Kickback (12 page)

‘Are those pellet holes in the wall behind the telly?’ asked Jane.

‘A bit of Polyfilla will soon sort that out.’

The door curtain had been rolled up and thrown on the sofa. Dixon noticed two patches of blood on the carpet where the Albanians had lain unconscious, bleeding from their head wounds.

‘You got a carpet shampooer I can borrow?’

‘No. Won’t your insurers sort that out?’

‘I’ll ring them.’

‘Right, well I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘It’s my Dad’s birthday. Out to lunch. Remember?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll be back fourish.’ She kissed Dixon and then left in his Land Rover.

Dixon rang his insurance company and then began tidying up. Not an easy task one handed. He threw the door curtain under the stairs. Then he shut Monty in the kitchen to keep him out of the way and picked up the large pieces of glass from the television screen one by one, putting them in an empty cardboard box with the broken DVDs. The only one to have survived the shotgun blast was The Dambusters. Next he hoovered up the smaller bits of glass, before dumping the lot outside the back door.

He sat down with a cup of tea. Monty jumped up and sat on his lap.

‘What are we going to do then, matey?’

Dixon sat staring into space. He thought about Noel. He was making money out of the betting scam and wouldn’t have dared blow the whistle on the drug dealing either. So, it must have been something personal to him. He was a rent boy, of course, which presented him with plenty of opportunity for blackmail. Dixon felt a sense of direction returning to the enquiry.

Then he heard a noise outside. He jumped up and ran into the kitchen for a knife. Monty started barking. Dixon waited out of sight. A figure appeared in the small frosted glass window in the front door. Two letters were pushed through the letterbox and dropped onto the mat.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ muttered Dixon.

He picked up the letters and threw them on the side in the kitchen. Then he powered up his laptop, navigated to Google and searched for free horse race laying systems. He spent the next ten minutes scrolling through the results, clicking on various links, before downloading a copy of Betting Exchange Bookie, which the author described as a foolproof horse race laying system.

Dixon read the short pdf file in twenty minutes, making various notes as he did so. When he finished he had a list of rules for selecting a losing horse. He read aloud.

‘The race must have at least nine runners. Never lay a horse that won its last race. There must be at least two other runners with a Racing Post Rating within five of your selection. Your selection should not be the only horse carrying top weight. Never lay unless the odds have drifted out by more than two points. Never lay at odds over eight to one.

He went to the Racing Post website and looked at the race cards for the day. Lingfield, Wincanton, Naas and Ascot.

‘Let’s have a bit of fun, shall we, old chap,’ he said, looking at Monty.

He navigated to Bet29 and signed up. Then he reached for his wallet and deposited one hundred pounds.

Racing got underway at 12.30pm but it was the 1.05pm at Wincanton before he found a suitable candidate. Napoleon. He came fourth last time out and had started the day at odds of five to one but drifted out to seven to one by 1.00pm, just before the off. He was not top weight and there were two other competitive horses in the race, according to the Racing Post Ratings.

Dixon layed him for ten pounds at odds of seven to one and waited for the bet to be matched. He began to sweat. If Napoleon lost Dixon would win ten pounds. If the horse won the race, he would have to pay out seventy pounds. He could feel his resolve draining away. Seventy quid? He was about to click Cancel when the bet was matched. Too late to back out now.

Dixon would not be able to watch the race on the television and would have to be content with watching the odds change as the race progressed. If Napoleon was doing well the odds would shorten, if not they would drift out still further. Dixon watched and waited. Suddenly, the betting screen froze and then went blank, before appearing again with the words ‘In Play’ across the middle. The race was underway.

When the ‘In Play’ odds appeared Napoleon had shortened in to evens. He must be near the front, thought Dixon. He watched the odds of the other horses. They were bouncing around all over the place and he decided he could read nothing into that. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

Then he noticed that Napoleon’s odds had drifted out to six to one. Another horse was in at odds of one to two. That’s odds on, thought Dixon. He must be going to win. He looked back to Napoleon at odds of fifteen to one, then fifty to one. Dixon relaxed. Napoleon had lost.

