by Damien Boyd
‘Who do you think you are? Elvis Presley?’ asked Dixon. He thought he saw Jon Woodman smile.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Natalie.
‘They’re sending someone in to collect your father and then we’re going to have a chat about Noel’s death. Aren’t we, Jon?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon’s phone rang.
‘Dixon.’
‘It’s Bateman. We’re ready to come in and get the father.’
‘I’m putting you on speakerphone, Sir, so Jon can hear what’s going to happen for himself.’
‘Fine. We have two unarmed officers ready with a stretcher.’
‘Good,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll unlock the front door. Tell them to wait thirty seconds and then come in. I’ll be back in the lounge by then. He’s in the kitchen, which is straight through to the back of the house.’
‘Ok.’
‘I’ll keep you on the line, Sir. Are you happy with that, Jon.’
‘Yes.’
Dixon went into the hall and unlocked the front door. He then returned to the lounge, closing the door behind him. They listened to footsteps approaching along the front path and then the front door opening. After a short pause the footsteps continued along the hall to the kitchen. They could hear muffled voices.
‘You take his feet.’
And then the sound of footsteps moving back along the hall and the front door closing again.
‘We’ve got him,’ said Bateman.
‘Thank you, Sir. I’m going to lock the front door again now. I’d be grateful to know how he is as soon as there’s any news.’
‘Will do.’
Dixon rang off and then locked the front door.
‘How about a cup of tea after all that excitement?’
‘Let’s cut to the chase then, Jon. Two questions interest me. Firstly, why did you say it was all your father’s fault and, secondly, why do you think Jon was murdered?’ asked Dixon.
‘My father hated Noel. He hated his own son. The bastard threw him out when he was seventeen, sevenfuckingteen, and left him to fend for himself.’
‘Why?’
‘Noel was gay,’ said Natalie.
‘He threw him out with no money, nothing,’ screamed Jon.
‘Just because he was gay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did your mother say?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘What did Noel do?’
‘Do you want me to spell it out?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘I find it avoids any misunderstandings.’
Jon Woodman turned away.
‘He was a rent boy,’ said Natalie. ‘It was the only way he could make any money.’
‘Until he found horses. He loved horses,’ said Jon.
‘Then he got the job at the racing stables,’ said Natalie. ‘He was going to be a jockey.’
‘Ok, so why do you think he was murdered?’
‘The last time we spoke he said he knew something and was going to go public with it,’ said Jon.
‘Did he say what it was?’
‘No. Just that it was big and he was gonna blow the whistle on it.’
Dixon turned to Natalie.
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Dixon.
‘What do you mean "is that it"?’ screamed Jon. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Probably not, no. The post mortem report details multiple injuries consistent with being kicked by a horse, there are horse shoe marks on his body and he was found in a stable with an aggressive colt. A horse he knew he shouldn’t have gone in with, apparently.’
Dixon’s phone bleeped announcing the arrival of a text message.
‘DCI Lewis is here. Jx’
‘What’s that?’ asked Jon.
‘My boss is here,’ replied Dixon.
‘So, what happens now?’ asked Jon. ‘I’m not going out there until someone does something. And neither are you.’
‘We’re going to need more than just one conversation about blowing the whistle on something big to get a murder investigation authorised, Jon.’
‘He was murdered. I know he was murdered,’ said Jon.
‘I’ll make a deal with you then,’ said Dixon, standing up. Jon backed away, still pointing the gun at Dixon.
‘What?’
‘You’re going to have to trust me. I’m assuming you do, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do you remember the chap I was sitting with at the Zalshah last night?’
‘Sort of.’
‘His name’s Roger Poland. He’s the senior forensic pathologist at Musgrove Park.’
‘So what?’
‘Natalie, do you consent to a second post mortem on Noel?’
‘Why me?’
‘Your father is unconscious and Jon is...indisposed, shall we say? That makes you the next of kin.’
‘What good would it do?’ she asked.
‘Well, that’s the deal, isn’t it?’ replied Dixon. ‘A second post mortem on Noel by Roger Poland. He’s good, very good. And if he thinks Noel was murdered that will be enough to trigger a formal murder investigation.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’ asked Jon.
‘Then Noel wasn’t murdered. And you’ll just have to accept that. Either way, you put down the gun and come out.’
‘What will happen to me?’
‘You’ll be arrested and remanded in custody. Then you’ll go to Exeter Prison. But that’s better than the alternative, believe me.’
‘I suppose.’
‘We can get the second post mortem done this morning. I can pay a visit to the racing yard at the same time.’
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
‘I need to go out there and set this up for starters, Jon.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll keep in touch by phone and I’ll be back too. One way or the other.’
Silence.
‘Do you want someone else to investigate it?’
‘No.’
‘Then you have to let me out.’
Dixon stared at Jon Woodman. Beads of sweat appeared on Jon’s forehead. He began to tremble.
‘It’s crunch time, Jon.’
Silence.
‘I’m offering you what you want. But we need to get it done today. He’s being cremated on Friday, don’t forget.’
