Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (17 page)

Dixon leaned over the handrail and looked in the window to the right of the door. It was a bathroom. On the left was a bedroom. Then he walked back along the footbridge and down the steps. He was halfway down when the floodlight went out.

‘Louise!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He watched the beam of the torch waving about in the dark like an old searchlight and then the floodlight came back on.

‘Spooky, isn’t it?’ said Louise, handing Dixon the torch.

‘The overhanging trees don’t help.’

He shone the torch in the kitchen window. Then the window to the left of the door. It was the dining room, although the table itself was only just visible beneath a large collection of porcelain
figurines
. The mantelpiece and the shelves either side of the
fireplace
on the far wall were also covered in figurines.

‘An antique dealer?’ asked Louise.

‘Could be,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Dale Reed.’

Dixon crouched down, opened the letter box and shone the torch into the hall.

‘It’s the back door.’

‘What can you see?’ asked Louise.

‘Shelves on the left. Cleaning stuff. Kitchen on the right. Coats and boots hanging up. Usual sort of stuff.’

‘Shall we try round the front?’

They followed the path along the back of the house and then around to the front. The path opened out onto a large patio, giving a grandstand view right across Torbay to Berry Head.

‘That explains it,’ said Dixon.

‘What?’

‘The attraction. It’s a bit of a dump from the back, isn’t it?’ He was shining the torch through the large patio doors into the living room.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Louise.

‘What?’

‘The light’s gone out again.’

‘C’mon, let’s see if we can find that bike.’

They walked up the second flight of steps to the garage. Dixon tried the door. It was locked. He shone the torch through the frosted glass window at the back of the garage but could not see a
motorcycle
, or anything much for that matter.

Louise had managed to get the floodlight to come back on and was looking down the side of the garage.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘What’s this?’

Dixon handed her the torch, which she shone down the side between the garage and the front wall. Then she reached in and began pulling at a tarpaulin.

‘It’s a bike.’

The gap was narrow. Just wide enough for a bike and the tarpaulin slid off to reveal a Norton, or rather the skeleton of
a Norton
. The headlight was smashed and the fuel tank had gone. Not only that, but there was no exhaust pipe at all, let alone one on either side.

‘This hasn’t moved for years,’ said Louise.

‘Can you see a number plate?’

‘There is one, but I can’t read it from here.’

Dixon took the torch and walked around to the back of the garage. Then he shone the torch down the side.

‘B83 ERD,’ he said.

‘That’s it,’ replied Louise.

‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ said Dixon.

They stopped to give Monty a run on Babbacombe Downs and arrived back at Express Park just before 6 p.m. Jane and Dave
Harding
had caught them up on the M5 at Taunton and followed them the rest of the way.

‘Anything interesting?’ asked Dixon, as they walked across the car park.

‘No,’ replied Harding. ‘The last one was at Marldon, just off the ring road. A roadworthy SS type. The two exhausts and everything.’

‘Really?’ asked Louise.

‘Yes,’ replied Jane. ‘We got quite excited until we found out the owner died of cancer in November.’

‘Who did you speak to?’ asked Dixon, holding open the door.

‘His wife. Pancreatic. Took six weeks.’

‘And no one else rides the bike?’

‘No.’

‘Did you check it over?’

‘I had a quick look,’ replied Dave. ‘Couldn’t see anything.’

Dixon nodded.

‘You two might as well head off,’ he said. ‘Enjoy what’s left of New Year’s Eve.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

Jane waited until Dave Harding and Louise had gone.

‘Bit of wild goose chase then?’ she asked.

‘That’s a good idea,’ replied Dixon, smiling.

‘What is?’

‘A bottle of wine and watch
The Wild Geese
.’

‘You have got to be kidding.’

It had been a long night. Jane had insisted on sitting up until midnight and then fireworks had kept Dixon and Monty awake for another half an hour after that. Jane had slept through them, of course, and was still asleep now, despite a prod in the ribs.

