Dead Lock

by Damien Boyd

  The charred handle came off when he tried to open the drawer so he squatted down and reached underneath, pulling it open from the back. An open bar of chocolate had melted in the heat and run on to a small box of paracetamol, next to a packet of plastic razors. A tube of toothpaste completed the contents of the drawer.

  ‘Bollocks,’ muttered Dixon, shining the lamp behind it and on the floor at the side.

  Then he retraced his steps back to the wardrobe, kicked aside the curtains on the floor and opened it. He frowned. Nothing. Not a single item of clothing. He shone the torch around the room – not a single picture on the walls either.

  ‘Louise is saying something, Sir.’

  ‘Go and see what she wants.’

  Dixon turned to leave when he noticed a ball on the floor by the fireplace, under the corner of the wardrobe – rolled off the mantelpiece, perhaps. He picked it up and looked at it. Charred, it left a black streak on his blue gloves where it rolled around in the palm of his hand. Too big for a squash ball, too light for a golf ball, and too small for cricket or tennis. He frowned.

  ‘She says—’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ asked Dixon, shining the lamp at the ball in his hand.

  Pearce shook his head. ‘No idea, Sir.’

  ‘Let me have an evidence bag, will you?’

  ‘She says the duty inspector at Bath wants us out of here now. He’s on his way, apparently.’

  Dixon dropped the ball into the evidence bag and looked up.

  ‘Let’s make sure we’re gone before he gets here, then.’

  The first hint of dawn was appearing when Dixon parked in the road outside his cottage and looked at his watch. He sighed. A couple of hours sleep and back to Express Park by eight. It would have to do.

  He was feeding Monty by the open back door when Jane appeared in the living room doorway, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘How’d you get on?’

  ‘We’re looking for a man named Tony Steiner.’ Dixon flicked on the kettle. ‘He’s a friend of Gregson’s, an original shareholder in Polgen and an employee of Markhams.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Gone. His bedsit in Radstock was burnt out last night.’

  ‘What did Adele have to say?’

  ‘She’s never met him, which I can believe. I gave her a hard time about it and Roger got a bit . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We had words.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Lucy was standing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Nick’s back,’ said Jane. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Lucy sat down on the top of the stairs and yawned.

  ‘Was there anything left at the bedsit?’ asked Jane, turning back to Dixon. He was standing in the back door watching Monty sniffing around Jane’s car, his white coat just visible in the lights from the kitchen window.

  ‘Nothing except a ball of some sort.’

  ‘A ball?’

  ‘A tube of toothpaste, some painkillers, a bar of chocolate and a ball, which had been burnt in the fire anyway.’

  ‘What was it made of?’

  ‘Cork,’ replied Dixon. ‘I broke it open back at the station.’

  ‘No clothes?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What the hell’s that all about?’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Lucy, standing behind them yawning, ‘you can tell there aren’t many canals down south.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A cork ball?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It makes your keys float. Everybody knows that. Don’t they?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘Right then, everybody.’

  Dixon was listening to the briefing from the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the banister. Two hours’ sleep had been it, then back to Express Park. Still, it had been the same for the others.

  ‘Tony Steiner,’ continued Potter. ‘Find him and we find Hatty.’

  I bloody well hope so.

  ‘We’ve spoken to the other residents at twelve Paulton Terrace and they’ve given us a description. IC1 male, aged late forties, early fifties, five eleven, shaven head, no facial hair, no visible tattoos. Everybody got that?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘And we’re going to have to do this without speaking to any of the other employees at Markhams, for obvious reasons. Right, what about traffic cameras?’

  ‘Nothing yet, Ma’am.’ Dixon recognised Dave Harding’s voice.

  ‘His car and the Markhams vans, all right, Dave?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Mobile phones?’

  ‘He’s got a contract with Vodafone, Ma’am, but the phone’s dead. It’s not showing up anywhere. He must’ve taken the battery out.’

  Or chucked it in the canal.

  ‘Where’s Inspector Dixon?’

  ‘Probably on the beach with his bloody dog, Ma’am.’

  Dixon smiled. Chard was up early on a Sunday.

  Twat.

  ‘His team has been on this most of the night, so the rest of us are playing catch up. Everybody else, focus on known associates, social media, anything you can find. It’s reasonable to assume he knows we’re on to him because he torched his flat last night so let’s find the bastard before he does anything else really bloody stupid.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Anything from the surveillance overnight?’

  ‘No, Ma’am,’ said Guthrie. ‘All quiet. Gregson’s not moved.’

  ‘I want surveillance on the other Polgen shareholders and get local police to check out those living abroad. There’s one in Hong Kong and another in Canada. Let’s see if they’re still there, shall we? And tell Dixon I’d like to see him as soon as he gets in.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Louise, pointing to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Potter. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘On the beach with my bloody dog, Ma’am.’ Dixon smiled at Chard, who ducked down behind his computer.

