Kickback

by Damien Boyd

  Dixon withdrew all his money back to his credit card and logged out. Then he closed his laptop and put it away.

  ‘My father always told me to quit while you’re ahead, old son,’ he said, scratching Monty behind the ears. Dixon had got what he wanted. A clear understanding of the mechanics of backing and laying horses on the betting exchanges.

  ‘Besides, matey, it’s a mug’s game.’

  He opened a can of beer and took two Tramadol. Then he fell asleep on the sofa with Monty curled up beside him.

  Jane arrived home just as it was getting dark and parked behind the cottage, as usual. She thought it odd that all the lights were off. She tried the back door, before remembering that it had been secured from the inside, and then walked around to the front door. She peered through the frosted glass and could see no sign of life. There was no barking either. That could mean only one thing.

  She walked over to the Red Cow and found Dixon asleep in the corner of the lounge bar. Monty was lying on the floor at his feet, awake and alert.

  ‘I didn’t like to wake him,’ said Rob. ‘Sounds like you had a hell of a night.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Gin and tonic, please,’ replied Jane. ‘How many’s he had?’

  ‘That’s his second.’

  Jane looked at the pint glass on the table in front of Dixon. It was half empty.

  ‘Must be the painkillers.’

  She reached into her handbag for her purse.

  ‘On the house,’ said Rob.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jane sat opposite Dixon and tapped his foot under the table. He woke up.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Fiveish.’

  He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘How long have you been in here?’ asked Jane.

  ‘About an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Felt a bit of a sitting duck in the cottage...’

  Jane took a large swig of gin and tonic.

  ‘Drink up. We’ll go and stay at my flat. It’s got a telly for a start.’

  ‘Great. I’ll bring what’s left of my DVD coll...’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  Seven

  The CID Room at Bridgwater Police Station was a hive of activity, despite the fact that it was first thing Sunday morning. Dixon and Jane arrived to find DI Janice Courtenay briefing her team on an aggravated burglary the night before near Westonzoyland. DCI Lewis was listening in. At the far end of the room, Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were finishing off the paperwork on Dixon’s previous case for submission to the CPS on Monday.

  ‘All hail the conquering hero.’

  ‘Piss off, Janice,’ said Dixon, smiling.

  Jane sat at her desk and powered up her computer. Dixon went into his office, closely followed by DCI Lewis.

  ‘You had a visit from Peter Collyer?’

  ‘They knew, they bloody well knew what was going on at that yard and...’

  Dixon stopped mid sentence. He was looking past DCI Lewis at the vending machine against the far wall of the CID Room. Feeding coins into it was DS Harry Unwin.

  Dixon brushed past DCI Lewis and marched across the room, knocking a pile of papers off the corner of Jane’s desk as he went past. Harry Unwin heard the noise and turned to see Dixon steaming towards him. Unwin tried to back away but there was nowhere for him to go. As he closed in, Dixon reached up with his right hand and pinned Unwin to the front of the vending machine by the throat.

  Dixon glared at Unwin.

  ‘I tried to warn you...’ said Unwin.

  Dixon spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Was that before or after you gave them my address?’

  ‘Dixon! Put him down,’ shouted Lewis.

  Jane arrived and tried to release Unwin from Dixon’s hand.

  ‘In my office now. Both of you.’

  Dixon released Unwin and turned to follow DCI Lewis into his office. Unwin straightened his jacket and tie and then followed them.

  Lewis slammed the door behind them.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  The question was addressed to Dixon. He remained silent.

  ‘I appreciate that you’ve been through a lot in the last day or so...’

  ‘It’s fine, Sir, really,’ said Unwin.

  ‘You won’t be making a formal complaint?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Inspector Dixon is grateful. Thank you, Harry, you may go.’

  Harry Unwin left the room.

  ‘That prick told them where I live.’

  ‘Of course, he did. But it’s in hand. That’s all I can tell you. Is that clear?’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Go home and get some rest.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And another thing.’

  Dixon turned back to face Lewis.

  ‘You’ve got him by the throat with your right and your left’s in a sling.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you going to hit him with?’

  ‘That is not something to which I had applied my mind, Sir.’

  Lewis smiled.

  ‘Get out of my sight.’

  ‘C’mon, Jane, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Spaxton.’

  They walked out to Dixon’s Land Rover in silence and were heading west out of Bridgwater on Durleigh Road before Jane spoke.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Unwin gave the Albanians my address.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t they have got it off the electoral roll?’

  ‘I’m not on it yet.’

  ‘Directory enquiries?’

  ‘No land line.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did Lewis have to say?’

  ‘He told me to get some rest.’

  ‘So, we’re going to Spaxton?’