It was just after 8 a.m. on New Year’s Day and Dixon was standing in his kitchen watching Monty eating his breakfast. His walk in the field had been curtailed by rain and it looked set for the day, judging by the thick blanket of grey cloud. Still, it offered plenty of time for some background research into Perry’s political campaigning.

Dixon was waiting for the kettle to boil when he heard his phone ringing. He fumbled in his back pocket and then looked at the screen, recognising the number straight away.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘We’re getting reports of a body in Moorland. It’s in the garage of a bungalow. A lad was out in his canoe and looked in the
window
.’

‘Canoe?’

‘Yes. The dive boat’s on the way but it’ll be a while before we can get out there.’

‘Address?’

‘It’s 17 Church Street.’

‘Do we know who lives there?’

‘Harry,’ replied DCI Lewis. ‘Harry Unwin.’

Chapter Fifteen

J
ane was tying her hair up in a ponytail as Dixon turned out of Brent Knoll and sped south on the A38. It was less than
five minutes
after DCI Lewis had telephoned and it was not the start to New Year’s Day she had been hoping for.

‘Do we know if it’s Harry?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Dixon. ‘Some kid was out in his canoe and saw a body hanging in the garage. That’s all we know.’

‘If it is Harry . . .’ Jane’s voice tailed off and neither of them spoke again until they were going over the M5 at Huntworth.

‘When does the tenant move into your flat?’ asked Dixon.

‘End of January. But we’ve got to clear it first.’

‘Might be an idea if we stayed there for a while.’

Jane nodded and turned back to the passenger window, watching the fields on the nearside disappear under the floodwater.

Dixon turned into the farm gateway on the bend just outside Moorland. It had been dry on his previous visit but was now under
two or
three inches of water. He spotted Roger Poland’s Volvo and two police Land Rovers, neither of them fitted with snorkels. He
pulled up
next to Poland and a group of uniformed officers that included PC Cole.

‘How long till the dive boat gets here?’ asked Dixon, winding down the window.

‘We were told about two hours, Sir,’ replied Cole. ‘But that was half an hour or so ago.’

‘That’s no bloody good.’

Cole shrugged his shoulders.

‘You got here quick, Roger,’ said Dixon.

‘It’s only one junction on the motorway.’

‘Hop in then,’ said Dixon. ‘Let’s see if I fitted this snorkel properly.’

Poland walked around to the back of the Land Rover and opened the door.

‘And you, Cole. The rest of you can stay here.’

Monty jumped over the seat and sat on the front seat next to Jane. Dixon leaned over and put his lead on, then he opened the door and let him jump out.

‘I’ll put him in the back of one of the Land Rovers, Sir,’ said Cole. ‘This lot’ll keep an eye on him. Won’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon waited until Cole had jumped in the back of the Land Rover and then turned out of the car park.

‘Who fitted the snorkel?’ asked Poland.

‘He did,’ replied Jane.

‘You did use silicon, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ said Poland.

‘This is the second time you’re going to get wet on my account, Cole. Thank you.’

‘You’d have done the same for me, Sir,’ replied Cole.

‘Right, here goes,’ said Dixon, accelerating along the lane. The water rose up in front of the Land Rover and the bow wave was soon washing over the bonnet.

‘Slow down,’ said Poland.

‘We need a bit of a bow wave,’ replied Dixon. ‘It keeps the water away from the doors.’

He eased off the accelerator and the bow wave receded but the water was getting deeper fast. They were no more than two hundred yards from the field gateway but it was almost level with the top of the front wing and well over the air intake. Then it began bubbling up under the back door.

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

‘We get rescued off the roof by the dive boat,’ replied Poland.

‘And you get the piss taken out of you for weeks, Sir,’ said Cole.

‘Thank you, Cole,’ replied Dixon, accelerating again. The bow wave was washing over the bonnet now and dirty water was trickling into the passenger compartment.

