Dead Lock (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 8)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘It was the same one, Ma’am. Kingfisher Marina, it’s at Dundas Wharf at the junction with the old Somerset Coal Canal. I’ve got the dates too.’

  Potter nodded. ‘Was he unemployed?’

  ‘Sort of, Ma’am. He runs the caravan store, but he used to work as a delivery driver for a vintners in Trowbridge.’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone at the vintners?’

  ‘On the phone, Ma’am. He left there over a year ago, though, and lives off the caravan store rentals.’

  ‘Lived.’ The voice came from behind him, dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘Lived, thank you,’ said Bob, raising his eyebrows. ‘We’ve got his bank statements and it’s about eight hundred quid a month.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really, Ma’am.’

  ‘Sally, are you ready to interview Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Right then, let’s get on with it. Dixon, you’re with me. And remember, people: Hatty is still alive unless and until we know otherwise. All right?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Well that was a complete waste of bloody time.’ Potter switched off the monitor and dropped the remote control on the table. ‘No connection with Savage. Whatsoever. And, on the face of it, alibis for every damn thing.’

  Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘And he said Poland was just doing his job! It wasn’t personal, whatever that means.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too.’ Potter sighed. ‘We’ll have to let Mitchell go, which just leaves Barnard.’

  ‘He’s not under arrest so he could just walk anyway, Ma’am,’ said Jane.

  ‘Let him.’ Potter was distracted by voices in the corridor. ‘Sounds like they’re out. Our turn.’

  Dixon followed Potter to the interview room next door, watching Jane switching the monitor back on as the door of the anteroom closed behind them. Seconds later Barnard was escorted in and sat down next to Potter, facing the tape machine.

  ‘You lot like to keep people waiting, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Mr Barnard, something came up; but thank you for your patience.’

  ‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’

  ‘You’re not, and you’re free to go at any time.’

  Barnard nodded. ‘Is that thing on?’ he asked, gesturing to the tape machine.

  ‘No. You’re just helping with our enquiries at this stage, but the interview is being filmed.’ Potter pointed to a camera mounted on a bracket just under the ceiling.

  ‘Do I need a solicitor?’

  ‘I don’t know, do you?’

  Dixon winced. It was a cheap shot and Potter should have resisted the temptation.

  ‘No, I don’t. Look, I know I kicked up a stink at the time but the pathologist—’

  ‘Dr Poland.’

  ‘Yes, him, was just doing his job. Any other pathologist would’ve said the same thing. I know that now.’

  ‘You’ve been advised that we are investigating the disappearance of Dr Poland’s ten year old granddaughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old was your son when he died?’

  ‘Ten.’ Barnard folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘For fuck’s sake, is that why I’m here?’

  ‘You’re here because of the remarks you made at the time, Mr Barnard. They’re recorded in the transcript of the court hearing.’

  ‘I was angry.’

  ‘Poland’s going to pay for this.’ Potter was reading from her notebook. ‘This is Poland’s fucking fault.’

  Dixon glanced across at Barnard, who was rubbing his stubble, flakes of dry skin falling like snow on to his black trousers.

  ‘I told you I was angry. My son was dead.’

  ‘He had a congenital heart defect. Is that right, Mr Barnard?’

  Barnard sighed. ‘Yes. We had a second post mortem done when we were considering a civil claim and it found the same thing.’

  ‘And the CPS dropped the causing death by dangerous driving?’

  ‘Careless bloody driving. My son was dead and he walked out of court with six points and a three hundred quid fine.’ Barnard wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

  ‘I’m sorry if this is bringing it all back, but I’m sure you can understand why we’d be interested to speak to you in the current situation.’

  ‘I haven’t kidnapped his granddaughter. All right?’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Barnard.’ Potter looked at Dixon and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Can you account for your whereabouts last Saturday afternoon, Mr Barnard?’ asked Dixon. ‘Between two and six.’

  ‘I watched my son . . .’ He sighed. ‘My other son, Niall, playing football for Burnham. That was at the BASC ground. Kick off was at three then we went in the bar for a few beers. Lots of people will have seen me.’

  ‘What about Tuesday morning? Early, say between eight and nine.’

  ‘That’s not early. I’d finished milking by then and we were out over Edithmead fixing a fence. My lads’ll vouch for that.’

  ‘And last night between ten and two?’

  ‘At home with my wife.’

  ‘Does the name Jeffrey Savage mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe Jeff Savage?’

  Barnard puffed out his cheeks. ‘I told you, no.’

  ‘Are you familiar with canal boats, Mr Barnard?’

  ‘I went on a holiday once and was bored shitless. It was my wife’s idea.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘We hired a boat at Bath and went along the Kennet and Avon. All those bloody locks. One after the other.’ He shook his head. ‘Never a-bloody-gain.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Five years ago, maybe. Something like that.’

  ‘What about Edward Buckler. Does that name mean anything?’

  ‘You mean Ted the weatherman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lives over Watchfield way. Everybody knows Ted, or knows of him, I should say. Why?’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘No.’ Barnard looked at his watch. ‘Have you finished? It’ll be milking time again soon.’

