by Damien Boyd
‘Yes.’
‘She was going to Taunton.’
Muriel shook her head.
‘Paid cash . . .’
‘No, it really doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sorry.’
‘OK,’ said Dixon, folding up the piece of paper. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
Back out on the pavement he sent Janice a text message.
Anyone tried to ring muriel chatt yet?
Then he rang for a taxi.
Janice’s reply came when he was sheltering in the bus stop at the end of the road.
No
‘Good morning, Sir.’ Dixon glanced over to the workstation on the far side of the CID area at the GMP headquarters. The boxes of files were still there.
Douglas sighed. ‘I thought it had been established you were after a copycat?’
‘We are. But I need to know why, and where he’s getting his information from.’
Dixon had had a surprisingly good night’s sleep, despite keeping Jane up talking on the phone until gone midnight. The strange and empty bed hadn’t helped either, and he’d got used to sleeping with his dog curled up by his feet. Breakfast had been rushed, although there was time to fill Sexton in on his visit to Muriel Chatterjee.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Chapman.
‘You sort them out, Manny,’ said Douglas, turning back to the coffee machine.
‘Well, what can we do for you?’ asked Pandey.
‘You were going to let me have copies of the surveillance.’
Douglas looked at Pandey and raised his eyebrows.
Pandey looked embarrassed. ‘I’ll organise that now. Sorry, Guv.’
‘And the files on the officer who died in prison?’
‘Counter Corruption. I submitted a request,’ said Douglas. ‘Chase it up will you, Manny?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Dixon.
‘Anything else?’ asked Pandey.
‘An address for the profiler, Dr Steven Pearson, please.’
Dixon sat down at a workstation next to Sexton and began turning the various boxes piled up next to him so that he could see the index on the side of each.
‘Here’s Pearson’s address and phone number,’ said Pandey, dropping a yellow Post-it note on to the desk in front of Dixon.
‘Thank you.’
‘What d’you hope to find? I mean, it’s not as if we haven’t been over this stuff thousands of times.’
‘Is DCS Butler still around? asked Dixon. ‘He was running the case before Hargreaves.’
‘Very sad that,’ replied Pandey. ‘He disappeared in 2011. He’d been suffering from depression for some time, apparently, and the thinking was he killed himself.’
‘You never found a body?’
‘Never did, no.’
Dixon passed the note to Sexton. ‘See if you can fix us up with Dr Pearson this morning, Jonny.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon turned back to the file in front of him, watching Pandey in the reflection of the computer screen. He hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and then walked away.
‘Stone Mead Avenue, Hale Barns,’ said Sexton as they climbed into the back of the taxi. ‘It’s over near the airport according to Google Maps.’
‘I know it,’ the taxi driver muttered.
‘Douglas didn’t seem too pleased to see us,’ said Sexton, putting on his seatbelt.
‘I have some sympathy for him.’
‘He probably thinks we’re checking up on them.’
‘Then he’d be right.’
‘Sometimes all it takes is a fresh pair of eyes.’
Dixon nodded, glancing across at the industrial estate as the taxi sped down the slip road on to the M56.
The rest of the short journey was spent in silence.
‘I’m in the wrong business,’ muttered Dixon, looking up from the passenger window of the taxi at the large house with a double garage and a Maserati parked outside. ‘Yet another reminder.’
Sexton smiled. ‘You could do a psychology course with the Open University.’
The doorbell was one of those irritating ones that left you wondering whether it had rung or not. Dixon looked at Sexton and raised his eyebrows.
‘Shall I . . . ?’
Dixon nodded.
This time a dog started barking.
‘Dr Pearson?’
‘You’ll be Dixon.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Steve will do.’ He stepped back to let them in, his hand outstretched. A white polo shirt with a Pringle sweater draped over his shoulders, the telltale diamond pattern visible in the mirror behind him. At least the trousers were a sensible navy blue.
‘Did we drag you off the golf course?’
‘I’m sneaking out for nine holes this afternoon, now the clocks have gone forward.’ Pearson grinned.
‘This is DS Sexton,’ said Dixon.
‘We spoke on the phone.’
More shaking of hands.
‘Let’s go through to the conservatory.’
Dixon was impressed. You could fit his entire cottage into the conservatory. There was even a putting green in the back garden, flags and all.
‘What’s your handicap?’
‘Plus two.’
‘You should turn pro.’
‘Never had the temperament for it.’ Pearson grinned. ‘Shrink, heal thyself. One bad shot and I’m all over the place. Clubs in the pond.’
‘That was the reason I never took it up,’ said Dixon.
‘D’you play?’ Pearson asked, turning to Sexton.
‘No, Sir.’
‘I have to content myself playing for the seniors these days.’
Dixon sat down on a bamboo two-seater sofa with his back to the garden. Sexton pulled a chair out from under a smoked glass table, took his notebook out of his pocket and sat down.
‘I read your profile on The Vet,’ said Dixon.
‘What did you think?’
