Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  Dixon slid a small plastic bag out of the envelope and counted them. ‘May I?’ he asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied Bowman, watching Dixon drop the broadheads into his jacket pocket. ‘You still haven’t said how you know it’s a crossbow.’

  ‘We’re going by the length of the bolt,’ he replied. ‘He started with sheep, using a pistol crossbow and some of these, I suppose.’ Dixon was pointing at a packet of twenty bolts, each six and a half inches long, with a gold painted shaft, steel tip and black plastic fletch. ‘Then he moved up to a more powerful bow and broadheads. These’ – gesturing to the two and three-bladed tips – ‘and some of these.’ Tapping his pocket. ‘He’s also moved on from sheep to people.’

  ‘You can fire a short arrow from a longbow using a Turkish siper; it’s like a glove with a grooved piece of wood on the back of the thumb for the arrow.’ Bowman extended his left arm, miming the holding of a longbow. ‘It’s so you can overdraw the short arrow, but it’s unlikely, to be honest. You’re not going to want to lug all that around when a crossbow is small and compact.’

  ‘It makes the perfect murder weapon,’ said Dixon, airily. ‘You could add that to your marketing material.’

  ‘Now, hang on a minute.’

  ‘Which of these bows would you choose, Sir? If you wanted to kill someone?’

  ‘At what range?’

  Cole appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Thirty yards,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘You’d want something that’s easy to cock, so nothing overly powerful.’ Bowman was looking along the cabinets. ‘There’d be no need for a compound bow, so probably the Anglo Arms Jaguar. One hundred and seventy-five pound draw weight, so quick and most people could manage it. Light too. And accurate up to thirty-five yards with a four-twenty grain bolt with one of those broadheads on it. Or maybe something with a bit more poke, say a Desert Hawk – that’s a two-twenty-five draw.’

  ‘Powerful enough?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘How much is it?’ asked Cole.

  ‘A hundred and ten quid for the Jaguar,’ replied Bowman. ‘A hundred and twenty-seven with the red dot sight. The Desert Hawk is three hundred and thirty.’

  ‘The Jaguar’s not too expensive if you had to leave it behind,’ said Dixon. ‘Can we try it?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’ve got one set up down on the range.’

  It looked more like a skittle alley, except that it was lined with chipboard and a large carpet was hanging at the far end in front of yet more hay bales.

  ‘I’ll set up a target,’ said Bowman, handing the bow to Cole. ‘What d’you fancy? I’ve got a cardboard police officer.’

  ‘Just the usual, thank you.’ Dixon would allow him that one, after his jibe about the perfect murder weapon.

  Cole went first, managing to cock the bow with comparative ease.

  ‘Twenty yards from that line.’ Bowman gestured to a line on the floor. ‘Squeeze, don’t snatch.’

  Cole put two in the inner gold and one in the outer. ‘Must be something wrong with these sights,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m firearms trained.’

  ‘What about you, Inspector? D’you fancy a go?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough, thank you, Sir. You were going to let me have a list of buyers of crossbows for the last three months.’

  ‘Yes, give me a minute.’

  ‘Do you run the archery club as well?’

  ‘You want a list of the members, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon waited until Bowman had left the range and then turned back to Cole, who was still checking the sights on the crossbow. ‘Do me a favour, will you, Nigel. Fire it and then reload as fast as you can; hold the spare bolt between your teeth.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Go!’

  Another bolt in the inner gold, then Cole started to reload. ‘Shit,’ he hissed, fumbling with the second bolt.

  ‘Six seconds,’ said Dixon, when it thwacked into the target. ‘A fraction less if you hadn’t fluffed it.’

  ‘It’s pretty fiddly.’

  ‘Let’s say five seconds with practice. We may need to know one day.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dixon decided to risk the loading bay outside the tax office in Cardiff city centre. After all, it was a Sunday, and he’d been able to talk his way out of trouble the day before. Just.

