Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (15 page)

‘Well done, Dave.’

Dixon rang off.

‘He’s got it on a number plate recognition camera in
St Marychurch
, then it disappears,’ said Dixon, climbing into the Land Rover.

Louise was already sitting in the passenger seat.

‘Torquay?’

‘Yes. Fancy a trip to the English Riviera?’

They looked more like residential barn conversions than offices, but the signs on the car parking spaces confirmed that Dixon was in the right place. Four of the spaces were marked ‘Bridgwater and North Somerset Conservative Association’ so he parked in one of those, next to a grey Vauxhall Astra. All of the other spaces were empty.

‘Well, it is New Year’s Eve, I suppose.’

‘They probably got drunk at the Christmas party and left it here,’ said Louise.

‘There’s a light on in the office,’ said Dixon, peering over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go and try our luck.’

They were walking across the car park when the light went out and a tall figure appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. A small black umbrella opened and the figure then stepped out into the rain. It was a man and he kept his head down as he turned to lock the door behind him. He turned when he heard footsteps walking up the steps behind him.

‘I’m sorry, we’re closed.’

‘I’m surprised to find anyone here at all,’ said Dixon, holding his warrant card in front of him. ‘It is New Year’s Eve, after all.’

The man leaned forward and squinted at Dixon’s warrant card.

‘We’re in the middle of a by-election campaign, Inspector.’

‘And you are?’ asked Dixon.

‘Lawrence Deakin. The agent.’

He was tall, thin and bald. Dixon reckoned he was in his late forties, or possibly his early fifties, but it was difficult to tell without a measure of grey hair. He was wearing jeans and an orange raincoat.

‘May we have a word, please, Mr Deakin?’

‘Well, I was just . . . yes, of course.’ He turned back to the front door and opened it. ‘Come in.’

Dixon and Louise followed Deakin into a small open plan office on the ground floor. There were four desks on the right, opposite a line of large printing machines.

‘All of that stuff that gets pushed through your letter box gets printed here, Inspector,’ said Deakin. ‘We’ve even got a machine to fold it.’

Dixon nodded.

‘The only bit we can’t automate is delivering it. We rely on volunteers for that.’

‘Not the postman?’

‘Too expensive. Every candidate in a parliamentary election gets one leaflet delivered. That’s the Election Address. But we like to deliver more than that.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Dixon.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘You haven’t asked why we’re here.’

‘I rather assumed you were going to tell me,’ replied Deakin, sitting on the corner of one of the desks.

‘How well did you know Elizabeth Perry?’

‘I thought . . . wasn’t her killer found washed up at Brean Down?’ asked Deakin.

‘He was. How well did you know her?’

‘Well, I’d met her several times. First at the selection . . .’

‘Selections,’ interrupted Dixon.

‘Yes, selections, then at dinners and such like, when Tom was speaking. She was always out campaigning with him too. Full of energy, she was. And great for the association, really brought everyone together.’ Deakin sighed. ‘Everybody thought she was lovely.’

‘And Tom?’

‘The same,’ replied Deakin, nodding. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how he must be feeling . . .’ His voice tailed off.

Dixon walked over to the window and looked at the fields behind the office block.

‘Nice office,’ he said, nodding. ‘How long have you been the agent?’

‘Six years.’

‘So you know the membership fairly well?’

‘I do. The active ones. I meet them at coffee mornings, dinners.’

‘And the management committee. You work closely with them, I imagine?’

‘Yes.’

‘How well do you know Rod Brophy?’

‘Very well. He’s a past chairman of the association, councillor.’

‘And Liam Dobbs?’

‘Not so well. He’s been a member, say, four years or so.’

‘How involved were you in the selection process?’

‘Very. It’s my job to make sure it’s done right. In accordance with the constitution and the party rules. I don’t have a vote or a say in who is selected. That’s for the members.’

‘And the open primary?’

‘We followed the correct procedure,’ said Deakin.

‘Whose idea was it to hold an open primary?’

‘Central Office suggested it. The selection committee were reluctant but went along with it. I think they took the view that
90 per
cent of the final audience would be party members anyway so what did it matter?’

‘Why the reluctance?’ asked Dixon.

‘Fear of something new. The risk that the opposition stuff the meeting and select someone unsuitable . . .’

‘But surely someone unsuitable wouldn’t even make it through to the primary?’

‘That’s the counter argument, yes.’

‘
So, who was behind the move to reject the open primary selection?’

‘Behind it?’

‘Yes.’

Dixon waited, watching Deakin’s eyes darting around the room.

‘Look, I don’t think it’s any great secret that Rod Brophy regarded the seat as his when Ken stood down.’

‘Or died,’ said Louise.

‘Yes, or died, as it turned out.’

‘Was Brophy on the Approved list?’ asked Dixon.

‘No. But where there’s a particularly strong local candidate an association can select them anyway.’