‘Ok, ok,’ replied Jon. ‘But you’re coming back?’
‘I am. And when I do, good news or bad, you’re putting that bloody thing down and coming out. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘Where is Noel?’
‘He’s at the Co-op in Bridgwater,’ said Natalie.
Dixon took his phone out of his pocket and rang Jane.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I’m coming out in two minutes. Tell Watts to make sure I don’t get shot, will you?’
‘Leave it with me.’
Dixon turned back to Natalie and Jon.
‘No one will come in before I get back so stay out of sight and don’t do anything stupid.’
Dixon walked out into the hall and closed the lounge door behind him. He unlocked the front door and then rang Jane again.
‘I’m coming out now. Ready?’
‘All set,’ replied Jane.
Dixon opened the door and stepped out into the light from the arc lamps. He held his right hand up and then walked slowly forwards along the path. Jane came out to meet him.
‘You alright?’
‘Fine.’
‘Lewis is hopping mad.’
‘He’ll get over it.’
‘What’s the story then, Dixon?’ asked Bateman. ‘We can come back to the flagrant breach of a direct order later.’
‘I’ve agreed with Jon that Roger Poland will do a second post mortem on Noel this morning. Natalie has given her consent as next of kin. While Roger’s doing that Jane and I will visit the ra
cing yard and see what we can find.’
‘And the point of all this?’
‘Well, for a start, once it’s done, Jon will come out. If he’s right we’ll also find evidence of a murder.’
‘Great. So, we just wait a few hours and then tell him Poland found nothing,’ said Watts.
‘He’s going to be pointing a 9mm Browning pistol at me when I tell him it’s been done so if you think I’m going to try to blag him you’re...’
‘What Inspector Dixon means is that it needs to be done and done properly if we are to bring this situation to an end satisfactorily,’ said DCI Lewis.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Well, let’s get on with it then,’ said Bateman. ‘And keep us posted.’
‘Would you mind explaining what the bloody hell’s going on?’ asked Lewis as they walked out through the conservatory. ‘You’re supposed to be safely tucked up in hospital and the next thing I know I’m getting a call at 4.00am to tell me you’ve just wandered into an armed siege.’
‘I discharged myself from hospital, Sir.’
‘You’re supposed to be off sick.’
‘I’m fine,’ replied Dixon.
‘So, we’ve got a gunman who thinks his brother’s been murdered?’
‘That’s the bones of it, yes.’
‘Where’s the body?’
‘The Co-op in Bridgwater.’
‘Well, you can wake Roger Poland up. I’ll get onto the Co-op and get the body moved back to Musgrove Park.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘I really should be splitting you two up now.’
‘These are exceptional circumstances, surely?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’ll run with that for the time being. But I’m relying on you to keep him out of trouble, Jane.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Two
It was just before 6.00am when PC Cole dropped Dixon and Jane back at the cottage in Brent Knoll. Jane took a shower and changed clothes while Dixon rang Roger Poland.
‘Hello?’
‘Morning, Roger. It’s Nick.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Six o’clock.’
‘What the...?’
‘It’s a long story but I need you to do a PM as soon as you can. Today. Now.’
‘Now?’
‘You remember last night the soldier who thought his brother had been killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s holed up in a house in Pawlett. He’s got a gun and won’t come out until we’ve looked into his brother’s death.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, we.’
‘I’ve got a meeting at 10.00am.’
‘Cancel it.’
‘You owe me one for this.’
‘I do. The body’s at the Co-op at the moment. DCI Lewis is arranging for it to be moved back to Musgrove Park as we speak.’
‘Ok. I’ll get over there now and read Davidson’s notes. Are you coming over?’
‘We’re going to the stables first. Then we’ll come on to you. Ring me if you find anything.’
‘Will do.’
Dixon rang off and then picked up the file. He turned to the witness statement from Georgina Harcourt.
‘I am the proprietor of the Gidley’s Racing Stables...’
He powered up his laptop, opened a web browser and then searched Google for Gidley’s Racing Spaxton. The first result came from michaelhespracing.co.uk. Dixon read the meta description out loud.
‘Michael Hesp Racing is based at Gidley’s Racing Stables, Spaxton, Somerset. Michael trains National Hunt and Flat horses on the edge of the Quantocks in Somerset...’
Dixon clicked on the link and looked at each page of the website. About Us, Gallery, Horses, Ownership and Results. He was just finishing when Jane appeared with two mugs of coffee. She was about to speak when his phone rang.
‘Nick Dixon.’
‘It’s Ruth Marsden, Sir. Just to say that Tom Woodman is conscious and he’s going to be alright.’
‘Thanks, Ruth. I’ll let Jon know.’
Dixon rang off and then dialled Jon Woodman.
‘Jon? It’s Nick Dixon.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Noel’s body is on the way back to Musgrove Park now and Roger Poland will be doing a second post mortem, as agreed. I’m going to Spaxton and then on to the hospital.’
‘Good.’
‘Your father’s going to be fine. He’s awake now and is going to be ok.’
