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

by Damien Boyd

The Statements of Claim, Defence, Request for Further Information, and Reply to Request for Further Information. Legal jousting, reciting the same allegations made in thousands of cases, followed by the same denials, with the added extra of the Crown Proceedings Act thrown in for good measure. Then came the case management conference, when Alison Crowther-Smith had shown cause why the MoD should be allowed to defend the claims. The standard interim payment in ‘Living Mesothelioma Claims’ had also been dismissed at the same hearing. Fifty thousand pounds. Dixon nodded. He could understand the bitterness.

  The case was then listed for a trial on the preliminary issue within sixteen weeks, with a time estimate of two days.

  It was enough to put anyone to sleep.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Dixon, yawning.

  ‘Eight,’ replied Jane. She was standing in front of Dixon with a mug of coffee in each hand. ‘You should’ve come to bed.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Only—’

  ‘I’m fine. Really. How’re you getting on?’

  ‘Good I think. Making progress anyway. We’ve got the caving thing to work on. He’s wearing a caving sack when he kills Fryer.’

  ‘Pushes him under the train?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dixon took his jacket off the back of the sofa and handed Jane the photograph. ‘From the CCTV.’

  ‘You told the Met?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ replied Dixon, grinning.

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’m doing all right. It’s difficult to . . . You just wanna knock the door down and beat their brains in, but you can’t. It’s really not easy.’

  ‘Can you apply for a transfer?’

  ‘That’s admitting defeat, isn’t it?’

  Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I guess I’m just not cut out for it,’ continued Jane. ‘But I can’t apply for a transfer.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything about that. I want to, but I can’t face it at the moment.’

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘Yeah, but it might not.’

  ‘What are you up to today?’

  ‘I’ll go and see my folks if you’re busy.’

  ‘Louise’ll be here in a minute, I’m afraid. Weston then Bristol again.’

  ‘What’s the address?’ asked Dixon, driving along Marine Parade, Weston-super-Mare. He was turning in his seat to get a look at the north side of Brean Down, where he had been plucked from the sea by the Burnham lifeboat only a few short weeks before. He winced when he remembered the taste of the seawater, which had repeated on him for days afterwards, until he had seen it off once and for all with a visit to the Zalshah.

  ‘Severn Road. It’s right off the seafront just up there,’ replied Louise. ‘Number 71B, so that’s a flat I expect.’

  ‘Upstairs probably.’

  Dixon parked across the drive of the property next door and looked back at Number 71, Severn Road. It was built of grey stone, with sandstone cornicing around the red front door and windows. The original sash windows were rotting and the sandstone was stained black, the ornate carving above the bay windows crumbling away. Unlike next door’s, where the stone had been restored, and the sash windows replaced with PVC.

  Next to the red front door were two door bells.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Are you going to leave this here?’ asked Louise, climbing out of the Land Rover.

  ‘Can you see anywhere else to park?’

  Dixon rang the top doorbell and waited. The click of heels on stairs; then the door opened.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll be Mrs Megan Hanbury?’ asked Dixon. She was in her mid-thirties, with her long blonde hair in dreadlocks, and clearly had a high pain threshold, judging by the number of piercings.

  ‘Ms Hanbury. I’m divorced. You’ve come to see my mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in.’

  They followed her to the upstairs flat and along a narrow corridor into the front room, where an elderly lady was sitting in a chair by the window.

  ‘Mrs Foster?’

  ‘Call me Mary, please.’

  ‘Mary, we’re—’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘You’re not here to talk about the court case, are you?’ asked Megan.

  ‘Indirectly,’ replied Dixon. ‘Only, the defence solicitor, the defence barrister and one of the witnesses have been murdered.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Mary, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Why?’

  ‘We don’t know. Yet.’

  ‘Does this mean the hearing will be adjourned?’ asked Megan.

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Dixon, ‘but you’ll need to speak to Lings about that.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ asked Mary.

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that, Mary.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Richard Hagley made it painfully clear that he knew who was behind the murders.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘No. He’ll take that information to his grave, sadly.’

  Dixon watched both mother and daughter for any signal passing between them.

  ‘Well, I’m sure I can’t help you, Inspector. The last thing we want is the case adjourned. We just want it sorted out so we can move on.’

  ‘It’s been hanging over us for months,’ said Megan. ‘And it’s not as if it’ll bring Dad back, is it?’

  ‘But it’ll take years if it goes all the way to the European Court.’

  ‘We’re just hoping the government will settle it,’ said Mary.

  ‘Richard Hagley said it was about justice, what do you think he meant by that?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It may be about justice for him, but it’s about the money for Mum. You wanna try living on a widow’s pension. And the war pension is peanuts.’

  ‘They’re the same thing, aren’t they? Justice is money for the victims I suppose,’ said Mary, glaring at her daughter.

  ‘But your husband getting mesothelioma wasn’t the lawyers’ fault, was it?’

