by Damien Boyd
‘Billy no mates,’ said Pearce, grinning.
‘Right, you and me, Louise. Dave, you go with Jane. We’ll split the list and be back by six.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There are three in Torquay and two each in Paignton and Brixham,’ continued Dixon, looking at the list. ‘We’ll take Torquay, Louise. Look for a roadworthy SS type with the high exhaust pipes on both sides.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And remember, if you find one and I’m right, you’ll be talking to someone who kills people for a living, so no heroics. A few general questions, eliminating from enquiries, the usual flannel, then get the hell out of there. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Mark, if you could just ring the Devon lot and let them know we’ll be on their patch, that’d be great. If you can fit us in before you go off partying, that is?’
Chapter Fourteen
It was just before 3 p.m. when Dixon parked in Henbury Close, a modern development of terraced town houses set back off the main road, just along from Torquay Football Club at Plainmoor. The floodlights were visible over the rooftops, but they were off and all was quiet.
‘Bet it’s chaos here on a match day,’ said Dixon. ‘Number 16’s in the far corner over there.’
The garages and parking spaces were some distance from the houses themselves, which fronted onto a communal garden area. Louise followed him across the grass and waited behind him while he rang the doorbell.
‘Mr Treadwell?’
‘Yes.’ He was in his late sixties and was wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon and this is PC Willmott. We understand you’re the registered owner of a Norton motorcycle.’
‘I did a SORN thing, the off road notification. You can’t do me for not renewing the road tax.’
‘It’s not about that, Mr Treadwell. May we see the bike, please?’
‘Why?’
‘A Norton motorcycle was involved in an incident a week or so ago and we’re just eliminating bikes from our enquiries at this stage.’
Treadwell nodded. ‘Hang on,’ he said, closing the door. Dixon could see him through the pane of glass rummaging in the pockets of a coat hanging on the wall behind the door. ‘Here you go,’ he said. He handed a set of keys to Dixon, holding it by the smallest key.
‘That’s the garage key. It’s that block over there. Third one along. Just push the keys through the letter box when you’ve finished.’
Dixon watched the door slam, looked at Louise, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Takes all sorts, I suppose.’
‘What’s his problem, I wonder?’ asked Louise.
‘Did you see the cannula in the back of his left hand?’ asked Dixon. ‘C’mon. Let’s go and have a look at this Norton.’
The number 16 painted in large black letters on the white garage door confirmed that they had the right garage and Dixon inserted the key in the lock. Then he lifted the up and over door, holding it up in one hand while he peered underneath it.
‘Is there a light?’
Louise ducked under the door and felt along the wall for a light switch.
‘Here it is.’
The garage was full of old furniture and boxes but they could just about make out a motorcycle leaning against the wall at the back. The fuel tank was missing and the seat cover had rotted away, revealing the cushioning underneath.
‘Come and hold this a sec,’ said Dixon. ‘If I let go it’ll drop.’
Louise took hold of the door from Dixon and he stepped into the garage. The door lowered a little, which added to the gloom, and it didn’t help that the light bulb was covered in dust and cobwebs. There was no way through to the back to get a close look at the bike, but, more importantly, no way to get the bike out either. Dixon looked at the floor in front of the pile of furniture. None had been moved in ages, judging by the dust.
He stepped up onto a dining chair and leaned over. The tyres were flat, the rubber perished and the layer of dust on the mudguard confirmed it had not been disturbed in a while too. Shame.
Then he checked the exhaust. There was only one.
‘This isn’t it. Let’s go.’
Dixon dropped the keys through Treadwell’s letter box and shouted ‘thank you’ after them, before striding across the grass to his Land Rover.
‘Where next?’ he asked, jumping into the driver’s seat.
The Grosvenor House Hotel had been painted bright pink, presumably to match the Bentley parked outside the front door, and was in Grosvenor Road, just behind the seafront.
‘This is the one that was in that programme on the telly,’ said Louise.
‘What?’
‘They did a fly on the wall documentary.’
Dixon parked his old Land Rover next to the Bentley. ‘I must be in the wrong business,’ he said, frowning.
‘The bike’s registered to Paul Jonathan Hollingsworth.’
‘I only hope he hasn’t painted it pink,’ muttered Dixon, getting out of the Land Rover.
The receptionist pointed them in the direction of the manager’s office.
‘Where’s the staff car park?’ asked Dixon.
‘Out through the double doors at the end of that corridor.’
‘Good. Find Mr Hollingsworth and tell him we’ll be there, please.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the receptionist, reaching for the telephone.
The staff car park was a small courtyard behind the hotel. It was large enough for vans to deliver to the kitchen door, one Ford Fiesta, a bicycle rack and one Norton motorcycle. Dixon walked over to it, leaned over and looked at the number plate. It had a layer of grime on it but the murder of Elizabeth Perry was almost a week ago now. More than enough time for the number plate to have been changed and a fresh layer of dirt to build up. Then he flicked off the yellow plastic caps and took a photograph of the screws that attached the number plate to the bike. It was clear they had not been touched in some time. He shook his head. Single exhaust too, and no sign of a dummy one being attached to the off side of the bike.
