Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘A couple of hundred. The taxman’s being reasonable with some of them, giving them time to pay, but some of them just can’t. The government were supposed to be looking into it; there was a review to see whether it was reasonable to claw back this money, but that just decided they couldn’t go back further than 2010, which is still leaving some people with whopping great bills.’

  ‘And you were never involved in any of these schemes?’

  ‘Certainly not! The Institute took a bit of convincing, mind you. They hauled us both up before a disciplinary panel. Godfrey was struck off for the tax avoidance and misappropriating clients’ funds, but I was cleared of any dishonesty.’

  ‘But that still leaves hundreds of people with a motive to kill him?’

  ‘I suppose it does. But, having said that, I’d be surprised if many of them knew who he was. He was just the accountant who administered the scheme. If they were going to blame anyone it would have been their employer, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Collins is struck off,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Fined one point four million pounds. Was he bankrupt?’

  ‘Not yet. It was in the pipeline though. He’d made some payments towards it using clients’ funds, it turned out. He used to do a bit of probate work, administering estates, and stole some of the money. I got a bit of stick for that; the tribunal said I should have kept a closer eye on the books. Sort of ironic, for an accountant, don’t you think?’

  ‘The beneficiaries who lost out would’ve been covered by your professional indemnity insurance, so there’s hardly a motive there.’

  ‘The bloody premium shot up.’

  ‘So, that’s when he starts letting someone use his yacht for drug runs?’

  ‘So I gather, but that’s all news to me.’ Staveley checked his watch. ‘It was an old heap; he kept it at Burnham Yacht Club and the thing used to spend most of its life out of the water anyway. It was a good size, thirty-something feet or so. I went on it once, when we first met.’

  ‘Did he ever mention to you who he was dealing with?’

  ‘Lord, no. The last time I saw him was at the Chartered Institute’s disciplinary panel eighteen months ago and we certainly didn’t discuss his drug running, or anything else for that matter.’ Staveley checked his watch again. ‘Look, I really need to be . . .’

  ‘One last thing, Sir. When you meet my colleagues at ten, if you could see your way clear not to mention this meeting I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a bit of internal police politics, you know how it is.’

  Chapter Five

  A couple of performance reviews before lunch and Dixon was sitting in the corner of the canteen when Jane caught up with him.

  ‘Where’s this memorial service then?’ She placed a bowl of soup on the table and sat down next to him.

  ‘St Andrew’s in Burnham. It’s one of the crew on the yacht that sank. Laura Dicken – she was a couple of years younger than you; pregnant too.’

  ‘Oh God. Do we know what happened?’

  ‘The keel fell off and the boat capsized in a storm. The crew would’ve had no warning and it happened in the middle of the night, so some of them might even have been asleep.’

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Jane shuddered. ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘But it was a drug run?’

  ‘According to Zephyr’s intelligence, yes, but there’s no evidence and nothing was found to suggest there were any drugs on board.’

  ‘I thought you said the boat sank?’

  ‘A container ship stumbled on it three hundred and fifty miles north-east of the Azores. They got a rope on it, but it sank when they tried to tow it. There are some photos of the bottom and the keel’s gone; just some holes where the bolts would’ve been.’ Dixon pushed his empty plate into the middle of the table and picked up his can of Diet Coke. ‘It’s hardly rocket science to work out what Zephyr are thinking: the keel’s taken off somewhere in the Caribbean, packed with the drugs and then not put back on properly.’

  ‘Either that or they were coopering,’ said Jane, between slurps of soup.

  ‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s where a local yacht goes out, collects the drugs from the ocean-going vessel and then slips back into a small place like Burnham.’

  ‘With next to no chance of a customs check.’

  ‘Leaving the larger yacht to breeze into Southampton or somewhere, clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Yes, but they couldn’t pack the keel with drugs at sea, could they?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t.’

  Dixon breathed out slowly through his nose. ‘We need to have a word with somebody at the Marine Accident Investigation Branch.’

  ‘We?’ Jane turned to Dixon, soup dripping off the end of her spoon on to the table. ‘With Charlesworth on your tail?’

  ‘Since when did you care about that?’ he replied, standing up. ‘You know as well as I do this accountant is just the start.’

  ‘Back stairs or out through the front?’ asked Jane, as they walked along the landing.

  Dixon paused in the large windows at the front of the building and looked down. He had used the visitors’ car park again, which, on reflection, had not been a good idea. Charlesworth never used the staff car park either, and there he was, sitting in his car next to Dixon’s Land Rover. ‘He’s like a trapdoor spider,’ he whispered.

  ‘We’re going to a memorial service,’ said Jane, her finger on the button summoning the lift. ‘He can’t very well grumble about that.’

  ‘He’s not to know we won’t know anybody there.’

  ‘Not even the deceased.’

  Charlesworth’s car door opened right on cue, just as they were walking across the car park. ‘Where are you off to?’ he demanded.