‘So, was Central Office’s insistence on an open primary an attempt by them to ensure Brophy didn’t get it?’

‘I don’t think so. Look, what’s this got to do with Elizabeth Perry’s death?’

‘You tell me,’ replied Dixon.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened after the primary?’

‘The executive council met to ratify the selection, only they didn’t.’

‘Was that a surprise?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many people attended the meeting?’

‘Thirty or so.’

‘And how many people usually attend a meeting of the executive council?’

‘Twenty perhaps.’

‘And what did you think when you saw a full house?’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Deakin, standing up. ‘It was an import
ant meeting. Look I really need to be . . .’

‘How did Central Office react?’

‘They weren’t happy about it. Threatened to put the constituency on special measures.’

‘Which are?’

‘Basically, they step in and take over running it.’

‘But that didn’t happen?’

‘No.’

‘So, tell me about the final selection. How did Tom Perry win if there was an orchestrated effort by Brophy to stuff the meeting, as he had done the executive?’

‘I didn’t say he had.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘It’s the nature of politics, even in the same party when we’re all supposed to be on the same side. For every supporter you’ve got, there’s another who hates you,’ said Deakin. ‘Or supports someone else.’

‘So, the stop Rod Brophy brigade had time to get their act together?’ asked Dixon.

‘They did.’

‘What about the ballot at the executive meeting?’

‘Secret. All I’ve got are the numbers.’

‘Can I see the minutes?’

‘They’re confidential,’ replied Deakin.

‘And what d’you think confidential means in the context of a murder investigation?’ asked Dixon.

‘Look, what has this got to do with Elizabeth’s murder?’

‘You let me worry about that, Mr Deakin. All right?’

Deakin sighed.

‘I’ll get them.’

‘Thank you. For that meeting and for the previous three as well, please.’

‘You certainly know how to rub someone up the wrong way.’

‘Thank you, Louise,’ said Dixon, smiling.

They were sitting in his Land Rover, listening to the rain hammering on the roof. Dixon was flicking through the minutes of the executive council meetings.

‘What it gives us is a list of those who turned up just to block the primary selection.’

‘And one of them may have killed Elizabeth Perry.’

‘Had her killed is a more accurate description, but yes, one of them may have done.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out, isn’t it,’ replied Dixon, reversing the Land Rover out of the parking space. Then he stamped on the brakes.

‘What is it?’ asked Louise.

‘At least we know where to come to find Mr Dobbs,’ said Dixon, looking in his rear view mirror. ‘Dobbs Design. Not a very imaginative name for a graphic design company, is it?’

‘Any sign of Unwin?’ asked Dixon. He had done his injection in the Land Rover and was eating a sandwich bought from the canteen on the way to the CID area.

Jane shook her head.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Moorland.’

‘Could be staying with friends somewhere then, couldn’t he?’ asked Louise.

‘Either that or he’s at the bottom of the . . .’

‘How did you get on at the Conservative office?’ asked Jane, cutting in.

‘Good,’ replied Louise. ‘The agent was there and . . .’

‘Get a boat over to Moorland to have a look,’ said Dixon.

‘They’ve been,’ replied Jane.

‘What’ve we got then, Dave?’ asked Dixon, turning to Harding.

‘Thirteen Nortons registered with DVLA in the TQ postcode area. That was the simplest way to do it, but it takes in Newton Abbot and Totnes too, so we can disregard some of them.’

‘Are these the SS type?’

‘The registration isn’t that specific, sadly, so this is all Nortons.’

‘How many in Torbay itsel
f
?’

‘Seven.’

‘What about off road notifications?’

‘They’re included.’

‘And the parts suppliers and garages?’

‘They add another three to the list. One was a PO box but I got the address from the post office,’ replied Harding, handing a piece of paper to Dixon.

‘Well done.’

Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 1.30 p.m. ‘Torquay anyone?’

‘Er, I was due off at four, Sir. Got a party to go to tonight,’ said Pearce.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve, Sir,’ said Harding.

‘What about you, Louise?’

‘I’ll come. I’ll just ring my husband and let him know.’

‘I might as well come too,’ said Harding, with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll only be sitting at home watching Jools Holland and feeling sorry for myself.’

‘Billy no mates,’ said Pearce, grinning.

‘Right, you and me, Louise. Dave, you go with Jane. We’ll split the list and be back by six.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘There are three in Torquay and two each in Paignton and
Brixham
,’ continued Dixon, looking at the list. ‘We’ll take Torquay, Louise. Look for a roadworthy SS type with the high exhaust pipes on both sides.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And remember, if you find one and I’m right, you’ll be talking to someone who kills people for a living, so no heroics. A few general questions, eliminating from enquiries, the usual flannel, then get the hell out of there. All right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Mark, if you could just ring the Devon lot and let them know we’ll be on their patch, that’d be great. If you can fit us in before you go off partying, that is?’