Heads or Tails (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 7)

by Damien Boyd

  Under pavilion 20 mins Nx

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her left hand, at the same time tapping out a reply with her right.

  R u ok? Jx

  She waited, her heart pounding in her ears and the back of her throat.

  Fine. Got an eyebrow pencil I can borrow? Nx

  She ran downstairs to find Lewis and Louise in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Look,’ she screamed, holding her phone out towards them.

  They both leaned forwards and peered at the screen, reading the exchange of text messages.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Louise.

  ‘How do we know they’re from him?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘He’s the only person I know who signs off his texts. Always does it, to me anyway,’ replied Jane. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, but someone would see that in your message centre.’

  ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t go?’

  ‘No. Just that it might not be him.’

  ‘I’ll go with her, Sir,’ said Louise.

  ‘And you can watch from the seafront, Sir,’ said Jane.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘There’s someone else who can come too,’ said Jane, picking up Monty’s lead. ‘He’ll know straightaway if it’s Nick.’

  Dixon cut through the car park at the back of the fishing tackle shop, then jogged along the lane opposite, bringing him out on the edge of Apex Park. He looked down at the lake as he ran past, remembering his days catching carp as a boy. Maybe he’d get his fishing rod out again when this was all over. He was sure he still had it somewhere, although holding it might be a bit of a problem.

  He stopped under a streetlight, the sirens fading into the distance now, and looked at his right hand. No wonder the Touch ID on his iPhone had failed. His fingers were blistered, two of them having burst leaving the skin hanging off in strips, and the palm of his hand was glowing red.

  ‘You could fry a bloody egg on it,’ he muttered as he began inching the glove off his left hand, gently tugging at each fingertip in turn. ‘Shit!’ He breathed in sharply through gritted teeth. One last tug and the glove fell to the ground, revealing a left hand in much the same state as his right. The blisters were smaller and none had burst, so it was not quite as bad perhaps.

  He flexed the fingers of both hands, slowly at first, his jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. Once they were moving it was not too bad. Punching someone was definitely out, but he could pull a trigger if needs be, he thought.

  He picked up the glove and stuffed it gingerly into his back pocket. A souvenir. He’d never have hung on to that steel girder without the gloves. A cold shiver ran down his spine. No point in dwelling on it, so he jogged on towards Marine Drive and then the jetty.

  The waves were lapping against the concrete pillars under the pavilion – on their way out: Jane had checked the app on her phone – and she had spent the last ten minutes trying to walk Monty around in circles on the small patch of wet sand left by the receding tide. It was no good though. He refused to move, just sitting there staring along the beach, first towards the lighthouse, then under the pavilion towards the jetty.

  ‘He’s doing the same as we are,’ said Louise, staring at the top of the jetty.

  Jane glanced up and saw DCI Lewis leaning over the sea wall, watching them.

  The lights on the Esplanade were twinkling in the misty drizzle that was still falling, so they sheltered under the pavilion, at the base of the sea wall. Lewis disappeared, having stepped back into one of the covered seating areas along the seafront probably.

  ‘What time is it?’

  Louise held her watch up to the faint glow from the streetlights. The pavilion was closed, its flashing lights switched off for the night. The seafront was deserted too, thanks to the rain.

  ‘Ten thirty,’ she said.

  ‘He’s late.’

  ‘Did he say where he was?’

  ‘You saw the texts, Lou.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They spun round when they heard someone running down the concrete steps behind them. A figure appeared at the bottom, leaning around the sea wall and pointing towards the jetty.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ whispered Lewis as loud as he dared.

  A silhouette appeared on the jetty three hundred yards away, lit up by the streetlights behind him or her. Whoever it was, they were looking along the beach towards the pavilion. Waving. Then they jumped down on to the sand.

  Jane felt the jerk of the lead, but had no time to react before it was wrenched from her hand. Monty went from a standing start to a sprint, sailed over the low concrete struts of the pier and set off along the beach, his lead trailing behind him.

  A faint whistle carried to Jane on the wind – the first few notes of the theme to The Vikings – a whistle as familiar to her as it was to Monty.

  ‘It’s him,’ she said. Then she started to run.

  Dixon dropped to his knees and put his arms around Monty, the dog whining and licking his face at the same time. Then Jane arrived and threw her arms around both of them.

  Louise, who was just behind Jane, picked up Monty’s trailing lead and pulled him away. Not far, just enough. Jane had her arms around Dixon, her tears – of joy this time – washing the black smoke dust from his face.

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘So did I.’

  They kissed and held each other tight, Dixon trying to keep his hands clear at the same time.

  ‘What’s the matter with your hands?’ asked Lewis, who had run along the Esplanade and down another set of steps adjacent to Dixon.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Jane, flicking on the torch on her phone. ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ Dixon closed his eyes. ‘Feels it, mind you.’

  ‘And you weren’t joking about the eyebrow pencil either.’ Jane was shining the torch in his face.

  ‘I managed to soak a towel and wrap it around my head.’

  ‘What about Sexton?’ asked Lewis.

