costs ramped up. But she was adamant she wanted compensation for her clients.’
‘Who was?’ asked Dixon.
‘The solicitor acting for the claimants. I can’t remember her name.’
‘And you won’t pay?’
‘Why would we? It would open the floodgates to other claims, and the court was satisfied that we had a defence,’ said Sharma, shrugging his shoulders.
‘What d’you mean “the court was satisfied”?’ asked Dixon. ‘The trial’s next week, surely.’
‘That’s just a hearing of the preliminary issue, of whether the Crown Proceedings Act applies. If it does, then the claims are dismissed and off we go to Europe, assuming they actually go that far. I’m talking about the case management conference last October. The court fast-tracks mesothelioma cases where the claimants are still alive, for obvious reasons, and the defendant has to show that he has a defence to the claim at the case management conference. If he can’t, the claimants win at the first hurdle, and get an immediate interim payment of fifty thousand pounds, with the rest of their damages at the end of the case.’
‘So they didn’t get the interim payment?’
‘No.’
‘What happened to Mr Fryer?’ asked Dixon.
‘He lived over at Berrylands on the Waterloo line. He was on his way home from work. Anyway, he’s standing on the platform when someone comes up behind him, and the next thing he’s on all fours across the tracks in front of the Woking train. Still, he wouldn’t have known much about it I suppose.’
‘Has an arrest been made?’
‘Not as far as I know. There’s CCTV, I’ve seen it on the local news. But they haven’t got anyone yet I don’t think.’
‘Has any connection been made with this case?’
‘No. Not yet anyway.’
‘What can you see on the CCTV?’
‘Nothing really. He’s wearing a hood. A beard possibly, but that’s it.’
‘How well did you know Fryer?’
‘Not that well. I’ve only been here a year and there’s thirty of us. He kept himself to himself.’
‘When was this?’
‘November thirtieth. It was a Monday. I came in on the Tuesday, and they were allocating his files.’
‘So, what will happen without Captain Fletcher?’
‘His witness statement is agreed, so it won’t make much difference.’
‘When did you first get in touch with him?’
‘Fryer did about a year ago, when it first started. He needed a witness statement from him.’
Dixon nodded.
‘You haven’t got a death certificate by any chance, have you?’ asked Sharma.
‘You’ll need to contact the Somerset coroner. There’s only an interim death certificate at the moment.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Sharma, scribbling a note on the pad in front of him.
‘What stage was the case at when you took it over?’
‘It was already listed for hearing on the preliminary issue. Two days at Bristol County Court. I’ve just served witness summonses and lined up a barrister. Feels like it’s jinxed though.’
‘Why?’
‘She returned the brief and now this,’ replied Sharma.
‘Why?’
‘I never asked. We’ve had the same barrister all the way through, and then it’s returned when it comes to the hearing. I was going to complain to the head of chambers, but there didn’t seem a lot of point, and they offered us someone more senior for the same fee.’ Sharma was shaking his head. ‘It’s odd though, because she gave her available dates after the CMC, and now all of a sudden she’s not available.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Miss Alison Crowther-Smith.’
‘Which chambers is it?’ asked Dixon.
‘St Luke’s in Bristol.’
‘Tell me about the claimants then. Who are they?’
‘Four marines and the executors of the fifth. He died last August. Mesothelioma.’
‘What about the others?’
‘They’ve all got mesothelioma, some more advanced than others, and the medical evidence points to asbestos.’
‘And what does your expert say?’
‘Now you’re asking,’ replied Sharma, raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s Dr Fripp. Basically, that there wouldn’t have been enough in the three cabins to do it, so there must have been exposure to asbestos elsewhere in their employment history, which is not the liability of the MOD.’
‘Have the claimants got their own expert?’
‘Yes. He says the opposite of course. It’s not disputed that they were tasked to dismantle the cabins, or that they were lined with asbestos. And their evidence is that they have never been exposed to asbestos anywhere else. They’ve still got to get past the Crown Proceedings Act though.’
‘What sort of asbestos was it?’
‘The worst sort I’m afraid.’
‘What are the claims worth?’ asked Dixon.
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sp; ‘Damages have been agreed on a without prejudice basis. They range from ninety thousand pounds through to one hundred and fifty thousand, depending on their loss of earnings. Hagley’s is the biggest award. If he wins.’
‘Who’s acting for them?’
‘The four are represented by Lings in Bristol. And the fifth by Holt Burton in Reading.’
‘Were the four always represented by one firm?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how are they funding the claim?’
‘Lings are doing it on a conditional fee agreement – no-win, no-fee – and Holt Burton are private.’
‘No-win, no-fee on a case that’s likely to go to the European Court?’
Sharma nodded. ‘Lings are on a bit of a crusade I think, and once they’d commenced court proceedings, they had to keep going.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And I sort of hope they win, between you and me. The Crown Proceedings Act was designed to protect the government from claims by soldiers injured in battle due to the negligence of their commanders. Not from this type of claim. And there are sixty or so veterans with mesothelioma that predates 1987 – navy, army and RAF – all of them being denied compensation. They just get a war pension instead.’
‘Where do the claimants live?’
‘God knows. Their addresses will be in their witness statements.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Sharma. It seems we’ve got a lot of reading to do.’
‘Yes, sorry about that.’
‘Where d’you live?’ asked Dixon, standing up.
‘Maida Vale.’
‘And how do you get to and from work?’
‘Underground usually. Sometimes I cycle. Why?’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘What about family?’
‘My parents are in Barnes.’
‘Can you go there?’
Sharma nodded.
‘Do so,’ replied Dixon. ‘And take a cab.’
‘You’re not saying . . . ?’
‘I’ll alert the local police, and they’ll keep an eye on you, all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Don’t leave tonight until someone’s made contact,’ continued Dixon. ‘D’you need me to speak to your supervisor?’
‘No, I can deal with it,’ replied Sharma, thrusting his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.
