Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (12 page)

Dixon opened the interview room door and walked in. Tom Perry was sitting with his back to the door and turned to face him. He was flushed, which was visible even through several days of stubble.

‘You?’

‘I’m taking over your wife’s murder, Mr Perry.’

‘I thought you were suspended?’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘One of our members is on the civilian staff here.’

Dixon nodded. ‘My hearing was this morning and I got off with a warning.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Perry.

Dixon sat down opposite him.

‘Seventeen years ago my fiancée was murdered. I got the chance to catch her killer but to do so I had to keep quiet about my connection to the case. I failed to disclose my personal involvement.’

‘Did you catch him?’

‘I did.’

‘Then it was worth it.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘So, what the hell’s going on?’ asked Perry. ‘The press seem to think I killed Stanniland.’

‘I’ll deal with that.’

‘I bloody well wish I had killed him.’

‘No, you don’t. Not really.’

‘Has there been a leak?’

‘We’ve had a few changes of personnel,’ replied Dixon.

‘About bloody time.’

‘You are not a suspect in the murder of John Stanniland and I will make that clear to the media.’

‘Are they here?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Wankers.’

‘Mr Perry, it’s my belief that your wife was killed to get to you. Can you think of anyone who might wish to do that?’

‘You mean it wasn’t a burglary that went wrong?’

‘No.’

‘That makes it my fault, doesn’t it?’

Perry slid his wedding band off his ring finger and stared at it in the palm of his hand.

‘Tom?’ Dixon could hear him breathing deeply. ‘Listen to me, Tom.’

Perry looked up.

‘What campaigns have you been involved in?’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hinkley C, the new reactor at Hinkley Point. There’s a wind farm over at East Huntspill. But who’s gonna kill my wife over a few wind turbines?’

‘What about planning applications?’

‘I was helping residents oppose one on the edge of Burtle and another at Berrow, but that’s it.’

‘Were they big developments?’

‘Not really. But why kill my wife and not me, if that’s it?’

‘I’m exploring all possibilities at the moment. Look, I want you to think about this, carefully, and if you come up with anything else, you let me know immediately. All right?’

‘I will.’

‘Are you carrying on with the election?’ asked Dixon.

‘I haven’t decided yet. I think so,’ replied Perry. ‘It’s what Lizzie would have wanted me to do, I know that much.’

‘I’ve got some more digging to do and then we’ll have another chat. All right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Out the front.’

‘I’ll get someone to bring it round the back.’

‘This is the one bit of the job I dread,’ said Dixon, looking out of the huge windows on the first floor at the journalists gathered below.

‘You’ll be fine,’ replied Jane. ‘Vicky Thomas has told you what to say, hasn’t she?’

‘Fat lot of bloody good she is.’

‘You know what not to say?’

‘I do. And it doesn’t leave a lot else,’ replied Dixon, straightening his tie.

He went downstairs in the lift and stepped out into the glare of the flashbulbs and spot lamps in front of the police centre. It was just after midday and overcast.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon. I am the senior investigating officer in the murders of Elizabeth Perry and John Stanniland. I will make a short statement and then take questions, but you will appreciate that I am limited in what I can say at the present time.’

Dixon waited for the clicking of cameras to subside.

‘Mrs Elizabeth Perry was, as you know, stabbed to death in the early hours of Christmas Eve. John Stanniland was a suspect in her murder. He was released on police bail pending further enquiries on the afternoon of Friday 27 December. His body was found in the Bristol Channel to the north of Brean Down on the morning of Saturday 28 December. He too had been murdered.’

‘Has Tom Perry been arrested for the murder of John Stanniland, Inspector?’ The shouted question came from the back of the crowd of journalists.

‘No, he has not. Mr Perry is not a suspect in either murder. He is a husband whose wife has been murdered and I would reiterate the family’s request for privacy at this time.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’

‘Our enquiries into both murders are ongoing. That is all I can say at this stage, although I would ask anyone with any information to contact the incident room, anonymously if needs be, by dialling 101 and asking for Bridgwater CID. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

‘Is Tom Perry going to stand in the election?’

‘That is a matter for Mr Perry,’ replied Dixon.

‘What would you say to members of the Conservative Party moving to deselect him?’ The question came from a reporter at
the front
of the crowd. She was holding a microphone at full stretch in front of Dixon.

‘It is not for me, as a police officer, to comment on the internal affairs of the Conservative Party. But, as a voter in the North Somerset constituency, I will just say this. I think I would take a dim view of any political party that chose to kick their candidate when he or she was down. Tom Perry needs their support at this difficult time. Not to face moves behind the scenes to get rid of him. And I suspect many voters in the constituency would feel the same.’