‘D’you want me to be honest?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It seemed a bit wide.’
Pearson smiled. ‘Could’ve been anybody, you mean?’
‘I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.’
‘You’re right. It was. But I stand by it. The fact that it fitted several people in the Carters’ circle wasn’t my fault.’
‘Who?’
‘Michael himself, possibly. And his brother, Kenny, although neither were well educated as far as we knew. There were several others too.’
‘Tell me about Michael Carter.’
‘Paul Butler pulled him in several times, but never got anything on him. You’ve seen his previous convictions?’
‘Yes.’ Dixon nodded.
‘Anyone fill in the blanks?’
‘We know he shot and killed a man,’ said Dixon.
‘Right there.’ Pearson was pointing to the centre of his forehead with his right index finger.
Dixon sat up. ‘In the centre of the forehead?’
‘He stabbed him first though.’
‘In the neck?’
Pearson nodded, slowly. ‘He was fifteen years old at the time.’
Dixon let out a long, drawn out sigh. ‘And Butler never got anything on him?’
‘No. Although he never believed he was The Vet anyway. Hargreaves tried too and never got anywhere.’
‘Who did Butler think it was then?’
‘He never knew. He was convinced Kenny was the brains of the outfit, but that theory retired with him. Hargreaves was always focused on Michael and there was no real evidence Kenny had any involvement, to be fair to him.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I didn’t. That was their problem,’ replied Pearson. ‘I prepared the profile to the best of my ability, and the rest was up to the police. And when Hargreaves took over, I was shut out.’
‘What d’you think now?’
‘The closest I got was watching an interview with
Michael on a monitor.’
‘Could he have been The Vet?’
‘Could’ve been, but probably not. He fitted some, but not all, of the criteria. And, yes, they all did, before you say it.’
‘And Kenny?’
‘I never had any real contact with Kenny, so it’s difficult for me to say.’
‘Try.’
‘The Vet was well educated, as I said. Ordered. Obsessive compulsive even. That much was obvious to me, and Kenny didn’t come across as well educated from what I could gather.’
‘What happened to Paul Butler?’ asked Dixon, shifting in his seat.
‘He retired in 1994 and battled with depression for a long time. Then he just disappeared. That was five or six years ago, I think.’
‘What did you make of that?’
‘I’d not seen him for years. I thought it odd, but people change and retirement hits some hard. Your time will come,’ said Pearson, smiling at Dixon.
‘Maybe I’ll take up golf,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the DNA sample?’
‘That was thought to be from The Vet, but it was never confirmed. It was only partial and never gave a match. The science was nothing like as advanced back then, don’t forget.’
‘Was it checked against Michael?’
‘We got a covert sample of Michael’s DNA.’
‘By covert, you mean illegal?’
‘Yes, but there was no match. It’s been checked and double checked several times over the years. Scumbags, yes, but The Vet, I don’t think so, no.’ Pearson stood up. ‘I never offered you a cup of tea.’
‘We’re fine, thank you,’ said Dixon. ‘Were you ever told what happened to the Carters?’
‘Not really. I heard some rumours they’d been killed by the IRA. Michael was going to turn informer after the bombing and the Shannons are supposed to have tipped them off.’
‘And both were killed?’
‘Yes. That’s the version I heard anyway.’ Pearson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve no idea what happened to the rest of them.’ He looked at his watch and then sat back down.
‘So, what d’you make of the murders we’ve got down in Somerset?’
‘It’s a copycat, isn’t it?’
‘Why do people do that?’
‘Paying homage, possibly. Or trying to disguise a killing as someone else’s handiwork. It could also be some form of compulsion, or the killer’s setting it up so he can claim diminished responsibility if he’s ever caught. I had thought The Vet might have been doing that. The old ‘not guilty by reason of insanity’ routine. I couldn’t really tell without taking a closer look.’
‘Would you be willing to do that?’ asked Dixon. Sexton looked up.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so, if you’d like me to.’
‘I’ll need to get clearance for your fee,’ said Dixon, standing up. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘I’d need to come down to Somerset for a few days,’ said Pearson.
‘Yes, of course. We have hotels and golf courses.’
‘Potter’ll never go for that,’ said Sexton as they walked down the gravel drive to the road.
‘I’ve got no intention of asking her,’ replied Dixon. ‘I just wanted to see how he’d react.’
‘And why the bloody hell didn’t anyone tell us Michael Carter had shot his victim in the forehead?’
‘Why indeed.’
They waited for the taxi in silence, sheltering under a tree, although it didn’t last long.
‘If it wasn’t Michael or Kenny, who was The Vet?’ asked Sexton, kicking a stone across the road.
‘Is The Vet.’
‘Eh?’
‘There’s no evidence that Michael or Kenny or The Vet are dead. Just rumours.’
‘Who is then?’
‘Have the schools broken up for Easter yet?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How come that lot are playing football?’ asked Dixon, gesturing to the park on the other side of the road.
‘You never played truant then?’