‘Easy money,’ he said, scratching Monty behind the ears. ‘Let’s try another.’

He scanned the race cards for the next few races. Nothing at Naas, except a short priced favourite against very weak opposition. Flat racing on the all weather track at Lingfield got underway at 1.20pm but the first race had an odds on favourite. The second favourite looked interesting but the odds were shortening rather than drifting. Lots of people were backing him and there was probably a good reason for that. Dixon moved onto the next race.

Ascot and the 1.30pm. He looked down the betting screen and found Spilt Milk, second favourite but with odds that had drifted from three to one to five to one. Dixon checked the form. Spilt Milk was not top weight and had not won her last race. She looked perfect.

Five to one would cost Dixon forty pounds if she won. He laid the horse at odds of five to one and waited for the bet to be matched up.  The odds continued to drift out until his bet was matched. He waited.

As before, the screen froze and then the ‘In Play’ message was displayed. Dixon watched the odds bouncing around, trying not to get too agitated. Spilt Milk’s odds drifted out to seventeen to one and then still further to one hundred to one and beyond. She must have been well off the pace almost from the off.

‘I’m in the wrong business, Monty,’ said Dixon.

Prince Billy in the 1.35pm at Wincanton caught Dixon’s eye for the wrong reason. He scanned the form and read aloud.

‘Jockey S McCarthy, Trainer M Hesp.’

Tempting. He checked the odds. They were drifting, which meant the horse was not expected to win but then he knew that. Dixon noticed that more money had been matched up on Prince Billy than on any other horse in the race, including the favourite. The irregular betting pattern again.

Dixon entered ten pounds in the laying column and selected the odds. His mouse hovered over the ‘Submit’ button.

‘No, Monty, cheats never prosper.’

Dixon hit the ‘Back’ button and watched the race unfold without placing a bet. Almost immediately the odds on the favourite in the race went straight out to one thousand. Dixon thought he must have fallen or pulled up. Prince Billy’s odds shortened and kept getting shorter. Dixon smiled. Prince Billy was doing well. Either Hesp had told the jockey not to hold him back or his plan was scuppered by the favourite falling.

Dixon withdrew all his money back to his credit card and logged out. Then he closed his laptop and put it away.

‘My father always told me to quit while you’re ahead, old son,’ he said, scratching Monty behind the ears. Dixon had got what he wanted. A clear understanding of the mechanics of backing and laying horses on the betting exchanges.

‘Besides, matey, it’s a mug’s game.’

He opened a can of beer and took two Tramadol. Then he fell asleep on the sofa with Monty curled up beside him.

Jane arrived home just as it was getting dark and parked behind the cottage, as usual. She thought it odd that all the lights were off. She tried the back door, before remembering that it had been secured from the inside, and then walked around to the front door. She peered through the frosted glass and could see no sign of life. There was no barking either. That could mean only one thing.

She walked over to the Red Cow and found Dixon asleep in the corner of the lounge bar. Monty was lying on the floor at his feet, awake and alert.

‘I didn’t like to wake him,’ said Rob. ‘Sounds like you had a hell of a night.’

‘We did.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Gin and tonic, please,’ replied Jane. ‘How many’s he had?’

‘That’s his second.’

Jane looked at the pint glass on the table in front of Dixon. It was half empty.

‘Must be the painkillers.’

She reached into her handbag for her purse.

‘On the house,’ said Rob.

‘Thank you.’

Jane sat opposite Dixon and tapped his foot under the table. He woke up.

‘What time is it?’

‘Fiveish.’

He rubbed his eyes.

‘How long have you been in here?’ asked Jane.

‘About an hour, I suppose.’

‘You alright?’

‘Felt a bit of a sitting duck in the cottage...’

Jane took a large swig of gin and tonic.

‘Drink up. We’ll go and stay at my flat. It’s got a telly for a start.’

