by Damien Boyd
‘We are privileged, Jane,’ said Dixon.
The paramedics carried the first of the two stretchers out through the back door.
‘You insured, Sir?’ asked Cole.
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon.
‘A nice new telly then...’
‘Let me through will you, constable,’ said Bateman.
Cole moved to one side allowing Chief Inspector Bateman to step into the room.
‘What is it with you, Dixon? You seem to attract trouble like flies round a turd.’
‘I’d prefer moths round a light, Sir, if you don’t mind.’
Bateman smiled.
‘And you don’t think you used excessive force?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Neither do I. Well done.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘The CPS and Independent Complaints may want to look at it though, you know what they’re like.’
‘Two men break into my house in the dead of night armed with a shotgun and a machete. If I’d had a gun I’d have shot ‘em, Sir, and it still wouldn’t have been excessive force.’
‘Quite.’
‘He should get a medal, Sir,’ said Jane.
‘Monty should get that. God alone knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t woken me up.’
The remaining paramedics stood up ready to carry the other stretcher out through the back door. They had removed the man’s balaclava and paused briefly so Dixon could see his face. The man had a three inch gash above his left eye that looked through to the bone. He was dressed from head to toe in black. His mouth and nose were covered by an oxygen mask.
‘What do you think, Jane? Thirtyish?’
‘About that.’
‘Eastern European?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Alright, take him away,’ said Bateman.
Dixon could hear the helicopter overhead again.
‘They lost the car, I suppose?’
‘Never picked it up,’ said Bateman.
Dixon shook his head. He walked over and looked at what was left of his DVD collection. He picked up a box and opened it. Shards of broken DVD fell to the floor.
‘Goodbye, Mr Chips,’ he muttered.
‘Nothing that can’t be replaced,’ said Jane.
‘You alright?’ The voice came from the kitchen. Dixon looked over. It was DCI Lewis.
‘Fine, Sir, thank you.’
‘You’ve rattled the wrong cage, this time.’
‘Or the right one?’
‘SOCO will be here in a minute so get some clothes on and let’s get you out of here.’
‘Where...?’
‘Hospital would be a good starting point by the looks of things,’ said Lewis.
Blood had started to drip down the left side of Dixon’s chest again.
‘I’ll take Monty to my parents and meet you there,’ said Jane.
‘SOCO can secure the back door when they’ve finished, if you’re not back by then.’
Dixon heard the back doors of the ambulance being slammed shut in the road outside and looked through the front window to see it leaving, with PC Cole following in a patrol car. Then he went upstairs, got dressed and followed DCI Lewis and Jane out into the road.
Brent Street had been sealed off at both ends and blue lights were still flashing all around, lighting up the cottages and the pub. Most had lights on in the windows and uniformed officers were going from house to house telling residents to stay indoors.
Dixon was not going to be popular with his neighbours.
It was just after 6.00am by the time Jane arrived at Weston Hospital. Dixon was in a private room, sitting sideways on the bed with his legs dangling over the side.
‘What’s happening?’
‘They want the surgeon who operated on it to have a look so I’m stuck here until he gets his arse out of bed.’
‘And Lewis?’
‘He left ages ago,’ replied Dixon. ‘How’s Monty?’
‘Fine. My parents’ cat wasn’t too chuffed about it though. Fancy a cup of tea?’
‘They told me not to have anything in case they have to operate again.’
‘What about your blood sugar?’
‘They took it an hour or so ago and it was fine.’
‘Any news on our house guests?’
‘No.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ shouted Dixon.
‘I’m looking for Detective Inspector Dixon.’
‘That’ll be me.’
‘I’m DCS Collyer, Head of Operations, Bristol Zephyr team.’
They shook hands and Dixon introduced Jane. DCS Collyer looked the part in a smart grey suit, white shirt and red tie. He had short dark hair, a moustache and wore spectacles.
‘Zephyr means organised crime and a Detective Chief Superintendent too, Sir. What’ve we done to deserve that?’ asked Dixon.
‘You’ve had quite a night of it, I gather,’ said Collyer.
‘You could say that,’ replied Jane.
‘It’s a good thing they were only trying to scare you...’
‘Scare us?’
‘Yes, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel by now.’
‘Who is this ‘they’ then, Sir?’ asked Dixon.
‘Your two visitors are Besim Raslan and Ardita Besmir.’
‘What...?’
‘Albanian.’
‘Albanian?’
‘That’s right. Serious people. They’re part of a gang that operates out of a bookmakers shop in Whiteladies Road. It’s just a front, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘They’re into drugs mainly and a bit of gambling on the side. We’ve been watching them for some time.’
‘Are they going to be alright?’
‘Who?’
‘The two...’
‘Oh, yes, fine, I think. One has had an op on a badly broken arm and got away with a bad headache, the other needed surgery for a bleed on the brain. He should be alright though.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘One’s on a ward and the other’s in intensive care. Under guard. They’ll be remanded in custody, do ten to fifteen and then be deported, I expect.’
‘Gits.’
‘You must have trodden on some toes to merit a visit. What are you investigating?’
