by Damien Boyd
‘Do you understand, Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Grievous bodily harm,’ continued Harding. ‘Carries a possible life sentence, does that.’
‘I have advised my client of the sentencing options open to a judge in the event of a conviction.’
‘Thank you, Mr Griffin,’ replied Harding. ‘And if Mr Stafford dies then it will be a murder charge. You’ve advised him of that too?’
White glanced at his solicitor, who nodded.
‘Got greedy, did you?’ asked Harding.
‘What?’
‘Fishing with a dip net not lucrative enough?’
‘Look, I lost my job and couldn’t get benefits. What else was I supposed to do? It was either that or thieving.’
‘Elver poaching is thieving.’
‘Not really. I mean, who’s losing out? Who am I stealing from?’
‘Where were you working?’
‘On the taxis. Webb Cars.’
‘And why did you lose your job?’
‘No comment.’ White was shifting in his seat, from time to time tugging at his beard.
‘Fingers in the till, was it?’ asked Harding, raising his eyebrows.
‘Just the odd cash job. They found out and . . .’
‘So, you started on the elvers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where did you get the net?’
‘Owen made it.’
‘And who did you sell them to?’
‘There’s a wholesaler over at Barnstaple. He does scallops and exports to the Continent. Takes the elvers on the side.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Does it matter?’ asked White. ‘He didn’t know we were using a flow net.’
‘Yes it does.’
‘No comment then.’ White smirked.
‘How much does he pay you?’
‘Three hundred quid a kilo.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’ Harding’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you have to watch out for the Environment Agency, don’t you?’
White was pulling at his beard again.
‘The night of the twelfth of March, Colin Stafford, an Environment Agency officer was assaulted at Dunball and we’ve got tyre tracks placing your Range Rover at the scene, so you tell me, where were you?’
White sighed. ‘We had the net out, just above the King’s Sedgemoor Drain sluice.’
‘What time did you put the net out?’
‘About sixish.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘We had a few beers in the Scarlet Pimpernel.’
‘What time did you go back for the net?’
‘Eleven or so.’
‘And what happened?’
‘We got the net in, and then Owen says he thought he heard something and went back to the car. Next thing I know there’s this bailiff shining a torch in my face. Then wham, Owen smacks him on the back of the head.’
‘Nice that, blaming your brother. I wonder if he’ll blame you,’ said Harding.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Close, are you?’
White closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
‘What’d he hit him with then?’ asked Harding.
‘I dunno.’
‘Did you try to stop him?’
‘I didn’t have the chance. It was dark and I was looking straight into the bailiff’s torch. There was no way I could see Owen behind him.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We finished loading up the elvers and got the hell out of there.’
‘You just left him?’
‘I didn’t know how hard Owen hit him. We thought he’d wake up with a bit of a headache and that’d be that.’
‘Whose car were you in that night?’
‘My Range Rover.’
‘And Owen got the weapon from your car?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Well, it’s either going to have been the baseball bat or the crowbar. We’re having both tested so we’ll soon know.’
‘It was the baseball bat. All right? It was the bloody baseball bat.’
‘Whose baseball bat?’
‘Mine.’
‘You carry a baseball bat in your car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re a big fan of the Boston Red Sox?’
‘Protection; it’s for protection.’
‘So, that’s an offensive weapon,’ said Harding, nodding. He turned to White’s solicitor. ‘You’ve explained joint enterprise to him as well, I suppose, Mr Griffin?’
Griffin leaned over and whispered into White’s ear.
‘The baseball bat is for banging the stakes in to hold the net in place,’ said White. ‘That’s all.’
‘Really.’ Harding went for maximum sarcasm. Dixon was impressed.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s hardly a mark on it.’
‘There’s been a lot of rain lately and ground’s soft. Plus, it’s washed by the tide.’
Harding pursed his lips.
‘I had no idea Owen was going to use it for that,’ continued White, ‘and no way of stopping him.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’
‘Let’s talk about last night, Martin,’ said Dixon, leaning forward and placing a plastic cup on the table. ‘What time did you put the net out?’
‘About tenish,’ said White, frowning.
‘By boat?’
‘No, we drove round.’
‘Why recover it by boat then?’
‘We thought we’d been seen. And it was a calm night, moonlit.’
‘Where were you seen?’
‘At the gate at Sloway Lane.’
‘Well, that’s right. You were seen.’
‘I know that now.’
‘You weren’t seen dumping the van in the mud though.’
‘What van?’
‘Now hold on a minute,’ said Griffin. ‘What’s this all about?’
Dixon placed a photograph of Harry Lucas on the table in front of White. Harry was sitting at a table outside a restaurant, smiling at the camera.
‘Have you seen this man before, Martin?’
White picked up the photograph and looked at it, before passing it to Griffin.
‘No.’
‘Look again.’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘His name’s Harry,’ said Dixon. ‘Harry Lucas.’
