Death Sentence (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 6)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Coroner’s officer, please,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Up the stairs, first door on the right along the landing.’ The receptionist spoke without looking away from her screen.

  The carved oak staircase led to a wood panelled corridor.

  ‘You have to like wood to work in a place like this,’ muttered Louise.

  Dixon knocked on the door with the ‘Coroner’s Officer’ sign on it and walked in. Both desks were occupied, but Dixon recognised the coroner himself sitting on the window ledge.

  ‘Ah, Inspector Dixon, isn’t it?’ said Michael Roseland, standing up.

  ‘Yes, Sir. And this is Detective Constable Willmott.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘I need to see the file on the death of Alison Crowther-Smith, Sir. She was a barrister from Bristol who died in a caving accident.’

  ‘That’ll be the Mendips probably, so that’s East Somerset, Tony Williamson’s patch. We should have the file here though. Ken?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied the man at the desk on the right. ‘The inquest’s not been fixed yet, so the file should be . . .’ He opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet and then the next one down. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘What d’you need?’ asked Roseland.

  ‘Witness statements and the medical report, please.’

  ‘Copies?’ asked Ken.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Roseland nodded.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said Ken, opening the office door.

  ‘Is there anything we need to know?’ asked Roseland.

  ‘Miss Crowther-Smith was a barrister defending a mesothelioma claim against the MOD, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘The solicitor conducting the defence and a witness have been murdered, so I’m guessing that Miss Crowther-Smith was also murdered.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Drowning as far as I know, but I’ve only spoken to her clerk so far.’

  ‘I’ll tell Tony, and we’ll sit tight on the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, please, Sir.’

  ‘Here are the statements and medical report,’ said Ken, handing an envelope to Dixon.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Keep us informed, Inspector, please,’ said Roseland.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  They arrived back at Express Park a few minutes late for the briefing Dixon had called for 11.30 a.m. DCI Lewis was sitting in meeting room 2 with Dave Harding and Mark Pearce, drumming his fingers on the table.

  It took Dixon no more than twenty minutes to bring everyone up to date with the investigation. He was interrupted only once, when Mark’s phone rang.

  ‘That was Birmingham, Sir,’ said Pearce, dropping his phone back into his jacket pocket. ‘They’ve got Fripp at a hotel in the city centre. He’s giving evidence this afternoon at Birmingham County Court, then they’ll move him to one out of town.’

  ‘Good.’

  Dixon slid the box across the table.

  ‘Copies of the witness statements for everyone, please. Let’s focus on the families of the claimants.’

  ‘Including the dead one?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Especially the dead one,’ replied Dixon. ‘Look for brothers and sisters, children. We’ll need to have a look at the solicitors acting for them too. You take them, Louise. Lings in Bristol and Holt Burton in Reading. I want to know who’s dealing with the cases. And any barristers they’ve instructed.’

  Harding looked at Pearce and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s a lot of work,’ continued Dixon. ‘And we haven’t got a lot of time. There’s a hearing next week.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘This is an e-fit of Fryer’s killer, with and without beard.’

  ‘Can you email us the CCTV footage?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Yes, Dave. Right, well, we know what we’ve got to do?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Lewis waited until the others had left the room.

  ‘If we’re in a race with the Met, it’s one the chief constable would no doubt like us to win, Nick.’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ll let them handle the Reading end. Three of the claimants and the executors of the other all live down here, so we’ll focus on them.’

  ‘We may find a Major Investigation Team is put together when Portishead get wind of it.’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s a Bridgwater case, and we’re going to deal with it.’

  ‘You’re on the MIT anyway,’ said Lewis.

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can stall it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And keep up the good work.’

  Dixon spent the next half an hour sitting in the canteen reading the witness statements and post mortem report on the death of Alison Crowther-Smith. Recently divorced, she had left behind two young children, who were now living with their father.

  He started with the statement from Sean Toms. He had met Alison at a party several months earlier and had finally persuaded her to go caving with him. She had hired a wetsuit and oversuit from Cave and Rock in Cheddar, and then they had gone down Swildon’s Hole, near Priddy, intending to go as far as Sump One and no further. It was a good beginner’s cave apparently, and Toms knew it well, having been a member of Wessex Cave Club for several years.

  Alison had been hesitant at first, although had taken some comfort from Toms’s assurances that the entrance was the narrowest section, and once in the cave she had been fine, apart from a few tears on the wire ladder at the Thirty Foot Pot.

  When they arrived at Sump One, Toms had explained that it was a short crawl underwater, seven feet at most, pulling on the white nylon rope, and then it opened out into another cavern. He had even been through the sump and back again to show her how easy it was. She assured him she would have a go at it, so he went back through and pulled on the rope three times, the standard signal. After a short pause, which he took to be her summoning up the courage, the rope began to move as if she was pulling on it.

  Her light was visible in the clear water, so he knew she was in the sump, but then the rope began jerking from side to side. She was taking too long. Far too long. That was when he went back in and tried to pull her out. He said that he had hold of her wrists and was pulling as hard as he could but she was stuck fast.

