Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘I doubt it. And even if they did, I’d be surprised if anyone blamed him for it. Like I say, he was as much a victim as the rest of us.’

  ‘Anybody get unusually angry about it, perhaps?’

  ‘These are all low paid workers you’re talking about, all bar two of them women. “If I haven’t got it, they can’t have it” was the view most of them took, and I shouldn’t think for a minute any of them got excited enough about it to kill someone. Some of them were part-time and not making enough to have to file a tax return anyway.’

  ‘D’you ever get the feeling we’re barking up the wrong tree?’ asked Dixon, as they drove down into Weston.

  Cole was sitting in the passenger seat of Dixon’s Land Rover, trying to find Loxton Road on his phone. ‘Maybe that last lot, but if you were facing a bill of two or three hundred thousand pounds you’d feel a bit pissed off, I reckon.’

  ‘And you’d want to blame somebody.’

  ‘You would.’ Cole jabbed his finger at the screen. ‘It’s a maisonette above a shop. The entrance is round the back and up some steps.’

  ‘Are Collins and Finch the right people to blame?’

  ‘Who else is there?’

  ‘The government.’

  ‘You can’t kill the government, but you can kill the man who ran the scheme and the taxman chasing you for the money.’

  ‘It makes sense.’ Dixon was looking at the dog walkers on the promenade as he drove along the seafront. ‘And if we’re right, who’s next, I wonder?’

  ‘Go left at the roundabout, then left again into Loxton Road.’

  Dixon parked on the forecourt outside a parade of small shops, two of them closed, the shutters down; the others a fish and chip shop, a launderette and a charity shop. The two storeys above – of sandstone yellow brickwork – were the maisonettes, ‘To Let’ signs in the windows of at least three of them, or two perhaps; it was difficult to tell.

  Round the back and up the steps. They were walking along the first floor balcony when Cole broke the silence. ‘Why would you want a crossbow, living here? It’s not as if there’s a big back garden for target shooting, is it?’

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘It’s a council flat and he’s not long finished a twelve month stretch for two offences under the Computer Misuse Act. That’s it, really.’ Cole stopped outside the last door. ‘It’s this one.’

  Dixon tapped the Kevlar body armour under his shirt before knocking on the glazed front door, a large figure soon looming in the frosted glass.

  ‘Let me, Sir.’ Cole stepped forward. ‘Gavin Curtis?’ he demanded, his foot blocking the door from closing.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Police.’

  Curtis stepped to one side, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him; clearly compliant, an air of resignation about him, like a prisoner about to have his cell turned over. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Can we come in, Gavin?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  Cole closed the door behind them and they followed Curtis into the living room at the back of the flat. An old leather sofa against the wall on the left and a television on a corner cabinet, a table and chairs against the back wall.

  ‘No computer?’

  ‘Not allowed one. Can’t get the internet on my phone either.’ Curtis gestured to an old Nokia on the table.

  ‘How long have you been out?’ Dixon was looking at the small DVD collection on the corner unit.

  ‘A couple of months.’

  Saving Private Ryan possibly, but the rest he wouldn’t give house room to. ‘What were you in for?’

  ‘Hacking. It was just a bit of fun, really.’

  ‘Who were you hacking?’

  ‘DVLA. I was selling the records on the dark web. And GCHQ.’

  Cole looked up from his notebook. ‘You tried to hack the spy headquarters?’

  ‘No, I did hack the spy headquarters.’

  ‘You got caught though,’ said Dixon.

  No reply.

  No pictures up, no ornaments, nothing. ‘You rent the flat?’ he asked.

  ‘Housing benefit.’

  ‘And the furniture?’

  ‘It came from a charity.’

  ‘Where’s all your personal stuff?’

  ‘I haven’t got any. My mum threw it all out when I was sent down.’

  Dixon was watching Gavin. No more than early twenties, tall enough to have played in the second row; a little overweight perhaps, the wire arms of his glasses digging into his temples; clearly gifted, if hacking GCHQ was anything to go by. A touch of acne too, probably caused by living above a chippy.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Bristol, then Ford.’

