by Damien Boyd
‘What happened?’
‘God knows. But I’m sure as bloody hell going to find out.’
‘You want the case then?’
‘I looked into the man’s eyes, Sir, and then I watched him die. It’s my case.’
Lewis nodded. ‘What about the poachers?’
‘They’re connected unless and until I know otherwise. Can we put Dave and Mark on it?’
‘I already have.’
‘We need to find their vehicle and trailer and search their homes. I can interview them later.’
‘I’ve organised a search of the area.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Anything else?’
Dixon shook his head. He was watching the flag tied to the end of the ladder on top of the van disappearing under the waves.
‘Well, I’ll head back then. I assume you can make your own way back?’
No reply.
‘We’ll be fine, Sir,’ said Louise.
She waited until Lewis had gone and then turned to Dixon, who had sat back down on the edge of the concrete track, facing out to sea.
‘Are you all right, Sir?’
Silence.
‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘Get on to Pest Erase UK and see if they can tell us who he is,’ replied Dixon. ‘Harry. His name’s Harry.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And try the West Huntspill Sewage Treatment Works. It’s behind us, over the embankment. See if anyone saw anything, and if they’ve got any CCTV.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll be here.’
Dixon was flicking the mud off his trousers when he heard footsteps behind him.
‘You still here, Sir?’
‘You should be in bed, Cole. You were on duty all night.’
‘So were you. Anyway, it’s a nice little bit of overtime. I’ve got to watch the van until the tide goes back out.’
‘I’ll do that. You help with the search.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
‘We found an old Range Rover with a boat trailer over at Stolford. Registered to a Martin White. Lives in Highbridge.’
‘Address?’
‘Can’t remember off hand, Sir, but Dave Harding and Mark Pearce are over there now.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘There’s no one answering at Pest Erase, Sir,’ said Louise, dropping her phone into her handbag. ‘And the sewage treatment works is all locked up. I’ll try again at nine.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Dixon.
‘Nearly eight.’
The tide was washing over the rocks at the base of the concrete track now. Another few minutes or so and it would turn, if it hadn’t already.
Dixon reached into his pocket and took out a Mars bar.
‘Breakfast,’ he muttered. He wiped the mud off the wrapper and then tore it open.
‘When did you last eat?’ asked Louise.
‘Last night.’
‘What about your blood sugar levels?’
‘I’ll be fine. Really.’
‘Did he say anything? Y’know, before he . . .’ Louise’s voice tailed off.
‘Not to me,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head. ‘Track down the Coastguard officer who had his head inside the passenger compartment, will you? See if he said anything to them.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So, you think it’s murder?’
‘I’m going to do you a favour, Louise, and pretend you didn’t ask that question.’
‘I’ll try Pest Erase again.’
‘Thank you.’
Louise walked along the track with her phone clamped to her ear and had gone less than ten yards before Dixon could no longer hear her over the cries of the seagulls. Behind her a line of three uniformed police officers were walking along the top of the embankment, each with a metal detector. Another line of three, including PC Cole, followed behind, their eyes fixed on the ground in front of their feet.
Dixon looked up when Louise sat down next to him. ‘Get anything?’ he asked.
‘His name’s Harry Lucas, Sir.’
Dixon sighed. A name to the face.
‘Have you got an address?’
‘Yes, he lives over at East Huntspill.’
‘Family?’
‘A wife and two children.’
‘Better get family liaison over there.’
‘Will do.’
‘What about the sewage works?’
‘It’s run by Wessex Water. They’re sending someone over now.’
Dixon nodded. The flag tied to the end of the ladder was emerging from the water in front of him as the tide receded. It was hanging limply, saturated, the red material covered with a thin film of mud and sediment.
‘What about the search?’
‘They’ve found some tyre tracks and a couple of footprints. That’s it though. Scenes of Crime are on the way to take a look. They’ll need to be here anyway when the Coastguard get the van out.’
‘We’d better get a pathologist out here too,’ said Dixon.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And make sure it’s Roger Poland.’
Dixon was watching a large concrete block emerging from the waves ten yards or so below the van. The sewage outfall, no doubt, which explained the smell getting stronger. Three ducks were swimming hard to hold their position in the outgoing tide just behind it.
‘You’d have thought they could find a nice quiet pond somewhere, wouldn’t you,’ said Louise, fishing her phone out of her coat pocket again.
A blue four wheel drive was parking on top of the embankment behind them. The driver was tall, dressed in a shirt and tie, with a blue HM Coastguard waterproof coat. Moustaches were popular with the Coastguard; this one grey with a goatee to match.
‘Inspector Dixon?’ he asked, striding across the grass towards them.
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon, standing up.
‘Geoff Garrett, Senior Coastal Operations Officer. Sorry, I couldn’t get here earlier.’
‘There’s not a lot you could’ve done.’
‘No. It does happen sometimes, sadly. You been here all morning?’
