Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (11 page)

‘The water’s too shallow now for the big boat. Can you climb out?’

Dixon shook his head.

‘My legs have gone.’

‘Not to worry, here comes the Puffin,’ said the crewman, smiling despite another wave crashing over them.

Dixon looked back out into the open water and spotted a smaller inflatable boat speeding towards them. It was heading straight for the cleft and slowed at the last minute, coming in bow first, right up to them.

‘It’s all right. You can let go now.’

Dixon unclenched his fist and slid his hand out of the crack. He felt himself slump back into the crewman, who held him up. Then he was lifted out of the water and into the boat in one movement. A life jacket was put on him and a space blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

‘There’s an ambulance on the beach the other side.’

Dixon watched the crewman climb into the boat and then it reversed back out of the cleft, before turning across the current and back out into the main channel.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Dixon.

‘Have you inhaled any seawater?’

‘Swallowed a lot, but not breathed it in,’ replied Dixon. He turned and vomited over the side of the boat.

‘Good.’

He looked up at the cliffs and the old fort as the boat sped around the end of Brean Down and, once round to the south side, the larger inshore lifeboat turned in towards the beach where a small orange hovercraft was waiting on the mudflats. It would take the body to the ambulance that was waiting on the beach still
further
in the distance.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I just need a cup of tea.’

The crewman who had jumped into the water was sitting opposite Dixon.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Matt.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Dixon, shaking his hand.

‘My pleasure.’

Familiar landmarks raced past as the boat sped towards Burnham.
The receding
tide meant that they stayed well out to sea on the
way back but
the two yellow buoys marking the wreck of the SS Nornen were just visible bouncing around in the surf, and the
lighthouse
, of course, with several dog walkers on the beach behind it. Dixon
hoped tha
t the next time he saw it he would be walking his dog.

He was helped out of the lifeboat onto the jetty at Burnham. The larger boat had caught them up after dropping off the body and was being backed onto a trailer that had been reversed into the water by a giant tractor on the beach. Not easy in a strong cross wind. A smaller trailer was waiting alongside to retrieve the Puffin.

He looked up at the sea wall, which was lined with spectators. Several photographers were standing at the top of the jetty.

‘C’mon, let’s get you out of those wet clothes,’ said Matt.

Dixon was sitting in the corner of the Burnham lifeboat station, watching the steam rising from a mug of hot, sweet tea that someone had thrust into his hands. He was wearing an RNLI thermal fleece undersuit and had a coat wrapped around his shoulders. His own clothes were lying in a sodden heap on the floor at his feet.

The lifeboats, now back on their trailers, were parked outside, being hosed down before the tractors reversed them into the shed.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to hospital?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’

Dixon smiled and went back to watching the steam rising from his mug of tea. Drinking it was not an option, for fear of bringing it back up again, but just holding it was warming him up.

‘I’m looking for Inspector Dixon.’

He recognised the voice.

‘He’s in there.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon listened to the sound of footsteps approaching and claws scrabbling on the concrete floor.

‘There you are,’ said Jane. She was being pulled along by Monty, before deciding it would be far easier just to let him go.

‘Have you got my phone?’ asked Dixon. He was trying to fend off Monty without spilling his tea.

‘You were just supposed to spot the body. Not go in after it.’

Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

‘Idiot,’ said Jane, handing over his phone.

‘Was it Stanniland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they taking him?’

‘Weston,’ replied Jane. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘I’ll be OK. I threw up most of the seawater I swallowed on the way in.’

‘Good.’

‘Where is he?’ The voice was loud and came from outside.

‘Oh shit, that’s Lewis,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll go and see what he wants.’

Dixon put down his mug of tea and began fishing his wallet, keys and warrant card from the pile of wet clothes at his feet.

‘Have a nice swim?’

He looked up to find DCI Lewis standing in front of him.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Bloody good job you were there. Well done.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘You know what this means? A body dumped in the Bristol Channel . . .’

‘I do,’ said Lewis, ‘And it’ll be your job to prove it.’

‘What about Janice?’

‘She’s going to take a few days off, then go on a training course.’

‘But . . .’

‘It’s out of my hands,’ continued Lewis, shaking his head. ‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’

Lewis reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Dixon.

‘These are the papers for your misconduct meeting. Witness statements, documents, that sort of stuff.’

Dixon looked at the envelope and then dropped it onto the chair next to him.

‘I take it you agree to waive the twenty day notice period?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon.

‘Good.’

Lewis reached into his other pocket and took out a smaller envelope, which he handed to Dixon.

‘This is notice of your misconduct meeting. Monday morning at 10 a.m. Portishead.’

‘That’s the day after tomorrow?’

‘It is. Smile sweetly, speak when you’re spoken to and tell ’em what they want to hear. Otherwise, keep your trap shut.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Then get yourself down to Express Park as soon as it’s over. All right?’

‘What’s going to . . . ?’

‘Management advice. You’ll be reminded to disclose personal connections in future and a letter will be placed on your file to that effect.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes. And you’re being assigned to the Major Investigation Team.’

