by Damien Boyd
‘You alright?’
Dixon looked up. DCI Lewis was standing in the doorway of his office.
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’
Lewis turned to walk away.
‘Could I have a word with you, Sir?’
‘Of course,’ said Lewis, walking into Dixon’s office and closing the door behind him. He sat down on the chair in front of Dixon’s desk.
‘What’s up?’
‘You’re going to get a request for mobile phone positioning records. I know it’s expensive but it’s all we’ve got at the moment.’
‘Those have to be approved by the Chief Super.’
‘Yes, but she’ll ask your advice...’
‘She will.’
Dixon raised his eyebrows.
‘Leave it with me,’ said Lewis. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Georgina Harcourt...’
‘The suicide?’
‘It’s looking increasingly like it. But she hated whisky, so why did she use that? And why did she call me on Sunday night? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it.’
‘Poland found anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Maybe she wanted to make a death bed confession?’
‘Maybe she did. Anyway, when Collyer came to see me in the hospital he said that she was a reluctant player in the drugs. She knew about it but wasn’t actively involved. I asked him how he knew and he said ‘we listen’. So, I’m thinking...’
‘They’ve got the house bugged?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Dixon.
‘It’s illegal,’ replied Lewis.
‘Needs must.’
‘Anything you got from it would be inadmissible.’
‘I’m only after a point in the right direction, Sir.’
‘The more likely explanation is a telephone tap, which would give you nothing.’
‘It’s worth asking, surely?’
‘Alright, I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Lewis, getting up.
Dixon turned back to his handwritten list of telephone calls and began staring at it again.
Berryvale Avenue was a narrow tree lined road of former council houses towards the north of Bridgwater. Cars were parked on the pavement either side of the road. Number 51 was at the far end, close to the junction with Osborne Road. It had a chicken wire fence around what lawn was visible under rusting car parts, two motorcycles, a small caravan that had collapsed on its wheels, and a fridge.
The tiny patches of lawn that were clear of rubbish were enough to tell Jane that a large dog also lived in the house.
It was just getting dark when she knocked on the door. She stopped when loud barking started.
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Jane. ‘You alright with dogs?’
‘Fine,’ replied Louise.
They listened at the door and heard a man shouting.
‘Come here. Come...Right, now, get in there.’ Then the sound of a door being closed.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Jane.
Louise smiled.
A figure appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. Jane could pick out blue trousers, probably jeans, a red shirt and dark hair. The door opened. Jane immediately recognised the tell tale smell of marijuana and could see a cloud of smoke coming from the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘Jason Freer?’ asked Jane.
‘Who wants to know?’
She held up her warrant card.
‘It’s personal use...’
‘I’m not interested in that. Are you Jason Freer?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’d like a word about Noel Woodman. May we come in?’
‘Give me a minute,’ said Freer, closing the door.
Jane could hear muffled voices and then the back door being opened and closed again.
‘The dope fiends make their escape.’
‘They’ll be back,’ said Louise.
‘And so will we,’ replied Jane, ‘when they least expect it.’
Louise grinned.
Freer opened the front door. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Thank you, Mr Freer,’ replied Jane.
They stepped into the hall.
‘I am Detective Constable Winter and this is Police Constable Willmott.’
‘We’ll use the kitchen. Luka’s in there,’ said Freer, pointing at the lounge door.
‘And what is Luka?’
‘A rottweiler.’
They walked along the hall to the kitchen. Louise and Freer sat either side of the small kitchen table. Jane stood by the sink. Louise was taking notes.
‘When did you last see Noel?’
‘Three or fours weeks ago. What’s he been up to now?’
‘He’s dead, Mr Freer.’
‘Dead?’
‘Murdered to be precise.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Freer. He reached for a packet of cigarettes on the table. Jane could see that he was trembling as he fumbled with the lighter.
‘How did you know him?’ asked Jane.
‘What...what happened to him?’
‘How did you know him, please, Mr Freer?’
‘We met in a car park on the A39. Same line of work, you might say.’
‘Sex workers?’ asked Jane.
‘Yes.’
‘When was that?’
‘About three years ago. He’d left home.’
‘How...?’
‘Actually, he’d been thrown out. He hadn’t left.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘We used to look out for each other, you know. It can be dangerous. He got beaten up a few times. It’s happened to me too. So we’d keep an eye out for each other.’
‘Who beat him up, do you know?’
‘No. Just random punters.’
‘Where was he living?’
‘He moved around. It was a way of getting a bed for the night. Sometimes he stayed here.’
‘How often?’
‘A couple of times.’
‘Did you have a sexual relationship with him?’
Freer shook his head.
‘Did he have any regular clients?’
‘Not to begin with. Then he met Philip.’
‘Philip Stockman?’