‘Great. I’ll bring what’s left of my DVD coll...’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

Seven

The CID Room at Bridgwater Police Station was a hive of activity, despite the fact that it was first thing Sunday morning. Dixon and Jane arrived to find DI Janice Courtenay briefing her team on an aggravated burglary the night before near Westonzoyland. DCI Lewis was listening in. At the far end of the room, Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were finishing off the paperwork on Dixon’s previous case for submission to the CPS on Monday.

‘All hail the conquering hero.’

‘Piss off, Janice,’ said Dixon, smiling.

Jane sat at her desk and powered up her computer. Dixon went into his office, closely followed by DCI Lewis.

‘You had a visit from Peter Collyer?’

‘They knew, they bloody well knew what was going on at that yard and...’

Dixon stopped mid sentence. He was looking past DCI Lewis at the vending machine against the far wall of the CID Room. Feeding coins into it was DS Harry Unwin.

Dixon brushed past DCI Lewis and marched across the room, knocking a pile of papers off the corner of Jane’s desk as he went past. Harry Unwin heard the noise and turned to see Dixon steaming towards him. Unwin tried to back away but there was nowhere for him to go. As he closed in, Dixon reached up with his right hand and pinned Unwin to the front of the vending machine by the throat.

Dixon glared at Unwin.

‘I tried to warn you...’ said Unwin.

Dixon spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Was that before or after you gave them my address?’

‘Dixon! Put him down,’ shouted Lewis.

Jane arrived and tried to release Unwin from Dixon’s hand.

‘In my office now. Both of you.’

Dixon released Unwin and turned to follow DCI Lewis into his office. Unwin straightened his jacket and tie and then followed them.

Lewis slammed the door behind them.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

The question was addressed to Dixon. He remained silent.

‘I appreciate that you’ve been through a lot in the last day or so...’

‘It’s fine, Sir, really,’ said Unwin.

‘You won’t be making a formal complaint?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well, I’m sure Inspector Dixon is grateful. Thank you, Harry, you may go.’

Harry Unwin left the room.

‘That prick told them where I live.’

‘Of course, he did. But it’s in hand. That’s all I can tell you. Is that clear?’

Dixon nodded.

‘Go home and get some rest.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And another thing.’

Dixon turned back to face Lewis.

‘You’ve got him by the throat with your right and your left’s in a sling.’

‘Yes.’

‘What were you going to hit him with?’

‘That is not something to which I had applied my mind, Sir.’

Lewis smiled.

‘Get out of my sight.’

‘C’mon, Jane, let’s get out of here.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Spaxton.’

They walked out to Dixon’s Land Rover in silence and were heading west out of Bridgwater on Durleigh Road before Jane spoke.

‘What was that all about?’

‘Unwin gave the Albanians my address.’

‘Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Couldn’t they have got it off the electoral roll?’

‘I’m not on it yet.’

‘Directory enquiries?’

‘No land line.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did Lewis have to say?’

‘He told me to get some rest.’

‘So, we’re going to Spaxton?’

‘Briefly. Then maybe lunch somewhere and a walk on the beach?’ asked Dixon.

‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Jane.

It was a sunny autumn day with a clear blue sky and not a breath of wind. They forked right at the eastern end of Durleigh Reservoir onto Spaxton Road. Dixon watched the dinghies sailing up and down as they drove past.

They turned into the car park at Gidley’s Racing Stables and parked in the small car park. Both horse lorries were parked off to the left of the entrance as they had been before. The larger of the two was black with gold lettering, ‘Michael Hesp Racing, Spaxton, Somerset’. The ramp at the back was open but the lorry was empty. Dixon walked up the ramp and looked around inside.

It had partitioning in place for up to six horses but there were only three hay nets hanging from the rings on the wall. The floor was covered in muck and wood shavings. Underneath that was rubber matting. Beyond the stalls, a narrow corridor led through to a small living area with a sink, lavatory and dinette seating. The lorry was a little rough around the edges but otherwise clean and in good condition. A pile of dirty riding silks and jodhpurs had been left on the seat.

