by Damien Boyd
That smells like death too.
Then she opened the barn door.
Dixon peered into the darkness, the only light coming from the far corner of the room, where a figure was hunched over in front of a computer screen.
‘You missed your retinal screening last year,’ said the technician, frowning at him over a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
‘Did I?’
‘My name’s Arnie.’ The technician spun round on his swivel chair. ‘When did you last have your eyes looked at?’
‘Must be two years ago then, if I missed last year.’
‘No problems?’
‘None.’
‘Well, we’ve got a new optical coherence tomography machine, so we’ll soon see, if you’ll pardon the pun.’ He pushed himself across the floor on his swivel chair until he was behind the machine. Then he reached round and tapped the chin rest. ‘Usual drill. Sit down and put your chin on here; look straight ahead and try not to blink.’
Dixon did as he was told.
‘There’ll be a flash when the cam—’
‘Sorry,’ said Dixon, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’ve got to take this.’ His phone was buzzing as he slid it out of his jacket pocket.
‘That’s supposed to be switched off,’ muttered Arnie.
‘What is it, Louise?’ asked Dixon, his phone pressed to his ear.
‘We’ve got something over at Billingford, Sir. It’s on Exmoor, just west of Withypool – remote with a capital “R”. One of the local PCSOs went in on foot, dressed as a postie. It’s not a pretty sight, apparently. IC1 female, approximately eighty years of age.’
‘What about the ears?’
‘Knitting needles. He left them in this time.’
‘How long?’
‘At least a couple of weeks, according to uniform.’
Dixon gritted his teeth. ‘Any sign of Steiner?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Express Park. Dave and Mark are on their way up there now. Scientific are en route too.’
‘What about Roger Poland?’
‘He said he was conflicted – personal involvement and all that – so he’s sent the junior pathologist, somebody Davidson.’
‘All right. See what you can find out about the victim,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m leaving now.’ He rang off and slid his phone back into his pocket.
‘You’re a police officer?’ asked Arnie.
‘Afraid so.’
‘On the team looking for Steiner?’
‘Leading the team looking for Steiner.’ Dixon stood up. ‘The Somerset end of it anyway.’
‘Is there a Somerset end? It said on the news he was in Wiltshire.’
‘I really can’t—’
‘Of course you can’t. Sorry. I hope you get him.’
‘We will.’
‘Look, this’ll only take two minutes,’ said Arnie, gesturing to the OCT machine and shrugging his shoulders. ‘Either that or you can come back some other time. It’ll mean having the eye drops again though.’
Chapter Two
‘How was it?’ asked Jane, handing Dixon his sunglasses.
‘I haven’t had so much fun since I had my wisdom teeth out,’ he muttered.
‘Where to now? I’ve got the afternoon off.’
‘Louise rang.’ Dixon threw the bundle of tissues into a bin by the door. ‘Looks like Steiner’s been holed up on Exmoor. We’ve got another body.’
‘That makes five then.’
‘That we know about.’
A large white Staffordshire terrier was standing on the driver’s seat of Dixon’s Land Rover with his front paws up on the steering wheel. ‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Jane, as they walked across the car park.
‘Monty can come. We haven’t got time to drop him home anyway.’
Jane pushed the dog into the back of the Land Rover, then leaned across and opened the passenger door.
‘Take the Wiveliscombe road, then head for Dulverton,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s somewhere west of Withypool, but I’ll ring Louise and get directions when we get there.’
‘You were right then?’ asked Jane, turning out of the car park. ‘Last seen in Chippenham forty-two days ago and he’s been here all the time.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Stands to reason, if you ask me. Especially after you found his half-sister living in Cannington. And to think Charlesworth wanted to stop the surveillance on her.’ Jane sneered. ‘Dickhead.’
