by Damien Boyd
‘Why not?’
Dixon listened to Sexton’s phone call while he put the kettle on. Then he picked up a copy of the call record off the printer. The public had been vigilant, judging by the number of calls; sightings of the van at regular intervals throughout the day, even though it was already at the lab, several sightings of Horan himself, which were being followed up by uniform, and several more alternative names for him. Dixon sighed. The reality was that Horan almost certainly knew they were on to him, had abandoned the barn and gone to ground somewhere. The callers were well intentioned, of course they were, but it was a colossal waste of police time and resources.
He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening reading the statements that had accumulated over the last forty-eight hours, each meticulously handwritten by the investigating officer and signed by the witness. Just one of them might contain the snippet of information needed to unlock the case, and each had been typed up and entered on the computer system by a small army of civilian clerks, where they could be catalogued and cross-referenced at the touch of a button. The software was a bloody marvel, but it hadn’t helped in any of the investigations Dixon had been involved with. Not since he’d moved to Somerset anyway.
Horan would get stopped for jumping a red light or speeding, or something crass like that. That was the way these things usually ended.
A Matter of Life and Death was starting on TCM at 9 p.m. He looked at his watch. He had time to get home, but then he had it on DVD anyway, so what was the rush? And it would be starting again on +1 at 10 p.m.
Fed Monty. Gone to see parents. Jx
Dixon screwed up the note and dropped it in the bin. He left the back door of the cottage open, but Monty sat by the dog food cupboard, wagging his tail.
‘You’re wasting your time, old son,’ he said, shaking his head.
A beer cracked open, TV on, and his dog curled up on the sofa next to him. Dixon was asleep before Monty.
‘What’s this rubbish?’
‘Eh?’
‘What’s this?’
Dixon opened his eyes to find Jane standing in front of the TV, pointing the remote control at it.
‘A Matter of Life and Death.’
‘It’s black and white!’
‘Not all of it.’
‘You and your old films,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What else is there?’
‘The Great Escape’s in the machine.’
Jane dropped the remote control into his lap.
‘How were your folks?’ he asked, following her into the kitchen.
‘Fine.’
‘Did you tell them about Sonia?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’d they say?’
‘What could they say?’
‘Not a lot, I suppose,’ replied Dixon, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Anyway, what’s done is done, so let’s just forget it, shall we?’
‘So, which d’you want?’ he said, turning back to the TV.
‘Eh?’
‘A Matter of Life and Death or The Great Escape?’
‘The one with the football song.’
Dixon took a sharp breath and spun round to find Jane grinning at him.
‘Every time,’ she said, planting a kiss on his lips. ‘You fall for it every time.’
A late night and a deep sleep interrupted by a telephone call just after 3 a.m. It could have been better. Dixon had tiptoed out on to the landing to take the call, but had woken Monty, who had trodden on Jane when he jumped up.
‘What is it?’ he had asked.
‘A motorbike, Sir. He saw us and was gone before we could get going. Could’ve gone anywhere.’
‘What sort of bike?’
‘No idea, Sir. We just saw the single headlight.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Just now.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Round the back of Henley, Sir.’
It was not the best start to a Sunday, although he had managed to get back to sleep, albeit only for a couple of hours. Now, it was just gone 9 a.m. and he was sitting at a workstation on the second floor at Express Park, on his third coffee already. He leaned back in his chair and watched Jane’s approach in the reflection of his computer screen.
‘We don’t often get visitors up here.’
‘We had one this morning.’ Jane perched on the corner of Dixon’s desk, leaned over and whispered in his ear. ‘Not long after you left.’
‘At home?’
‘It was Louise. You’d better speak to her.’
‘What did she want?’
‘She wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Downstairs. She doesn’t want Janice to know, apparently.’
Dixon leaned back in his chair. ‘Where’s Jan?’
‘Gone to the post mortem.’
‘Roger’s doing it today?’
‘Just to rule out foul play.’
‘Leave it with me,’ muttered Dixon, reaching for his phone. He tapped out a text message to Louise while he listened to Jane’s footsteps walking back along the landing towards the lift.
Car park five minutes by my land rover ND
Dixon walked out to the top deck of the car park, opened the back door of his Land Rover, and let Monty out for a sniff around the cars.
‘Not that one!’
Too late. Still, DCI Lewis would be none the wiser. One alloy wheel would just be cleaner than the others.
‘Everything all right, Sir?’ asked Louise, peering around the back door of the Land Rover.
‘Monty just cocked his leg on Lewis’s car.’
Louise smiled.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dixon. ‘You came to the cottage this morning.’
‘Thanks to you jogging Stokes’s memory, we got a description of the woman, and we were able to pick her up on the CCTV arriving at Taunton station.’
‘When?’
‘The day before yesterday.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Then we checked all the stations the train had called at,’ continued Louise, ‘and we found her again. Getting on this time.’
‘Where?’
‘Manchester.’
