by Damien Boyd
‘No.’
‘Then why did you stuff the executive council meeting with his supporters?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘We’ve seen the minutes and the attendance register.’
Dixon watched Dobbs flicking the mouse from side to side, his eyes following the cursor around an empty screen.
‘I thought we needed a local candidate.’
‘As opposed to a candidate selected by local people?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon turned to Louise. ‘I wondered how long it would be before we encountered this, Constable. They call it “spin”. But you and I would call it lies.’
‘Hang on a . . .’
‘Lying to police in a murder investigation is a serious business, Mr Dobbs.’
Dixon watched the beads of sweat appearing on Dobbs’ forehead. He was swallowing hard too. Always a good sign.
‘Perhaps we should get High Tech to have a look at Mr Dobbs’ computer, Constable. See if there’s anything on there that shouldn’t be.’
‘No, there’s nothing. It’s all legal.’
‘I’m sure it is. Now where were we,’ said Dixon. ‘Oh yes, why were you so keen to see Rod Brophy selected?’
Dobbs hesitated.
‘It wasn’t just any local candidate, was it?’
No response.
‘It was Rod Brophy? Why?’
Dixon waited.
‘He’s a friend of mine. Gives me a lot of work. And he lent me some money when I got into trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Business trouble. Things got a bit tight when the recession hit.’
‘How much money did he lend you?’
‘Thirty thousand pounds.’
‘Have you paid it back?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Tell me about the work then?’
‘What about it?’
‘How much does he give you?’
‘Whatever he can. Logo design, websites, search engine optimisation. He puts a lot of work my way. Friends of his. Acquaintances. He knows a lot of people.’
‘And as an MP he’d be able to put even more work your way?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dobbs. ‘That’s what he said, anyway.’
‘Has he asked for his money back?’
‘No.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Have you done any work for Westricity?’ asked Louise.
Dixon looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
‘We did their website,’ replied Dobbs.
‘We?’ asked Dixon.
‘I employ three staff. There are four of us here.’
‘Where did the referral to Westricity come from?’ asked Louise.
‘Rod,’ replied Dobbs. ‘Look, you don’t seriously think any of this has anything to do with the murder, do you?’
‘A group of people, of which you were a ringleader, make a deliberate, orchestrated and failed attempt to get rid of Tom Perry,’ said Dixon. ‘And then his wife is murdered. You can understand our interest?’
‘Really, it’s . . .’
‘Well, that’s all for now. I suggest you keep quiet about this conversation. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dobbs, wiping away the tears that were rolling down his cheeks.
Dixon and Louise turned to leave.
‘You’re not taking my computer?’ asked Dobbs.
‘I understand you want to be an MP one day. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll go far.’
Dixon shook his head and continued walking.
‘What was all that about the computer?’ asked Louise, switching on the engine.
‘When you’ve got them on the ropes, keep hitting ’em,’ replied Dixon. ‘I learned that watching Frank Bruno.’
‘I didn’t know you were a boxing fan.’
‘I’m not, but everyone was rooting for Big Frank. It was back in the days when it didn’t cost you an arm and a leg to watch it on the telly too.’
‘Are we gonna take Dobbs’ computer?’
‘We’ve got no evidence he’s committed any offence, have we?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Where did that Westricity bit come from?’ asked Dixon.
‘I looked at their website. In tiny letters at the bottom of the ‘About Us’ page, it says, “Website by Dobbs Design”.’
‘Well done,’ said Dixon, smiling.
‘Where to now?’
‘Brent Knoll. My Land Rover should’ve dried out by now.’
He was unlikely to get another chance for the foreseeable future, so Dixon could justify it. Almost. Just an hour, then he would catch up with Louise at Express Park. At least, that was what he told himself as he parked in the car park at Berrow Church. It was overcast, with a cold north wind blowing and the beach would be deserted. Perfect.
He opened the back of the Land Rover and watched Monty jump out and disappear up through the churchyard towards the beach. He followed him, pausing on the edge of the thirteenth fairway to allow two golfers to tee off, despite never having seen one reach the path. Then he stopped at the edge of the reeds to put Monty’s lead on. Ahead lay a narrow sandy track that twisted and turned through the reed bed and out onto the dunes, and you never knew who or what might be coming in the opposite direction. The prospect of Monty terrifying an elderly lady with a chihuahua was not worth the risk, not that he would have done anything, except perhaps lick it to death.
Once out onto the beach, Dixon zipped up his coat, turned up the collar and then thrust his hands deep into his pockets. Monty would have to make do with his ball kicked along the beach today. The tide was out and dry sand nearer the dunes was being blown along at ankle height in small but fierce sandstorms, so Dixon walked further out on the wet sand to keep it out of Monty’s eyes. They turned north towards Brean Down. Not a single car was parked on Berrow Beach; it was one advantage of a walk on the beach on a weekday in foul weather. And it would give him a chance to think.
He thought about an episode of Long Lost Family ending with the adopted child finding his or her birth mother and then blowing her head off with a .410 shotgun. It would not make good TV, but at least Wendy Gibson’s cold case had some sense of direction now, for the first time in over twenty years, even if it turned out to be the wrong direction.
