by Damien Boyd
‘Are you a vet as well?’ asked Dixon.
‘It’ll be something notifiable to the Min of Ag, that’s why he buried her.’
‘Her?’
‘It’s definitely female.’ Watson shrugged his shoulders. ‘You could nick him for that, at least. It’s illegal to bury dead farm animals.’
‘I had bacon for breakfast.’ Poland was rubbing his stomach.
‘We’ll fill the hole in and finish on the piggery,’ said Watson. ‘If we get the samples off to the lab tonight, you should get the results in the morning.’
‘Thanks.’
Dixon stepped back out into the rain and watched the radar operator walking along the far hedge line.
‘What if she’s not here?’ asked Poland.
‘Then I haven’t got a leg to stand on and Charlesworth will have a field day. Everything else is circumstantial.’
‘And you’re sure she’s here?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, if you say she’s here, then she’s here. You’re never wrong.’ Poland turned up the collar on his coat. ‘And I should know.’
‘She’s here,’ said Dixon. ‘Somewhere. Just waiting for us to find her.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Hugh—’
‘Inspector, my client is the 12th Baronet Kilverton and if you are intent on putting him through this farce, at least have the decency to address him correctly.’
Dixon had been warned. Three piece grey pinstripe suit, gold pocket watch, thinning grey hair swept back. And a real knighthood of his own. It wasn’t often the senior partner of a law firm turned out for a police interview, let alone came all the way down from London for one. But Sir Malcolm Guttridge QC had. A Queen’s Counsel too; unusual that, for a solicitor.
Charlesworth had been climbing the walls; still no body, the evidence circumstantial at best and Guttridge’s threats of suing Avon and Somerset Police for wrongful arrest ringing in his ears. Dixon resisted the temptation to look up at the camera on the wall just under the ceiling, but he could feel Charlesworth’s eyes fixed on him, burning through the lens. Potter’s too. They were watching on the monitor in the adjacent room.
‘My apologies. Sir Hugh.’
Manners was leaning back in his chair, arms folded. There was a word for the look on his face, but Dixon couldn’t quite find it. Bored, possibly. Condescending, certainly. Supercilious even. Like he had a bad smell under his nose.
Dixon could sympathise with that. He still hadn’t shifted the smell of rotting pig.
‘You are still under caution.’
Guttridge coughed. ‘I have explained that to my client.’
‘I’m sure you have, Sir,’ said Dixon, matter of fact. ‘But you will appreciate that I also have to explain it to him for the tape.’
‘Proceed,’ snapped Guttridge.
‘Is this going to take long?’ asked Manners, looking at his watch. ‘There’s another flight just before midnight.’
‘You left university in 1994, Sir Hugh. Is that right?’ asked Dixon.
‘Dropped out, as you well know.’ He folded his arms. ‘There seemed little point at the time. My father was ill and I’d be taking over running Kilverton when he died. I hardly needed a degree for that.’
‘What were you studying?’
‘Archaeology.’
‘And your father died in 1997?’
‘That’s right. September 1997.’
‘What did you do for those three years?’
‘Travelled, mainly. I did a bit of scuba diving here and overseas. Worked my way across America. A lot of it was cash in hand.’
‘Window cleaning?’
Manners frowned. ‘Yes, some.’
‘A lot of climbers used to do that, I gather,’ said Dixon. ‘Abseiling in.’
‘I didn’t climb.’
‘Really? You’ve still got your old harness and rope in the garage. Use that for cutting the leylandii, I suppose? You’d need a head for heights to do that.’
‘I’ve never had a problem with heights, but that doesn’t make me a climber.’
‘Tell me about the photograph on the wall in your office.’
‘I was given it.’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t remember. It’s a print anyway, I think.’
‘Were you there when it was taken?’
‘Where is this going, Inspector?’ asked Guttridge.
‘It looks like the summit ridge of Mont Blanc to me.’
‘I’ve got no idea where it was taken,’ said Manners, looking away.