  Dixon perched on the windowsill, his back to the view of the industrial estate beyond the railway line. ‘What are you doing for money? Are you working?’

  ‘Universal credit. The housing charity helped me with the forms.’ Curtis’s eyes were still fixed on the floor in front of him, but it was about more than avoiding eye contact. This was a comfort zone, thought Dixon. A place to retreat to, even.

  ‘Do you mind if we search the flat?’

  ‘No.’

  Dixon looked at Cole and nodded, waiting until he got up and left the room before speaking. ‘You didn’t ask me why, Gavin. That would be most people’s first question.’

  Gavin shrugged. ‘You get used to it inside. And I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘You don’t know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I haven’t got it. I haven’t got anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing, Sir.’ Cole reappeared in the doorway. ‘Just a bed and a pile of clothes on the floor. Nothing in the kitchen or bathroom either.’

  ‘Loft?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  Gavin was still standing with his back to the television, rubbing his hands together and rocking ever so slightly backwards and forwards.

  ‘What d’you do all day?’ asked Dixon. ‘D’you go out much?’

  ‘I watch the TV.’

  Locked in a room watching daytime TV; it was beginning to sound as though he had never left prison.

  ‘Have you bought a crossbow online recently, Gavin?’

  ‘No. I told you, I don’t have the internet so I couldn’t even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Well, someone did. We’re following up purchases of crossbows in Avon and Somerset and your name and address came up on a list from an online retailer.’

  ‘Merlin Archery in Sunderland,’ offered Cole.

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Have you had any parcels delivered here in the last six weeks or so?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about identity theft?’ Dixon frowned. ‘Have you had your identity stolen by someone?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Has someone else used this address to buy a crossbow recently?’

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Where to now, Sir?’ asked Cole, when Dixon started the engine.

  ‘Back to Portishead. Then we’ve got six more on the crossbow list for this afternoon.’

  ‘I can do them on my own, if you like?’

  Dixon was stationary, staring at a green light. ‘Did you believe Gavin?’

  ‘It’s gone green, Sir.’ Cole turned in his seat to glare at the driver in the car behind when she hooted her horn. ‘I don’t think Gavin’s capable of lying. He wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Get on to the Prison Service and get his medical records. I wouldn’t mind betting he’s on the autistic spectrum somewhere.’

  ‘Hard on him if he is, his mother kicking him out.’

  ‘And find out if he pleaded not guilty when he went to court.’

  Dixon was just about to pull away when the traffic light went red, prompting the car behind to hoot again. Then his phone rang on the dashboard. Cole picked it up, leaning forwards even though there was plenty of s
lack in the charging cable.

  ‘DCI Dixon’s phone. Yeah, hang on.’ He turned to Dixon. ‘Someone’s come up on both lists, Sir.’

  ‘How the hell did we miss that?’

  ‘It’s the partner of someone on the loan charge list who bought a crossbow online. They live at the same address, but they’re not married. Pound Lane, Nailsea.’

  ‘We’ll go there now. And we’ll have Armed Response on scene just in case.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Lou?’ asked Cole, turning back to the phone.

  ‘Find out if there’s a settlement agreement with HMRC in place too.’

  Cole rang off. ‘She says there isn’t.’

  Forty minutes later they picked up the Armed Response vehicle parked on a roundabout on the edge of Nailsea; a wave from Cole did the trick and the marked car pulled out behind them, following them along Pound Lane.

  Number 37 was a semi-detached house with a red garage door, the next door neighbour’s bright blue. Sandstone brick with dark brown tiles; upstairs were dormer windows so they may have started out as a pair of bungalows and both had loft conversions. No one could have designed them like that, surely?

  Dixon parked across the drive, blocking in a white BMW parked in front of the garage.