Roger Poland spotted him first, standing in the anteroom glaring through the window into the pathology lab at Musgrove Park Hospital, and jabbed the scalpel in his direction. Dixon’s lip reading was clearly getting better too.
‘Janice, you’d better—’
‘Oh shit.’
‘When were you going to tell me, Jan?’ asked Dixon as she opened the door into the anteroom.
‘When I was sure.’
‘When you were sure about what?’
‘It might be a coincidence.’ Janice folded her arms.
‘I still needed to know straightaway.’
‘We only found out last night. Anyway, who told you?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is I know now. So, what’ve you got?’
‘An unidentified female, late seventies, early eighties, gets on the 0807 train from Manchester Piccadilly arriving Taunton at 1158 the day before yesterday. Then she walks out of Taunton station and isn’t seen again until early afternoon at Wheddon Cross Post Office. That’s the last sighting of her too. You know the rest.’
‘How did she pay for her ticket?’
‘Cash. There’s no card transaction recorded anyway.’
‘What about buses and taxis?’
‘Dave and Mark are on it now.’
‘Is there a bus?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’ve still got no ID?’
Janice shook her head.
‘What’s the CCTV like?’
‘We’re working on enhancing the image now. And I’ve been on to the Centre for Anatomy and Human whatever to see if they can help.’
‘Facial reconstruction will take far too long,’ said Dixon, grimacing.
‘It’s the best we’ve got at the moment.’
‘What’s Roger found?’
‘See for yourself,’ replied Janice, holding the door to the lab open.
‘Lead on,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s still your investigation.’
Poland looked up and raised his eyebrows. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ replied Janice.
‘Toxicology?’ asked Dixon.
‘Tomorrow,’ replied Poland.
‘Any needle marks?’
‘If there were, they’ve been destroyed. As you can see.’
Dixon took a scented dog bag out of his pocket and clamped it over his nose and mouth.
‘D’you want a mask?’ asked Poland.
‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’
‘There’s no DNA match either,’ said Janice. ‘Nothing coming up on the database.’
‘There’s evidence of muscle and intestinal spasms and her pupils are constricted. There’s no sign of regular use, but I’m thinking heroin overdose,’ said Poland.
‘Injected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Suicide then?’ asked Janice.
‘Probably,’ replied Poland. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle.’
‘Why though?’ asked Dixon.
‘And she’s had spinal surgery at some point,’ continued Poland, ignoring the question.
‘Really?’
Poland nodded. ‘There are some photographs if you want to see it.’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Dixon. ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Janice and raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ll get Louise checking with Manchester doctors,’ she said.
‘Start with the hospital,’ said Poland. ‘Might be quicker. Within the last five years, I’d say.’
‘Would it have affected her mobility?’
‘Probably not,’ replied Poland. ‘I’ll write down exactly what it is.’
‘So, an elderly woman goes out without any form of ID, gets on a train paying cash for her ticket, travels all the way to Taunton and then out on to Exmoor where she lies down in the heather and commits suicide.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Poland.
‘Is there any evidence of dementia? Alzheimer’s perhaps?’ asked Dixon.
‘No.’
‘And nothing anywhere that might have identified her if it hadn’t been burnt. No melted cards or anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Jewellery?’
‘No.’
‘She could just’ve forgotten them,’ said Janice.
‘Not even any keys?’
‘Nope,’ said Poland.
‘Which tells us she wasn’t going home,’ said Janice.
‘You’ll let us know when you get the toxicology results, Roger?’
‘Straightaway.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Dixon, heading for the door. He had got halfway across the car park when Janice caught up with him.
‘Look, I was going to tell you, Nick.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Jan. Really,’ replied Dixon, opening the door of his Land Rover. ‘Just let me know if you get a name.’
‘Of course.’
‘And can you get Louise to email me the CCTV footage?’
Janice’s reply was lost in the slam of Dixon’s car door. He took his phone out of his pocket and sent Sexton a text.
On way now. Get us on a train to Manchester. 2ish today.
Chapter Seventeen
Dixon had been sitting on Platform 1 at Bristol Temple Meads, staring at the still from the CCTV footage, for nearly ten minutes when Jonny Sexton sat down next to him. It was another five minutes before he noticed.
‘What d’you make of it?’ he said, handing Sexton the photograph.
‘No idea.’
‘Leaving aside who she is, you have to ask yourself why,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.
‘It could be a coincid—’
‘Not you as well.’
‘Well, I’ve not seen her before.’ Sexton handed the photograph back to Dixon.
‘Janice is going to text me the name of the ticket office clerk she spoke to at Piccadilly, so that will be our first job.’
‘And after that?’
‘We throw a few stones in the water and watch the ripples.’
Sexton grinned.
‘Have you told Potter?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ replied Dixon. ‘Any sign of the motorbike?’
‘No.’
‘And the DNA in the caravan?’
‘We’ll know tomorrow morning. Toxicology should be available then too.’
