Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (18 page)

‘He did,’ replied Collyer.

Dixon waded past Lewis, into the garage and stood looking up at Unwin. He wondered how and why he had misjudged him. And why Harry had never said anything. He couldn’t, of course he couldn’t.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jane, from the doorway.

‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’m bloody well not all right.’

Jane waited.

‘I was wrong about him. He . . .’

‘Lewis told me,’ said Jane. ‘C’mon, let’s leave them to it. There’s nothing you can do now.’

‘Oh, yes there is,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Catch his killer.’

‘Looks like a suicide, at this stage,’ said Poland. He was standing outside the garage with Lewis and Collyer. Donald Watson was setting up an arc lamp inside so that he could photograph the scene.

‘Remember Georgina Harcourt, Roger?’ asked Dixon.

‘Owned the racing stables?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not still banging on about her, are you?’ asked Lewis.

‘Overdose, you said?’ asked Dixon, turning to Poland.

‘There was no evidence of . . .’

‘Did she have children?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Poland.

‘Yes, she did,’ said Jane.

‘She was murdered and so was Harry,’ said Dixon.

‘Who by?’ asked Lewis.

‘Ask him,’ said Dixon, pointing at Collyer.

‘We know there’s someone. A professional. But we don’t know who or where or even how they communicate. No one’s ever
got close
.’

‘How though?’ asked Poland.

‘You’ve got children and grandchildren, haven’t you, Roger?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you know who I am. My reputation,’ continued Dixon. ‘I’m holding a gun to your head and I tell you I’ll kill you,
your children
and your grandchildren unless you take these pills. It’s your one and only chance to save them. What’re you gonna do?’

Poland hesitated.

‘Or how about I tell you I’ll take your children, one by one, and dump them in the Bristol Channel. Alive. Unless you hang yourself. Now. One chance to save them. The clock’s ticking. What’re you gonna do?’

‘We get it, Nick,’ said Lewis.

‘So did Harry.’

‘This car stinks,’ said Jane, sitting in the front of the Land Rover.

‘I thought you said you were going back in the boat?’

‘I’m going with you.’

‘All right then,’ said Dixon. ‘But don’t blame me if you get wet.’

‘Go slowly and let it fill up with water. That’ll stop you floating.’ That had been Roger’s advice, but Dixon ignored it. Letting the water in was a last resort.

It seemed to take longer on the way back to the farm gateway and Dixon wondered whether the water was getting deeper
or whether
it was just because he had been going slower. Either way, it wasn’t long before they were picking up Monty.

‘Where to now?’ asked Jane. She had slid across to the driver’s seat while Dixon had been putting Monty in the back.

‘Express Park, then home.’

‘Express Park? You can’t go in there looking like that. You’re soaked.’

‘I’m not. You are.’

‘But . . .’ Jane sighed. ‘What are you after?’

‘The photos of Georgina Harcourt’s bedroom.’

‘The file’ll have gone off to the coroner by now.’

‘Yes, but the photos should’ve been scanned onto the system. Print them off then it’s home for a shower and what’s left of New Year’s Day.’

‘Are you sure they were both murdered?’

‘As sure as I can be without any real evidence.’

‘You’ll find it. You’re always right.’

‘That’ll come back to haunt you one day.’

‘You’ll see to it,’ said Jane, smiling.

‘I will. And besides,’ continued Dixon, ‘I was wrong about Harry.’

It took Dixon twenty minutes to hose down the inside of the Land Rover. The floodwater had left a thin layer of brown silt on everything and Dixon shuddered to think what it was. A mixture of mud, oil and slurry was being optimistic and if he was to stand any chance of getting Jane in it again, the Land Rover needed a damned good clean and a potent air freshener. And so did he. Monty would need a bath too.

Dixon was standing in the shower wondering how on earth he was going to prove that two people had been murdered without any evidence. Unless the killer confessed, it was going to be a challenge. But now he owed it to Harry. And then there was Georgina Harcourt, who had been trying to contact him the night of her murder. And Elizabeth Perry. And John Stanniland. The list went on. How many more were there? And how many more would there be before Dixon caught up with him? Or her.

