Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (10 page)

Jane arrived home just after 7.30 p.m. The cottage was dark and there was no barking when she put her key in the door, so she walked over to the Red Cow to find Dixon standing at the bar, paying for a pint. Monty saw her first and ran across to greet her, his lead trailing on the floor.

‘Just in time,’ said Dixon. ‘Gin and tonic?’

‘Make it a double,’ replied Jane.

Dixon shrugged his shoulders and turned to the barman.

‘I’ve got it,’ said Rob.

They sat down at the table by the fire and Monty took up his usual position, stretched out on the floor as close as he could get to the hearth.

‘Bad day?’

‘You could say that,’ replied Jane, taking a large swig of her drink.

‘What’s happened?’

‘The lab mucked up the DNA sample. Contaminated it. That was all we had so we’ve had to let him go.’

‘Let him go?’

‘No choice. Four o’clock this afternoon.’

Jane spent the next twenty minutes bringing Dixon up to date with the investigation, which involved starting from scratch, given that she hadn’t really told him anything about it before. What she chose not to tell him was that DCI Lewis had taken her to one side after the meeting with the assistant chief constable and asked her to brief Dixon. Lewis had tapped the side of his nose with his index finger leaving Jane in no doubt that she wasn’t to let on. But he had definitely used the word ‘brief’. It sounded formal.

Dixon had listened intently and finished his beer before he spoke again.

‘What’s Janice doing about it?’

‘Thrashing around, I think. I’m not sure she knows what to do, to be honest.’

Dixon was sucking his teeth. Jane recognised the signs and waited.

‘So, you’ve got three DNA profiles?’ asked Dixon.

‘We
had
three DNA profiles.’

‘The usual you’d expect from Tom and Elizabeth and then
Stanniland’s
?’

‘Yes.’

‘So that means no one else was there?’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong,’ said Dixon, picking up his glass. ‘Fancy another drink?’

Dixon placed a fresh gin and tonic in front of Jane and sat down next to her.

‘What d’you mean “wrong”?’ she asked.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. What is trace DNA?’

‘Well, it’s proof of . . .’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s evidence. That’s all. Hair, saliva, skin cells. And it needs to be interpreted just like any other piece of evidence.’ Dixon took a swig of beer. ‘It’s often misinterpreted too.’

‘Anyone would think you knew what you were talking about,’ said Jane.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s good evidence then?’

‘Sometimes, but not always.’

‘So, what if there’s no profile?’ asked Jane.

‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t there. Just that they left no DNA behind,’ replied Dixon. ‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Lots of people. It’s an aphorism. But it’s quoted by Professor Peter Gill. Twenty-six years with the Forensic Science Service, so he should know,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’ve got his book at home. You should read it.’

‘But . . .’

‘Have you ever stopped to think that Grafton and the old bird might both be right?’

‘Mrs Freeman?’

Dixon nodded.

‘No,’ said Jane.

‘Try it,’ said Dixon. ‘You eaten?’

Dixon was standing in the kitchen window, watching the first light of dawn spread across the fields behind his cottage. It had stopped raining by the time they had left the pub the previous night and a clear sky had made for a hard frost, as evidenced by the thick layer of ice coating his Land Rover. At least the snorkel hadn’t fallen off.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Jane standing in the doorway. She was leaning against the door frame with her eyes closed.

‘Can I smell coffee?’

‘You can,’ replied Dixon, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘Want some?’

‘Yes, please.’ Jane was rubbing her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eightish.’

Dixon watched her yawn.

‘What time are you due in?’ he asked.

‘Whenever I get there.’

‘And what time did you finish reading last night?’

‘Two or so.’

‘You go and sit down, I’ll bring your coffee in.’

Dixon was handing a mug of coffee to Jane when they heard the bleep of a text message arriving on a phone in the bedroom.

‘Was that you or me?’ asked Jane.

‘You probably. I’ll go and have a look.’

It took Dixon a minute to find her phone, which was being used as a bookmark in his copy of
Misleading DNA Evidence
by Professor Peter Gill.

‘It’s you,’ he said, walking down the stairs.

He took a swig of coffee while he watched Jane open the text message and read it.

‘I just don’t f . . .’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Dixon.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Try me.’

‘Stanniland’s disappeared.’

‘You said there was a tail on him.’