Dixon smiled.

‘Is that a promotion?’ he asked.

‘Of sorts. They could hardly give you a commendation, could they?’ replied Lewis. ‘And you’d best hand back that cold case too.’

‘No chance.’

‘Have it your own way.’

‘Has he gone?’ asked Jane, peering around the door.

‘Yes, you’re quite safe.’

‘What’d he say?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘D’you need a lift back to your car?’

‘I’ll get Cole to drop me back, don’t worry,’ replied Dixon.

‘I’ll head back with Jan then.’

‘Wait a sec.’

‘What?’

‘Can you remember what was in the vomit?’ asked Dixon. ‘The pile outside the cottage.’

‘Lamb, rice and yoghurt, I think. Why?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just be careful. All right?’

‘OK,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

Dixon waited until she had gone and then opened a web browser on his phone. He typed ‘lamb rice yoghurt’ into Google and looked at the first search result, which came from saveur.com.

‘We meet again,’ he muttered, from behind a wry smile.

He was looking at a recipe for tavë kosi, otherwise known as Albanian baked lamb and rice with yoghurt.

Chapter Ten

D
ixon was asleep on the sofa by the time Jane arrived home just after 7 p.m. He had spent the morning in the bath and the afternoon sitting on the edge of it, vomiting at regular intervals into the lavatory, and was exhausted. He had at least remembered to put his clothes in the washing machine first though.

He woke to find Jane standing over him.

‘You all right?’

He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

‘Yes, a bit better, I think.’

‘Have you had anything to eat?’

‘God, no.’

‘What about your blood sugar levels?’

‘Let’s try a cup of tea with a sugar in it first then. See if I can keep that down.’

‘Like that, is it?’ asked Jane.

‘You could say that.’

‘Have you fed Monty?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Have they done the post mortem?’ asked Dixon.

‘Drowning. He was alive when he went into the water.’

Dixon shook his head. ‘You’d have thought they’d have put a bullet in the back of his head first, wouldn’t you?’

‘Who?’ shouted Jane, from the kitchen.

‘Do you remember that chief super from Bristol in the sharp suit?’ asked Dixon.

‘He came to the hospital after our early morning visit from the Albanians,’ replied Jane.

‘That’s right. Do you remember what he said?’

Jane was standing in front of Dixon holding a mug of tea in each hand.

‘If they’d wanted you dead,’ continued Dixon, ‘you’d be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel by now.’

‘He did.’

‘Those were his exact words.’

‘D’you think the Albanians are involved?’

‘Google lamb, rice and yoghurt.’

Dixon watched Jane tapping the words into a web browser on her phone and waited for her reaction.

‘Oh, shit.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘So, what d’you think happened?’ asked Jane.

‘Either Stanniland was framed for Elizabeth’s murder or someone went in after he killed her to make damn sure he got caught. The latter would explain the van and the motorbike, wouldn’t it? And the different knife.’

‘If you assume Grafton and Mrs Freeman are right.’

‘And why wouldn’t they be? Just because they’re old?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Then, when Stanniland walks free, what better way to close the whole thing off than to make him disappear? We’d have been chasing his shadow for months until the file was quietly closed.’

‘Why though?’ asked Jane.

‘No idea,’ replied Dixon. ‘Yet.’

‘I’m assuming you’re taking over the investigation then?’

‘I am.’

‘That explains this,’ said Jane, handing Dixon the file that had been tucked under her arm. ‘And Janice’s holiday. Poor sod. It’s hardly her fault, is it?’

‘She’ll bounce back,’ said Dixon.

‘What about your disciplinary?’ asked Jane.

‘Monday morning.’

‘It’s been fixed?’

‘I’m not sure fixed is the right word. At least I hope it isn’t.’

‘A reprimand?’ asked Jane.

‘Management advice.’

‘You lucky sod.’

‘And I’ve been assigned to the MIT.’

‘That’s based at Portishead,’ said Jane, frowning.

‘Yes, but it only assembles when there’s a major investigation, don’t forget.’

‘Some people always come up smelling of roses.’

‘Well, I bloody well didn’t this morning,’ said Dixon, smiling.

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Jane, sniffing the air. ‘I’d suggest another bath.’

Dixon tiptoed down the stairs. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders.

‘What’s this you’re watching?’ he asked, dropping onto the sofa next to Jane.

‘
Long Lost Family
. It’s where they reunite parents with children given up for adoption. Happy ending stuff.’

‘Always?’

‘Seems to be. Although they probably don’t show those where it goes wrong.’

‘I bet they don’t.’

‘I’m adopted, you know.’

‘Really? You never said.’

‘Came as a bit of a relief, to be honest. My parents are mad as hatters, aren’t they?’ asked Jane, grinning.

‘No, they’re not,’ replied Dixon. ‘Well . . .’