‘What’s that smell?’ asked Jane.

‘Slurry.’

‘Mixed with oil,’ said Poland.

‘If it gets much deeper we’ll start to float,’ said Cole.

‘It gets shallower as you go into Moorland, I’m sure it does,’ said Dixon.

‘He’s making it up as he’s going along,’ said Poland.

Dixon felt the steering becoming lighter and the Land Rover began turning sideways. He turned the wheel to the left, trying to straighten it up, and gunned the engine.

‘We’re floating,’ said Jane.

‘We’ll have to let the water in to sink us,’ said Poland.

‘No bloody fear.’

Suddenly the wheels hit the road surface again and the Land Rover lurched forward. Dixon eased off the accelerator and straightened it up, before accelerating again. They felt the Land Rover beginning to rise up and the water level started to drop away. Bungalows appeared on either side of the road.

‘We’re in Moorland,’ said Cole.

‘How deep’s the water?’ asked Poland.

‘A couple of feet,’ replied Dixon, looking out of the driver’s side window.

Poland opened the back door of the Land Rover, allowing the small amount of water still in the passenger compartment to drain away.

‘We didn’t even get our feet wet,’ said Dixon. ‘Right, let’s find number 17.’

‘It’s the other side of the church,’ said Cole. ‘On the right hand side.’

Dixon crept forward, but the water was no more than knee deep now. It was up to the level of the wooden seat in the lychgate and seemed to shallow off still further beyond the church. He stopped across the drive of number 17 and Poland opened the back door and jumped out, carrying his bag.

‘Is the exhaust clear of the water, Roger?’ shouted Dixon.

‘Yes.’

Dixon revved the engine several times and then switched it off.

‘I’ll go back in the boat,’ said Jane.

The water was over their wellington boots.

‘My trousers are soaked anyway,’ said Cole, splashing up the drive. ‘This way, Sir.’

They followed PC Cole along the side of the bungalow to the garage, which was set back, adjacent to the garden. Dixon looked in through the window. The body was silhouetted against the light from a window at the back of the garage, the head tilted to one side, but the figure was unmistakeable. Dixon turned to Jane.

‘It’s Harry.’

He put on a pair of latex gloves and then tried the side door. It was unlocked but needed a firm push to open it against the water on the inside. Cole followed and reached up for the light switch.

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Dixon.

Cole nodded.

What little light there was came from the small window at the back of the garage and the open door. Dixon stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Harry Unwin was hanging from a ceiling rafter near the front of a small red car, his feet dangling in the water. The bonnet of the car was dented, presumably where he had been thrashing about on the end of the rope, kicking out as his life drained away. Poland and Jane waded into the garage and the movement of the water started Unwin’s body swinging backwards and forwards.

Unwin’s facial features were visible to Dixon, now that his vision had adjusted to the light. Unwin’s eyes were wide open,
bulging
even, and his tongue was hanging out. He was fully clothed, and his hands were at his sides. Not bound.

‘Over to you, Roger.’

Poland stepped forward and shone a torch in Unwin’s face. Then he looked at his hands and wrists.

‘Can’t see any sign of restraint or other injury.’

‘Time?’ asked Dixon.

‘Days certainly.’

‘Who checked this place?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head.

‘Someone came out in a boat, Sir,’ said Cole, ‘but it couldn’t get down the side here.’

‘The water’s hardly deep . . .’

Poland was feeling about in the water underneath Unwin with his foot.

‘Here it is,’ he said, picking up a small plastic kick stool. ‘This is what he stood on.’

‘How the hell did he get here?’ asked Dixon. ‘Look at the trouble we had.’

‘He’d never have got through in that car,’ said Cole.

‘That’s not his car,’ replied Jane. ‘He had a VW like mine.’

‘Run the plates. See what we get,’ said Dixon.

‘My guess is it’ll be his daughter’s,’ said Jane.

‘He’s got kids?’

‘Two.’

‘Wife?’