  Cole had gone back to Portishead armed with the lists of customers and members at Bowman Archery, leaving Dixon to head over to Cardiff, where Louise was due back at the tax office, this time for a meeting with the senior manager at 2 p.m.

  Fox was there again, still wearing the same jeans and polo shirt, but the manager had taken the trouble to put on a suit and tie, even on a Sunday. He certainly looked the part.

  ‘This is Owen Jones, Sir.’ Louise had met Dixon on the landing when he stepped out of the lift, and was making the introductions. ‘He’s the general manager.’

  ‘Senior officer.’ Jones looked down his nose at Louise, although that may have been the bifocals. ‘The equivalent of a superintendent in the police.’

  They were sitting around one end of the conference table, Dixon standing in the window admiring the view of the Millennium Stadium. ‘How many staff do you have here?’

  ‘Three thousand two hundred,’ replied Jones. ‘And we’re recruiting at the moment. We’re one of thirteen regional tax centres.’

  ‘And Keith Finch was in charge of enforcement?’

  ‘He was.’ Jones slid his fingers under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘We have lots of teams in the building; self assessment, trusts and estates, VAT, corporate, tax avoidance, stamp duty land tax, environmental and enforcement. We’ve even got a regional prosecutions office. Each one is looked after by a manager.’ Jones let out an impatient sigh, as if he had far more important things he could and should be doing. Golf, probably, thought Dixon. ‘Then you’ve got the sub-teams, so in enforcement you’ve got loan charge – disguised remuneration, to give it its proper name – pension transfer, VAT, offshore, as well as the general avoidance and evasion.’

  ‘And the film scheme,’ offered Fox.

  ‘And the film scheme,’ repeated Jones. ‘But don’t ask me to explain that, for God’s sake.’

  Dixon sat down next to Louise. ‘I assume you mean the use of investments in the film industry to generate artificial losses and claim the tax relief on them.’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Jones sat up.

  ‘I qualified as a solicitor before I joined the police, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Oh, I see, sorry.’

  ‘We’re interested in the loan charge or disguised remuneration.’

  ‘That’s a comparatively small team,’ replied Jones. ‘Eighty-seven at the last count, some of them part-time, and we also offer job share.’

  ‘How many taxpayers were affected by it?’

  ‘About fifty thousand; we’ve been recovering back tax and national insurance from both the employer and the employee. Employers were dodging their national insurance contributions as well, of course.’

  ‘And the attitude taken?’

  ‘Firm but fair, as you would expect.’ Jones folded his arms. ‘If the taxpayer engages with us and we’re able to arrive at a settlement agreement with them then they can pay by instalments over five or seven years, depending on their current salary. We’ve agreed longer settlement periods with some too. You have to remember it’s not all management consultants and locum doctors, there are construction workers and agency staff too.’

  ‘A bill for back tax of five grand is a lot of money to someone earning twenty pounds an hour,’ said Fox. ‘Some were even on the minimum wage. So, we try to be reasonable.’

  ‘Keith was always very clear about that with his team.’

  ‘How many taxpayers have taken their own lives?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Seven, sadly,’ said Jones, a hint of regret in his voice. ‘We referred each to the police conduct office. They investigate us, as well as yo
u.’

  ‘And how many taxpayers have been made bankrupt?’

  ‘None. Some have declared themselves bankrupt, but we haven’t bankrupted anyone.’ Jones puffed out his chest. ‘Are these questions really necessary?’

  ‘I’m trying to gauge whether it would be a sufficient motive for murder,’ replied Dixon. ‘And it seems to be.’

  ‘Then they should go after George Osborne. He was the Chancellor who brought in the charge in 2016, and made it retrospective.’ Jones closed his eyes. ‘For God’s sake don’t quote me on that.’

  ‘I won’t, Sir.’

  ‘Keith was just doing his job.’

  ‘What about Godfrey Collins?’

  Jones gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘David’s got the list.’

  ‘He ran the schemes using offshore trusts in the Cayman Islands,’ said Fox. ‘He had three main clients, all of them employment agencies – two in Bristol and one in Weston-super-Mare. All told, there were two hundred and sixty-seven staff affected.’

