Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (23 page)

‘It’s living with you.’

‘C’mon, we’ll wait inside,’ said Dixon, gesturing towards a large white van that had pulled up on the other side of St Mary’s Street. It had a large satellite dish on the roof and two men were unloading cameras from the back.

‘Is nothing sacred?’ asked Jane.

‘Nothing,’ replied Dixon.

They sat down at the back of the church and watched the families filing along the aisle. His and hers, Tom Perry at the back of the group, with the vicar.

‘He’s holding it together well,’ whispered Jane.

‘It’s an act,’ replied Dixon. Then he felt Jane holding his hand.

‘Welcome to this memorial service when we celebrate the life of Elizabeth Grace Perry, beloved wife, daughter and sister.’

Dixon spent much of the next fifteen minutes or so watching the congregation, singing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’
and then
in prayer. Some sang, some didn’t, some knelt to
pray and
others leaned forward, pretending to kneel, either because they didn’t believe or perhaps they just suffered from arthritis. It was a familiar scene and one that Dixon would have to face again soon, when Fran was laid to rest at long last. And he would put on an act, just like Tom Perry was doing now. After all, it’s what you do, isn’t it?

‘And now Tom would like to say a few words.’

Perry stood up. He hesitated and then turned to his mother, sitting to his left.

‘It’s OK, Mum. Really. I want to.’

He stepped up onto the chancel and turned to face the congregation. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

‘She was my . . .’ A sharp intake of breath. ‘She was my life. All of you here knew her so I don’t need to tell you what a beautiful, sincere, caring person she was, do I?’

‘No.’

‘That was her mother,’ whispered Jane.

Perry smiled down at the front row of the congregation.

‘We met at a friend’s wedding twelve years ago and they have quite simply been the happiest twelve years of my life. It remains a mystery to me why she chose me, but she did and I will always be thankful for that.’

More sharp intakes of breath.

‘We were never apart. When I broke my neck she never left my bedside. Six weeks that was. And when she was diagnosed with diabetes and we nearly lost her. But she was determined to live. She was a fighter.’ Perry smiled. ‘Then we realised it was her insulin and she . . . she lived life to the full after that. She was always doing something and it always seemed to be for someone else.’

Perry bowed his head and started to sob. The vicar stepped forward and put her arm around him.

‘We did everything together and the prospect of doing everything without her is too horrible to contemplate, but as a man I now count amongst my friends said to me this morning, “Put on a brave face and make her proud of you.” And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to do it for you, Lizzie.’

Elizabeth’s mother stood up and helped him back to his pew.

Dixon spent the next fifteen minutes thinking about his meeting that morning with Tom on the banks of the River Parrett, overlooking Northmoor Green. He had gone to tell him, to reassure him, that he was still looking for Lizzie’s killer, but he never got the chance to say it. Perhaps what he had said would prove more useful to Tom.

Dixon and Jane had been first out of the church and had walked around the side to Louise’s car, parked in Cornhill, avoiding the TV news cameras. They were back at Express Park ten minutes later.

‘I’m just popping over to Somerton. I’ll see you at home,’ said Dixon, walking over to his Land Rover.

‘What’s in Somerton?’

Jane got a wave rather than the reply she had been expecting, but Dixon was not going to tell her his theory about the cold case. It was a little too close to home.

He parked in the loading bay outside Dolley & Freer
Solicitors
in Somerton just after 4 p.m. It was a grey stone terrace with flags fluttering from a pub at the far end. Each property had black painted railings outside and a stone entrance porch with pillars either side. There was even an entryphone, so Dixon pressed the buzzer and, to his surprise, it buzzed straight away.

‘What’s the point of an entryphone if you don’t ask who it is?’ asked Dixon, smiling at the receptionist.

‘Oh,’ replied the receptionist, ‘we had a difficult client but he’s dead now. Can I help you?’

‘Is Mr Bulman in?’

‘Who may I say is here to see him?’

‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Avon and Somerset Police.’

‘I’ll be back in a second,’ said the receptionist, getting up from her chair. ‘Take a seat.’

She reappeared seconds later.

‘This way, please.’

Dixon followed her along a dark corridor to a room at the back of the building, overlooking the garden.

‘How can I help you, Inspector?’

‘Stephen Bulman?’ asked Dixon, holding out his warrant card.

‘Yes.’

‘You were an executor of the estate of the late Wendy Gibson.’

‘I’m an executor of lots of estates, Inspector. When was it?’

‘Probate was granted in 1995.’

‘God, no, I can’t remember that far back.’