  ‘Briefly. Then maybe lunch somewhere and a walk on the beach?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Jane.

  It was a sunny autumn day with a clear blue sky and not a breath of wind. They forked right at the eastern end of Durleigh Reservoir onto Spaxton Road. Dixon watched the dinghies sailing up and down as they drove past.

  They turned into the car park at Gidley’s Racing Stables and parked in the small car park. Both horse lorries were parked off to the left of the entrance as they had been before. The larger of the two was black with gold lettering, ‘Michael Hesp Racing, Spaxton, Somerset’. The ramp at the back was open but the lorry was empty. Dixon walked up the ramp and looked around inside.

  It had partitioning in place for up to six horses but there were only three hay nets hanging from the rings on the wall. The floor was covered in muck and wood shavings. Underneath that was rubber matting. Beyond the stalls, a narrow corridor led through to a small living area with a sink, lavatory and dinette seating. The lorry was a little rough around the edges but otherwise clean and in good condition. A pile of dirty riding silks and jodhpurs had been left on the seat.

  There was a small tack cabinet bolted to the wall. It was open so Dixon looked inside. There were several bridles hanging on hooks on the inside of the door. Dixon could see two pairs of riding boots in the bottom and four horse racing saddles on racks, one above the other.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The shout came from the rear of the lorry. Dixon walked back along the narrow corridor and down the ramp.

  ‘You had another winner yesterday, Mr Hesp. Your luck must be changing.’

  ‘Are you here for anything in particular or just snooping?’

  ‘Investigating a murder, Mr Hesp. It’s not all about your grubby little betting scam.’

  ‘How dare you? I...’

  ‘A 2007 six horse Iveco lorry with living space. What’s that worth then?’
>
  ‘Well, I...’

  ‘I can Google it...’

  ‘About sixty thousand.’

  ‘Really? And how do you afford that?’

  ‘I paid for it with an inheritance.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, an elderly aunt?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘And the Renault lorry over there. What about that?’

  ‘That belongs to Georgina.’

  ‘What’s in the box on the roof?’

  ‘Tack.’

  ‘May I see?’

  Hesp climbed up onto the roof of the lorry using the ladder bolted to the side. He opened the side of the fibreglass box on the roof to reveal several black leather and synthetic saddles.

  ‘Just spares and other stuff.’

  ‘That’s fine, thank you, Mr Hesp.’

  Hesp climbed down the ladder as Dixon walked towards his Land Rover.

  ‘When does Westbrook Warrior race again?’

  ‘Wednesday at Taunton.’

  ‘Really? I may come and watch.’

  It was getting dark as Dixon and Jane walked back along the beach towards the Pavilion. Sunday lunch at the Red Cow had been followed by a long walk out as far as the lighthouse and back. They had parked on the seafront near the Clarence and thought they might pop in for a drink before heading back to Jane’s flat.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be welcome?’ asked Jane.

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  Their last visit to the Clarence had not ended well.

  Dixon walked up the flight of concrete steps and waited at the top. Jane was still on the beach, rummaging in her pockets for the scented dog bags so she could pick up after Monty. Having an arm in a sling had some advantages, thought Dixon.

  Suddenly, he heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned. Too late. He felt something dig into the right side of his back under his ribcage. He looked over his right shoulder and could see a gloved hand pressing the barrel of a gun into him. The man was small, dressed in black and wearing dark sunglasses. He had a moustache and dark stubble.

  He nodded to the right.

  ‘Get in the car.’

  A strong eastern European accent.

  Dixon looked over to see a large black Range Rover with tinted windows. The nearside passenger doors, front and back, were open. Dixon looked down the steps. Jane was at the bottom holding Monty on the lead. She looked up at him with panic in her eyes. He shook his head. Jane got the message and turned back towards the beach, soon hidden behind the sea wall.

  Dixon walked over and got in the back of the Range Rover. The man slammed the door and then climbed into the front seat. The car sped off heading north along the Esplanade. They were speeding out of Burnham towards the motorway roundabout before the man sitting next to Dixon spoke.

  ‘You are becoming a pain in the neck, as you English say, Mr Dixon.’

  ‘And what do I call you? Mr Green? Colonel Mustard?’

  ‘You may call me Zavan.’

  Zavan was in his early sixties with grey hair and matching beard. He clearly stuck to the dress code for Albanian gangsters, wearing trousers, polo neck sweater and a sports jacket. All black. He spoke slowly and with a strong eastern European accent.

  ‘And what do your friends call you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I have no friends.’

  ‘You owe me a new television.’

  ‘And you owe me two men. So we are quits, I think.’

  Zavan turned in his seat to face Dixon and looked him up and down.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘I got stabbed a week or so ago.’

