Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (31 page)

‘He killed my sister.’

‘And the police will deal with him. It’s what Lizzie would want. You know that.’

King’s nostrils flared as he tightened his grip on Dossett’s neck, lifting him until his back was arched and only his toes were on the ground. Much further and Dossett’s neck would break.

King glared at Dixon, then Jane, then the uniformed officers.

‘I don’t want to lose my brother-in-law as well,’ said Perry, stepping forward. ‘We’ve all lost enough already, haven’t we? It’s got to stop, Simon.’

King’s breathing slowed. He looked down at Dossett over his right shoulder and back to Perry. Then he released his grip and allowed Dossett to slide to the floor. Dossett lay on his back, with his hands cuffed behind him, sobbing.

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ said King.

Perry stepped forward and stood over Dossett, staring down at him.

‘Why, Barry? Why Lizzie?’

‘You were going to ruin everything,’ stammered Dossett.
He tried
to sit up but slumped back to the floor. ‘Everything!’ he screamed.

Dixon stood up. He was holding his jaw between his index finger and thumb, moving it gingerly from side to side.

‘Just get ’em out of here.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And those bloody TV cameras!’

‘Nick, about Simon,’ said Perry, turning to Dixon as the two uniformed officers dragged Dossett to his feet. ‘Will you . . . ?’

‘I’ll do what I can, Tom,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Monday 27 January

D
ixon dropped his file of papers onto a vacant workstation and walked over to the kettle.

‘Jane gone?’

‘Yes,’ replied Louise.

He filled the kettle, switched it on and then leaned back against the worktop.

‘I’ve had a reply from the adoption agency, Sir.’

‘And?’

‘A baby daughter. Born 7 January 1954. Mrs Gibson was
nineteen
.’

‘Older than I expected. Does it give a name?’ asked Dixon.

‘Julia Rebecca.’

‘What about a reason?’

‘Her husband was killed in the Korean War. May 1953 at the Battle of the Hook. He’d only been out there a few days.’

‘That doesn’t explain why she gave up the baby, does it?’

‘Maybe she couldn’t afford it? Or perhaps it wasn’t his?’

‘Where’s the child now?’

‘She was adopted by a family in Bristol. Kept her Christian names and became Julia Rebecca Jameson.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She got married in 1998. Julia Woodgates, she is now. Lives in Muchelney, would you believe it?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Dixon, with a wry smile. ‘Children?’

‘Two, from a previous marriage.’

It was a small world, and it explained the flowers on the grave that had always puzzled the vicar. Perhaps the rage that drove her to obliterate her mother had turned to remorse over the years? Maybe it happened when she became a mother hersel
f
? Still, those were questions for another day.

‘D’you know her, Sir?’

‘We’ve met.’

‘D’you want to go and pick her up?’ asked Louise.

‘No, you go. You’ve done all the legwork. It’s not every day you get to solve a cold case and it’ll help with your transfer to CID.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Check for a shotgun certificate before you go. Either her own or her adopted parents. And ring me if she denies it.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Take Dave or Mark with you. I’m going home.’

‘You never told me about the cold case,’ said Jane.

They were sheltering in the porch at Berrow Church, watching Monty wandering around the churchyard in the rain.

‘Louise has gone to pick her up now,’ replied Dixon.

‘Who?’

‘Are you sure you wanna know?’

Jane nodded.

‘The victim gave a child up for adoption in 1954. A daughter. Let’s just say the reunion didn’t go well.’

‘It was the daughter?’

‘The daughter no one knew she had, don’t forget. There was no reference to her anywhere, except in some scribbled notes gathering dust in an old solicitor’s will file. It wasn’t even her last will; the one before that.’

‘How did you know to look for it?’

‘I am a solicitor, don’t forget.’

‘And you thought I’d . . .’

‘No, I didn’t think you’d blow your mother’s head off,’ said Dixon, smiling. ‘I thought you might be upset. That it might put you off looking for her.’

‘What frightens me more than anything else,’ said Jane, sitting down on the bench, ‘more even than finding out she’s dead, is that she doesn’t want to know me . . . wants nothing to do with me.’

‘Her loss.’

‘Doesn’t feel like it.’

‘Why not just take it one step at a time. Find the file and then you’ll at least know why. Finding her is stage two and, if she’s still alive, then you worry about whether or not to meet her.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘It’s your decision, but whatever you decide, I’m right behind you. All right?’

‘I know that,’ said Jane, smiling. ‘Idiot.’

‘We really must talk about insubordination at your next staff appraisal, Constable Winter.’

Jane stood up and kissed Dixon.

‘One step at a time, then. I’m just gonna get the file. Then we’ll see if I can find her and if she’s still alive. That’s all.’

‘Fine by me,’ replied Dixon.

