by Damien Boyd
‘There’s no one here,’ muttered Dixon, looking up. What had once been a hayloft above had collapsed, and there was no easy way up to what was left of it anyway.
‘Someone’s definitely been living here,’ said Sexton.
‘I can vouch for that,’ said Cole, peering in through a gap in the wall. ‘We found the toilet behind the hedge.’
Dixon winced. Then he took a step back and looked at the side of the van.
‘Westcountry Pest Services,’ he said, reading aloud. ‘Let’s get forensics out here as quick as we can. Better warn them about the track. And I want to speak to the landowner too.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Sexton reached into his pocket for his phone.
‘Have a look around outside will you, Cole? See if you can find anything else apart from the latrine.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There ought to be tyre tracks, at least. He must have another vehicle of some sort.’
The earth floor was strewn with damp straw and bits of wood from the collapsed hayloft. A handy source of fire wood, at least. Dixon squatted down and held his hand close to the remains of a fire on the floor; then he picked up a piece of charred wood. Stone cold. A small hole in the roof provided a makeshift chimney, although the corrugated iron along one sidewall had fallen out, so ventilation was hardly an issue.
Blankets had been pinned up at the windows of the caravan. Dixon peered in the door, using the light on his phone. Cold and damp, much like a World War Two pillbox. The smell was much the same too, with the addition of wet carpet, from the condensation no doubt, water running down the inside of the windows.
He put on a pair of rubber gloves and stood up on the metal step. A pile of clothes on the bed and an old sleeping bag – a disgusting prospect for most, but a good source of DNA for Dixon, not that he would get his hands dirty collecting it. There was even a toothbrush sticking out of the bathroom sink.
‘You are spoiling us,’ he muttered, stepping back out on to the earth floor.
‘Anything?’ asked Sexton.
‘Some clothes and a toothbrush,’ replied Dixon.
‘We don’t need DNA, do we? We know who he is.’
‘We think we do,’ said Dixon, looking in the back of the van.
The shelves that had once housed rat poison were empty, apart from some tins of food, a few bottles of water, a roll of bin bags and a box of firelighters.
‘We know he’s a smoker but there are no fag butts,’ said Sexton.
‘Probably flicked them on the fire.’
Sexton nodded. ‘Scientific Services are on the way.’
‘Good.’
‘You’d better come and see this, Sir.’ Cole was shouting from outside the barn.
Dixon and Sexton walked outside to find Cole ten yards or so out into the field on the far side of the trees, staring at a narrow track in the grass that led diagonally across the field to a gate in the far corner.
‘What is it?’
‘A single tyre track.’
‘Motorbike?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Get on to Anna,’ said Dixon, turning to Sexton, ‘and find out if Toby had a bike.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And let me know when SOCO get here.’
‘Where are you going?’
Dixon opened the back door of the Land Rover and Monty jumped out.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Dixon was walking back towards the barn when the first of the Scientific Services vans crept through the gateway on the far side of the field. He flagged it down and leaned in the passenger window.
‘Is Donald Watson coming?’
‘Yes, Sir. He was on another job over Taunton way, but he’s coming now.’
‘Good. You got a ladder in there?’
‘There’s one on the roof of Don’s van.’
‘How long’s he going to be?’
‘He was ten minutes behind us.’
‘Park through there,’ said Dixon, pointing to the gate in front of the barn. He followed the van through the gate and then bundled Monty into the back of the Land Rover.
‘Concentrate on the van and the caravan.’
‘We’ll get set up and wait for Don, if it’s all the same to you, Sir.’
‘There’s a latrine around the back and some motorcycle tyre tracks in the field behind those trees.’
‘What d’you need the ladder for?’
‘Up there,’ replied Dixon, pointing to the remains of the hayloft; an area the size of a pool table where a few floorboards had survived the collapse.
‘There’s no way up.’
‘Not now there isn’t, but what if he moved the van? He could just stand on the roof.’
‘Good point.’
‘Find anything else?’ asked Dixon, turning to Sexton.
‘No, Sir, just bags of rubbish. I didn’t go in the caravan though.’
‘Or the van, I hope,’ said the scenes of crime officer.
‘Or the van,’ said Sexton.
Dixon turned to PC Cole. ‘Can you check the other way out of here? We’ll never get the caravan out down that track.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘If we put it on a flatbed lorry, it won’t stay on it for long,’ said the scenes of crime officer, smiling.
‘The other van’s here, Sir,’ said Sexton.
‘Let’s have the ladder off the roof.’
‘Are you going up, Sir?’
‘I’ll hold it, you climb it.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be the climber?’
‘Ladders are far too dangerous.’
Sexton lifted the ladder off the roof rack while Watson and his team got to work, and carried it into the barn, setting it up under the loft. Dixon placed his foot on the bottom rung and watched Sexton climb up until his head was level with the hayloft.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Hang on.’ Sexton leaned forward across the floorboards. He took hold of a blanket and dragged it off the hayloft, dropping it on the floor next to Dixon.
‘What is it?’
‘A desktop computer,’ replied Sexton, grinning. ‘And a laptop.’