  Dixon shook his head. ‘He was dead before I got in there. They shot him in the head. Then I was hit from behind and—’

  ‘They?’

  ‘There were two of them. I heard voices, but never saw them.’

  ‘What about the victim?’

  ‘If he was alive when the fire started, he wasn’t when I woke up.’

  ‘Cremated then,’ muttered Lewis.

  ‘Who have you told that I’m alive?’ asked Dixon, looking at Jane.

  ‘No one, only . . .’ She looked up at Louise and Lewis.

  ‘Have you told anyone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Me neither,’ replied Louise.

  ‘Let’s keep it that way.’ Dixon was helped to his feet by Jane and Lewis. ‘If they know I’m alive, they’ll disappear. As it is, they think we’re both dead. And I’d like to keep it that way.’

  ‘They’ll see you’ve been on the bulletin board, though,’ said Louise.

  ‘They’ll just move it.’ Jane was holding Dixon up now. ‘But I’ve got a copy on Nick’s laptop.’

  ‘What about the press?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘How long will it be before anyone can get into the loading bay and check?’

  ‘The fire won’t be out until tomorrow night probably; then engineers’ll have to go in and make it safe. That’ll take a couple of days.’

  ‘There’s our deadline, then. In the meantime, put out a press release saying three people are missing and presumed dead: one victim and two police officers. Release the names too. Give it the whole line of duty bit, which Jonny deserves.’

  ‘Vicky Thomas won’t like that. It’s deliberately misleading the public.’

  ‘That’s just tough. And besides, she won’t find out until it’s too late.’

  Lewis puffed out his cheeks. ‘The Chief Con will want to be involved too.’

  ‘He can’t be.’

  ‘You want me to lie to the Chief Constable?’

  ‘
We’ll say you never knew. No one told you I was alive. All right?’

  Lewis looked at Louise and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Never saw you, Sir,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘We’d better tell the Chief Fire Officer,’ continued Dixon, ‘but he’ll need to keep it under his hat. Let him know there’s no one left alive too. We don’t want him sending anyone in there.’

  ‘They tried once and only just got out,’ said Lewis. ‘They’re containing the fire now at the loading bay end of the factory.’

  ‘Who will take over the MIT?’ asked Jane.

  ‘That’s Deborah Potter’s problem,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Yes, but if she thinks you’re dead she’ll have to appoint someone else.’

  ‘That’s the way it’s got to be. No one can know I’m alive. We can’t risk the news reaching Manchester.’

  ‘So how do we—?’

  ‘We don’t. Janice and her team do. They’re going to catch The Vet and Horan.’ Dixon held out his hands, watching the rain falling on his palms and fingers. ‘They’ve got a legitimate reason to be investigating, and all the enquiries will be related to Denise Marks on the face of it. So no one can object. And they won’t suspect what’s really going on either.’

  ‘I can leave them on that for the time being,’ said Lewis. ‘I’ll speak to Janice first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘And what will you be doing?’

  ‘Helping out, from behind the scenes.’

  ‘And me?’ asked Jane.

  ‘You’re going on compassionate leave,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘After all, it’s not every day you lose your fiancé, is it?’

  Jane pulled up across the drive of the large detached house on the outskirts of Taunton. The Volvo was in the drive, but all the lights were off and the upstairs curtains drawn.

  ‘D’you think he’s in?’

  ‘He’ll be watching telly, I expect.’ Dixon was sitting in the passenger seat, his hands wrapped in wet towels. ‘Can you pop my seatbelt?’

  They squeezed between the Volvo and the hedge, turning their backs to the rose bushes overhanging the path. ‘Doesn’t he ever prune anything?’ muttered Dixon.

  Jane rang the doorbell and then checked the time on her phone. ‘He’s probably asleep. It’s nearly midnight.’

  An upstairs light came on, followed by the hall and porch lights. Dixon could definitely hear muttering over the footsteps stomping down the stairs.

  ‘Who is it?’ Keys rustling.

  ‘Jane and Nick.’

  ‘Nick?’ Roger Poland opened the door. ‘I was watching the local news. They said you were dead.’

  ‘Close, but not quite,’ replied Dixon, holding up his hands.

  ‘Ouch.’ Poland winced. ‘You’d better come in.’

  They followed Poland to the kitchen at the back of the house. ‘Let’s have a look at those hands then,’ he said, switching on the light. He looked Dixon up and down. ‘Has anyone looked at that ear?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll bathe it, but it looks split to me. You’re going to need stitches in it.’

  ‘I can’t go to hospital, Roger. Can you fix it?’

  ‘You’d better tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea first?’ Dixon raised what was left of his eyebrows.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Jane.

  ‘Well?’ Poland reached into a cupboard and took out a first aid kit. ‘Mugs, tea and sugar are above the kettle, Jane.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You eaten?’ asked Poland, turning to Dixon.

  ‘I had supper, but I threw it up.’

  ‘Better put a sugar in his tea, Jane, and there are some biscuits in the cupboard.’

  ‘We found a dark net bulletin board,’ said Dixon. ‘Horan, The Vet and Denise Marks were the only members. Horan was posting photos, before and after shots of each victim. He said he’d got his next victim at the furniture factory and by the time I got there, Jonny was already dead. Then I was knocked out, and when I woke up the place was on fire.’

