Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  ALSO BY DAMIEN BOYD

  As the Crow Flies

  Head in the Sand

  Kickback

  Swansong

  Dead Level

  Death Sentence

  Heads or Tails

  Dead Lock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Damien Boyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542093293

  ISBN-10: 1542093295

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For David and Clare

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Half the bottle. Then attach the hose.

  Better switch the engine off too. He frowned. Maybe he should have filled up with petrol on the way just to be on the safe side. Still, it shouldn’t take long. He checked the fuel gauge as the engine died, the needle dropping back from the right side of empty. Yes, there’d be more than enough to do the job.

  He glanced down at the hosepipe coiled up on the green leather passenger seat.

  Where’s the bloody tape gone?

  He leaned forward and felt around the passenger footwell in the darkness. Nothing. It must have rolled under the seat.

  Sod it.

  Leaning across the gear stick now, his right arm thrust under the passenger seat.

  There it is!

  The last of the masking tape, left over from when he decorated her bedroom. He smiled. Pink paint and Barbie wallpaper behind her cot. She’ll love it. Shame he won’t be there when she arrives.

  He always said he’d never miss the birth of his child.

  And she hadn’t even got a name yet.

  Gripping the steering wheel tight now, his chest heaving as he gasped for air between the sobs, the waves lapping at the base of the sea wall by the time his breathing slowed.

  He wondered if she would ever forgive him.

  Maybe one day. When she was a bit older, she might understand.

  He wiped away the tears with the palm of his hand, twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swig. He grimaced, swallowing hard.

  Why rum? You don’t even like the bloody stuff.

  ‘I thought it might make a nice change,’ he said, aloud and to himself, watching the rain running down the windscreen.

  Another swig; another grimace.

  The lights on the old bridge twinkled in the distance away to his right, a few miles upstream: streetlights along the road; red lights on the towers marking them out for low flying aircraft. Lighting on the suspension cables too.

  Movement in the yard behind his car – craning his neck to watch in the passenger wing mirror – a shaft of light from a hut door, then it was gone. He leaned forward and followed the hi-vis jacket across the compound to the Portaloos.

  Then back again. Running this time. Must be watching the football.

  They’d never hear his engine. Not tonight.

  He looked up at the lights on the underside of the concrete viaduct above the compound and followed them as they stretched away into the distance, bright spot lamps on a platform illuminating workers fixing the monorail track, the best part of a mile away. And not even halfway across.

  Months behind schedule too; the bridge was due to open in six weeks.

  The streetlights were already in place right the way across to Wales, with red lights marking out the tops of the towers here too. Nobody knew about the monorail anyway and the crossing could open to traffic on time. He wondered if anyone would tell the Prince he was opening an unfinished bridge.

  ‘I won’t be around for that either,’ he muttered, letting out a long sigh – almost relieved it was not going to be his problem anymore.

  The tide was in, just as it had been the day his world had come crashing down around him.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ he screamed, his fists pummelling the steering wheel in a flurry of punches, the blows slowing as the tears began to fall. Again.

  He leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes, feeling the warm glow of the alcohol pumping through his veins. Strong stuff, rum, particularly when you’re not used to it.

  His head was tipped right back, and it was starting to spin. It felt heavy and that was just the alcohol.

  Wait until the carbon monoxide kicks in.

  Shame there were no headrests. Still, it was a nice car. Beautifully restored too and she’d loved it – the wedding anniversary present he’d always promised her. A 1969 British racing green MGB Roadster with chrome bumpers and wire wheels. The polished walnut steering wheel was a highlight too.

  He unhooked the air freshener from the rear view mirror, wound down the window and threw it out into the darkness.

  ‘Won’t be needing that.’

  Then he slid an envelope out of his jacket pocket and placed it gently on the dashboard.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I just can’t stay.’

  He waited for the tears to dry on his cheeks. Another swig; then fix the hose. He’d fail a breathalyser if it came to it – there was no going back now.

  ‘I wonder if the soft top is airtight?’

  Only one way to find out.

  He climbed out into the rain, steadying himself on the driver’s door. Then he leaned back in and picked up the hose and masking tape.

  Push the hose up the exhaust pipe and tape it in place. Simple.

  ‘I wonder if she’ll keep the car after this?’

  The streetlights on the viaduct glinted on the stainless steel exhaust; an expensive upgrade, that one, but worth it.

  No catalytic converter too. It should be over in seconds; a few breaths and he’d be unconscious. Asleep before he finished the rum. Now, that would be a relief.

