Dead Lock

by Damien Boyd

  Jeremy turned towards the door.

  ‘Let me.’ Geraldine pushed past him and ran down the garden.

  ‘Why don’t you just go, Roger. It’s not helping, you being here.’ Jeremy flicked on the television and turned to BBC News.

  ‘There’ll be nothing on the news, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘We don’t want whoever has Hatty to know we’ve found Alesha.’

  ‘And you think someone’s still got Hatty?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And what makes you say that?’

  Dixon looked at Poland and Jane, who were both staring at him over their shoulders, and then back to Jeremy. ‘Because we haven’t found a body yet, Sir.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Ros.

  ‘For the time being.’

  Poland stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘No, don’t go, Dad.’ Adele was standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘It’s his fault.’ Geraldine was in the garden, hidden behind Adele, but her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘No, it isn’t, Mum. And I want him to stay.’

  ‘We’ll go then,’ said Dixon, looking at Jane and gesturing to the door, his eyebrows raised.

  Poland followed them out to Dixon’s Land Rover. ‘You were supposed to be finding Hatty,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You just stay there, Roger, and let me know the minute anyone gets in touch with you or them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Adele or Jeremy.’

  ‘But—’

  Dixon started the engine and accelerated away, waiting until the end of the lane before he turned to Jane. ‘Check their phones, will you? They gave us permission to monitor them.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Including Roger’s?’

  ‘Especially Roger’s.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Get this for me, will you,’ said Dixon, handing Jane his phone as he sped down Puriton Hill towards the M5 roundabout.

  ‘It’s Deborah Potter.’ Jane answered the call and held the phone to her ear. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ . . . ‘He’s driving.’ . . . ‘Chew Valley? Yes, I know it. We’re on our way.’ . . . ‘Just getting on the M5 now.’ Jane pointed to the northbound slip road. ‘Catcott, Ma’am.’ . . . ‘Not good.’

  ‘She rang off.’ Jane shook her head. ‘She said you’re supposed to be finding Roger’s granddaughter, not holding his bloody hand.’

  ‘What’s at Chew Valley?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Savage. Floating face down with the back of his skull bashed in.’

  ‘Well, he can’t tell us much now, can he?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We’re going to waste precious time on a dead body.’ Dixon sighed. ‘Why can’t we just read the post mortem report later?’

  The lay-by at the top of the reservoir had been sealed off by the time they arrived, two Scientific Services vans parked either side of a silver VW Passat estate, a flatbed lorry pulled in on the opposite side of the road waiting to pick it up. Dixon spotted the senior Scenes of Crime officer, Donald Watson, and parked behind the lorry.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, striding across the road.

  ‘He was killed down at the water’s edge and pushed in,’ replied Watson, straightening up. He had been looking in the glove compartment of the car. ‘The water level’s risen a bit overnight but there’s still some blood visible.’

  Dixon peered over the dam wall and looked down at the water. ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘See those boats in the distance?’ Watson was pointing to the far end of the reservoir. ‘That’s Denny Island. He’s there. Must’ve drifted in the night.’

  Jane frowned. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ replied Watson. ‘It was windy last night and there are some strong currents in such a huge expanse of water.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he sink?’

  ‘Not if he went in face first. There’d be no way for the air in the lungs to get out.’

  ‘It’s the water supply for Bristol, presumably?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I know.’ Watson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t drink the tea.’

  ‘Anything in the car?’

  ‘Nothing of note. No blood or anything like that anyway. Looks like he drove here and got out to meet whoever killed him.’

  ‘What about in the back?’

  ‘We’ll look in there at Portishead.’

  ‘How do we get out there then?’ asked Dixon, gesturing towards the island.

  ‘The boats are down at the lodge. Keep going and the entrance is on your right. Deborah Potter’s down there with the pathologist from Bristol.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dixon waved as he crossed the road back to his Land Rover.

  ‘At last,’ muttered Potter, doing up her lifejacket as Dixon screeched to a halt in the gravel car park. ‘This is Leo Petersen, the Bristol pathologist. We’re going out in a boat.’ Potter smiled. ‘You’re just in time.’

  Dixon frowned. He was watching Petersen trying to wriggle into his life jacket, which seemed at least two sizes too small for him.

  ‘You’ll need one of these,’ continued Potter, throwing Dixon a life jacket.

  ‘What about me, Ma’am?’ asked Jane.

  ‘You can wait here. The lodge is open for breakfast.’

  Jane looked at Dixon and smiled, then helped him into his lifejacket.

  ‘One of the dive team is going to take us out there,’ continued Potter.

  ‘While you have a nice breakfast,’ muttered Dixon, glaring at Jane.

  ‘This is Dixon, Leo,’ said Potter. ‘The one I told you about.’

  ‘All good.’ Petersen smiled and shook Dixon’s hand.

  ‘Donald Watson said if the body went into the water face down it would stay afloat?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s the air in the lungs.’

  ‘Is he face down?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Potter. ‘According to the fishermen who found him.’

  Dixon followed Potter and Petersen down to the pontoon where several Bristol Water motor boats were tied up. ‘You look like you know where you’re going, Dr Petersen,’ he said.

