by Damien Boyd
She slid her hand across his chest. ‘Push him on the floor.’
‘I tried that.’
He turned on to his side and closed his eyes. It had been a long day and was going to be an even shorter night. And besides, Jane’s parents were in the next room.
‘You really are a little old fart sometimes,’ she whispered, thinking he was already asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
Dixon stepped out of the lift, brushing past Chard. ‘Doing your bloody job for you’ was tempting, but instead he went for the matter of fact reply, ‘Investigating the murder of Amy Crook.’
‘Don’t try to be clever with me.’ Chard was following him along the corridor towards the Human Resources department at Portishead. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘Anything they can tell me that’s not in their witness statements.’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘Then they can tell me that.’
‘If there was, it would be in their bloody witness statements, wouldn’t it?’
‘Would it?’
Chard wrenched open the door at the top of the stairs. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ he snapped, letting it slam behind him.
Dixon peered through the small window in the door of the HR department. Eight workstations, all but two of them empty. Still, it was a Saturday.
‘I’m looking for Linda Willetts,’ he said, opening the door.
‘That’ll be me.’ She was sitting next to the vacant desk, her long grey hair held back by a band, glasses on the end of her nose.
‘This desk looks like it’s been cleared. I’m guessing it was Stella’s,’ said Dixon, sitting down on the empty office chair and handing Linda his warrant card.
‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Her daughter was found dead yesterday.’
‘Not Amy?’
Dixon nodded. Slowly. ‘I’m sorry. Did you know her?’
‘Not really.’ Linda sighed. ‘How sad.’
‘You said in your statement you didn’t know Stella well,’ continued Dixon, opening the drawers one by one.
‘They’re all empty,’ said Linda, blowing her nose.
‘You don’t hot-desk then?’
‘We’re here all day, every day, so what would be the point?’
Dixon smiled. ‘Quite.’
‘No, I didn’t know her that well, to be honest. She’d only been here a year and wasn’t that talkative.’
‘Tell me about the Friday, the last time you saw her, did she say anything unusual?’
‘Not really.’
‘It was the May bank holiday weekend. Did she say what she was doing?’
‘Nope.’
‘And what happened on the Monday morning?’
‘We were supposed to be covering the bank holiday but she didn’t turn up, so I tried ringing a couple of times and got nothing. Then I put a call out to Donna in Control to get someone to swing by and knock on her door, check she was all right.’
Dixon nodded. ‘What did you know about her?’
‘She was divorced from her second husband. Her first husband died. That’s about it, really.’
‘D’you know how he died?’
‘No. She was estranged from her son too. He’s gone off travelling.’ She took a sip of Diet Coke from the can on her desk. ‘Well, I say estranged, she did get a postcard from him once. She had it pinned to the partition there.’ Linda was pointing to the blue screen behind Stella’s computer.
‘Where’s all her stuff?’
‘Boxed up. It’ll be down in the evidence store, I expect. There wasn’t a lot. The postcard, a mug, box of tissues, Cup-a-Soup, that sort of stuff.’
‘Did she ever get any personal calls?’
‘A couple from her daughter, maybe. On her mobile.’
‘D’you remember anything she said?’
‘Just that she couldn’t talk, she was at work. She seemed quite conscientious, to be honest.’
‘What did she do for lunch?’
‘She brought her own. We all do. The canteen’s crap and there’s nothing else around here.’
‘Was she in a relationship?’
‘No.’
A loud cough came from behind the computer opposite Linda. Dixon glanced across just in time to see the top of his or her head duck down. He waited, the head reappearing slowly, green eyes fixed on Linda from behind a long fringe.
‘Shut up, Siggy,’ snapped Linda, her eyes wide.
‘The damage is done,’ said Dixon, leaning back in his chair.
Linda looked out of the window. ‘There was a rumour she was in a relationship with somebody here.’
‘Who?’
‘No idea.’
‘When did you first hear this rumour?’
‘About six months ago,’ replied Siggy. ‘Sam told me in the kitchen.’
‘Who’s Sam?’
‘One of the call handlers.’
‘And who told her?’
‘It’s a him. No idea. Sorry.’ Siggy jabbed her index finger at Linda. ‘She already knew.’
‘Someone told me at the Christmas party. It’s a big place. There are hundreds of staff on the site and rumours are flying about all the time. You really can’t—’
‘And you’ve no idea who it might be?’
‘No, sorry,’ replied Siggy.
‘Me neither,’ said Linda. ‘Hardly the end of the world, is it?’
A supplemental witness statement from Linda took no more than ten minutes. It would have to do. And he could always come back and get one from Siggy, if needs be.
Dixon was walking along the landing when a text arrived from Louise.
Potter and Lewis looking for u. All ships checked. No stowaways. 6 workers unaccounted for. Looking like Steiner poss got out before site locked down. Have u got body armour on?
Interesting. Maybe Steiner never intended to get away by sea? Maybe he never intended to get away at all. Dixon grimaced. If he had got away, he could be anywhere by now.
One more call to make then he’d head back to Express Park and face the music.