  Poland was wiping the dried blood from Dixon’s ear with a medicated wet wipe. ‘There’s a one-inch laceration on the scalp above the right ear. Not through to the bone.’

  ‘Can you be a bit less clinical? You’re not doing my post mortem yet, y’know.’

  Poland smiled. ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘I got up on to a mezzanine floor and out the office window.’

  ‘He soaked a towel and wrapped it around his head and neck,’ said Jane.

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘Paul Newman in The Towering Inferno.’ Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘So, why not the hospital?’ asked Poland.

  ‘They think I’m dead, and I want them to keep thinking that.’

  ‘Well, you need stitches in that ear and antibiotic cream for those hands.’

  ‘And some painkillers?’

  ‘Head injury assessment first. I’ll make a call.’

  Dixon sat in the kitchen with Jane, eating biscuits and listening to Poland on the phone in the hall. He heard parts of the conversation: ‘Police, yes . . . don’t ask . . . there’s a reason . . . trust me, he’s one of the good ones . . . stitches . . . burns . . . both hands . . . blistered, yes . . . twenty minutes. Thanks, Paul. I owe you one.’

  Dixon winked at Jane.

  ‘A curry usually does the trick,’ he said, when Poland walked back into the kitchen.

  ‘You’re paying.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Paul Arnold. An A&E consultant at Musgrove Park. He’s a good lad.’ Poland opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of scotch. ‘We’ll need that pullover off. There are some scissors in the drawer.’

  ‘Cut it off?’ asked Jane.

  ‘And bag it up,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I’ve got an evidence bag in my briefcase.’ Poland took a swig of whisky.

  ‘Can I—?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  It was nearly 2 a.m. by the time Dixon climbed into his own bed, four stitches in his ear and five in the side of his head. All of it swathed in bandages.

  ‘Are these really necessary?’ he asked, holding up his hands, each in a clear plastic bag with an elastic band around the wrist.

  ‘Just for tonight. It keeps the cream off the duvet.’ Jane was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘The chemist opens at seven, so I’ll go and get your prescription.’

  ‘I don’t pay, remember?’ Dixon was struggling to keep his eyes open now. ‘My exemption card’s in my wallet.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘You said you heard their voices?’

  Dixon nodded his head on the pillow.

  ‘Did you recognise them?’

  Jane turned to watch Monty jump on the bed and curl up by Dixon’s feet. When she looked back, he was sound asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Voices this time. Yes, voices. Much better than being woken up by smoke. And this time it was Monty lying across his legs, rather than chairs. But whose voices were these?

  He lay in bed listening to the murmur coming from downstairs. Then the front door of the cottage opened and shut. Monty looked up, before returning to his vigil.

  Dixon reached for his phone on the bedside table, only to find his hands still in the plastic bags. The cream underneath had gone, absorbed into what was left of his skin, probably, so he flicked the elastic bands off with his teeth and pulled off the bags. Much of the redness had gone from the palms, but his fingers were still in a bit of a state. He wondered whether to stick a pin in the blisters. Best not. The doctor had been quite specific about that. He tried clenching his fists.

  Shit!

  If he felt a bit drowsy before, he was wide awake now, so he sent Jane a text message – Where r u Nx – heard the bleep of it arriving, then footsteps coming up the stairs.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yeah, a bi
t.’

  ‘Everyone’s here.’ Jane was smiling at him from the doorway.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Janice, Dave, Mark and Louise. Lewis is on his way too.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone nine.’

  ‘Is the fire out yet?’

  ‘They’re saying tomorrow now. And another couple of days before they can get in there. It’s on the local news.’ Jane closed the bedroom door behind her. ‘The Chief Con’s giving a press conference later.’

  Dixon sat up.

  ‘C’mon, you. Shift,’ Jane said, pushing Monty on to the floor. ‘These are your painkillers.’ She handed Dixon a box. ‘And this is the cream for your hands. Give me a shout if you need me to open it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And I rang your parents. I thought someone better had before they saw it on the telly. I swore them to secrecy and said you’d ring them later.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘D’you need help getting dressed?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

  Once dressed, Dixon hesitated on the landing, looking down at the team sitting below. Janice was on a kitchen stool, Dave and Mark on the sofa and Louise on the windowsill in front of them. Jane was sitting behind the sofa on one of the two dining chairs that had come from her flat, the other empty and waiting for him. Or Lewis perhaps. Monty squeezed past him and ran down the stairs.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Sir?’ asked Louise, standing up.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Shit, look at your hands.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  Janice walked over and kissed him on the cheek when he reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s good to see you. When the news came through we . . .’ She shook her head. ‘We all thought . . .’

  ‘I didn’t know until I got here,’ said Pearce. ‘Lewis never said anything.’

  Jane pushed the vacant chair out from under the dining table with her foot.

  ‘It was definitely one of my nine lives.’

  ‘And you only had six left before,’ muttered Jane.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Has your Land Rover gone?’ asked Louise.