  ‘No, but they didn’t have to defend the claim, did they?’ said Megan. ‘They could’ve admitted liability and let my father have an interim payment before he died.’

  ‘Would it have made a difference?’

  ‘To him, yes. To know that Mum was going to be looked after.’

  ‘He had a bad death, Inspector,’ said Mary. ‘He was very bitter, and there was a lot of anger, kicking and screaming.’

  ‘How well did he know the other claimants?’

  ‘Very well. They served together . . . fought together. That creates a bond that can’t be broken. Even stronger than marriage it is, as I found out to my cost. They always came first.’

  ‘Does the name Adrian Kandes mean anything to you?’

  Mary smiled.

  ‘He was a good lad was Adrian. Joined up the same day as my Grant. Good mates they were after that.’

  ‘Why do you think Adrian fled during the battle?’

  ‘He was mixed up. His girlfriend had broken up with him just before they left for the Falklands and gone back to Canada. Carrying his child she was. He fell apart after that, according to Grant.’

  ‘His child?’

  ‘Yes, she was pregnant.’

  ‘How far gone was she?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘D’you know if it was a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Don’t know that either I’m afraid. When Adrian didn’t come back, that was the end of it. We heard nothing more.’

  ‘Your husband was one of the marines who went after him on the night of the battle?’

  ‘He was. Adrian took the chance to put it right.’

  ‘And saved your husband’s life in the process,’ said Dixon.

 
‘He did his duty and he did it well. But my husband and the others saved his life, not the other way round.’

  Dixon frowned.

  ‘You have to understand the marines, Inspector. If Adrian had run, the shame alone would’ve killed him. He’d have been finished. No, they saved his life. And ended up paying for it with their own.’

  ‘The asbestos, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Captain Alan bloody Fletcher. He was the one who gave the order. I’d like to get my hands on him one day.’

  ‘He’s dead, Mary. Murdered.’

  Mary Hanbury sighed and shook her head.

  ‘Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that if I’m honest.’

  ‘How?’ asked Megan.

  ‘I can’t say at this stage,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Well, I’m still not sure he deserved that,’ said Mary. ‘He was only doing what he thought was his duty, wasn’t he? They all were.’

  ‘Long, slow and painful if I had my way,’ said Megan.

  ‘You ever been caving, Megan?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Once, years ago on a school trip. Why?’

  ‘Where does that leave us with Hagley’s justice I wonder?’ asked Louise as Dixon turned on to the A370 and headed north-east towards Bristol.

  ‘He said justice but he meant money, although it’s the only way of compensating them now,’ replied Dixon. ‘It does make Fletcher’s killing different, and that’s got nothing to do with justice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was responsible for the deaths of the marines because he gave the order to dismantle the radar cabins, but there’s no suggestion that he did so deliberately intending that they should die years later, is there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t even know the cabins were lined with asbestos.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘So his murder is revenge. Pure and simple.’

  ‘Yes, but for killing the marines with the order to dismantle the cabins or for blocking Kandes’s VC?’

  ‘Good point. Either way, it’s different from the lawyers.’

  ‘They’re being killed because they’re defending the claims,’ said Louise.

  ‘If Hagley can’t have his compensation, then the lawyers must be to blame for that.’ Dixon grimaced. ‘I’m not convinced though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve just got a feeling there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Interesting that they didn’t feel they owed their lives to Kandes like we thought. According to Mrs Foster, he owed his life to them. That’s what she said.’

  ‘She did, didn’t she,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Or to be more accurate, he owed his death to them, which does give us a steer on who might be willing to give them their justice.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Give Mark a call and find out where he got to tracing Kandes’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Raymond Absolon,’ said Dixon as he looked at the terraced house in Jasper Street, Bedminster. It had been rendered in pink pebble dash, so you could hardly miss it.

  ‘Odd that the houses on one side of the road have bay windows and this side they don’t.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  The door was answered by a woman in her early sixties, keen to give up smoking but not having much luck, judging by the nicotine patches on her arm, gum in her mouth and cigarette in her right hand.

  ‘We’re here to see Mr Absolon,’ said Dixon, holding up his warrant card.

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His wife.’

  They followed her through to a small conservatory at the back of the house. Dixon noticed a photograph montage on the wall in the corridor and stopped to look at the pictures. Various children, the same ones at different ages, all of them cut out and mounted behind a piece of glass. None taken down a cave, sadly.

  The ashtrays in the kitchen and the conservatory were both full. That would be doing Mr Absolon’s lungs the power of good.

  Raymond Absolon was sitting in a bamboo chair in the corner of the conservatory, a thin plastic tube delivering oxygen up his nose and held in place by elastic over his ears. It was connected to a large black oxygen bottle on the floor behind his chair. On the small table next to him was an empty coffee mug and another ashtray.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  Dixon turned to Mrs Absolon, who had sat down on the small sofa next to Louise.