  He had to let go and back out for air, and she was dead by the time he was able to get back in.

  He tried again and was able to pull her lifeless body through the sump. He tried CPR, but to no avail, so he left her where she was and came back out of the cave to raise the alarm.

  The post mortem had been fairly straightforward. Drowning. But none of the witnesses could shed any light on how it happened. No one had ever drowned in Swildon’s Hole before, according to the secretary of the Wessex Cave Club, although there had been a near miss a few years before when the rope became tangled around a caver’s headlamp. She had been pulled back out of the sump by someone behind her and lost her torch in the process.

  Andrew Kemp of the Mendip Cave Rescue team could also not recall a caver drowning in Sump One before. There had been deaths due to hypothermia, natural causes and even rockfall, but never drowning.

  Dixon took out his phone and dialled Roger Poland’s number, draining his tea while he waited for Poland to answer.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I need you to have a look at a PM for me. It was done by somebody over at Weston.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last October.’

  ‘Probably been cremated by now,’ said Poland. ‘Or buried.’

  ‘I just need you to look at the photos to begin with. All I’ve got is the PM report, and it says drowning, but I need to know whether there are any injuries consistent with her being held under the water. She was in a sump, and if someone came up behind her they could’ve grabbed hold of her feet.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Alison Crowther-Smith. I’ll scan the report and email it over to you now.’r />
  ‘All right. I’ll get on to Weston.’

  ‘Thanks, Roger.’

  Dixon rang off and went in search of Louise.

  ‘Scan this and email it over to Roger, will you?’ he said, handing the PM report to her.

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I’m off. Give me a ring if anything comes up, but I doubt I’ll get a signal.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Down a hole.’

  Dixon found Cave and Rock in a small industrial unit on the outskirts of Cheddar. The large door was open, and a man was throwing bags into the back of a Land Rover that had been backed into the unit.

  Dixon parked outside and walked down the side of the Land Rover. He looked in and noticed that each bag contained a helmet, red caving suit, wellington boots and various pads, presumably for knees and elbows.

  ‘You hire caving kit?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The man was tall, with a closely cropped beard. He was wearing jeans and a blue fleece jacket with a Cave and Rock logo on it.

  ‘Swildon’s Hole.’

  ‘It’s closed. The landowner closed it after the accident. It may reopen in the spring.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Andy Kemp.’

  ‘Cave rescue?’

  ‘Yes. Who wants to know?’

  Dixon passed him his warrant card.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kemp, handing the warrant card back. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘You referred to an accident?’

  ‘Yes. A woman drowned in Sump One last October. Took us hours to get her out. It was nearly midnight by the time we finished.’

  ‘What makes you think it was an accident?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Dixon raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re joking?’ asked Kemp.

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘Now, I need to go down there, so can you hire me the kit?’

  ‘You’d never find it. And if you did, you’d never find your way out again.’

  ‘I need a guide then.’

  ‘You want to go now?’

  Dixon nodded.

  Kemp looked at his watch and sighed. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How tall are you?’

  ‘Five eleven.’

  ‘Didn’t you used to climb with Jake?’ asked Kemp, looking Dixon up and down.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘I thought I recognised you.’

  Dixon followed Kemp up to the Wessex Cave Club hut on top of the Mendips, just beyond Priddy.

  The hut itself looked more like an old farmhouse that had been converted, but either way, rendered in grey pebble dash, it made a dark and foreboding place. It didn’t help that it was an overcast and freezing cold February day.

  Kemp walked over to a scaffolding tower with a wire ladder hanging from it.

  ‘Climb it like so,’ he said, ‘hands round the back of the ladder. And keep your weight over your feet.’

  Dixon nodded. He felt sick, but he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone, let alone Kemp.

  ‘First things first. We’d better write our names on the board.’

  Kemp unlocked the front door and peered along the corridor to the back of the hut.

  ‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ said Dixon.

  ‘It’s busier in the spring and summer.’

  The lounge smelled damp. A huge open fire, stone cold, with the embers spilling out on to the hearth; two leather sofas held together by duct tape; caving magazines lying everywhere. It reminded Dixon of a climbing club hut in winter.

  Kemp picked a piece of chalk off the mantelpiece and started writing on the blackboard above the fireplace.

  Thursday 20 Feb Swildon’s One Kemp +1 2.30 pm

  ‘We’d better get changed.’

  The changing rooms were filthy, but then most cavers left clean and arrived back covered in mud, so that was to be expected. Next to the showers were two drying rooms, full of caving equipment.

  ‘They just leave it here?’

  ‘The locals do. They’ll be back at the weekend.’

  ‘Are you sure I don’t need a wetsuit?’ asked Dixon. He was sitting on the bench pulling a fleece undersuit on over his ankles.

  ‘No, you’ll be fine as long as you keep moving. And the ground’s freezing up here, so there shouldn’t be too much water down there.’

  ‘Won’t it be cold?’

  ‘Not too bad. The temperature only fluctuates a degree or so between summer and winter.’

