by Damien Boyd
Dixon dropped the last of his chips into a bin.
Could Steiner really have got in there? Not without help, surely? Perhaps he was paying for that help with bitcoin?
Oh shit.
Dixon slid his phone out of his pocket.
‘What is it?’ snapped Chief Inspector Bateman, just before his voicemail cut in.
‘He’s inside Hinkley Point, Sir. He must be. Track his movements east and he’s been heading straight for it. My guess is he’s paid for his passage on a ship leaving from the jetty. That’s what the bitcoin is for.’
‘D’you have any evidence?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘That’ll be Charlesworth’s first question.’ Bateman’s sigh was exaggerated for Dixon’s benefit. ‘And what d’you think EDF are going to say when you ask them to shut down the largest construction site in Europe?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘There are no buts. You need evidence. You know that.’
‘By the time we get that, he could be long gone.’
‘Look, I’ll get the beat team sergeant to make some enquiries. That’s the best we can do unless and until you get some evidence he’s actually in there. All right?’
‘Not really.’
‘It’ll bloody well have to be.’ Bateman rang off, leaving Dixon staring at the seagulls still sitting on the seawall in front of him, two ships moored at the end of the jetty in the distance, their outlines just visible through the evening haze.
He would have to content himself with a text message to Louise for the time being.
Are there any mobile phone masts inside the HPC site?
And then another.
Find out about WiFi too
Then it was back to waiting. Or was it?
Dixon spotted the number plate recognition cameras as he drove west out of Bridgwater towards Hinkley Point. The delivery management system. He remembered that. At the same time wondering whether EDF’s security team had access to it.
A stream of minibuses passed by travelling in the opposite direction, delivering shift workers back to their cars at the park and ride. Finished at nine, probably, given that it was twenty past. He wondered whether one of them was Steiner. Or whether he was staying on site in one of the accommodation blocks. That’s if he was still there at all. He may have already got away on a ship leaving the jetty.
The streetlights were on when Dixon turned into the visitors’ car park at the main entrance to HPC; deserted apart from two empty minibuses and several bicycles chained up in a bike rack on the left. A camera in each corner too, CCTV this time, one of them turning to focus on his Land Rover as he parked against the high steel fence. He glanced up at the spikes along the top – sharp and splayed, like the barb on a fish hook. Still, climbing over had never been the plan.
He was going to knock on the front door.
Two burly security guards greeted him at the entrance to the car park.
‘The site’s closed to visitors now, Sir.’
Warrant card at the ready. ‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police. We’re searching for a fugitive we believe may be on the site. Can I speak to your head of security?’
‘He’s gone home.’ The taller of the two.
Dixon pushed past them, heading for the main entrance. ‘What about the beat team?’
‘They’re not here either.’
It looked like the entrance to Wembley Stadium, apart from the Visitors’ Reception to the right of the turnstiles. Steiner must have a fake ID if he was getting in and out.
‘I thought this place was twenty-four hours?’
‘Not yet. That doesn’t start until next year.’
‘So, how many people are on site?’
‘Four thousand or so, during the day anyway.’
‘What’s going on at night then?’ Dixon was waiting by the security door.
‘The jetty runs with the tide, so there’ll be boats in, unloading aggregate. And the tunnelling’s started. That’s twenty-four hours a day, but then it’s underground, so it doesn’t make any odds.’
‘Tunnelling?’
‘Water. Two intake, one outfall. They go out about two miles. It’s the same machines they used for the Crossrail tunnel. Huge things. And they’re going to concrete them in and leave them there, would you believe it?’
‘Yes, I would.’ Dixon turned to the other security guard, who had remained silent up to now. ‘What about your supervisor?’
‘I’ll go and get her, if you wouldn’t mind waiting in here?’ he replied, opening the security door and gesturing to the reception area.
The taller of the two guards stayed with Dixon, watching his every move. ‘There was a five-a-side match earlier. Does that count?’
‘Not really.’ A comedian. ‘What’s that place there?’ asked Dixon, pointing to a large block of units behind the entrance.
‘That’s one of the welfare blocks. Offices, changing rooms and a canteen on the ground floor.’
‘I could do with a—’
‘It closed at nine.’
‘What shift d’you work?’
‘Nights at the moment. Eight till eight. I was on earlies last week though.’
Worth a try then, thought Dixon, reaching into his pocket for the photofits. ‘Have you seen this man?’
‘On the telly.’
‘Not coming through the turnstiles?’
‘Here?’ The security guard laughed. ‘He’d never get in here. You’re pissing in the wind, mate. There are security checks, background checks, an induction programme. He’s on the run, for fuck’s sake. Pardon my French.’
Dixon was staring at a map of the site on the wall when the door opened behind him.
‘What’s the . . . ?’ The rest of the question was lost in her yawn, the back of her hand covering her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, running her fingers through her hair. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘And you are?’
‘The duty manager. Paula Smart.’ She yawned again.
‘We’re looking for this man,’ said Dixon, handing her the photofits. ‘And we have reason to believe he’s here.’