‘Leave them where they are, Jonny. SOCO can get them down.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Watson appeared from inside the caravan, leaning out the door. ‘Have you been in here yet?’
‘No.’
‘You’d better come and have a look.’ Watson grimaced and ducked back inside.
‘I looked in, but it was pretty dark,’ said Dixon, from the step.
‘Put these on, please, Sir,’ said another scenes of crime officer standing behind him. Dixon ripped open the bag and began putting on a pair of white overalls. ‘And these.’ A pair of blue latex overshoes.
‘We took the blanket down and got some light in here,’ said Watson as Dixon stepped inside, blinking furiously in the light from two arc lamps, one set up inside the caravan and one shining in the front window.
‘What the bloody hell’s that?’ Dixon turned away from the kitchen worktop.
‘Just blood. There’s lots in the shower too.’ Watson pointed to the small bathroom. ‘And take a look in the kitchen sink.’
Dixon took a deep breath and leaned over the sink, peering into the washing up bowl. The water, perhaps an inch or so, was light pink; three old fashioned razor blades lying in the bottom.
‘There’s more on the mattress and the sleeping bag too. Even on the TV remote control,’ said Watson.
‘Is there an aerial?’
‘He watches DVDs.’ Watson swallowed hard. ‘And look on the table.’
Dixon turned towards the dinette at the front of the caravan, squinting into the light from the arc lamp that was shining through the large window behind it. He held his hand up in front of his eyes. A small flat screen TV was sitting on the table, in front of it a green plastic box.
‘Is that a first aid kit?’
‘It is,’ replied Watson.
‘What d’you think?’
‘We’ll know more when we know whose blood it is.’
‘And how many people’s,’ said Dixon. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle though is there?’
‘Not really.’
Dixon spun round. ‘I mean it’s cold and damp and covered in blood, but apart from that, it’s actually quite tidy.’
‘He hasn’t made his bed,’ said Watson.
‘You know what I mean. If there’d been a struggle in a confined space like this, it’d look like—’
‘A bomb hit it,’ interrupted Watson.
‘Yes.’
‘So, what are you thinking?’
‘Razor blades and a first aid kit,’ replied Dixon. ‘Looks like self-harming to me.’
Watson puffed out his cheeks. ‘And then some, judging by the blood,’ he muttered.
‘He’s hardly squeamish, is he?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘What else is there?’
‘His film collection is up there,’ said Watson, pointing to a small cupboard above the window.
Dixon opened it and glanced along the array of films. He sighed. Not one would have made its way into his own collection.
‘Likes his horror films, doesn’t he?’ muttered Watson.
‘Those aren’t horror films.’ Dixon let the cupboard door slam shut.
‘We’ll catalogue them.’
‘Just as long as I don’t have to watch them.’
Watson smiled. ‘Not exactly Goodbye, Mr. Chips, is it?’
‘There’s no Boris Karloff. No Peter Cushing.’
‘Look under the seat,’ said Watson, sneering.
‘What is it?’
‘Paperbacks and scrapbooks of some sort. I haven’t made a start on them yet.’
Dixon lifted the cushion and then the seat. There was a small box of books, all of them biographies of serial killers, and several lever arch files. He leaned over and lifted the flap of the top one to reveal newspaper clippings, each carefully cut from the paper and placed in a clear plastic wallet. It took him a moment to focus on the headline – ‘He’s Back!’ – from the Manchester Daily Post.
‘This top one’s only two days old,’ he said.
‘I noticed that,’ replied Watson.
‘I’ll need to have a look through this lot when you’ve done your bit.’
‘Of course you will.’
Dixon dropped the dinette seat back down and turned towards the door.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Wait a minute, there’s more.’
‘What?’
‘Open the top drawer.’
A cutlery drawer should have cutlery in it, thought Dixon, holding his breath as he pulled it open. And this one did, counting the two charred dessert spoons. The crack pipe definitely wasn’t cutlery though.
‘And what are these?’ He pointed to a white and blue box. ‘What’s Sycrest when it’s at home?’
‘An antipsychotic,’ replied Watson.
‘I bet that mixes well with crack cocaine.’ Dixon scowled.
‘The best bit is he’s gone off without them, hasn’t he?’
‘Let’s hope he had another box in his pocket,’ muttered Dixon, stepping back out into the barn.
‘Anything interesting?’ asked Sexton.
‘You’d better go in and have a look.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Have we had his medical records yet?’
‘I’ll get someone to chase it up.’
‘What about the computers?’ asked Dixon.
‘You’ll get nothing from them,’ said the scenes of crime officer. ‘The hard drives have been removed.’
Dixon sighed. ‘Let’s get a search team out here with metal detectors.’
‘They’re on the way, Sir,’ said Sexton.
‘Get them to check the fire. And the latrine. Let’s have the dive team too. The Langacre Rhyne is only a couple of fields away.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ken Cardew, Sir,’ replied the uniformed officer. ‘He lives in the farm on the other side of the rhyne.’
‘I’m assuming there’s a bridge . . .’
