Dying Inside (DI Nick Dixon Crime)

by Damien Boyd

‘You’ve ruled my client out of that, surely?’

  ‘That’s part of why we’re here.’

  Staveley glared at his solicitor. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Mr Collins,’ continued Dixon, ‘was one of four people killed with a crossbow within the last week. For reasons I needn’t go into now, we believe the killings to have been committed by the same person and whilst we have established a motive for three of the murders, we have thus far been unable to find any connection with Mr Collins.’

  ‘Thus far?’ Staveley frowned. ‘You’ve found a connection now?’

  ‘We have, Sir.’ Matter of fact. ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’ Several octaves higher.

  ‘We believe three of the murders relate to a pension transfer scam, but Mr Collins seems to have played no part in that whatsoever. His only connection to the pension scam is you, because you acted for at least one of the victims of the scam in trying to recover what was left of their funds.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I did do, for some of them. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, on the face of it,’ replied Dixon. ‘Who did you act for then?’

  ‘There were two prison officers, a police officer and a couple of others. They were referred to me as a group by Bob, er Robert Harden, he’s a pensions specialist in Bristol. He managed to get the remains of the funds frozen in a Spanish court – Clearwater Pensions, that was it – and then referred them to me when the court action was over. I was mainly dealing with HMRC on their behalf because of the income tax liabilities, but when the funds were released they came to me; only a couple of them had anything left though.’

  ‘Was Frank Allan one of your clients?’

  ‘He was.’ Staveley was leaning forward, his hands interlocked on the table in front of him. ‘He had nothing left, sadly. Just the income tax bill. I told him to declare himself bankrupt.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘Look, maybe if you told us who else had been murdered, my client might be able to shed some light on it for you.’ Smith glanced up at the clock on the wall; either clock watching or time recording, Dixon couldn’t tell which, but suspected both.

  ‘James Bowen and Miranda Mather were killed at their villa on the Costa del Sol three days ago. Mr Bowen ran Clearwater Wealthcare, who sold the pensions, and Miss Mather ran Clearwater Pensions. The third victim is Keith Finch, the enforcement officer at HM Revenue and Customs in Cardiff.’

  ‘Not Keith!’ Staveley let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘I met him once on a tax enforcement course. The poor sod.’

  ‘He was in charge of recovering the income tax due on the pension transfers that turned out to be withdrawals.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He was just the office manager,’ replied Staveley. ‘His name was on the correspondence, but that doesn’t mean he wrote the letter.’

  ‘You and I know that, Mr Staveley,’ said Dixon. ‘But someone didn’t. And they shot him in the eye with a crossbow bolt.’

  Staveley flinched.

  ‘Do you own a crossbow?’ asked Dixon. ‘Forgive me, but I have to ask.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘And where were you on Saturday morning, between say eight and ten?’

  ‘At home. My wife will vouch for—’ He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘No, wait, I had a training course on the Friday in London. My wife came with me and went shopping and we stayed Friday night in the Premier Inn at Wembley. That means we were on the train home on Saturday morning. We didn’t get home until lunchtime. My wife can confirm that and the hotel will be able to confirm when we checked out, won’t they?’

  Dixon glanced at Cole who was busy scribbling in his notebook. ‘Had you ever come across Clearwater Wealthcare before?’

  ‘I’m sure I’d met James Bowen a couple of years ago at a networking event somewhere; some lunch club, something like that. He had some young lad in tow, if I remember rightly. Financial advisers do the rounds of these sorts of things, don’t they?’

  Dixon remembered it well. It was the junior trainee solicitor’s lot to represent the firm at networking events, usually when no one else could be bothered to go.

  ‘It might even have been one of those speed networking breakfast things,’ continued Staveley. ‘A high price to pay for a bacon roll.’

  ‘At the moment, the only victim of the pension scam unaccounted for is Frank Allan. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No. I only met him the once and haven’t seen him for a couple of years at least. My file’s closed and archived.’