  Jones began shifting in his seat, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Are they seriously expecting us to believe that it never occurred to them there was anything wrong with receiving loans they didn’t have to pay back from an offshore trust?’

  ‘Some didn’t have any choice,’ replied Louise. ‘And others were told it was perfectly legal by their accountants.’

  ‘Which it was at the time the schemes started,’ said Fox. ‘Technically. It was only in 2016 when the law was tightened up and backdated.’

  Dixon decided to move the conversation along. ‘How many of the Collins taxpayers have cooperated with you?’

  ‘We’ve got settlement agreements in place with two-thirds of them,’ replied Fox. ‘I’ve marked them on the list.’

  ‘What about the agencies?’

  ‘Them too. Their details are there as well.’

  ‘And Collins himself?’

  ‘We threw the book at him,’ replied Jones. ‘Keith referred him to the prosecutions office and they went for the maximum fine; made an example of him.’

  ‘Most of the debts are in the under ten thousand bracket.’ Fox slid the bundle of documents across the table. ‘But there are some bigger ones where we’ve been unable to get any response from the taxpayer. I’ve marked them too. One of the agencies in Bristol recruited sales and IT staff and their bills tend to be bigger.’

  ‘And which of them was Keith Finch pursuing?’ asked Dixon, flicking through the list.

  ‘None of them,’ replied Jones, frowning. ‘He was just the enforcement team line manager. He didn’t do any of the casework himself. He was probably targeted for no other reason than all of the correspondence went out with his electronic signature on it.’

  ‘So, whoever killed him thought he was the caseworker when in fact he wasn’t.’ Louise sighed. ‘That makes it almost mistaken identity.’

  ‘Just to clarify, then.’ Dixon was trying to hide his pained expression. ‘Mr Finch’s signature would’ve been on all the correspondence from the whole enforcement team: loan charge, pensions, VAT, even the film scheme?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jones, an apologetic smile the best he had to offer.

  ‘Start by cross referencing the loan charge list with the archery stuff Cole’s got. Then tomorrow we should have the boots on the ground to start knocking on doors.’

  That had been Dixon’s parting shot when he left Louise outside the tax office.

  ‘You’ll be in trouble if they issue tickets by CCTV,’ she had said, gesturing to the loading bay opposite before heading for the multistorey car park.

  Now Dixon was on his way to see Keith Finch’s widow in Bradley Stoke. Her daughter was with her and she felt up to it, apparently.

  It was a sobering thought that Finch could very well have been killed by any of the thousands of taxpayers being pursued by the enforcement team for anything from the loan charge to VAT fraud. His only crime had been to have his signature printed on every letter that went out. Granted, it gave the individual caseworker some degree of anonymity, but at what cost? That said, he had been killed with the same type of crossbow broadhead used on Collins, and the loan charge was the obvious connection between the two of them.

  The last of the Scientific Services vans had gone by the time he arrived at Bradley Stoke, the cedar of Lebanon in the back garden still towering over the bungalow. The sleek Mercedes was new and probably belonged to the daughter; it was a younger woman who answered the door, tall and with short blonde hair.

  ‘God, you are young, aren’t you? I thought Gaynor next door was joking.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Sorry, it’s one of those things you say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it, really.’

  ‘Have you caught him yet?’

  ‘We’re working on it, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Jessop.’ She was shutting the front door behind Dixon. ‘My mother’s in bed.’

  ‘Is there a family liaison officer here?’

  ‘There was, but we sent her home. I’ve got her mobile number and she’ll be back in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘Are you staying long?’ Dixon was following her along the passageway.

  ‘I’ll be here as long as she needs me, although I did suggest she come home with me. She can’t face sitting in the living room or the conservatory . . .’ Her voice softened to a whisper. ‘You can see the tree from there.’

  Dixon nodded his understanding.

  ‘Mum, the chief inspector’s here,’ she said, pushing open the door.