‘Move on, Inspector,’ demanded Guttridge.
‘Did you do any work for Crook Engineering, Sir Hugh?’ he asked.
‘I don’t remember. The work was piecemeal, a bit here and a bit there, wherever and whenever I could get it. Summer months usually, then I’d bugger off abroad for the winter.’
‘What about Centrix Platforms?’
‘No.’
‘Do you recall working on the Second Severn Crossing?’
‘I have advised my client not to answer any questions concerning the Second Severn Crossing.’ Guttridge was peering over a pair of reading glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. ‘If you have any evidence he was there and working on the project, I suggest you put it to him. Otherwise, kindly move on.’
‘You see, I don’t believe you intended to kill anyone, Sir Hugh,’ continued Dixon. ‘The platform was just supposed to collapse and the workers would be fine, swinging about on their safety harnesses. Or maybe it was supposed to be empty? That’s what Philip Scanlon said.’
Guttridge sighed. He leaned across and whispered in Manners’s ear.
‘No comment.’
Sort of inevitable, thought Dixon. ‘But you tampered with the wrong bolts and the safety rail failed.’
‘No comment.’
‘Three men died.’
Manners was looking around the room, his eyes settling first on the door, then his fingernails; his hands flat on the table. To stop them shaking, no doubt.
‘A simple accident would have been enough for Crook Engineering to have lost the contract,’ continued Dixon. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘No comment.’ Face flushed now.
‘How much did they pay you?’
‘Enough, Inspector,’ snapped Guttridge. ‘If you have evidence, please put it to my client. If not, please move on.’
‘You flew to Thailand the day after the accident,’ said Dixon. ‘Why?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you have evidence of that?’ asked Guttridge.
‘The passenger manifest from British Airways flight BA215, departing London Heathrow for Bangkok.’
Guttridge looked at Manners and nodded.
‘It was a holiday,’ said Manners. ‘Scuba diving.’
Time to make him sweat a little. ‘Does the name James Crew mean anything to you?’
‘No comment.’
‘He was on the dive team that recovered the single rusting nut from underneath the Second Severn Crossing. Friend of yours, was he?’
‘No comment.’
Dixon was sure he could see beads of sweat.
‘Climbing partner, perhaps? Maybe he took that photograph on the wall in your office?’
‘No comment.’
‘We know he took this one. It was in his slide collection,’ said Dixon, handing a copy of the picture of the unknown climber to Manners. ‘Is that you?’
‘No.’
‘What about Philip Scanlon then? When did you meet him?’
‘Who is this Scanlon?’ Guttridge was peering over his reading glasses.
‘He was the money,’ replied Dixon, turning to Manners.
‘No comment.’
Dixon slid the photograph of a scuba diver sitting astride a gun on the deck of a sunken warship across the table, both Manners and Guttridge leaning forward to examine it.
‘That’s the 88mm gun on the deck of the
SMS Cöln. It was scuttled in Scapa Flow,’ said Manners. ‘I’ve dived it several times.’
‘So has Mr Crew,’ replied Dixon. ‘We found a similar photograph—’
‘That’s hardly surprising if he was a scuba diver, Inspector,’ interrupted Guttridge. ‘You really are going to have to do better than that.’
‘Everyone diving Scapa Flow goes down there,’ said Manners, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s the most intact of the wrecks.’
Dixon took a deep breath, the vision of Charlesworth sharpening a knife flashing across his mind. ‘You said you didn’t know Steiner was hiding in the Great Plantation. Why?’
Manners hesitated, thrown momentarily by Dixon’s sudden change of tack. ‘Because I didn’t.’
‘But you told Scanlon he was there?’
‘I’m assuming you have evidence of that,’ demanded Guttridge.
‘I don’t know this Scanlon person,’ mumbled Manners. ‘Or Jim Crew. And I told you, I didn’t know Steiner was in the Great Plantation.’
‘How else did he know Steiner was there then, I wonder?’ asked Dixon.
‘You need to ask him that,’ said Guttridge.