  ‘A memorial service, Sir,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Laura and I were both at Weston College, Sir,’ offered Jane. ‘It’s very sad; someone so young.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Charlesworth blushed. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Please accept my condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘That makes you a co-conspirator,’ Dixon said, when they were both sitting in his Land Rover.

  ‘I didn’t lie.’ Jane was putting on her seatbelt. ‘We were both at Weston College. I never said we were there at the same time, did I?’

  ‘I’m sure Professional Standards will take that into account at your gross misconduct hearing.’

  Dixon hadn’t expected television cameras; local ones only, mercifully, but it was still an unpleasant surprise.

  ‘Keep an eye out for Collyer,’ he said, as they walked along the narrow path around the back of St Andrew’s Church, the tower leaning over them, the result of building on sand dunes. Most of the gravestones were at odd angles too.

  A large group was filing in from the road, shuffling along the wide path towards the main entrance, their faces turned away from the TV cameras on the pavement outside. Dixon and Jane would need to do the same, if only because the side door of the church had been locked, much to his irritation.

  Two men were standing unusually close together out in the road – waiting for something, that much was obvious; presumably for the crowd to disperse before they followed them into the church. Both wore black ties under dark suits, the older man looking bored and disinterested, the younger embarrassed. Dixon watched an elderly woman walk over and put her arms around the young man, beaming through her tears. He simply blushed, forced a smile and put one arm around her.

  ‘Looks like a prison escort to me.’ Dixon nudged Jane with his elbow and pointed in their direction.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  They slotted into a gap in the line of mourners on the main path and filed into the church, heading straight for a pew at the back.

  Jane picked up a hymn book and turned to n
umber 325, the first on the order of service. ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save,’ she read aloud. ‘Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.’

  ‘Had to be, didn’t it.’

  The church was full, although the pews along the north wall had been ripped out since the last time Dixon had been in St Andrew’s. Stacks of plastic chairs and boxes of toys now replaced what had once been ornate carved oak pews, a pile of soft rubber mats placed against the wall where he had sat on that last occasion: midnight one Christmas Eve, slightly the worse for wear.

  No one from Zephyr had seen fit to come, although Dixon might not have recognised them if they had taken off their red braces. He wondered whether they wore black braces to funerals as he looked around the congregation. Collyer certainly wasn’t there, nor was the twat from the car park.

  Family to the front was the usual order of things; an older couple who had been holding hands on the way in and a young boy and girl were sitting on the front pew. Mother and father of the deceased with her brother and sister, possibly. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins in the rows behind.

  The older couple in the front row on the other side of the aisle were in-laws, perhaps; not that Laura was married. Parents of her boyfriend, then; the father of her unborn child, possibly the lad waiting outside with his prison escort?

  All were staring at a large photograph of Laura on a stand at the top of the steps at the front of the church.

  Dixon had seen the same picture on the internet – of Laura wearing a lifejacket and smiling at the camera, at sea somewhere in Bridgwater Bay, the unmistakeable outline of Steep Holm just visible in the background and the water that familiar murky grey colour.

  He recognised a couple from the yacht club he had spoken to on a previous investigation nine months ago, so the chances of them recognising him were small. The yacht club seemed to have turned out in force too, most of them having made a deliberate effort not to wear black.

  Then came the pair in dark suits, walking slowly down the aisle, this time the older man looking embarrassed as the congregation turned to glare at him. Who’d be a prison officer, thought Dixon, as he watched the scene unfold, each row turning at the sound of footsteps behind them until finally the pair sat down on the front pew.

  The deceased’s mother sitting on the other side of the aisle reached out and took the younger man’s hand; a nice touch. Must be category D, otherwise he’d be handcuffed.

  ‘No hard feelings, obviously,’ whispered Jane.

  A few prayers, then the yacht club really put their backs into ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’. After that came the eulogy, from which Dixon learned a lot. Laura’s mother was sitting at the front with her second husband, making him Laura’s stepfather; the young boy and girl, her half-brother and half-sister. Wearing the dark suit was Laura’s fiancé, Craig, who currently had the misfortune to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure and hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to her.

  Twenty-nine years of age, Laura had been four months pregnant when she had set sail in late March, her last communication with anyone an email sent by satellite phone to her mother as the yacht rounded Land’s End a week before it lost contact.

  The eulogy was given by her uncle, who only just managed to keep his composure; the sound of sobbing providing the backdrop to his tribute.

  ‘I’ve always hated the sea.’ Dixon was watching the uncle squat down in front of Laura’s mother on his way back to his seat.

  Another hymn, a collection for the local RNLI, a few more prayers and then a rousing blast of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ – Laura’s favourite, apparently – and they were filing out of the church in silence, Laura’s mother thanking each of the mourners in turn on their way out.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ Her eyes were filled with tears when Jane reached her. ‘How did you know Laura?’

  ‘Weston College.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember.’ Already looking along the line to see how many more were behind Jane. ‘You’re welcome to join us at the yacht club for a drink.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to work.’

  The woman released Jane’s hand and shook Dixon’s. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He smiled and kept moving.

