by Damien Boyd
Dixon reminded Tanner that he was under arrest and cautioned him again for the tape.
‘You have declined a solicitor. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you worked for Michael Hesp?’
‘About nine months.’
‘So, you knew Noel well?’
‘Ish.’
‘Did you share the static caravan?’
‘No. I stayed at home. I’ve moved into it now, though.’
‘Five pounds an hour with free board and lodging?’
‘Yes.’
‘And no doubt the promise of one day being a jockey?’
Tanner nodded.
‘Where were you on the morning he was killed?’
‘At home. I left about 5.00am and got to the stables and found him. It’s all in my statement.’
‘And your parents can vouch for that, can they?’
‘My mother can. My father’s dead.’
‘Where ‘s home?’
‘Bridgwater.’
‘Did you see anything unusual on that morning?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about the telephone call I saw you make to J Clapham Racing yesterday.’
The question caught Tanner off guard. He turned his head sharply and looked towards the door. Dixon waited. Tanner began picking at the seam of his jodhpurs with his left hand.
‘Kevin, we have reason to believe that Noel was murdered because he was about to reveal some important information. At the moment that looks like it may have been a betting scam. It also looks to me as if you are involved in it.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Tell me what it’s like.’
Silence.
‘From where I’m sitting you have a powerful motive for murder.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘But you know who did?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about the betting scam.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Let me put it another way then. We know about the betting scam, Kevin. One way or another, it’s over. Kaput. At the very least Hesp will lose his licence and you’ll be out of a job. At worst, you’ll be convicted of murder and do life.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
Tanner began to panic. Dixon watched the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He had pulled a thread from the seam of his jodhpurs and was pulling at it with his fingers. Dixon waited.
‘Noel was in on it.’
‘What?’
‘The betting scam.’
‘Go on.’
‘Michael gets the jockeys to hold the horses back. Make sure they don’t win. Noel would tip Clapham off for a few quid each time.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it. When Noel died Clapham asked me if I’d do the same.’
‘So, you’re saying that Michael Hesp is deliberately holding his horses back?’
Silence.
‘Let’s hear it, Kevin.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
‘We need to hear it from you.’
‘They lay the horses on the betting exchanges...’
‘Who do?’
‘No way. That’s it. I’m not saying anymore.’
‘Who, Kevin?’
‘No comment.’
After several more ‘no comments’ from Tanner, Dixon terminated the interview at 4.25pm. Tanner was taken back to a cell in the custody suite. Dixon turned to Jane.
‘If Noel was in on it, it’s unlikely that he was going to go public with it, isn’t it?’
‘Still possible, I suppose, but unlikely,’ replied Jane.
‘And it seems to me Tanner and Clapham were just taking advantage of what was going on to make some small change on the side.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You and Louise can interview Clapham. You know what to ask him?’
‘I do.’
Dixon waited in his office while Jane and Louise interviewed Jeremy Clapham. He fetched himself a coffee from the machine and spent the time reading the British Horseracing Authority file that he had brought back from London. He now understood the terminology and the basic principles but some of the maths still eluded him. He had never been very good at maths, which is why he had trained as a lawyer rather than an accountant before joining the police.
He powered up his computer and checked his email. There was a telephone call from Jon Woodman at Exeter Prison, no doubt wanting to know what was going on, but otherwise nothing of interest. Jon would have to wait. Not least because Dixon wasn’t at all sure that he had anything relevant to tell him, apart from the fact that his brother had been on the fiddle.
The interview with Clapham lasted no more than thirty minutes.
‘He’s a complete shit,’ said Jane.
‘We meet quite a few of those in this line of work, Jane,’ said Dixon.
‘It probably didn’t help that we pulled him out of the betting ring at Wincanton,’ said Louise.
‘My heart bleeds,’ replied Dixon. ‘What did he have to say for himself?’
‘Denials, mostly,’ said Jane. ‘He denied murdering Noel but then we don’t really think he did, do we?’
‘No.’
‘He completely denied knowing Noel or Tanner too but back tracked when we talked about mobile phone records. Then he said he knew them and spoke to them both from time to time, but not about racing.’
‘What did he say about yesterday?’
‘He said he did speak to Tanner but the change of odds was pure coincidence, prompted by checking the betting exchanges after each call.’
‘He must think we’re bloody stupid.’
‘I got the impression that’s exactly what he thought, Sir,’ said Louise.
‘Ok, re-arrest them for obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception and then release them both on bail. Then we’ll have a word with Mr Hesp.’
The interview with Michael Hesp proved to be something of an anticlimax. It lasted no more than ten minutes, Hesp answering ‘no comment’ to each and every question asked of him. Dixon pressed him on the events of the previous day at Exeter and also the British Horseracing Authority investigation, all to no avail. The only occasion Dixon thought he had made any impression on Hesp was when he asked him about the ‘money’ behind the betting scam. Dixon thought he recognised a fleeting look of fear in Hesp’s eyes but he soon recovered his composure and reverted to ‘no comment’ answers.