‘Unless he saw him when they came to Kilverton House to dispose of Stella Hayward’s body?’
‘Who came to Kilverton House?’ asked Guttridge, snatching his reading glasses off the end of his nose.
‘Scanlon and Crew,’ replied Dixon. ‘Returning the favour, was it? Crew had got you out of trouble at the SSC and now it was your turn to return the compliment.’
‘No comment.’
‘I’m assuming you have found Mrs Hayward’s body, Inspector,’ said Guttridge, his voice loaded with sarcasm.
‘We have several digs at Kilverton House ongoing, Mr Guttridge. Thus far we have found a dead pig.’
Manners bowed his head. ‘Esmeralda,’ he said. ‘Cressida was heartbroken when Esme died.’
‘My client will admit a single offence contrary to the Animal By-Products Regulations,’ said Guttridge. ‘Sir Hugh accepts that he should not have buried her in the field. But that is hardly an arrestable offence, so unless you have anything else, I imagine you’ll be releasing him?’
‘Sir Hugh, there’s a son – not much older than you were in 1995 – who’s lost his father, sister and mother thanks to you. Now, I say again, I do not believe that you intended for those men to die on that platform, nor for Liam Crook to take his own life, but the least you can do is let that boy bury his mother.’
Dixon was sure he saw a single tear. A blink and it was gone. ‘No comment.’
Fuck it.
Guttridge slid the lid on to his fountain pen. ‘When will you be releasing my client?’
‘The search is ongoing, Sir. There is also DNA testing of various samples taken from the piggery—’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting my client fed her body to his pigs?’
‘I don’t know whether he did, or whether he didn’t, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘But he will remain here, in custody, until the search is complete and we get the DNA results.’
‘And when is that likely to be?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘That went well.’ Charlesworth was sitting on the edge of the table in the adjacent room, his arms folded.
Potter leaned forward and switched off the monitor.
‘Guttridge is right, Dixon,’ continued Charlesworth. ‘You’ve arrested a baronet without a shred of bloody evidence.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re going to be sued for wrongful arrest. I know we are.’
‘They’d need to prove that no reasonable officer would have made an arrest in the same situation, Sir.’
‘I know the law.’
‘It was also necessary to make the arrest because he presented an immediate flight risk.’
‘He was at the airport, I know that.’
‘Have you got anybody who can place him at the Second Severn Crossing?’ asked Potter.
‘Not yet, Ma’am. Dave and Mark are working on it now.’
‘And you’ve got no evidence he contacted, or even knew, Crew or Scanlon?’
‘We’re waiting for the phone records, but he knew James Crew was known as “Jim”.’
‘I imagine Guttridge would tell you that was a slip of the tongue,’ said Potter.
‘He even denied being a bloody climber, didn’t he.’ Charlesworth shook his head. ‘So, apart from a few scuba diving photographs – that could have been taken years apart anyway – you’ve got no connection with Crew whatsoever.’
Dixon forced a smile. ‘Look at the transcript of my conversation with Steiner on the crane again, Sir. He was quite specific in the words he used: “Scanlon came looking for me,” he said.’
‘Anybody could have told him that though, Nick,’ said Potter. ‘One of the protestors, Lady Manners even.’
‘You’ve well and truly dropped the ball, Dixon,’ snarled Charlesworth. ‘People keep telling me you’re the best we’ve got. If that’s right, then God help us.’
‘Let’s see what we can find overnight,’ said Potter. ‘There are still two digs ongoing. We’ll have the DNA results then too, and we can review it properly.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Dixon, opening the door.
‘You’d better hope you find some—’
Dixon slammed the door, cutting Charlesworth off mid-sentence.
Dickhead.
The dig in the walled garden had finished by the time Dixon arrived back at Kilverton House, the tent gone, a gap in the lines of asparagus apparent from the turned over soil. And the hole.