‘What’ve you been told, Sir?’
‘About a murder at Gidleys Racing Stables near Bridgwater...?’
‘The victim was about to blow the whistle on something big and we’ve been looking into the possibility that this ‘something big’ was a betting scam. The British Horseracing Authority believe that the trainer’s been holding his horses back so that others, presumably this lot from Whiteladies Road, could lay them on the betting exchanges. The trainer denied it, of course, but the other groom at the yard admitted it. Both looked scared shitless when I pressed them on who was behind it. They had a winner on Thursday though.’
‘A winner? That will have lost the Albanians a lot of money.’
‘You sound like you know about this betting scam?’
‘I do.’
‘I’m not convinced it’s the motive for the murder though because the victim was actively skimming on the side.’
‘Involved in it, you mean?’
‘Yes. And using the information to make a few quid extra for himself.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It is, Sir, and given what you’ve just told me, I’m even more convinced that it’s not the motive.’
‘Why?’
‘If it was, our victim would be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel now, wouldn’t he?’
‘He’d have just disappeared?’ asked Jane.
‘He would. Quietly, no fuss. And with Noel, who’d have thought anything odd about that?’
‘True.’
‘You mentioned the gang was into drugs too, Sir?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes. We think
they’ve been bringing it into the country using the horse lorries. Cocaine, primarily. They go backwards and forwards across the Channel on the ferry to Brittany. There’s a farm over there where some of the horses rest, apparently. At least that’s the pretext. They take some horses over and bring others back so it doesn’t look suspicious.’
‘And no one’s found anything?’
‘No, the Border lot have been over the lorries, with dogs too, and found nothing,’ replied Collyer. ‘We’ve tried to get someone on the inside but no luck yet.’
‘So, you’ve been watching the yard?’ asked Dixon.
‘On and off.’
‘Why weren’t we told?’
‘We didn’t think...’
‘Well, I bloody well did need to know...’ Dixon shook his head. ‘I think we can rule that out as the motive anyway.’
‘Why?’ asked Jane.
‘Same reason. If Noel was threatening to blab about it, one telephone call and he’d have just disappeared. I bet he knew it too.’
‘Tanner seemed to,’ replied Jane.
‘That he did. And Hesp,’ said Dixon. ‘I wonder how much Mrs Harcourt knows about all this?’
‘We’ve been working on the basis that she’s a reluctant participant,’ said Collyer. ‘If she does know, she’s not happy about it.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘We listen.’
‘What does that m...?’ asked Jane.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Dixon.
‘What was your victim going to sing about then?’ asked Collyer.
‘Time for a closer look at his private life, I think.’
‘Well, keep me posted if you turn up anything I need to know.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And look after yourself.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘And if you fancy a change, let me know. We can always make room for good people in the Zephyr Team.’
‘Didn’t think. Didn’t bloody think. People trot that out as if it somehow makes it alright,’ said Dixon.
‘They do.’
‘I’d rather they’d thought about it and decided not to tell me but ‘didn’t bloody think’…’
‘Calm down.’
‘Idiots.’
Jane was driving Dixon’s Land Rover.
‘Can we get Monty first?’
Jane looked at her watch. It was nearly 10.00am.
‘Yes, fine.’
Dixon had been discharged from hospital, having not needed further surgery. The wound had been dressed, his arm was back in a sling and he had been prescribed more Tramadol. He leant against the door pillar on the passenger side of the car and closed his eyes. Seconds later he was asleep.
He woke up when Jane pulled up outside his cottage.
‘Where’s...?’
‘In the back.’
Dixon looked over his shoulder to find Monty sitting on the floor behind him. Then he looked along Brent Street, which was now open. He could see three patrol cars parked at various points and police officers conducting house to house enquiries. The Scientific Services vans had gone so he would be allowed back into his cottage. Jane reversed into the drive at the side and then parked behind the cottage.
The back door had been screwed shut from the inside to secure it.
‘We’ll need to use the front door,’ said Dixon.
They stood in the doorway looking at the wreckage of the television and DVDs.
‘Are those pellet holes in the wall behind the telly?’ asked Jane.
‘A bit of Polyfilla will soon sort that out.’
The door curtain had been rolled up and thrown on the sofa. Dixon noticed two patches of blood on the carpet where the Albanians had lain unconscious, bleeding from their head wounds.
‘You got a carpet shampooer I can borrow?’
‘No. Won’t your insurers sort that out?’
‘I’ll ring them.’
‘Right, well I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘It’s my Dad’s birthday. Out to lunch. Remember?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll be back fourish.’ She kissed Dixon and then left in his Land Rover.
Dixon rang his insurance company and then began tidying up. Not an easy task one handed. He threw the door curtain under the stairs. Then he shut Monty in the kitchen to keep him out of the way and picked up the large pieces of glass from the television screen one by one, putting them in an empty cardboard box with the broken DVDs. The only one to have survived the shotgun blast was The Dambusters. Next he hoovered up the smaller bits of glass, before dumping the lot outside the back door.
He sat down with a cup of tea. Monty jumped up and sat on his lap.
