by Damien Boyd
‘No,’ replied Jane. ‘They don’t need to know she’s an alcoholic. What good would it do?’
‘None at all.’
‘Specially if they’re not going to meet.’ Jane handed a mug of tea to Dixon. ‘Did you get the van out all right?’
‘Yes. Roger’s doing the PM in the morning. He sent me that book on the side there. Open it at the yellow sticker.’
Dixon watched Jane’s facial expression as she scanned the pages.
‘Have you read this?’ she asked, her eyes widening.
‘Not yet.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘It’s the use of the trephine, the cylindrical saw.’
‘Really?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Take my advice and read it in the morning,’ said Jane, snapping the book shut. ‘If you want to sleep, that is.’
Dixon had woken early, even for him, and spent an hour or so reading Cause of Death by the light of his iPhone. Neither Jane nor Monty had stirred, although Monty was probably just pretending to be asleep – rain hammering on the cottage window often had that effect.
Chapter 9 had made grim reading. The author’s last case before retirement, unsolved, his bitterness that his career was ending in failure shining through much like a footballer retiring after a Cup Final that ended in a 6–0 defeat.
A killer on the loose in Manchester, linked to at least four murders and suspected of several more, although the victims had never been found. ‘The Vet’, as he had been christened by the local press, liked to torture his victims with surgical instruments more often found in a veterinary surgery or a museum of veterinary science.
A fleam had been used to bleed the victims, the veins in the neck opened up with an unusual measure of precision. Then a trephine had been used to remove a piece of skull the size of a penny, right in the middle of the forehead. Cause of death was always the same: asphyxiation. The victims had been buried alive and suffocated before they bled to death.
No other injuries had been found on any of them. Burkett had found no evidence of a blow to the back of the head to incapacitate the victim, nor had any drug been administered, leading him to conclude that the victims had been held down by a person or persons unknown.
The murders had taken place over a period of four years, ending with the killing of Derek Hervey, a snooker hall owner in his early forties. He had been buried in a shallow grave on a building site near Old Trafford and children playing had unearthed his decomposing body after a period of heavy rain. According to Burkett, it was not a pretty ‘site’. Dixon frowned. No doubt the pun was intentional. Hervey had been found on 18th January 1996, giving a date of death on or about Christmas Eve the previous year. This coincided with a missing persons report filed by his wife two days earlier.
Hervey had complained of coming under pressure to pay protection money to a gang, although, not surprisingly, Burkett had not identified the criminals involved. ‘The word on the street’ was that a new enforcer was operating in the city, while rival gangs fought over turf. Writing in 2001, Burkett said that two informers were among the missing and suspected victims of The Vet.
A rival gang member, unidentified by Burkett, a drug dealer and a police officer from the Greater Manchester Police Tactical Vehicle Crime Unit completed the list of known victims. Police Constable Brian Hocking, the first victim, was found buried in a flower bed in Alexandra Park, Manchester, by a gardener on 14th June 1992.
Dixon sat down on the corner of the desk in the anteroom in the Pathology Department at Musgrove Park Hospital and watched Roger Poland through the glass. He was mumbling into a Dictaphone and leaning over the body of Harry Lucas laid out on the slab. Better still, he had his back to the window.
Timing was everything. Too early and Dixon would have to endure ‘the internals’, as Poland insisted on calling them. Too late and he would miss the post mortem altogether. It was a fine line, but one that it was vital to get right. Watching a brain being weighed was ‘too much information’ for anyone, let alone first thing in the morning. He grimaced when the laboratory assistant spotted him and tapped Poland on the shoulder.
The lab was clearly not soundproofed.
‘Don’t just sit there,’ shouted Poland, waving at Dixon.
He opened the door to the lab and peered in.
‘You been to Express Park yet?’ asked Poland.
‘Not yet. I texted Louise and told her I was coming straight here. Why?’
‘You’ll find out. Did you read the book?’
‘You never mentioned it’d been signed by the author,’ replied Dixon. He opened the book at the flyleaf and read aloud, ‘To Roger, God Help You! With best wishes, Geoff.’
‘My old tutor. Nice old boy. Knocking on a bit these days. He sent that to me when I got the Home Office job.’
‘Well?’
‘There are striking similarities. The use of a trephine, although it’s off-centre and missing the venous sinus.’
‘What’s the significance of that?’
‘The Vet always made the incision dead centre, right between the eyes,’ replied Poland, ‘cutting the vein behind the skull on the midline.’ He was running the tip of his index finger from the bridge of his nose, up his forehead and into his hairline. ‘This one’s missed it, although the first incision was central—’
‘He had more than one go at it?’
‘Several. You can see them clearly now he’s been cleaned up.’ Poland turned back the green sheet that had been covering Harry’s head. ‘My guess is he was wriggling.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘And the injuries to the neck were made by a fleam. There were several goes at that too.’
‘What about the blood loss?’ asked Dixon, dropping the book on the side. ‘There didn’t seem to be that much when I got to him.’
‘There wasn’t,’ replied Poland. ‘He missed the jugular. Several attempts, but they all missed. See here . . .’