  ‘Was he angry enough to have resorted to this, d’you think?’

  ‘To murder? What sort of question is that?’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘They were angry; they were all very angry and bitter about it. Wouldn’t you be? They’d saved into their employer’s pension schemes all their lives and then decide to transfer out to a new scheme that was registered with HM Revenue and Customs, so it should’ve been safe, shouldn’t it? You tell me, would you have been angry enough to kill?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Staveley was clearly backtracking, making an effort to calm himself, as if he’d suddenly remembered where he was and who he was talking to. His solicitor placing her hand on his forearm had helped snap him back to the present.

  ‘The income tax bills.’ Dixon was scrolling through an email on his phone. ‘Who had the largest?’

  ‘They were all much the same. I suppose John Sims had the biggest, but not by much; and he agreed a settlement over ten years. I thought the taxman was quite reasonable to be honest, bearing in mind these were people approaching retirement who’d just lost their pension pots. Most agreed settlements, but a couple weren’t able to make any payments at all. Frank Allan was one, and the ex-police officer, Brian Willcocks. He was reluctant to cooperate with me, let alone HMRC.’

  Time for a question or two that Dixon knew the answers to. Louise had been thorough in her research even though time had been short, and her email had arrived just as he was parking outside the station.

  ‘How far is your villa in Marbella from Sitio de Calahonda?’

  Staveley swallowed hard. ‘About twenty miles.’

  ‘It says nineteen kilometres on Google.’

  ‘Twelve miles then, Sir,’ said Cole, without looking up.

  ‘We’ve only got it because we can’t sell it; one of my wife’s bright ideas when the kids left home. Now we’re stuck with it unless we want to take a huge hit.’

  ‘Do you rent it out?’

  ‘We tried that a few years ago, but the place kept getting trashed so we don’t any more. Not even to friends.’

  ‘When did you last visit?’

  ‘We had a couple of weeks there in August. It’s easy enough, fly from Bristol and twenty minutes in a taxi.’

  ‘D’you keep a car out there?’

  ‘A Fiat Punto; just a little runaround. It gets us to and from the golf course and the shops.’

  Dixon kept them waiting while he tapped out another text message to Louise: Check Staveley at Premier Inn Wembley three nights ago, and flights out of Hrow and Gatwick to Costa del Sol. City too.

  ‘Look, I’ve been quite upfront with you,’ said Staveley. ‘I was when you came to my house.’

  ‘Your house?’ demanded his solicitor.

  ‘He just turned up, caught me as I was going to work.’

  Dixon was quite happy listening to their conversation.

  ‘I told him I had a motive for wanting Godfrey dead, there’s no point in hiding that. Godfrey nearly wrecked my business and my life, so yes, I’d have cheerfully killed him, but I didn’t.’

  ‘I think you’ve said enough, Ian.’ Smith tried her hand on Staveley’s forearm again.

  ‘Think about it, though,’ he continued. ‘What possible motive could I have for wanting the others dead? I only gained out of the pension scam; I got several new clients out of it and lots of work tha
t kept me busy for months, for heaven’s sake! Why would I want them dead?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Fish and chips?’ Cole frowned. ‘Have we got time?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Dixon was leaning back against the window in the small chippy just around the corner from Burnham Library. ‘If we make an arrest it’ll be hours before we get a chance to eat.’

  They were well hidden from the seafront and the amusement arcade next to the Reeds Arms, an unmarked Armed Response vehicle waiting further along the seafront.

  Cole gave the thumbs up sign when the assistant waved the salt pot at him. ‘How do we know Allan’s in Castle Amusements anyway?’

  ‘We don’t, but if Gavin heads for Bridgwater or Minehead we can catch up with him while he’s still out on the motorway. He’s got to go past Burnham, hasn’t he?’

  He was wiping the last chip around the inside of the bag fifteen minutes later when a text arrived from Louise: Gavin’s on the move. A red Daewoo saloon 98 plate

  ‘A red saloon,’ Cole said. ‘Maybe he killed Collins?’

