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

by Damien Boyd

  ‘It’ll be on the correspondence pin, with the typed note.’

  ‘Is that all you need, Inspector?’ asked Mrs Hull.

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Good. And it would be nice to have a bit of notice next time. This is a busy office.’ She turned on her heels and walked across the open plan office.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Greenwood. ‘I’ll get Zoe to photocopy it. D’you need anything else?’

  ‘No, thank you. That’ll be all for now.’

  Dixon and Louise followed Greenwood out to Zoe’s desk and waited while he dispatched her to the photocopier.

  ‘Zoe will show you out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon.

  He looked down at her desk. It was identical to that of thousands of secretaries in thousands of law firms across the country, and just like those where he had trained. It sent shivers down his spine. Maybe Express Park wasn’t that bad after all. At least he could come and go as he pleased. But a legal secretary? Audio typing all day and taking messages from angry clients, their only distraction a few photographs pinned to the partitioning.

  Dixon looked down at the handwritten note Zoe handed to him, relieved that Greenwood’s handwriting was legible. Just.

  At the bottom of the first page, written at right angles to the rest, was the note ‘Alison C-S’, followed by a mobile phone number and then the words ‘Sunday, Swildon’s Hole’.

  Dixon walked back over to Greenwood’s office, a few short paces from his secretary’s desk.

  ‘Why did you write this bit about the caving?’

  ‘To remind me to ask her about it. She was dreading it. You’ve got to appear interested, haven’t you?’

  Twat.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The conversation with the receptionist at Holt Burton Solicitors in their posh new office on the outskirts of Swindon was almost identical to the one Dixon had had only three hours earlier at Lings.

  ‘Spaceships on ring roads,’ he muttered, watching the traffic speeding past on the M4 in the distance.

  ‘Mr Adcock will be down in a moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Here, see if they did Movember,’ said Dixon, passing Louise the ever-present folder of newspaper cuttings. He watched her flicking through the pages.

  ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Adcock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Law firm marketing by numbers. Grow a beard, photo in the paper, raise profile.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ replied Dixon, rubbing his chin.

  He turned when he heard footsteps behind the double doors and watched through the glass as Michael Adcock strode along the corridor towards him. Dixon recognised him from the firm’s website. Tall, bald, Marks & Spencer suit, but no tie. Holt Burton were obviously a modern, forward-thinking firm. At least that’s what their brochure said.

  ‘Look, what’s this about? We had the Met in here on Friday.’

  ‘Mr Adcock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have an office where we can talk, please, Sir?’

  ‘No, we’re all open plan upstairs. We’ll have to use a meeting room.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘This way,’ said Adcock, gesturing to the double doors behind reception. ‘I’m assuming you’re here about the MoD case.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll get my trainee to bring down the file.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon was pacing up and down in the window when Adcock returned with the file and someone who must have been his trainee – he was wearing a tie.

  ‘This is Ian Farrell,’ said Adcock.

  ‘Tell me about Lawrence Hampton.’

  ‘He has mesothelioma. Not as advanced perhaps as Richard Hagley, but the prognosis is the same. It’s just a matter of time for him.’

  ‘Richard Hagley died this morning.’

  ‘Shame. It doesn’t come as a surprise though . . .’ Adcock’s voice tailed off.

  ‘And what did the Met want?’

  ‘They were asking about the murder of Robert Fryer. He was the Treasury Solicitor acting for the MoD and got pushed under a train. They seemed to think it was connected to this case.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware, no. There wasn’t a lot I could tell them though. I’d met him a couple of times at CMCs in London, but that was it.’

  ‘Did they mention anything else?’

  ‘Alan Fletcher, of course, but they seemed to think his death wasn’t connected. Something to do with an incident during the Falklands War, they said.’

  ‘Did they?’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘Is it connected?’

  ‘Does the name Alison Crowther-Smith mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Did either of you attend the CMC?’

  ‘No, we put counsel in and sent an agent to sit behind him,’ replied Adcock.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t recall. Ian?’

  ‘Someone from Buckinghams I think.’

  ‘Alison Crowther-Smith was the defence barrister at the CMC,’ said Dixon. ‘She died three days after the hearing. Drowned in a cave.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘We think not, Mr Adcock.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Puts Mr Fryer’s murder in a different light, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the killing of Alan Fletcher.’

  Adcock nodded.

  Dixon opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Adcock.

  It was the receptionist, peering around the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Adcock, but this fax has just come in. It’s marked urgent.’

  Adcock snatched the papers from her.

  ‘Thank you, Dawn.’

  Dixon watched his eyes scanning the pages.

