Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (30 page)

‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ asked Lewis, as Dixon closed the door of the meeting room.

‘I do, but without the cameraman we’re going to have a fight to use the film, so we need more.’

Lewis nodded.

‘It was on a memory stick that was hand delivered to my local polling station. The postal voting statement had my name on it and the ballot paper is Harry Unwin’s.’

‘Harry’s?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘The postal votes were sent out two weeks ago, after Harry was murdered. So, someone must’ve broken into his temporary accommodation and stolen it. Louise checked with the post office and his mail was being redirected to . . . ?’

‘His mother’s flat in Bridgwater.’

‘Let’s get uniform over there to speak to his mother and the neighbours. Someone must’ve noticed.’

‘Unless it was intercepted before it was delivered,’ said Mark.

‘Or delivered to a communal entrance. Some flats have easily accessible letter boxes,’ said Dave.

‘Well, let’s check,’ said Dixon.

‘You said you knew where and when the film was taken?’ asked Lewis.

‘There’s a time stamp which gives us the when: 0720 on
9 October
.
The where is the Avon Gorge at the bottom of the
Main Wall
.’

‘How d’you know that?’ asked Jane.

‘It’s at the foot of “Conan the Librarian”. Don’t ask,’ said Dixon, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s a rock climb. Short, very difficult and I spent three days one summer falling off it. There used to be a bolt twenty feet up. That’s gone now, but it’s definitely it.’

‘Mobile positioning it is then,’ said Lewis. ‘D’you have the number?’

Dixon slid a piece of paper across the table to Lewis. He looked at it and handed it to Jane.

‘Expedite it, Jane,’ said Lewis. ‘I’ll authorise it.’

‘Dave and Mark, traffic and number plate cameras,’ said Dixon, sliding another piece of paper across the table. ‘Either will do, both would be better.’

Dave picked up the piece of paper and looked at it.

‘Should be easy,’ he said, grinning.

‘What else?’ asked Lewis.

‘The divorce papers refer to weekends away with her unnamed co-respondent in Blackpool in October 2001 and Bournemouth in October 2002. I want to check the hotels to see if she stayed with someone and, if so, who. We can start with the main ones and work down.’

‘Will they still have records going that far back?’ asked Louise.

‘We’ll soon find out.’

‘What’s the significance of Blackpool and Bournemouth in October?’ asked Lewis.

‘Party conference,’ replied Dixon. ‘Conservative Party
conference
.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

W
hat time is it?’ asked Jane, leaning back in her chair and yawning.

‘Twoish,’ replied Dixon.

‘You did leave a light on for Monty?’

‘I left the telly on. Thought it would keep him company.’

‘Good,’ said Jane, smiling.

Dixon looked up when he heard footsteps coming along the landing.

‘Well?’ asked Lewis, appearing round the corner of the canteen.

‘You still here, Sir?’

‘I’ve been home and come back again.’

‘Well, we’ve got him on an ANPR camera in Clifton. It was a bit earlier than we were expecting so Dave’s going back to look at the traffic cameras again.’

‘What about the hotels?’

‘Nothing from either Blackpool or Bournemouth, but that was a long shot after all this time anyway.’

‘And the mobile positioning?’

‘There’s an Orange base station on the opposite side of the gorge at Oak Wood,’ replied Dixon. ‘We were promised an email around about now.’

‘There you are, you bastard.’ The voice came from a workstation
behind Dixon.

‘You got him, Dave?’

‘Traffic camera on the A4176 where it joins the Portway, 0634.’

‘That’s enough, surely?’ asked Lewis, ‘even without a mobile fix?’

‘Probably,’ replied Dixon, ‘but we’ll give them another twenty minutes or so. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘The declaration’s not due till three o’clock.’

Dixon double parked in the High Street outside the Bridgwater Town Hall, alongside a large van with a satellite dish on the top
and BBC
News written on the side. Dave and Mark pulled up behind him, blocking in the ITV News van. The Sky News van was parked further down the one way street.

One of the uniformed officers on the door stepped forward but then recognised Louise sitting in the rear passenger seat of Dixon’s Land Rover and returned to his post under the entrance portico.

The town hall had recently been painted white and seemed to glow in the street lights. It was a three storey Victorian building with arched windows on the first floor and two stone entrance porches with square columns, access to one of them blocked by newly painted black railings. The doors of the other were open and light was streaming out into the night.

‘We’ll need to be discreet,’ said Dixon. ‘I don’t want this plastered all over the news. We’ll get him out of the auditorium first, all right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon turned to the uniformed officers on the door.

