Head in the Sand
Authors: Damien Boyd
First published 2013 by Cox Publishing
ISBN 978-1492852384
Copyright © Damien Boyd 2013
The right of Damien Boyd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This book is a work of fiction and is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. All the characters are fictitious and any similarity to real persons and/or events is purely coincidental.
Damien Boyd is a Solicitor and crime fiction writer.
Drawing on extensive experience of criminal law as well as several years in the Crown Prosecution Service, Damien writes fast paced crime thrillers featuring Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.
For further information, please visit
www.damienboyd.com
Also by Damien Boyd
:
The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series
To the casual observer she appeared alive and well but anyone who knew her would tell you that she had died twelve months ago when her daughter had been taken from her. She was still breathing, still crying and still feeling pain. Apart from that, she did and felt nothing.
The pain was relentless. The medical diagnosis was clinical depression but it all boiled down to pain. Mental anguish so intense that it caused her excruciating physical pain. Only relieved when she slept and she only slept when she had taken pills. And lots of them.
She had never liked sleeping pills. She felt like shit the next day and it was a high price to pay for chemically induced sleep. Always haunted by the same vivid nightmares.
Without the pills she didn’t sleep at all. She’d just lie there staring at the ceiling, thinking of her daughter and crying. It was a vicious cycle and she had decided to break it.
To end it.
She stood on the balcony of the fourth floor apartment at the Hotel Senator overlooking the sea at Marbella. It had been a nice idea to try to get away from it all but it hadn’t worked. The nightmares, the torment, had followed her and always would.
She had to end it now.
She had no idea where she had heard it but the phrase “drop ‘em long, stop ‘em short” was going round and round in her head. Maybe it was that documentary about Albert Pierrepoint that she had seen on TV. She didn’t know and she didn’t care.
She checked the knot one last time. The rope was tied to the radiator as tight as she could get it. She fed the slack over the railings, put the loop in the other end over her head and pulled it tight. Then she climbed over the railings and stood with her back to the balcony holding on with her hands behind her. She thought about her daughter and the pain hit her as it always did. Like a sledgehammer.
This was not about being with her daughter. This was about putting an end to the pain. Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
Then she let go.
It had been a good day. All in all. The official report would record his involvement as ‘drug squad liaison’ but it ensured that Dixon had been first through Conrad Benton’s front door when the battering ram had smashed it off its hinges. Benton obliged still further by taking a swing at Dixon. He ducked under the punch and then watched while two unusually large drug squad officers jumped on Benton and handcuffed him. Seldom had Dixon enjoyed arresting anyone more.
‘Conrad Benton, I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Benton did not reply.
The search of Benton’s flat turned up PMA and ecstacy with a street value of over eight thousand pounds and, given his previous record, he could look forward to a lengthy spell in prison. Dixon arrested Benton again for the possession of class A drugs with intent to supply.
It had been an immensely satisfying morning’s work.
Dixon had spent the afternoon on the beach with his dog, Monty, and then the evening with Jane Winter in the Zalshah Tandoori Restaurant in Burnham-on-Sea. He had eaten in a few curry houses in his time but had not found a better one than the Zalshah. He had not yet reached the point of being offered his ‘usual’ when he went in but he was already on first name terms with the waiters.
An added bonus was having managed to avoid telling Jane about his medal. She had forgotten about it and he had not reminded her.
Dixon watched the lights of passing cars flicker on the ceiling of his bedroom and allowed his mind to wander back to days on the sea cliffs at Pembroke, climbing in glorious sunshine with the waves crashing against the rocks beneath his feet.
The next thing he knew his phone was ringing. He checked the time. 7.15am.
‘Nick Dixon.’
‘Nick, it’s DCI Lewis. Where are you?’
‘In bed, Sir.’
‘Whose?’
‘Mine.’
‘Where’s Jane Winter? She’s not answering her phone.’
‘I think she said she was going to her parents for the weekend. Why?’
‘I need the pair of you over at Berrow Church as soon as you can.’
‘I’m sure I can get hold of her, Sir.’
Dixon reached over and placed his left hand on Jane’s right breast. She pulled the duvet over her head to stifle her laughter.
‘Good. Get over there as quick as you can. They’ve found a severed head in one of the bunkers on the golf course.’
