Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  In front of them the construction site sprawled away into the distance behind a red and white crash barrier, the space shuttles pointing skyward in the far distance, beyond another welfare block, the new sea wall marking the boundary off to the right.

  Cranes, diggers, steel and concrete, miles of yellow railings, the site that would usually see thousands of workers swarming all over it like ants, quiet. Only one white van was moving along a road near the middle, a red flag on a long pole mounted on the roof.

  ‘They’ve nearly finished the earthworks for the second reactor,’ said the security guard. ‘Six million cubic metres of earth they’ve moved. You see those diggers?’

  Dixon grunted.

  ‘They can fill a hundred-ton dumper truck in three scoops. They arrive in bits and are assembled on site.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ mumbled Dixon, wondering whether his old Tonka toy was still in the loft at home.

  ‘This way,’ shouted Pickles, pointing at the larger of the space shuttles. ‘That’s the blast furnace slag silo over there; it’s for making concrete. Recycling at its best.’

  Dixon listened patiently while Pickles gave them the guided tour on the way out to the concrete batching plant, figures going in one ear and out the other. Seventeen different sorts of concrete, a contract worth two billion pounds alone, foundations thirty-five metres deep, one hundred thousand tons of aggregate, fifty-two tower cranes, pressurised water reactors . . .

  Then came the question Dixon had known would be coming sooner or later.

  Pickles leaned over from the front passenger seat. ‘I suppose you think nuclear power should be banned, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m just a police officer, Sir.’ He smiled. ‘I’m not paid to think.’

  ‘That bodes well for the investigation, doesn’t it?’

  Pickles had obviously never watched Inspector Morse.

  It was almost impossible to get a sense of scale of the earthworks behind the site, were it not for the digger on the top of one of the new hills.

  ‘It’ll all be levelled off and landscaped,’ said Pickles, noticing Poland’s frown. ‘And that’s the foundations for the first reactor.’

  They spun round in unison to look at a circular concrete plinth, hundreds of yards across, with a deep trench all around it.

  ‘We call it the nuclear island. That trench is the stressing gallery for the steel cables. You can see the second one taking shape over there. But don’t worry.’ Pickles smiled. ‘The nuclear fuel doesn’t arrive for another five years.’

  ‘Comforting to know,’ said Poland.

  ‘You get a good view of the new sea defences from here too; designed to withstand a tsunami. Even though we never get them.’

  ‘Haven’t had one since 1607,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘How the hell d’you know that?’ asked Poland.

  ‘It said so on the Stop Hinkley! website.’

  The minibus arrived at a set of traffic lights on a bridge. ‘You can ignore them,’ said Pickles, tapping the driver on the shoulder. ‘There’s no one else moving around on site today.’

  ‘Except for that van down there,’ said Dixon, pointing to the vehicle with the flag on the roof below them on a track deep in the earthworks.

  Pickles leaned over and looked out of the window. ‘That must be the ground survey team, I think. The flag is to warn the dumper trucks they’re there, otherwise they’ll go straight over them.’

  The van turned right at the T-junction and headed towards another welfare block just behind the sea wall.

  ‘That’s the north block,’ said Pickles. ‘Contractors’ offices and a canteen. And this is the concrete batching plant.’

  The minibus forked left and parked directly below the silos next to a police van, the ladders at the base of the larger silo sealed off with blue and white tape, a uniformed officer standing guard.

  ‘Looks like the beat team beat you to it,’ said Pickles.

  ‘That’s what they’re here for, Sir,’ replied Dixon.

  The silo was empty, the circular steel wall magnifying every sound: footsteps on the walkway, the catch of Poland’s briefcase, the shutter on Donald Watson’s camera, and their voices, of course, echoing around the chamber.

  Thirty-five metres high according to Pickles, it had been due to be filled with five thousand tons of ground granular blast furnace slag that morning.

  ‘I just thought I’d poke my head round the door to check and found her,’ said Fred, the batching plant manager. He was leaning on the railings of the walkway opposite the body.

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Dixon, adjusting his hard hat.

  ‘Just before six. We were due to start loading it up at seven. The boat’s still out there. They said it might be later on today?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Anyway, the slag comes in the top on a conveyor belt straight off the jetty, and then out the bottom there when it’s needed.’ Fred was pointing to a grill in the bottom section of the silo. ‘There’s another conveyor belt under there.’

  The bottom section of the silo funnelled down to the grill, the body lying on a walkway that followed the circular wall just above the funnel. Orange overalls, a hi-vis jacket, the hard hat gone. Dixon hadn’t got any closer. Yet.

  ‘When was the last time anyone checked in here?’

  ‘A week ago, maybe,’ said Fred. ‘But I saw her yesterday in the canteen and she was fine then.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Lunchtime. I had a late lunch. Say, two o’clock.’

  ‘She was a dumper truck driver, so what was she doing here?’

  ‘No idea, sorry.’

  ‘Is there any CCTV?’

  Fred was rolling a cigarette. ‘Lots on the way in, but once you’re on site it’s just the service roads.’

  ‘If you hadn’t checked and the silo had been filled, how long would it have been before she’d have been found?’