Dixon was taking a photograph of the tyres when he heard footsteps behind him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘And you are?’ asked Dixon.
‘Paul Hollingsworth. The manager.’
‘I’m . . .’
‘I know who you are,’ interrupted Hollingsworth. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt. The receptionist had been wearing a pink jacket so the pink tie was no doubt part of the staff uniform.
‘We’re eliminating Norton motorcycles from our enquiries, Mr Hollingsworth. Can you tell us where you were on Christmas Eve?’
‘Here. I was on duty until midnight then went to bed. I live in.’
‘And this is your bike?’
‘It is. It’s a Fastback.’
‘D’you keep it garaged usually?’
‘No. I’ve got a cover for it and there’s a carport round the side I can use if I’m not going to be riding it for a while. Can you tell me what it’s all about?’
‘No,’ replied Dixon, shaking his head. He turned to Louise. ‘Constable Willmott here will take details of anyone who can vouch for you on Christmas Eve.’
‘My alibi?’
‘Something like that.’
Dixon waited until Louise had finished writing down the names and addresses of two members of staff who would confirm Hollingsworth’s movements on Christmas Eve.
‘Where d’you get it serviced?’
‘I do most of the work myself but there’s a garage in Babbacombe that does anything tricky.’
‘Name?’
‘Babbacombe Motors.’
‘And where do you get the parts?’
‘The owners’ club are pretty good. eBay sometimes. And there’s nortonparts.co.uk.’
‘Thank you very much, you’ve been very helpful,’ said Dixon.
‘Happy to help,’ replied Hollingsworth.
‘
Can we get round to the front that way?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the service road around the side of the hotel.
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Thanks.’
Hollingsworth turned to walk back to the kitchens.
‘One last question.’
‘Yes.’
‘D’you see any other Nortons about? On your travels?’
Hollingsworth smiled.
‘There’s one Paignton way I’ve seen on the seafront a couple of times. Always give them a wave. And a nice one in Wellswood, I think it must be. I’ve seen it turning out onto the Babbacombe Road.’
‘Where?’
‘There’s a parade of shops. Ilsham Road.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hollingsworth.’
‘We’ll get the local boys to check his alibi but there’s no sign of anything on the bike,’ said Dixon, climbing into the driver’s seat.
‘One more to go,’ said Louise, opening her notebook.
‘Give me a minute to ring Jane.’ Dixon was holding his phone to his ear.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘Not a lot, really,’ replied Jane. ‘One wreck and then another that’s in showroom condition. It’s only done 170 miles.’
‘A speedometer can be disconnected, don’t forget,’ replied Dixon.
‘It’s in an air conditioned garage with a BSA 500 and two I’d not even heard of.’
‘What about the tyres?’
‘Dave checked it over. There’s no sign it’s been ridden at all. The tyres even had the stickers still on them.’
‘It’s a 1978 model. Very rare,’ shouted Dave.
‘He’s driving,’ said Jane. ‘We’re on the way back from Brixham.’
‘How many left?’ asked Dixon.
‘Just one then we’re done. What about you?’
‘Nothing. One left though. See you back at Bridgwater.’
Dixon rang off.
‘Where next?’
‘Parkhill Road,’ replied Louise. ‘Number 31A.’
Dixon had driven up and down Parkhill Road three times before they spotted the faded ‘Private Road’ sign on what they had thought was the entrance to Vanehill House. That sign had been brand new.
‘Who’d be a bloody postman,’ he said, turning into the narrow lane.
There was a high stone wall on the right, with overhanging trees, so Dixon switched his headlights on.
‘That’s better.’
The ground on the left sloped steeply away to the harbour below, which was visible between the houses on the left, the lights of the harbourside restaurants and boats twinkling in the darkness. The houses had been built below the level of the road and Dixon counted five rooftops visible in front of him.
‘Can you see the numbers?’
‘No,’ replied Louise, peering out of the passenger window.
Dixon drove to the end of the lane, which opened out into a large car park in front of Vanehill House. Judging by the signs, it was used as offices but it was closed. Dixon turned the Land Rover and slowed to a crawl back along the lane, switching his lights to full beam.
‘There it is,’ he said, pulling up across the drive. ‘Looks like the Bates Motel.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Not you as well.’ Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘Doesn’t anyone watch the classics anymore?’
‘Which one?’ asked Louise.
‘Psycho,’ replied Dixon, getting out of the Land Rover. A floodlight on the corner of the garage came on, triggered by a motion sensor, no doubt. ‘Thank God for that.’
The garage was on the right, sideways on to the wide drive, with an empty carport next to it. A small path then led to a flight of stone steps down to the front door. A footbridge also went across to a door at first floor level. A second path then ran along the side of the carport before turning down the side of the house and round to the back. Or was it the front?
‘We’re at the back, aren’t we?’
