Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (14 page)

‘Thanks.’

‘What insulin are you on?’ asked Perry.

‘Betalin,’ replied Dixon, through a mouthful of digestive
biscuit
.

‘Is that a human insulin?’

Dixon nodded.

‘Are you all right on it?’

‘When I remember to eat.’

‘No side effects?’

‘No.’

‘It didn’t agree with Lizzie. Damned near killed her . . .’ Perry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes I forget. Just for a second.’

‘I understand,’ said Dixon. ‘What happened?’

‘She switched to animal insulin and was fine after that.’

Dixon was watching Perry. His eyes had glazed over and he was breathing deeply, so Dixon banged the lid on the biscuit
barrel
, as loudly as he dared without breaking it, and slid it across the table.

‘Here, you’d better take these away before I eat the lot.’

Perry sat up with a jolt.

‘Done the trick?’ he asked.

‘Yes, just in time, thank you.’

‘Good.’

‘Tell me about Lizzie,’ said Dixon.

‘God, where do I start?’ asked Perry, shaking his head. ‘She was beautiful, funny, loyal, kind. Why she picked me I’ll never know.’ His eyes welled up with tears.

‘Tell me about the process then. How did you get selected?’ asked Dixon, changing the subject.

‘The first thing you have to do is join the party and get involved. Deliver lots of leaflets and go canvassing, that sort of thing. Show willing so you get a good reference from your association chairman when the time comes. I stood for the council in my local ward too. That always looks good on a CV.’

‘Did you win?’

‘God, no. I wouldn’t have done it if there’d been a chance of me winning. The last thing I wanted was to become a bloody councillor.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Go on.’

‘Then I applied to get on the Approved List. You have to be on the list before you can apply for a parliamentary seat.’

‘And what does that involve?’

‘The Parliamentary Selection Board. A day of psychometric testing, speaking tests and other hoops they make you jump through. Mine was held at Boreham Hall.’

‘And you passed?’

‘I did. First time, oddly enough. I had to speak for five minutes on the use of genetically modified crops. Easy.’

‘What then?’

‘Well, then you’re on the Approved List. You pay your eighty quid and become a member of the Approved Conservative Candidates Association, which enables you to apply for a parliamentary seat when a constituency advertises a vacancy.’

‘And you applied to Bridgwater and North Somerset?’

‘I did. And got lucky. Well, I thought it was lucky at the time.’

‘Why?’

‘I got on the list late and most of the other seats had already selected so there were only a few of us left when North Somerset advertised. It’s a safe seat too. Thirty years an MP and then retire to the House of Lords. Lizzie used to joke about it. Lord and Lady Perry of Northmoor Green, she’d say. Or something like that. And a pension to die f . . .’

‘What happened when you applied?’ asked Dixon, trying to distract Perry.

‘The selection committee met to sift through the CVs and I got through to the first round. Eight of us did. Then it’s a ten minute speech about why I was the right candidate for North Somerset and twenty minutes of questions from the selection committee. That took place at the Bridgwater Con Club.’

‘And who’s on this selection committee?’

‘Two representatives from each ward in the constituency is the usual rule, I think. Barbara Sumner, the old association chairman, was there. And the agent, Lawrence Deakin. Barry was there too, but just as an observer. I don’t really remember who else was there.’

‘What does the agent do?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head. ‘I don’t really . . .’

‘He’s a paid employee of the Association. It’s his job to ensure we comply with the party constitution and the law,’ replied Perry. ‘Not an easy job. I wouldn’t want it.’

‘And Barry Dossett?’

‘The area campaign director. He’s like a senior agent or regional sales manager, I suppose. He covers Bristol, Avon and Somerset, Devon and Cornwall, I think. Possibly Gloucestershire too.’

‘Must’ve gone all right then, the selection committee?’

‘Yes, it did. Someone gave me a hard time about green policy, or tried to, but I handled them OK.’

‘Who was that?’

‘I can’t remember who asked the initial question; how green are you or something like that; but the follow ups came from Liam Dobbs, now I come to think of it. He was the deputy chairman political.’