Dixon brought the interview to a close just after 5.30pm. Hesp was re-arrested for the deception offence and then released on bail.
‘What did you make of that, Jane?’
‘He’s shitting himself.’
‘He is but he did a good job of covering it up.’
‘Who was his solicitor, Louise? I’ve not seen him before.’
‘Paul Richards from Bristol.’
‘Bristol?’
‘Yes.’
‘He came all the way from Bristol for that?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Find out what you can about Richards will you, Jane? You can head off, Louise. We’ll see you back here in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Dixon and Jane were back at his cottage in Brent Knoll by 6.15pm. Dixon took Monty for a walk while Jane put a frozen fish pie in the oven. Then they opened a bottle of red wine and sat on the sofa. It had been a tiring day and it wasn’t long before Dixon was asleep. He woke up briefly for his supper before falling asleep again. Soap operas tended to have that effect on him.
The next thing he knew it was 2.00am. He was in bed, but was not entirely sure how he had got there. Jane was asleep next to him and Monty was curled up on the end of the bed by his feet. Monty had his own bed on the floor next to Dixon but rarely slept in it.
Dixon lay in bed dozing, his mind wandering from the sea cliffs at Pembroke t
o the slate quarries of North Wales. Then to a bunker on Burnham and Berrow golf course with a severed head in it.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes. Monty was standing on his chest, staring at him, his head tipped to one side. The dog turned and ran to the end of the bed. Dixon watched as he stood there, growling softly at the curtains, much as he had done only three nights before when PC Cole had arrived in the early hours.
Dixon sat up. He could hear footsteps in the road outside. He climbed out of bed and looked out of the crack between the curtains. He could see two men, one carrying a double barrelled shotgun and the other a large blade. It glinted in the streetlights. Both were wearing balaclavas. Further along Brent Street was a car. Engine on, lights off.
Dixon woke Jane. He put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘We’ve got company. Call it in. We need armed response. One of them’s got a gun.’
‘Oh shit.’ Jane started to shake.
Her phone was on the bedside table.
‘Don’t panic, Jane. Just make the call. And keep hold of Monty. If they get past me, let him go.’
Jane hooked her fingers in Monty’s collar with one hand and dialled 999 with the other.
Dixon opened the divan drawer under his side of the bed. He felt down through the socks and underwear until his fingers closed around the handle of his great grandfather’s trench cosh. It was a bamboo cane with a lump of lead on the end, all wrapped in brown leather. He put his right hand through the loop and gripped the handle as tight as he could.
Then he reached down behind his bedside table with his left hand and produced an ice axe. His last souvenir from his old climbing days, it had seen him safely to the top of Mont Blanc and back down again. He had kept it for just such an occasion as this. He held the top of the axe in his left hand with the handle running along the outside of his left forearm.
‘Be careful,’ said Jane.
Dixon closed the bedroom door and crept down the stairs. He could hear Jane on the phone. There was an urgency in her voice. Dixon was relieved that she had got through. Help would be on its way soon. But soon enough?
He reached the bottom of the stairs before he heard the back door creaking. Then the plastic splitting, which told him that it was being levered open with a crow bar. He ran over to the kitchen doorway and looked in. He could see two shadows outside through the frosted glass. One was trying to open the door. The other was standing behind him.
He could hear the car parked further along Brent Street, its engine still running. That meant a third man. The getaway driver. Either way, he’d scarper, with or without his passengers.
Dixon stepped back into the shadows under the stairs and waited. His heart was racing. He began to shake and tried to focus on regulating his breathing. He knew this was going to end in one of two ways.
Finally, the back door gave way. Dixon felt the cold night air rush into the cottage. It was only then that he realised he was dressed in just his underpants. He shook his head. No good worrying about it now.
He heard footsteps on the kitchen floor. First one set then another. Both men were in the kitchen. Dixon waited, hidden in the shadows.
Voices. Whispering. He couldn’t hear what was being said.
The barrels of the shotgun appeared in the doorway, edging forward. It was sawn off. Perfect for close range work. Then gloved hands came into view as the intruder edged further into the living room. He was right handed, with his left hand holding the stock.
Dixon waited, still hidden in the shadows. He took a deep breath, silently through his nose, and counted to three. Then he swung the trench cosh as hard as he could at the gloved hand holding the shotgun. Dixon felt the vibration of the cosh hitting wrist bone coursing through the bamboo handle. The soft crunching of the bone was followed by a loud scream. Both barrels of the gun went off, hitting Dixon’s TV and DVD collection, before the gun fell to the floor.
Monty started barking. He had broken away from Jane and was scrabbling at the inside of the bedroom door.
Dixon darted forward. The man was still screaming, his right hand hanging at right angles from his arm. Dixon allowed the trench cosh to slip from his grasp and picked up the shotgun in his right hand, holding it by the barrels. Then he swung it like a tennis racket at the head of the intruder. The gun butt hit the man on the left side of his forehead. The screaming stopped and he dropped to the floor.
Silence.