‘Divorced.’

They stood listening to the rain falling outside and watching Poland examine Unwin. His body was turning on the rope now. Spinning.

Dixon turned away when PC Cole’s radio crackled.

‘Dive boat’s on its way, Sir. They’re about an hour away.’

‘Good.’

‘And the car is registered to Dawn Unwin. This address.’

‘That’s the daughter,’ said Jane.

‘Why on earth would he kill himsel
f
?’ asked Cole.

Jane looked at Dixon, expecting an answer but none came. He was looking around the garage, deep in thought, and she knew better than to disturb him. Then he turned and waded across to the back door of the bungalow. It was open. He checked every room, with PC Cole close behind him.

‘What’re you looking for?’ shouted Jane. She was leaning against the sink in the kitchen.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I didn’t see a suicide note,’ said Cole.

‘There won’t be one because he didn’t commit suicide,’ said Dixon, watching Jane opening the kitchen cupboards one by one.

‘How d’you know that, Sir?’ asked Cole.

‘Dunno,’ replied Dixon, through gritted teeth.

‘Shall we ask Mr Poland?’

‘He’ll tell us it’s a suicide.’

‘How . . . ?’

‘Because it looks like one, Cole,’ said Dixon. ‘Just like Georgina Harcourt. Remember her, Jane?’

‘The racing stables?’

‘That’s it. The overdose . . .’

‘You had no evidence of foul play,’ said Jane.

‘Still haven’t.’

Poland appeared in the back door.

‘My feet are freezing.’

‘Well?’

‘Looks like a suicide but I’ll know more when I cut him down and get him back to the lab.’

‘Shall we get SOCO over here?’ asked Jane.

‘Better had,’ said Dixon, ‘but they won’t find anything.’

Dixon moved his Land Rover forward to allow the large black boat into the drive. It was flat bottomed and resembled a large skip, but the water was still too shallow so the outboard motor had been lifted clear. It was being pulled along by two members of the underwater search team wading either side of it. They were wearing wetsuits and bright orange lifejackets. Sitting in the boat were the scientific services officer, Donald Watson, DCI Lewis, two mortuary technicians from Musgrove Park, and DCS Collyer from the organised crime team in Bristol known as Zephyr.

‘I’ve just been hearing about your stint as a trainee teacher, Dixon,’ said Collyer, stepping over the side of the boat. He was wearing a pair of fishing waders, which Dixon eyed with a sense of envy, all feeling in his feet having left him over an hour ago.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘My offer of a place on Zephyr still stands.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ replied Dixon, noticing Lewis glaring at him.

Collyer’s presence confirmed what he already knew. Deep down. Harry Unwin had been mixed up with the Albanians and he’d paid the price.

Dixon followed Lewis and Collyer along the side of the garage and waited outside while they went in.

‘No way for him to die,’ said Collyer, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the daylight.

‘He was . . .’

‘It’s not what you think, Nick,’ said Lewis.

‘He gave the Albanians my home address.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Collyer. ‘He was feeding them false information.’

‘What?’

‘He gave them an empty property in East Brent. Took a
huge risk
.’

‘The Albanians found you anyway, Nick,’ said Lewis. ‘But it wasn’t Harry.’

‘But you said . . .’

‘I know what I said,’ snapped Lewis.

‘He didn’t know,’ said Collyer. ‘Nobody outside Zephyr did.’

‘And Harry was part of Zephyr?’ asked Dixon.

Collyer nodded.

Dixon looked past Collyer and through the open door at
the body
of Harry Unwin, silhouetted against the back window
of the
garage and swinging slowly from side to side. Seldom had he misjudged anyone more. He prided himself on being an excellent judge of character and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had got it wrong. But this time he had got it spectacularly wrong. He looked at Lewis, who shook his head, and then back to Unwin. Pride comes before a fall, as his mother had always reminded him. And this felt like a long fall.

‘He gave them the wrong address?’