‘I never knew his surname.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He went to live over Glastonbury way. I didn’t see him for a while after that. Then he began showing up again.’
‘When was this?’
‘Eighteen months or so ago. He said he was working at a stables and the pay was shit.’
‘How often would you see him then?’
‘Not as often as before. Maybe once or twice a week at first.’
‘What do you mean ‘at first’?’
‘The last maybe year or so he’s not been so often.’
‘How often?’
‘Once a month.’
‘So, let me make sure I’ve got this right,’ said Jane, ‘he’s a regular at the car park until he meets Philip Stockman. Then he’s not there at all for a while?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, when he starts coming back, he’s there once or twice a week but for the last year or so it’s only been once a month.’
‘If that, thinking about it,’ replied Freer.
‘What changed then?’ asked Jane.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me about his clients.’
‘Different cars, different people.’
‘No regulars?’
‘Philip.’
‘When he started coming back, I mean?’
‘Yeah, there was then.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘He never spoke to you about this person?’
‘No.’
‘Can you remember the car?’
‘I se
em to remember a four wheel drive but I may have got that wrong.’
‘So, what you’re saying is when he started coming back, when he was at the stables, he had a regular client, then about a year ago he stopped almost completely?’
‘He still came from time to time but he didn’t need the money anymore, he said. It was just for the fun of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘He had a new meal ticket.’
‘Meal ticket?’
‘Those were his words exactly.’
‘You’ve got no idea who this person might be?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s be quite clear that it’s not Philip Stockman we’re talking about, is it?’
‘No. That was before.’
‘And he was getting money from this person?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say how much?’
‘No, but I got the impression it was quite a lot.’
‘Was he a client?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Did Noel say anything else that might be relevant?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Ok, we’ll leave you to it, Mr Freer, but if you think of anything else...’
‘And you’re not interested in the...er...?’
‘No, we’re not interested in that.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Freer.
Dixon was still staring at his handwritten list of mobile phone calls when Jane and Louise arrived back at Bridgwater Police Station. There were three empty plastic coffee cups on the desk in front of him.
‘You’ve been busy, I see,’ said Jane.
‘Took Monty for a walk though. Remembered that,’ replied Dixon.
Louise walked into Dixon’s office and sat at Janice Courtenay’s desk.
‘Well, what’d you get?’ asked Dixon.
‘He enjoys his weed, does Mr Freer,’ said Louise.
‘Jason Freer is a rent boy. He and Noel used to work the car park on the A39. They looked out for each other, apparently,’ said Jane.
‘Give me the bones of it,’ said Dixon.
‘Well, Freer remembers Noel meeting Philip Stockman. After that he didn’t see him for a while. Then he started appearing in the car park again. Noel told him he was working at some stables and the pay was shit.’
Dixon nodded.
‘This was about eighteen months ago,’ continued Jane. ‘He had a regular client too. Freer couldn’t recall anything about him but he did remember that Noel stopped showing up at the car park almost completely about a year ago. He’d see him once a month or so after that.’
‘Do we know why that was?’ asked Dixon.
‘Noel told Freer he had a new meal ticket and didn’t need the money anymore.’
‘A new meal ticket...’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. ‘A year ago, you say?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jane.
Dixon looked at the list of mobile phone calls.
‘That was when these calls started,’ he said. ‘The ones to and from the unregistered pay as you go.’
‘Same man?’ asked Louise.
‘Let’s assume so, for the time being. How much money was he getting?’
‘Freer didn’t know but said he thought it was...’
‘Quite a lot, was the phrase he used,’ said Louise, looking at her notes.
‘Enough for an iPad and PlayStation,’ said Dixon.
‘And that camera,’ said Jane.
‘So, Noel’s blackmailing someone and is killed for it. It’s a regular punter of his…’ Dixon piled up his empty coffee cups, one inside the other. Then he walked over to the other side of his office and dropped them in the bin. ‘The key is in these phone calls.’
‘Must be,’ replied Jane.
‘Good work, the pair of you,’ said Dixon.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Louise.
‘I’ve spoken to DCI Lewis about the mobile positioning, Louise. He’ll clear it with the Chief Super for us if you can get the details over to him straightaway.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly 7.30pm.
‘Then you’d better go home. Be back here at 8.00am sharp.’
‘Will do.’
Jane waited until Louise had left Dixon’s office.
‘What are we gonna do?’
‘Your place or mine?’
Dixon took his left arm out of the sling and tried stretching his shoulder as much as he could. He was sitting in the living room at Jane’s flat in Bridgwater.
‘Feels a bit better,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Jane, pouring two large glasses of red wine.
She looked over at Monty, curled up on the rug in front of the fire. It was an artificial fireplace and an electric fire, but Monty didn’t know or care.