It was Dixon’s first visit to Weston-super-Mare. Another new police station – lots of concrete and less glass this time. Not enough visitors’ parking either, so he left his Land Rover across the bicycle racks. They obviously hadn’t got round to painting the double yellow lines yet.
‘I’m looking for PC Peter Bolt.’
‘You can’t leave that there,’ said the receptionist, not even bothering to look up.
Dixon tried his warrant card.
‘You still can’t leave that there.’
‘I’ll take my chances, now where can I find PC Bolt? I checked and he’s on duty today.’
The receptionist sighed, then he picked up the phone. ‘Peter, there’s a Bridgwater DI down here asking for you. Come and get rid of him, will you? He’s parked across the front of the—Thanks.’
Dixon waited outside, keeping an eye on his car. ‘Peter Bolt?’ he asked, when a uniformed officer appeared.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Tall, with dark hair and a moustache; clipping on his tie as the front doors swung shut behind him.
‘You were first into Stella Hayward’s place over at Yatton?’
‘Yes, Sir. I gave a statement.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, Sir. It should be on the file.’
‘I’m investigating the murder of her daughter.’
‘I heard about it,’ replied Bolt, nodding.
‘And what does your statement say?’ asked Dixon.
‘Not a lot, from memory. I looked through the letterbox, then broke in.’
‘Why?’
Bolt tipped his head. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Why did you break in? When I looked through the front window, there was nothing to indicate anything untoward at all. Yet you smashed the front door in.’
Bolt hesitated.
‘The blood
’s only visible with UV light and luminol,’ continued Dixon. ‘The place had been cleaned. Even the leather sofa. As far as you knew, she could’ve pulled a sickie and gone shopping, surely?’
Bolt thrust his hands into his pockets, his eyes watching traffic passing by out on the main road. ‘I seem to recall a neighbour . . . ?’
‘The neighbours don’t mention being there when you broke in.’
‘I really don’t remember, Sir.’
‘I think you do.’
‘I don’t, Sir.’
‘I think you remember exactly what happened.’
Dixon waited.
‘Were you in a relationship with Stella Hayward?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘How else did you know the rug and coffee table were missing?’
‘I honestly can’t—’
‘It took you over an hour from getting the shout to arriving at Hawthorn Crescent.’
‘We got an urgent on the way. It was bank holiday Monday, I remember that.’
‘Fine. So, was someone else there when you got there?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘What made you break in then?’
‘No one had seen her for days.’ Bolt slid his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms. ‘She hadn’t turned up for work and her mobile was switched off. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’
‘Really,’ said Dixon, matter of fact. ‘I hope to God you don’t turn up at my house if I decide to bunk off for a couple of days.’
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
It made a change from the usual ‘Where have you been?’, the occasional expletive thrown in.
Potter was holding the lift doors open with her foot. ‘There’s me trying to keep Simon Chard out of your way,’ she continued, ‘and you’re doing your best to rub him up the wrong way.’
‘His investigation’s full of holes,’ replied Dixon, leaning back against the glass. ‘And I need to fill them to find out why Amy was murdered.’
‘Out.’ Potter stepped to one side, allowing him out of the lift. ‘What holes?’
‘Stella failed to arrive at work on the Monday morning. So, PC Plod goes round there, looks through the letterbox and kicks in the door.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘The place had been cleaned and there was nothing to see. Not through the letterbox or the window. It only looked like an abattoir with luminol and a UV light, and he didn’t have either of those.’
Potter was standing in front of the lift buttons, blocking them as the doors closed. ‘Why did he kick in the door then?’
‘He told me he couldn’t remember. But the simple answer is that someone else was there. They either went with him or were at the house when he got there. Someone who knew the rug and coffee table were missing. The rumour mill at Portishead will tell you she was having a fling with someone.’
‘Who?’
Dixon reached behind Potter and jabbed the lift button. ‘No idea.’
‘Does it matter?’
Mercifully, the lift was still on the first floor. ‘Let’s hope not,’ said Dixon, stepping back in when the doors opened.
‘And where are you going now?’
Spin.
Dixon wasn’t a political animal, but he understood ‘spin’ and used it when he needed to. ‘Going to interview Stella’s ex-husband’ would not have gone down well. Not with Potter, and certainly not with Chard. ‘Going to interview Amy’s stepfather’, on the other hand, put a different spin on it. Same person; same questions. But no one, not even Chard, could argue with that.
Louise had the far more difficult job. Dixon had been quite specific: copies of the handwritten witness statements, which – for some reason – had not been scanned on to the system, and copies of the missing appendices from the forensic analysis report; and all of it to be done without alerting DCI Chard.
That left Dave and Mark following up Amy’s friends.
Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover, at his body armour lying on the floor in the passenger footwell. It could stay there for the time being. Steiner was taunting him, that’s all. And he didn’t need body armour for that.
It hadn’t taken long to find Neil Hayward. A quick glance at his Facebook profile – wearing a hard hat with the Amber Traffic Management logo on it – then a call to the company to find out that, yes, he worked for them and was currently supervising a set of temporary traffic lights at a burst water main on the A3052 near Newton Poppleford.