‘I thought there was,’ replied Jane. She held her phone out in front of her and read from the screen.

Stanniland not on train. Never arrived Bristol Temple Meads yesterday. Jan

‘They put him on a train?’ asked Dixon.

‘Looks like it,’ replied Jane. ‘I’d better go.’

Jane arrived at Express Park just as Janice was leaving, at speed. She screeched to a halt and wound her window down.

‘There’s a body in the water off Brean Down,’ shouted Janice. ‘It fits the description of Stanniland. Dump your car in the visitors’ car park and get in.’

Jane turned into the visitors’ car park and left her car in the first space, while Janice reversed back to the entrance. Jane then ran over and jumped in the passenger seat of Janice’s car.

‘You said he was on a train?’

‘Yes. He was put on the 4.02 p.m. to Temple Meads and they were going to pick him up at the other end. But he never got there, did he?’

‘Whose bloody stupid idea was that?’ asked Jane.

‘Mine.’

‘What about his flat?’

‘Never turned up there either.’

Janice accelerated up to ninety miles an hour on the dual carriageway out towards the motorway roundabout.

‘What’s the rush?’ asked Jane.

‘Tide’s going out,’ replied Janice. ‘It brought the body in and if we don’t hurry up it’s going to take it back out again.’

‘Lifeboat?’

‘On the way.’

‘I’ll ring Nick,’ said Jane. ‘He’ll be on the beach with Monty by now.’

Chapter Nine

D
ixon had watched Jane leave for Bridgwater and then bundled Monty into the back of the Land Rover. The tide would be turning in an hour or so and, if it was too high, he could always park in front of the Sundowner Cafe, instead of on the beach. It was worth a look.

The wooden bollards designed to stop you parking too close to the sand dunes meant that parking on the beach was impossible, even with a snorkel, so Dixon reversed back along the beach access road. He left the Land Rover outside the Sundowner and then followed Monty towards Brean Down.

He thought about Janice, who seemed to be jinxed. After all,
it was
not her fault that PGL had contaminated the DNA sample, nor was it her fault that the crime scene was flooded. And as for Stanniland’s disappearance, it would have happened sooner or later no doubt, even with a tail on him.

Dixon was walking along the base of the cliffs at Brean Down, wondering who DCI Lewis would get to sort the mess out, and thanking his lucky stars he was suspended, when his phone rang in his pocket.

‘Hi, Jane, what’s up?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Brean Down.’

‘Thank God for that.’

Dixon could hear a car engine in the background.

‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a body in the water on the far side of Brean Down. It fits the description of Stanniland so we got the shout. We’re leaving now. The RNLI have been called out. Can you get over there and see if you can spot it?’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘About a third of the way along on the north side. Two men are fishing off the terraces.’

‘OK.’

‘Look, the tide’s turning and if the Axe takes it out into the main channel we’ll never find it.’

‘All right, I’m on my way now.’

Dixon rang off and started running towards the gap in the sea wall. Monty chased after him, thinking it was a game, no doubt. They ran along the path between the bungalows and then followed the track towards the steps that would take them to the top of Brean Down from the south side. Dixon stopped at the bottom to put Monty on his lead and then began the climb.

Dixon was familiar with these steps. He used to run up and down them when training for climbing trips to the Alps, but that was many years ago now, or at least it felt like it. He remembered throwing up his breakfast at the top the first time he had done it and hoped he wouldn’t do the same again today.

He arrived at the terrace, less than halfway up, and stopped for a rest. His legs were burning and he was leaning on a fence post, breathing hard. He could hear sirens in the distance but could not tell how many there were, nor could he see any blue lights. He looked to the south, hoping to see the lifeboat coming, but there was nothing. Yet.

Dixon looked at Monty, who was panting hard.

‘You and me,’ said Dixon, gasping for breath. ‘New Year’s resolution. Diet. All right?’ Then they started running up the steps again.

Dixon stopped at the top with his hands on his knees, trying to get his breathing under control, if only so he could stuff a handful of fruit pastilles into his mouth. Managing his blood sugar levels had become second nature now. Weston pier was visible in the distance but the old fort at the western end of Brean Down was out of view, around the corner.

Dixon looked up and saw a man standing on the tarmac road about two hundred yards away. He was waving both arms above his head and shouting, but any sound was being carried away on the wind.

