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

by Damien Boyd

  Tamsin nodded.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘You’ll never find him.’

  ‘If you say so. Why did you come to the UK then?’

  ‘To find out about my father. My mother told me about him before she died.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘All she said was that he was a Royal Marine and that he’d been killed on the Falklands.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘That he should’ve won the VC, but it was taken away from him.’

  ‘So you know how he died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you do when you got here?’

  ‘I got in touch with the Royal Marines Association, and they put me in touch with some people who knew him.’

  ‘Richard Hagley?’

  ‘Yes.’ Beads of sweat were starting to appear on her forehead. ‘Can I have a tissue?’ she asked, turning to Cable.

  ‘And what did Hagley tell you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘What did you think when you found out your father was a hero?’

  ‘That he was a fucking idiot.’ Her face was flushed, nostrils flaring. ‘What did he die for? What? Nothing, that’s what.’

  ‘Well, he—’

  ‘Queen and country? Don’t give me that crap. A small piece of rock thousands of miles away? He knew my mother was pregnant. He knew . . .’ Her voice tailed off and she began wiping her face with the tissue Cable had given her.

  ‘And he volunteered to go,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Why would he do that? And why did he have to die like that?’

  ‘If you could ask him, I reckon he’d tell you he did it for his mates. For the man standing next to him and those behind him.’

  ‘What the fuck d’you know about it?’

  ‘Nothing, luckily,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Well, shut up then!’

  ‘Why did you get the job at Lings?’

  Silence.

  ‘Was it to help Hagley, to make sure he won?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘To find Alan bloody Fletcher. He was the one. If it hadn’t been for him, my father would’ve got away.’

  ‘He’d have been caught and court-martialled, Tamsin.’

  ‘But he’d have lived. They don’t shoot deserters any more.’

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks now.

  ‘So you get a job at Lings. How?’

  ‘I met Brett and he put in a word for me.’

  ‘And whose idea was that?’

  ‘Hagley’s.’

  ‘Then you find Fletcher, but he’s not killed until a couple of weeks ago, is he?’ asked Dixon. ‘Why not just kill him and leave, go back to Canada?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Alison Crowther-Smith. Defence barrister, drowned in a caving accident in Swildon’s Hole two days after defeating the interim payment application at the case management conference.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘She was just doing her job, Tamsin. If it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been someone else. And she had two young children.’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Know or care?’ asked Dixon, shuffling the papers in front of him.

  ‘Know.’

  ‘She didn’t drown in an accident though, did she? We both know that. Your brother crept up behind her at Sump One and held her feet, drowning her.’

  ‘You can’t prove that.’

  ‘I can prove you knew that she would be down there. I can prove that. You found out after the case management conference and before she died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got Greenwood’s handwritten note. You photocopied it for me,’ replied Dixon, handing her a copy. ‘See, there, next to her phone number.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘It proves you knew, because he dictated his attendance note of the hearing that afternoon, and you typed it up the next day. You’d have had the file open on your desk, Tamsin.’

  No reply.

  ‘Alison C-S. Caving, Sunday, Swildon’s Hole.’ Dixon was reading aloud from the handwritten attendance note.

  Silence.

  ‘And Dr Fripp. Killed in a hotel room in Birmingham, where he was giving evidence in a trial at the county court. You knew that from his dates-to-avoid, which were sitting on the file.’

  ‘You can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Catch your brother and I can.’

  ‘I don’t have a brother. Check my phone calls if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘A few minutes ago you said I’d never find him,’ said Dixon. ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We found these taped to the back of the drawer in your bedside table.’ Dixon held up a bag of pay-as-you-go SIM cards. ‘There are eight of them, Tamsin.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You ring him, fresh SIM card every time. Different network. Very neat.’

  Zoe shook her head, her stare fixed on the floor in front of her.

  ‘Your phone is unlocked. I checked,’ continued Dixon. ‘And it’s being looked at now by our High Tech team.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘How else d’you explain a bag of new SIM cards?’

  She shifted in her chair and then folded her arms tight across her chest.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said Dixon. ‘You get the job at Lings to find Fletcher and kill him, but you don’t. You kill Alison Crowther-Smith first. And then there’s the Treasury Solicitor too don’t forget. I can’t get used to calling it the Government Legal Department. Your brother probably followed him home from work one day. But why?’

  ‘I didn’t kill Alison Crowther-Smith or Fripp or Fryer.’

  ‘You know who Fryer is though,’ said Dixon, raising his eyebrows. ‘Or was.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m using “you” collectively, Tamsin. I mean you and your brother. You found out who was conducting the defence, told your brother and he did the rest.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘How much did Hagley offer to pay you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Who then?’

  Cable leaned over and whispered in Tamsin’s ear.

  ‘No comment,’ she said.

  ‘Was it one of the others? Lawrence Hampton perhaps? Or were you working on a no-win, no-fee deal like Lings?’

  She smirked at Dixon.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You were working on a no-win, no-fee.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Force the Crown to settle the case and take a cut of the damages,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Whose damages?’