  ‘I do a bit of fly fishing when I can.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Those two up there,’ replied Potter, gesturing to two men sitting at a picnic table on the veranda overlooking the lake. ‘We’ve got statements from them.’

  ‘What are they waiting for then?’

  ‘The all clear to go back out.’

  ‘But the body’s still in the water.’

  ‘Gives the trout added flavour,’ said Petersen, grinning.

  Dixon was last on to the motor boat and sat down in the bow, facing forwards. Potter and Petersen were behind him, with a dive team officer sitting at the back next to the outboard engine.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ he shouted.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Potter.

  A second dive team officer on the pontoon untied the rope and threw it into the boat, then it reversed out into the lake and turned towards the island. Two boats were visible in the distance, close to the island, the occasional camera flash going off.

  ‘SOCO are already out there,’ shouted Potter over the noise of the engine.

  Dixon nodded. He looked back at the lodge, already several hundred yards behind them, and thought about his last boat trip. The water had been shallower that time, and mixed with mud and slurry. They’d been following flooded roads too.

  ‘How long would it take a body to get that distance?’ asked Potter. ‘It must be two miles or so.’

  ‘Four hours maybe, depending on the wind,’ replied Petersen. ‘We drift in the boat when we’re fishing and it takes a couple of hours to get across Stratford Bay. Denny Island must be the same distance again. He probably went in late last night, but I can give you a more detailed time of death when I get him back to t
he lab.’

  ‘That’s after we found Alesha,’ said Dixon. ‘So they probably know we’ve done that.’

  ‘Who’s they?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Whoever’s got Hatty.’

  Rolling countryside all around, the occasional aircraft flying overhead – on the way into Bristol airport probably – the sun glinting on the surface of the water, Dixon even spotted a fish jumping. He could understand the attraction, not that he was that keen on trout. Proper fish comes in batter with a sprinkling of salt and vinegar. Still, he could always put it back if he caught one.

  The boat slowed on the approach to Denny Island. Two Scenes of Crime officers were visible in the trees, standing in knee deep water, one holding a lamp, the other taking photographs.

  ‘The level’s up a bit,’ said Petersen. ‘Usually it’s an island, but when the water’s up, the trees look like they’re growing out of the lake.’

  ‘Are they dead?’ asked Potter.

  ‘No. You can just see the buds, if you look carefully.’

  ‘He’s in amongst the trees.’

  ‘Good thing I brought my waders.’ Petersen smiled.

  ‘I’ll get you in as close as I can,’ said the dive team officer, slowing down still further.

  Dixon watched the boat edging ever closer to the trees until he was forced to duck under the branches. He leaned over the bow, took hold of the nearest tree trunk and pulled them into the island until he heard the sound of rock scraping on the bottom of the fibreglass hull.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said the dive team officer.

  Savage was floating face down in the water, his torso wedged between two tree trunks. The blood had been washed clear of the back of his skull, revealing the bone fragments that had been driven into the brain tissue beneath. Pulverised was the word that sprung to Dixon’s mind.

  ‘Looks a frenzied attack,’ said Petersen, stepping over the side of the boat.

  Potter was standing up to get a better view, holding a tree trunk to steady herself and the boat.

  Petersen turned to a Scenes of Crime officer while he filled a small vial with water. ‘Have you taken the water temperature?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He leaned over the body as he tightened the lid. ‘Repeated blows with a blunt instrument of some sort.’ Then he took a torch out his pocket and leaned over still further. ‘Can’t see any wood or anything like that, so probably metal.’

  Trainers, blue jeans and a black leather jacket; the body was moving gently backwards and forwards on the current as the small waves driven on the light wind rolled through the trees.

  ‘Let’s get him on a stretcher and roll him over,’ said Petersen.

  The Scenes of Crime officers slid a stretcher under the body and then lifted it out of the water, careful not to trip on submerged tree roots.

  Petersen leaned over and shone his torch at the side of the face. Then he straightened up and puffed out his cheeks. ‘We won’t roll him over here. His face doesn’t look much better than the back of his head. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s Savage then, do we?’ said Dixon. ‘We assume it’s him, because his car is parked at the top of the lake, but we won’t know it’s him for some time yet.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Anything in his pockets?’

  ‘His wallet and two sets of keys,’ replied a Scenes of Crime officer, holding up a clear plastic bag. ‘There are bank cards and a driving licence. It’s Savage’s wallet; we can say that much.’

  ‘What about a phone?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘He’s got a kid in Bath so we can do a DNA test if we have to,’ said Potter. ‘Although he’s probably on our database, come to think of it.’

  ‘Well, you won’t get any dental records.’ Petersen shook his head. ‘His teeth have been well and truly smashed in. Whoever did this has got some serious issues.’

  ‘Either that or it’s another attempt to delay us. And it will, even if it’s just for a day or two.’

  ‘It’s a theory,’ said Potter.

  Fifteen minutes later they were back at the lodge, having left their lifejackets in the drying room. Dixon watched the Scenes of Crime officers carrying a body bag to a waiting van, the windows blacked out.