  ‘You’ve met him, Nigel.’ Dixon scrunched up the empty bag and dropped it into the passenger footwell.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Time to move from their picnic spot above the beach at the top of Allandale Road; Dixon crept along the seafront, parking on the double yellow lines beyond the Pavilion.

  ‘Why don’t we just go in?’ Cole was clearly champing at the bit.

  ‘Too many people.’

  The sun had slipped below the horizon and the lights along the seafront were taking over, the scene flickering from the flashing bulbs on the Pavilion behind them and Castle Amusements a hundred or so yards ahead. People were milling about outside the arcade, more piling out of the Reeds Arms. Mercifully most disappeared around the corner, heading for the Pier Tavern or the Somerset and Dorset possibly.

  Dixon’s phone rang and he flicked on the loudspeaker.

  ‘What is it, Lou?’

  ‘He’s just turning on to the seafront now, Sir, from the Seaview Road end.’

  ‘All right, tell them to stop him now.’

  ‘Don’t we want to catch him in the act?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  He watched the blue lights come on in his rear view mirror, Cole watching in the passenger wing mirror.

  ‘What do they nick him for?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Theft. Get them to take him to Express Park; his car and laptop need to go to Scientific. And we’ll need the interview team down from Bristol.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Where’s the Armed Response team?’ he asked, his question soon answered by flashing headlights on a car parked opposite the hovercraft station. ‘All right, let’s get the local team in Pier Street and we’d better have a dog here too, in case he gets away and heads for the beach. It’ll be pitch dark by the time we make the arrest.’ He took off his jacket and tie, throwing them on to the back seat of the Land Rover. ‘While you set that up, I’m going in for a look around.’

  Dixon walked along the seafront until he was opposite Castle Amusements, looking straight in through the large doors that were standing open; the sounds of the arcade carried even over the roar of the waves breaking on the jetty behind him, the tide on its way out.

  The arcade was large, people milling about inside; shooting at a screen with guns, dropping two pence pieces into cascades, more coins rattling as they dropped out the bottom. Someone was using the racing car simulator, the noise of screeching tyres followed by a loud crash and a cheer from the family gathered around the machine.

  There was even a young girl shooting zombies with a crossbow.

  The ‘clack’ of the air hockey table on the left, a father and young son playing with unusual venom and sending the puck towards a smaller boy playing whack-a-mole, with the mother, presumably. Beyond them a counter offering sweets and cuddly toys in exchange for their winning tickets, each machine pumping out rolls of paper tickets like streamers to the winner. There was a kiosk too, operated by a young man with dark hair – more student than retired prison officer.

  Dixon’s eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the arcade, where the fun turned to gambling and lines of fruit machines stood around the wall ready to empty the pockets of the unwary.

  A small man with a beard was sitting in a kiosk at the entrance to a separate room with a large sign over the entrance: Adults Only. He appeared to be reading something and Dixon wondered whether that was ‘adults only’ too.

  A quick glance at his phone and the HM Prison Service photograph of Allan, then Dixon took out his wallet. Two ten pound notes; a small price to pay, and he could always claim it back on expenses.

  The machines either side of the front doors offered him the chance to grab a teddy bear with a crane, although he’d fallen for that one before – the arms always opening on the way to the chute, not much, just enough to drop the stuffed toy. Still, rather that than pushing his money into a fruit machine, although Crossbow Ninja was tempting.

  He stood in front of the kiosk and slid a ten pound note under the Perspex screen, the sigh making it obvious that Allan would have preferred him to use one of the change machines, tearing himself away from his newspaper just long enough to press a button, Dixon’s change sliding down into the hopper.

  ‘They take notes, y’know.’

  You’ll have plenty of time for reading where you’re going, matey.

  He walked along the line of machines in the adults only area and stopped in front of Crossbow Ninja: five spins of the wheels for ten quid. Still, in for a pound . . .