  ‘I feel awful.’ Jane shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of Dixon’s Land Rover as he turned into Express Park twenty minutes later, the journey from Burnham having passed in silence. ‘Misleading the mother like that.’

  ‘Not my finest hour, but we didn’t have a lot of choice.’

  ‘And what about Laura? Four months pregnant when she set sail on a transatlantic crossing. I’m not sure I’d do that.’

  ‘Someone climbed the north face of the Eiger six months pregnant.’

  ‘I’m not doing that either.’

  ‘Charlesworth’s still here, so we’d better use the staff car park.’ Dixon slid his phone out of his jacket pocket while he waited on the ramp for the electric gates to open, the diesel engine straining as he held the Land Rover on the clutch. ‘Three missed calls from a Bristol number; don’t recognise it,’ he said, dropping it back into his pocket. ‘I think I’ll leave it on silent though.’

  ‘Mine’s ringing now.’ Jane put her phone to her ear. ‘Jane Winter.’ She turned to Dixon and raised her eyebrows. ‘Who’s calling?’ she asked, mouthing ‘It’s Collyer’ before continuing, ‘He’s driving, I’m afraid, Sir.’ She flinched, then passed her phone to Dixon. ‘He says he doesn’t give a fuck.’

  Dixon pulled on the handbrake. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you playing at?’

  ‘Not sure I follow you.’

  ‘We were watching the funeral.’

  ‘Which one, Sir?’ He glanced in his rear view mirror as another car appeared behind them on the ramp.

  ‘It’s only Dave and Mark,’ whispered Jane, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘You know very well which one, you were bloody well there.’ Collyer’s voice was gathering momentum and increasing in volume at the same time; a dangerous combination.

  ‘You mean the memorial service?’

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘There needs to be a body for a funeral, otherwise it’s a memorial serv—’

  ‘Are you trying to wind me up?’

  ‘No, Sir. And we were there in a personal capacity.’

  ‘Don’t give me that Weston College crap. Laura Dicken was twenty-nine and Sergeant Winter is thirty-two so they weren’t even there at the same time.’

  Dixon could hear fingers clicking in the background.

  ‘Just keep your nose out of it, all right? This is your last bloody warning. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’d be making this a formal disciplinary matter if you hadn’t tipped me off about that little scrotum and his selfies with my victim. I owe you one for that. Then there’s the fact Charlesworth seems to think the sun shines out of your arse.’

  Collyer rang off.

  ‘Better back off, then.’ Jane dropped her phone into her handbag.

  ‘Just block his number,’ replied Dixon, accelerating up the ramp. ‘And ask yourself this: if Zephyr are so convinced the accountant’s murder was a gangland execution, why are they watching the memorial service of one of the crew from his yacht?’

  Chapter Six

  Dixon stood in the floor to ceiling windows on the far side of the Safeguarding Unit, watching Charlesworth walking across the visitors’ car park below. Briefcase in the boot, jacket on a hanger in the rear passenger compartment, then he climbed into the driver’s seat and reversed out of his parking space.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Jane was peering over the top of her computer screen.

  Dixon hesitated, watching Charlesworth turn out of the car park and into the petrol station on the corner of the entrance road. ‘Not quite.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’

  ‘We investigate what we can.’

&n
bsp; ‘You keep saying we!’

  ‘The victim was an accountant running tax avoidance schemes that landed several hundred people with large tax bills, but we’ve hardly got the manpower to start going through them one by one. And we need to keep out of Zephyr’s way, so looking into the Bristol drug gangs is a non-starter as well.’

  ‘What does that leave?’

  ‘Bugger all, really,’ he replied. ‘Except the yacht, the fiancé in prison and the crossbow bolts.’

  ‘And you’re sure there’s someone out there armed with a crossbow who’s going to kill again?’ Jane leaned back in her swivel chair. ‘Because otherwise you’ll be making a nuisance of yourself and pissing everybody off for no real reason.’

  ‘I’ve got another performance review in ten minutes.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ said Jane, raising her voice as the door slammed behind Dixon.

  Two performance reviews, followed by a meeting of the clerical officer team leaders, the main items on the agenda being the coffee machine and quality of the paper on offer in the ladies’ loos. Some bright spark had asked whether the toilets ought to be gender neutral, but the discussion was quickly shut down by Chief Inspector Bateman, who had the misfortune to be chairing the meeting. Dixon’s eyes had glazed over long before then anyway.

  He sent a text message to pathologist Dr Roger Poland during ‘Any other business’: Where are you in about half an hour?

  Roger’s reply arrived during the argument over ‘Date of next meeting’, which seemed to be the longest item on the agenda: At the lab all evening doing a PM.

  There was a hint of sarcasm in Bateman’s ‘thank you for your contribution’ as Dixon was leaving; he couldn’t recall having said anything at all, except perhaps ‘sorry I’m late’.

  The pathology lab at Musgrove Park Hospital was locked when Dixon and Jane arrived half an hour later. She rang the bell and then leaned back against the door. ‘He’s not going to thank you, dragging him out of a post mortem to look at pictures of dead sheep.’