‘Was?’

‘Yes, he resigned after the final selection meeting.’

‘Tell me about the final selection then.’

‘There were three us. Me, Rod Brophy and Jenny Parker. She’s since been selected for one of the Bristol seats, but the General Election is not for another sixteen months, don’t forget. I’m the only one with a by-election.’

Dixon nodded.

‘It was an open primary at the Hollingsworth Hall, down at Canalside in Bridgwater . . .’

‘What’s an open primary?’

‘The meeting was open to any registered elector in the constituency, not just party members. Not sure of the point of it, really, apart from making for a bit of extra publicity.’

‘And what happened?’ asked Dixon.

‘I won. At the first vote too. No need for second preferences.’

Dixon raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s an odd voting system,’ continued Perry. ‘Alternative Voting, or something like that. They rank the candidates in order of preference.’

‘What happened then?’

‘That’s when it all got a bit messy. The executive council refused to ratify the outcome of the primary and so the selection process had to start again. Only this time they held it behind closed doors. Party members only. Central Office went berserk. Hold an open primary to include local electors and then ignore their democratic vote. It was a PR disaster.’

‘But you won again?’

‘I did,’ replied Perry. ‘Didn’t expect to, but I did.’

‘Who was behind it?’ asked Dixon.

‘Rod Brophy and his cronies, from what I can gather. You’ve got to remember that I was just the new candidate at that time so I didn’t have any real idea who anyone was. I knew the chairman, the ACD and the agent but that was it, really, so I’m getting all this second and third hand. But it was a small group of Brophy’s supporters. They stuffed the executive council meeting and tried to do the same when the final selection was rerun, only it didn’t work. Politics is a dirty business, Nick,’ said Perry. ‘Can I call you Nick?’

‘You can, Mr Perry.’

Perry frowned.

‘Tom,’ said Dixon.

‘Too many vain and ambitious people, jostling for position.’

‘What’s the executive council?’ asked Dixon.

‘All powerful,’ replied Perry. ‘They have to approve all
candidates
, the accounts. They’re basically the scrutiny committee overseeing what the management committee do.’

‘And who’s on it?’

‘There’ll be a list of attendees kept at each meeting.’

‘And the management committee?’

‘That was Brophy’s power base, I think, and they all resigned after the final selection. Barbara Sumner’s three years as chairman were up at the next AGM anyway. Not sure she was in on it, though. Both deputy chairmen resigned immediately, as did the treasurer and the two co-opted members.’

‘Names?’

‘Liam Dobbs was deputy chairman political, and Gail Mackay
was membership and fund raising. Patricia Taylor was the
treasurer
and the two co-opted members were Iris Warner and Bob
Cartwright
.’

‘What happened to them?’ asked Dixon, scribbling down the list of names on his notepad.

‘They’re still around, I think. Don’t see ’em. I’ve got a feeling that a couple of them have joined UKIP, but I may be wrong about that.’

‘And what about Rod Brophy?’

‘He’s still around. He’s Conservative group leader on Somerset County Council. Sits on Sedgemoor District Council too, so he’s not going anywhere in a hurry.’

‘Where’s his seat?’

‘Burnham North. He lives in Rectory Road,’ replied Perry. ‘Do you know it?’

‘I do,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about this attempt to deselect you?’

‘It hadn’t really got off the ground. Dobbs was trying to
engineer
an emergency executive council meeting, apparently. Ringing around trying to muster a bit of support.’

‘He’s still on the executive council?’

‘Yes. He resigned from the management committee but stays on the exec because he’s ward chairman in Highbridge.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Young fellow. Runs a small graphic design business in Bridgwater, I think. Fancies his chances at being an MP one day too,
I expect
.’

‘It hadn’t got very far then?’

‘No. They were doing it out of concern for me, they said. I might be a bit distracted from the campaign, need time. You can just imagine it, can’t you?’

‘You were going to think about the campaigns you’re involved in at the moment?’ asked Dixon.

