Beyond the Point

by Damien Boyd

  The first tear appeared, smudging Angela’s mascara. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It was a traffic accident at Hinkley Point. He was in a van that was in a head-on collision with a dumper truck.’

  ‘There’s a speed limit, isn’t there?’

  ‘He was trying to escape arrest, Mrs Crew.’

  She took a deep breath through her nose, exhaling as she slumped on to a kitchen stool. ‘I warned him. Time and again. I said you’d catch up with him. Begged him to leave, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Leave and go where?’

  ‘We have a house on Antigua. Well, I say “we”, it’s owned by a trust. Our house in Driffield is too.’ She closed her eyes. ‘That’s Driffield near Cirencester.’

  I bet it is.

  ‘And this is rented?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘He had a relocation allowance.’ Angela shrugged her shoulders. ‘It pays the rent. Who the bloody hell would want to live in this dump? It’s like something out of The Wicker Man.’

  Dixon slid the search warrant across the kitchen table. ‘I’m going to get the team in and start the search now. Is there really no one we can ring for you? What about your children?’

  ‘They’ve got lives of their own.’

  ‘We’ll also need to speak to you, as you might imagine. At the moment you’re a witness and not under arrest. I have to warn you that may change though, so you may wish to have a solicitor present. It’s entirely a matter for you.’

  ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

  They sat down in the living room, Angela on the sofa with her back to the door, resisting the temptation to turn round and watch the uniformed officers filing past the door.

  ‘We’ll need the keys to your car too, please, Angela.’

  ‘My handbag’s on the side in the hall.’

  Louise fetched it, waiting while Angela fished out a Jaguar key fob and handed it to her. ‘It’s on tick. Everything is. That’s what the bailiffs are coming for.’

  ‘Can you tell us where your husband was on the evening of Friday, May the first?’ asked Dixon, when Louise had sat down, pen at the ready. ‘If it helps, it was the Friday of the bank holiday weekend.’

  ‘He went out about ten or so. Didn’t say where he was going. I tried ringing him, but he’d left his phone on the hall table. I remember it because we were supposed to be going away the following morning.’

  ‘What time did he get back?’

  ‘No, idea, sorry. I was asleep.’

  ‘All right, let’s start at the beginning. When did the two of you meet?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘At a friend’s wedding in 1991. We got married the following year.’

  ‘So, you were married throughout his time in the Avon and Somerset Police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when he worked on the Second Severn Crossing accident?’

  ‘How could you possibly know about that?’ Angela was rummaging in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes. ‘Yes,’ she said, lighting up and blowing the smoke out through her nose.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘It was a friend of his, someone he knew from before. They went climbing together. And scuba diving. I really have no idea who. He fiddled with some bolts and the platform collapsed. Three men died, as you know.’ She picked up an ashtray off the coffee table and held it in her hand. ‘Next thing he’s asking Jim to see to it the bolts aren’t found. He gave him a rusty one to bring up instead. It was a dangerous job as it was. There were only a couple of hours a day when it was safe to search – you know what the tides are like down there. Anyway, some money changed hands. It was all offshore and he used it to buy the house at Driffield.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Driffield Lodge. It’s on the edge of the park. It’s got tenants in it at the moment.’

  ‘And you knew about this?’

  ‘He told me after he left the police. When he bought the Lodge.’

  ‘What about the house in Antigua?’

  ‘We’ve only had that a year or so. He’s been on the fiddle at Hink . . . ley . . .’ Her voice tailed off when she stubbed out her cigarette.

  Dixon waited.

  ‘Philip got in touch. He said there was billions sloshing about and did Jim want a piece of it,’ continued Angela, lighting another. ‘That’s Philip Scanlon. D’you know him?’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘He was up to his old tricks at Hinkley and needed Jim’s help. Just like the old days, he said. So, he got the job there and I ended up in this godforsaken hole. I blame myself, I suppose.’ She was staring into the bottom of the ashtray. ‘I’ve got expensive tastes and he tried to keep up.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Mrs Crew, we’re going to need to finish this at Bridgwater Police Centre.’ He stood up. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of money laundering. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court.’

