Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (22 page)

‘The Vicarage?’

‘Picture a ten year old boy playing cricket in the drive,’ said Dixon, smiling.

‘You?’

‘We must’ve missed Brophy’s place. I’ll turn round.’

They drove back along Rectory Road, peering at the house numbers. Jane was looking out of the passenger window and Dixon, the windscreen. Not easy, despite his wipers on full speed.

‘That must be it,’ said Jane, pointing to a house with high wooden gates and an entry phone on the gatepost.

‘Wait here,’ said Dixon, parking across the drive. ‘I’ll see if he’s in.’

‘We should’ve made an appointment.’

‘Much rather catch him on the hop,’ replied Dixon.

He ran around the front of the Land Rover and rang the buzzer.

‘Yes.’

‘Detective Inspector Dixon to see Mr Brophy.’

‘I’m just going out.’

Dixon waited. A loud sigh came over the intercom, then the gates began to open. Jane jumped out of the Land Rover.

The house was large and modern, with a new Mercedes and a BMW X3 parked outside a built in double garage. It was difficult to tell whether the fountain was on, it was raining that hard, but the koi carp were obvious; large orange and white fish circling just below the surface of the pond in the middle of the front lawn.

Brophy was waiting on the doorstep. He was in his early fifties, with greying hair and an obviously dyed moustache. He’d put on a few pounds too and Dixon hardly recognised him from his
photograph
on the Somerset County Council website.

‘You’d better come in.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon.

The lounge was best described as minimalist. Almost austere. Two white leather sofas, a red rug in front of a white tiled fireplace and nothing on the mantelpiece. No television either. And no
pictures
on the walls.

‘We’re investigating the death of Elizabeth Perry . . .’

‘I know.’

‘How well did you know her?’

‘Not very. Look, I’m sure you know that Tom and I were
opponents
throughout the selection process and when he was selected I took the deliberate decision to step back. Let him get on with it, as it were.’

‘Tell me about the selection process.’

Brophy sat down on the edge of one of the sofas and gestured to Dixon and Jane to sit on the other.

‘It was unfortunate.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Central Office imposed an open primary on us. Bloody waste of time that was. There was a suspicion that Perry stuffed the primary with his supporters and skewed the result.’

‘Where did this suspicion come from?’ asked Dixon.

‘I don’t know.’

‘How could he have done that though? He doesn’t even live in the constituency, does he?’

‘He was campaigning in advance of the meeting . . .’

‘So were you,’ replied Dixon. ‘And that’s allowed under the rules. I checked.’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘Did none of your supporters attend?’

‘They did, of course they did.’

‘Not enough though.’

‘No.’

‘So, whose idea was it to stuff the executive council meeting?’

‘Now, steady on . . .’

Jane smiled. How to win friends and influence people, by
Nick Dixon
. Essential reading.

‘How did you react when Perry won the primary?’ asked Dixon.

‘I was disappointed.’

‘Is it true that you regarded this seat as yours when Kenneth Anderson stood down?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Is it true?’

‘I very much hoped that the local party would recognise my long standing track record of work as a councillor and select
me, yes
.’

‘And you made no secret of that?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So, how did you feel when Tom won?’

‘I felt let down, I suppose,’ replied Brophy. ‘Look, I don’t understand your interest in this. The selection was done and dusted last year.’

‘A concerted effort is made to get rid of Tom Perry, when he’s won the selection fairly and squarely,’ said Dixon, standing up. ‘And then his wife’s murdered.’

‘You can’t seriously think . . .’

Dixon was standing in the front window, looking out at the fish still circling the pond.

‘Let me ask you again, whose idea was it to stuff the executive council meeting?’

Brophy sighed. ‘Mine, but it’s a perfectly legitimate tactic. I just made sure that everyone who supported me and was entitled to be at the meeting went to it and voted.’

‘And Liam Dobbs organised it?’

‘He did.’

‘What then?’

‘Dobbs suggested that I be selected as an emergency measure. At an extraordinary meeting of the executive council.’

‘A shoe in?’

‘If you must.’

‘And that’s when Central Office stepped in?’

‘They did. Perry’s supporters tipped them off.’