Dixon was momentarily blinded the camera flashes going off all around him. Then he turned on his heels and walked back into the police centre.

Dixon walked back up to the CID area on the first floor.
Louise
Willmott was standing by Jane’s workstation, following Jane’s finger as she pointed at her computer screen. Dave Harding and
Mark Pearce
were standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

‘Meeting room two, twenty minutes,’ said Dixon, sitting down at a vacant desk. ‘Louise?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘We need to get out to the crime scene. Get on to the underwater search team and see if they can take us out there in their boat, will you?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘The Burnham Area Rescue Boat is out there, Sir,’ said Dave. ‘Ferrying people around, that sort of thing.’

‘We won’t worry them with it, Dave. They’ve got better things to do.’

‘OK.’

Dixon switched on the computer on the desk in front of him and logged in. Then he scrolled down through his emails until he reached the one attaching Stanniland’s post mortem report.

‘If I send this to print, where will it go?’

‘The printer’s over there, Sir,’ said Mark, pointing to a line of printers against the far wall.

‘I used to have one in my office,’ muttered Dixon. Then he sighed loudly. ‘And what the hell’s this?’ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

‘What’s up?’ asked Jane.

‘What on earth possesses them to spend millions of pounds on a shiny new police station and then stick the old computers in it? I’ve got a bloody egg timer now.’

‘Calm down.’

‘All I want to do is print this report,’ said Dixon, clicking the mouse over and over again.

‘And stop clicking,’ said Jane.

‘I know what I want on my gravestone. Here lies Nick Dixon, brackets, not responding, close brackets.’

Louise laughed.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ said Jane.

‘Nice to have things back to normal though, isn’t it?’ said Louise.

‘I suppose it is,’ replied Jane, smiling.

Dixon was standing by the printer when Louise shouted across to him. She had her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone.

‘Will the inflatable do, Sir, or do you want the big one?’

‘The inflatable’s fine.’

‘What time?’

‘An hour. On the Moorland road, as near as we can get to the village without getting our feet wet.’

‘OK.’

Dixon sat down on the edge of the printer table, speed reading Stanniland’s post mortem report, and quickly found what he was looking for. Stanniland’s stomach was full of seawater, making an assessment of the pH levels impossible, but he did have advanced Barrett’s oesophagus.

‘Right. Let’s get on with it,’ said Dixon.

Chapter Eleven

T
here’s two ways of looking at this thing,’ said Dixon. ‘The first and obvious conclusion is that Stanniland broke into Waterside Cottage to get some money for his next fix, was confronted by Elizabeth Perry, killed her and then fled the scene, torching his van on the outskirts of Bristol. He stood over the body and smoked a cigarette, vomited on the lawn and then drove off, heard by
Mr Grafton
, as we know.’

‘It all fits,’ said Harding.

‘Does it?’ replied Dixon. ‘Even ignoring Stanniland’s subsequent murder, which we discovered by pure chance, there are still gaping holes.’

‘Like what?’

‘All right. Let’s start with the vomit. You’d expect to get some DNA off that, wouldn’t you? Let’s assume he puked up at about 2 a.m. and the sample was found and collected at, what, let’s say 8 a.m. That’s six hours, being rained on for five of them. That shouldn’t destroy any DNA trace, should it?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘But there was nothing?’

‘Right.’

‘We know from Stanniland’s post mortem that he had advanced Barrett’s oesophagus. That’s a thickening of the lining of the gullet just above the stomach caused by persistent acid reflux, what you and I would call heartburn. It can lead to cancer, but it tells us that Stanniland had high levels of acid in his stomach.’

‘And the acid would have destroyed any profile?’ asked Louise.

‘Over time, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘Remember, we’re looking at abnormally high stomach acid levels here.’

‘That would take longer than five or six hours, surely?’ asked Harding.

‘Yes, it would. Not least because the acid was being diluted by the rainwater, wasn’t it?’

‘So, what are you saying?’ asked Jane.

‘I’m saying that Stanniland vomited hours earlier, possibly days, and it was collected, bagged up and then deposited by someone at the scene. Someone riding a motorbike.’

Silence.

Dixon looked around the room. All but Dave Harding were smiling.

‘So, Mrs Freeman was right about the motorbike?’ asked Harding.

‘Well, let’s assume she was right, for a minute. It explains the vomit and the cigarettes, which I’ll come onto in a minute, and
the second
knife wound.’

‘What about the cigarettes?’

‘The two in the lane are the same brand. That’s it. So, they could have been bought, lit and allowed to burn down to the filter, then dropped in the lane to make it look as though Stanniland waited outside the cottage, perhaps until Elizabeth went to bed. There was no DNA on them at all, so it was either washed away by the rainwater, which is unlikely, or the cigarettes never touched anyone’s lips.’

