Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

R
ing Jane and let her know what’s going on, will you?’

‘OK,’ replied Louise.

She was sitting in the passenger seat of his Land Rover, but Dixon could hardly make out what she was saying over the noise of the diesel engine, as they raced north on the M5.

‘She’s on her way back. I told her to wait for us at Express Park.’

‘Good.’

Dixon parked on the forecourt of the new Brent Knoll Parish Hall, right next to the ‘Loading and Unloading Only’ sign.

‘You won’t be able to leave that there.’

Dixon looked over to where the shout had come from. Three people were sitting on a bench by the front door, sheltering under two large golf umbrellas. One wore a blue rosette, one yellow and
the other red. He shook his head. Perhaps political parties can cooperate
with each other after all, he thought, waving his warrant card at them as he ran in the front door.

Two large tables had been set up in the foyer, with a black box on the end of the far table. Against the wall opposite were four timber polling booths.

‘D’you have your polling card?’

‘No,’ replied Dixon, showing the clerk his warrant card.

‘Through there,’ she said, pointing to a door at the back of
the foyer
.

PC Cole was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, sipping a mug of tea, and jumped up when he saw Dixon.

‘Sir, this is Robert Sampson, the returning officer.’

‘You’ll be Detective Inspector Dixon?’ asked Sampson. He was short, with dark curly hair and was dressed casually in jeans and a blue pullover.

‘Nicholas John,’ said Dixon, shaking his hand. ‘Where is it?’

‘Here,’ replied Cole, handing Dixon a plastic evidence bag. ‘I bagged it up just in case.’

Dixon looked at his watch. It was just before 4 p.m.

‘What time did it come in?’

‘Just after lunch. Say twoish,’ replied Sampson. ‘The staff here rang me and it took me an hour or so to get here.’

‘What made them ring you?’

‘You can hand deliver a postal vote to a polling station on election day, Inspector, but the ballot paper must match the postal
voting
statement. It’s in a sealed envelope, but the code on the front doesn’t match the statement. It’s not your ballot paper. You’re not even registered for a postal vote.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Not to mention what’s in it,’ said Sampson.

Dixon was squeezing the envelope between his thumb and index finger. ‘It’s definitely a memory stick.’

‘It came in the blank envelope,’ said Sampson, ‘which is why they opened it. If it had been in envelope B then it wouldn’t have been opened until the count.’

‘So, when they opened the blank envelope they found the postal voting statement and a sealed envelope A with the memory stick in it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they’ve not opened envelope A?’

‘No.’

‘So, let me get this right,’ said Dixon. ‘You put the ballot paper in envelope A, seal it and then put it, with the postal voting statement, in envelope B?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you put it in the post.’

‘You have to sign the postal statement and add your date of birth. The codes on both must match too. Otherwise it’s rejected.’

‘Why did you call the police, if that’s not a daft question?’

‘It was the memory stick in the envelope. That could be anything, couldn’t it?’ replied Sampson. ‘And I recognised the name. Didn’t he hang himself a couple of weeks ago? It was in the paper.’

‘When were the postal votes sent out?’ asked Dixon.

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘When did Harry register for a postal vote?’

‘I checked that,’ replied Sampson. ‘He registered four years ago for the Europeans and ticked the “all elections” box. So, now he gets one every time. Got one . . .’

‘And it would’ve been sent to his home address?’

‘He probably had a redirect on his mail, Sir,’ said Cole. ‘What with Moorland under water.’

Dixon turned to Louise.

‘I’ll find out,’ she said.

‘What about the courier then?’ asked Dixon.

‘Black leathers and a full face helmet,’ replied Cole, reading from his notebook. ‘Said nothing, just handed them the envelope and left.’

‘No markings?’

‘None.’

‘Did you speak to those three sitting outside?’

‘Er, not yet, Sir.’

Dixon raised his eyebrows.

‘I’ll go and do that now, Sir.’

Dixon walked over to the small drawer to the left of the kitchen sink, opened it and took out a knife.

‘Let’s open it then, shall we?’ he said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

He opened the plastic evidence bag and took out the small envelope. Then he slit it open with the knife and peered in.

‘A memory stick and a ballot paper.’

Dixon took out the piece of paper and unfolded it.

‘Well, that’s one vote Tom Perry will have to do without.’

‘The elector is deceased,’ said Sampson. ‘And even if he wasn’t it would still be rejected because the postal voting statement is defective.’

‘Well, it’s evidence in a murder investigation, Mr Sampson, so we’ll be hanging on to it.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Dixon was holding the memory stick in the palm of his hand.

‘I wonder what’s on it,’ said Louise.

Cole reappeared in the doorway.

‘No markings on the bike, Sir. He didn’t even switch it off, apparently. Just parked up, in, out and away again. They didn’t get the number plate either.’

‘Probably false,’ said Dixon.

‘What are they doing out there?’ asked Louise. ‘Sitting in
the rain
.’