‘Perry’s supporters or your opponents?’

‘We make enemies, Inspector. It goes with the territory.’

‘So, leaving aside vanity and ambition . . .’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘My understanding is that most politicians are motivated by vanity and ambition,’ said Dixon. ‘Is that not true?’

‘Some perhaps.’

‘But not you?’

‘No.’

‘What are you motivated by then?’

‘A desire to serve my local community. A sense of duty.’

‘Not money?’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘Tell me about Welmore Holdings Limited.’

‘I’ve never . . .’ Brophy’s voice tailed off. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

‘Never what?’ asked Dixon.

Silence.

‘Never disclosed your financial interest in the company?’

‘No.’ Brophy was staring at the floor in front of him.

‘It was a rousing speech in support of the wind farm you made at the planning committee meeting. I’ve seen the minutes. They even remarked on it at the protest meeting last night.’

‘We have to invest in sustainable . . .’

‘We do. Particularly when your sister owns 50 per cent of a holding company that owns 20 per cent of Westricity.’

Brophy was pulling at a thread on the rug in front of him.

‘And who owns the other half?’ asked Dixon. ‘I don’t recognise the names, so I’m guessing they’re trustees?’

Brophy nodded.

‘And the beneficiaries of the trust?’

‘My children.’

‘So, did Elizabeth Perry find out about this, perhaps?’

‘No,’ snapped Brophy, jumping up. ‘She . . . the two things are completely separate. She couldn’t possibly have known about this.’

Dixon turned to Jane.

‘It used to be called obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception, Constable. That’ll be before your time, though. Now it’s just section 3 of the Fraud Act. Failure to disclose information that you are legally obliged to disclose. Dishonestly, of course.’

‘But the planning application was turned down,’ screamed Brophy.

‘I’m sure the Crown Prosecution Service will take that into account, Mr Brophy,’ replied Dixon.

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘But don’t leave the country. We’ll show ourselves out.’

Dixon paused on the front doorstep, watching the rain bouncing
off the pond.

‘Shall we check his phone and the cars?’ asked Jane. ‘See if either pop up in Bristol or Torquay?’

‘Better had. But it wasn’t him.’

‘What if Elizabeth had found out and been threatening to expose him if he was selected?’

‘Check his bank statements too,’ replied Dixon.

‘Will the CPS prosecute him for fraud?’

‘I doubt it. But one thing’s for sure.’

‘What?’

‘I can feel a resignation coming on.’

‘Aren’t we going home?’

‘No fear. They’re out canvassing today, don’t forget. We’ll be safer at Express Park,’ replied Dixon, turning onto the M5.

And it had been safer. At least until lunchtime, when DCI Lewis caught up with them in the staff canteen. ‘Meeting room two in twenty minutes’ had been the order, which gave Dixon just enough time to give Monty a run in the field behind the police centre.

‘I’ve had the chief super on the phone. Have you been hassling Rod Brophy?’

‘I interviewed Mr Brophy in connection with Elizabeth Perry’s murder, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘And we explored possible motives. Such as his failure to disclose his financial interest in the wind farm at the planning committee.’

‘He says you threatened him.’

Dixon laughed.

‘It’s not a laughing matter.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Dixon. ‘He was behind a determined effort to get rid of Tom Perry, only a matter of weeks before Tom’s wife is murdered. Then we discover he’s got his fingers in the till. Are you telling me we shouldn’t explore whether those two things are connected?’

‘No.’

‘There you are then,’ said Dixon, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.

‘He says you were aggressive.’

‘Was I aggressive,’ asked Dixon, turning to Jane.

‘No, you . . .’

‘You took Jane?’ asked Lewis. ‘What did I tell you about working with Louise?’

‘Brophy’s just up the road from me. I’m hardly gonna drive all the way to Bridgwater to pick up Louise and then drive back again, am I?’

‘Well, you bloody well should’ve done. For this very reason.’

‘And anyway, Louise has got the day off,’ said Dixon.

Lewis shook his head. ‘He’s threatening to sue us if this
gets out
.’

‘Look, we’re doing some checks but we’ve pretty much ruled him out of the murder investigation.’

‘Why?’