  ‘Nobody’s.’

  ‘We’ll find Joel, Tamsin,’ said Dixon, handing her copies of the mugshot from Canada and the photo from her workstation. ‘How long’s he had that yellow caving sack? He’s wearing it in this photo too. It’s a still from the CCTV at Wimbledon station. That’s Robert Fryer there, right in front of him.’

  She looked down at the photograph, tears starting to fall down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh Joel, Joel.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Where is he, Tamsin?’

  ‘So far off the grid you’ll never find him.’

  ‘Off the grid? You’ve been watching too many Hollywood films.’

  ‘You’ll never take him alive.’

  ‘And I’ve heard that somewhere before,’ muttered Dixon.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘We were watching on the monitor,’ replied Lewis, who was standing by Mark Pearce’s workstation in the CID area. Dave Harding was waiting by the kettle.

  ‘Well, that’s a first for me. Killers working on a no
-win, no-fee,’ said Dixon. ‘Make mine a strong one, please, Dave.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What makes you think someone was paying them?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘I get why Fletcher was killed. I can see the motive for that. But why else were the others killed?’

  ‘If it wasn’t for money, you mean,’ said Louise.

  ‘That’s right. You heard what she said about her father’s death. That’s the one bit that was probably true. And if that’s right, then she sure as hell didn’t see herself as beholden to Hagley and the others for what they did for her father.’

  Lewis nodded.

  ‘So, what now then?’

  ‘We drop everything and find her brother.’

  ‘Where do we start?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘I’ll get the usual alerts out,’ said Lewis. ‘We can use this mugshot.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘Anything from High Tech on her phone?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Pearce.

  ‘Let’s get the guest houses checked, bed and breakfasts, and hostels. In and around Bristol. He won’t have gone far from Tamsin.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What about her flights to and from Canada?’

  ‘Nothing, but then we don’t know what name he’s using,’ said Harding. ‘There was no one called Joel on the flight and the passenger sitting next to her was female.’

  ‘Off the grid, she said,’ muttered Dixon through a yawn. ‘Whatever the hell that means.’ He sat down at a vacant workstation in the large windows at Express Park and switched on the computer.

  ‘Is it worth checking the CCTV at the airport?’ asked Louise. ‘When she flew home.’

  ‘Good idea. He may be there with her, checking in on a different flight perhaps.’

  ‘I’ll check DVLA and see if there’s a car registered in her name.’

  ‘Good thinking, Mark.’

  Another yawn.

  ‘When was the last time you slept?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Dixon.

  He waited until Lewis had gone, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘Nick, Nick.’ Someone was shaking his arm.

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  He opened his eyes to find Jane sitting on his desk, smiling at him.

  ‘Was I . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, you were. You didn’t sleep at all last night, so it’s hardly surprising.’

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

  ‘Twoish,’ replied Jane. ‘You need to get to bed.’

  ‘Later,’ muttered Dixon, reaching for his coffee.

  ‘That’s stone cold.’

  Dixon grimaced.

  ‘Where are the others?’ He was looking around the CID area, which was empty, apart from Louise, who was on the phone.

  ‘Lewis sent them home. They were up all night too don’t forget.’

  Dixon yawned.

  ‘How’d you get on?’ asked Jane.

  ‘We’ve got the daughter. We’ll hold her overnight and charge her tomorrow morning. We’ve got enough. Now we just need to find her brother. Him.’ Dixon handed Jane a copy of the mugshot.

  ‘Any idea where he might be?’

  ‘Off the grid apparently. We’re checking all the usual places. I shouldn’t think he’ll be far from Bristol.’

  ‘Have you tried the YMCA?’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ said Louise, her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone, ‘we thought it was one of the lawyers and it turned out to be a secretary.’

  Dixon nodded. Then he jumped up and ran over to the filing cabinet. He pulled out the copy of Sharma’s correspondence file and began flicking through it. Louise replaced the handset on her phone and glanced across at Jane, who shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Looking at these telephone attendance notes,’ said Dixon, ‘someone was desperate to settle this case at the outset. First they’d accept fifty grand plus costs, then thirty.’ Dixon flicked through the pages. ‘It dropped to twenty just before the court proceedings started.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Then the file’s transferred to Greenwood and the killings start.’ Dixon snapped the file shut. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back to Bristol.’

  Dixon double parked in the road outside the Hippodrome behind two patrol cars that had been waiting for them. It was just after 4 p.m., the afternoon cold and clear, the snow visible on the tops of the Mendips as they had raced north on the M5.

  He climbed out of the driver’s seat and walked across the pavement towards the alleyway leading to Lings Solicitors.

  ‘Give a lawyer a financial interest in the outcome of a case,’ he muttered.

  ‘No-win, no-fee,’ replied Louise.

  Once through the alleyway, he pushed open the glass front door.

  ‘Is Mrs Hull in?’