‘Fuck him.’
Jon Woodman rang off.
Dixon turned to Jane. ‘You can choose your friends…’
‘Quite.’
A long gravel drive led to a small visitors’ car park on the right just before they reached Gidley’s Racing Stables. It was just after 8.00am when Dixon and Jane arrived in his beaten up old Land Rover. Jane had driven and Dixon had spent most of the journey on the phone. Noel Woodman’s body had arrived at Musgrove Park Hospital and Roger Poland had made a start on the second post mortem. He had also recovered all of the samples taken from the first post mortem, conducted by James Davidson.
Dixon had telephoned Jon Woodman to keep him up to date with developments and rang off just as Jane was parking the car. He could see two horse lorries, one large and one small, parked off to the left. They walked into a courtyard formed by the old farmhouse on the left, red brick stable blocks on each side and an open fronted hay barn and feed store opposite the house. Dixon could see the roof of a larger barn behind the stables. He counted five stables on each side with a concrete plinth along the front of both blocks. The courtyard itself was block paved and sloped towards a drain in the centre.
Two horses were tied up outside their stables eating hay from nets. All of the other horses were standing with their heads over their stable doors. All except one. The top half of the door was open but blocked off by heavy steel bars. The name on the door told Dixon he need look no further for Westbrook Warrior’s stable.
He was watching the horses tearing hay from their nets when Jane tapped him on the arm and nodded towards the farmhouse. They were being watched from a ground floor window. A groom then appeared from an alleyway between the stables and the barn in the far right corner of the yard. He was pushing a wheelbarrow and turned along the front of the block, heading towards the open stables. Dixon shouted over to him.
‘Excuse me?’
No response.
‘He’s wearing earphones,’ said Jane.
‘They’re a bloody nuisance those things.’
Dixon tried again. Louder this time.
‘Oi.’
The groom stopped and looked over. He took the earphones out of his ears.
‘Yes.’
‘We’re looking for Michael Hesp.’
‘He’ll be in the house.’
‘Get him, will you,’ said Dixon.
‘Who are you?’
‘Police.’
‘Oh, right.’
Dixon turned to Jane.
‘You wait. A Barbour jacket and green wellies.’
‘Tweed,’ said Jane.
They heard the farmhouse door slam.
‘Bad luck, Jane,’ said Dixon.
‘How could you possibly have known that?’
‘Call it an educated guess. It’ll be tweed on race days.’
‘Can I help you?’ asked Hesp.
‘Yes. I am Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Winter. We’re investigating the death of Noel Woodman.’
‘I thought that was closed. Accidental death, surely?’
‘Something happened to open it again, Sir,’ said Dixon.
‘Can I ask what?’
‘I can’t say, I’m afraid.’
Dixon spotted Hesp’s nervous glance in the direction of the farmhouse.
‘Well, how can I help?’
‘Can you show us the static caravan where he was living, please?’
‘Yes, of course, follow me.’
Dixon and Jane followed Michael Hesp across the yard and into the alleyway between the barn and the corner of the stable block. At the end they walked straight on. To his right Dixon could see a muddy path leading to the muck heap. To his left was a large American barn. The doors were open and he counted ten more stables inside. They walked along the side of the barn and turned left. The static caravan was hidden from view behind it.
‘It’s sheltered from the prevailing wind and out of sight,’ said Hesp.
They heard footsteps inside the caravan.
‘It’s occupied?’ asked Dixon.
‘Life goes on, Inspector. And we had to replace Noel.’
‘Where are his belongings? Have the family collected them?’
‘Not yet. They’re boxed up and in the barn over there.’
‘How many boxes are there?’
‘Two.’
‘We’ll get them in the back of the Land Rover before we go.’
‘Fine,’ replied Hesp.
‘Let’s have a look at Westbrook Warrior then,’ said Dixon.
‘Follow me.’
They walked back round into the yard and along the front of the stable block. Hesp stopped outside Westbrook Warrior’s stable.
‘Can we get him out?’ asked Dixon.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so. Kevin, can you come and give me a hand, please?’
Dixon and Jane stood back and watched while Kevin Tanner opened the stable door just wide enough to slide in. He approached the Warrior at the shoulder, making no sudden movements and avoiding eye contact. Then he reached up and put a headcollar on him. Hesp opened the door and Tanner led the horse out into the yard.
‘Stand clear,’ said Hesp. ‘He kicks.’
Westbrook Warrior was jet black with a white blaze and four white socks. Dixon estimated he was nearly seventeen hands.
‘He’s a big lad.’
‘Seventeen two,’ said Tanner. ‘He flies the hurdles.’
‘He’s not shod?’ asked Dixon.
‘We took his plates off after what happened to Noel,’ replied Hesp. ‘And he’s not racing again for a week or so.’
‘Where are the shoes now?’ asked Dixon.
‘No idea. The farrier would’ve taken them.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Simon Whitfield. He comes over from Wellington.’
Dixon walked around the front of Westbrook Warrior looking at his hooves. He took out his iPhone and took a photograph of each hoof.