  Hosepipe through the window and taped in place, he sat down in the driver’s seat and closed the door. Then he put on his seatbelt.

  ‘What
did you do that for? You’re not going anywhere.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Some music too, I think.’ He pushed the cassette into the machine and turned up the volume.

  ‘A little Pink Floyd. “Wish You Were Here”.’

  Maybe not.

  Then he turned the key.

  Chapter One

  Agony. That was the right word. Pain didn’t come close to describing it.

  ‘This may sting a bit,’ the nurse had said.

  Bollocks.

  Detective Inspector Nick Dixon leaned back in his chair, his eyes clamped tight shut, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘Don’t be so wet.’

  ‘Whatever happened to tea and sympathy?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Don’t look at me. I’m just the chauffeur.’ Detective Sergeant Jane Winter was sitting next to him in the diabetic centre at Musgrove Park Hospital, leafing through a copy of Somerset Life. She’d checked the society pages for anyone on the wanted list and was now looking at country houses they couldn’t afford.

  Dixon tried to open his eyes and focus on the BBC News, the TV mounted on the wall on the other side of the waiting area. The spelling mistakes in the automated subtitles had been keeping him amused while he waited for his retinal screening appointment. Being diabetic was a pain sometimes – in the eyes and the arse.

  ‘I can’t see a bloody thing.’ He shook his head, sending a mixture of tears and eye drops on to Jane’s magazine. ‘I really haven’t got time—’

  ‘Make the time. Besides, you’re here now.’

  ‘Being stabbed wasn’t as bad as this.’ He rubbed his left shoulder with the palm of his right hand. He still felt the occasional twinge, but then it had been only six months ago. A fish filleting knife. Nice.

  Jane closed the magazine and dropped it on to the pile on the table next to her, casually picking up another. ‘What about your burns?’

  Dixon squinted at the palms of his hands. ‘You’re right, that was grim.’

  ‘Is it like this every year?’

  ‘I had it done at Kingston last time. They must use a local anaesthetic or something.’

  ‘If you ask, they might give you a general.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane smiled as she fumbled in her handbag for a packet of tissues. ‘Here,’ she said, pressing a couple into Dixon’s hand. ‘Use these.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ She sat bolt upright, dropping the magazine on to Dixon’s lap. ‘It’s on the news.’

  He tried to focus on the television opposite, the glare from the strip lights on the ceiling proving too much for him now that the drops were taking effect. ‘What does it say?’ he asked, burying his face in the bundle of tissues.

  ‘There’s someone outside Express Park, standing under a brolly – must’ve been this morning, it wasn’t raining when we left,’ replied Jane. ‘Er, “the massive manhunt goes into its forty-second delay”.’ She frowned. ‘I think they mean “day”.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m reading the subtitles.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘“Wanted in connection with four murders and the recent abduction of two children . . .”’ Jane paused, waiting for the subtitles to catch up. ‘“Hijacked a police patrol car at knifepoint and fled the scene of” – they keep mentioning it was a police car and it makes us look a right bunch of idiots – “last seen in the Chippenham area . . . believed to be armed and dangerous . . . not to be approached” etcetera, etcetera. They’re using the photofit you had done with the beard and hair. It’s switched to the weather now.’

  ‘He’s gone to ground somewhere. The whole thing was meticulously planned, remember.’ Dixon shifted in his seat, the tissues still clamped across his eyes. ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘Forty-two days.’

  ‘Since they put the drops in.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jane looked at her watch. ‘About twenty minutes, which means you can’t drive until after six o’clock.’

  Dixon sighed. ‘The stinging’s eased off a bit, but it’s the glare.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  He opened his eyes and turned to face Jane, blinking furiously. ‘I did bring my sunglasses, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’ve got them in my handbag.’ Jane winced. ‘Your pupils are all dilated, like you’ve been smoking cannabis.’

  ‘I wish I had.’

  ‘What are they looking for anyway?’

  ‘Bulges in the tiny blood vessels at the back of the eye. If one bursts, you get a retinal bleed and go blind. Diabetic retinopathy they call it.’

  ‘And if they find one?’

  ‘They zap it with a laser.’

  ‘Sounds horrible. Have you had it done?’

  ‘Always been lucky up to now,’ he replied, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Nicholas Dixon.’ He looked up to find a nurse standing over him with a clipboard. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Jane coughed. Loudly.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ said the nurse, smirking. ‘You’re driving, I take it?’ she asked, smiling at Jane.

  ‘Yes.’ She rattled a set of keys on a Land Rover keyring.