‘You two, with us.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He stepped over the television cables laid across the pavement and in the front door.

‘It’s ticket only, I’m afraid.’

The man on the desk was in his late sixties, if not older, and would not have made much of a bouncer. But then the crowd at an election count tend to behave themselves, particularly
when the
television cameras are there. Dixon waved his warrant card at
the man
and kept walking.

He paused at the bottom of the short flight of stairs and checked his watch: 2.45 a.m.

‘There are two ways out. A small door at the far end by the stage that leads to the back stairs. Dave, you can take that with Mark. Go inside then along the wall. All right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Just make sure you’re between me and the door.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Jane, you cover the double doors at the back with uniform, but keep them out of sight until you see me move in.’

‘Right.’

‘Louise, you’re with me.’

Dixon turned and walked up the stairs. The double doors at the back of the auditorium were open and people were milling about in the hall, some carrying drinks. He walked along the back wall and stood in the middle, watching the scene unfold. Dave and Mark crept in and walked along the side wall to the front, taking up position behind the TV crews, just inside the door by the stage. Jane was standing by the double doors at the back.

All of the folding tables that had been set up along each side of the hall were empty and a group of casually dressed council staff were waiting on the far side, looking up at the stage. Counting had finished and the tables in the middle of the hall were covered in lines of ballot papers, all tied up in elastic bands in bundles of one thousand.

Tom Perry’s line was the longest. Some small consolation,
perhaps
, but Dixon thought about what it had cost him.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Louise.

‘They’re verifying the spoilt ballot papers,’ replied Dixon. ‘They have to check each one.’

A large crowd was gathered at a table in front of the stage. Dixon spotted the returning officer, Robert Sampson, this time wearing a jacket and tie, holding up one ballot paper at a time to allow the candidates and their agents to scrutinise it. Perry was at the front of the group, with Lawrence Deakin, looking relaxed and not taking much notice. Judging by the bundles of votes, there could be five thousand spoilt ballot papers all allocated to his nearest challenger and he would still win.

Four other groups of supporters were waiting at the front of the hall, each identifiable by the colour of their rosettes. Blue,
yellow
, red and purple. Dixon recognised some of those wearing blue rosettes, but not all.

‘How d’you spoil a ballot paper then?’ asked Louise.

‘Voting for more than one candidate, putting your name on it, or just writing “fuck off” on it, I suppose.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘There’s always next time,’ said Dixon.

‘Can you see him?’

‘No.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’ll be here.’

Dixon looked at Dave Harding, who shrugged his shoulders. Then he looked at Jane. She shook her head.

‘Who’s that talking to the TV cameras?’ asked Louise.

‘That’s the MP for West Somerset. I forget his name.’

Dixon watched Tom Perry step back from the crowd still verifying spoilt ballot papers and speak to a young man with short dark hair.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Don’t know,’ replied Louise.

‘Go and ask Jane.’

Louise returned a few seconds later.

‘It’s Simon King, Lizzie’s brother.’

‘Not the marine?’

Louise nodded.

‘Oh shit, that’s all we need.’

‘Who’s that in the top hat?’

‘That’ll be the Monster Raving Looney.’

‘There’s even a white rabbit,’ said Louise.

‘They all come out for by-elections,’ muttered Dixon.

Robert Sampson stepped back from the table and the crowd began to disperse to join their supporters as the candidates made their way onto the stage. Dixon watched Perry step back to allow the other candidates up the steps.

‘We’ll be live on
Newsnight
soon,’ said Louise.

‘There he is,’ said Dixon.

‘Where?’

‘Sitting down at the front.’ Dixon turned to Jane and nodded.

Louise stepped forward.

‘Wait.’

Barry Dossett stood up, straightened his jacket and then made his way to the back of the crowd of Conservative supporters. He was unmistakeable, standing several inches taller than everyone else. The padded jacket had been replaced by a blazer and red tie. Odd that. There was no blue rosette either.

Dixon was distracted by the noise of Sampson tapping the microphone. Then Sampson glanced down at the TV crews and nodded.

‘I, Robert Frederick Dunning Sampson, being the returning officer in the parliamentary election for the Bridgwater and North Somerset constituency held on Thursday 23 January do hereby give notice that the number of votes recorded for each candidate at the said election is as follows.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Louise.

Dixon glanced across at Jane and nodded. The two uniformed officers appeared in the doorway. Then he looked at Mark, who leaned forward and whispered in Dave Harding’s ear.

‘Follow me,’ said Dixon.

‘Abbot, Peter Benjamin Thumper, White Rabbit Liberation Party, thirty-nine.’

