by Damien Boyd
Brian Mayhew was dressed casually. Green corduroys, a brown cardigan and carpet slippers. His office was large. The curtains were closed and the room was dark. Mayhew switched on the light.
‘Sorry, I was on my computer.’
Dixon surveyed the room. It had a large desk with red leather inlay. The computer was a Mac, top of the range, or so Dixon thought. There were several oil paintings on the walls, all of racehorses, and various trophies on the mantelpiece. The open fire had not been lit. Dixon’s eyes were drawn to a gold mobile phone on Mayhew’s desk.
‘Please sit down,’ said Mayhew, gesturing to the red leather chairs in front of his desk. ‘Simon tells me the groom was murdered?’
‘He was.’
‘How?’
‘Tradition dictates that I ask the questions and you answer them, Mr Mayhew,’ said Dixon.
‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’
‘Did it surprise you to learn that Westbrook Warrior kicked him to death?’
‘I thought you just said...’
‘I did. I’m asking about your initial reaction.’
‘Oh, I see. No, not really. The Warrior can be aggressive. We all knew that. That’s why Hesp put in place strict procedures.’
‘But the horse had a special relationship with Noel, didn’t he?’
‘To an extent, yes. He still had to be careful though.’
‘Did Westbrook Warrior ever kick Noel, as far as you are aware?’
‘You’d need to ask Hesp that. I really don’t know.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Woodman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hardly at all, really. He was Hesp’s employee. I don’t mix with the staff.’
‘Had you ever met Noel before?’
‘No.’
Mayhew leaned forward and moved his computer mouse from side to side.
‘Did you ever see him outside the horseracing setting?’
‘No. Look what’s this all about?’
Dixon ignored him.
‘You’re a property developer, I gather?’
‘Yes.’
Mayhew’s mobile phone rang and the screen lit up. The ringtone reminded Dixon of the bell in an old fashioned bakolite telephone. Mayhew answered it.
‘I’ll call you back, Matt. I’ve got somebody with me at the moment.’
Mayhew rang off.
‘What have you been working on recently?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’re just coming to the end of a two hundred house development.’
‘Where?’
‘Torbrook Meadow. It’s between Glastonbury and Street.’
‘How long’s that been going on?’
‘Two years nearly.’
‘How often do you visit the site?’
‘It varies. Not so much lately. More to begin with but once it’s up and running I hand it over to project managers and start looking for the next one.’
‘Have you found a next one?’
‘On the edge of Wiveliscombe. Look, what’s this all about?’
‘Just routine, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘Well, I don’t like it.’
‘Where were you in the early hours of Thursday 7th November?’
‘Right that’s it. Get out.’ Mayhew stood up sharply. His chair shot backwards, crashing into a small drinks cabinet. Several bottles fell on the floor.
Dixon stood up. He looked down at Mayhew’s mobile phone on the desk, next to his computer.
‘Is that real gold?’ he asked.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ replied Mayhew. ‘Now get out of here.’
Dixon and Jane followed Mayhew back along the hall to the front door. Mrs Mayhew was still in the drawing room, asleep in the chair, although Dixon felt sure that she would have been woken up by the noise of the door being slammed behind them. He turned to Jane and grinned.
‘Let’s try that pub.’
‘What the hell was all that about?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You practically accused him of killing Noel...’
‘I wanted to see his reaction.’
‘Why?’
They were sitting in the corner of the lounge bar in the White Horse, by the fire. Dixon had a pint of Exmoor Stag and Jane a lager shandy. They had both ordered fish and chips.
‘Ring Louise and tell her to get full accounts for Mayhew’s companies. Last three years. Details of all directors and shareholders too. And I want to know about Torbrook Meadow. Everything. Tell her to start from when the first planning application went in.’
Jane opened her handbag and took out her iPhone.
‘No signal,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Where is Torbrook Meadow?’
‘Glastonbury.’
‘How long’s he been working on it?’
‘Two years, he said, didn’t he?’
‘Probably longer then, with all the planning applications.’
Jane nodded.
‘He’s living in Exford, working in Glastonbury. Talk me through his journey home,’ said Dixon.
‘Well, he’d go along the A39 to the M5...’ Jane stopped mid sentence. ‘The A39!’
‘The A39. Right past the car park.’
‘We’ve got him.’
‘Let’s not get too carried away. Somerville would go that way to Trull as well, if he’s had anything to do with Torbrook Meadow.’
‘We need to get hold of Louise.’
‘We do.’
Dixon was deep in thought.
‘Stop picking at your food,’ said Jane.
‘Yes, mother.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know. Something’s bugging me but I can’t put my finger on it.’
Suddenly, Dixon stopped eating and looked at Jane.
‘What?’
‘Give me your mobile phone,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of food.
Jane took her iPhone out of her handbag and passed it to Dixon.
‘What network are you on?’
‘O2, why?’
Dixon looked at the top left corner of the screen. It was empty, confirming that Jane had no signal. He took his own iPhone out of his inside jacket pocket and looked at it. In the top left corner was a graph, three bars rising to the right, indicating a partial signal.