‘The only way it works is if Elizabeth found out about his financial interest in Westricity and threatened to expose him. And how likely is that?’

‘Unlikely,’ replied Lewis.

‘It is. Tom won the selection easily when it was rerun,’ said Dixon. ‘There’s more to this than that.’

‘Where does that leave us with Brophy?’

‘Someone’ll have to decide whether to prosecute him for fraud, but even that’s unlikely. I expect when he calms down he’ll just resign quietly and that’ll be that.’

‘What about Elizabeth Perry?’ asked Lewis.

‘No nearer,’ replied Dixon.

‘I gather the Albanians came to see you?’

‘Some bollocks about insurance and the shoemaker goes barefoot.’

‘Make the most of it because that’s all you’re gonna get from them,’ said Lewis.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Zephyr went in there last night and they’ve gone. Cleared out.’

‘Where?’

‘No idea. Tirana, probably.’

‘What about Collyer’s mole?’

‘Disappeared.’

‘Bloody marvellous,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.

‘Did you send a copy of your statement to Collyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what happens now?’ asked Lewis.

‘We start at the beginning and go right back through everything,’ replied Dixon. ‘You don’t pay to have someone killed without good reason. It’ll be there, we just have to find it.’

‘Well, you’ll have to do it without Mark Pearce and Dave Harding, I’m afraid. They’re needed elsewhere.’

‘You’re taking people off the case? Now?’

‘No choice.’

‘What do I tell Tom Perry?’

‘You could try reminding him about the budget cuts?’ replied Lewis, shrugging his shoulders.

Dixon looked at Jane and rolled his eyes.

‘And there’s a memorial service for Elizabeth next Friday at
St Mary’s
.’

‘We’ll be there,’ replied Dixon.

Chapter Twenty

Friday 10 January

T
he water levels were dropping, there was no doubt about that. It may have had something to do with the pumps Dixon could see off to his left as he drove past Huntworth and out towards Moorland. Large plumes of water were spouting from four huge steel pipes, taking the water off the fields and back into the River Parrett. Another eight had been installed at Dunball on the King’s Sedgemoor Drain, all of them brought in from the Netherlands.

How long it would last was a different story. Another band of Atlantic storms was due to sweep in over the weekend. It was still only mid-January, after all. But today the sun was shining, offering a little hope that things might improve. Now all Dixon had to do was find Tom Perry.

‘He’s gone home,’ his father had said. ‘He said he’d be back in time for the funeral.’

Dixon forked left at the bend and drove along the farm track. The road to Moorland was still under water and beyond the village it was still over ten feet deep. Eleven at Northmoor Green. He passed a blue Honda Civic, which had been left in a field gateway just before the track disappeared into the water, much like a jetty at high tide. Perry must have continued on foot.

The line of the track was easy to follow, assuming it was midway between the hedges on either side, and beyond the farmyard it continued up the earth bank and then along the River Parrett behind the farm, curving away towards Northmoor Green. The fields in between were all under water, the lines of the hedges marking their boundaries, and a lone figure was visible in the distance, standing on the riverbank, staring down at Waterside Cottage.

Dixon accelerated along the track. The water was shallow, which was evident from the debris hanging in the hedges on either side; an assortment of plastic bags, a bucket, what was left of several bales of hay and eight dead rabbits. He suspected that the farm slurry tank had overflowed and possibly also the septic tank too. The Land Rover would need another hose down.

He glanced across at the farmhouse as he drove past, the water gently lapping at the letter box, and thought about Mrs Freeman and old Mr Grafton. God knows what would be left of their houses when they eventually got back to them.

The gate at the back of the farmyard was closed but not on the latch, so Dixon edged forward, shunting it open with his bumper rather that than getting wet feet. Once it was clear of the front, he accelerated through the gap, listening to the gate bouncing down the side of the Land Rover. A few more dents to add to the many. Adds a bit of character to the old bus, he thought, as he accelerated up the track, clear of the water, and onto the top of the riverbank.

He watched a dead sheep float past in the current, just visible beneath the waves being whipped up by the wind. Then he accelerated along the track, glancing at the water on either side, to his left the river and below and to his right, submerged fields.