‘There’s nothing,’ replied Perry, shaking his head. ‘The only one that’s remotely contentious is the wind farm at East Huntspill. I suppose you could call it contentious.’

‘Is it likely to go ahead?’

‘It’s early days. I hope not.’

‘And your involvement?’ asked Dixon.

‘I galvanised local residents, got them organised into an action group. We got ‘no to the wind farm’ signs produced, petitions, letter writing campaigns. That sort of stuff. I spoke at a public meeting in the village hall too. Westricity were livid. Refused to send a rep to the meeting.’

Dixon nodded.

‘They did an exhibition of the plans and I organised a demonstration outside. They were furious.’

‘Did Lizzie go?’

‘Yes, she did,’ replied Perry, smiling. ‘I was standing on a wall outside the hall with a megaphone. It was great fun.’

Dixon was scribbling in his notebook.

‘Wind farms have their place,’ continued Perry. ‘Offshore, for example. But local residents don’t want it and I’m there to represent them.’

‘What about the other campaigns?’

‘Hinkley C,’ replied Perry, ‘but I just jumped on that bandwagon, really. Everyone’s against the pylons to Avonmouth. I’m in favour of the tidal barrage in Bridgwater Bay even though it’ll never happen in my lifetime. Got to appear green, these days,’ said Perry, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Isn’t there a planning application at Burtle?’ asked Dixon.

‘That’ll never happen either.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not in the local plan for a start. And how big’s Burtle?’
Fifty houses
? It’ll destroy the place. It’s pie in the sky and the developer knows it.’

‘Who is the developer?’

‘The local farmer, but no doubt there’s a house builder behind him ready to go if permission’s granted. He’ll keep reducing the number of houses until he gets it, even if it takes twenty years.’

‘Wasn’t there one about solar panels?’

‘East Brent. That’ll go through. Sad, isn’t it, when a farmer’s most profitable crop is solar panels.’

Dixon closed his notebook and slipped it back inside his jacket pocket. ‘One last question.’

‘Fire away.’

‘What will happen if you don’t stand?’

Perry shrugged his shoulders.

‘There won’t be enough time left before close of nominations to rerun the selection, so they’ll probably hand it to Brophy.’

Chapter Thirteen

W
orking with Louise now, is it?’ asked Jane, before Dixon had closed the back door of the cottage.

‘Are you jealous?’

‘I’m just kidding.’ She put her arms around him and kissed him. ‘How’d you get on with Perry?’

‘Surprisingly honest, for a politician . . .’

‘He’s a Tory,’ protested Jane.

‘He is,’ replied Dixon, smiling. ‘Anyway, he’s hardly your
stereotypical
Alan B’Stard, is he? And more’s to the point, he’s lost and bewildered. His wife’s dead and he has no idea why.’

‘You’ll find out,’ said Jane.

Monty appeared from behind the table in the corner of the kitchen and started jumping up at Dixon.

‘Finally managed to tear yourself away from your food bowl, have you?’

‘Yours is in the microwave,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve pierced the lid, so all you’ve got to do is switch it on.’

‘Thanks.’

Jane sat on the sofa and began flicking through the channels on the TV remote control.

‘Did you bring that stuff home?’ asked Dixon, shouting from the kitchen, over the noise of the microwave.

‘I’ve got it here.’

Dixon waited for the ping and then dragged the plastic container out of the microwave and onto a tray. Then he picked up a spoon and walked into the lounge.

Jane rolled her eyes.

‘You could’ve . . .’

‘What’s the point?’ interrupted Dixon. ‘It tastes the same and saves washing up.’

Jane dropped a green file onto his lap. ‘That’s what we’ve got so far.’

‘Anything stand out?’

‘Lots of press interest in the wind farm between East and West Huntspill.’

‘That’s the one that Perry said was the most contentious. Westricity, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jane. ‘They’re behind the solar panel application at East Brent too.’

‘Have you done a company search?’

‘No.’

‘Do one. Let’s see who the directors and shareholders are.’