  ‘Good, well, follow me, Nicholas. Or are you Nick?’

  ‘Nick’s fine,’ replied Dixon, following her blurred outline along the brightly lit corridor, more strip lights overhead and sun streaming in through the windows.

  ‘You’ve had this done before?’

  ‘Several times. I moved down from London last year. They use anaesthetic eye drops up there,’ he muttered.

  ‘Do they?’ The nurse stopped by an open door. ‘That’s nice.’

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. A chance to shine.

  ‘A chance to get yourself killed, more like,’ Lee had said, watching her wriggle into the red fleece top, holding the cuffs on her shirt to stop the sleeves riding up.

  She peered into the darkness, hoping her eyes would adjust to the gloom, although taking her sunglasses off might help. She glanced down at the Royal Mail logo on the fleece as she slid her fake Ray-Bans into the pocket.

  What were you thinking of?

  Police Community Support Officer Sharon Cox looked over her shoulder at the patrol car blocking the narrow lane, and behind that a Royal Mail van, with the postie in his shirtsleeves sheltering from the wind, peering at her from behind the steering wheel.

  Cold on Exmoor, even in mid-May.

  Then she heard the central locking on the van. Locked himself in – nice touch, that.

  An elderly lady, not seen for a few weeks. Sharon frowned. The old bird had probably had a fall, or a stroke or something. There’d be a sensible explanation for it, there always was. It was a lot of fuss about nothing and that wasn’t about to change just because some hotshot detective inspector thought a serial killer was holed up in the area.

  West Somerset is a big place . . .

  Isn’t it?

  ‘Are you going down there or not?’ asked PCSO Lee Morgan, standing behind the patrol car. Hiding actually, thought Sharon.

  ‘You could come with me.’

  ‘I said we should call it in, remember? We were told to call in anything unusual and wait for Armed Response.’

  ‘It’s hardly unusual. And you don’t call Armed Response for a welfare check,’ replied Sharon. ‘Anyway, I’m just going to have a look, that’s all.’ She held up a piece of junk mail the intended recipient wouldn’t miss. ‘Delivering this.’

  ‘She collects her post from Withypool. You heard what he said,’ replied Lee, gesturing to the Royal Mail van, the postie watching them intently from the safety of the driver’s seat; belt on, engine idling, ready for a quick getaway.

  ‘If anyone sees me, I’ll leg it, all right?’ Sharon turned back to the rutted track, which shelved away steeply from the lane, with high banks on either side and overgrown willow hedges on top that met in the middle, bent almost flat by the prevailing wind.
The odd shaft of light penetrated the darkness through the canopy. If she’d been driving, she’d have flicked her headlights to full beam, not that you’d get a vehicle down it. A tank, perhaps, but not a car.

  She followed the track down, stepping over the ruts, the only sound the crunching of the gravel beneath her feet – in the few places it hadn’t been washed away by the winter rains – and the occasional jet high overhead, the vapour trails just visible through the hedge above her.

  I wish I was on it. Even if I do end up at bloody Gatwick.

  The shaft of light at the bottom of the track grew larger as she approached, avoiding what little gravel there was, moving silently in the shadows when she could, every now and then stopping to listen: the wind rustling the fresh green leaves, another jet high in the sky. And buzzing.

  What the hell was that buzzing? And why was it getting louder?

  She stopped at the bottom of the track, still in the shadows, and watched the old farm cottage. No smoke coming from the chimney; no lights on; upstairs curtains drawn.

  The large wisteria was in flower; holding the cottage up too, by the looks of things.

  Two stables on the right were empty, the doors standing open; a barn to the left, the doors closed.

  Sharon slid on her sunglasses as she walked across the yard to the front door of the cottage, past a water pump covered in cobwebs. Then she pushed the envelope through the letterbox. A quick glance through the windows on either side. Nothing.

  A deep breath, then she followed the path around to the back.

  ‘Mrs Boswell?’

  The lawn hadn’t been mowed for a while. The kitchen was deserted too; the back door locked.

  ‘Mrs Boswell?’ Louder this time.

  Silence.

  Apart from the buzzing.

  The few bees on the wisteria couldn’t account for that, could they?

  She continued along the path around the back of the cottage, towards the barn. Several bird seed feeders were hanging in the apple trees, all of them empty. The chicken coop was empty too, but there was still food on the ground. Maybe a fox had got them?

  The buzzing grew louder as she approached the barn. Red brick, the slate roof full of holes, the hayloft open; the buzzing definitely louder.

  Sharon recognised the smell. It was a bit early for rapeseed, surely?