  ‘I read about that.’

  The driver of the Range Rover spoke in Albanian. Zavan translated for Dixon.

  ‘He said you dealt with Besim and Ardita with one arm. He would like to have seen that.’

  ‘An Englishman’s home is his castle...’ replied Dixon.

  Zavan threw his head back and roared with laughter. He stopped abruptly.

  ‘You don’t scare easy, do you, Mr Dixon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are not scared now?’

  ‘I’m working on the basis that if you wanted me dead I’d be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel...’

  ‘We could be on our way there now,’ said Zavan.

  ‘We could. But then you wouldn’t be here getting your hands dirty and I certainly wouldn’t have been taken in broad daylight. Now, would I?’

  Zavan nodded. He spoke in Albanian to the driver. The Range Rover turned north on the A38 towards Bristol.

  ‘We do not kill policemen, Mr Dixon. We are not barbarians.’

  ‘And you’re not stupid either.’

  ‘That is true. We are not stupid.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘Our interests do not conflict, your’s and mine. You seek a murderer and we have killed no one.’

  ‘But you are breaking the law,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Mere trifles, by comparison,’ said Zavan. ‘Is that the right expression?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And they are someone else’s problem, are they not?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘We did not kill the groom. I give you my word.’

  ‘And you don’t know who did, I suppose.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hesp will be closed down. You know that?’

  ‘The horse racing was never going to last long. And it was small change.’

  Dixon decided not to let on that he knew about the drugs.

  ‘And what about Hesp?’

  ‘He will be more careful who he borrows money from next time,’ replied Zavan.

  ‘He’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

  ‘So, we have an agreement?’ asked Zavan.

  ‘We have arrived at an understanding,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘There is. Buy yourself a dictionary.’

  Zavan smiled and barked an order in Albanian. The Range Rover came to an abrupt halt on the side of the road.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Dixon. I hope our interests never conflict.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Dixon watched the Range Rover speed off towards Bristol, it’s lights disappearing into the distance. He looked around. He could see the lights of the Sidcot Arms set back from the road about five hundred yards away and started walking towards it. He reached into his pocket and rang Jane as he walked.

  ‘Are you alright? Fuck. Tell me you’re alright.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Sidcot.’

  ‘Fucking hell. I thought you were...’

  ‘I’m fine, really, Jane. They just wanted a chat.’

  ‘I nearly shit myself.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘I called it in. I’d better let them know you’re ok.’

  ‘I’ll be in the Sidcot Arms.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Dixon was on his second pint by the time Jane arrived at the Sidcot Arms. She ran over and threw her arms around him. Tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘I thought you were...’

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  Dixon put his right arm around Jane and kissed her.

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  ‘A chat?’

  ‘I met the big cheese. He wanted to tell me that our interests did not conflict. That was the phrase he used.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That they didn’t kill Noel and would I please leave them in peace. That was the gist of it.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I did, as it happens. But then I did before I was kidnapped at gunpoint.’

  ‘What about the betting and the drugs?’

  ‘They know the betting scam is finished. Hesp will take the fall for that. We didn’t discuss the drugs. I thought it best not to let on I knew about that.’

&n
bsp; ‘Very wise,’ replied Jane. ‘What were they like?’

  Dixon shook his head.

  ‘I’m not sure, really. Polite and courteous but intimidating with it. Pleasantly threatening. Does that make sense?’

  ‘No. I need a drink.’

  ‘Gin and tonic?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Dixon was standing at the bar when his phone rang. It was Roger Poland.

  ‘Hello, Roger.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday? I called round about sixish.’

  ‘We stayed at Jane’s flat.’

  ‘You alright? I heard about the break in.’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Sidcot.’

  ‘Sidcot? What are you doing there?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Listen, I had the dung sample from Noel’s mouth tested by a veterinary pathologist. It’s consistent with Dodson and Horrell Racehorse Mix not the cubes.’

  ‘So, it’s not Westbrook Warrior’s?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. SOCO found blood on the wheelbarrow so I’m thinking he fell forward onto it and got a mouthful. Either way, it wasn’t in Westbrook Warrior’s stable, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The bite was definitely post mortem,’ replied Poland. ‘And around each horse shoe imprint on the body is the faint outline of a square.’

  ‘A square what?’

  ‘That’s your department. It’ll be whatever the shoe was nailed to I expect. It’s roughly the same width as the shoe.’

  ‘Can you email me a photo?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  Dixon rang off, paid for the drink and carried it back over to Jane.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Roger.’

  Dixon filled her in on the dung sample results and also the square outline around the shoe imprints on Noel’s body.

  ‘So, it was nailed to a square piece of wood?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Still could have been anything.’

  ‘It could.’