Harsh, perhaps. But Jane was right all the same. It had been a battle with the Assistant Chief Constable to keep the surveillance going this long, let alone to get the search focused on West Somerset in the first place. ‘He’ll be in Wiltshire somewhere’ had been a favourite, or better still ‘let the Wiltshire force pick up the sodding bill. After all, it was their fault he got away.’ That was a belter, that one. Charlesworth had been on top form that day.
The Major Investigation Team had gradually shrunk in the days since the hunt for the missing girls had wound down. Detective Chief Superintendent Potter and her team had returned to Portishead three weeks ago, and the Bristol lot before that, leaving Dixon in charge of a much reduced MIT.
‘It’s a manhunt, which is uniform’s job, not CID.’ That gem had come from Detective Chief Inspector Chard, a thorn in Dixon’s side since the investigation in the school in Taunton. Still, he was back at Portishead now too; safely out of the way and, more importantly, out of Dixon’s hair.
Twat.
‘How d’you reckon Steiner got here?’ asked Jane.
‘Back of his sister’s car, I expect. It was a week before we found her and put the surveillance in place.’
‘You’d think she’d be turning him in, not helping him stay on the run.’ Jane accelerated past a set of temporary traffic lights, catching up with the back of the queue filing through the roadworks. ‘He’s murdered five people and kidnapped two children.’
‘We don’t know she is helping him,’ replied Dixon.
‘She must be.’
Steiner was smart, Dixon knew that. He’d had plenty of time to prepare before he’d snatched the girls, and his plan would have included his escape; vehicles, cash, mobile phones. ‘If she did pick him up from Chippenham, it would’ve been before she knew what he’d been up to. There was a news blackout, don’t forget.’
‘And when she finds out, she abandons him. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘It might explain why the surveillance has drawn a blank.’
‘Maybe they know we’re watching?’
They spent the rest of the drive in silence, Dixon occasionally holding his phone up and moving it from side to side, looking for a signal. They were climbing west out of Dulverton, open moorland stretching away in the distance, before he spoke again.
‘Here we go. Pull in here and I’ll ring Louise.’
‘We should’ve turned left at the bottom of the hill,’ said Dixon. He plugged his phone into the charging cable that was dangling in the passenger footwell. ‘The easiest way in is via Hawkridge, apparently.’
Jane restarted the engine and began to turn the Land Rover in a field gateway.
‘There’s a roadblock just beyond the village and they can give us directions from there.’
The Hawkridge roadblock consisted of a patrol car sideways across the lane. ‘Stay on this road for about a mile, Sir,’ the uniformed officer said. ‘There’s a patrol car blocking the lane to the cottage. Parking’s in the field opposite. Well, I say field – there’s a gap in the drystone wall and you’ll be on the moor. You’ll be fine in this old bus though. You can’t miss it.’
Jane sped off before Dixon could draw breath.
The road beyond was narrow, the wing mirrors flicking leaves in the willow hedges on either side. A vibrant lime green, just like the highlighter pen on Jane’s desk, he thought. That was one advantage of the Safeguarding Unit: there was no ‘hot-desking’ in
an open plan office for her.
His eyes were beginning to calm down a bit too. Sunglasses were still a must, although the shade from the high hedges was helping.
‘He called this a road,’ said Jane.
‘Maybe he’s an optimist?’
‘Can’t have been on the job long then.’
The lane opened out on the climb up to Halscombe Allotment, Dixon squinting at the view across to Withypool Common: drystone walls, lush green fields, a herd of ponies sheltering under a solitary tree. And heather, lots of heather.
‘There’s the helicopter,’ said Jane, pointing up to the right.
‘Who the bloody hell—?’ Dixon snatched his phone off the dashboard. ‘The helicopter’s here, Louise. Who authorised that?’
‘The Assistant Chief Constable, Sir.’
‘Well, get rid of it.’
Silence.
‘This was supposed to be low profile, Lou. We might just as well put up a neon sign telling Steiner we’ve found the body.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And get on to the press officer and make sure there’s a news blackout.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Get Control to put out an All Units – no bloody sirens.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What is wrong with people?’ muttered Dixon, jabbing the red button to disconnect the call.