Dixon sat up sharply.
‘A head? Where’s the rest of the body?’
‘We don’t know yet. It’s on the hole behind the church. The twelfth I think it is.’
Dixon was already on his way to the bathroom.
‘I’m on my way, Sir.’
Jane Winter was dressed by the time Dixon emerged from the bathroom.
‘Your parents live in Weston, don’t they?’
‘Yes. Well, Worle actually.’
‘Give me twenty minutes head start and then set off. Meet me at Berrow Church. That should be about right, shouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t mind people knowing, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘They’ll know soon enough, Jane. When we’re both good and ready.’
‘Do you want me to feed Monty?’
‘I’ll take him with me, don’t worry.’
Dixon had dressed in a hurry and was checking his pockets for his car keys.
‘Help yourself to anything you want to eat and I’ll see you at Berrow.’
Dixon left his cottage just before 7.30am. It was well after sunrise and yet still almost dark. There was a heavy blanket of grey cloud, not a breath of wind and a fine drizzle was falling as he drove out of Brent Knoll on the country roads towards Berrow.
He turned left into Station Road, presumably there had once been a railway station, and over the humpback bridge taking the road over the railway line. His mind went back, as it always did at this bridge, to an incident many years before when he was only nine years old. His mother had been driving and they were approaching the same bridge. For some reason, still unknown to her, his mother pulled in and stopped just before the crest. A split second later a bus careered over the bridge in the middle of the road. Both would certainly have been killed in a head-on collision with the bus had his mother not stopped. Such is the narrow margin between life and death.
He arrived in Berrow within two or three minutes and drove through the village slowly. He stopped at the Berrow Triangle and was pleased to see that the Berrow Inn was still open. They would be doing a roaring trade over the next few days with police officers, journalists and sightseers. He could also see that the Berrow Stores, scene of his one and only crime, was still open. He had stolen a packet of football stickers. It had turned out to be a complete waste of effort because he had got all of the footballers in the packet anyway.
He turned right onto Coast Road, heading towards Berrow Church. The drizzle was still falling and looked set for the day. He drove past the village green, past the roadside posters advertising the village fireworks display, and on towards the Church.
Dixon’s mind was racing. So many questions and all of them unanswered. The only thing that he could be reasonably sure of was that anyone throwing a severed head into a bunker on a golf course intended it to be found.
He turned into the Berrow Church car park. It was much as he had remembered it. The church stood on the edge of the sand dunes behind the Burnham and Berrow golf course. The entrance gates were new, as was the tarmac path leading to the front door but the path beyond that was familiar to him. It was a narrow sandy track in the grass leading up through the churchyard to a gap in the wall and out onto the golf course. The large yellow sign on the wall was also new; ‘There is no lead on this church roof’. The Cross of St George fluttered from the flagpole on the top of the church tower.
Dixon noticed that the churchyard had been extended beyond the old wall, although looking at the dates on the headstones this could have been done some time ago, unless they had been moved. The car park had also been extended although maybe he had just never noticed it before.
Dixon was greeted by PC Cole.
‘I thought you were based at Cheddar?’
‘I am, Sir, but needs must at this time on a Sunday morning.’
Dixon put on his coat. Monty was raring to go.
‘Not this time, matey. Later.’
Dixon turned to PC Cole.
‘The twelfth is it then, constable?’
‘Greenside bunker on the twelfth, yes, Sir. Follow the path up through the churchyard, through the gap in the wall and then turn right. You will see PC Carroll.’
‘Are Scenes of Crime on their way?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Has anyone thought to cancel the church service? It is a Sunday morning after all.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Better ring the Vicar then. His telephone number is on the sign over there.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
Dixon walked up the tarmac path to the entrance to the church and then continued along the sandy track. He noticed a line of small dark stains in the sand that had not been visible on the tarmac path. He immediately stepped sideways onto the grass and walked back down to the car park. PC Cole was on the telephone to the Vicar breaking the news that the church service would need to be cancelled.
Once back onto the gravel car park Dixon was able to pick up the trail of dark stains again. He followed it around to the right into the overflow car park. The trail ended by the bicycle rack. Dixon looked around. The area was well hidden from the road.