Tom Perry was on his hands and knees by the time that Dixon reached him, his tears leaving tracks in the mud on his cheeks, his fists clenched in the muddy puddle in front of him. Dixon ripped off his black tie and threw it in the back of the Land Rover. Then he jumped out.

‘C’mon, Tom, get up,’ he said, helping him to his feet. ‘You’re wet through.’

‘I tried to get in,’ replied Tom. ‘The water’s too deep.’

Dixon glanced down at the cottage. The high water mark, a line of brown sludge, was a foot or so above the water, making it eleven feet deep and still over first floor level. Several windows on the first floor were broken.

Suddenly, Perry bent down, picked up a stone off the gravel path and hurled it at the cottage, this time shattering a roof tile.

‘I just can’t do it anymore,’ he screamed, dropping to his knees. ‘I just can’t do it.’

‘Yes, you can,’ said Dixon, squatting down in front of him. ‘You can do it for Lizzie.’

‘Putting on a brave face, all the time. You were at the wind farm meeting. I don’t give a toss about the fucking wind farm. My wife’s been murdered, for God’s sake.’

‘You don’t care about the wind farm, Tom, you care about the people. And Lizzie cared about you.’

Perry began to sob, his head bowed. Dixon put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Let it out, Tom. Let it all out.’

Dixon watched Perry sobbing, the sound of the River Parrett swirling past, the wind and the waves drowning out all but the loudest of his screams. He knew how Perry felt. He had been through it seventeen years ago and then again only a few weeks before, when he had finally found Fran. He’d let it out all over again, one quiet afternoon on the beach and with only Monty for company, and now the box was back on its shelf.

Perry would get there too. Dixon would see to it.

‘We can’t even bury her,’ stammered Perry, between sharp intakes of breath. ‘The churchyard’s under water.’

‘You will, Tom. When you’re good and ready, there’ll be a time for that.’

Perry stood up and turned to the river, his back to Waterside Cottage. He was breathing hard and watching the water racing past.

‘Every day I wake up. Then I remember. And I go through it all over again. Every bloody morning.’

‘Here’s what you do,’ said Dixon. ‘You put all the memories in a box, close it and put it somewhere safe. In a corner at the back of your mind. Then when the time’s right, and you can face it, you open the box.’

Perry nodded and did his best to raise a smile.

‘Whenever you feel like it,’ continued Dixon. ‘Privately and when it’s just you. These are your memories and yours alone.’

‘What about the rest of the time?’

‘You put on your brave face and make Lizzie proud of you.’

‘What about your box of memories?’

‘It’s safely tucked away.’

‘D’you open it?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘Sometimes.’

Perry smiled.

‘I’ll need to tell my landlord about the broken windows.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘Vandals everywhere these days. The insurance’ll cover it.’

‘What did you want?’ asked Perry. ‘You never said.’

‘It can wait,’ replied Dixon. ‘C’mon, let’s get you home.’

Dixon followed Perry to his parents’ bungalow and then drove back to Express Park. He had a couple of hours before the memorial service at 2 p.m.

‘This was floating around, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘Is it yours?’

She handed Dixon a brown envelope marked HM Courts and Tribunal Service.

‘What is it?’

‘A grant of probate for a Mrs Wendy Gibson.’

‘Yes, that’s mine, thanks.’

Dixon sat down at a vacant workstation next to Jane.

‘All right?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jane. ‘How was he?’

‘Not good.’

‘You were ages.’

‘I found him on the riverbank at Northmoor Green. Soaked to the skin. He’d tried to get into the cottage.’

‘What for?’

‘Not sure he knew. Anyway, I took him home.’

Jane smiled.

‘Anything interesting?’ asked Dixon, watching Jane staring at her screen.

‘No.’

He slid the grant of probate out of the envelope while he waited for his computer to start.

‘IN THE HIGH COURT OF JUSTICE

The District Probate Registry at Bristol

Be it known that WENDY MAY GIBSON

of Stickland Barn Muchelney Somerset TA10 2HE

died on the 25th March 1994

domiciled in England and Wales’

Dixon glanced down at the executors, both at the same address and probably solicitors. Then he turned the page and looked at the will. It was short at only three paragraphs and dated 1991, over three years before her murder. The partners at the date of her death in the firm of Dolley & Freer Solicitors, 10 Market Place, Somerton, were appointed her executors and her entire estate was divided equally between the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the Friends of Bristol Horses Society. The will had been signed in the presence of two witnesses, both of whom gave their occupations as clerks and their address as 10 Market Place, Somerton.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jane.