  The tears were flowing freely now.

  ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Dixon watched Louise lead her out to a waiting patrol car and then turned back to the living room, starting with the photographs on the mantelpiece. None of them were recent, that much was evident from the smiles and the hair colour; at a wedding – not their own; at the races – Dixon recognised Taunton Racecourse; with a horse in the winners’ enclosure.

  Expensive tastes indeed.

  ‘Is there an office?’ he asked, stepping out into the corridor.

  ‘They’re using a spare bedroom, Sir,’ replied a uniformed officer carrying a computer. ‘Upstairs at the back of the house.’

  Definitely his rather than hers, thought Dixon, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He sat down on the office chair, the dust free patch on the desk in front of him evidence of where the computer had been until a few moments ago, the lead from the keyboard trailing on the floor.

  Scuba diving pictures on the wall, the water clear blue – the Red Sea, maybe – and an underwater camera sitting on the DVD shelf behind the desk. Dixon glanced along the film collection, a mixture of his and hers – mostly American; there were one or two he might have given houseroom to. At a push.

  Somebody liked jigsaw puzzles too. Angela, probably. She was going to have plenty of time for them now.

  Dixon flicked open an old briefcase on the floor and began rummaging through the papers: mostly old copies of Crew’s CV and copies of letters applying for jobs. He hadn’t kept the rejections.

  Box files full of old private pension statements. Dixon shook his head. Fifty pounds a month would hardly have covered the weekly fuel bill for the Jag, let alone the lease payments.

  The filing cabinet was empty. Either that or an officer had beaten him to it and bagged up the contents. The drawers in the desk had been cleared out too. All except a stapler, a Bluetooth speaker, Sellotape, a pair of headphones, a packet of envelopes and a small rectangular box, blue with a white lid. Dixon was old enough to recognise photographic slides. Just.

  He held them up to the light in turn, careful to touch only the white plastic frame. Scuba diving again, this time the water murky green rather than clear blue. Warships on the sea bed, a diver sitting astride a large gun on the deck, the barrel covered in barnacles, seaweed trailing in the current.

  ‘You’re wanted back at Express Park, Sir,’ said a uniformed officer poking his head around the door. ‘Mr Charlesworth is there and—’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he replied, dropping the box of slides into an evidence bag.

  ‘That’s it then?’ asked Charlesworth, his eyebrows disappearing up under his hat. ‘We can close down the Incident Room at Hinkley?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Dixon was standing on the steps outside Express Park, with Charlesworth, Potter, Lewis, and the press officer, Vicky Thomas, all staring at him.

  Lesson learned. Use the staff car park in future.


  ‘What about Crew’s wife?’

  ‘She’s been arrested for money laundering and I’ll be interviewing her shortly.’

  ‘EDF will be relieved.’

  ‘They shouldn’t be,’ replied Dixon. ‘There’s still the tarmac contract and who paid for it to be sabotaged. Others, possibly. We’ll see what Crew’s wife says.’

  ‘Refer it to the Serious Fraud Office,’ said Charlesworth, turning to Deborah Potter. ‘They can foot the bloody bill.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What else, Dixon?’

  ‘Finding Stella.’

  ‘There’s no need, surely? Scanlon has confessed and we’ve got her blood in his car. That’s enough for a conviction without the body.’

  Deep breath – count to ten.

  ‘If you say so, Sir,’ replied Dixon, smiling.

  ‘We certainly shouldn’t be committing a lot of resources to it.’

  ‘We’re saving money now that we’ve pulled the surveillance on Steiner’s sister.’

  ‘Not nearly enough. What else?’

  ‘That just leaves whoever tampered with the bolts on the platform underneath the Severn Crossing.’

