by Damien Boyd
‘Run, Dale!’ she screamed.
Dixon turned back to Reed just in time to see him draw his gun from inside his leather jacket.
‘Armed police. Drop your weapon!’ The shout came from the carport to Reed’s right.
Dixon looked at the gun. It was silenced and pointing straight at them. He stepped in front of Jane.
‘No,’ she gasped.
‘You must’ve known it would end this way, Dale,’ said Dixon.
‘Armed police. Drop your weapon!’
Reed looked down at his fuel tank and then back to Dixon. Then his arm jerked to the right and he fired twice. Dixon heard no sound except breaking glass. He spun round. Andrea Parks was falling backwards in the bathroom, blood spraying across the tiled walls.
Then four shots rang out in quick succession. Reed was thrown into the stone wall, landing in a heap at the base behind his Norton, which had toppled over on its side.
Dixon watched the two armed response officers edging forward, their guns aimed at Reed.
‘Get an ambulance!’ shouted Dixon.
He turned to see Jane emerging from the bathroom.
‘She’s dead.’
Dixon closed his eyes.
‘Two shots to the head,’ said Jane. ‘What about him?’
One of the armed response officers was pumping Reed’s chest.
‘Dead,’ said Dixon.
Dave Harding was shouting at local residents further down the lane to stay indoors but his voice was soon drowned out by the sirens coming from all directions.
‘The Americans have got a name for it,’ said Dixon.
‘What?’ asked Jane.
‘Suicide by cop.’
‘Where to now?’
‘What time is it?’ asked Dixon. He was sitting in the passenger seat of Jane’s car, watching fireworks going off on the far side of Torbay.
‘Just before midnight,’ replied Jane.
‘Someone should tell ’em New Year’s Eve was last night.’
Jane sighed.
‘Gits,’ continued Dixon. ‘Every dog within five hundred yards of that lot is going to be shitting itself.’
‘And cat.’
‘Yes, and cat. Look at Monty. Big lad, doesn’t take any crap, but he’s terrified of the bloody things.’
‘Have you finished?’
‘They should be banned.’
‘Can we go now?’ asked Jane.
‘There’s a Travelodge at junction 27,’ replied Dixon. ‘We can’t go home.’
Dixon was deep in thought as they drove north out of Torquay. The forensic examination of the house would be going on through the night but he had got what he wanted, and three boxes of papers, Reed’s computer, iPad and phone were on their way to Express Park. Devon and Cornwall Police could keep the rest. Andrea Parks and Reed were in the mortuary at Torbay Hospital and their post mortems would be taking place the next day, or later that day, given that it was after midnight, although the cause of death would not be unduly taxing in either case.
He felt sorry for the firearms officers who had killed Reed. They had saved his life. And Jane’s. But now they would be suspended pending a formal investigation. And for what? Doing what they had been trained to do. Still, the likely outcome was a commendation. Dixon would see to that.
And Harry? Died in the line, as the Americans would say. But the vision of his body spinning on the end of the rope still lingered.
‘Where are we?’
‘Just north of Exeter,’ replied Jane.
Dixon looked up at the stars, only this time no one was looking back. He noticed Jane watching him.
‘Fran?’
‘She’s gone now.’
‘What do we do about the Albanians?’ asked Jane, changing the subject.
‘Depends what Reed’s stuff tells us, but I’m not holding my breath. I’m tempted to pay ’em a visit.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No.’
‘Reed had a photo of us and who d’you think he was working for?’
‘It may have been on his own account. Perhaps he thought we were getting too close?’
‘How would he know?’
‘Well, now that’s another question.’
‘Here we are,’ said Jane, allowing her car to drift onto the off slip. ‘One room or two?’
‘One,’ replied Dixon. ‘I think we’re what’s called an open secret, these days.’
Chapter Seventeen
Dixon switched on the radio as they sped north on the M5 the following morning, catching the tail end of the local news.
‘Meanwhile, Tom Perry, the Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for Bridgwater and North Somerset, has today announced that he will be standing in the forthcoming by-election. He is defending the Conservative seat vacated on the death of the former member of parliament, Sir Kenneth Anderson. There had been some speculation that Mr Perry, whose wife Elizabeth was murdered in the early hours of Christmas Eve, would stand down. Police are yet to make an arrest in connection with Mrs Perry’s murder.’
‘That’s not right,’ said Jane.
‘Back to the flooding now, three pumps have arrived from the Netherlands and are being installed . . .’
Dixon switched off the radio.
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon.
‘He’s a Tory.’
‘I know what he is. And I know what he stands for.’
‘I never thought I’d end up living with a Tory voter,’ said Jane, shaking her head.
‘I didn’t say I’d vote for him. When did I say I’d vote for him?’
‘You didn’t.’
‘That’s right, I didn’t. Now, concentrate on the road, Constable,’ said Dixon, smiling.
They turned into Express Park just after 9 a.m. and parked under cover. Dave Harding ran across from the staff entrance to meet them, opening the passenger door of Jane’s car before Dixon had taken his seatbelt off.