The River Axe swept past the base of the cliffs on the north side of Brean Down and it was beginning to swirl as the tide turned. Jane was right. If the body was caught by the River Axe, it would meet the outgoing tide on the rivers Parrett and Brue before being taken out still further into the main Bristol Channel.

Dixon sprinted down towards the man standing on the service road, which ran along the clifftops on the north side. As he approached, he could hear the man shouting.

‘Have you got a phone? My battery’s gone.’

Dixon stopped in front of him.

‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police. Help’s on the way.’

‘Oh, thank God. The body’s in the water and the tide’s going out,’ said the man, pointing to a narrow path leading down through the dense undergrowth towards the clifftop.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Dixon.

‘Colin Wright.’

‘Got ID?’

‘Er, yes,’ replied Wright, fumbling in his back pocket. ‘What d’you need my ID for?’

‘I need to know who I’m leaving my dog with,’ replied Dixon. He looked at the photocard driving licence and then handed
Monty’s
lead to Wright.

‘You’ll have to hang on tight.’

‘Right.’

Dixon set off down the muddy track through the brambles. It was steep and slippery, with nothing to hang on to on either side, but it was no worse than some of the descent chutes he had navigated in his old climbing days. And at least this time he wasn’t weighed down with climbing equipment.

Suddenly, the track opened out and Dixon found himself in a clearing at the top of the cliffs. Another man was standing there, peering into the bottom of a deep cleft in the rocks. Four fishing rods were leaning against a large boulder just below the top.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a rope?’ shouted Dixon, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the wind and the waves.

‘No, sorry.’

‘Hold this.’ Dixon handed the man his phone.

‘You’re not going down there?’

Dixon smiled and then began scrambling down to the fishing ledges. The rock was slippery and sloped towards the water, which focussed his mind, but he made short work of it and was soon standing on the lowest of three ledges. Then he shuffled to his left until he was able to look directly over the ledge and see the water below him.

The body was floating face down at the bottom of a deep cleft in the cliffs, being carried in and out on the waves. It was male
and so
could perhaps be Jane’s missing suspect. Then Dixon noticed that the feet were bound, with a length of rope trailing behind the body. He knew the signs. The trademark. An old saying about playing with fire and expecting to get burnt flashed across his mind, although he couldn’t remember the exact words.

The rock was wet and coated in black slime just a few feet below the ledge he was standing on, and the body was no more than ten feet below that. Seaweed was washing in the current of muddy brown water that was surging into the cleft and back out again.

Dixon thought it might be fun to catch fish off these ledges, but eating it was out of the question.

Suddenly, he heard a dog barking and looked up to see Monty running backwards and forwards along the clifftop above him, his lead trailing behind him.

‘Get hold of my dog, will you?’ shouted Dixon, to the man watching his every move.

The current seemed to be getting stronger and it would not be long before it took the body out with it. Then it would be out into the main channel and gone.

He took a deep breath and began climbing down. He turned to face the cliff and picked his hand and foot holds with precision, making sure he had three points of solid contact with the rock before he moved. The band of black slime was the high tide mark and beneath that it gave way to smelly brown slime, although no more than a foot had been revealed by the outgoing tide so far. Dixon hoped that it was mud and silt but either way, holding on to that rock was out of the question.

He shuffled along a narrow ramp that descended towards the water. At the bottom was a narrow crack, perhaps four inches wide, from which he would be able to reach the body. Whether he would be able to hang onto it long enough was another matter, but he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

From a standing position at the bottom of the small and narrow ramp, he lowered himself down into the water up to his waist. He was feeling around with his feet, trying to find footholds to steady himself. Then he jammed his right hand in the crack in front of him, clenched his fist and twisted it.

The waves were crashing into the rocks all around him and he was soon soaked to the skin. He was trying to breathe through his nose, having decided that swallowing a mouthful of seawater was not an option, but it was far from easy with the water splashing up into his face on each surge.

Timing was everything. An incoming wave would bring the dead man close enough to catch. Then all Dixon had to do was hang on. He waited for the next wave, took a deep breath and turned. The body was surging towards him so Dixon reached out with his left hand and took hold of it by the belt.

Then the wave raced back out of the cleft. The man rolled over and Dixon could see that his hands had been tied in front of him using cable ties, which were biting deep into the flesh of his wrists. Dixon grimaced. It took all of his strength to hold on to him with his left hand and keep his right wedged in the crack, but he was able to do it. Just.