Dixon turned to PC Cole who had by now finished his telephone call. ‘Cancelled?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want this area of the car park and the path through the churchyard cordoned off. There’s a trail of what looks like blood that starts here and goes right up to the wall and possibly beyond. The Scenes of Crime team may be able to get something from tyre tracks or footprints.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Send anyone else arriving around to the right.’
Dixon pointed to a track that led to a steel five bar gate and out onto the golf course.
‘Tell them to turn left once through that gate and then left again up to the twelfth green.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon walked back up through the churchyard making sure that he was clear of the tarmac path and the sandy track. Once over the wall the path forked. The main path turned sharp left running along the back of the churchyard. There was a new fence in place that ran parallel to the stone wall until it joined the public right of way that lead across the golf course to the beach. Dixon ignored this path and forked right. He followed the trail of blood through a gap in the fence. He could see the twelfth green off to his right and followed the path through the undergrowth to get to it. He arrived to find PC Carroll talking to a man wearing green overalls.
‘Good morning, constable. DI Dixon.’
‘PC Carroll, Sir. Good morning. This is Michael Walker, one of the green keepers here. He found it.’
‘Good morning, Mr Walker.’
Dixon stepped forward and looked into the bunker. He was immediately grateful that he had not had time for breakfast. He had never regarded himself as squeamish. It was not the sight of the blood that upset him, more the look on the person’s face. The eyes were wide and bulging. The mouth was wide open and the tongue sticking out. The look was one of utter surprise, shock and horror all rolled into one. The victim had clearly known what was happening.
The bunker itself was one a golfer would describe as a deep pot bunker. It was situated at the back of the twelfth green and to the left as the hole was played. Dixon reckoned it was probably four feet deep.
He had lost the trail of blood in the long grass once out onto the golf course but had picked it up again at the edge of the bunker. There was a significant pool of blood at the right hand corner where the murderer had paused briefly before throwing the severed head in. A second and heavier trail of blood lead across the golf course in the direction of the beach.
The head appeared to have struck the front face of the bunker and then rolled to the bottom. It was lying on its side facing Dixon. There was a large patch of dark blood stained sand underneath it.
The head had been severed at shoulder level, giving the impression that the deceased had a very long neck. It appeared to be a clean cut. The victim was female with long grey hair and Dixon estimated her age as between sixty-five and seventy five years. But it was the look on her face that he knew would stay with him.
Dixon turned to PC Carroll.
‘Scenes of Crime are on their way. I want this bunker sealed off and no one goes near it until they have arrived. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon turned to the green keeper.
‘When did you find it?’
‘About an hour ago. I was out raking the bunkers for the monthly medal.’
‘The monthly medal? Is there a golf competition this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time does it start?’
‘7.30am.’
Dixon looked at his watch. It was just before 8.00am.
‘Ten minute intervals?’
‘Yes.’
‘That would be four groups out on the course and another just about to tee off. Has anyone rung the clubhouse to call it off?’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Walker.
‘It’s not an option, I’m afraid. This is a crime scene and the course is closed.’
‘I’d better get back to the clubhouse and let them know,’ said Walker.
‘You stay where you are, please, Mr Walker. We’ll need a formal statement from you before you go.’
Dixon reached for his mobile phone and rang Jane Winter.
‘Jane, where are you?’
‘Coming along the Berrow Road.’
‘I’ve got a job for you. Do you know the Burnham and Berrow golf club?’
‘Yes. St Christopher’s Way.’
‘The monthly competition started at 7.30am and we need to stop it. The little building to the left of the clubhouse is the pro shop. Go in there and tell the pro, I can’t remember his name, to call off the competition. Ok?’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘They also need to send someone out onto the course in a buggy to call in those golfers who have already started.’
‘Understood.’
‘Anyone gives you any trouble, and I expect they will, you put them on to me.’
‘I certainly will.’
Dixon rang off. He could hear PC Carroll’s radio crackle into life.
‘Scientific Services are here, Sir.’
Dixon walked back down to the car park, which was now a hive of activity. There were three police cars, an ambulance and two white vans sign written ‘Scientific Services Unit’. The overflow car park and the path up through the churchyard had been cordoned off with blue tape. PC Cole had at least got that right.