So many questions and, standing there in the shower covered in foam, it felt as though the only thing he knew for sure was that Jane had been at the shampoo and shower gel bottles again. All of them facing front on the shelf. He smiled. She was the same with the jars and tins in the kitchen cupboards.

He stared at the bottle of shampoo in his hand. It was a compulsion and Jane had no choice. An obsession. He dropped the bottle and leapt out of the shower. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist and ran downstairs, leaving the shower running.

‘You’re dripping water everywhere,’ said Jane. She was kneeling on the floor, drying Monty with a towel. ‘And you’re still covered in shampoo.’

‘Where are the photos?’

Jane reached over to her handbag, which was on the floor next to the sofa, took out a plastic wallet and handed it to Dixon. He began flicking through the photographs of Georgina Harcourt’s bedroom.

‘I printed the lot,’ said Jane, watching Dixon. ‘What’s
going on?’

‘What did you notice about the kitchen cabinets at Harry’s place?’

‘Oh, they were all over the place. It was all I could do not to tidy them up.’

Dixon grinned.

‘Ring your folks, will you? See if they’ll have Monty. Then pack a bag. We’d better get over to your flat.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re about to start rattling cages.’

Chapter Sixteen

G
et off here,’ said Jane, as they raced south past the off slip at junction 23 on the M5. ‘You’ve missed the Bridgwater turn . . .’ She spun round in the passenger seat of her car and looked over her shoulder, watching a patrol car speeding down the on slip, with a blue Ford Focus right behind it. ‘That’s Dave, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ replied Dixon. ‘And that’s armed response. I lined them up while you were dropping Monty off.’

‘Torquay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s hear it then.’

‘Obsessive compulsive disorder. I like to think I know quite a bit about it, living with you.’

‘Me? I haven’t got it.’

Dixon raised his eyebrows.

‘I just like things tidy, that’s all.’

‘Think about Georgina Harcourt’s bedroom,’ said Dixon. ‘Her make-up on the dressing table, perfume bottles.’

Jane switched the internal light on in the car and took the
photographs
out of her handbag.

‘They’re all neat and tidy,’ she said.

‘Now compare that to her drinks cabinet.’

Jane leafed through the photographs until she found the right one.

‘It’s all over the place.’

‘And what about Harry’s kitchen cupboards?’

‘All over the place.’

‘And the shelves in the garage?’

Jane hesitated, then looked at Dixon.

‘Neat and tidy.’

‘So, the killer’s waiting for the overdose to take effect. What’s he gonna do? What’s he compelled to do?’

‘Straighten the jars and perfume bottles.’

‘Now he’s waiting for Harry to die. It wasn’t a long drop so it would’ve taken a few minutes. What’s the killer gonna do?’

‘Tidy the shelves,’ replied Jane.

‘And we know it wasn’t Harry because . . . ?’ asked Dixon.

‘The kitchen cupboards were a mess.’

‘And so was Mrs Harcourt’s drinks cabinet.’

‘Where are we going then?’ asked Jane.

‘The last house Louise and I went to,’ replied Dixon.

‘The Norton was a wreck, wasn’t it?’

‘The one we saw was, but I’m guessing there’s another.’

‘Two?’ asked Jane.

‘Why not?’ replied Dixon. ‘Yes, I’ve got a Norton but it couldn’t have been me, officer, it’s a wreck. Look.’

Jane nodded, slowly.

‘No one was in and we didn’t get a look in the garage. Only I looked through the letter box, didn’t I?’

‘Well?’

Dixon smiled. ‘Made your OCD look like a mild case.’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’ asked Jane.

‘Hollingsworth said there was a Norton in Wellswood, didn’t he?’

‘According to Louise’s notes.’

‘Parkhill Road. Past Meadfoot beach and up Ilsham Road,’ said Dixon. ‘Avoids all the CCTV on the harbour and the cameras on the lights at the bottom of the hill.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘I looked at the map. It is traditional.’