  Less than sixty seconds later he was back at the kiosk, sliding his last ten pound note under the Perspex screen.

  ‘You should have taken the multiple,’ said Allan – it was definitely him behind that beard. ‘If you get it again, press the gold button.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Dixon made a conscious effort not to make eye contact; time enough for that in the interview room.

  ‘Where’s the nearest cashpoint?’ he asked, back at the kiosk a minute later.

  ‘There’s one over there.’ Allan waved his hand towards the back of the arcade.

  Dixon resisted the temptation and drifted towards the door. A cashpoint in a fruit machine arcade? Someone must’ve thought it was a good idea.

  He was soon sitting back in his Land Rover, putting on his tie. ‘Remind me to claim twenty quid on expenses when we get back to Area J, will you?’

  ‘Is he in there?’ asked Cole.

  ‘In the kiosk by the adults only bit.’ Dixon was wriggling into his jacket. ‘We can take him now, there’s no one playing the fruit machines. Tell uniform to give us two minutes and then follow us in. We’ll need to get him out of the kiosk; the door’s on the far side as we go in. I’ll get him out, you play the nearest machine to the kiosk and nick him as soon as he opens the door. Have you got handcuffs?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘One last thing. You’ll have to lend me ten quid.’

  ‘Back again so soon?’ Allan’s voice was impassive when Dixon slid the ten pound note under the Perspex screen.

  ‘You know how it is,’ replied Dixon, picking his change out of the hopper.

  Five spins of the wheel and the money was gone; Crossbow Ninja again, Allan watching him from the kiosk.

  ‘Bloody machine,’ yelled Dixon, thumping the coin slot with the side of his fist. Then he reached up and rocked it backwards and forwards, the rear panel swinging open. A kick for good measure, then the alarm went off, the high pitched klaxon failing to drown out Allan and his frantic scramble for the keys to unlock the kiosk.

  ‘Oi!’

  The kiosk door opened outwards, just a fraction, and Cole was on it in a flash. He wrenched open the door and wrestled Allan to the ground, handcuffing his wrists behind his back before he had a chance to draw breath.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Dixon left the Crossbow Ninja machine turned sideways in the aisle, the rear pane
l standing open.

  A small crowd was gathering by the pool table, a large man elbowing his way through, more keys jangling from his belt on a chain. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  Dixon watched Cole drag Allan to his feet with the help of the two uniformed officers who had now arrived, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Francis Allan, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Godfrey Collins, Keith Finch, James Bowen and Miranda Mather.’ He waited for the gasps from the crowd to subside before continuing. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.’

  Allan looked up and smirked at him.

  ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘Where’s Gavin?’

  ‘Same place you’re going.’ Dixon turned to the two uniformed officers. ‘Take him to Express Park and get him checked in. Search the kiosk too, before you go; and make sure you find his phone.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘What’s happened to that machine?’ asked the big man with the keys.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Luke Newman. I run this place.’ He folded his arms. ‘His name’s not Frank Allan either. It’s Harry.’

  ‘You may want to check that machine, Sir; I think you’ll find it a few quid light. Andy at Arbern Gaming can explain. In the meantime, my colleague here will need a statement from you.’

  Dixon was sitting in his Land Rover when Cole came trotting across the road from the arcade. ‘Luke says our man’s living in a converted minibus on the Grange campsite at Edithmead. It’s a DIY Transit van conversion; Harry was very proud of it, apparently.’

  ‘Let’s cut the Harry bollocks,’ snapped Dixon. ‘We know who he is.’ He turned the key. ‘Get Scientific over to the Grange now and then get uniform to drop you down to Express Park when you’ve finished here.’

  There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of Dixon’s stomach as he drove out towards Edithmead. It all felt too easy by half – either that or it was losing thirty quid on a fruit machine – and it hardly felt like the moment of triumph when he parked outside the office at the Grange campsite and rang the bell. An Entryphone at a campsite – whatever next?