‘A tiny little house and a garden full of rubbish and that idiot Freer’s got a rottweiler living there.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘No, but we’ll be going back as soon as this is over. Louise and I came out of there as high as kites just from the fumes.’
Dixon laughed. Jane sat on the sofa next to him and then turned to face him. She put her legs across his lap.
‘What is going on in there?’ asked Jane, tapping Dixon on the side of his head with her finger.
‘We’ve had an armed siege, a betting scam, drug smuggling and organised crime all thrown in and it’s going to boil down to a simple bit of blackmail. Funny how thing’s turn out, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
There was a loud ping from the kitchen.
‘Dinner is served,’ said Jane.
‘Got any mango chutney?’ asked Dixon.
‘Don’t push your luck.’
They were half way through their microwaved chicken tikka masalas when Dixon’s phone rang. It was Roger Poland. Jane listened to Dixon’s end of the conversation.
‘Hi Roger...what?’
Silence.
‘Nothing at all?’
Silence.
‘Well, thank you for trying.’
Silence.
‘Yes, we must. Ok.’
Dixon rang off.
‘Don’t tell me. No evidence of foul play on Georgina Harcourt’s body?’ asked Jane.
‘None. It doesn’t mean there wasn’t foul play, of course, just that there’s no evidence of it.’
‘So, what happens now?’
‘File to the coroner. Verdict suicide.’
‘But you’re not convinced?’
‘When I was at school I got hold of a small bottle of whisky. I drank the lot and was really ill. I mean really ill. I didn’t wake up till the next day. Point is ever since then I’ve hated whisky. Even the smell of it makes me want to puke. So, if I was going to take an overdose I’d hardly wash it down with scotch, would I? I’d just throw the pills up again.’
‘And she hated whisky?’
‘You heard what Stockman said.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Let it go. We’d never get Lewis to authorise a murder investigation on this evidence.’
‘True.’
‘Fight your battles where you can win them, Jane,’ said Dixon. ‘Fancy a DVD?’
‘No.’
Dixon sat up in bed. Jane was fast asleep. He checked the time. 2.15am. Red wine always did this to him, particularly when mixed with painkillers. He looked around the room. Light from the street lamps was streaming in around the curtains. He could make out the dressing table, wardrobe and Monty asleep on the end of the bed. He could hear a police siren in the distance and remembered why he had moved to a little cottage in the country. Peace and quiet. Until two men break in at the dead of night, that is.
He lay back, closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. He saw his handwritten list of mobile phone calls Noel made to and received from the unregistered pay as you go number. The calls began a year ago, just at the time Noel found his new meal ticket. Dixon thought about the dates of the calls. Irregular and often
weeks apart.
He sat bolt upright in the bed. Jane woke up and tried to pull the duvet back over her shoulders.
‘What is it?’
‘Where’s your laptop?’
‘In the drawer under the coffee table. What...?’
Dixon had already jumped out of bed and was running into the lounge. Jane put her dressing gown on and followed him.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Just a theory.’
‘A theory? You get me out of bed at this time in the morning for a theory?’
Dixon was powering up Jane’s laptop.
‘What’s your password?’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Tea would be nice,’ said Dixon, smiling.
Jane went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Dixon turned back to the laptop, opened a web browser and went to racingpost.com. He typed Westbrook Warrior into the search field and hit ‘enter’. Two results appeared immediately under the search tab. HORSES (1) and GREYHOUNDS (1). Odd name for a greyhound, thought Dixon. He clicked on HORSES (1) and beneath that appeared the entry ‘Westbrook Warrior (IRE) - 2010’. Dixon clicked on it and a new window opened. It contained Westbrook Warrior’s complete Race Record.
Dixon jumped up and ran into the bedroom. He picked up his jacket and found the handwritten list of calls in the inside pocket. Then he sat back down in front of the computer and checked the dates of the races against the dates of the calls.
They were a perfect match.
Ten
‘She’s late.’
‘You did say 8.00am.’
‘Did I?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head. He looked at his watch. It was 7.45am.
DCI Lewis stood in the doorway of Dixon’s office.
‘I got clearance on the mobile positioning. The request went in last night. Should be through today.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Dixon, without looking away from his computer. ‘Any news on the...?’
He looked up. Lewis had gone.
‘Marvellous.’
‘What happens now?’ asked Jane.
‘See if you can find Louise’s notes on the owners, will you?’
Jane went outside to Louise’s desk in the CID room. Dixon opened Internet Explorer on his computer and went to racingpost.com. He entered Westbrook Warrior into the search field, clicked on his name in the results and then went to his Race Record, which opened in a new window, as before. At the top of the page was the information he was looking for. Owner B & M Mayhew, S & J Somerville, Lady Winton.