‘Just following protocol,’ replied Jane.
‘She’s been dead for weeks, which means Steiner could be miles away by now anyway. But if he’s not, do we really want to tell him we know he’s here?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Of course not,’ continued Dixon. ‘As soon as he knows we’re on to him, he’ll figure out we’ve found his sister.’
‘Yes, but he knows we’ll find this body, surely?’
‘Eventually, yes. But there’s no need to tell him we’ve found it just yet, if we can avoid it. With a bit of luck, he still thinks we’re looking in and around Chippenham.’
Jane slowed as a police officer walked out into the lane in front of them with his arm raised. A wave of their warrant cards and the officer directed them through a gap in the drystone wall opposite, the Land Rover bouncing over the stones lying between the tufts of marsh grass.
‘Roger couldn’t help himself, I see,’ said Dixon.
Jane parked next to Poland’s Volvo estate. An ambulance, three dog vans and two Scientific Services vans completed the car park.
‘Inspector Dixon?’ asked the uniformed officer.
‘And this is Detective Sergeant Winter.’
‘Mark Pearce told me to tell you they were dropping down into Withypool to see what they could find out.’
‘What’ve we got then?’
‘It’s a small cottage, about half a mile down the track. Nice old bird. Mrs Boswell.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Yes, Sir. She’s lived here all her life. Eighty-two I think she is . . . was, and she still cycled everywhere.’ The uniformed officer stepped back out into the lane at the sound of an engine revving. ‘When the weather was nice she’d go up and over Porchester’s Post and down into Withypool that way. Fit as a fiddle she was.’
‘Who raised the alarm?’
‘Mr Bales from the shop in Withy. She’d not been in for a few weeks and when he popped up here to check on her there was no sign. Just her dog barking.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Mr Bales has got him.’
‘Keep an eye on mine, will you?’ asked Dixon, squeezing past the patrol car blocking the track down to the cottage.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Where’s the PCSO who found her?’
‘Gone home, Sir. She was in a bit of a state. Ex-army and she’s never seen anything like it.’
‘And where’s Mrs Boswell?’
‘In the barn.’ The officer grimaced. ‘Why would somebody do that to another human being? I’ve been on the job twenty years and I’ve never . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘They live sheltered lives, these rural beat coppers,’ muttered Dixon.
‘You haven’t seen her yet,’ replied Jane, jumping from one rut to the next.
Dixon stepped to one side to allow an ashen faced uniformed officer to pass. He was heading up the track, his eyes glazed over. His top button was undone and he was carrying his tie, which was dragging in the stinging nettles beside him.
‘Are you all right, Constable?’
‘I just need some fresh air, Sir.’
‘You went in the barn?’
The officer nodded. ‘You’ll need to watch where you’re treading at the bottom, on the left by the gate, I’m afraid I puked up.’
Dixon watched the officer stumble on up the track.
‘He looked like death warmed up,’ said Jane.
The wind dropped as they followed the track down off the open moorland, the willow hedges above their heads standing upright by the time they reached the bottom, in the shelter of the combe. Dixon winced as the smell of death hit him, the fetid air drifting up the track, released from the barn now the doors were standing open.
Jane turned away and retched.
‘Here,’ he said, handing her a bundle of scented dog poo bags, before clamping another handful over his own nose and mouth.
‘What’s that buzzing?’ she mumbled.
‘Flies.’
They stepped to one side to allow two Scientific Services officers to pass, each carrying two large metal cases. A uniformed officer was following them carrying two spotlights. All of them were wearing masks.
Dixon frowned. ‘Are you sure you want to see this?’
‘Not really, no,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s not even my case anymore.’
‘You could take Monty for a walk?’
‘I’ll wait outside. It’ll be nice to see Roger anyway. Are you sure you want to? You could just read the report.’