Dixon looked up and stepped back. The second man ran forward, his right arm raised above his head. Dixon could see the blade of a machete glinting in the moonlight that was streaming in through the kitchen windows. The man jumped the lifeless body lying on the floor and swung the machete at Dixon’s head. Dixon raised his left arm to deflect the blow. A searing pain tore through his left shoulder. He felt the blade bite deep into the rubber handle of his ice axe before hitting the steel underneath.
The man was off balance. Dixon took his chance. He swung the shotgun again as hard as he could, another forearm smash that would have been the envy of any tennis player. He connected with the left side of the man’s head. He heard a crack. Was it the shotgun butt or the man’s skull splitting? He hoped, prayed it was skull.
Silence.
The man fell backwards, almost in slow motion, landing in a crumpled heap behind the front door of the cottage. He pulled the door curtain off the wall as he fell and it came down on top of him.
Dixon could hear sirens in the distance. Monty was still barking.
Dixon ran outside, still in his underpants, just in time to see a red estate car speeding away. It raced to the end of Brent Street and turned right. He didn’t get the number plate.
The sirens were getting louder. Dixon ran back into the cottage. Neither intruder was stirring.
‘It’s alright, Jane, you can come out now.’
The bedroom door flew open and Jane ran down the stairs behind Monty. She threw her arms around Dixon while Monty sniffed the bodies lying on the floor.
‘There was a third one in a car but he hooked it,’ said Dixon. He was still holding the shotgun in his right hand and the ice axe in his left. The trench cosh was dangling from his right wrist on the loop.
‘Are they dead?’ asked Jane.
‘Who gives a...?’
There was a knock at the front door.
‘Are you alright in there?’
‘Who is it?’ shouted Dixon.
‘Rob from the Red Cow.’
‘Fine, thanks, Rob. You’d better go home. Keep your doors locked and don’t open them for anyone.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
‘Ok. As long as you’re alright.’
‘Fine, thanks, really.’
The sirens were getting louder. Dixon could hear the helicopter overhead.
He handed the shotgun to Jane.
‘I’m going to put some clothes on. If they move, hit ‘em again.’
‘You’re going to need an ambulance,’ said Jane. ‘Look.’
Dixon looked at his left shoulder. Blood had soaked through the dressing and was running down the left side of his chest.
‘I’m more concerned about my bloody telly. Look at that,’ he said, pointing at it with the trench cosh. ‘It was practically brand new.’
The television had taken the full force of both barrels. The screen had shattered and bits of glass were lying everywhere.
‘My DVDs have gone too...’
‘Every cloud...,’ said Jane.
They started to laugh. A nervous laugh at first then they held each other in their arms. Jane began to sob.
‘It’s the relief, I think,’ said Jane.
‘It is.’
Suddenly, blue lights were all around them, reflecting on the walls and ceiling of the cottage.
‘Trousers,’ said Dixon, running up the stairs. He reappeared a few seconds later pulling on a pair of
jeans at the top of the stairs.
‘Armed police.’ The shout came from outside.
‘Safe. 3275 Inspector Dixon. I have the gun. We need an ambulance. Two intruders on the ground.’
Dixon put Monty on his lead just as an armed police officer appeared at the back door. Jane held up the shotgun, still holding it by the barrels.
‘This is Detective Constable Jane Winter,’ said Dixon.
‘Safe,’ shouted the officer. ‘An ambulance is on its way, Sir. It’ll be here in five minutes.’
Six
‘A red estate car heading towards East Brent. Get the helicopter after it, will you?’
‘Yes, Sir. Chief Inspector Bateman’s on his way.’
‘Oh, joy,’ said Dixon.
He was standing in the living room of his cottage surveying what was left of his television. A paramedic was peeling the dressing off his left shoulder.
‘You’ll need to go hospital for this, I’m afraid. You’ve torn the stitches.’
‘Can’t you just patch me up for the time being? Jane can drive me over when we’ve sorted this mess out.’
‘Be sure that you do, though.’
‘I will,’ said Jane. She was sitting on the sofa watching four other paramedics working on the two intruders, both men still lying unconscious on the floor of Dixon’s cottage. The man who had been armed with the shotgun was being moved onto a stretcher, his neck in a brace and his right forearm in a splint.
‘Are they...?’
‘They’re both alive. We’ll take them to Weston for further examination.’
‘Right,’ said Jane.
PC Cole appeared in the kitchen doorway.
‘You alright, Sir?’
‘We’re ok, thank you, Cole.’
‘I’ve bagged up the gun, machete and crow bar. I just need your ice axe and cosh, if you don’t mind, Sir,’ said Cole.
Dixon looked down. He was still holding the trench cosh in his right hand and the ice axe in his left. He slipped his hand out of the loop on the cosh and then handed both to Cole.
‘Look after them, will you? I want them back.’
‘Yes, Sir. I’ve got orders to go with these two to the hospital,’ said Cole, gesturing towards to the two men on the floor. ‘Mr Bateman’s here and DCI Lewis is on his way, as well, apparently.’