  ‘We’ve got it all under control, I think. Everything that can be done is being done.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘And well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

  Louise appeared next to Dixon and handed him a file. ‘It’s the missing persons file on Sid Farooq, Sir,’ she said, grinning. ‘You’re going to love it.’

  ‘Love what?’ snapped Potter.

  ‘Nothing in particular, Ma’am,’ replied Louise, walking back to her workstation.

  Dixon followed her. ‘That cork ball is to make your keys float, apparently. Check with the Canal and River Trust and see if Steiner is the registered keeper of a narrowboat. Or any boat, for that matter.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’ll be in the canteen.’

  ‘Want another coffee?’ Jane dropped her handbag on the table.

  ‘I thought you’d be staying with Lucy,’ said Dixon, looking up. ‘Dave’s driving down today.’

  ‘She understands. I said we’d pick her up on the way to the Lakes, whenever that is. I left her with my door keys and she’s going to leave them in the pub.’

  ‘She’s a good kid.’

  ‘In spite of everything.’

  ‘And she’s going to be your bridesmaid, is she?’ Dixon smirked.

  Jane picked up a menu and pretended to look at it. ‘She wasn’t supposed to say anything,’ she mumbled, blushing.

  ‘And there was me thinking I did your head in.’

  ‘You do.’ She smiled, ‘Now, do you want that bloody coffee or not?’

  Dixon turned back to the file in front of him and listened to the whirr of the coffee machine. ‘Read this,’ he said, sliding the file across the table when Jane sat down. ‘And tell me what you notice about it.’ He stirred his coffee while he watched Jane flicking through the witness statements.

  ‘Adele’s is crap,’ she said. �
�No mention of what Farooq was wearing, no timeline, nothing.’ She looked at Dixon. ‘Is Gregson’s the same?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And he was the last person to see Farooq alive.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Unless he really did get in a taxi.’

  ‘They found a taxi driver who remembered dropping him off at Combe Hay, but not one who collected him.’

  ‘Even so.’ Jane was glancing down Gregson’s statement. ‘There’s not even any background.’

  ‘Well, we know it now,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Notice anything else?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘What?’

  ‘The investigating officer?’

  ‘Bath police station,’ said Jane, turning to the front cover of the file. ‘Detective Constable . . .’ She smiled. ‘Simon Chard.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘He’s going to look a right dickhead when this comes out,’ continued Jane.

  ‘I could do without the hassle, to be honest,’ said Dixon. ‘And whatever happens . . .’ He took a swig of coffee. ‘We must try not to enjoy it too much.’

  ‘Or not look as though we are.’ Jane grinned.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I said you’d love that.’ Louise was standing in the doorway of the canteen, smiling. ‘Nothing from the Canal and River Trust, I’m afraid.’ She shook her head. ‘No boat registered in Steiner’s name.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You had breakfast, Lou?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll get something a bit later.’

  ‘I wish I was on the beach with my bloody dog,’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It was just something Chard said.’

  ‘You’ve got Monty in the Land Rover?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Take him for a walk then,’ said Jane. ‘Fuck Chard.’

  ‘The wizard said he saw a boy drowning in a lock with no water in it – and a boy did drown, didn’t he?’

  ‘It was in the Bath Chronicle.’

  ‘He was winding a windlass when he slipped and fell in.’ Dixon slid his phone out of his pocket and opened a web browser. Then he typed ‘windlass’ into Google and hit ‘Search’.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Windlass. It’s a winch, especially one on a ship or in a harbour, according to this.’ Dixon frowned.

  ‘Try “canal windlass”.’

  He started typing. ‘It’s giving me “canal lock windlass” as a search term.’

  ‘Try that then.’

  Dixon clicked on it, then switched to an image search. He passed his phone to Jane as he stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jane, when Dixon sat down five minutes later.

  ‘Savage’s post mortem report and this . . .’ Dixon held up a yellow Post-it note. ‘Is the pathologist’s mobile number.’ He started flicking through the report. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Read it out then.’ Jane shook her head.

  ‘Er . . . “blunt instrument, metal, possibly steel or aluminium, with square edges. Therefore a spanner of some sort, possibly a box spanner with two heads side by side.”’

  ‘A windlass,’ muttered Jane.

  Dixon picked up his phone and dialled the mobile phone number he had stuck to the table.

  ‘Dr Petersen.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Dixon, Sir. I wanted to speak to you about—’

  ‘It is Sunday morning, you know.’

  ‘There is a ten year old girl missing, you know.’

  ‘All right, all right, get on with it.’

  ‘Can you get to a computer, Sir?’

  Dixon pressed the phone to his ear, straining to hear muffled voices in the background.

  ‘Pass me that.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes, you must.’

  Then Petersen came back on the line. ‘I’ve got my wife’s iPad. What do you want me to look at?’

  ‘Go to Google and type in “canal lock windlass”, then select “Images”.’

  ‘Give me a sec.’

  ‘Anybody would think I’d just got him up,’ whispered Dixon, his hand over his phone.