‘And all night,’ replied Dixon. ‘We were out after elver poachers down at the Huntspill outfall. He must’ve been here the whole time.’
‘He wouldn’t have known much about it, by all accounts.’
‘We’ll need to keep the precise nature of his injuries under wraps for the time being.’
‘We always do, Inspector.’
Dixon nodded.
‘We are on the same side,’ said Garrett.
‘Roger will be here at midday,’ said Louise. ‘He’s just finishing up a post mortem now.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve lined up the tractor for midday too,’ said Garrett. ‘One of the local farmers. There’s some pretty nasty stuff in the van, but it’s all in sealed containers, so it shouldn’t leak.’
‘Nasty stuff?’
‘Rat poison. Phostoxin pellets and bromadiolone blocks.’
‘Nice to know it shouldn’t leak?’
‘That’s what Pest Erase said.’
Dixon sat back down on the edge of the concrete path to watch the tide going out.
‘I’ll be back at midday,’ said Garrett.
‘Can you give Louise a lift back to Express Park?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Find out how Dave and Mark are getting on, then come back in my Land Rover. It’s on the top floor of the car park.’
‘What about Wessex Water?’ asked Louise.
‘You can speak to them when you get back. Just make sure you’re back by midday.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise, catching the keys that Dixon had thrown to her. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Louise said I’d find you here.’ Jane sat down next to Dixon on the edge of the concrete road. ‘I br
ought your wellies.’
‘Thanks.’ Dixon took his socks off and wrung them out, grey sludge dripping on to the seaweed in front of him.
‘Those can go in the bin,’ Jane said, smiling. ‘Are you staying here all day?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven thirty.’
‘I’ll stay till we’ve got him out.’ Dixon was sliding his feet into his boots.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to.’
‘I brought you these too.’ She handed him a bacon and egg sandwich and a bottle of Diet Coke.
He smiled, took his insulin pen out of his pocket and began wiping the mud off it. Then he opened it, allowing the seawater to drain out of the cap.
‘You can’t use that. Here.’ Jane handed him his spare insulin.
‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘Lou said you’d been in the mud.’
‘Where’s Monty?’
‘In the car behind the embankment. I wasn’t sure where you’d got to with the search.’
‘It’s fine. He can come out.’
‘I’ll go and get him.’
Dixon was halfway through his sandwich when Monty arrived and he had to fend him off.
‘What’s he got?’ asked Jane, frowning.
‘A bit of bacon.’
‘That’s all right. I thought for a minute he was eating seaweed.’
‘We’d better keep him away from the water. The van’s full of pesticides. Probably won’t leak, but . . .’
‘You got the poachers?’
‘Crafty buggers turned up by boat.’
Jane smiled. ‘And then you found the van?’
‘Must’ve been here all the time.’ Dixon shook his head.
‘Coincidence?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘They do exist.’
‘I hate to say it, but you may be right this time. Anyway, Dave and Mark are on it, so we’ll see what they come up with.’
‘Has somebody been over to the treatment works? Only there was a man there opening up when I arrived.’
‘I’ll send Louise over there when she gets back.’
The water was lapping against the side of the van now, the flag hanging down from the end of the ladder now clear of the water, fluttering in the breeze, such as it was.
‘Another few minutes and the passenger compartment will be visible.’
‘You’re not going back down there, are you?’
‘No,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head. ‘He can’t tell me anything now, can he?’
‘So, we just sit here then?’
‘We do.’
The sound of engines was coming from behind the embankment. Several of them. Then Roger Poland appeared on the top, carrying his bag and a large silver case.
‘Tractor’s here, and a fire engine. They’re waiting for the Coastguard.’
Dixon was looking at his watch. ‘They said they’d be here at midday.’
‘You’ve had quite a night of it,’ continued Poland.
‘You could say that.’
‘I’d better head back,’ said Jane. ‘I took an early lunch. Shall I leave Monty?’
‘Yes, you can do.’
The dog’s lead was looped around her neck, so she took it off and handed it to Dixon. Then she kissed him on the cheek and walked off in the direction of her car.
‘In there, is he?’ asked Poland, gesturing in the direction of the van. The water was now below the level of the windows, front and back.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about his injuries,’ said Poland. He dropped the case on the ground and sat down on it.
‘He had a hole just here,’ said Dixon, drawing a circle in the middle of his forehead with his right index finger.
‘A bullet hole?’
‘Couldn’t have been. He was still alive, Roger.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Stab wounds in his neck.’
‘Missed the arteries then, if he was alive.’ Poland frowned. ‘It all sounds vaguely familiar, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘I read about a case years ago,’ continued Poland. ‘I’m sure I did. The victim had a hole in the centre of his forehead made by a trephine.’
‘A what?’
‘Trephine. It’s a cylindrical saw with a handle on the end. Looks a bit like a corkscrew. You turn it and it cuts a circle. It used to be used for cranial surgery. Still is, actually. Vets use them too.’