‘What reason?’
The honest answer was none. Just a hunch, based on the fact that there was nowhere else he could be, although ‘fact’ was pushing it a bit.
‘Do you have a database of all staff?’ asked Dixon, ignoring Paula’s question.
‘Yes.’
‘And can you produce a list of new staff employed within the last month?’
‘You’d need a warrant.’
‘This is a murder investigation.’
‘We’ve all seen it on the TV. And I can assure you we’d have seen him. He’d never have got past the security checks for a start.’
‘Can you check with your—?’
‘Of course I will. First thing in the morning.’
Dixon sighed. ‘What time does the first shift start in the morning?’
‘Six.’
‘And how many workers are accommodated on site?’
‘Five hundred. The rest are bussed in from the park and rides.’
‘What about a list of those staying on site?’
‘Again, you’d need—’
‘A warrant. I know.’
‘Speak to Martha. She’ll be here at eight. Martha’s the beat team sergeant.’
Dixon looked up at the camera in the corner of the reception area. ‘How long d’you keep the footage from all these cameras?’
‘Twenty-eight days.’
The floodlights were still on at the Astroturf football pitch in front of the accommodation block as Dixon drove back towards Bridgwater, a few lads kicking a ball around. He pulled over and looked back at the site, lights marking out the cranes and the temporary jetty. Several cabins were lit up, vehicles moving about on access roads and what looked like another welfare block on the far side, maybe two miles away.
The accommodation block consisted of two lines of timber clad prefab
ricated units, with streetlights outside and even grassed areas. It looked like a small housing estate, all of it to be dismantled when the construction of the nuclear power station was complete.
Dixon wondered whether Steiner was in one of them; or was he just barking up the wrong tree? It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, putting his phone to his ear.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ demanded Lewis. ‘Charlesworth has had the head of security at Hinkley Point bending his ear.’
‘It’s the one place we haven’t looked.’
‘The beat team are keeping an eye out for him. What more d’you want?’
‘A warrant. We need access to their personnel files and CCTV footage.’
‘Based on what?’
‘Are you saying we shouldn’t check, Sir?’ Ducking the question. Again.
‘Well, you’ll have to get it past Charlesworth. He’ll be at Express Park first thing in the morning.’ Lewis rang off, leaving Dixon staring at the lights on the jetty. The space shuttles were lit up too.
He kicked the gravel, sending a spray of small stones clattering into the steel fence.
Steiner was probably miles away by now anyway. It was thirty-six hours since Mrs Boswell had been found and twelve since the broadband had been shut down at Groom’s Cottage – enough of a head start for anyone.
‘Not quite the same, is it, old son?’ muttered Dixon, watching Monty sniffing the lamp post on the street corner. A clear sky, a full moon; it would have been perfect out on the beach.
‘He’s already been out,’ Rod had said.
‘It’s for my benefit, not his,’ Dixon had replied, although it was more about escaping what was on the television – some reality thing with lots of people shouting at each other; even Jane’s eyes had glazed over.
‘I’ll come,’ she’d said, jumping up off the sofa.
They turned right, then right again, heading round the block, although it felt more like round in circles, which is precisely where Dixon had been going for weeks.
‘Any news?’ asked Jane.
‘Not really. I’ve got a feeling he’s inside Hinkley Point. I went over there, but can’t do much until I get a warrant, and without any evidence I’ll never get that past Charlesworth.’
‘He’s still sticking his oar in, is he?’
‘Sadly.’
‘What about the beat team?’
‘I’ll catch up with them in the morning.’ Dixon was rummaging in his pocket for a dog bag. ‘There are boats coming and going from the jetty now, so he may have got away on one of those.’
‘It was on the news again this evening,’ said Jane. ‘No stone left unturned, they said.’
‘Just the one,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Just the one.’
Dixon woke early. A single bed would have been a struggle just for the two of them, but with Monty asleep on the end as well it had made for a broken night’s sleep.
He looked around the room, light starting to filter in around the sides of the curtains. Neither of them had bothered to unpack, clothes draped over still-full holdalls, a clean blouse on a coat hanger on the corner of the mantelpiece, where several swimming trophies were still proudly displayed, much to Jane’s embarrassment. At least the posters had gone from the walls, although it had taken Rod ages to get rid of the last traces of Blu-Tack.
Dixon reached down, picked up his phone and checked the time. The early shift would’ve already started at Hinkley. Then the screen lit up and the phone started buzzing.
‘You’re in early, Lou,’ he whispered, in a feeble attempt not to wake Jane, although she had already rolled over, dragging the duvet with her.
‘We’ve got a body, Sir. IC1 female. Approximately twenty-five years of age.’
‘Eardrums?’
‘Sounds like it.’
Dixon sat up. ‘Where is she?’
‘Hang on.’ Paper rustling. ‘The ground granular blast furnace slag silo.’
Asking questions he already knew the answer to was oddly satisfying sometimes. This was not one of them. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh through his nose.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Hinkley Point C.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Detective Inspector Dixon is it?’