  ‘The search of your premises is still going on, Mr Barnard,’ replied Potter, standing up. ‘But you’re free to go.’

  ‘How much longer is that going to take?’

  ‘They’ll be finished today and all being well we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘Good,’ muttered Barnard. ‘I wouldn’t want you wasting any more of your time. And mine.’

  Potter dropped her notebook on the workstation and picked up her handbag, rummaging inside for a packet of cigarettes. She took one out and held it between her teeth while she found her lighter.

  ‘I’ll be in the car park,’ she said.

  ‘Petersen rang, Ma’am,’ said Guthrie. ‘Savage’s eardrums had both been pierced. Perforated was the word he used.’

  ‘Perforated eardrums?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Why the fuck would anyone do that?’

  ‘He thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Does Mitchell’s alibi check out?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Let’s get Barnard’s checked as soon as we can.’ Potter was halfway down the stairs now. ‘There’s a possible connection with Savage. They were both on the canal at the same time.’

  ‘With thousands of other people,’ muttered Dixon.

  ‘And he knows of Ted Buckler.’

  Doesn’t everyone?

  He waited until the door slammed behind Potter and then went down to the Safeguarding Unit, where Jane was catching up with her emails.

  ‘It’s not Barnard, is it?’ she said, looking up when he appeared by her workstation.

  ‘Or Mitchell.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Jane was looking past him through the glass part
ition to the landing on the other side of the atrium.

  Dixon spun round to see PC Cole leading Lucy by the arm. He leaned over and banged on the window.

  ‘What the hell’s she been up to?’ Jane wrenched open the door. ‘In here,’ she said.

  At least the Safeguarding Unit’s soundproofed, thought Dixon.

  Jane slammed the door behind them.

  ‘What the blood—?’ Jane stopped abruptly when she noticed that Cole was smiling at her. ‘What?’

  ‘It was her idea,’ he said, letting go of Lucy’s elbow. ‘Thought it might wind you up.’

  ‘No shit.’ Jane glared at Lucy. ‘Where’ve you been all day?’

  ‘Over at Catcott, helping with the search.’

  ‘Been a great help,’ said Cole. ‘Lots of the public turned out and we’ve covered a huge area. No sign of Hatty though, sadly.’

  ‘How did you get there?’

  ‘Taxi,’ replied Lucy. ‘You left me the money.’

  ‘That was supposed to be for food.’ Jane frowned. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No. You told me to stay out of trouble, so I did. And besides, lots of people went out looking for me when I went missing so I thought I ought to do the same for her.’

  ‘You went missing?’

  ‘I ran away . . .’ Lucy hesitated. ‘Once or twice.’ She grinned. ‘I was thinking I might be a police officer one day too.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘She asked me to print off the application forms for her,’ said Cole.

  ‘You need to pass your exams for that.’

  ‘I know, but you said—’

  Jane’s glare stopped Lucy mid-sentence. ‘Not now.’

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘I can drop you both off at home, if you like,’ said Dixon, smiling.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sickly sweet smell was unmistakable, even to someone who had never worked the drug squad. Dixon sighed. An old fashioned bobby-on-the-beat would have soon smelt it and been knocking on the door.

  He stood on the pavement outside the small terraced house in Glastonbury and listened to the muffled voices in the front room; laughter, shouting, a flame flickering, more laughter. And God knows what that pentangle thing hanging up at the window was supposed to be. Kicking the door in and nicking the lot of them was tempting. But this is Glastonbury, thought Dixon. Best go along with it. And besides, he needed Xander Dolphin’s help.

  He knocked and waited, his finger over the spy hole just above the door knocker. The pentangle moved – someone was trying to peer out of the front window – then footsteps and a dark figure looming up behind the small frosted pane of glass in the front door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon.’ Loud and clear. He shook his head, listening to the low muffled whisper of ‘plod’ then the sound of people – two, possibly three – running and the back door slamming shut.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ shouted Dolphin, followed by a flame flickering and an aerosol.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Dixon. ‘I can smell it from out here.’

  Dolphin shrugged his shoulders as he opened the door.

  ‘And besides,’ continued Dixon, ‘if that was why I was here, I’d have kicked the door in.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We found Alesha,’ replied Dixon. ‘In a canal boat under the M5. This was painted on the inside of the back doors,’ he said, handing Dolphin his phone.

  ‘Shit.’ Dolphin was staring at the photograph of the castle and flowers. ‘I was right.’

  ‘You were.’ Dixon winced. ‘Much as it pains me to say it.’

  Dolphin smiled. ‘And you want my help again?’

  ‘Hatty is still out there somewhere.’

  Dolphin stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘What the blood—’ The words caught in the back of Dixon’s throat as he coughed and spluttered on a mixture of joss sticks, marijuana and pine air freshener in the living room.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Dolphin. ‘I got a bit carried away with the Febreze.’