  ‘You mean it’s bloody cold all the time?’

  ‘Freezing,’ replied Kemp, grinning. ‘Are you going through the sump?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I get there,’ replied Dixon, pulling the elasticated ankle bands of the oversuit over his feet. ‘These are tight.’

  ‘Got a quid?’

  ‘Are there lockers?’

  ‘No. It’s for access. We bung it in the tin here for the landowner.’

  Dixon sighed. Getting cold, wet and miserable was one thing, but paying for the privilege?

  There was a large sign on the wall above the tin. ‘Swildon’s Hole closed until further notice by order of the landowner.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Kemp. ‘We’re on official business.’

  ‘What’s in these sheds?’ asked Dixon as they walked out towards the stile at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘That one’s a store, and that one’s an air compressor.’

  ‘For the cave divers I suppose.’

  ‘We’ve got a few,’ replied Kemp, slinging an orange rucksack over his shoulder. ‘You can go as far as Sump Twelve these days, but you need oxygen tanks to do it. The aim is to connect with Wookey Hole one day.’

  They walked out across the fields, over three drystone walls and then along a track that followed the edge of a wood.

  ‘There it is,’ said Kemp.

  Dixon looked down at the entrance to Swildon’s Hole. A small blockhouse built of grey stone that looked more like an outside toilet cubicle stood in the bottom of a hollow, with a large tree stump next to it and a stream disappearing into the ground under it. For once Dixon was grateful for the cold weather, which had reduced the stream to a trickle under a layer of ice.

  ‘The cave follows the stream I suppose,’ said Dixon.

  ‘That’s it,’ replied Kemp. ‘They put some dye in it once and it came out at Wookey. That’s how we know the systems connect.’

  They scrambled down the rough track to the blockhouse and went inside, further progress blocked by a triangular drain cover set into a concrete floor.

  ‘It’s not locked?’

  ‘No point. We’ve all got keys anyway, but if he says it’s closed, it’s closed.’

  ‘Is it too late to change my mind?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  Kemp lifted the cover clear and Dixon peered into the hole – a narrow gap down between the dark limestone rocks, just enough to squeeze through. The sound of running water echoed all around him.

  ‘Plenty of people turn back at this point,’ said Kemp, frowning at Dixon.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Down you go then.’

  Dixon sat with his feet dangling in the hole and then lowered himself down until he was standing on the rock below, his head now the only part of him above ground.

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘Metallic, isn’t it?’ replied Kemp. ‘It’s all the minerals.’

  Dixon slid his legs forward until he was sitting on the rock and shone his torch into the darkness. A narrow gap under a huge block lay in front of him, his first real test.

  ‘We’ll go straight on instead of through the Zig-Zags,’ said Kemp.

  ‘We go under this boulder?’ Trying not to sound nervous.

  ‘Yes. It shouldn’t fall on you.’

  Dixon could picture the grin on Kemp’s face.

  He slid on his back, his face turned away from the
rock above him, until his feet were flailing in the clear. Then he felt for the rock below with his heels, finding a foothold just before he slid off the rock. He was able to lower himself into a sitting position and look up at the boulder, one corner perched on a ledge no more than a few inches wide.

  ‘One day that’s going to go,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah, but the chances of you being under it when it does are pretty bloody small.’

  Everything in climbing had been a risk – assessed, calculated and then taken. It was like gambling. Check the odds and then go for it. Some people, like Jake, had taken bigger risks than others. And the same applied to caving.

  Kemp was right. The chances of Dixon being under that rock when it collapsed were small, but maybe somebody one day would take the same gamble and lose.

  Dixon crawled clear of the boulder, grateful for the knee pads, and waited for Kemp to appear.

  ‘Which way now?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  The rock fell away beneath them, but the cave roof was only two foot above. Dixon watched Kemp slide down on his back with his hands and feet braced against the rock above. Anything to stop himself sliding to the bottom – knees and elbows even. Dixon winced. Style marks had been all important in climbing, but clearly played no part in caving. Jake would be turning in his grave.

  Once at the bottom of the slab, Kemp stopped and waited for him.

  ‘Switch off your light.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just try it.’

  They both switched off the lamps on their helmets.

  ‘Absolute darkness it’s called,’ said Kemp. He was sitting no more than a few feet away, but Dixon couldn’t see him. At all.

  ‘I can’t even see my hand.’

  ‘Touch your nose,’ said Kemp.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘There’s no external light source at all, so the darkness is total.’

  ‘What happens if we run out of batteries?’

  ‘That’s why we carry spares,’ replied Kemp.

  Dixon felt the breast pocket of his undersuit and breathed a sigh of relief. Zipped up inside were two sets of spare batteries and a bar of chocolate.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get moving,’ said Kemp, switching on his lamp. ‘And try to keep up.’

  Dixon followed Kemp’s light along the stream bed, a gravel cleft in the rocks towering over them on either side.

  ‘Usually this is a raging torrent,’ said Kemp. ‘You’re getting off lightly.’