  ‘Years, unless there was a problem of some sort. The batching plant will be dismantled in about four years. Probably wouldn’t have been much left of her by then.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Fred turned and left via the door behind them, Dixon listening to his boots on the steel steps down the outside of the silo, the flash of Watson’s camera lighting up the inside, reflecting off the wall like bolts of lightning. Then the spot lamps were switched on. Poland and Davidson squatted down over the body, leaning back a little to avoid casting a shadow. He could hear their every word.

  ‘Bruising at C3 and C4. Can you see it, Roger?’

  ‘Roll her over and pass me the otoscope, will you?’

  ‘Is it both ears?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Dixon.

  Poland nodded. ‘Her neck’s broken. Then he did the ears. There’s very little blood loss.’

  ‘Looks like she was killed elsewhere and carried up here,’ said Watson, standing over them, camera in hand.

  ‘Probably thought he’d be long gone if and when the body was ever found,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Can you give me a time of death?’

  ‘We may be able to narrow it down when we get her back to the lab,’ replied Poland. ‘But it looks like sometime between eight and ten last night.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Dixon stepped out on to the metal steps clinging to the outside of the silo. He hesitated, staring out across the construction site, the significance of what Poland had just said still rampaging around inside his head, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. He gripped the rails with both hands, his knuckles whitening the harder he squeezed.

  Between eight and ten last night. He’d been no more than a mile away while Amy’s life had been snuffed out, her neck snapped, her body carried up this same flight of steel steps and dumped in the silo, ready to be buried in blast furnace slag.

  A mile – maybe a bit more; the main entrance and reception hidden from view behind Welfare Block East. />
  Dixon looked at his watch. The two security guards would have gone home now, oblivious to the part they had played in her death. Albeit a minor one. After all, what could he have done even if they had let him in?

  On a construction site the size of a small town? He shook his head. Nothing.

  That might offer a small crumb of comfort to some.

  He looked down at the vehicles parked in front of the concrete batching plant, Pickles now standing with a group of people that included two uniformed police officers. Several were shaking their heads, while others stared at their feet; all had their arms folded. They looked like they were standing outside a crematorium, waiting for the funeral to start.

  Time enough for that.

  Dixon slid his phone out of his pocket and answered it, if only to stop the buzzing.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I want you back at Express Park now,’ demanded Lewis.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Look, I know the way this usually works.’ Lewis sighed. ‘You get an order, ignore it, and I get you out of trouble. The difference this time is that I’m the one giving you the order. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Deborah Potter is on her way down from Bristol with thirty officers from the Major Investigation Team. They’ll be taking over inside HPC. Steiner is in there, which means you can’t be. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This has come from the top.’

  ‘Charlesworth again?’

  ‘Higher. EDF have agreed a seventy-two hour shutdown of the site and—’

  ‘What am I supposed to do? Sit at home twiddling my thumbs?’

  ‘You and your team will be taking the investigation outside HPC.’

  ‘What about the boats?’

  ‘Any ship leaving the site within the last twenty-four hours is being recalled. And those on the way are being sent back to their port of departure. Potter knows what she’s doing and she has the full cooperation of EDF. All right?’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to the victim’s work colleagues.’

  ‘That can be arranged. Now, get yourself back here. Potter will be here for a briefing at nine.’

  Lewis rang off, just as Poland stepped out of the silo on to the landing.

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about her phone?’

  ‘He must have taken it.’

  Dixon lashed out at the railings with his foot. ‘I’ve been ordered out. Potter’s on the way to take over.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ replied Poland.

  ‘I was here, Roger,’ said Dixon. ‘Last night. And I never got past reception.’

  ‘What could you have done if you did? Look at the size of this place.’

  Pickles was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. ‘I gather you’ve been recalled to Express Park, Inspector,’ he said. ‘The minibus can drop you back to reception.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This is our head of security, Jim Crew. Jim made the call this morning.’

  A white shirt that was too tight with a T-shirt underneath; hiding tattoos, probably. Dixon felt sure he could make out one on the right forearm, the hand outstretched. Top button undone, his clip on tie hanging off the top pocket. Cropped dark hair, thinning on top, and sunglasses.

  ‘Shocking,’ said Crew, shaking Dixon’s hand. ‘We’ve had the odd protestor trying to get in, but this . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘How much longer will you be?’ asked Pickles, turning to Poland.

  ‘The rest of the day,’ he replied. ‘We’ll need to get the mortuary van in here too.’

  ‘I can organise that,’ said Crew.

  ‘Where’s my colleague?’ asked Dixon, looking around. ‘She was taking a statement from Fred.’

  ‘Got it, Sir,’ shouted Louise, running towards them. She was looking at her phone in her hand. ‘That was DCI Lewis. He wanted to know we were on the way.’ She stopped in front of Dixon. ‘So, I told him we were.’

  Thirty officers and more than five hundred staff to eliminate; Dixon didn’t envy them that one.

  He had left the beat team sealing off the concrete batching plant, the sergeant, Martha Sparks, definitely in charge, and by the time he cleared reception on the way out an Incident Room had been set up in Welfare Block East; the furniture in the lounge on the ground floor of the accommodation block being rearranged to provide a venue for the interviews.