‘I’ve got a signal,’ he said.
‘What network are you on?’ asked Jane.
‘Orange. It’s not a full signal but...’ His voice tailed off.
‘What’s up?’
‘Eat up, we have to go.’
They arrived back at Bridgwater Police Station just before 3.30pm. Jane had got a signal as they climbed out of Exford and had rung ahead with the list of information and documents they needed.
Louise was waiting for them with a pile of documents three inches thick, including full company searches, accounts, director and shareholder records, planning applications and estate agents sales particulars.
‘Well done, Louise.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Right, go through that lot and see if you can find any reference to Simon Somerville playing any part in the development at Torbrook Meadow.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise.
‘Thinking about it, do a company search on the selling agents. See if Somerville’s a director there too.’
Dixon went into his office and shut the door. Then he powered up his computer and checked his email. Nothing of interest except one from Roger Poland attaching the photograph of the faint square outline around the shoe imprint on Noel’s body. Dixon didn’t open it. Instead he opened Internet Explorer and went to Google.
He entered ‘gold mobile phone’ into the Search field and hit the Enter button. Then he clicked on Images and began scrolling through pages and pages of photographs of gold phones. Nothing. He scrolled back to the Search field and changed the keyword to ‘gold mobile phone nokia’. He hit the Enter button again and began scrolling t
hrough more photographs of gold phones, this time all Nokia models. Several looked similar but none matched Brian Mayhew’s phone. He was about to give up when the phone rang on his desk.
‘Dixon, you got a minute?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon locked his computer and then opened his office door. Jane looked up.
‘Another summons,’ said Dixon.
Jane nodded.
Dixon walked along the corridor and knocked on the door to DCI Lewis’ office.
‘Come in.’
DCI Lewis was sitting behind his desk. DCI Bateman was pacing up and down in front of the window. He was not in uniform.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on, Dixon?’ said Bateman.
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘Don’t tell me. I rattle Mayhew’s cage, so he rattles your cage. Then you rattle mine. And round we go again.’
Lewis struggled to stifle a laugh.
‘No, we don’t go round again. Have you any idea who he is?’
‘How can I put this politely, Sir? I don’t give a flying fuck who he is...’
‘How dare...’
‘And thank you, Sir.’
‘What for?’
‘Confirming my suspicions.’
Dixon turned round and walked out of Lewis’ office, slamming the door behind him.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Jane.
‘Mayhew pulling strings.’
Dixon stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him.
‘Steady on.’
‘Sorry, Janice. Didn’t see you there.’
‘Bateman?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wondered what he was doing up here.’
Dixon turned back to his computer and unlocked the screen. Then he began scrolling through the images of gold Nokia mobile phones again. His finger hovered over the ‘Close’ button in the top right corner of his screen.
He froze.
There it was. A picture of the exact phone that Brian Mayhew had. Dixon clicked on the link. The screen changed to a close up of the phone. Next to it was the model name and number. Dixon reached for a pen and scribbled it on the palm of his hand. Nokia Asha 310. He stared at the enlarged image on the monitor in front of him. In the top left corner of the screen were two graphs, rather than one. Next to the first was the number one on a white square and next to the second was the number two, again on a white square. Both graphs were complete indicating two full signals.
Dixon closed the Image search and went back to the Google Web search. He entered ‘Nokia Asha 310’ and hit the Enter button. The first result came from nokia.com. Dixon read aloud.
‘Nokia Asha 310 Dual Sim, browse faster, be social...’
Dixon turned and sat staring out of the window of his office. He heard the tell tale ping of an email arriving. He opened it. The body of the email was blank but the title said it all, ‘Good for you!’ It came from DCI Lewis.
Dixon smiled. Then he jumped up from his desk and ran to the door.
‘Louise, have those mobile positioning records arrived yet?’
‘I’ve forwarded them to you. They’ll be in your inbox.’
Dixon heard another ping from his computer behind him. He sat down and opened the attachment to the email. It was a spreadsheet giving dates, times, mobile base station code numbers and grid references for both Noel’s phone and the unregistered pay as you go number. Dixon picked a grid reference for the unregistered number at random and entered it into gridreferencefinder.com. It was two miles south of Wincanton racecourse. Next he checked the date on racingpost.com. Westbrook Warrior managed third in the Thomas Lucy Novice Hurdle. He checked another. And another.
‘Louise.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘We need mobile positioning records for Brian Mayhew’s personal number. The same dates as we’ve got for the unregistered pay as you go. Ok?’
‘But...’
‘No buts. Drop everything and get it organised now, please.’
Dixon could hear Louise typing.
‘I’ve sent an email to DCI Lewis, Sir.’
‘Thank you.’
Dixon began counting. He had reached nine when the phone rang on his desk.
‘I’m on my way, Sir,’ he said.
‘Well?’
‘Noel was blackmailing Mayhew, Sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘The unregistered pay as you go is Noel’s punter.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The calls began a year ago just after Freer tells us that Noel had found a new meal ticket.’