  Propped up in bed, fully clothed, the duvet covering only her feet; a kitchen roll was on the sheet beside her, the television on the chest of drawers against the wall opposite on, but with the sound turned down.

  Mary Finch looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot and dry. ‘I still can’t believe it’s . . .’

  Mrs Jessop went to stand by the bed on the far side, gently rubbing the back of her mother’s hand. ‘Take your time, Mum.’

  ‘I gave your colleague Keith’s phone. I remembered him saying he’d taken a photo of the red car, so you’ve got that to go on.’

  ‘What have you been told?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Mrs Jessop. ‘Karen, the liaison officer, is great. She said she’d tell us everything she can, but she doesn’t know anything either at the moment.’

  ‘May I?’ Dixon gestured to the chair by the bed, waited a moment for Mrs Finch to turn her head, then sat down. ‘When I saw you yesterday you’d taken one of your neighbour’s Valium.’

  ‘I don’t really remember, I’m afraid. It’s all a bit of a blur; someone asked me about the car.’

  ‘I also asked you about someone called Godfrey Collins. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Mrs Jessop.

  ‘He was an accountant formerly from Congresbury.’

  Mrs Finch shook her head on the pillow. ‘What’s his connection to Keith?’

  ‘Mr Collins was murdered with a crossbow five days ago. The pattern of what they call the “broadhead” on the bolt was identical, so we’re working on the basis that his murder and your husband’s are connected.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘This is highly sensitive information, so if you do talk to the press I’d be very grateful if you kept this to yourself.’

  ‘Mum won’t be talking to them. One of the sods came knocking earlier and I sent him packing; from the local rag.’

  ‘Godfrey Collins ran what is known as loan charge schemes,’ continued Dixon. ‘And they landed a couple of hundred people with large tax bills that your husband’s enforcement team at Cardiff were pursuing.’

  ‘He’d huff and puff whenever the loan charge came on the news, wouldn’t he, Mum?’

  ‘That and the film thing were his pet hates.’ Mrs Finch was staring at a photograph of her husband on the bedside table. ‘He had more sympathy for those caught up in the pension transfer scam.’
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  ‘You also mentioned that your husband saw someone standing in the field. Did he tell you what this man looked like?’

  ‘He was too far away. I seem to recall him saying he was tall with dark hair, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Did any of the neighbours see him?’ asked Mrs Jessop.

  ‘House to house hasn’t come up with anything yet,’ replied Dixon. ‘Did he ever mention any trouble at work, any particular incidents or individuals threatening him, or anyone else for that matter?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Finch forced a faint smile. ‘He always used to say that most people were sensible enough to know the taxman was just doing his job.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Look everywhere, you never know where you’ll find it.’

  It was good advice, although he’d been looking for the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle at the time. That said, it applied to police work too, although it did make for the odd late night. He’d finished the box of papers from Zephyr at gone midnight and the house to house statements by 2 a.m. – another sighting of the mysterious red car, but that was about it – his evening punctuated by a microwaved sausage roll from the garage. Mercifully, he’d remembered to bring his night insulin with him.

  Four hours’ sleep on the sofa in the Transport Services staff room would have to do, Mark waking him up when he burst in to return the kettle. Dixon cupped his hands together and exhaled sharply, sniffing the air and wincing; a toothbrush and toothpaste might have been a good idea too.

  ‘Transport start at seven, so I thought I’d better get it back.’ Mark was plugging in the kettle. ‘The restaurant’s open for breakfast and they sell toothpaste. Cheap razors too.’

  ‘That bad is it.’

  A fry-up for breakfast and clean teeth; he felt almost human again, although he skipped the shave. The last time he’d tried one of those cheap plastic razors he’d looked like he’d been dragged through brambles face first.

  There was a buzz to Area J when he arrived back on the second floor of the operations building, the murmur gradually decreasing as he made his way to the front, taking up position by the whiteboard. He counted twelve new faces, which was a start.