  Charlesworth turned to Lewis. ‘We haven’t got the budget for that, have we?’ He frowned at Dixon. ‘You’re joking? You don’t seriously expect to find them after all this time?’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The lift doors opened on the lower ground floor, Dixon and Louise on their way down to the custody suite to interview Angela Crew.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Louise jabbed the button, closing the lift doors.

  ‘What is it, Lou?’ asked Dixon, looking up from the papers in his hand.

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  He leaned forward, forcing open the doors. Then he stepped out into the corridor, directly into the path of DCI Chard and his solicitor, Rebecca Parkman.

  ‘Back so soon,’ he said, glaring at Chard.

  ‘Another interview with Professional Standards,’ came the mumbled reply.

  Louise ran out of the lift and stood in between them, her back to Dixon.

  ‘How is your dog, Inspector?’ asked Parkman, her arm across Chard’s chest.

  ‘Fine, as it happens.’

  Chard sneered. ‘He can’t be.’

  ‘We went to the beach yesterday.’ Dixon’s smile morphed into a cold stare. ‘We’ll be going again tomorrow, Simon. And we’ll be going again the day your cell door slams shut. You just remember that.’

  ‘I will.’ Chard’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘My client would like to make it clear that he regrets—’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ interrupted Dixon.

  ‘My client regrets getting caught,’ muttered Louise.

  ‘Will you be seeking a compensation order?’ asked Parkman.

  Dixon nodded. Slowly. ‘The vet’s bills are nearly two thousand pounds so far.’

  ‘You won’t see a penny,’ said Chard.

  ‘I’ll let Monty’s insurers know, Simon.’

  ‘My wife’s divorcing me.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ replied Dixon, pushing past him and striding along the corridor.

  A sharp suit. Pinstripe. Reading glasses on the table in front of her; arms folded, notebook closed.

  Dixon recognised the signs straightaway before he had even closed the interview room door behind him, and the handwritten statement on the table in front of Angela Crew confirmed it.

  ‘You are still under caution, Angela. Do you understand?’ he asked, when Louise flicked on the tape machine.

  ‘My name is Amanda Laycock, Inspector. I am a partner in Tice and Co Solicitors, acting for Mrs Crew.’

  ‘Tice and Co?’

  ‘Cirencester.’

  That explained that.

  ‘My client will be reading from a prepared statement.’

  Dixon sighed. ‘Go ahead, Angela,’ he said.

  She picked up the piece of paper, a hint of a tremble in her hands. ‘My name is Angela Crew. I currently reside at Manor Cottage, Fiddington, and my husband, James Alexander Crew, otherwise known as Jim, was the head of security at the Hinkley Point C construction site. I have been advised that my husband is dead.’

  She must have read the lesson in church as a child, or something, thought Dixon. Either that or she was involved in amateur dramatics and it was all just an act. A convincing one, all the same.

  ‘I make this statement setting out the extent of my knowledge of my husband’s affairs, but wish to make it clear at the outset that it was an abusive relationship. I was not at any time a willing participant in my husband’s criminality and was subjected to prolonged coercion and control throughout our marriage. The abuse, lasting many years, was physical, sexual and emotional and my solicitors hold a file detailing two attempts to divorce, both withdrawn by me due to very genuine fears for my personal safety. There will also be records at the hospital in Cirencester of three visits made by me for physical injuries arising from assaults by my husband, although I did not give the real cause of the injuries when asked. My doctor can also confirm a prescription of anti-depressant medication and the reasons for it.’

  ‘What about the local police, Angela?’ asked Dixon.

  She looked at her solicitor, who nodded.

  ‘I called them twice. Once about three years ago. The time before that was millennium night. He got drunk at a party and said I’d been talking to another man. It wasn’t a happy new year.’

  ‘And the police attended?’

  ‘Yes.’ Angela frowned. ‘Shall I continue with my statement?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied Laycock.