White was staring at the table in front of him, avoiding Dixon’s stare.
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘He was found in his van at dawn this morning. He had multiple stab wounds in his neck and had been handcuffed to the steering wheel. The Coastguard couldn’t get him out before the tide came in.’
White sat up. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘The van was found a few hundred yards from your net, Martin.’
‘My client hasn’t been arrested for any offence in connection with this,’ said Griffin.
‘That’s right. He’s just helping us with our enquiries at this stage. Aren’t you, Martin?’
‘I didn’t kill him and neither did Owen. We never even saw a van.’
‘D’you know what a trephine is?’ Dixon noticed Harding frowning.
‘No,’ replied White.
‘OK, so when you were placing the net, did you see anything further along the River Parrett, north towards the sewage treatment works?’
‘No, we were down on the Huntspill and the embankment’s in the way.’
‘No lights?’
‘Nothing. All right.’
‘Where did you park?’
‘We left the Range Rover on Sloway Lane and carried the net along the Huntspill to the end.’
‘And you saw no other vehicles?’
‘No.’
‘Was the gate locked?’
‘Yes. We’d have driven down there if it had been open.’
‘What about when you came back in your boat?’
White
shook his head.
‘For the tape, Mr White shook his head,’ said Dixon. ‘You must have motored along the River Parrett from Stolford, and you’re saying you saw nothing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Inspector, I think my client has made his position clear, and unless you have anything to connect him to the van . . .’
‘Have you ever worked in pest control, Martin?’
‘No,’ replied White, frowning.
‘Inspector—’
‘Not yet, Mr Griffin,’ replied Dixon. ‘Not yet.’
The interview with Owen White had followed much the same pattern. He admitted hitting Colin Stafford, the Environment Agency bailiff, although he said it had been Martin who had heard the noise and ordered him – he was quite clear that Martin gave the orders – to fetch the baseball bat from the Range Rover.
When confronted by Stafford, Martin had shouted, ‘For fuck’s sake; hit him, Owen,’ and Owen had simply done as he was told.
Owen’s solicitor, Frank Clarke, was well beyond retirement age and had looked asleep for much of the interview, but he sat up sharply when Dixon took over the questioning.
‘So, was it Martin who ordered you to kill Harry Lucas?’
‘No. Who’s—’
‘Yes, who’s Harry Lucas?’ interrupted Clarke.
‘He was found handcuffed to the steering wheel of a van stuck in the mud not five hundred yards from your net, Owen,’ replied Dixon. ‘What can you tell me about that?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Owen, rubbing the stubble on his chin.
‘I’m not sure I like where this is going, Inspector,’ said Clarke. ‘This is not a line of questioning we were expecting, and I’ve not had the chance to discuss it with my client.’
‘Let’s proceed on the basis that Owen is just helping us with our enquiries then, shall we?’
Clarke leaned over and whispered in Owen’s ear. Owen shrugged his shoulders.
‘All right then,’ said Clarke.
‘Where did you leave the Range Rover last night?’
‘Stolford,’ replied Owen. He took off his glasses and began cleaning them on his shirttail.
‘When you set the net?’
‘Oh, in a lay-by on Sloway Lane.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘We climbed over the gate and walked along the Huntspill to the sluice.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘A dog walker. That was on the way back. She got her phone out, which is why we decided to collect the net by boat.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Apart from the dog walker.’
‘No.’
‘What about when you were out by the River Parrett? Any lights?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hear anything?’
‘I thought I heard a banging sound in the distance.’
‘Banging what?’
‘I don’t know. It sounded metallic, maybe.’
‘And this was when you were setting the net?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Ten fifteen, maybe a bit later. Something like that anyway.’
‘Did you say anything to Martin about it?’
‘No.’
‘How many times did you hear it?’
‘Three, I think, but it was faint. It sounded miles away.’
‘Did you see anything when you came back by boat?’
‘There was something on the mud, maybe. Near the concrete thing that marks the sewage pipe.’
‘What did you see?’
‘A reflection. Just for a second. If you’re telling me there was a van in the mud, then it could have been the windscreen, but I wasn’t really looking around to be honest. I can’t swim and hate the bloody boat.’
‘You weren’t wearing a lifejacket when you were arrested,’ said Dixon.
‘Martin says they’re for poofs,’ replied Owen, folding his arms.
‘So, you think you saw something in the mud near the sewage outfall?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you said nothing to anyone.’
‘I had no idea what it was, did I?’
‘Would you have done, if you’d known?’
‘Anonymously probably, but yes, I’d have made the call.’
Dixon nodded.
‘And, when he wakes up, please tell Mr Stafford I’m sorry I hit him.’
‘Fuck it,’ muttered Dixon as he kicked a chair out from under a vacant workstation in the open plan CID area. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Mark and I were watching on the monitor,’ replied Louise.