  ‘Tell the Armed Response team to show themselves. I want whoever’s in there to know they’re here,’ said Dixon, watching Cole walk back a couple of paces towards the marked car parked behind them, waving at them to pull forward.

  ‘Battering ram, Sir?’ Cole was clearly unable to contain his excitement.

  ‘Let’s try the doorbell first, shall we?’

  A dog started barking, closely followed by a shout of ‘Shut up, Winnie, for God’s sake. I’m on the phone!’ Dixon rang the doorbell again, setting the dog off one more time; whoever was inside would arrive at the door nice and flustered.

  The sight of two burly police officers with gun-toting Armed Response officers behind them on the drive clearly had the desired effect. ‘I’ll call you back,’ mumbled the man in flip-flops, shorts and a T-shirt, disconnecting the call with one hand, a West Highland white terrier wriggling under his other arm.

  ‘Police, Sir. May we come in?’ Dixon didn’t wait for a reply.

  ‘Er, yes, of course.’

  ‘Mr Tressider, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Mark. Just give me a sec and I’ll put Winnie in her cage; it’s in the corner of the dining room.’

  Dixon followed him, keeping him in sight, if only to make sure he didn’t reach for a crossbow.

  ‘Now, what’s this about?’ Tressider’s eyes were bloodshot, the pupils a touch dilated for a bright day.

  ‘We’re lucky to find you at home, Sir.’ Dixon was peering at the photographs on the wall.

  ‘I’m a graphic designer. I work from home.’

  ‘And Nicola Pate?’

  ‘She’s at work. She sells advertising space in the local newspapers.’ Tressider took up position in the kitchen doorway, his arms folded. Behind him the patio doors were open, leading to a long garden, a carpet hanging from scaffolding poles at the far end.

  ‘We’re following up sales of high powered crossbows and we’ve been informed that you purchased one online from Hampton Archery about six weeks ago.’

  Tressider arched his back. ‘How did you get that information? I thought there were data protection laws.’

  ‘It’s a double murder investigation, Sir.’ Dixon was craning his neck, making it obvious he was looking past Tressider. ‘So, data protection goes out the window, as you might imagine. Is that a shooting range I see in your garden?’

  ‘Target practice, that’s all.’

  ‘May I see the bow?’

  ‘Which one? I’ve got three.’

  ‘All of them, in that case. And your collection of bolts.’

  Soon there was quite an armoury laid out on the dining table: a pistol crossbow, a compound bow with telescopic sights and an Anglo Arms Jaguar, the very model picked out by Bowman.

  Tressider pointed to the Jaguar. ‘This is the new one.’

  ‘Why did you buy it?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Nicky thinks I’m nuts, but I’m a bit of a prepper.’ He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘There are quite a few of us around. Tins of food in the loft, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And what exactly are you preparing for?’

  ‘The end of the world.’

  Cole tried to stifle a chuckle and failed dismally.

  ‘You can laugh, but all it requires is a breakdown of law and order and we’ll all be defending our properties from looters.’

  ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘Survival kits, rations, a couple of respirators. Look, I just bought some stuff and put it in the loft, but I do enjoy target shooting with the bows as well.’

  Dixon gestured to the collection of bolts. ‘Do you have any broadheads for these?’ He glanced over at the DVDs lined up along the mantelpiece, the presence of the Walking Dead box set coming as no surprise.

  ‘Don’t like broadheads. If the shit hits the fan you’ll need to be able to get the bolts back quick and easy,’ Tressider said, miming the pulling of a bolt out of God knows what.

  ‘PC Cole here will ask you where you were on a couple of specific dates, while I have a look at your targets, if I may?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tressider stepped to one side, although Dixon was already brushing past him.

  Twenty paces: a collection of perforated plastic milk bottles, shoe boxes taped shut, sand leaking from round holes; a couple of archery targets scrunched up on the ground, the holes grouped tightly in the gold. Dixon checked for any sign of a curved broadhead and found none; there were none in the carpet used as a backstop either.