‘I hoped you might remember this case. She was murdered in a field behind her house in Muchelney.’

Bulman slumped back into his chair.

‘I do remember that case, yes, of course I do.’

‘What do you remember?’

‘Not a huge amount. I was an executor with John Greenslade, but he’s since retired. The administration would’ve been done by our probate clerk, Margaret Hall. She does three days a week. Whole lot went to charity, from memory.’

‘D’you still have your file?’

‘I can check but we usually destroy them after fifteen years.’

Dixon took the grant of probate out of his pocket and unfolded it.

‘Did you make her will?’

‘That was our clerk,’ said Bulman, looking at the signatures of the witnesses. ‘Ken Belworthy. Died now, I’m afraid. He was in his eighties then.’

‘What about the will file?’

‘Those we keep forever, but when someone dies the will file gets put with the probate file and is then destroyed with it. Should do anyway, but it doesn’t always happen.’

‘Can you have a look, please?’

‘Yes, certainly. You hang on here,’ said Bulman, getting up from his desk.

Dixon was standing in the window, looking out at the garden. Overgrown was the best word to describe it. The office was much the same, with every available space, including the mantelpiece, covered in piles of files, some of them covered in a thick layer of dust. Even the windowsill had a pile of files on it, the elastic band around each having perished in the sun and broken, the ends dangling down. He thought about the day he qualified as a solicitor; the same day he left to join the police. It had been a lucky escape. No doubt about that.

Stephen Bulman reappeared carrying two small index cards.

‘These were in the archives,’ he said. ‘The probate file was destroyed in 2011, I’m afraid, and the will file went with it.’

‘Shame,’ said Dixon.

‘It’s not all bad news,’ replied Bulman. ‘This was in “deeds out”.’ He was holding up the other index card. ‘It says the
deeds came
over from Lester Hodson in Bridgwater, so if they were holding the deeds when she died, they may have been holding an old will too.’

Dixon stopped to give Monty a run on the beach on the way home. The tide was out and the flashing lights from the amusement arcade cast just enough light to enable Dixon to pick out a large
white Staffie
in the darkness. That and the moonlight. A break from the incessant rain and a clear night sky. It was quite a novelty.

He took out his phone and sent Jane a text message.

on beach outside clarence fancy a bag of chips? N x

The reply came before he had put his phone back in his pocket.

on way x

He took his insulin pen out of his pocket and dialled up the correct number of units for his evening injection, using the light from his phone. Half an hour before mealtimes, even if it was just a bag of chips. Then he took the cap off and pressed the needle into his stomach through his shirt. He winced. Must have
caught a
nerve. An occupational hazard. When he pulled the needle out a tiny drop of blood appeared on his shirt where he had done it. He stared at it. Then he stared at his insulin pen, reflecting all the colours of the rainbow in the lights from the arcade.

Insulin.

Life saving for him, but it had nearly killed Elizabeth Perry. Those were Tom’s words. But he was only half right.

Chapter Twenty-One

D
ixon was halfway up the steps when Jane appeared at the top.

‘I was just getting off the motorway,’ she said. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’

‘I need to get to a computer.’

‘I know that look.’

‘You do.’

Dixon bundled Monty into the back of the Land Rover and then sped off north along the seafront. Jane followed. They arrived home in Brent Knoll in under five minutes.

‘Shall I feed him?’ asked Jane, letting Monty out of the back of the Land Rover.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Dixon, fumbling with his keys at the back door.

He ran in, switched on the lights and then slid his laptop out from under the television stand.

‘What is it then?’ shouted Jane, from the kitchen.

‘Insulin. You heard him say it at the church.’

‘He didn’t say what, though.’

‘He’s mentioned it before. He said her insulin nearly killed her.’

‘But he hasn’t run any campaigns about insulin.’

‘Give me a minute.’

Dixon opened Google and typed ‘Tom Perry’ into the search field. Then he hit ‘Enter’ and started scrolling through the results.

‘Tea?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes, please.’

The sound of his heart pounding in his ears was drowned out by a metal food bowl being pushed around the kitchen floor.

‘Did you do your jab?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes.’

‘You’d better have something to eat.’

He had reached page ten when he noticed Jane standing next to him, holding a mug in each hand.

‘I’ve seen it, only it never made any sense before,’ said Dixon.

Then he added the word ‘insulin’ to the search string and hit ‘Enter’. The very last result at the bottom of the page was the one he was looking for.

‘There it is,’ said Dixon. ‘The fight to save my life,
Surrey Comet
, January last year. That’s before Tom was selected.’

‘Open it,’ said Jane.