Dixon could have done without twenty minutes sitting in the traffic queue to get to the lights, but the East Devon countryside made up for it, two deer grazing on the edge of a copse across the field on the nearside; the moment of calm lost when a motorbike came screaming down the outside of the line of traffic. Then the lights changed, the traffic moved forward a hundred yards, and high hedges blocked the view. Typical.
He pulled into the roadworks behind an Amber Traffic van; no surprise that the logo was red, amber and green. Nobody seemed to be doing any work either – water still bubbling up from a hole in the road – except the man watching the lights. He hopped out of his van and walked back to Dixon’s Land Rover.
‘You can’t stop there!’ Arms waving.
‘Neil Hayward?’ asked Dixon, winding down the window and showing his warrant card.
‘Yes.’
‘Hop in.’
Hayward squeezed down the side of the Land Rover, opened the passenger door into the hedge and climbed in. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Working on a Saturday?’
‘It’s double-time and I need the money.’
‘I wanted to ask you about your ex-wife, Stella.’
Hayward rolled his eyes. ‘What’s she done now?’
‘Has no one been in touch with you?’
‘Like who?’ asked Hayward, sliding off his hard hat and putting it on the dashboard. He was tall and unshaven, with pockmarked skin. Dixon couldn’t place the smell, until he saw the electronic cigarette sticking out of the top pocket of Hayward’s overalls.
‘Police.’
‘No. Why? Should they have?’
‘Yes, they should.’ Dixon undid his seatbelt and shifted in his seat. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Stella has disappeared. She was last seen about three weeks ago.’
‘Disappeared?’ Hayward turned to face Dixon, his brow furrowed. ‘What d’you mean “disappeared”?’
‘She didn’t turn up for work on the Monday morning. She was working for us at our HQ in Portishead—’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘An officer was sent to check on her and broke in. There was no sign of her, sadly, but a large quantity of blood was found at the scene.’
Hayward slumped back into the seat.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that we’re treating it as a murder investigation,’ continued Dixon. ‘And I’m also investigating the murder of her daughter, Amy.’
‘Amy’s dead?’
‘Her body was found yesterday.’
‘How was she . . . ?’ His voice tailed off as he fumbled for his e-cigarette.
‘Her neck was broken,’ replied Dixon. ‘When did you last see them?’
‘I haven’t seen them for two or three years. Amy kept in touch on WhatsApp, birthdays and Christmas, but that was it.’ Hayward opened the passenger door, took a long drag on the e-cigarette and then blew the smoke out into the Devon countryside. ‘It was never going to end well, but I never thought . . .’
Dixon waited. But not for long. ‘Thought what?’
‘That it was going to get her killed. She was obsessed. They both were. Nathan left and it drove me away in the end too. It was the reason we divorced, really. That and money worries, I suppose.’ He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘What a fucking mess. And you’re sure Stella’s dead?’
‘We haven’t found her body yet, but we’re treating it as murder.’
‘And you’ve got no ide
a what it’s about?’
‘Not yet.’
Hayward’s head was bowed, the only sound a soft click as he picked at dead skin on the palm of his hand with his fingernail. That and the traffic filing past the roadworks. ‘It all started with her first husband, Liam. They had it good back then. Posh house in Blagdon. He ran his own company; remote access, that sort of stuff. Quite specialist, and they were doing very well. They had Nathan, and Amy was on the way. He bought Stella an MG Roadster and paid for it to be renovated. Then went and killed himself in it. Silly sod.’
‘Why?’
‘He got the contract for the platforms when they were fixing the monorail underneath the Second Severn Crossing.’ Hayward glanced at Dixon, spotting his frown. ‘There’s a suspended monorail underneath the bridge. It runs right the way across, with stations and everything. You can see it from Severn Beach. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘one of the platforms collapsed and three men fell into the water. One survived the fall and drowned, the other two were killed instantly. There was a health and safety investigation and Liam and his company were being prosecuted for corporate manslaughter.’ Hayward took a deep breath through his nose. ‘So, he killed himself the night before the trial. Gassed himself in the MG under the bridge.’
‘Leaving Stella to clear up the mess.’
‘A heavily pregnant Stella,’ muttered Hayward. ‘She was convinced that the platform had been sabotaged. That’s what Liam always said, but he had no evidence. It was kill himself or go to prison, and he took the easy way out. Anyway, ever since then she’s been trying to prove it was sabotage.’
‘And did she?’
‘Not that I know of. We had a good thing going and she threw it all away. Spent her life and what little money we had campaigning for this or that. The company was still prosecuted and then wound up, so she appealed that. That was before we met. Then she wanted a new inquest into the accident at the bridge. Campaigned for years for that – drove the local MP mad with it. She’s been trying to get access to the files for years too, bombarding them with Freedom of Information requests. She even tried suing the Health and Safety Executive.’
‘What for?’
‘She claimed the decision to prosecute was flawed.’ Hayward sighed. ‘Cost thousands, that one.’
‘What about Amy?’ asked Dixon.