‘Yes, Sir. Over the Sowy River and the rhyne. It’s just a concrete thing that takes the farm track over.’
Dixon looked up at the driver of the antique tractor in front of him. Woolly hat, pipe held between his gums, grubby tweed, baler twine for a belt and holes in his trousers and his wellies. He looked like something off Last of the Summer Wine.
‘Mr Cardew is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘And this is your land?’
‘Aye.’
‘Would you mind stepping down off your tractor?’
‘If I must.’
Dixon waited, listening to the huffing and puffing and the creaking of bones, all of it audible over the noise of the tractor engine that Cardew had left running.
‘When was the last time you came over here?’
‘Christmas, I suppose. The land’s been under water since then.’
‘It flooded?’
‘This whole area between the Langacre and the Eighteen Foot. We was all right on t’other side.’
‘When you came over at Christmas, did you go in the barn?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Dropped some hay for the livestock. Then I was back a couple of days later to fetch the buggers in.’
‘Do you use the land much?’
‘I winter some animals over here. Apart from that, not really.’
‘Why not?’
‘The grass is terrible. Marsh grass it is. And it’ll be even worse now. Good for bullocks, if I had any.’
‘When did the floods recede?’
‘About a month ago. But the barn was clear maybe a month afore that.’
‘Did you see any lights, or smoke coming from the barn?’
‘No. And if I had, there’d have been the devil to pay.’
There would.
‘And you saw no one suspicious?’
‘There were a couple of fishermen going along the rhyne a few weeks ago. Then another this morning. Then you lot turned up.’
‘Do you usually see anglers along here?’
‘A few. Not during the floods though.’
‘Can you see the barn from your house?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last go in it?’
‘November, maybe.’
‘And was the hayloft intact then?’
‘It’s not collapsed, has it?’
‘I’m afraid it has.’
‘Bugger,’ muttered Cardew.
‘Was there a van in the barn when you went in?’
‘No, there bloody well wasn’t.’
‘What about a caravan?’
‘That old thing?’ Cardew smiled. ‘My wife and I used to go off for weekends in it. Then the old bugger upped and died. Not had much use for it since then.’
‘So, you left it in the barn?’
‘Didn’t have the heart to dump it. And it would’ve cost more to get rid of it than it was worth.’
‘Does anyone else use the land?’
‘I get the odd dog walker, but I soon move ’em on.’
‘We’re going to need to take the caravan, Mr Cardew, for forensic examination.’
‘Be my guest. Just don’t bring the bloody thing back.’
Dixon smiled.
‘Somebody been living in it, have they?’ asked Cardew.
‘It looks like it.’
‘Bloody good job I didn’t see ’em.’
‘Well, if you do see anything suspicious . . .’
‘I know, I know.’
Dixon watched Cardew reversing his tractor back along the track, turning on to the field halfway along to allow a flatbed lorry to pass. Dixon looked away when it bounced over the ruts.
‘It’s all right, Sir,’ said PC Cole, ap
pearing behind him. ‘It’s longer the other way, but much flatter. Either west to the A361 or east. That way it comes out round the back of Henley.’
‘Will we get the van and caravan on the back of that?’ asked Dixon, pointing at the lorry.
‘It’ll be fine, Sir,’ replied Cole.
‘Your pocket’s buzzing, Sir.’ Sexton grinned.
Dixon pulled out his phone. ‘Hi, Louise. What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had Steve Yelland on from the Coastguard, Sir. He’s given me the list of names. You’re not gonna believe this.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yelland was there, with Philip Brewin on the shore. The mud techs were Beverley Milner, Matthew Wale and . . . wait for it . . . Toby Horan.’
‘He was there?’
‘He was the one with his head in the van talking to Harry when he drowned, Sir.’
Dixon arrived at the Coastguard station on Burnham seafront just after midday, having left Jonny Sexton and PC Cole to make their own way back with the search team. He had left before the dive team had arrived too, but the search of the area around the barn was underway with metal detectors and sniffer dogs.
The caravan had been emptied of its contents, which had been catalogued and bagged up for examination back at the lab, and Donald Watson had now turned his attention to the van.
There would be no shortage of DNA, but it would only be of interest if it turned up a second profile. The blood was Horan’s. Dixon felt sure of that.
He parked on the forecourt and looked up at the station: a long, single storey building with two blue garage doors on either side of the Coastguard office. The doors on the right were open, the two hovercraft sitting on their trailers inside. The two garages on the left were closed, but ‘Coastguard Search and Rescue’ was emblazoned on both in bright orange lettering, presumably to deter parking in front of them.
Steve Yelland had sighed loudly down the phone, but had promised he was on his way. Dixon would give him another five minutes before he rang him again.
On another day, Monty might have got ten or fifteen minutes on the beach. But not today. The vision of Harry Lucas drowning in his van had been bad enough when he thought the Coastguard officer had been offering words of comfort. Now he knew that officer had been his killer. Dixon thumped the steering wheel. And all the time he had been only a few yards away, watching Harry’s torment unfold.
He got out of his Land Rover and stood leaning into the wind, staring along the Esplanade.