‘Where the hell’s Monty gone now,’ said Jane, glancing around the churchyard. She stepped out of the porch, turned and looked
up the
path to the top of the churchyard.

‘Can you see him?’ asked Dixon.

‘I think he’s trying to tell us something,’ replied Jane, grinning.

Monty was waiting for them at the gap in the wall, where the path veered off across the golf course to the beach.

‘It’s stopped raining,’ said Dixon, holding his hand out in front of him.

They followed Monty across the golf course, out onto the beach, and turned north towards Brean Down. They were level with the wreck of the
SS Nornen
before Dixon spoke again.

‘Why now though?’

‘It just feels right, that’s all,’ replied Jane, staring at another raincloud that was heading straight for them across the estuary. ‘Now that I’m . . . settled.’

Dixon knew not to press the point. ‘Settled’ sounded good to him. And he felt the same.

‘I don’t like the look of that cloud . . .’

Jane was interrupted by the loud blast of a horn and turned to see a car speeding towards them along the beach. It slid to a halt and Tom Perry got out.

‘Thought I might find you here, only they said you’d gone home and you weren’t there, so . . .’

‘You should’ve been a detective.’

Perry smiled.

‘I wanted to thank you.’

‘No need,’ said Dixon.

‘Simon told me Dossett’s not pressing charges against him?’

‘No.’

‘First decent thing he’s done,’ replied Perry. ‘Did you interview him?’

Dixon nodded.

‘What’s his connection to Dr McConnell?’

‘They were lovers,’ replied Dixon. ‘Have been for years. He was the unnamed co-respondent in her divorce, so that dates it to at least twelve years ago but they’d been seeing each other for several years before that. They met at a Conservative Party conference.’

‘Is that it?’

‘He’d put some money into her business in the early days
and . . .’

‘Money again!’

‘McConnell was on the brink of selling out to Betalin AB.’

‘And they didn’t want me rocking the boat?’

‘No.’

Perry leaned back on the front wing of his car.

‘It was always going to be about the money, Tom,’ said Dixon. ‘We knew that.’

‘I suppose we did,’ replied Perry. ‘Whose idea was it?’

‘Dr McConnell’s. But Dossett set it up. They both blame each other but that’s the most likely scenario.’

‘How did you know it was him?’

‘A tip off.’

‘Who from?’

‘I really can’t . . .’

‘No, of course you can’t.’

Perry picked up Monty’s ball and threw it along the beach.

‘I’m not going to rock the boat. I’m gonna sink it,’ said Perry, watching Monty chase off after the ball. ‘What about you? Simon hit you, didn’t he?’

‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ said Dixon, rubbing his chin.

‘Thank you.’

‘Really, it’s all part of the . . .’

‘I know it isn’t,’ interrupted Perry. He held out his hand. Dixon took it and they shook hands.

‘And you, Constable Winter,’ said Perry, shaking Jane’s hand.

‘Call me Jane, please.’

‘I gather the water level’s going down?’ asked Dixon.

‘It was,’ replied Perry. ‘Till some twit further up opened the sluice gates.’

‘Some people . . .’

‘We must have a bite to eat sometime,’ said Perry.

‘I hope you like curry,’ said Jane.

‘Love it. Anyway, I must go. I’m on my way up to London. I’m being sworn in tomorrow.’

‘Good luck,’ said Dixon.

‘Thanks,’ replied Perry, getting into his car. He wound down the window. ‘And if there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .’

Dixon waved and Perry sped off.

‘You didn’t mention the budget cuts,’ said Jane.

‘No.’

‘You’ll be telling me next you voted Tory.’

‘No,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘He doesn’t need to know that though, does he?’

Author’s Note

Thank you very much indeed for reading
Dead Level
and I hope you enjoyed it. I wanted to say a few words about the plot, which was born out of bitter personal experience.

On New Year’s Eve 2002 someone very close to me was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. From that point on her experience
mirrored
that of Elizabeth Perry (except she wasn’t murdered!). No advice was given about the choice of insulin available and you can guess the rest.

Mercifully, I spotted an advertisement in the local paper placed by the InDependent Diabetes Trust—a real organisation that very kindly agreed to appear in
Dead
Level
—and once the switch to
animal
insulin was made her recovery was both immediate and, thank God, complete.

Who was it who said that ‘fact is stranger than fiction’?

So, my message is simple. If you or anyone you know has been affected by any of the symptoms set out in this book following a
prescription
of human insulin, please seek immediate
medical
advice. Further information can also be found on the IDDT
website
at
www.iddt.org
.

Thanks again for reading.

Damien Boyd

Devon, UK

October 2015

About the Author

Photo © 2013 Damien Boyd

Damien Boyd is a solicitor by training and draws on his extensive
experience
of criminal law, along with a spell in the Crown Prosecution Service, to write
fast-paced crime thrillers featuring
Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.