Jane elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Are you really adopted?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever tried to find your real parents?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve thought about it sometimes, but mostly I think of them as dead. It’s the only way I can deal with it. And it’s easier. Full stop.’

Dixon thought it best not to press the point. Jane would look for them if and when she was ready. Both parties must want to be found for it to work, no doubt. Otherwise, who knows what might happen.

‘What’s her story then?’ asked Dixon, gesturing towards the screen.

‘Single mother in the 1960s. She was sixteen. Things were different back then.’

‘That they were,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Fancy something to eat? I think I could keep it down now.’

Dixon had spent the Sunday with his feet up, reading the file of papers that Lewis had sent via Jane. It contained a copy of Elizabeth Perry’s post mortem, the forensic reports on both Waterside
Cottage
and Stanniland’s flat, the witness statements, such as they were, and, lastly, the DNA reports from PGL, which had made grim reading. It had been an otherwise pleasant day, best described as the calm before the storm and, now, as he sped south on the M5, Dixon reflected on his misconduct meeting.

It had lasted all of ten minutes.

‘You admit that you should have disclosed your personal connection to the case from the outset?’

‘The possible connection, yes.’

Dixon had resisted the temptation to smile sweetly and hoped DCI Lewis would forgive him.

‘Do you have anything to add before this tribunal arrives at a decision?’

‘No.’

‘Very well. There will be a finding that your conduct failed to meet the requisite Standards of Professional Behaviour. However, I find that it was at the lower end of the scale and propose to deal with it by a reminder to disclose personal connections in future. You will receive a letter to this effect and a copy will be placed on your file. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You will receive written notice of the outcome of these proceedings within five days and have seven days from receipt of that notice in which to appeal, if you wish to do so.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then that concludes these misconduct proceedings,’ said
the officer
, standing up. Then he had walked around the side of the table and stood in front of Dixon, with his hand outstretched.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Dixon, shaking his hand.

The officer had smiled and nodded, but had said nothing more.

Dixon turned off the M5 at Burnham-on-Sea and went home. He was standing in the field behind his cottage, watching Monty sniffing along the hedge, when his phone rang.

‘How’d it go?’ asked Jane.

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Just giving Monty a quick run in the field.’

‘Well, you’d better get here sharpish. There’s a rumour Tom Perry is a suspect in Stanniland’s murder and the press have got hold of it. They’re crawling all over the place and Perry’s downstairs kicking up a helluva stink.’

Dixon arrived at Express Park twenty minutes later and parked in the staff car park. It had taken him several loud blasts of his horn to clear a way through the journalists and TV crews and he watched them milling around outside the police centre while he waited for the huge steel gate to open.

He parked on the top floor. Jane was waiting for him.

‘Lewis wants to see you. Now.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Meeting room two.’

Dixon winced. Still, the open plan office was likely to be the least of his worries.

They could hear the shouting as they stepped out of the lift on the first floor and looked across to the meeting room. Lewis
was visible
through the glass, waving his arms at Harry Unwin,
who was
standing with his back to the window.

‘Aren’t they supposed to be soundproofed, those meeting rooms?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘More like a bloody echo chamber.’

Lewis looked across the landing and saw Dixon watching.

‘Just get out,’ he said, to Unwin. Then he waved at Dixon to come in.

Dixon was blocking the door and waited for Unwin to open it from the inside. Dixon glared at Unwin, who looked away and stepped back to allow him into the room. Lewis waited until Unwin closed the door behind him.

‘Jane’s filled you in?’

‘She has.’

‘What d’you need?’

‘Rid of Harry, for a start.’

‘Leave it to me,’ replied Lewis. ‘What about a replacement?’

‘Can I have Louise Willmott?’

‘Fine. Anything else?’

‘What about Jane?’ asked Dixon. ‘We’re living together now.’

‘She’d better stay on the team,’ replied Lewis. ‘But I’d suggest you work with Louise and put Jane with one of the others. All right?’

‘Have you spoken to Tom Perry?’ asked Dixon.

‘Not yet. Vicky Thomas is on her way to deal with the press.’

‘I’ll go and see him now.’

‘Did you read the file?’

‘Yes.’

‘What d’you make of it?’

‘Person or persons unknown paid the Albanians to arrange the murder of Elizabeth Perry. Stanniland was the fall guy, the
Lee Harvey
Oswald of the piece, so when we mucked up the DNA and had to release him, they needed to tidy up.’

‘And you can prove that?’

‘Not yet. The vomit at the scene, possibly Albanian baked lamb. It’s a bit of a leap but it makes sense. And the Bristol Channel’s their trademark, don’t forget. My guess is that someone went into the cottage after him. He or she delivered the fatal stab wound and dropped the cigarette butts for us to find too. That would explain the van and motorbike.’

‘I still don’t understand why we got no DNA from the vomit,’ said Lewis.

‘Have we got the PM report on Stanniland yet?’

‘Yes.’

‘That should tell us,’ replied Dixon.

Lewis shook his head. ‘Well, you’ve got your work cut out. Keep me posted.’