‘You’d better come quick, Sir.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Zephyr. They’re taking everything.’
‘Everything?’
Harding nodded.
Dixon and Jane, with Harding following, ran across to the staff entrance and up the stairs.
‘In here, Nick,’ shouted Lewis, as they ran along the landing. He was standing in the doorway of meeting room two and Dixon slowed to a walk when he spotted DCS Collyer sitting at the table.
Dixon paused in the doorway and watched four officers in dark suits carrying the boxes and Reed’s computer along the landing towards the lift.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Dixon, slamming the door. ‘There’s things going on . . .’
‘Shut up and listen,’ said Lewis.
‘Let’s be quite clear, Inspector,’ said Collyer. ‘I do not have to explain myself to you.’
Dixon’s eyes were closed while he counted to ten.
‘We’re making significant progress and are on the brink of a major . . .’
‘Bollocks.’ Dixon could contain himself no longer.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lewis.
‘It’s fine,’ said Collyer, standing up. ‘I like a man with fire in his belly. But the fact is, Dixon, we’re taking it and there’s bugger all you can do about it. All right?’
‘DCS Collyer has agreed to let us know if they find anything relevant to Elizabeth Perry’s murder,’ said Lewis.
‘Really,’ said Dixon, opening the door. ‘They had a tap inside those racing stables and never said a thing, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not overly optimistic this time.’
‘We’re all on the same side,’ said Lewis.
‘Are we?’
Dixon slammed the door behind him.
‘Looks like a transfer to Zephyr is off then,’ said Jane.
‘Car keys,’ said Dixon, holding out his hand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m going to Bristol. You’re staying
here.’
‘No bloody way,’ said Jane, picking up her handbag.
Dixon was staring out of the large windows at the front of the police centre, overlooking the visitors’ car park, watching the boxes and computer being loaded into the back of two black cars.
‘Louise.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Get me everything you can find on Dale Reed.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We’ll be back later.’
‘Steady on. It’s a new car,’ said Jane, watching her speedometer as Dixon raced past the Burnham junction on the M5.
‘Sorry,’ he replied, easing off the accelerator.
‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’
‘No.’
‘Turn around then.’
‘We’re after the money. And only the Albanians can tell us who it is.’
‘Yes, but they might . . .’
‘I’ll be fine. Zavan and I have an understanding, don’t forget.’
‘And what d’you think he’s gonna tell you?’
‘I don’t know. Probably nothing. But he may say something I can use. Anything will do. We’ve got nothing at the moment, have we?’
Dixon was watching a car in his wing mirror.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, frowning, ‘this guy’s in a hurry.’
Jane looked over her shoulder.
‘There’s another in the middle lane.’
Dixon slowed down and pulled across to the inside lane, glancing in his rear view mirror at every opportunity.
‘Oh shit.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Collyer.’
Suddenly, a third car sped up behind him, just as the others pulled across sharply, one taking up position on his offside and the other in front of him. Dixon was boxed in. Then the car in front started braking.
‘We’re being T-packed.’
‘Brent Knoll Services,’ said Jane.
‘We don’t seem to have a lot of choice.’
Dixon waited until the last minute, hoping to veer off into the service station and then use the back road to get clear, but the Zephyr cars had other plans and began moving over, forcing him off the motorway. If he had been in his old Land Rover it might have been different, but this was Jane’s car and it was brand new, as she kept reminding him. Once on the slip road, the lead car indicated right and turned into the lorry park. Dixon followed.
The lorry park was empty apart from one car at the far end, its boot open, the driver exercising his dog under the trees. Dixon watched Collyer walking back towards him and wound down the window.
‘Get out,’ said Collyer.
Dixon followed him across to the grass area.
‘Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’
‘Panto at the Hippodrome.’
‘Don’t give me that.’
‘You know full well where I’m going and why, so . . .’
‘Wind your neck in,’ said Collyer. ‘For the first time in years, we’ve got someone on the inside and we can’t have you wading in with your size tens. All right?’
Dixon was sucking his teeth and breathing hard through his nose.
‘We play our cards close to our chest because we have to,’ said Collyer. ‘But this is close and when we’ve got them all, you’ll get your chance. Until then, you’ll just have to wait.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We want them thinking it’s business as usual. And besides, as far as we can tell, they played no part in Elizabeth Perry’s death.’
‘As far as we can tell?’ asked Dixon.
‘They just made the introductions, that’s all. But we don’t know who, why or when.’
‘Someone will.’
‘They will. And when the time comes you can ask them. All right?’
‘And what about Stanniland? They killed him.’
‘They did,’ replied Collyer.
‘Reed had photos of us,’ said Dixon.
‘Nothing to do with the Albanians. We’d have known if they were targeting a police officer.’
‘But would you have said anything?’
‘Credit me with some . . . look, just get back in your car and fuck off home. And if I see you in Bristol I’ll nick you for obstruction.’
‘What’d he say?’ asked Jane.