Would Jane react in the same way when she found her birth mother? Dixon hoped not. And it would be his job to see to it that she didn’t.
Liam Dobbs. Harmless prat was the conclusion Dixon had arrived at. Although there was clearly more to Brophy’s apparent enthusiasm to get selected, and then elected, than pure ambition and greed, to use Dave Harding’s phrase. He expected to find a connection between Brophy and Westricity but was still no nearer finding a motive for the murder of Elizabeth Perry. Why kill Elizabeth if you wanted rid of Tom? The best he had come up with so far was that to murder Tom might be too obvious in that situation.
Laughable.
He was sitting on one of the old wooden posts that stopped cars parking too near the dunes, watching Monty digging, when he heard a large engine behind him, on the beach road. It was accelerating hard and getting closer. A large automatic, possibly a V12. Dixon stood up and turned to see a black Range Rover with tinted windows roar onto the beach, almost taking off as it came over the ramp. Once out onto the beach it turned towards him, sending sand spraying from wheels that were spinning on the soft ground. Dixon stepped back behind the line of wooden posts.
‘Monty, here, boy.’
Monty ran over and Dixon put his lead on. Then he watched the Range Rover slide to a halt in front of him. He was about to find out whether he really did have an understanding with the Albanians.
Dixon waited, listening to the Range Rover’s engine revving.
A small man got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear passenger door. He was wearing black, exactly as he had been when they last met; when he had pressed a gun barrel into the small
of Dixon’s back.
‘Get in.’
Dixon stepped forward.
‘Leave the dog.’
‘No.’
Dixon watched the man reach inside his jacket and pull out a gun, which he pointed at Monty’s head.
‘I really wouldn’t do that,’ said Dixon. ‘If I were you.’
A shout came from inside the Range Rover. Dixon recognised Zavan’s voice but didn’t understand the language, although he could guess what order had been given. The small man put his gun away, shut the rear door and climbed back into the front passenger seat. Then the Range Rover reversed and turned so that the offside rear passenger window was facing Dixon. He watched the tinted window go down, to reveal Zavan sitting in the rear passenger seat, also dressed in black, as he had been last time.
‘I have never understood the English love of dogs,’ he said, in a strong eastern European accent.
‘Get yourself one,’ said Dixon.
‘I intend to. When I retire,’ said Zavan, smiling. ‘I understand you wanted to see me.’
‘I did.’
‘You want to know who killed the politician’s wife?’
‘I do.’
‘But they are already dead, are they not?’
‘The foot soldiers are. I want to know who paid the money and who gave the order.’
‘No one gave the order. So our interests again do not conflict.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I will emigrate straight away, if you ever join Zephyr, Mr Dixon,’ said Zavan. He grinned, revealing a line of yellow teeth.
‘Maybe I’ll consider it then.’
‘It would be good sport, would it not, Nick? May I call you Nick?’
‘Football, cricket, rugby. They’re good sports.’ Dixon ignored his last question.
‘Now, football I understand.’
‘Who paid the money?’ asked Dixon.
‘Do you believe in insurance, Nick?’
‘I do.’
‘You house was repaired?’
‘It was.’
‘Good,’ said Zavan. ‘You must always have insurance.’
‘What sort?’
‘In this great country you can insure against anything and everything, can you not?’
‘You can.’
‘I always have insurance.’
‘I bet you do,’ said Dixon.
Zavan barked an order in Albanian, then he turned back to Dixon.
‘I doubt we will meet again, Nick. Ustau çatinë e vet e le të pikojë,’ said Zavan, waving his index finger at him.
Dixon watched the Range Rover accelerate away and turn back onto the beach road. Then it disappeared behind the sand dunes.
‘Now we’ve both had a gun pointed at us, old son,’ he said, squatting down next to Monty and scratching him behind the ears. ‘C’mon, let’s get back.’
They walked back along the beach to the path through the dunes and across the golf course, Dixon deep in thought.
Insurance. What was that all about? And he needed to get to a computer before he forgot the Albanian that Zavan had spoken to him. That must have been significant. Either that or Zavan had been telling him to take a long walk off a short pier.
Dixon ran along the landing and sat down at the first vacant workstation he came to. Then he switched on the computer and waited.
‘Everything all right, Sir?’ asked Louise.
Dixon nodded. He saw Jane’s head pop up from behind a partition.
‘Is he back?’
‘Yes,’ replied Louise.
Jane got up and walked over. She stood behind Dixon, watching his computer screen as he opened Google and typed in ‘ustau catine meaning’.
‘What’s that?’
‘Albanian,’ replied Dixon.
‘Have you seen them?’
‘They saw me.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine. Monty’s a bit traumatised though. It’s not every day you have a gun pointed at your head.’
‘Is he . . . ?’
‘He’s fine. I don’t think he noticed, to be honest.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Berrow Beach,’ replied Dixon. ‘What the hell’s all this about?’
They were looking at the search results, which offered definitions of ‘canteen’ from freedictionary.com and lots of websites about wine.