  ‘I first became aware of my husband’s involvement in criminal—’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ said Dixon. ‘I would just like to ask a couple of questions about what you’ve already told us, Angela. Is that all right?’ he asked, turning to her solicitor. ‘Purely about the domestic abuse.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Laycock, smiling at Angela.

  Angela nodded.

  ‘How far did you get with the divorce proceedings?’ Dixon leaned forward, his elbows on the table in front of him.

  ‘You can see the file, if you like. They can see the file, can’t they, Amanda?’

  ‘If you consent.’

  ‘Then I consent.’ Angela took a deep breath. ‘The first time it was just the first letter from Tice and Co. He went berserk, saying it’d all come out.’

  ‘What would?’

  ‘Where the money had come from. He was terrified. Threw me down a set of stone steps and cracked my head open. There’s still a scar under there somewhere.’ Angela ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I told the hospital a ladder fell on me in the orchard.’

  ‘What about the second time?’

  ‘He was served with a petition that time, but then he found me at my sister’s house. That’ll be the hospital in Brighton. My sister saw what happened too, so she can confirm everything.’

  ‘Have you spoken to specialist domestic abuse officers?’ Dixon smiled. ‘They can help with counselling and—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Angela shook her head. ‘Now.’

  Today was a day of lessons, thought Dixon. Use the staff entrance, for one. And you’re not always right about people. Most of the time, possibly; just not always.

  ‘Shall I carry on with my statement?’

  ‘Yes, please do, Angela.’

  ‘I first became aware of my husband’s involvement in criminal activity in 1998 when he bought Driffield Lodge. We had been living in rented accommodation up to that point. He told me the money was offshore and the property would be owned by a trust, but we could live in it rent free. When I asked him where it came from, he got aggressive. All he would say was that he helped get a friend out of trouble when he was a police diver, switching some bolts during a search under the Second Severn Crossing. Then a few years later—’

  ‘Sorry, can I just ask about this friend?’

  ‘I
t was someone he knew before we got married,’ replied Angela. ‘He never said a name. A young lad he used to go climbing and scuba diving with, I think.’

  ‘What sort of climbing?’

  ‘They went to the Alps a few times, I think. He showed me some old photos once. Slides. He always used to take slides.’

  ‘What about Philip Scanlon?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’m coming to that.’

  ‘Carry on with your statement,’ said Laycock.

  ‘Where was I?’ Angela’s eyes scanned down the page. ‘A few years later, here we are. He got a new Range Rover. Then a share in a racehorse. Every time I asked him where the money had come from, he got aggressive, and sometimes violent. So, I stopped asking and started spending. Shopping became a sort of refuge. It was during this period that I met Philip Scanlon. He was “the money” and I got the impression that Jim was doing work for him, but I am not sure what type of work it was or how he got paid. I had learned the hard way not to ask. Then he got the job at Hinkley Point.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Three years ago, maybe.’ Angela turned back to her written statement, her brow furrowed, the make-up long gone. ‘Jim did say once it was easy money to begin with, taking bribes to place contracts. Then when all contracts had been awarded, it got more difficult. They had to become more inventive, he said. I don’t know what he meant by that.’

  ‘OK, Angela, I’m going to stop you there,’ said Dixon. ‘Your late husband’s involvement in contracts at HPC will be the subject of an investigation by the Serious Fraud Office and no doubt they will wish to speak to you about what you know. As far as I am concerned, your involvement is limited to that of a witness. I am now terminating this interview and you’re free to go.’

  Louise switched off the tape.

  ‘I would still like to see your medical records,’ said Dixon. ‘And the divorce file you mentioned.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ replied Angela.

  ‘You’ll remain an important witness too, so do let us know where you’re—’

  ‘I’ll be at my sister’s in Brighton.’

  ‘You’re releasing my client without charge?’ asked Laycock, frowning. ‘Surely that’s a decision for a senior officer?’