Dixon ignored the ‘No Entry’ signs and used the back lane to get out of the service station.
‘They’ve got someone on the inside and don’t want us rocking the boat.’
‘Is that it?’
‘The Albanians made the introduction to Reed, but Collyer doesn’t know who, why or when.’
Jane shook her head.
‘Oh, and they weren’t behind Reed targeting us either, apparently. He’d have known.’
‘But would he have said anything?’
‘I asked him the same question,’ said Dixon.
‘And what’d he say?’
‘Something along the lines of “fuck off before I nick you for obstruction”.’
‘Nice.’
‘Let’s go and get Monty. We can find a dog friendly B and B later.’
‘But we’re safe to go home, surely? If the Albanians aren’t after us?’ asked Jane.
‘You want to take the chance?’
‘I’ll ring my folks.’
It was lunchtime when they arrived back at Express Park to find Dave Harding, Mark Pearce and Louise sitting in silence in the corner of the otherwise deserted staff canteen.
‘Did they tell you anything?’ asked Louise.
‘Never got that far,’ replied Dixon.
‘We were intercepted,’ said Jane.
‘That was me, sorry.’ DCI Lewis was standing behind them, in the doorway. ‘People don’t tend to like it when you make them look foolish.’
‘Foolish?’
‘Reed had been on the radar for years but they’d never got close. Then you come along and, bang, you’ve got him.’
‘Literally,’ muttered Jane.
‘Yes, literally,’ said Lewis. ‘It makes them feel uncomfortable.’
‘Tough sh . . .’ said Dixon.
‘And you didn’t exactly make it easy for him either,’ continued Lewis.
‘What happens now?’ asked Louise.
‘Back to the drawing board?’ asked Jane.
‘Not quite. And besides, there isn’t one,’ replied Dixon.
‘Will a flipchart do?’
‘Reed and Stanniland were the foot soldiers and the Albanians were just the intermediaries, according to Collyer.’
‘That can’t be right though because who else could have put Stanniland up to it?’ asked Pearce.
‘And he had a belly full of their national dish,’ said Louise. ‘Tavë whatsit.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dixon. ‘But we can’t take that much further, for reasons beyond our control, so we’ll have to come at it from the other end.’
‘Find the motive,’ said Jane.
‘Someone paid the Albanians, or at least asked them, to set up Elizabeth Perry’s murder. Not Tom’s. Elizabeth’s. That’s the key to this.’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ said Lewis.
‘It isn’t, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘So, we keep looking until we find it. We’ll start with the selection fiasco and the wind farm at East or West Huntspill or wherever it is. Something about those two things stinks. We can move on to the other campaigns if we need to.’
‘What does Perry say?’ asked Harding.
‘He has no idea why anyone would want to kill Elizabeth, which makes two of us at the moment.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Dave, Mark and Jane, you focus on Westricity. I want full background checks on the directors and shareholders. And minutes of Sedgemoor District Council’s Development Committee and the County Council’s Scrutiny for Policies and Place Committee.’
‘That’s a bit of a mouthful,’ muttered Mark.
‘Get the minutes of all meetings where the wind fa
rm has been discussed. Let’s see who lines up on both sides of the argument, shall we?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘No doubt we’ll find Councillor Rod Brophy in the mix. He sits on both committees and there must be a reason why he’s so keen to be elected the local MP.’
‘Ambition? Greed?’ asked Harding.
Dixon ignored him.
‘We’ll focus on the selection, Louise.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Right then,’ said Dixon. ‘Let’s go canvassing, shall we?’
‘She’s down the sailing club.’
Dixon just managed to get his foot in the door, as it was slammed in his face.
‘What the . . . ?’ The voice came from behind the door.
Dixon held his warrant card up.
‘Oh,’ said a teenage boy, opening the door.
‘And Mr Sumner?’
‘They’re both down the sailing club.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Their son, James. I’m home from uni.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Shall I tell them you’re looking for them?’
‘No need,’ said Dixon, as he turned and walked back down the garden path.
He knew the Burnham-on-Sea Sailing Club, not that he had ever considered himself blessed with sea legs. His one and only sailing trip to the Solent had left him vomiting over the side of the yacht, much as his recent trip in the lifeboat had done. Still, each to their own.
The tide was out and two lines of motor cruisers and yachts were sitting on the mud banks of the River Brue, their pontoons lying flat on the mud. Dixon was listening to the rigging rattling in the wind.
‘Never understood the attraction,’ said Louise.
‘Me neither,’ replied Dixon, holding his hand out in front of him. ‘C’mon, let’s get in there before it starts raining again.’
The front door was open but the lounge was deserted, so Dixon rang the bell on the bar.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Sumner?’ asked Dixon, spinning round.
‘Yes.’ She was in her early fifties with short dark hair. Deck shoes and a Musto jacket over a cable sweater told Dixon he was in the right place, but then he knew that. He smiled. It was rather like plus fours and a Pringle sweater. Golf club? Every time.
‘I was just leaving,’ continued Mrs Sumner.