‘I’ve read his statement.’
‘This is the same time that Westbrook Warrior went to Hesp’s racing stables and the calls all took place on days Westbrook Warrior was racing.’
Lewis nodded. Dixon continued.
‘Not only that but the mobile positioning of the unregistered number puts the caller within a few miles of the racecourses too...’
‘So, why Mayhew?’
‘I got a look at his phone today. It’s a Nokia Asha 310. The important bit is that it’s dual SIM.’
‘Dual SIM?’
‘It has two SIM cards in it at the same time. And two SIM cards means two numbers.’
‘His own and the unregistered pay as you go?’
‘Yes. These mobile positioning records may not be that accurate in rural areas but if they are identical for both numbers it proves that both SIM cards were in the same phone at the same time.’
‘And then we’ve got him.’
‘We have, Sir.’
‘Leave it with me, Nick.’
‘No mention of Somerville anywhere here, Sir,’ said Louise.
‘We’ve been through the lot,’ said Jane.
‘Ok. Nothing much is going to happen until the morning now so you head off, Louise. Be back here at 8.00am sharp, please.’
‘What’s the mobile positioning about?’ she asked, as she stood up.
‘Mayhew’s phone is a Nokia Asha 310.’ Dixon paused. ‘Dual SIM.’
‘Two SIM cards in it?’
‘That’s right. And if the mobile positioning on his own number matches the unregistered pay as you go, they’re in the same phone...’
‘And we’ve got him,’ said Louise.
‘We have.’
Louise grinned. ‘See you in the morning then,’ she said, picking up her handbag.
‘Give me five minutes, Jane, and we’ll head off.’
‘But it’s only 5.00pm.’
‘No matter. I’m not sitting here for the sake of it.’
Dixon checked his email and then switched off his computer. He stretched his left shoulder and waited for the pain to course through it. Nothing.
‘Shoulder feels a bit better.’
‘Good.’
‘C’mon, let’s go if we’re going,’ said Jane.
‘You drive,’ said Dixon, passing the keys to Jane.
They drove north out of Bridgwater on the A38, through Pawlett where it all began only a week before, and into Burnham. Jane parked in the car park in front of the Royal Clarence Hotel. It was bright moonlit night and the moon added to the lights from the Pavilion. They gave Monty ten minutes on the beach and then sat in the corner of the lounge bar.
‘Did you check your email?’ asked Jane.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see the one from Roger?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t look at the photo.’
Jane took a folded piece of paper from her handbag and gave it to Dixon. He unfolded it and found himself looking at a colour copy of the mark on Noel’s upper back.
‘It’s faint because of his clothes but can you see the square outline...?’ Jane pointed to it.
‘I see it,’ said Dixon.
‘What do you think it is?’ asked Jane.
Dixon stared at the photograph. He turned it first sideways and then upside down. The outline framed the imprint of the horse shoe almost exact
ly, except there was no line across the base of the shoe, just the sides and front.
‘No idea,’ he said.
‘Think back to Mayhew’s office...’
‘What?’
‘The trophies on his mantelpiece...’
‘Cricket?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think it’s a cricket bat?’ asked Dixon.
Jane nodded.
He looked at the photograph again. Then he took out his phone and rang Roger Poland.
‘Hi Roger, thanks for the photo,’
‘No problem.’
‘Listen, our main suspect plays cricket and Jane has a theory that the shoe was nailed to a bat...’
‘Best explanation I’ve heard. Nailed to the bottom of a cricket bat. Fits perfectly.’
‘So, it’s possible?’
‘Very likely, I’d say. I’ll do some measurements tomorrow and let you know.’
‘Thanks, Roger.’
Dixon rang off.
‘Well done, Jane.’
They were back at Dixon’s cottage by 7.30pm.
‘We forgot there’s no telly,’ said Jane.
‘Let’s get an early night. Either way, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’
Eleven
Dixon was up by 4.30am. He couldn’t sleep, his mind going over and over the possible outcomes that lay ahead. He was standing in the kitchen looking out across the fields at the back of his cottage, both hands clamped around a mug of tea.
If the mobile positioning of Brian Mayhew’s phone matched the unregistered pay as you go then it would be a simple matter of arresting him and searching Ferndale House from top to bottom. That computer would need a thorough going over, he thought. And finding a cricket bat with nail holes in the bottom would be too good to be true.
If it didn’t match then he was back to square one. Almost. It was still going to be either Mayhew or Somerville, but which one?
Or Hesp. Fuck. He’d ruled Hesp out on the basis that the Albanians would have dealt with Noel if it had been the betting or the drugs he was threatening to blow the whistle on. But what if it was Hesp in the car park all along?
Why hadn’t he thought of that? He opened the kitchen cupboard, took out a box of Tramadol and threw it in the bin. Bloody painkillers. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.
He looked down at his feet. Monty was sitting on the floor next to him. Dixon leaned forward over the sink and looked up at the night sky through the kitchen window. It was clear.