  ‘You probably have,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. The first one with the spanner heads side by side. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘What put you on to it?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Tell DCS Potter I’ll let her have an amended report on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘It’s a new murder weapon on me.’

  ‘Probably the first thing that came to hand,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Well, it left a distinct imprint on the skull. And there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  He rang off and turned to Jane. ‘Savage had his brains bashed in with a windlass,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘So the wizard was right?’

  ‘The wizard was right about the wrong thing for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Wrong then?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Dixon stood up. ‘C’mon then, don’t just sit there.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘We’re in the outside lane of the M5, Lou.’ Jane had Dixon’s phone clamped to her right ear, her other hand over her left. ‘Doing about ninety, I think. I can hardly hear you.’ She glanced at Dixon. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him.’

  Jane rang off.

  ‘She said you were right. There’s a canal boat registered in Simon Gregson’s name, called Anytimenow.’ Jane shook her head. ‘How could you possibly . . . ?’

  ‘A fridge magnet.’

  ‘The units were built in.’

  ‘It was on the side of the microwave.’

  ‘Sometimes, I think you operate on a different plane to the rest of us.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Dixon smiled. ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘He keeps it on the Kennet and Avon at Kingfisher Marina.’

  ‘It stands to reason when you think about it. Savage kept his boat there and so did Alesha’s granny. Nice and cosy, all three of them, I bet.’

  ‘And you think Hatty’s on the boat?’

  ‘Got to be worth a look, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘He may have left the marina, of course.’

  ‘How far’s he going to get at three miles an hour?’

  ‘Depends when he left.’

  Jane felt sick by the time Dixon turned into the entrance to Kingfisher Marina. It had felt like a lifetime being thrown around the country roads in his new Land Rover but it had only taken just under an hour from junction twenty-two on the M5. They were probably on every speed camera along the A38 too.

  ‘I preferred your old Land Rover,’ muttered Jane. ‘It was slower.’

  Dixon peered over his shoulder into the back. ‘He slept through it all right,’ he said, looking at Monty curled up on his bed.

  ‘Lucky sod.’

  Further progress was blocked by large steel gates so Dixon left his Land Rover in the visitors’ car park and tried the shop door. Locked.

  ‘The gates are too,’ said Jane, rattling them.

  Dixon looked up.

  ‘You can’t climb over them.’ Jane’s eyes widened. ‘There’s a camera.’

  Lines of canal boats moored to pontoons were visible beyond private car parking, a single boat moored on the far side next to a diesel pump.

  ‘It would be a bloody Sunday,’ muttered Dixon. He tried the door of the shop again, before knocking on it as loudly as the pain in his knuckles would allow.

  ‘Yes?’ A man leaned out of a window above his head.

  Dixon held up his warrant card.

  ‘Oh.’ The window slammed shut and seconds later a light came on at the back of the shop.

  ‘Are you the owner?’ asked Dixon, when the man opened the door. Cord
uroys and a very fetching cardigan. Nice.

  ‘Caretaker. My name’s Jim Hendry.’

  ‘We’re looking for a boat called Anytimenow,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Pulled out a few days ago.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Monday night, I think. He was gone when I got up on Tuesday morning, any road.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘Tony.’

  ‘Describe him for me,’ said Dixon. Jane was making notes.

  ‘Bald. Shaves it, y’know. Scruffy too. Not a nice fella. Bloody rude he is, most of the time.’

  ‘Facial hair, tattoos?’

  Jim shook his head.

  ‘So, the last time you saw him was Monday?’

  ‘No. Yesterday evening. He cycled in on his bike and checked his post box. All the residentials have boxes and use the marina address for their post. He used the phone too.’

  ‘Phone?’

  ‘There’s a payphone on the wall in the laundry area.’

  ‘Has it been used since?’

  ‘No way of knowing. Sorry. It’s quite popular, though. Not much of a signal around here for the mobiles.’

  ‘Is his car here?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Jim. ‘D’you want me to show you?’

  The back door of the shop opened out on the inside of the steel gates and a short walk across the gravel car park revealed a grey Honda CRV. On a 2005 number plate and covered in dents and scratches, it reminded Dixon of his old Land Rover.

  ‘Shall I—?’

  ‘We’ll leave it where it is for now, Jane.’ Dixon turned to Jim. ‘What does his boat look like?’

  ‘She’s a fifty-five footer. That big,’ he replied, pointing to the canal boat filling up with diesel. ‘She’s blue with a red roof. Oh, and a skylight too. Only a low one, mind, so he can get through the tunnels.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’s got a couple of solar panels, and then there’s his bike, which he puts on the roof. Locks it to the side rails.’

  ‘Where will he be now, d’you reckon?’

  Jim grimaced. ‘He likes to moor up out in the country, so he’s maybe out towards Trowbridge. That’s only a couple of miles on his bike. He used to do that at weekends anyways.’

  ‘And if he left last night, how far will he have got by now?’

  ‘Not past Caen Hill, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What’s at Caen Hill?’