Dixon looked at the left side of Harry’s neck.
‘I can see four—’
‘There are five,’ interrupted Poland. ‘Mind you, it’s not easy. Here.’ He passed Dixon a set of different sized steel blades on a metal ring, each with a bulge in it near the tip. ‘This is a fleam. Pick a blade, line it up with the blood vessel and then hit it with your other hand, or possibly a small mallet. It opens the vein with a nice neat cut, or it’s supposed to.’
‘Where on earth did you get them?’
‘eBay,’ replied Poland, grinning. ‘I had to pay extra for next day delivery.’
‘What’s it used for?’
‘Nothing these days. They’re antiques. Vets used them for laminitis in horses, I think. Toxins in the blood, so they’d open a blood vessel in the neck and drain some off. The same principle applied to people, but then we really are going back in time. Leeches and all that.’
‘And the trephine?’
‘Vets use them too. Opening up the sinuses and draining an abscess is one thing I can think of. Horses again. You’d use the trephine to drill a hole in the front of the skull. And cranial surgery in humans, of course. They’re still used for that sometimes.’
‘Is it the same killer?’
‘I’ll need to check the old post mortem reports before I can—’
‘What about Dr Burkett?’ interrupted Dixon. ‘Will he be able to help?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll speak to him too.’
‘Any other injuries?’
‘There’s a blow to the back of the head. Blunt object. Should have been sufficient to incapacitate, but maybe it didn’t . . .’ Poland’s voice tailed off. ‘Here we go.’
‘Eh?’
‘Behind you,’ said Poland, nodding.
Two men were standing in the anteroom, looking at them through the glass. Dixon recognised neither of them.
‘Who are they?’
‘Major Investigation Team,’ replied Poland, whispering.
‘Oh shit.’
&n
bsp; Poland turned to his lab assistant. ‘Better see what they want, Alex.’
‘Can I help?’ she asked, opening the door. She stepped back sharply as the men walked in, brushing past her.
‘Dr Poland?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Superintendent Wainwright. This is DI Hamlin. Avon and Somerset MIT. We’re taking over this investigation.’
‘I was expecting you.’
‘And you’ll be Dixon?’
A dark pinstripe suit under a green waxed coat. Wainwright thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, revealing red braces stretched over a beer belly. The braces matched his tie.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Sling your hook then,’ he said, grinning. ‘There’s a good lad.’
‘This is my case.’
‘It was,’ snapped Wainwright. ‘DCI Lewis will fill you in.’
Dixon counted to ten, breathing slowly through his nose. Wainwright turned to Poland.
‘Is it The Vet?’
‘It’s too early to say.’ Poland glanced at Dixon and nodded towards the door.
‘Are you still here, boy?’ Wainwright let out an exaggerated sigh, still looking at Poland.
Dixon picked up Poland’s book from the side and turned towards the door.
‘He wasn’t buried alive though, was he?’ continued Wainwright.
‘Er, no—’ replied Poland.
‘Yes, he was,’ muttered Dixon, raising his voice as he stalked out of the lab. ‘He was buried at sea.’
Chapter Seven
It was a half hour drive from Musgrove Park Hospital to the Bridgwater Police Centre at Express Park, but it took Dixon little more than twenty minutes, even in his old Land Rover. He left his car parked across the entrance, rather than waiting for the huge steel gates of the staff car park to open, and ran in the front door. The two receptionists looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders as he raced past, one of them pressing the buzzer to open the security door just as he reached it. He arrived at the top of the stairs before the door swung shut at the bottom.
Meeting room 2 was full. Dave Harding, Mark Pearce, Louise and DCI Lewis were all sitting at the table.
Dixon wrenched open the door. ‘What the bloody hell—?’
‘Wind your neck in,’ interrupted Lewis. ‘You know about The Vet?’
‘Roger told me.’
‘That explains the Major Investigation Team then, doesn’t it?’ Lewis fixed Dixon with a glare, eyebrows raised. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Make yourself a coffee. We’ll be finished here in a few minutes.’
Dixon sat down at a workstation in the CID area. He switched on the computer and then swivelled round in his chair to look out of the floor to ceiling windows, watching meeting room 2 in the reflection. Dave, Mark and Louise were sitting in silence, shaking their heads at regular intervals, their arms folded.
The meeting appeared to be dragging on so Dixon amused himself deleting his emails, mostly newsletters and junk, all bar three that came from Mark and attached company search results for Pest Erase UK, a copy of Harry’s franchise agreement and his management accounts. He looked up when he heard the meeting room door open and watched Dave, Mark and Louise file out, muttering to each other. Lewis was standing behind them in the doorway, waving him in.
‘Sit down.’
‘If you’ve—’
‘And shut up,’ continued Lewis.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Dixon slumped on to a chair opposite Lewis at the head of the table.
‘There’s going to be close liaison with the Manchester lot on this one. That’s the reason for the MIT,’ said Lewis. ‘All right?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Four murders that we know about, one a copper, five others missing and suspected victims. Disappears off the radar in 1996 and then he turns up here, of all places.’
‘Or someone does, using the same—’
‘Isn’t it The Vet?’ interrupted Lewis.