‘It’s called “telling”,’ replied Sampson. ‘They’re finding out which of their supporters have voted so they can remind any who haven’t.’

‘It’s your local polling station, Sir,’ said Cole, grinning.

‘Where to next?’ asked Louise.

‘The High Tech Unit at Portishead. Ring ahead and let them know we’re on the way. And if they’ve gone home before we get there I’ll arrest them for obstruction.’

‘D’you want me to tell them that?’

‘No.’ Dixon was standing in his kitchen watching Monty finishing his supper. Then he took him for a quick run in the field behind his cottage. Five minutes would have to do.

‘You’d better sit this one out, old son,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’ Then he locked the back door of his cottage and jumped in the Land Rover.

They arrived at Portishead just before 5 p.m. and Dixon parked on the grass verge outside a small single storey office block on the edge of the headquarters complex.

‘Is this it?’ asked Louise.

‘It is.’

Dixon walked into the open plan office area. The tops of several heads were visible behind computer screens in amongst the vacant workstations, but none looked up. He tried coughing.

‘Who did you speak to?’

‘Kevin Hardy,’ said Louise.

Dixon shouted the name and a head popped up from behind a screen at the far end of the office. The figure waved and then disappeared again behind his computer.

‘Sociable lot,’ said Louise.

‘Are you Kevin Hardy?’ asked Dixon, when he reached the desk at the far end.

‘Yes.’

‘We rang. We’ve got a memory stick and need to know what’s on it.’

‘I’ll need to scan it for viruses first.’

‘Fine.’

Hardy held out his hand.

‘Gloves, if you don’t mind. There may be fingerprints on it.’

Dixon and Louise watched while Hardy put on a pair of latex gloves and then inserted the memory stick in one of the USB ports on his computer.

‘What d’you think is on it, Sir?’ asked Louise.

‘I can tell you exactly what’s on it.’

‘Really?’

‘An insurance policy.’

‘No viruses,’ said Hardy. ‘Just a wmv file. Windows Media Video. It’s short too.’

‘Odd file name,’ said Loiuse.

‘Sigurim. It’ll be Albanian,’ replied Dixon. ‘Can we see it?’

‘Yes. Stand behind me.’

Hardy clicked on the wmv icon launching Windows Media Player.

‘It’s a short clip, look,’ said Hardy, pointing to the timer on the right, which was counting down from 1 minute 27 seconds. ‘And there’s a time stamp.’

‘October 9, 0721,’ muttered Dixon.

The camera was moving forward, as if mounted on a person, and he or she was walking through dense undergrowth. The sound was muffled; branches hitting a coat, a broken twig underfoot. Then the vegetation cleared, revealing the foot of a cliff.

Suddenly, the camera turned as a figure appeared from the undergrowth behind it.

Dixon was gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose. Hard. He clenched his fists, the keys and coins in his pockets digging into the palms of his hands.

‘D’you recognise him, Sir?’ asked Louise.

Dixon leaned forward and listened.

‘Do you have the money?’ An Eastern European accent.

‘Yes.’

The figure held out a large padded envelope and a hand reached out from behind the camera to take it.

‘It needs to be clean. An accident or a burglary gone wrong.’

‘It will.’

‘Is that it?’

‘What do you want? A receipt?’

‘No, I . . .’

‘Go. Now. You will not hear from us again.’

The figure turned and disappeared into the undergrowth. Then a hand reached up in front of the camera and the clip ended.

‘Can you email that to me?’

‘What’s your email address?’

‘I’m on the Bridgwater list. Send it to DCI Lewis too. Mark it urgent and ask him to ring me when he gets it.’

‘Will do.’

‘There’s nothing else on the memory stick?’ asked Dixon.

‘No,’ said Hardy, dropping it back into the evidence bag. ‘I’ll catalogue it and let you have a witness statement on the email too.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’d better drive,’ said Dixon. ‘I’m expecting a call.’

They were just turning onto the M5 when his phone rang.

‘What d’you need?’

‘Dave and Mark, Sir.’

‘Fine,’ replied Lewis.

‘And a mobile positioning check. I know the where and the when.’

‘OK.’

‘Meeting room two, Sir. Half an hour. We’re on our way now.’

‘I’ll get everyone together.’

Dixon rang off and opened a web browser. He entered ‘translate’ in the search field, then ‘sigurim’ in the ‘Enter text’ field.

‘Gits,’ he muttered.

‘What is it?’ asked Louise.

‘Sigurim. It’s Albanian for insurance.’

Jane, Dave and Mark were waiting for them in meeting room two when Dixon and Louise arrived back at Express Park just after
6 p.m.
DCI Lewis was loitering in the CID area.

‘I circulated the film so they’ve all seen it.’

‘Good,’ replied Dixon. ‘Just give me five minutes and I’ll
be over
.’

He sat down at a workstation and switched on a computer.

‘Get me those divorce papers, will you, Louise?’

‘Yes, Sir.’