‘It’s a kiddie’s time capsule,’ muttered Donald Watson, standing next to Dixon. Both of them were staring at a pipe, sealed at one end, the other broken open to reveal various documents and photographs sealed in plastic envelopes. ‘Copies of birth certificates and stuff like that. Recent too.’
‘What about the other one?’
‘It’s over near the wood.’
‘The Great Plantation?’
‘It’s a bit deeper. Out through that door and it’s on the other side of the leylandii. Don’t hold your breath though.’
It was more of a gazebo with side walls than a tent, bright arc lamps inside; shadows moving – digging – the earth piling up either side of the hole.
‘You still here, Roger?’ asked Dixon, when Poland emerged from the tent.
‘I’d got the afternoon off anyway,’ he replied.
‘Where’s the radar?’
‘On the other side of the wood now. He’s done pretty much everything else.’
‘What’s this then?’ Dixon was standing on tiptoe, trying to look over Poland’s shoulder.
‘A dog.’ Poland shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s a line of them. Labradors mostly, I think, although this one’s bigger, possibly a Newfoundland, according to the vet. He’s gone now though. When they cut back the vegetation you can see little gravestones for each of them.’
Dixon gritted his teeth.
‘They’re digging them up anyway, just in case,’ continued Poland. ‘Charlesworth giving you a hard time?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Do you want me to ring him? I could remind him what you did for—’
‘Forget it. He took great delight in telling me I’d got no real evidence. And I haven’t. Tenuous connections and a leap of faith.’
‘Maybe you should try the wizard again?’ asked Poland, his eyebrows raised.
‘Him?’ Dixon turned away. ‘I need more than a dope smoking clairvoyant this time.’
‘You’re still convinced she’s here?’
‘I am.’
‘If you have to release him, then he’ll either flee or come here and move the body, then flee.’
‘I know, Roger,’ said Dixon, kicking the wet seeds off a dandelion stalk – some floated away on the breeze, the rest splattered across the toe of his shoe. ‘And we’ll have let her down again.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was j
ust after midnight when Dixon slid his feet in either side of Monty, curled up on the end of the bed. Jane rolled over and put her arm across his chest. Her eyes opened, although not quite enough to part her tangled eyelashes.
‘Any luck?’ she mumbled.
‘No.’ Dixon was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. ‘No one can place him at the Severn Crossing. Revenue and Customs have got nothing because it was all cash in hand. Nothing on the phones and we can’t find a thing at Kilverton. They probably just turned up with Stella’s body in the boot and told him he owed them a favour.’
Jane raised herself up on one elbow. ‘Have you considered the possibility he’s got nothing to do with it?’
‘No. And besides, it’s more about finding Stella now anyway. Manners I can worry about later. He denied being a climber and yet he’s got a rope and an old harness he uses to cut his own trees. I spent an hour scrolling through the climbing logbook online to see if he’d ever done any new routes.’ He curled his lip. ‘Nothing.’
‘They get to name it?’
‘Always. That’s the convention. You climb a new route, you get to name it.’
‘Have you done any?’
‘Jake did a few at Pembroke and Cheddar before he was killed.’
‘He was hardly going to do them after, was he?’ Jane smiled.
‘I suppose not.’
‘Maybe Manners used a different name back then, so people wouldn’t know who he was?’ Jane frowned. ‘If he was bumming around, doing cash in hand jobs, he wouldn’t want people to know he was a baronet.’
‘He didn’t inherit the title until his father died.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ said Jane, kissing him on the shoulder.
‘A first time for what?’
‘Being wrong.’
‘You know just what to say.’ Dixon flicked on the bedside light. ‘I haven’t done my bloody jab,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry.’
Jane pulled the duvet up over her head.
‘Anyway, I’m not wrong,’ continued Dixon, pushing the needle into his bicep.
‘He may have fed her to the pigs.’
‘He hasn’t got the stomach for that. He’s way out of his depth. And I’d like to have interviewed him without Guttridge there. There was the odd flicker in amongst the no comments.’ Dixon flinched when he pulled out the needle. ‘He knows I know what happened.’