‘You cheeky . . .’

‘Thank you, Constable,’ replied Dixon. ‘Better let the Torquay lot know what’s going on. If this guy’s who I think he is, it might turn nasty.’

Dixon listened to Jane’s conversation with the duty officer at Torquay but his mind was elsewhere. He was watching the headlights flashing by on the northbound carriageway but the silhouetted vision of Harry Unwin’s body hanging in the flooded garage, spinning slowly on the end of the rope, was right in front of him. It would stay there and haunt him. He knew that. Then he saw him stepping up onto the kick stool and thrashing around, his legs flailing, kicking his daughter’s car.

Dixon blinked. He could picture Harry’s face in front of him, his hand around Harry’s throat pinning him to the vending machine. There had been no fear in his eyes then and Dixon now knew why. And it explained why Harry had made no formal complaint about him.

‘Fuck it,’ muttered Dixon, through gritted teeth.

Jane looked at him and frowned, her phone still clamped to her ear.

Dixon shook his head.

Jane rang off and put her hand on his knee.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘That doesn’t help.’

They drove the rest of the way in silence until Dixon turned into a large lay-by on the tops of the cliffs, just outside Torquay. The lights of several boats anchored in the bay were visible in the distance and the moonlight shimmered on the water. On another night Dixon might have stopped to enjoy the view.

‘I suppose we should be grateful it’s not pissing down with rain,’ he said, getting out of the Land Rover.

Dave Harding and the patrol car had pulled into the same lay-by and parked either side of him.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Jane.

‘Did you bring the body armour, Dave?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Harding, opening the boot of his car. He handed a set each to Dixon and Jane.

‘Do we . . . ?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes, we do,’ said Dixon. ‘Put it on.’

The two uniformed armed response officers had got out of their car and were standing either side of Harding.

‘Right then,’ said Dixon. ‘The house is down a lane. It’s a cul-de-sac and there are offices at the far end with a large car park, so we’ll turn and park in there.’ Dixon turned to the armed response officers. ‘Follow me on foot. It’s only twenty yards at most and it’ll keep the cars hidden.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘The Torquay lot are sending some backup and they’ll be waiting for us in the car park. Dave, you wait out in Parkhill Road and be ready to block off the lane with your car. All right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right. Let’s get on with it. There’ll be several other cars in the area in case we need them.’

‘Do we need this body armour?’ asked Jane, getting into the passenger seat of her car.

‘I’ve got a song going round and round in my head,’ said Dixon. ‘Spear of Destiny. Remember them?’

‘Before my time,’ replied Jane. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Never Take Me Alive.’

Dixon waited for the armed response car to turn and park just inside the entrance to the car park, next to the patrol car that was waiting for them. The drive was empty but lights were on in the house this time.

‘There’s definitely someone in there, Sir,’ said the uniformed officer. ‘We got here ten minutes or so ago and a woman arrived in a Range Rover. It’s in the carport at the side of the garage.’

Dixon nodded.

‘You’ve been briefed?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

They were wearing body armour so had got that message, at least.

‘There’s a floodlight on the corner of the garage,’ said Dixon, looking down at the house. A light was on in the kitchen and an upstairs bedroom, although the curtains were closed. Then he saw movement in the kitchen window. ‘Right, down the steps it is then.’

Dixon looked over his shoulder at the armed response officers, who were waiting behind the Range Rover. Then he stepped forward, triggering the floodlight. The woman in the kitchen leaned forward over the sink, looked up at him and then disappeared from view.

Dixon ran down the steps and rang the doorbell.

‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice, shouting, and it came from some distance behind the door.

‘Police.’

‘Oh, hang on then.’

They could hear keys jangling behind the door.

‘Maybe she was expecting someone else,’ whispered Dixon, taking his warrant card out of his pocket.

She was tall, perhaps in her late thirties and was wearing a white dressing gown.

‘We’re looking for Mr Dale Reed,’ said Dixon, showing her his warrant card. ‘Is he in?’

‘No.’

‘But he does live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Out on a job.’