‘Democracy is a wonderful thing,’ muttered Dixon, but it was lost in the cheer of a small group of people to his left.

‘Blythe, John Joseph, United Kingdom Independence Party, UKIP, seven thousand seven hundred and nineteen.’

‘I’ll go right, you go left,’ said Dixon.

‘Crowther, Lauren, Green Party. Three thousand and eighteen.’

Dixon walked forward, the noise in the hall masking his footsteps, and took up position on Dossett’s right shoulder. Louise was standing to his left.

‘Holland, Benjamin Michael, Labour Party, three thousand
six hundred
and ninety-nine.’

Dixon’s heart was pounding. Much louder and Dossett would surely hear it? Even over the noise of the Labour supporters cheering.

‘Hunt, Vanessa Milburn, Liberal Democrats, fifteen thousand four hundred and five.’

Dixon glanced up at the stage. Perry was smiling, but for how much longer?

‘Jackson, Rupert Walter, Monster Raving Looney Party, three hundred and twelve.’

Jackson stepped forward and his wave was greeted with a loud cheer.

‘Oliver, Marcus Ralph, Independent, seventy-seven.’

Another loud cheer, this time from the supporters of all the parties.

‘Perry, Thomas James, Conservative Party, twenty-two
thousand
three hundred and forty-one.’

A louder cheer drowned out the few boos. Perry glanced down at his group of supporters in front of the stage. Then he spotted Dixon standing next to Barry Dossett, his area campaign director. The smile was gone. He looked quizzically at Dixon and shook his head.

‘The total number of votes cast was fifty-two thousand
six hundred
and ten and I hereby declare that the said Thomas James Perry is duly elected Member of Parliament for the said constituency.’

Perry was staring at Dixon and appeared unmoved at the huge cheer that went up from his supporters. It took a nudge before Perry noticed that the Labour candidate had been trying to shake his hand. Perry then shook hands with all of the candidates before stepping forward to the microphone at the invitation of Sampson.

Perry hesitated, staring at Dixon. Dossett was clapping and cheering but stopped when he noticed Perry staring in his direction. Then he turned and saw Dixon standing next to him. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and made a half hearted attempt to turn for the door.

‘We’ll give him his moment of glory,’ said Dixon, taking hold of his arm. ‘You owe him that much.’

Perry was still staring at Dixon. He nodded.

‘Er, ladies and gentlemen, can I begin by thanking the returning officer and his team here at the count for a very smooth operation? And for sitting up into the early hours counting votes. Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough.’

The council staff waiting at the back cheered.

‘I’d like to thank my opponents for a most enjoyable and clean fight. I have made many friends during this election campaign, on all sides of the political spectrum, and for that I will remain deeply grateful.’

Perry paused to allow the applause to subside.

‘I’d like to thank my agent, Lawrence Deakin, and . . .’ Perry hesitated, frowning at Dixon, ‘. . . my area campaign director, Barry Dossett, for their support during the campaign.’

Dixon saw Simon King turn and look in his direction.

‘And also my team of supporters, volunteers all, who have been out knocking on doors and delivering leaflets in all weathers. Thank you.’

Yet another loud cheer.

‘I’d also like to thank the people of Bridgwater and North
Somerset
for placing their trust in me. Whether you voted for me or not, my door will always be open. And to the residents of the Somerset Levels I say simply this: dredge the rivers!’

Perry looked down at his feet and swallowed hard. Tears welled up in his eyes and he was fighting to hold them back.

‘Finally, I’d like to dedicate this election victory to my wife, Lizzie. Without her I would not be standing here today and . . .’ The tears began to stream down his cheeks. ‘This is for you.’

Vanessa Hunt stepped forward and put her arm around Perry. He looked up and stared at Dixon, no more than thirty feet from the stage, holding Dossett by the arm. Dixon turned away, dragging Dossett with him.

‘We’ll take this outside,’ said Dixon.

Dossett grimaced.

Once out onto the landing Dossett was handcuffed by one of the uniformed officers.

‘Barry Dossett, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Elizabeth Grace Perry. You do not have to . . .’

Dixon heard footsteps and turned. Too late. The blow caught him on the right side of his jaw, but he felt no pain until he hit the floor.

‘Simon!’

It was Tom Perry’s voice, coming from the double doors at the back of the hall. Dixon looked up. Dossett appeared to be leaning over backwards, with Simon King holding him up by the neck, Dossett’s head under his right arm.

‘Simon, stop!’

One of the uniformed officers stepped forward.

‘One more step and I snap his fucking neck!’ screamed King.

‘Simon, think about Lizzie,’ said Perry. ‘Let him go.’