‘A Surrey diabetic fears her quality of life will be devastated because the insulin she uses may not be available for much longer,’ said Dixon, reading from the screen. ‘Elizabeth Perry thought she was going to die when she had an adverse reaction to the human form of the medication.’

‘That must be what he was talking about.’

‘It must,’ replied Dixon. ‘In only a few months, Mrs Perry, 32, went from an active, outgoing woman, to a virtual bedridden recluse,’ continued Dixon. ‘But then she saw an advert in the
Comet
promoting animal insulin and realised there was a choice of medication.’

‘Did you know there was a choice?’ asked Jane.

‘No,’ said Dixon. ‘I was just put on the human stuff. But then I haven’t had any problems with it.’

‘Scroll down,’ said Jane. ‘Now she fears the life-changing animal insulin will soon not be available.’

Dixon shook his head. ‘Swedish company, Betalin Pharmaceuticals
, has indicated that it is considering withdrawing supplies. The company currently supplies half of the 30,000 diabetics on animal insulin. The company has already stopped production for America, Canada and parts of Europe.’

‘What’s that all about then?’ asked Jane.

‘Money.’

‘Scroll down. Maybe we should have a word with her,’ said Jane,
pointing at the screen. ‘Penny Thurstan, from the Insulin Dependent
Diabetes Trust, said, “It’s bad enough having diabetes, but to live in fear that you may not have the medicine to keep you feeling all right, I think is beyond reason”.’

‘And her,’ said Dixon, pointing lower down the screen. ‘Dr Ann McConnell, medical director at Betalin UK, told the
Comet
that no decision had been taken.’

‘Does it mention Tom?’ asked Jane.

‘Here. “Mrs Perry and her husband, Tom, are calling on the government to safeguard the supply of animal insulin . . .”’

‘And he’s on the brink of being part of the government.’

‘Exactly,’ said Dixon. ‘Take away his reason to pursue it, just when it looks like he’s gonna get elected.’

‘There’s a related story,’ said Jane. ‘Life saving insulin to be withdrawn.’

‘February last year,’ said Dixon, clicking on the link. ‘A leading politician is taking up the case of a Surrey diabetic who fears her life is as good as over if the type of insulin she needs is withdrawn. Mrs Perry, whose husband Tom is hoping to be a Tory candidate at the next election, is being backed by health minister, Tim Sheldon.’

‘There, look, you were right,’ said Jane.

‘What?’

‘The company’s medical director, Dr Ann McConnell, has already said that in the UK it works out cheaper for the NHS to buy animal insulin than human insulin. Dr McConnell refused to comment on how much it cost her company to manufacture human insulin, saying that it was commercially sensitive.’ Jane frowned at Dixon. ‘I don’t get it. Why are so few diabetics on animal insulin, if it’s cheaper?’

‘It must be about the money,’ said Dixon, slamming the lid of his laptop shut and standing up.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Jane.

‘To see Tom.’

‘But it was the memorial service today,’ said Jane, frowning.

‘Yeah, you’re right. We can catch up with him tomorrow.’

‘Are you coming to bed?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Twoish,’ replied Jane. ‘What’s that you’re looking at?’ She was standing behind Dixon, peering over his shoulder. He was sitting on the sofa, with his laptop on his knee and Monty stretched out asleep beside him.

‘When this is over, remind me to go and see my bloody doctor, will you?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not human insulin at all. It’s synthetic, produced in a giant vat by genetically modified bacteria.’

‘Sounds disgusting.’

‘You’re not the one pumping it into your system four times
a day.’

‘Rather you than me, Gunga Din.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What’s that website?’

‘The Insulin Dependent Diabetes Trust. None of this stuff was ever discussed with me. I was just told, “Sorry to tell you, old chap, you’re diabetic. Here’s your insulin.”’

‘Was that it?’

‘Well, there was a bit more to it than that, but I was never told I had a choice of insulin.’

‘Do they have to tell you?’

‘They’re supposed to.’

‘What’s the other stuff then?’

‘Pork or beef insulin, extracted from the pancreas of animals slaughtered for meat and then refined.’

‘Don’t like the sound of that either,’ said Jane.

‘The point is people react to the different insulins in different ways. It says here that some people are allergic to the human stuff.’

‘You’re not though, are you?’

‘No, but what about Elizabeth Perry?’

Dixon parked across the drive of the bungalow in St John’s Road, Burnham, and watched Tom Perry talking to the elderly residents on the doorstep. It was an animated conversation, but then Perry must have known it would be. The ‘VOTE UKIP’ poster in the window was a bit of a giveaway. Nevertheless, they parted friends, Tom shaking hands with both of them before walking back along the garden path, his large blue rosette blowing in the wind.