‘And the one on the landing?’

‘Smoked by Stanniland at the same time as he ate his
Albanian
baked lamb and rice with yoghurt. They call it tavë kosi. It’s a national dish.’

‘Was the lamb baked?’ asked Louise.

‘There’s your first job. Find out.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘So, he eats his tavë kosi and smokes a cigarette,’ continued Dixon. ‘Then he’s punched in the stomach and pukes up. The vomit is collected for later use by our motorcyclist and the cigarette butt is bagged up to be dropped at the scene.’

‘The Albanians again,’ said Pearce.

‘Stanniland’s murder is their style, as we know,’ replied Dixon. ‘And he would have done as he was told, no doubt.’

‘Why kill him though?’ asked Pearce.

‘Once we’d released him it was the obvious way of tidying up the loose end. If he’d just disappeared we’d have chased our tails for a few months and then closed the file.’

‘Why didn’t we pick this up before?’ asked Harding.

‘The assumption was made that Grafton and Mrs Freeman heard the same vehicle so no one was looking for it,’ replied Dixon. ‘It becomes clearer if you assume they were both right about what they heard. We also now have Stanniland’s murder, don’t forget, and that puts the whole thing in an entirely different light.’

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Jane.

‘There is. What brand of cigarettes was it?’

‘Marlboro Lights,’ replied Pearce.

‘Right. The ash that was recovered from the landing, let’s get it tested. My guess is it’ll come from several different brands.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was taken from an ashtray.’

‘Can you tell from ash?’ asked Louise.

‘Sherlock Holmes can tell the difference between one hundred and forty different types of tobacco just by sniffing it so I’m damn sure our lab can do it. Jane?’

‘I’ll sort it.’

‘Then we come onto the second knife wound, the fatal one, which we know from the blood loss came several minutes later. What do we make of that?’

‘Stanniland realises he hasn’t killed her. Perhaps his knife isn’t long enough. So, he goes to the kitchen to get a longer knife and then stabs her again.’

‘That’s possible, Jane,’ replied Dixon. ‘There’s only one thing I don’t like about it. He’s stabbed her umpteen times already, so why would he take the time and trouble to insert the knife into an existing wound? He’d just stab her again surely?’

‘Possibly.’

‘My reading of Poland’s report is that time and care was taken to insert the blade into a wound in her back. To hide it, as far as possible. After all, it was only visible internally on close inspection of the heart and surrounding tissue.’

‘So, you’re saying the motorcyclist did it?’

‘I am. This is a real professional we’re dealing with here. Make no mistake about it. There’s no trace he or she was there whatsoever.’

‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,’ said Jane.

‘It isn’t. And when he gets in there he finds Elizabeth still alive.’

‘And he finishes the job,’ said Pearce.

‘He does. Clean and clinical,’ replied Dixon.

‘Bastard.’

‘There’s a lot of guesswork in there . . .’ said Harding.

‘There is, Dave. So, it’s our job to prove it. Louise, you were going to check the vomit.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And Jane, the ash?’

Jane nodded.

‘Dave, I know you’ve looked at the traffic cameras going north. Look at them again, north and south this time, for a motorbike.

Harding bowed his head and sighed.

‘It’s a pain in the arse, I know, but it’s got to be done.’

‘They may have gone cross country,’ said Pearce.

‘Possibly, but their plates will almost certainly be fake so they’re likely to be a bit more relaxed about cameras. Let’s hope so, anyway.’

‘OK.’

‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Freeman again, so if we could find out where she’s been evacuated to?’ asked Dixon.

‘Leave it to me, Sir,’ said Louise.

‘Thanks.’

‘Why though, Sir?’ asked Pearce. ‘What’s the motive?’

‘That’s for you and Jane to find out, Mark. We’ve got a professional killing dressed up to look like a drug induced burglary gone wrong. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to kill Elizabeth Perry and the reason is going to be hidden in Tom Perry’s political life. Somewhere.’

‘Politics?’ asked Jane.

‘Think about it. They’re just a perfectly normal young couple expecting their first child. He’s an architect and she’s a housewife. What’s the one thing that sets them apart, makes them stand out?’

‘Puts them in conflict with others,’ said Louise.

‘It does. We’ve got the expansion of Hinkley Point Nuclear Power Station, wind farms, housing developments. He’s getting involved in stuff where millions of pounds is at stake.’

‘But why her and not him?’ asked Pearce.

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it? replied Dixon. ‘I want you two to look at the campaigns he’s been involved in recently. Look at who stands to lose if his campaign is successful. And I want detailed profiles on the local Conservative Association. Start with the chairman and work down. Who are these people and who are they connected to?’