  ‘I’ll do the PM this afternoon and let you have my report via email,’ said Petersen. ‘Cause of death will be fairly straightforward. He couldn’t have survived that so was almost certainly dead before he went into the water. The only question is whether I can give you any idea of the sort of weapon used.’

  ‘And how many people,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘The dive team will be searching the top end of the reservoir near where he went in,’ said Potter. ‘So we’ll see what they come up with.’

  ‘Have we found any connection between Savage and Barnard?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Mitchell?’

  Potter grimaced. ‘No,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nice breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Jane shrugged her shoulders. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Back to Express Park,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’ve got an hour to see what I can find on Barnard and Mitchell before we interview them.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten.’

  ‘I’ll stop for a sandwich on the way.’

  ‘What did he look like then?’

  ‘I didn’t get too close, but he’d been pulverised. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Dixon sighed. ‘It was a bloody good job I hadn’t eaten.’

  ‘Whoever did it would have been covered in blood,’ said Jane.

  ‘Good point. Unless they went for a swim afterwards.’

  ‘In there?’ Jane glanced across at the reservoir as Dixon raced south past the lay-by, the flatbed lorry and Savage’s VW long gone, leaving Scientific Services officers in white overalls combing the water’s edge.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’d be bloody freezing.’

  ‘Better that than getting pulled over by a traffic officer covered in blood.’

  They stopped off at the cottage to give Monty a run in the field. Lucy and the £20 note had gone, but then that was to be expected perhaps.

  ‘I tried ringing her when you were out on the lake but she wasn’t answering.’

  ‘How much trouble can you get into with twenty quid?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘You sound like her older sister.’

  ‘I am her older sister!’

  They arrived at Express Park before Deborah Potter, giving Dixon time to find out all he could about Barnard before the interview. Guthrie would be interviewing Mitchell, apparently. The whiteboard was a good place to start; it held a photograph of Barnard and various arrows leading to family members, each giving their age and occupation. Several statements had already been uploaded to the system too.

  ‘Potter’s called a briefing at two and the interviews have been put back to two thirty,’ said Jane, appearing next to Dixon in front of the whiteboard.

  He was still standing in front of the whiteboard when Potter clapped her hands behind him.

  ‘Right then, everybody!’

  Dixon shook his head. ‘Every step we take we get further away from Hatty.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Jane whispered.

  ‘We’ve got a preliminary time of death for Savage between ten and two last night,’ continued Potter. ‘So, let’s get the traffic cameras checked and I want a list of mobile phones registering on the nearest phone masts during that time.’

  Dixon followed Jane along the back wall of the Incident Room to a vacant workstation.

  ‘He had his brains bashed in with a blunt instrument. And I mean bashed in. Avoid the photographs.’ Potter winced. ‘We’ve got divers in the water and boots on the ground looking for the murder weapon, but so far, nothing.’

  ‘Any witnesses, Ma’am?’ Dixon didn’t see who asked the question.

  �
��House to house won’t take long. It’s a fairly remote area. But, we’re stopping traffic on the main road and checking with anglers who hired boats yesterday, so maybe that’ll turn up something. There might be the odd dog walker too, but don’t hold your breath.’ Potter leaned on the desk behind her. ‘We’ll be interviewing Barnard and Mitchell in the next half an hour or so and that should give us their alibis to check. Anything else?’

  ‘We’ve found the van, Ma’am,’ said Bob. ‘A man took it into White Horse Car Breakers over at Midsomer Norton yesterday afternoon and offered them cash to crush it.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘The owner of the yard had just got back from lunch, Ma’am. So, just after two.’

  ‘Have we got a description?’

  ‘It’s looking like it was Savage.’

  ‘And he left on foot?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Where’s the van now?’

  ‘On the way to Portishead, Ma’am. We’ve traced it to a bloke in Stoke. The buyer – Savage – paid cash. He said he’d fill in and send off the V5, only he never did.’

  ‘Well done, Bob. That gives us a start for the timeline. Where did Savage go after that? He walked out of the yard, so who picked him up? Someone must’ve seen him.’

  ‘We’re checking the CCTV and traffic cameras now.’

  Potter nodded. ‘What else do we know about Savage?’

  Bob somebody stood up behind a workstation in the middle of the Incident Room. ‘He’s forty-two years of age and lives alone. He’s got very few friends, no social media presence at all, although there’s one child living in Bath. Doesn’t have much contact with her, apparently, and is well behind with his maintenance payments. After that relationship broke down he lived on a boat on the Kennet and Avon Canal until his mother died and he inherited her bungalow. That’s when he moved his boat to Bridgwater. Then a year or so later he took it out of the water and put it up on bricks under the M5.’

  ‘He kept it on a marina on the K and A?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Find out if it’s the same one that Sonia kept her boat on, will you? British Waterways or the Canals and Rivers Trust or whatever it is these days will have the records.’

  ‘It was the same one, Ma’am. Kingfisher Marina, it’s at Dundas Wharf at the junction with the old Somerset Coal Canal. I’ve got the dates too.’