Now he had to do it again. And again.

Each wave that surged in twisted the body behind Dixon, turning him away from the sanctuary of the rock and showering his face and head with muddy brown water. There was no escaping it, no matter which way he turned his head. He tried to hold his breath and breathe only with each outgoing wave, but he was starting to swallow seawater now.

He had lost all feeling in his legs and was shivering violently. Much longer and he would have to let go. Either that or he would risk being sucked out into the main channel himself.

Dixon closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself walking along the beach in the heat of the midday sun on an August bank holiday. It didn’t work.

He had lost all track of time and had given up trying to count the tidal surges. It was far easier to count the bouts of vomiting now: five, six. Then he heard a shout from above. PC Cole was standing on the clifftop above, pointing out to sea. Dixon turned his head and looked out towards the main channel.

It was the inshore lifeboat, no more than fifty yards away, engines racing to hold station in the current.

The lifeboat sped upstream, out of sight, before turning in a loop and coming in closer this time, no more than ten yards from the rocks. The noise of the engines, the wind and the waves made it impossible for Dixon to hear the instructions being shouted by the helmsman, but he peered around the rocks and watched the crewman in the bows drop the anchor over the front of the boat just a few yards upstream of his cleft in the rocks.

The boat then began reversing back towards the rocks, both of the large engines screaming in protest as it tensioned against the anchor chain. The backwash was immense, churning the sea into a boiling mass of foam and bubbles under the boat. The anchor slipped and the boat jerked back. Then it held.

A crewman at the back of the boat was leaning over the side, testing the depth with a pole as the boat inched back towards the rocks. Dixon watched the helmsman fighting the current and gunning the engines, trying to hold the boat straight across the current. Dixon was resisting the temptation to put his hands over his ears. It would mean losing his grip on the body and the crack in the rock in front of him, although that was just a matter of minutes away anyway.

The boat was getting close enough for Dixon to hear the shouts of the crew.

‘One metre.’

The anchor chain had given way to rope now and the crewman in the bows fed another metre over the front, allowing the boat to tension back still further.

The crewman at the back was testing the depth with the pole.

‘Clear.’

‘One metre.’ The helmsman again.

‘Clear.’

The boat was upstream of the cleft but close enough now that Dixon could almost reach out and touch it. He looked at the gap and wondered whether he could make it across before the current swept him away.

‘Stay where you are!’

Dixon looked up. The clifftop, no more than thirty feet above, was lined with people, looking down at him. He spotted Jane, holding Monty. She shouted something but it was lost on the wind.

Suddenly, Dixon heard the engines ease off and the lifeboat began drifting downstream towards him. Then the crewman at the back dropped the pole into the boat, tilted one of the engines clear of the water and jumped over the side. He was in the cleft in a flash and took hold of the body. Dixon let go. At last.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nick Dixon.’ His teeth were chattering as he spoke and he was shivering violently.

‘Police?’

‘Yes.’

The crewman rolled the body over. Dixon got his first look at the face, which was almost unrecognisable as one, were it not for the eyes, one of which was almost out of its smashed socket. The rocks and the tide had seen to that.

‘He’s dead,’ said Dixon. ‘Look at his hands and feet.’

‘You first then,’ said the crewman.

‘No chance. Get him out of here first.’

‘You’ve got hypothermia . . .’

‘I’ll be fine,’ replied Dixon.

The crewman turned the body and passed it up to a second crewman who was leaning over the back corner of the boat. Together they manhandled it up and over the side of the boat. The backwash from the single engine on the nearside of the boat was keeping the waves down and it was Dixon’s first respite for God knows how long. It felt like an age, as he vomited again into the water in front of him.

The water was now no more than waist deep and was quickly becoming too shallow for the inshore lifeboat, with its large outboard engines. The crewman in the water with Dixon shouted into a waterproof radio on his life jacket.

‘Too shallow.’

The helmsman eased off the power, allowing the boat to drift away from the rocks downstream of the anchor. The second crewman in the boat tilted the other engine back into the water and then went to the bow to retrieve the anchor.

The boat surged forward to a position upstream of the anchor, pulled it in, and then sped off in a loop to take up position fifty yards away.

Dixon looked at the crewman with him in the cleft. He had his arms around Dixon, holding him up.