‘Just something on that cold case.’

‘Didn’t you hand that back?’

‘No,’ replied Dixon, opening a web browser. A quick search of Google confirmed that Dolley & Freer were still there, although only one of the executors named on the grant of probate was still a partner in the firm.

‘A word, if I may?’

Dixon looked up from his screen to see DCI Lewis waving at him, so he followed him to a seating area at the end of the landing, overlooking the atrium.

‘Getting anywhere?’ asked Lewis.

‘At the moment we’re sifting . . .’

‘Cut the flannel.’

‘No.’

‘Only the chief con is getting a bit jumpy.’

‘Aren’t we all.’

‘Questions are being asked, Nick, and we can’t answer them because of the news blackout on the Torquay end. That leaves us with our only suspect washing up dead at Brean Down. We’re not looking too clever, are we?’

‘I’m not sure I can . . .’

‘And the longer it goes on the worse it gets,’ continued Lewis. ‘The press are having a field day.’

Dixon sighed.

‘I know you wanted to speak to the Albanians,’ said Lewis.

‘They wouldn’t have told me anything more than they already have done, even if Zephyr’d got ’em in custody.’

‘Have you got anywhere with the insurance thing?’ asked Lewis.

‘No. I’d like to have a look around the bookmakers though.’

‘It’d been cleaned out,’ said Lewis, shaking his head. ‘Nothing. Not even a fingerprint.’

‘We’ll just have to take a bit of bad publicity on the chin then, won’t we, Sir?’

‘Vicky Thomas is keen to do a press conference.’

‘We need some news for that, surely?’ asked Dixon.

‘Talking of news,’ said Lewis, ‘I thought you might like to see this.’ He handed Dixon a rolled up newspaper. ‘Today’s
Bridgwater Mercury
.’

Dixon looked at the headline.

‘Councillor Brophy resigns.’

‘Twat,’ muttered Dixon, dropping the newspaper into a rubbish bin as he walked back along the landing.

Louise dropped Dixon and Jane off in St Mary’s Street, Bridgwater, just after 1.30 p.m. and they waited just inside the churchyard, sheltering under an umbrella beside a large fir tree.

‘Do we have to wait out here?’ asked Jane. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘I want to see who files past, their faces, and I want to hear what they’re saying.’

‘You don’t think her killer will come, do you?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s someone close. Someone who has to come, because it would look odd if they didn’t.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘We’ve spent days going through all of Tom’s political campaigning and come up with nothing. None of it explains why Elizabeth was killed rather than Tom. So it must be
something else
.’

‘You mean we’ve wasted . . . ?’

‘Of course we haven’t,’ said Dixon, glancing over his shoulder. Louise was parked in Cornhill, photographing all of the mourners arriving at the church.

‘What else then?’ asked Jane.

‘No idea,’ said Dixon, looking up at the church spire. ‘I was hoping for some divine intervention.’

A group of twenty or so people, led by Barbara Sumner, filed through the ornate iron gates. She saw Dixon and turned to her husband, whispering in his ear. Behind her, Dixon recognised the agent, Lawrence Deakin, and the area campaign director, Barry Dossett, Liam Dobbs and most of the Conservative councillors on Sedgemoor District and Somerset County councils.

‘That’s Tom’s local ward committee,’ said Jane, pointing to a smaller group following behind. ‘Moorland and Northmoor Green. You’ve seen their statements.’

‘No sign of Rod Brophy,’ said Dixon.

‘Are you surprised?’

‘No.’

Behind them came several people Dixon had seen at the wind farm protest meeting, including the chairman, then Tom Perry’s opponents in the by-election, Vanessa Hunt, and the Labour candidate, Ben Holland. Nice touch that.

‘Shame to miss a photo opportunity,’ said Jane.

‘When did you become such a cynic?’ asked Dixon.