The man was walking alongside Dixon’s Land Rover as he turned into the parking space in the visitors’ car park at Hinkley Point. Smartly dressed in a tweed jacket and tie, with short greying hair, he appeared agitated, shifting from one foot to the other while he waited for Dixon to switch the engine off and wind down the driver’s window.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘My name’s David Pickles. Director of Communications with EDF.’
‘You’re here early, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘I got the call at six this morning. I can’t believe it.’
Dixon turned to Louise sitting in the passenger seat. ‘What time did we get the call?’
‘0626, Sir.’
Pickles hesitated. ‘I got a call from our head of security. I told him to call the police. What else could we do?’
‘What else indeed?’ Dixon picked his words carefully as he opened the driver’s door, forcing Pickles to step back behind it. ‘We’ll need the visitors’ car park for the mobile command unit,’ he continued. ‘Can we get those cars shifted?’
‘But we need the car park for visitors.’
‘There won’t be any today, I’m afraid, Sir. And possibly tomorrow.’
‘I can get the visits cancelled,’ said Pickles, ‘but do we really have to have the command unit right outside?’
‘Can we take it on to the site?’
‘Either that or we can give you some office space in the welfare block. That’s where the beat team office is.’
‘That would be very helpful, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘It may avoid any awkward photographs appearing in the press too.’
Pickles blushed. ‘Quite,’ he mumbled.
Dixon winked at Louise. ‘Stand the mobile command unit down, please, Constable.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Look, I want to assure you, Inspector, that EDF will be doing everything we can to cooperate with you. Amy was a—’
‘Amy?’
‘I was told it was Amy Crook,’ replied Pickles. ‘She’s something of a celebrity around here. Drives one of the hundred-ton dumper trucks. The batching plant manager recognised her. She’s in the ground granular blast furnace slag silo over at the concrete batching plant. They were due to start filling it today.’
‘Let’s make sure that doesn’t get out, Mr Pickles,’ said Dixon, slamming the door of his Land Rover. ‘At least not until her family have been informed.’
Pickles nodded. ‘I’ll see to it. We’ve cancelled the rest of the shifts for today and staff are being turned away at the park and rides. I hope that was the right thing to do?’
‘How many does that leave on site?’
‘The early shift would’ve come from the five hundred or so in the accommodation blocks and there’ll be a few stragglers. They’ve been told to stay put. We can let you have a complete list easily enough. Everyone goes through the turnstiles.’
‘What about the boat crews at the jetty?’
‘They don’t leave the boats. The aggregate, or blast furnace slag, or whatever it is they’re delivering, is unloaded on to a conveyor belt on the jetty. Then off they go.’
‘What about getting out along the jetty?’
‘There are staff out there, yes. They use a walkway. Why?’
‘No particular reason, Sir,’ replied Dixon, watching Roger Poland parking his Volvo on the other side of the car park, next to a Scientific Services van that had just arrived. ‘How do we get out there?’
‘I can lay on a couple of minibuses when everyone’s been through security.’
‘The Scientific Services team will need their equipment.’
‘They can take their van in, that’s fine.’
Dix
on followed Pickles in to reception and stared at the burly security guards who had been on duty the night before as he queued to sign the visitors’ book, his identification documents at the ready: police warrant card and driving licence.
‘Put my name where it asks who you’re visiting,’ said Pickles, looking over Dixon’s shoulder.
He already had.
‘Lewis said you’d been out here last night?’ whispered Poland, a metal briefcase in each hand. ‘You knew Steiner was here?’
‘There was nowhere else he could be, unless he’d already got clean away. Maybe on one of the boats from the jetty?’ Dixon was watching Pickles lead Donald Watson back to the Scientific Services van while Louise signed in, Poland and James Davidson behind her in the queue. ‘It was a long shot.’
‘That hit the target.’
‘Some do.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘The buses are on the far side of the welfare block, so if you’ll follow me.’ The taller of the two security guards, not cracking jokes this morning.
‘Sir,’ said Louise, holding up a newspaper. ‘I picked up one of these.’ She handed Dixon a copy of The Point. ‘Have a look at page two.’
The Essential Read for Team HPC, according to the strapline, issue number 32. He opened it and looked at the news item, ‘Encouraging more women into the industry’, and beneath it a photograph of a young woman in a hi-vis jacket standing by the wheel of a dumper truck. She looked remarkably like Jane, a blonde ponytail under the hard hat and a big smile for the camera.
Dixon read the caption out loud. ‘“Amy Crook to spearhead campaign to recruit more women.”’ He folded the paper open at page 2 and then handed it to Poland. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Meet Amy.’
The canteen was closed when they walked through the welfare block, the staff turned away at the park and ride. A few lights were on upstairs; Dixon looked up at the sound of footsteps on the ceiling above.
‘Offices this end,’ said the security guard. ‘There are a couple of people in. Their names’ll be on the list.’
Once outside they spotted the Scientific Services van at the far end of the bus stop, behind a minibus, David Pickles waiting by the side door.