Dixon was thinking about Jane as the train pulled out of the station. Sexton was sitting opposite him, earphones in, head nodding up and down. It was an overnighter he could have done without. Why couldn’t her bloody mother have turned up a week or two earlier when he was twiddling his thumbs, preparing witness statements and dying of boredom? Then he would have had time for it. For Jane.
She understood, but that made it worse not better. And two weeks ago she had been right in the middle of her worst case yet in the SCU, one that kept her awake at night, sobbing into her pillow. Dixon had asked about it, but talking just made it worse, so he had made her a gin and tonic and put something light-hearted on the TV. I’m All Right Jack had done the trick that night. A few days later and not even Peter Sellers could help. Then it was up to Monty, and he had done his best, sitting on her lap, licking the tears from her cheeks.
If they hadn’t got together, then Jane wouldn’t have ended up doing child protection work. Someone had to do it, of course, but Dixon felt it was down to him that it was Jane. His fault. Should he do something about it? And, if so, what? He watched the fields and hedges flashing by. Cows. Sheep. Solar panels. More cows. At least he’d remembered to put the clocks forward that morning.
Interfering, she’d call it. He knew that. And she sure as hell wouldn’t thank him for it.
‘Fancy a beer?’ asked Sexton. ‘There’s a buffet car.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Dixon, hoping it would take his mind off it all.
His phone buzzed in his pocket just as he was paying for the beers.
‘I’ve had a text message,’ he said, placing the cans on the table in front of Sexton.
Ticket office Muriel Chatterjee, waiting for name for guard on train
‘It’s Janice. She’s got a name for the person who sold the woman the ticket south.’
Sexton nodded, looked at Dixon and then began putting his earphones back in. This time the music was louder, the bass beat carrying over the clackety-clack of the train. Still, Dixon was up-to-date with the investigation and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
He was closing in on the copycat, Horan, but the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ still eluded him. Why bother copycatting at all when it was unlikely anyone would believe it to be the work of The Vet? And where was Horan, the local rat catcher, getting his information from?
Catch Horan and the case was closed, Potter had said.
Bollocks.
‘Where’s the ticket office?’ asked Dixon, yawning, as they got off the train in Manchester several hours later.
‘Over there,’ replied Sexton, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
‘We’re looking for Muriel Chatterjee.’ Dixon was pressing his warrant card against the glass in the ticket office.
‘She’s not in till Tuesday.’
‘Can you give me an address for her?’
‘I’d need to check with my manager.’
‘Well?’
‘He’s not in till the morning.’
Dixon sighed, took out his phone and sent Janice a text message.
Need address for muriel chatt asap ta
‘Same hotel?’ he asked, turning to Sexton.
‘Yeah, I rang them earlier.’
After a short taxi ride to the hotel, and a visit to a local curry house, Dixon was lying on his bed, flicking through the channels on the TV. First he tried TCM, then Film4, before jabbing the ‘off�
� button in disgust and discarding the remote control. He was about to ring Jane when a text message arrived.
27 byron avenue droylsden
Sexton must have been asleep. Either that or he still had his headphones in. Whatever the reason, he didn’t answer his door, so Dixon decided to go alone. The house was a standard red brick three-bed semi-detached, but the front had been painted brown and the garage door black. An odd choice, he thought, what with the white uPVC front door. The net curtain twitched while he waited for a receipt from the taxi driver.
He stepped over the low front wall and rang the doorbell.
‘Yes?’
A woman was visible behind the frosted glass, but making no effort to unlock the door.
‘Police,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’d like to have a word with Muriel Chatterjee, please.’
‘I’ve already told you I cannot remember the woman.’
Dixon’s eyes widened.
‘Can I come in, please, Mrs Chatterjee?’
First the chain, then the locks. Three of them.
Once inside the porch, he turned and looked at the locks on the inside of the door.
‘You can’t be too careful, a woman on your own,’ said Muriel.
‘Very sensible,’ replied Dixon.
‘What d’you want?’
‘You work in the ticket office at Manchester Piccadilly?’
‘Yes. Look, I’ve already spoken to the police about this.’
‘Who did you speak to?’
‘I don’t know his name. He asked me whether I remembered selling a single to Taunton to a woman three days ago. Of course I don’t,’ said Muriel, shrugging her shoulders. ‘D’you know how many tickets I sell in a day?’
‘A lot.’
‘Hundreds.’
‘What did he look like, this man?’
‘I didn’t see him. He telephoned. He sounded Indian, maybe, I don’t know.’
‘And what did he say when you said you didn’t remember?’
‘Nothing. He rang off.’
‘And he specifically said a single to Taunton?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon was unfolding two pieces of paper he had taken from his jacket pocket. He handed one to Muriel. ‘This is the woman.’
Muriel reached up and switched on a light. Then she squinted at the picture.
‘No, I’m sorry, I really don’t remember her.’
‘And here she is standing at your counter,’ said Dixon, handing Muriel the second piece of paper. ‘That’s you behind the glass, isn’t it?’