‘I need to see it. Her. After all, it’s my fault she’s dead.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ snapped Jane, moving the dog bags away from her mouth before hastily clamping them back in place. ‘The Wiltshire lot let him get away. And what was the alternative? Let Hatty drown?’
‘I keep thinking—’
‘Well, don’t.’
Dixon paused in the shadows at the bottom of the track and looked up at the cottage, the render crumbling beneath the windows. The front door was standing open, the light on in the hall illuminating a flagstone floor and a grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs.
No straw on the floor in the stables on the right – empty hay nets hanging on the bars – the horses long gone, replaced by an old petrol lawn mower and a bicycle in one, bags of chicken feed in the other, the corners torn open by mice. Or rats.
Shafts of light burst from the barn door and the hayloft as the spot lamps were switched on inside. Then the unmistakable figure of Roger Poland appeared, striding across to the pile of metal cases flattening the grass growing between the cobbles in front of the cottage.
‘Do you think that pump works?’ asked Jane.
‘Must do. Where else would she get her water from?’
Dixon watched Poland take a camera from one of the cases and walk back towards the barn. White overalls in size XL – a special order just for Roger, and the legs were still too short; blue latex overshoes and gloves; a white mask over his nose and mouth.
‘Got any spare masks, Roger?’ shouted Jane, stepping out into the sunlight at the bottom of the track.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, turning around. ‘Yes, of course. They’re not scented though.’
Was he smiling behind that mask? Dixon couldn’t tell.
‘I’d skip this one if I were you,’ continued Poland. ‘It’s going to take a while too. We’re having to carry everything in from the road.’
‘I need to see her,’ said Dixon.
‘I’ll sort you out a set of overalls then, if you must. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘
I thought you were conflicted.’
‘I’m here in an advisory capacity. It’s Davidson’s case and the reports will have his name on them.’
‘What about the cottage?’ asked Dixon.
‘Uniform have checked it’s clear and there’s another SOCO team on the way to go in. No sign of Steiner. The smell probably got too much for him.’
‘Or he ran out of food.’
Poland opened a blue plastic crate and took out a bag. ‘Masks in there. I’ll get you a set of overalls.’
‘Thanks.’
Mask safely on and Dixon had both hands free to put on the overalls. He still had to lean on the water pump though, Jane having followed the track behind the cottage that climbed out of the combe on the far side and up to Porchester’s Post. The path had already been checked by uniform but she insisted on doing it again. He knew the real reason though, and could have done with some fresh air himself.
‘Give us a few minutes,’ Roger had said. ‘To do the preliminaries, you know.’
Cottage first then.
Dixon pushed open the front door with his elbow and peered in. Low ceilings, small windows; it was dark even with the light on. The drinks cabinet was open in the dining room on the left; empty apart from an unopened bottle of Croft Original. Otherwise the room was untouched. Still, Steiner was unlikely to have been entertaining.
The living room on the right would be a useful source of DNA. Empty bottles had replaced the wood in the log basket by the fire and the coffee table was covered in dirty plates, knives and forks lying in amongst the chicken bones. The odd empty glass too.
No television explained the copy of Pride and Prejudice open on the arm of the sofa. Left in a hurry, perhaps?
Dixon looked at the photographs on the sideboard. A young family somewhere, the child holding a Koala bear; Australia then, or at a zoo possibly, although the postcard on the mantelpiece of the Great Barrier Reef confirmed it. Another of an older lady at a dinner table. He doubted Mrs Boswell would look much like that now.
The smell in the kitchen tested his mask to its limit. It failed, which didn’t bode well for the barn.
Chicken feathers on the floor and an empty coop outside the back window – doesn’t like sherry and not a vegetarian; an open bag of dog biscuits in the pantry with several bags of bird seed and nuts on the shelf; the fridge empty – solar panels at the bottom of the garden just visible over the long grass explained the power supply.