‘That can’t be it,’ said Dixon.
‘It’s including other results, look. Try that.’ Jane was pointing at the top of the screen to a link ‘Search only for ustau catine meaning’.
Dixon clicked on it and waited.
‘What’d they say?’ asked Jane.
‘I’m not sure, really. He said something about insurance, this phrase in Albanian and then buggered off.’
‘That’s not it either, is it?’ asked Jane.
‘Can’t be.’
This time it gave a definition of ‘utsav’; a small cafeteria, as on a military installation. Dixon sighed. Then he typed the word ‘Albanian’ on the end of the search string and hit the ‘Enter’ button.
‘That’s more like it.’
The first result came from Wikiquote. Dixon clicked on it and was soon looking at an alphabetical list of Albanian proverbs. He scrolled down.
‘The shoemaker goes barefoot.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jane.
By now Louise and Mark Pearce were standing either side of her.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Louise.
‘He’s had another visit from the Albanians,’ replied Jane.
‘The English translation is “working hard for others one may neglect one’s own needs or the needs of those closest to him”,’ said Dixon, sitting back in his chair.
‘Who may?’ asked Jane.
‘Tom Perry.’
‘And the needs of those closest to him will be Elizabeth?’
‘It will.’
‘What about the insurance thing?’
Dixon was still staring at the computer screen.
‘Means we can go home, though, doesn’t it?’ continued Jane. ‘If they’d wanted you dead they’d have done it there and then, wouldn’t they?’
Dixon smiled. For a moment there, he had thought they were going to.
Chapter Nineteen
They had dropped their bags and Jane’s car back at the cottage in Brent Knoll and driven to East Huntspill in Dixon’s Land Rover and, while Jane had been impressed by the three air fresheners dangling from the rear view mirror, she had still grumbled about the smell.
The wind farm meeting got under way at the East Huntspill Village Hall at 7 p.m. sharp. Dixon and Jane were standing at the back watching the stragglers taking their seats in front of them. It had been a boring afternoon, reading through the documents that Jane and Mark had produced on Welmore Holdings; boring, that is, until he had come across the shareholders register. It would be an interesting interview with Mr Brophy the following morning.
‘Right then, let’s make a start, shall we?’ said the meeting chairman, standing up behind a trestle table on the stage at the far end of the hall. ‘As you know, Sedgemoor District Council have refused planning permission but Westricity have appealed. This will be going before the planning inspector shortly and we’ll come on to what we do about that in a minute. First though, given that we are in the middle of a by-election, I have invited all of the candidates here tonight to tell us what they intend to do about it.’
He waited for the murmuring to subside.
‘First, Mr Tom Perry, Conservative.’
Perry had been sitting at the front of the hall with the other candidates. He stood up and turned to face the audience, wearing a bright blue rosette. He reminded them that he had been instrumental in the campaign against the wind farm thus far and that he would continue to be so, if elected their member of parliament. Then he added that Conservative Party policy was to end the government subsidy for onshore wind farms, an announcement that was greeted with a r
ound of applause.
‘There has to be a balance between sustainable, green energy supplies and the impact on the environment. I would only ever support wind farms offshore.’
Another round of applause.
‘Now Liberal Democrat candidate, Vanessa Hunt,’ said the chairman, although that was obvious from the yellow rosette.
Dixon leaned over and whispered in Jane’s ear. ‘Janice looked at the other election candidates, didn’t she?’
Jane nodded.
Mrs Hunt was a supporter of onshore wind farms, and solar power, but in the right place, and this was not the right place, due to the visual impact on the flat landscape and the risk to the unique biodiversity of the Levels. Her statement was greeted with more applause, as was the Labour candidate’s, who said much the same thing. The largest round of applause went to the UKIP candidate, who was less than complimentary about wind farms.
‘Hideous monstrosities that kill birds and generate enough electricity for fifty people to make a cup of tea in the advert break on Coronation Street. A complete waste of time and money.’
‘He doesn’t pull any punches, does he?’ whispered Jane.
‘He doesn’t have to,’ replied Dixon, smiling.
Jane frowned.
‘He’s not going to win,’ continued Dixon. ‘You can say what you like if you’re not going to win. People can’t hold you to it later.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘There was an opinion poll in the Bridgwater Mercury.’
‘Who’s going to win then?’
‘It’s between blue and yellow.’
‘Right then,’ said the chairman. ‘Let’s . . .’
‘Where’s the Green candidate?’ The shout came from the floor.
‘She declined my invitation to attend. She didn’t think that attending a wind farm protest meeting was appropriate during an election campaign.’
‘Thought she’d get lynched, more like.’ From the floor again and greeted with more murmuring.
‘There’s no Monster Raving Looney,’ said Jane.
‘Are you sure?’ replied Dixon, grinning.
‘Settle down, settle down,’ continued the chairman. ‘We need to get letter writing again. This time to the planning inspector. I’ve looked at the guidance, which says that original objections will be taken into account, but there’s no harm in writing again. All right? There was a leaflet on every chair giving the address and reference number.’