  He had recognised some of the officers milling about in reception as he dropped his visitor’s pass into the box and squeezed out through a turnstile, but not many.

  He recognised Lewis and Potter though, sitting in meeting room 2 at Express Park with Charlesworth.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Lewis, leaning across from his chair and opening the door. ‘If you’ve got a minute?’

  ‘Well done, Nick,’ said Potter, smiling at him as he sat down opposite her; pinstripe trouser suit this time, grey to match the streaks in her short dark hair.

  ‘I was too late for Amy Crook.’

  ‘That wasn’t your fault. And besides, we’ve got him cornered now. There’s no way in or out of there.’

  ‘I’ve authorised DNA testing,’ said Charlesworth. ‘Everybody on site yesterday. No exceptions.’

  ‘What I need you and your team to do is find out how he got in there,’ continued Potter. ‘Someone helped him and we need to know who and why. All right?’

  ‘He’ll be in there on a false ID,’ replied Dixon. ‘When we have that we should have more of an idea. In the meantime, I’ll start with Amy Crook. Either she recognised him and had to be silenced, or she was deliberately targeted.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ asked Charlesworth.

  ‘What other motive could there be?’ Dixon frowned. ‘There’s no sexual element to it, no sign of a struggle.’

  ‘The body armour stays on,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Even if he’s stuck inside HPC?’

  ‘And you can go on site if you need to, but no further than the Incident Room. Is that clear?’

  Dixon sighed. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  He ripped the Velcro open and slid his body armour over his head, dropping it on the floor next to a vacant workstation.

  Mark Pearce looked up from behind the computer on the other side of the partition. ‘Dave said they’ve got him trapped inside HPC.’

  ‘He can’t get out,’ said Louise. ‘The site’s on total lockdown.’

  ‘I suppose we should be grateful it’s not on total meltdown.’

  ‘Shut up, Mark.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘We need to notify her next of kin. There should be a record on her personnel file at HPC. I’m going back over there in a minute anyway, so I’ll pick it up. In the meantime, let’s find out everything we can about her. You know the drill.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Harding, sitting down at the workstation next to Pearce.

  ‘She may have a car somewhere that Steiner’s now got the keys to. Find it,’ continued Dixon. ‘There’s more to this than just his parting shot.’

  ‘She may have recognised him, Sir,’ said Pearce. ‘And he—’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ replied Dixon, his voice tailing off when he spotted Jane in the reflection of the floor to ceiling windows in front of him. She was walking up behind him waving a small black plastic wallet. He felt his jacket pockets. Empty.

  Sod it.

  ‘You forgot this,’ said Jane, dropping his insulin pen on to the keyboard in front of him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’d better check your blood.’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘What did you have for breakfast?’

  ‘A banana.’

  ‘That’s a fat lot of good.’

  ‘I’ll pick something up on the way out, don’t worry.’

  ‘You’ve got him cornered inside Hinkley Point, I hear. Does that mean we can go
home?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How did I know you were going to say that?’ muttered Jane, as she turned on her heels and walked back towards the lift.

  Ten minutes later, Dixon was sitting in the passenger seat of his Land Rover eating a bacon and egg sandwich, as Louise drove out towards HPC.

  ‘Quiet, isn’t it?’

  ‘All the lorries have been sent back to the freight depot,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Gives the drivers a few days off, I suppose.’

  The visitors’ car park was full, even the grass verge on the access road taken by TV news vans parked nose to tail.

  ‘Park behind Roger’s car. He won’t be going anywhere today.’

  The reception area was quiet, a wave of their warrant cards sufficient to get them through the turnstiles this time; different security guards on duty too. ‘Incident Room’s through that door and up the stairs, Sir,’ said one.

  It looked much like the top floor of the Police Centre at Express Park: open plan, vacant workstations outnumbering the occupied ones; phones ringing – some answered, some ignored. Deborah Potter was standing on the far side of the room, staring at a map of the site that had been pinned on the wall, following Jim Crew’s finger as he traced the route over to the concrete batching plant. Then she followed him to the window and looked out at the same route in the distance.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, when Dixon and Louise approached the map.

  ‘I need Amy Crook’s personnel file. Her next of kin need to be notified. And I’d like to see her room in the accommodation block.’

  ‘We’ve got a security file,’ replied Crew, ‘but she worked for Agard, so they’ll have her main file.’

  ‘Who are Agard?’

  ‘They’re a Tier 2 contractor on the earthworks.’ Crew took a deep breath. ‘Let me explain. Each part of the construction is contracted to a Tier 1 contractor. So, take hospitality, for example. EDF give it to a Tier 1 contractor, who will then subcontract out bits of it, such as the canteen, cleaning and stuff like that to Tier 2 companies. There are even Tier 3 in some cases.’ He leaned back against the windowsill. ‘No one company could do all this. So, with the earthworks, the Tier 1 is Manton, and Agard are Tier 2 supplying and operating the dumper trucks. Another Tier 2 contractor is supplying and operating the diggers. Does that make sense?’