‘It was never really an option at my school.’
The arrival of the taxi saved Dixon from further questioning. An inquisitive soul was Sexton. A good quality in a detective, but a pain in the neck when you’re stuck sheltering under a tree waiting for a taxi.
Sexton opened the passenger door. ‘GMP headquarters, please.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Dixon, fumbling in the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a piece of paper and read the address out loud. ‘Ellesmere Drive, Cheadle.’
‘What number?’ asked the taxi driver.
‘We’ll worry about that when we get there.’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘What’s at Ellesmere Drive?’ asked Sexton, when the taxi pulled away.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Paul Butler’s widow,’ replied Dixon.
Chapter Eighteen
Number 27, Ellesmere Drive was the last property on the right of the short cul-de-sac. It ended at a low brick wall with a high hedge on top, more football pitches beyond just visible through gaps.
‘Popular in Manchester, football,’ said Dixon.
Sexton smiled.
They had paid the taxi driver at the top of Ellesmere Drive and walked the rest of the way. The driveway of number 27 was all but blocked by green, brown and blue wheelie bins, a high net along the hedge protecting the house from flying footballs.
The other side of the semi had a new roof, and number 27 looked like it could do with one too. Perhaps Mrs Butler was struggling to get by on a widow’s pension?
Dixon rang the doorbell under the watchful eye of a large black cat sitting on the window ledge to his right.
‘Mrs Butler?’
‘Yes.’
She looked young for seventy-six. And fit. That much was evident from the bicycle leaning up against the wall in the porch, one of the old fashioned ones with a wicker basket on the front. A large collie was standing behind her.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police. Might we have a word?’
‘Come in.’
She closed the door behind them and opened the living room door on her left. ‘In here. We’d better not let the cat out. They don’t get on.’
‘Is this your husband?’ asked Dixon, picking up a photograph from the mantelpiece.
‘That’s Paul, yes.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was murdered.’
Dixon waited, ignoring the fidgeting from Sexton sitting to his left on the sofa.
‘Oh, look, they never found a body and, yes, he’d been depressed, but that was because nobody believed him.’
‘About what?’
‘The Carters.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
‘No. He just walked out one day and was never seen again.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘He had a doctor’s appointment but never got there. I was at work, came home and there was no sign of him.’
‘Was he on medication for depression?’
Mrs Butler nodded. ‘They looked for him, of course they did. But they never found a trace. And that was that. No inquest, nothing. In the end I applied to the High Court and had him declared dead. That was more for the children, really, to give them closure.’
‘So, who d’you think murdered him?’
‘The Vet.’
‘And this was in 2011?’
‘Yes. I have no doubt about it at all. Never have had. But no one would listen. The Carters and The Vet were long gone by then, and people were just grateful for that, I think. They certainly didn’t want me rocking the boat.’
‘Why kill your husband, though?’ asked Dixon. ‘He was retired by then.’
Mrs Butler smiled and shook her head. ‘He was like a dog with a bone, Inspector. Come with me.’
They followed her up the stairs and into what had once been used as a spare bedroom. A small desk in the window overlooking the back garde
n was just visible under piles of paper and box files, all of it leaning against an old computer monitor. More files were piled up on the floor and on the swivel chair. Mrs Butler switched on the light.
‘Did anyone have a look through all this when your husband disappeared?’ asked Dixon.
‘A quick look. It doesn’t take long to get the gist of it.’
‘Did they take anything?’
‘Some papers he shouldn’t have had, apparently. They said he must’ve taken them when he left.’
‘And did he?’
Mrs Butler shrugged her shoulders. ‘I expect so.’
‘Has anyone else been in here?’
‘I was burgled about five years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It happens.’
‘Was anything taken?’
‘My jewellery.’
‘What about from this room?’
‘I really would have no idea about that. The papers were all on the floor though. I know that much.’
‘Did local police attend?’
‘Yes. They dusted for fingerprints in the living room and my bedroom, but didn’t find anything.’
Dixon hesitated. ‘Not this room?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘When were these taken?’ He was staring at the left wall, above the bed, almost every inch of it covered with photographs. Some had fallen off, leaving small lumps of Blu Tack in each corner and a glimpse of the green and gold striped wallpaper behind.
‘After he retired. I told you – a dog with a bone. It was in the days before the bomb and just after. The Carters disappeared then.’
‘Are any photos missing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jonny, see if you can match the photos lying on the bed to gaps on the wall.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And who are these people?’ asked Dixon, turning to the opposite wall, above the chest of drawers.
‘The Shannons.’
Dixon recognised Snooker City, Hervey’s old club and renamed in the picture, where Rick Wheaton had worked behind the bar, whoever he was.
‘What was he working on?’
‘He was convinced Kenny Carter was the leader, the driving force behind it all. But he never found any evidence of it, and he never persuaded anyone else about it either. Then, when he retired, the focus shifted to Michael Carter, and that was that. But he refused to let it drop, as you can see.’