‘Roger didn’t know. He’s got to look at the old PM records and speak to the original pathologist.’
‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out.’
‘I have?’
‘Get up to HQ and report to Detective Chief Superintendent Potter.’
‘I’m on the MIT?’ asked Dixon, from behind a wry smile.
‘You are,’ replied Lewis. ‘And watch your back.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘DCI Chard is staffing.’
‘It just gets better and better,’ replied Dixon, puffing out his cheeks. ‘What about the others?’
‘Janice Courtenay is taking over the elver poaching case and they’ll work with her.’
‘What if it’s connected?’
‘It’s not.’
‘Says who?’
‘Deborah Potter.’
‘She’s probably right,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Anything else?’
‘Pack an overnight bag.’
Jane had been full of good advice when he poked his head around the door of the Safeguarding Coordination Unit on the second floor.
‘Remember, you’re part of a team. And you’re not in charge.’
Then came the one that was occupying his mind as he sped north on the M5.
‘Keep out of Chard’s way.’
Detective Chief Inspector Simon Chard had been responsible for Dixon’s recent brush with the Professional Standards Unit. He had escaped with the lowest sanction available: management advice. But there was still a blot on his record and a letter on his personnel file confirming it. He had ‘failed to meet the requisite Standards of Professional Behaviour’; those were the words used at the disciplinary hearing, and the fact that Chard had mishandled the investigation from the start had been irrelevant. Dixon had failed to disclose his personal involvement, and that was that. But it had been worth it, and Chard was still a twat.
Dixon had visited the Avon and Somerset Police Headquarters at Portishead a couple of times before. Once when he transferred from the Met. Then again when attached to the Cold Case Unit pending his disciplinary hearing. And most recently on a flying visit to the High Tech Unit with a computer memory stick. But he still marvelled at the medals on the guardhouse officer’s uniform. At least eight of them, all silver, they swung forwards as he leaned over to speak to the driver of the car in front, the jangling just carrying over the rattle of Dixon’s diesel engine.
The officer returned to the guardhouse and picked up the phone, so Dixon took the opportunity to send a text message.
I let Monty out and left the telly on for him. Nx
Jane’s reply arrived just as the officer lifted the barrier for the car in front.
Be careful xx
A wave of his warrant card failed to get Dixon past the barrier without further scrutiny. It hadn’t worked last time either, or the time before that.
‘Name.’
‘Detective Inspector Dixon.’
He waited while his name was scribbled on the list.
‘Visiting?’
‘DCS Potter, MIT.’
‘OK, carry on, Sir. You know where to go?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Clipboard tucked under his arm, the officer raised the barrier and waved Dixon through.
‘Well, thank fuck for that.’
‘Eh?’
‘The cavalry’s here. We can all go home.’
Dixon resisted the temptation to turn around. A forced smile, held long enough for the laughter to subside, was all he could muster. He glanced around the room: large, open plan, with a crowd gathered around a whiteboard against the far wall and two people standing behind him, one of whom he could identify.
A woman stood up at the front of the group, streaks of grey in dark shoulder length hair matching her pinstripe suit.
‘Back to work, everyone,’ she said as she weaved her way between the empty desks. ‘And you should know better,’ pointing to the source of the sarcasm behind Dix
on.
‘Yes, Guv.’
Twat.
‘Dixon?’
He nodded.
‘Deborah Potter. Your reputation precedes you,’ she said, shaking his hand.
‘I bet it does.’
‘This way.’
He followed her along a short corridor to a glass partitioned office with her name on the door.
‘I read your file,’ she said, closing the door. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking I listen to the likes of Simon Chard. He’s not in your league. You’ve got something that makes the rest of us nervous.’
‘A disciplinary record?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘And you can drop the “Guv”. It’s Deborah.’
‘Nick.’
‘You’ve got the George Medal too.’
‘That was all a bit of a mix up, really.’
‘Bollocks.’ She poured herself a coffee from a Thermos flask. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I can’t stand that crap you get from the machine,’ she said, taking a sip of coffee. ‘Sit down and tell me about the school.’
‘I failed to disclose—’
‘I know that bit. It took guts, real guts, to save his life like that. Most of us would’ve let the bugger die.’
‘I wanted answers. And he’ll die in prison. That’s the way it should be.’
‘What about the mud then?’ She closed a file on the desk in front of her and locked it in the bottom drawer. ‘Did you do a risk assessment before you went swimming in it?’
Dixon frowned. ‘He was still alive and the tide was coming in.’
‘I’m joking.’ Potter smiled. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘Not to me. But he may have spoken to the Coastguard crew. I had asked my team to track them down.’
‘I’ll pass it on to Superintendent Wainwright. You’ve met, I gather?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go easy on him. He’s a good copper, but his wife’s having chemo at the moment, so he’s a bit . . .’
Dixon nodded.
‘He’s setting up a Major Incident Room at Express Park.’
‘You’ve ruled out a connection with the poachers?’ asked Dixon.
‘For the time being,’ replied Potter. ‘But we’ll keep an eye on it. You hadn’t found any connection?’