‘What’d he say about the selection?’ asked Jane.

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

‘Try me.’

‘It was an open primary they call it, so you get local people to select your candidate for you. Then you ignore them. Brilliant!’

‘Who are these people?’

‘I don’t know. But, I’m bloody well going to find out.’

Dixon flicked through the file of papers while he waited for his chicken korma to cool down. One member of the wind farm action group had an ancient conviction for assault but that was hardly likely to be relevant. Otherwise it was a catalogue of newspaper articles, profiles of those involved on both sides, and a report of an incident at a public exhibition in West Huntspill Village Hall. The leader of the action group had been cautioned for a breach
of the peace
after ripping down parts of the display. Tempers had got a bit frayed, according to the witnesses.

Dixon finished his curry and took Monty for a walk, leaving Jane watching the TV. It had stopped raining, so they kept
going past
the Red Cow and turned left up the hill. Monty was sniffing along the hedge on his long lead and taking the chance to paddle in every puddle he came across, but Dixon was miles away, trying to tackle the case from both ends at the same time.

Start with the murder and work back. John Stanniland had almost killed Elizabeth Perry and then the mystery motorcyclist had finished the job and seen to it that Stanniland got caught. Only they hadn’t banked on PGL contaminating the DNA sample leaving a loose end to be tied up, Albanian style. It made sense and they were closing in on the motorcyclist.

Coming at it from the other end was turning up lots of possibilities but nothing with any substance to it. Feelings run high in politics and it wouldn’t be the first time that an unwelcome planning application in someone’s back yard had led to murder, but that still didn’t explain why Elizabeth Perry had been murdered rather than Tom. Dixon was missing something. He
knew that
.

‘What time did you come to bed?’ asked Jane. ‘Coffee?’

‘Must have been about twoish. Yes, please.’

‘You weren’t out walking all that time?’

‘No,’ replied Dixon, handing Jane a piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘A list of names. It’s the ringleaders in that selection fiasco. The ones who tried to get rid of Perry. I want everything we’ve got on them. Company directorships too. Let’s see if any of them are connected with Westricity, or anyone else for that matter.’

‘OK,’ said Jane. ‘What’re you up to?’

‘I’m going to see Mrs Freeman then we’ll ruffle a few feathers at the Conservative office.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, me and Lou . . . are you winding me up again?’

Jane smiled.

‘Just be careful. Remember, the Albanians are in the mix.’

‘I know, I know,’ replied Dixon.

Dixon thought about his last encounter with the Albanians as he walked across to his Land Rover. He remembered the feeling of a gun barrel in the small of his back and the words of their leader, Zavan.

I hope our interests never conflict.

‘What’s the address?’

‘Flat 2, Fisher’s Bridge Mill,’ replied Louise. ‘It’ll be a converted mill. Down by the river, I suppose.’

‘Langport hasn’t flooded, has it?’ asked Dixon.

‘No.’

Louise was peering over her shoulder, watching Monty, who was standing with his front paws on the back of her seat.

‘He’s fine. Just likes to see where we’re going, that’s all,’ said Dixon.

‘Does he go everywhere with you?’

‘Pretty much.’

Dixon could handle an arson attack on his cottage. It was rented, after all. But not if his dog was home alone. And the
Albanians
knew where he lived.

‘Why are we seeing Mrs Freeman again?’ asked Louise.

‘I want to see just how deaf she is,’ said Dixon.

‘Take the next left,’ said Louise. ‘Whatley Lane. It’s a dead end.’

A large four storey converted mill was visible at the far end. It was built of grey stone, with the top two floors clad in timber, and had retained its large oval doors on the ground floor, although these were now glazed and looked like patio doors. The front entrance was at the side. Dixon parked in the visitors’ parking space, walked over to the low wall on the far side of the car park and looked down at the river.

‘Difficult to imagine it’s caused such bloody havoc lower down.’

‘There’s more rain to come, according to the forecast last night,’ replied Louise.

Dixon shook his head.

‘Let’s get this over with.’