  ‘The defence have applied for an adjournment. Bugger it.’ Adcock sighed. ‘The hearing’s at four this afternoon.’ He passed the papers to Farrell. ‘You’d better get on to St Mark’s and see if they’ve got someone who can go.’

  ‘Will you oppose it?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The grounds of this application are,’ said Farrell, reading aloud, ‘the sudden death of Dr Anthony Fripp in the early hours of Sunday, 22 February.’

  ‘That was yesterday,’ said Adcock.

  ‘I was coming on to that,’ said Dixon. ‘Single gunshot wound to the forehead. Right between the eyes.’

  He watched Adcock and Farrell for any reaction. There was none.

  ‘May I see the attendance note of the CMC, please?’ continued Dixon. ‘I’m assuming Buckinghams prepared a note and it’s on your file.’

  ‘Er, yes, I don’t see a problem with that,’ replied Adcock.

  Farrell opened the correspondence pin at a note typed on pink paper and slid it across the table to Dixon. He checked for any reference to caving, but there was none.

  ‘Will they get their adjournment?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Adcock. He spoke without looking up.

  ‘Surely there’s not the same urgency now that Mr Hagley’s dead.’

  ‘They’ll all be dead before it gets to the European Court. They may get it, they may not, I really don’t know.’ Adcock was shaking his head, his cheeks flushed. Dixon watched him clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘How is Mr Hampton’s claim funded?’

  ‘He’s paying privately,’ replied Adcock, looking up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Any insurance against paying the defendant’s costs if he loses?’

  ‘No. We couldn’t get it, but he decided to go ahead anyway. He said he couldn’t let his mates down.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go with Lings then?’

  ‘They wouldn’t take him on. Said he came in too late. He
couldn’t get anyone else to do it on a no-win, no-fee either. Lings are running the case. We’re just tagging along really.’

  ‘And your arse is covered?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Oh yes. I wrote him a long letter setting out the risks and the sums that might be involved. He signed one copy and sent it back. It’s sitting on our file.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr Adcock, thank you.’

  ‘Happy to help, but I’m not sure I have.’

  Dixon was walking through reception when Louise took his elbow and pulled him over to the seating area. She picked up the folder of newspaper cuttings, opened it and handed it to him. He looked down at the bearded faces, all of them grinning at the camera; front row, left to right, Simon Hart, Mark Dawson, Ian Farrell.

  ‘We’re getting close, aren’t we?’ asked Louise, climbing into Dixon’s Land Rover.

  ‘Closer.’

  He switched the engine on and slumped back into the driver’s seat, sliding his phone out of his jacket pocket at the same time.

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Interfere.’

  He tapped out a text message, Louise craning her neck trying to read it.

  Richard Hagley died this morning in Bristol Royal Infirmary

  The reply came as he was turning out of Holt Burton’s car park.

  Thank you. Virat Sharma

  ‘Ring Mark and find out where he’s got to finding Kandes’s girlfriend, will you?’

  ‘OK.’

  They were east of Bristol on the M4, heading west, Dixon deep in thought listening to the windscreen wipers trying to keep up with the rain as Louise made the call. Still, at least it had warmed up a bit.

  ‘Ginette Lundy, right. Died last year in Toronto,’ said Louise, turning to Dixon, her phone still clamped to her ear. ‘Breast cancer.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Twins?’ continued Louise. She nodded. ‘A boy and a girl. Joel and Tamsin. They’d be in their thirties now, right?’

  ‘They did what?’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Louise rang off.

  ‘They crossed the border into America at the end of last year and then disappeared. There’s no record of them leaving the States.’

  ‘No, but they did,’ said Dixon, swerving on to the M32, heading south towards Bristol city centre.

  ‘They’re sending over pictures.’

  ‘They’ll have changed their appearance,’ replied Dixon. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Louise nodded.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Twenty to four,’ replied Louise.

  ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Bristol County Court.’

  Dixon parked on the pavement outside the Bristol Civil Justice Centre. All red brick and glass, which made a change from concrete and glass. Two uniformed officers were waiting for them at the front entrance, Louise having rung ahead and asked for backup.

  ‘You two, with us.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Once past the security guards at the entrance, Dixon headed for the daily lists on the noticeboards in the foyer.

  ‘Will it be before a district judge?’ asked Louise. ‘There are loads of cases listed.’

  ‘Circuit judge probably,’ replied Dixon. ‘But it may not be on the list at all.’

  ‘I can’t see it.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ asked one of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Foster, Hagley and others versus the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘Here it is.’

  Dixon leaned over. Scribbled on the bottom of His Honour Judge Ormerod’s list in black ink was the hearing he was looking for.

  ‘Where’s Court One?’ asked Dixon, turning to the nearest security guard.