‘Shame we’ve lost our best witness,’ said Harding.

‘Stanniland and our mysterious motorbike rider are just the foot soldiers, Dave. Expendable. They knew nothing. The
Albanians
were paid to arrange it. What we need to do is find the money behind it and Tom Perry’s our best witness, only he doesn’t know it yet.’

‘I never got to thank you properly. For what you did,’ said Dixon, as he drove over the M5.

‘It’s fine, Sir, really,’ replied Louise. ‘You’d have done the same for me.’

‘That’s not the point. Thank you.’

‘I’m assuming your disciplinary went well?’

‘It did,’ said Dixon. He leaned forward, over the steering wheel and looked up. ‘I don’t like the look of these clouds.’

‘There’s another storm front coming in off the Atlantic, apparently. Three days of rain.’

‘Marvellous.’

Dixon stopped on the railway bridge and looked to his right.

‘What the f . . .’ His voice tailed off.

The small hill of Burrow Mump, with its church on top, was visible in the distance, perhaps six miles away at Burrowbridge. But the land in between was under water. Murky, brown water. Lines of trees and hedges marked the boundaries of the fields and smaller hedges and fencing, the gardens of the houses in Moorland. All of them flooded.

‘You’ve seen it on the telly, Sir?’ asked Louise.

‘Yes, but nothing prepares you for the scale of it, does it?’ replied Dixon. ‘And look at that!’

He was looking at a train in the middle distance, perhaps a mile or so away. It was stationary in the midst of the floodwater that had almost reached the level of the tracks. A bright blue First Great Western InterCity 125 brought to a standstill by water.

‘We’ll see that on the evening news, I bet,’ said Louise, pointing at a helicopter that was hovering above the train.

‘That embankment must be eight feet high.’

‘It’s flooded to eighteen and a half feet further up,’ replied Louise.

Dixon shook his head. Maybe his snorkel had been a waste of time, after all.

The road took a sharp turn to the right and then followed the River Parrett. There was a short section of stone wall on the nearside and then a steep earth bank on top of it. Much of the vegetation on the bank had been flattened so Dixon guessed that the water had been over the bank here as well, perhaps at high tide.

The road itself was under several inches of water but it appeared to be draining away into the culvert on the other side. Dixon kept going.

Around the next bend he spotted several vehicles and trailers parked in a farm gateway on the right. The Burnham Area Search and Rescue vehicle was there, with an empty trailer behind it. There was also a large six wheel drive Mercedes that looked like a giant version of his Land Rover. It had a bright orange inflatable boat on
the roof and was sign written Avon and Somerset Police Underwater Search Unit. Dixon parked next to the Mercedes.

‘Are you Inspector Dixon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sergeant Watts, Sir. I hope you’ve got some wellies.’

‘I have. What about you, Louise?’

‘No.’

‘We’ve got some in the van, don’t worry. And put these on,’ said Watts, handing Dixon and Louise a bright red life jacket each.

They watched two of the dive team lift the boat off the roof and then carry it along the road until it was sitting in a foot of water.

‘When you’re ready,’ said Watts. ‘We need to walk the boat out as far as we can, otherwise we’ll be sitting on the road when we get in it.’

Dixon nodded and began wading along the road, pushing the boat ahead of him. The water was almost up to the top of his boots before Watts stopped.

‘This should do. In you get.’

Dixon and Louise climbed into the boat and then Watts began pulling it still further along the road.

‘I’ve got a wetsuit on,’ he said, grinning.

The water was up to his waist before he jumped in, dropped the outboard motor into the water and switched it on.

‘Where to then?’

‘Into Moorland, then left opposite the church,’ replied Dixon.

The wind was whistling across the Levels and the water was choppy, even in the confines of the road, although the hedges on either side provided a little shelter. The boat bounced over the waves, sending spray into Dixon’s face. It was his second boat trip in as many days and he had spent much of the last one being sick over the side. He was determined not to do the same again.

‘Can you slow down a bit?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The water was up to the letter boxes of the first houses
they passed on
their way into Moorland. Furniture was piled up on the ground floor of each of the bungalows, the owners of the two storey houses at least having an upstairs to store their sofas
and chairs
.

Off to the right and set back from the road was a large red brick house with a huge earth wall around it.

‘King Canute, according to the newspapers,’ said Louise.

Watts followed the road around to the left, opposite the church.

‘That’s Grafton’s place,’ said Dixon, pointing at the first bungalow on the left. The water was level with the bottom of the windows. Grafton had been right. The sandbags were a waste of time. ‘And that’s Mrs Freeman’s. I want to have a look at it on the way back.’