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Ray wants me here, don’t you, Ray?’

  ‘Mr Absolon may do, but I do not,’ said Dixon, matter of fact.

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘Then we’ll continue this down at the station. And I’m sure you don’t want to put Mr Absolon to that trouble.’

  Dixon waited until Mrs Absolon had finished huffing and puffing and closed the door behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Absolon. ‘Nice to be shot of her for a bit.’

  ‘You were a corporal in F Troop I understand.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At the battle of Mount Harriet.’

  ‘Let me save you the trouble,’ said Absolon. ‘Philip Hagley rang me, so I know why you’re here.’

  ‘Saves time,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It does. And there’s nothing I can tell you that Richard hasn’t.’

  ‘Mr Absolon, innocent people are dying. The barrister had two children under five. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘We were innocent people.’

  ‘You were. But that doesn’t explain why you are happy to see more die.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know who’s doing it, all right?’

  ‘Richard Hagley said he did.’

  ‘He may do, but I don’t. He just said he knew someone who’d fix it so we’d get our money.’

  ‘And you didn’t question that? Ask who or how?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How well did you know Adrian Kandes?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head.

  ‘Very well. We were both NCOs, had been corporals together until he got promoted. He was a good lad.’

  ‘How long was that before the Falklands?’

  ‘A couple of years or so.’

  ‘Tell me what happened on the night then.’

  ‘They’d cleared a path through the minefields, and we were on our way up to the start line. The woodentops were—’

  ‘Woodentops?’

  ‘Guards. Welsh Guards. Anyway, they were supposed to meet us and guide us in, but they never appeared, so the whole thing started an hour late as it was. We were waiting, and then Harry spotted Adrian heading back down the slope, straight through the minefield, so we went after him. Me, Harry, Richard, Loz and Grant. Only we used the path, which took us the longer way round.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Anyway, when we catch up with him there’s this woodentop officer pointing his sidearm at him. Adrian was shaking and crying. So Richard belted him, and we grabbed Adrian and ran back to the start line. We couldn’t have been gone more than fifteen minutes, and no one noticed.’

  ‘Did the officer get a good look at you?’

  ‘Adrian he did, and Harry and me. There were flares going up all over the place.’

  ‘And during the battle?’

  ‘I was right behind Mr Burton, our troop commander. He took the bullets that were meant for me. Then we were pinned down by two machine guns at the base of the rocks. Till Adrian sorted them out. You know about that I expect.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Adrian died a hero and it was a travesty, a fucking travesty, that he wasn’t recognised for it. One mistake he made. That’s all. Just one mistake.’

  ‘What about on the Stanley Road?’

  ‘It’s all in my statement. Everything I can remember that is. We’re talking about things that happened over thirty years ago.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Except some of the choice language. We were minding o
ur own business when the same officer spots us and orders us to dismantle the radar cabins. He even gets the sappers to bring the others on the island for us to do. Took three days in the end. And our lot couldn’t countermand the order either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The COs did some deal I expect, to do with Adrian bolting and it being kept quiet.’

  ‘And what about the asbestos?’

  ‘Clouds of the bloody stuff. Terrible.’

  ‘Who killed Alan Fletcher?’

  ‘I dunno,’ replied Absolon, grinning. ‘But when you catch him, buy him a beer from me.’

  ‘Richard Hagley said it was about justice.’

  Absolon nodded.

  ‘Who for?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘No idea. Him I suppose,’ replied Absolon, lighting a cigarette. ‘Or all of us maybe. I really don’t know. I’m just in it for the money.’

  ‘You’re suing the MoD for mesothelioma and yet you’re a smoker,’ said Louise. ‘How does that work?’

  Absolon smiled.

  ‘Asbestos is like tiny bits of glass that cut into the lining of your lungs over and over again. They lacerate it every time you breathe. As the cuts heal, it thickens the pleura, the lining of the lung, and that causes the cancer. The quacks can tell the difference between lung cancer caused by smoking and mesothelioma.’

  Louise nodded.

  ‘That’s how it was explained to me anyway,’ continued Absolon. ‘And the biopsy wasn’t very pleasant.’

  ‘You said in your statement that you were worried about your wife and children falling out after you’ve gone,’ said Dixon.

  ‘She’s a gold digger, and her son’s up to no good. She’s not getting the house. My son thinks she’s just after the compensation. If there is any. If we lose, there’s just going to be a big bill.’

  ‘You’re on a no-win, no-fee, surely?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you should be insured against defence costs if you lose.’

  ‘No idea. I suppose so.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘I gave that to my son and daughter years ago,’ replied Absolon, whispering. ‘Before I met her. It’s in a trust for them.’

  ‘She’s going to love that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I know.’ Absolon grinned.

  They were interrupted by the front door slamming. Then raised voices from the hall.

  ‘They’re here?’

  ‘What did you let ’em in for?’