‘What sort of job?’

‘He’s a lift engineer.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Andrea Parks.’

Dixon looked past her at the shelving unit to his left. It was set in to the wall and extended a full seven feet or so from the floor, each shelf covered in an array of cleaning products. All of the labels were facing the front. Several pairs of shoes were lined up under the bottom shelf, all side by side and all perfectly straight.

‘May we come in?’ asked Dixon.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Thank you.’ Dixon stepped into the hall. ‘We’d like to take a look around, if we may. It may help if you got dressed . . .’

‘But, we’re going out later. I was just getting ready.’

‘Detective Constable Winter will go with you.’

‘Why are you wearing that?’ asked Andrea, pointing to Jane’s body armour. ‘Where’s Dale? Is he all right?’

‘I was wondering when you were going to ask me that,’ said Dixon.

‘What’s he done?’

‘C’mon, let’s go and get you dressed,’ said Jane.

Dixon turned to the uniformed officers and nodded. They began checking each room in turn, while Dixon rang Dave Harding.

‘Doesn’t look like he’s here, Dave. Back off a bit, keep out of sight and block the lane if he appears.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon noticed a set of car keys in a small bowl, just inside the kitchen door. One had the Range Rover logo on it and the other was a blank remote control. He pointed it at the garage door and pressed the open button, listening for the sound of a roller door opening.

‘Bingo,’ he muttered.

He found the light switch on the wall, just inside the door, and switched it on. It was empty, apart from a motorbike paddock stand. Then he looked along the shelves against the wall, before stepping back and closing the door.

‘Whose is the car, Andrea?’ She had changed into jeans and a green Hollister sweatshirt and was sitting on the edge of the sofa.

‘Dale’s.’

Dixon turned to Jane. ‘Run a check with DVLA, will you?’

‘Registered in my name, all right?’ said Andrea.

‘And the house?’

‘The same.’

‘What does he do for a living?’ asked Dixon.

‘I told you. He’s a lift engineer.’

‘Big house, Range Rover.’ Dixon paused. ‘Norton.’ He watched Andrea’s eyes darting around the room. ‘I must be in the wrong business,’ said Dixon.

‘He works for Kone.’

‘What about the porcelain?’

‘Mine. I do a bit of dealing. For fun, really.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘How’d you meet?’

‘I worked in a club. Look, it suits me. All right. And I ask no questions. It’s none of my business.’

‘I bet it isn’t,’ said Dixon.

He walked back along the corridor and stood in front of the shelves just inside the back door. Then he turned and followed
the short
passageway around to the left, into the dining room. This was the room directly behind the shelves and yet the dividing wall on his left was adjacent to the door frame. Dixon frowned. It had been at least four paces along the passageway to the dining room. He walked back to find Jane standing in the hall.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

Dixon looked at the kitchen door. It was the exact same height as the shelves. Then he tapped the back wall of the shelving unit with his knuckle. It was chipboard. Hollow chipboard. That settled it.

‘What d’you notice about this house?’ he asked.

‘I dunno,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

‘No ground floor toilet. A house this size with no ground floor loo. Very odd.’ Then he winked at Jane, stepped back, brought his left foot up and kicked the third shelf as hard as he could.

‘What are you do . . . ?’

The force of Dixon’s kick sent the shelf through the panel at the back. Jars and bottles came crashing down, some of them smashing on the floor.

‘Look,’ said Dixon, pointing to the top of the unit. ‘It’s buckled in the frame.’

‘Frame?’

‘Door frame,’ said Dixon, kicking it again.

This time the whole unit buckled and the top half fell forward, sending Dixon stumbling back to avoid being hit by the last of the bottles that hadn’t fallen at his first kick.

‘A secret room,’ said Jane, peering in.

Dixon dragged the two halves of the shelving unit into the kitchen and then stepped over the bottles on the floor.

‘It’s the downstairs loo. Or it was,’ said Dixon, pulling the cord to switch on the light.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Jane.

‘For downstairs loo, read armoury,’ said Dixon. ‘The tools of his trade.’