  Dixon picked up the joss sticks and dropped them in an open can of lager. Then he picked it up and shook it. ‘Can you open a window? Much more of this and I won’t be fit to drive.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘And the back door. Get a bit of air in this damn place.’

  ‘We haven’t talked about my fee,’ shouted Dolphin from the kitchen as he opened the back door.

  ‘Fee?’ Dixon picked up a carved wooden box on the coffee table.

  ‘The other night was a freebie for Gerry, but I usually charge . . .’ Dolphin’s voice tailed off when he walked back into the living room and saw Dixon holding the box.

  ‘You usually charge for what? This?’ He pulled a clear plastic bag out of the box and held it up to the light. ‘Because that would make it possession with intent to supply.’

  ‘No, for a reading,’ mumbled Dolphin, tugging at one of the earrings in his left ear.

  ‘Looks like good stuff.’ Dixon nodded. ‘There’s probably enough here for possession with intent anyway.’

  ‘I use a lot. It’s medicinal, you understand?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Dixon pushed the plastic bag back into the box, closed the lid and put it on the coffee table. ‘Your fee, Xander, is not getting nicked for this lot.’

  Dolphin nodded.

  ‘And that’s on the strict understanding you tell no one I was here. Ever.’

  ‘Worried that people will take the piss?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’ll be our little secret.’ Dolphin sat down on the sofa and picked up a half burnt joint from the ashtray.

  Dixon frowned. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘Let me have another look at that photograph.’ Dolphin dropped the joint back into the ashtray and snatched Dixon’s phone, which he was holding in his outstretched hand. ‘Roses and castles,’ he muttered, peering at the screen. Then he used two fingers to zoom in on the flowers. ‘They’re definitely roses.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And she was on a canal boat?’

  Dixon nodded. ‘It was out of the water on bricks.’

  ‘That explains it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was after last time at Catcott, the next night maybe,’ Dolphin shook his head, ‘I saw a boy, drowning. There was a stone wall and a big wooden gate, so maybe it was a canal lock. It makes sense if it was a lock, but there was no water in it.’

  ‘D’you see anything else?’

  ‘A horse.’ Dolphin leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Black, but that’s from coal dust.’ He took a deep breath through his nose. ‘She’s covered in dust and I can smell the burning coal.’

  Dixon sniffed the air. ‘All I’m getting is pine air freshener.’

  ‘You asked me and I told you,’ snapped Xander. ‘You don’t have the gift. How can you expect to see what I see?’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I don’t control it. I have to be able to smoke too, and I can’t do that with you here.’

  ‘So, you’re high when you get these visions?’

  ‘It opens the doors of the mind.’

  ‘Well, if it opens any more, you let me know. All right?’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Jane. She was sitting on the sofa with Lucy, both of them watching the TV, the film on pause.

  ‘Glastonbury,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Not to see the hippy?’

  ‘He’s more wizard than hippy.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘A boy drowning in an empty lock and a horse covered in coal dust.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

&
nbsp; ‘No idea.’ Dixon was squatting down in front of the fridge. ‘You eaten?’

  ‘We went to the pub.’

  ‘Have you fed Monty?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane sighed. ‘Of course we have.’

  ‘Dr Zhivago, eh?’ said Dixon, walking into the living room eating from a tub of olives, the microwave going in the kitchen behind him.

  ‘I’ve not seen it before,’ said Lucy. She frowned. ‘It’s a bit slow.’

  ‘What’s your fav—?’

  ‘Don’t ask her that,’ interrupted Jane. ‘For God’s sake.’

  Lucy grinned. ‘The Walking Dead.’

  Dixon rolled his eyes.

  ‘I told you not to ask,’ said Jane.

  Dixon was distracted by the ping from the kitchen; he took his curry out of the microwave, stirred it and then shoved it back in.

  ‘You look dead to the world,’ said Jane. ‘You need some sleep.’

  ‘Can’t sleep while Hatty’s still out there,’ muttered Dixon. ‘I think I’ll take Monty for a walk when I’ve had this. I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m barking up the wrong tree, so we can do it together.’

  Jane got up and stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘What d’you mean the wrong tree?’

  ‘Everyone with a grudge against Roger has a cast iron alibi.’

  ‘Everyone we know about. There may be others.’

  Dixon nodded. ‘Either that or we’ve been sent in the wrong direction.’ The microwave pinged on the worktop next to him. ‘Again.’ He dragged the curry out on to a plate and picked up a fork.

  ‘Have you done your jab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, it’s got nothing to do with Roger?’

  ‘Think about what Sonia and Alesha said. Both of them used exactly the same words. Exactly.’

  ‘It was rehearsed?’

  Dixon nodded. ‘Must’ve been.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to Potter?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So, what’s going on?’

  ‘God knows.’

  Twenty minutes later Dixon parked on the beach at Berrow. The tide was coming in, the waves rolling up the mud flats several hundred yards out. That gave him a couple of hours until the sea reached his Land Rover, if it came in that far. He hadn’t checked but it was plenty of time anyway. He opened the back, letting Monty jump out, his white coat seeming to glow in the moonlight, and followed the dog towards Burnham.