‘What are we going to do then, matey?’
Dixon sat staring into space. He thought about Noel. He was making money out of the betting scam and wouldn’t have dared blow the whistle on the drug dealing either. So, it must have been something personal to him. He was a rent boy, of course, which presented him with plenty of opportunity for blackmail. Dixon felt a sense of direction returning to the enquiry.
Then he heard a noise outside. He jumped up and ran into the kitchen for a knife. Monty started barking. Dixon waited out of sight. A figure appeared in the small frosted glass window in the front door. Two letters were pushed through the letterbox and dropped onto the mat.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Dixon.
He picked up the letters and threw them on the side in the kitchen. Then he powered up his laptop, navigated to Google and searched for free horse race laying systems. He spent the next ten minutes scrolling through the results, clicking on various links, before downloading a copy of Betting Exchange Bookie, which the author described as a foolproof horse race laying system.
Dixon read the short pdf file in twenty minutes, making various notes as he did so. When he finished he had a list of rules for selecting a losing horse. He read aloud.
‘The race must have at least nine runners. Never lay a horse that won its last race. There must be at least two other runners with a Racing Post Rating within five of your selection. Your selection should not be the only horse carrying top weight. Never lay unless the odds have drifted out by more than two points. Never lay at odds over eight to one.
He went to the Racing Post website and looked at the race cards for the day. Lingfield, Wincanton, Naas and Ascot.
‘Let’s have a bit of fun, shall we, old chap,’ he said, looking at Monty.
He navigated to Bet29 and signed up. Then he reached for his wallet and deposited one hundred pounds.
Racing got underway at 12.30pm but it was the 1.05pm at Wincanton before he found a suitable candidate. Napoleon. He came fourth last time out and had started the day at odds of five to one but drifted out to seven to one by 1.00pm, just before the off. He was not top weight and there were two other competitive horses in the race, according to the Racing Post Ratings.
Dixon layed him for ten pounds at odds of seven to one and waited for the bet to be matched. He began to sweat. If Napoleon lost Dixon would win ten pounds. If the horse won the race, he would have to pay out seventy pounds. He could feel his resolve draining away. Seventy quid? He was about to click Cancel when the bet was matched. Too late to back out now.
Dixon would not be able to watch the race on the television and would have to be content with watching the odds change as the race progressed. If Napoleon was doing well the odds would shorten, if not they would drift out still further. Dixon watched and waited. Suddenly, the betting screen froze and then went blank, before appearing again with the words ‘In Play’ across the middle. The race was underway.
When the ‘In Play’ odds appeared Napoleon had shortened in to evens. He must be near the front, thought Dixon. He watched the odds of the other horses. They were bouncing around all over the place and he decided he could read nothing into that. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.
Then he notice
d that Napoleon’s odds had drifted out to six to one. Another horse was in at odds of one to two. That’s odds on, thought Dixon. He must be going to win. He looked back to Napoleon at odds of fifteen to one, then fifty to one. Dixon relaxed. Napoleon had lost.
‘Easy money,’ he said, scratching Monty behind the ears. ‘Let’s try another.’
He scanned the race cards for the next few races. Nothing at Naas, except a short priced favourite against very weak opposition. Flat racing on the all weather track at Lingfield got underway at 1.20pm but the first race had an odds on favourite. The second favourite looked interesting but the odds were shortening rather than drifting. Lots of people were backing him and there was probably a good reason for that. Dixon moved onto the next race.
Ascot and the 1.30pm. He looked down the betting screen and found Spilt Milk, second favourite but with odds that had drifted from three to one to five to one. Dixon checked the form. Spilt Milk was not top weight and had not won her last race. She looked perfect.
Five to one would cost Dixon forty pounds if she won. He laid the horse at odds of five to one and waited for the bet to be matched up. The odds continued to drift out until his bet was matched. He waited.
As before, the screen froze and then the ‘In Play’ message was displayed. Dixon watched the odds bouncing around, trying not to get too agitated. Spilt Milk’s odds drifted out to seventeen to one and then still further to one hundred to one and beyond. She must have been well off the pace almost from the off.
‘I’m in the wrong business, Monty,’ said Dixon.
Prince Billy in the 1.35pm at Wincanton caught Dixon’s eye for the wrong reason. He scanned the form and read aloud.
‘Jockey S McCarthy, Trainer M Hesp.’
Tempting. He checked the odds. They were drifting, which meant the horse was not expected to win but then he knew that. Dixon noticed that more money had been matched up on Prince Billy than on any other horse in the race, including the favourite. The irregular betting pattern again.
Dixon entered ten pounds in the laying column and selected the odds. His mouse hovered over the ‘Submit’ button.
‘No, Monty, cheats never prosper.’
Dixon hit the ‘Back’ button and watched the race unfold without placing a bet. Almost immediately the odds on the favourite in the race went straight out to one thousand. Dixon thought he must have fallen or pulled up. Prince Billy’s odds shortened and kept getting shorter. Dixon smiled. Prince Billy was doing well. Either Hesp had told the jockey not to hold him back or his plan was scuppered by the favourite falling.