  ‘Let me check,’ said the receptionist. She walked over to her desk and looked at the open notebook on the counter. ‘She went out at lunchtime and hasn’t come back yet.’

  ‘Is she due in?’

  ‘I’ll ask her secretary,’ she replied, picking up the phone. ‘Wendy, is Fiona due back this afternoon?’ She nodded. ‘Oh right, thanks.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s supposed to be in the office.’

  Dixon grimaced.

  ‘Would you like me to try her on her mobile?’

  ‘No, thank you. Who’s dealing with Mr Greenwood’s files?’

  ‘There’s a locum. Mr Atkins.’

  ‘Tell him we’re on our way up to see him.’

  ‘You can’t just . . .’

  Too late. Dixon, Louise and two uniformed officers were already on their way up the stairs, the receptionist’s frantic voice just carrying over their footsteps.

  ‘Mr Cotter, the police are here, and they’re on their way up to the fourth floor.’

  Dixon burst through the double doors on the fourth floor and spotted Atkins sitting at Greenwood’s desk, on the phone. He stood up when he saw Dixon and Louise heading towards him across the open plan office. Dixon glanced at Tamsin’s desk, which was already occupied by another secretary.

  ‘I need to see the conditional fee agreement for Hagley, Absolon and others against the MOD,’ said Dixon, holding up his warrant card.

  ‘Er, yes, all right,’ replied Atkins, glancing over Dixon’s shoulder.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

  Dixon spun round to find the senior partner, Peter Cotter, steaming towards him with John Tuckett close behind.

  ‘I need to see the no-win, no-fee agreement, Mr Cotter,’ replied Dixon. ‘Then I need a word with Fiona Hull.’

  ‘Let’s go in here, shall we?’ asked Tuckett, gesturing to a vacant office.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Cotter.

  ‘Greg Atkins,’ replied Tuckett. ‘He’s a locum filling in for Brett Greenwood.’

  ‘You’d better come too. And bring the file.’

  Atkins nodded.

  ‘Now, what’s this all about?’ asked Cotter, closing the door behind them.

  ‘I need to speak to Mrs Hull in connection with the murders of Alison Crowther-Smith, Robert Fryer and Dr Anthony Fripp,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Oh good God.’ Cotter sat down on the corner of the vacant desk.

  ‘May I see the agreement?’

  Cotter waved at Atkins, who pulled a document from the file and handed it to Dixon. He turned straight to the back page.

  ‘It’s signed by Mrs Hull.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal. She’s the head of department,’ replied Tuckett.

  ‘Is it perfectly normal for Lings to take a case to the European Court on a no-win, no-fee agreement?’

  ‘No, it bloody well isn’t,’ said Cotter.

  ‘And without insurance against paying the defence costs if you lose?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Is that right?’ asked Tuckett, looking at At
kins.

  He nodded.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Cotter. ‘Not again.’

  ‘You’re going to need to explain that last remark, Mr Cotter,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You can go, Greg. Leave the file,’ said Tuckett.

  ‘She’s, er . . .’ Cotter was waiting for Atkins to close the door behind him. ‘She’s taken on some thin cases in the past and lost us a lot of money, Inspector. Always on a no-win, no-fee basis, and we’ve been left tens of thousands of pounds down. She’s on her last warning. It’s not just the lost fees, you understand, but there’s the expenses we pay out too – court fees, experts’ fees. We fund the expenses, and if we don’t win we don’t get them back.’

  ‘She assured me the Crown would settle,’ said Tuckett. ‘She’s a good lawyer. Her heart’s in the right place and she wants to help people. She just forgets this is a business.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘We’ll need to go through her files, but if what you say is right, she’ll be dismissed,’ replied Cotter.

  Dixon turned to watch one of the uniformed officers step outside, his mobile phone ringing in his coat pocket. The officer stared at Dixon through the glass partition, nodding from time to time. Dixon was no lip reader, but he recognised the words ‘We’re on our way’ before the officer rang off.

  ‘Can I have a word, Sir,’ said the officer, leaning in through the door of the office.

  Dixon and Louise stepped out on to the landing.

  ‘We’ve got a jumper,’ whispered the constable. ‘Female, mid-forties, fits the description of Mrs Hull.’

  Dixon shook his head.

  ‘There’s a briefcase with letters in it. And a Lings case file.’

  ‘Is someone on the way to her house?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘All right, let’s go.’

  A cold north wind was whistling down the Avon Gorge as Dixon stood on the parapet and looked down on to the cars speeding along the Portway below; commuters racing home from work probably. He turned up the collar of his coat and sunk his hands deep into his pockets.

  ‘Cold enough for you?’ he asked, turning to Louise.

  She grimaced.

  The tide was out 240 feet below, and the River Avon had receded to reveal thick grey mud. Two coastguard officers wearing yellow helmets and orange lifejackets were crawling out from the bank on mats, trying to reach the body, a red coat just visible in the mud.

  A flat bottomed boat was resting on the mud at the water’s edge a few yards away, the tide having gone out before it could reach the body.