  ‘He says he was here with Nicky both nights, Sir,’ said Cole, when Dixon stepped in through the patio doors.

  ‘And the nights of the sheep killings?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  Dixon busied himself trying to cock the compound bow while Cole checked the dates with Tressider – business trip, at home with Nicky, cinema with Nicky then at home.

  Tressider kept a watchful eye on Dixon throughout. ‘You need a string for that one,’ he said, turning away from Cole.

  Dixon replaced the bow on the dining table. ‘Wouldn’t be much good if you were surrounded by a horde of zombies.’

  ‘It’s a herd, not a horde.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Cole finished scribbling in his notebook and looked up. ‘We will be checking, Sir, as you might expect.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Tell me about Nicky’s loan charge debt,’ said Dixon. ‘How much does she owe?’

  ‘Oh, God, that.’ Tressider puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s just over twenty-seven grand, but the interest is racking up on top of that. It dates from her agency work; she was with Bristol Recruitment doing sales for about six years.’

  ‘And she’s not reached a settlement agreement with HMRC?’

  ‘No, why should she?’ Tressider lurched forward off the door frame he had been leaning on. ‘They’ve only just changed it, so they can’t go back beyond 2010, and that saved her eight grand. You never know what might happen if she waits a bit longer.’

  ‘Is she in dispute with HMRC?’

  ‘Not a dispute, as such. She’s just ignoring them, taking it right to the wire. If they ever commence court proceedings against her, she’ll pay up. Actually, she hasn’t heard from them for a while, so we were beginning to wonder if it had gone away.’

  ‘Could she pay it?’

  ‘It would take the money we’d set aside to get wed, but she could, yeah.’

  ‘Does the name Godfrey Collins mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nope, never heard of him.’

  ‘What about Keith Finch?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  Dixon was halfway along the corridor back to the front door. ‘Can you ask her to ring PC Cole when she gets in, please? He’ll hav
e a couple of questions for her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dixon stepped out into the porch when Tressider opened the front door. ‘Whose is the BMW?’

  ‘That’s Nicky’s. She takes the bus to work.’

  ‘And where’s your car, Sir?’

  ‘In the garage.’ Tressider grinned. ‘It’s a BMW M3; shit off a shovel, it is.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Red, why?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cole was looking around a deserted Area J as he dropped his sandwich and a bag of crisps on a vacant workstation. ‘They must all be out and about.’

  ‘Dave and Kevin are in the CCTV suite.’ Louise’s head popped up from behind a computer screen. ‘Mark’s gone to get something to eat and the rest are out interviewing people on the loan charge list.’

  ‘Any other connection between Collins and Finch?’ Dixon chose to ignore the ‘HR Dept’ label on the kettle.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ replied Louise. ‘We can’t find anything at all, apart from the loan charge business.’

  ‘Tressider’s got three crossbows and a red BMW.’

  ‘I printed off the photos Mr Finch took and stuck them on the whiteboard.’ Louise pointed over her shoulder with her thumb at a sequence of three grainy colour photographs sellotaped along the top of the board, taken sideways on as the car passed the gate. ‘He’d got Live Photos switched off, so it’s just three stills, sadly,’ she continued. ‘The more you zoom in, the blurrier they get too. I’ve pinged them over to High Tech to see what they can do with them.’

  ‘The best you can say is it’s a saloon.’ Cole was squinting at the photographs. ‘But you don’t get the whole car in the one shot.’

  ‘Cut and paste, the old fashioned way.’ Louise held up two photographs taped together, the paper fluttering in the breeze from a fan on the windowsill. ‘Mark sent them over to Traffic as well, just to see if they’ve got any ideas.’

  The door pillar obscured the driver, not that the picture would have been good enough to have identified him or her anyway.

  ‘It could be a Beamer,’ said Cole, peering over Dixon’s shoulder. ‘Or one of the older Volvos, possibly.’

  ‘What about a Passat?’ asked Louise. ‘The old shape.’