  ‘Up the stairs, along the corridor on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The usher intercepted them at the door of the court, his black gown flowing behind him as he ran along the corridor towards them.

  ‘You can’t go in there.’

  ‘Let me see your list, will you?’ asked Dixon, snatching the usher’s clipboard. At the bottom was the name he was looking for, against the relevant parties to the case.

  ‘There’s a back door to the court, isn’t there?’

  ‘The judge’s entrance, yes, but it’s behind the bench.’

  ‘Show this officer to it, please, and then let me know when he’s in position.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Dixon’s warrant card and reference to a murder investigation silenced any further objection.

  He turned to the uniformed officer. ‘Wait behind the door and arrest anyone who tries to come through it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Unless he’s wearing a red robe and a wig,’ continued Dixon.

  ‘Who are we after?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Let me see if he’s in there,’ said Dixon, opening the outer door.

  He peered through the glass panel in the inner door. There were three lines of benches facing the judge, who was sitting on a raised bench at the back of the court directly beneath the royal crest, his wig on the desk in front of him. In front and below him was another desk, occupied by the court listing officer, if the frown was anything to go by.

  The lawyers occupying the front desk had their backs to Dixon. The defence counsel on the left was on his feet, no doubt asking the judge for the adjournment, and the two lawyers for the claimants were sitting side by side at the right hand end of the desk. Holt Burton had put counsel in for the hearing, Dixon knew that. Brett Greenwood was sitting next to him.

  Dixon stepped back out on to the landing and turned to the remaining uniformed officer. ‘We’re after the man sitting down at the right hand end of the desk. All right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Brett Greenwood,’ replied Dixon. ‘Remember the certificate on his wall, Member of the Canadian Bar Association?’

  Louise shook her head.

  ‘The red maple leaf?’ continued Dixon.

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘You didn’t look. You can learn a lot about people from the pictures on their walls.’

  Dixon opened the door of the court and stepped inside. Louise followed. He looked along the back wall and waited for the uniformed officer, with the usher following, to enter by the other door.

  Greenwood was standing now, objecting to the adjournment.

  ‘Time is of the essence, Your Honour, and this remains a living mesothelioma claim, despite the sad death of Mr Hagley. Three of the claimants remain terminally ill, as you know—’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Greenwood,’ interrupted the judge. ‘What’s going on?’

  Dixon stepped forward. Greenwood saw him coming, the blood draining from his face. He jumped up on to the desk in front of him, leapt across to the listing officer’s desk and then up on to the judge’s bench. Judge Ormerod stood up and tried to grab hold of his legs, but Greenwood lashed out with his foot, catching him in the side of his face and sending him crashing to the floor behind his chair.

  Then Greenwood jumped down and wrenched open the small door.

  Dixon was right behind him, having followed him across the desks and up on to the bench. He heard a shout, several grunts and a thud, arriving to find Greenwood face down on the floor in the private corridor behind the court, his hands being cuffed behind him.

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied the uniformed officer.

  ‘Brett Greenwood, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Anthony Fripp. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court.’

  Dixon stepped back as the uniformed officer dragged Greenwood to his feet.

  ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘I didn’t kill
him. I didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Get him out of here.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Louise, you go with him. Get him processed and down to Express Park as quick as you can. I’ll see you down there.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Are you all right, Sir?’ asked Dixon, helping the judge up.

  ‘A bit dazed. It was a glancing blow, but my glasses have had it. There’s a spare pair in my chambers.’ He was feeling the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

  ‘I’ll go, Your Honour,’ said the usher.

  ‘Thank you, George.’

  Dixon picked up the red leather chair, and the judge collapsed into it.

  ‘Well, that’s a first for me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve known defendants jump the bench in criminal trials, but never a solicitor.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Your Honour,’ said Dixon.

  ‘He killed Fripp, you say?’ asked the judge.

  ‘I’ve arrested him on suspicion of it, yes, Sir.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Sir.’

  ‘Bloody good thing you know your way around a court.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, George,’ said the judge, putting on his spare glasses. ‘Right, will somebody please telephone Lings and get them to send someone to represent their clients? They’ve got fifteen minutes. Then we’ll finish this adjournment application.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘There you are.’ The voice came from the staff canteen as Dixon crept past the door. He kept walking, pretending not to have heard it.

  ‘Dixon!’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ he replied, craning his neck around the door.

  ‘You know DCI Gresham and DC Kohli I gather?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Bristol. We’ve made an arrest. He’s on his way down here now. Louise is bringing him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Brett Greenwood, the solicitor acting for four of the claimants in the civil litigation.’

  ‘Which firm?’

  ‘Lings.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’ asked Hannah Gresham.