Dixon rang the bell for flat 2 and listened at the small speaker.

‘Yes.’

‘Inspector Dixon to see Mrs Freeman.’

The lock in the glazed front door buzzed so he reached up and grabbed the handle, wrenching it open before the buzzing stopped. The hallway was dark but Dixon could make out a
figure
at the far end silhouetted against a window. She was waving to them.

‘Mrs Freeman?’

‘Joyce. You want Edna. She’s in here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘She’s not too good at the moment. It’s all been a bit of a shock for her, I’m afraid,’ whispered Joyce.

‘Was she insured?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes, and her neighbours were very helpful. Got everything they could upstairs.’

‘They’ve got the pumps working now,’ said Louise. ‘And . . .’

‘She’ll never go back. Not now. Not unless they dredge the river. She’d be too frightened it’d happen again.’

They followed Joyce into her flat and along the corridor to a lounge with a large window overlooking the river. Edna Freeman was sitting in a chair, with a blanket over her legs. The television was on, but she was watching the water swirling past the old mill. Joyce leaned forward and spoke into her left ear.

‘The police are here, Edna.’

She looked up and smiled at Dixon. He fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card.

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Edna, waving it away.

‘Do you think we might turn the television of
f
?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Joyce. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you,’ replied Dixon. ‘This won’t take long.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Joyce.

Dixon turned to Edna. ‘You gave a statement to my colleagues about Christmas Eve?’ he whispered.

Edna Freeman smiled.

‘You’re testing me, aren’t you? If I was ten years younger I’d put you over my knee.’

‘You heard me though, didn’t you?’

‘I did. If there’s no background noise I’m fine.’

‘When you heard the motorbike on Christmas Eve, did you have the telly on?’

‘No.’

‘Radio?’

‘No. I’d been asleep. It was deathly quiet.’

‘What woke you up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me about your husband,’ said Dixon.

‘He loved his motorbikes. I used to ride pillion in the early days but then he had to get a sidecar for me. We went all over Europe once. That was on a Triumph Bonneville.’

‘What other bikes did he have?’

‘It was a BSA 500 when we met, then the Triumph and two Nortons. I’ve still got the last one. He never sold it. It’s in the shed.’

‘All British,’ said Dixon.

‘Of course,’ replied Edna, smiling.

‘Did you ride?’

‘No. Only ever pillion or in the sidecar. I never learned to drive either.’

‘So, the bike you heard that night, was it British?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can tell from the sound of the engine?’

‘Oh, yes. They’re distinctive, like a Rolls Royce Merlin. Not high pitched or tinny like the modern rubbish. And definitely
not a
Harley Davidson.’

Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out four folded pieces of paper. He unfolded them and then flattened them over his thigh. Then he passed the top one to Edna.

‘Do you wear glasses?’

‘Yes, they’re here, dear,’ she said, picking a pair up off the coffee table beside her. She put them on and looked at the piece of paper.

‘It’s a Norton Commando. Do you have any other photos of it?’

Dixon handed her the other photographs. She stared at them one by one.

‘Yes, there we are. Exhausts on both sides. That makes it the
SS type
. If they’re on one side it’s the S type but high level exhausts on both sides is the SS type. The one in my shed is a 1970 Fastback, if it’s not rusted away by now.’

‘Will you be going home?’ asked Dixon.

‘I’d like to see them stop me.’

‘Only your sister said . . .’

‘If she thinks I’m going to sit here staring at that bloody river for the rest of my days, she’s got another think coming!’

‘They don’t make ’em like that anymore,’ said Dixon, walking across to his Land Rover. He was holding his phone to his ear.

‘No, Sir,’ replied Louise.

Dixon turned away. ‘Yes, fine. Put Dave on, will you?’

‘What’ve you got?’

Dixon nodded.

‘Good. Right, Mrs Freeman has identified it as a Norton Commando SS type, so get onto DVLA. You know what we need. For the whole of Torbay. Then contact all of the Norton parts suppliers and local garages. Get a list of everyone they supply parts to. All right?’