Dixon reached over and pushed open the passenger door of his Land Rover.

‘Get in.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Tom.

‘For a walk.’

‘A walk?’

‘Call it therapy,’ replied Dixon. ‘You got a dog?’

‘No.’

‘You should get one. There’s nothing like a walk on the
beach . . .
’

‘. . . in the wind and the rain,’ said Perry.

‘Away from prying eyes and ears,’ continued Dixon.

Perry nodded.

‘I should let my team know where I am,’ he said.

‘We’ll only be half an hour,’ replied Dixon.

They drove in silence along Berrow Road, then Coast Road, past the golf course and out onto Berrow Beach.

‘This is where they found that burnt out car with the . . .’ Perry stopped when he noticed Dixon looking at him. ‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you got who did it?’

‘Got stabbed for my trouble but, yes, I got ’em.’

Dixon parked facing out to sea and then let Monty out of the back of the Land Rover. He set off south towards Burnham, Dixon following.

‘Looks like we’re going that way.’

‘Aren’t you going to lock the car?’

‘No. Someone might nick it,’ said Dixon. ‘Be doing me a favour, but don’t tell Jane that.’

‘Jane?’

‘Constable Winter. We’re an . . . we’re together.’

‘I didn’t think that sort of thing was allowed in the police?’ asked Perry, running to catch up with Dixon.

‘It’s not. We’ve not been together long but seem to have got away with it so far.’

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘When I was sitting in your kitchen the other day you said that Lizzie’s insulin nearly killed her. Then you mentioned it again yesterday, at the memorial service.’

Perry stopped. Dixon turned and watched the water running down his face, only this time it was rain.

‘God, that’s not what this is about, is it?’ asked Perry.

‘I don’t know yet,’ said Dixon.

‘But we . . . I haven’t done anything about that for months. Not since I was selected.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not exactly a local issue, is it? And I’ve been campaigning on local issues. I got one of our MPs to ask a couple of questions in the House, but that’s it.’

‘And when you’re elected?’

‘Then I’m gonna go after the . . .’ Perry’s voice tailed off. He turned and slumped down onto a tree stump that had been washed up on the high tide.

Dixon waited.

‘That is what this is about, isn’t it?’ asked Perry, looking up at Dixon.

‘How much money is at stake?’

‘Millions.’

Perry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and turned his face skywards, allowing the rain to wash over him. Suddenly he jumped up. ‘Well, they’ve picked on the wrong . . .’

‘Not now,’ said Dixon, stepping in front of him. He put his hands on Perry’s shoulders. ‘There’ll be a time for that, but it’s not now. All right?’

Perry sat back down on the tree stump.

‘Yes.’

‘The best thing you can do, for Lizzie and for everyone dependent
on animal insulin, is get elected. The rest you leave to me.’

Perry nodded.

‘Good,’ said Dixon, sitting down on the tree stump next to Perry. ‘Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything.’

‘It was six years ago. New Year’s Eve. We were in a furniture shop and she said she didn’t feel well. Then she said she’d lost a stone, over Christmas. I mean, who loses weight over Christmas? Her doctor’s surgery was closed so we went to the walk-in centre. They checked her blood and told me to take her to the hospital. Immediately. Her blood sugar level was 21 or something and her ketones were off the scale.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ muttered Dixon.

‘Anyway, she was admitted and then we were told she was type 1 diabetic. They kept her in over New Year to get her stabilised and then sent her home with two insulin pens, one for day, at mealtimes, and another for night time. No explanation. Nothing.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Various follow ups with the diabetic consultant and her doctor and she was fine to begin with. Then, after about six months, she started to feel tired all the time, had joint pains, couldn’t stand bright lights. She became almost bedridden in just a few weeks.’

‘What did her doctor say?’ asked Dixon.

‘He had no idea what was going on. She was tested for everything; MS, ME, you name it, she was tested for it. I thought she was dying, I really did. And all the time she was pumping the bloody stuff into her body that was causing it all.’

‘Go on.’

‘Then her memory started to go. She’d begin a sentence but forget what she was talking about.’ Perry sighed. ‘She really was bedridden by the end.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘I spotted an advert in the local paper. “Are you diabetic? Do you suffer from . . .” and it listed the symptoms. Lizzie had all of them. Every single one. Then it said, “It could be an adverse
reaction
to your insulin.” So, I got her up, dressed and down to the doctor.’

‘What’d he say?’ asked Dixon.