‘If Owen is right about the banging, then it was Harry trying to get help, which means he was in the mud all night, conscious and just waiting for the tide.’
‘You can’t be sure. He’s not sure.’
‘The whole bloody time we were there.’
‘It’s not your fault, Sir.’
‘I know that.’ Dixon dropped on to the swivel chair. ‘Check with SOCO and see if the horn on the van had been disabled.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where does it leave us with the murder though, Sir?’ asked Pearce.
‘Nowhere,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Let’s get ’em charged with GBH. They’ll be remanded in custody, and that will give us more time.’
‘What about the Environment Agency?’
‘See if they want to do them for the poaching too.’
‘And the offensive weapon?’
‘Yes.’
‘The ID’s been done, Sir. It is Harry Lucas,’ said Louise.
‘Roger covered up the forehead?’
‘Yes. She didn’t ask about it either.’
Dixon checked the time: 8 p.m. That made it over thirty-six hours since he’d got out of bed the day before, and he suddenly found himself stifling a yawn.
‘Do you want what I’ve got so far, Sir?’ asked Pearce.
‘Tomorrow will do, Mark. I’ll be in for eight.’
‘Oh, and this arrived for you,’ said Pearce, handing him a padded envelope.
Dixon tore it open and pulled out a paperback book. Cause of Death: Diaries of a Home Office Pathologist by Dr Geoffrey Burkett. A piece of paper was sticking out of the top, with a handwritten note: ‘Read this! RP.’
Dixon exhaled slowly. Maybe he wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight after all, he thought as he opened the book at the start of chapter 9, ‘Moss Side’.
Chapter Six
The cottage was dark. Dixon put his key in the lock. And quiet. Jane must have taken Monty with her. It must be serious if Monty is doing what Jane tells him, thought Dixon, smiling as he stepped into the darkness. Maybe he’d need a pre-nuptial agreement to clarify that Monty was his? He shook his head. Once a solicitor, always a solicitor. And he hadn’t even asked her yet.
A beer in the Red Cow was tempting, but then so was his bed, and it was touch and go whether he’d be able to stay awake long enough to microwave a curry, let alone eat it. A small drop of blood appeared on his shirt when he pulled out the needle. He’d lost count of the number of times Roger had told him not to inject his insulin through his clothes. He sighed. Being diabetic was a bloody nuisance sometimes.
The smell of chicken tikka masala followed by the ping of the microwave woke him, but then he’d never been good at sleeping standing up, even when leaning against a kitchen worktop. He dragged the plastic container out on to a tray and slumped down on to the sofa, switching on the TV while he waited for the sauce to stop bubbling. He clicked ‘play’ on the DVD without looking up and smiled when he recognised Gordon Jackson’s voice.
The Great Escape had always been a favourite.
He managed to stay awake long enough to eat his curry, but was asleep before the machine gun fire started.
‘Isn’t that the football song?’
Jane sounded mi
les away.
Then the sound of a plastic container being pushed around a wooden dinner tray. Much closer. Dixon opened his eyes to find Monty standing on the sofa next to him, licking the last of the masala sauce from the tray.
‘Isn’t that the football song?’
‘No, it bloody well isn’t.’
‘What is it then?’ asked Jane, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen holding a jar of coffee.
‘The Great Escape,’ replied Dixon. ‘One of the finest war films ever made.’ He picked up the remote control and switched off the TV.
‘Really?’
‘Well, top five.’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please. And you can hop it.’ Dixon pushed Monty off the sofa, dropped the plastic tray on the floor and watched him pushing it across the carpet with his tongue. The last trace of any sauce was long gone before it reached the TV stand, but that didn’t stop him pushing it underneath. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven.’
‘How were your parents?’
‘Fine.’
‘What did they say?’
‘What about?’
‘You know what about.’ Dixon was propping himself up on the door frame.
Jane had met her birth mother, Sonia, for the first time only a few weeks before. Dixon had gone with her, but kept his distance, ready to pick up the pieces although there had been none to pick up. ‘Expect nothing and you’ll not be disappointed, whatever else happens’ had been his advice, and Jane had taken it, coming out of the meeting relatively unscathed.
The half empty bottle of wine on the table at an early evening reunion had turned out to be more than just Dutch courage, Jane ordering a coffee for herself and another bottle of Pinot Grigio for Sonia.
There had been lots of tears, from Sonia, but Jane had remained calm and distant throughout, which had surprised Dixon, watching from the bar, although he couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to find out that you were adopted and then to come face to face with the person who had given you up. It was either that or Sonia’s admission that she didn’t know who Jane’s father was.
Dixon felt responsible too, having been the one who found Sonia. Maybe Jane would have been better off never meeting her? She would certainly have been better off never knowing, even she said that, but once she knew, she had to meet her mother.
‘They don’t want to meet her.’
‘Really?’
‘They said it didn’t feel right.’
‘Did you tell them about—?’