‘Looks like it,’ replied Louise. ‘That’s the kitchen down there.’ She was pointing to the window on the right of the door at the bottom of the steps.
Dixon noticed the letter box in the door across the footbridge.
‘Let’s try that one,’ he said.
‘No lights on,’ said Louise.
‘We’ll try it anyway, just to make sure. Then we can have a snoop.’
Dixon walked across the footbridge and pressed the doorbell. He heard it ring and listened for the sound of footsteps.
Nothing.
‘There’s a torch in the glove box,’ said Dixon. ‘And wave your hand in front of that light.’
Dixon leaned over the handrail and looked in the window to the right of the door. It was a bathroom. On the left was a bedroom. Then he walked back along the footbridge and down the steps. He was halfway down when the floodlight went out.
‘Louise!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He watched the beam of the torch waving about in the dark like an old searchlight and then the floodlight came back on.
‘Spooky, isn’t it?’ said Louise, handing Dixon the torch.
‘The overhanging trees don’t help.’
He shone the torch in the kitchen window. Then the window to the left of the door. It was the dining room, although the table itself was only just visible beneath a large collection of porcelain figurines. The mantelpiece and the shelves either side of the fireplace on the far wall were also covered in figurines.
‘An antique dealer?’ asked Louise.
‘Could be,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Dale Reed.’
Dixon crouched down, opened the letter box and shone the torch into the hall.
‘It’s the back door.’
‘What can you see?’ asked Louise.
‘Shelves on the left. Cleaning stuff. Kitchen on the right. Coats and boots hanging up. Usual sort of stuff.’
‘Shall we try round the front?’
They followed the path along the back of the house and then around to the front. The path opened out onto a large patio, giving a grandstand view right across Torbay to Berry Head.
‘That explains it,’ said Dixon.
‘What?’
‘The attraction. It’s a bit of a dump from the back, isn’t it?’ He was shining the torch through the large patio doors into the living room.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Louise.
‘What?’
‘The light’s gone out again.’
‘C’mon, let’s see if we can find that bike.’
They walked up the second flight of steps to the garage. Dixon tried the door. It was locked. He shone the torch through the frosted glass window at the back of the garage but could not see a motorcycle, or anything much for that matter.
Louise had managed to get the floodlight to come back on and was looking down the side of the garage.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘What’s this?’
Dixon handed her the torch, which she shone down the side between the garage and the front wall. Then she reached in and began pulling at a tarpaulin.
‘It’s a bike.’
The gap was narrow. Just wide enough for a bike and the tarpaulin slid off to reveal a Norton, or rather the skeleton of a Norton. The headlight was smashed and the fuel tank had gone. Not only that, but there was no exhaust pipe at all, let alone one on either side.
‘This hasn’t moved for years,’ said Louise.
‘Can you see a number plate?’
‘There is one, but I can’t read it from here.’
Dixon took the torch and walked around to the back of the garage. Then he shone the torch down the side.
‘B83 ERD,’ he said.
‘That’s it,’ replied Louise.
‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ said Dixon.
They stopped to give Monty a run on Babbacombe Downs and arrived back at Express Park just before 6 p.m. Jane and Dave Harding had caught them up on the M5 at Taunton and followed them the rest of
the way.
‘Anything interesting?’ asked Dixon, as they walked across the car park.
‘No,’ replied Harding. ‘The last one was at Marldon, just off the ring road. A roadworthy SS type. The two exhausts and everything.’
‘Really?’ asked Louise.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane. ‘We got quite excited until we found out the owner died of cancer in November.’
‘Who did you speak to?’ asked Dixon, holding open the door.
‘His wife. Pancreatic. Took six weeks.’
‘And no one else rides the bike?’
‘No.’
‘Did you check it over?’
‘I had a quick look,’ replied Dave. ‘Couldn’t see anything.’
Dixon nodded.
‘You two might as well head off,’ he said. ‘Enjoy what’s left of New Year’s Eve.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Jane waited until Dave Harding and Louise had gone.
‘Bit of wild goose chase then?’ she asked.
‘That’s a good idea,’ replied Dixon, smiling.
‘What is?’
‘A bottle of wine and watch The Wild Geese.’
‘You have got to be kidding.’
It had been a long night. Jane had insisted on sitting up until midnight and then fireworks had kept Dixon and Monty awake for another half an hour after that. Jane had slept through them, of course, and was still asleep now, despite a prod in the ribs.
It was just after 8 a.m. on New Year’s Day and Dixon was standing in his kitchen watching Monty eating his breakfast. His walk in the field had been curtailed by rain and it looked set for the day, judging by the thick blanket of grey cloud. Still, it offered plenty of time for some background research into Perry’s political campaigning.
Dixon was waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard his phone ringing. He fumbled in his back pocket and then looked at the screen, recognising the number straight away.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We’re getting reports of a body in Moorland. It’s in the garage of a bungalow. A lad was out in his canoe and looked in the window.’
‘Canoe?’
‘Yes. The dive boat’s on the way but it’ll be a while before we can get out there.’
‘Address?’