‘Were there any other injuries?’
‘I can’t remember,’ replied Poland, his eyes closed. ‘I seem to recall the victims suffocated though.’
‘Suffocated?’
‘They were buried alive.’
‘You said victims?’
‘Nine or ten, from memory.’
Dixon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, allowing his cheeks to puff out as he did so.
‘Keep it under your hat for the time being, will you?’
‘What?’
‘Just until you do the PM. I need twenty-four hours to get a head start, that’s all.’
‘A head start on what?’
‘Connections with old cases always bring people crawling out of the woodwork; you know how it is. All wanting to stick their noses in.’
‘People will wonder why I never said anything,’ said Poland.
‘You did say something. To the Senior Investigating Officer. To me.’
‘All right, all right.’ Poland leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Whatever you say. I’ll see if I can find the reference. I’ve got a feeling I’ve still got the book at home.’
‘You will let me know when you’re doing the PM?’
‘Always do, don’t I?’
‘We’ll try the back axle first, but if we can’t get a cable around that, we’ll have to run it through the passenger compartment.’
Dixon was listening to the conversation between Steve Yelland and his superior, Geoff Garrett.
‘Hovercraft standing by?’
‘They’re on the way. And the “D” Class lifeboat.’
‘Good.’
‘Two mud techs will go out. Phil and Bev. It’s not far, but I’ll get the hovercraft to drop them by the van.’
Garrett nodded.
‘Shall we try to remove the casualty first?’ asked Yelland.
‘Better leave him where he is,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s a crime scene.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. He stays where he is.’
‘All right,’ said Yelland. ‘We can work around him.’
Dixon looked along the concrete service road. There were three Coastguard vehicles, a fire engine, two police cars and an ambulance. Waiting behind the embankment was the mortuary van, Roger Poland’s Volvo and his own Land Rover, with Monty curled up on his bed inside. The tractor was waiting on the road ready to pull the van out of the mud, once the cable had been attached.
Further along the embankment two dog walkers were being turned back by a uniformed police officer.
Dixon turned when he felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘There’s no CCTV,’ shouted Louise over the noise of the hovercraft engines. ‘The sign on the gate says there is, but there isn’t. He said we can try Wessex Security. They may have been out here last night for a routine check.’
‘Had he heard of Pest Erase?’ Dixon was leaning over and shouting into Louise’s ear.
‘Yes. They do the pest control on site, so they have keys to the gates.’
They turned to watch the hovercraft when the engines revved up to take the mud technicians out to the van, any attempt at further conversation abandoned for the time being.
The hovercraft stopped at the back of the van and the two Coastguard officers dropped a mud stretcher over the side and then climbed into it. The hovercraft then moved off, waiting on the mud only a few yards away with its engines idling.
Both Coastguard officers were leaning over the side of the stre
tcher, trying to reach the back axle of the van.
‘It’s no good, Steve,’ shouted Phil. ‘The mud’s closing over as fast as we can dig. We’re not getting anywhere.’
‘Passenger compartment it is then,’ replied Yelland.
Phil gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign and stepped over the side of the stretcher into the mud. Once at the driver’s window, he leaned in and passed the cable to Bev, who had smashed the window on the passenger side. They both then returned to the mud stretcher where they were picked up by the hovercraft and flown back to the shore.
‘Stand clear,’ shouted Yelland.
‘The cable might snap, I suppose,’ said Dixon, turning to Poland.
‘It would take your head off if it did.’
The tractor began inching back towards the embankment, dragging the van and bringing with it a wave of mud that reared up behind it like a bow wave. Then the van began to rise up as it reached the rocks, water trickling out from under the doors that were now clear of the mud. It bumped and clattered across the rocks, slewing from side to side on the seaweed, before its wheels hit the concrete at the side of the track.
‘Right, it’s over to you, Inspector,’ said Yelland.
‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon, waving to Donald Watson, the senior scenes of crime officer waiting by the Scientific Services vans.
‘Screens first,’ said Watson to his colleagues, all of them wearing white overalls.
Dixon walked over to the driver’s window and looked in. Harry was slumped forwards, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. Seawater was dribbling from his nose and mouth, and from the hole in his forehead. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the papers that had been on the dashboard and were now floating all around him. The dashboard was covered in a thin film of grey slime.
‘You’d better have a look, Louise.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
She turned away sharply, her face pale. ‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘There’ll be a reason,’ replied Dixon, stepping aside to allow the photographer through.
‘Ready?’ asked Watson.
Dixon nodded. Then Watson opened the driver’s door, allowing the water in the passenger compartment to gush out. The handcuff on Harry’s left wrist was visible now, freed from the broken steering wheel. Then the water reached his left ankle, revealing another handcuff that secured his foot to the clutch pedal.
‘There’s the reason they couldn’t get him out.’