There was a small tack cabinet bolted to the wall. It was open so Dixon looked inside. There were several bridles hanging on hooks on the inside of the door. Dixon could see two pairs of riding boots in the bottom and four horse racing saddles on racks, one above the other.

‘Can I help you?’

The shout came from the rear of the lorry. Dixon walked back along the narrow corridor and down the ramp.

‘You had another winner yesterday, Mr Hesp. Your luck must be changing.’

‘Are you here for anything in particular or just snooping?’

‘Investigating a murder, Mr Hesp. It’s not all about your grubby little betting scam.’

‘How dare you? I...’

‘A 2007 six horse Iveco lorry with living space. What’s that worth then?’

‘Well, I...’

‘I can Google it...’

‘About sixty thousand.’

‘Really? And how do you afford that?’

‘I paid for it with an inheritance.’

‘Don’t tell me, an elderly aunt?’

‘Yes, actually.’

‘And the Renault lorry over there. What about that?’

‘That belongs to Georgina.’

‘What’s in the box on the roof?’

‘Tack.’

‘May I see?’

Hesp climbed up onto the roof of the lorry using the ladder bolted to the side. He opened the side of the fibreglass box on the roof to reveal several black leather and synthetic saddles.

‘Just spares and other stuff.’

‘That’s fine, thank you, Mr Hesp.’

Hesp climbed down the ladder as Dixon walked towards his Land Rover.

‘When does Westbrook Warrior race again?’

‘Wednesday at Taunton.’

‘Really? I may come and watch.’

It was getting dark as Dixon and Jane walked back along the beach towards the Pavilion. Sunday lunch at the Red Cow had been followed by a long walk out as far as the lighthouse and back. They had parked on the seafront near the Clarence and thought they might pop in for a drink before heading back to Jane’s flat.

‘Do you think we’ll be welcome?’ asked Jane.

‘We’ll soon find out.’

Their last visit to the Clarence had not ended well.

Dixon walked up the flight of concrete steps and waited at the top. Jane was still on the beach, rummaging in her pockets for the scented dog bags so she could pick up after Monty. Having an arm in a sling had some advantages, thought Dixon.

Suddenly, he heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned. Too late. He felt something dig into the right side of his back under his ribcage. He looked over his right shoulder and could see a gloved hand pressing the barrel of a gun into him. The man was small, dressed in black and wearing dark sunglasses. He had a moustache and dark stubble.

He nodded to the right.

‘Get in the car.’

A strong eastern European accent.

Dixon looked over to see a large black Range Rover with tinted windows. The nearside passenger doors, front and back, were open. Dixon looked down the steps. Jane was at the bottom holding Monty on the lead. She looked up at him with panic in her eyes. He shook his head. Jane got the message and turned back towards the beach, soon hidden behind the sea wall.

Dixon walked over and got in the back of the Range Rover. The man slammed the door and then climbed into the front seat. The car sped off heading north along the Esplanade. They were speeding out of Burnham towards the motorway roundabout before the man sitting next to Dixon spoke.

‘You are becoming a pain in the neck, as you English say, Mr Dixon.’

‘And what do I call you? Mr Green? Colonel Mustard?’

‘You may call me Zavan.’

Zavan was in his early sixties with grey hair and matching beard. He clearly stuck to the dress code for Albanian gangsters, wearing trousers, polo neck sweater and a sports jacket. All black. He spoke slowly and with a strong eastern European accent.

‘And what do your friends call you?’ asked Dixon.

‘I have no friends.’

‘You owe me a new television.’

‘And you owe me two men. So we are quits, I think.’

Zavan turned in his seat to face Dixon and looked him up and down.

‘What happened to your arm?’

‘I got stabbed a week or so ago.’

‘I read about that.’

The driver of the Range Rover spoke in Albanian. Zavan translated for Dixon.

‘He said you dealt with Besim and Ardita with one arm. He would like to have seen that.’

‘An Englishman’s home is his castle...’ replied Dixon.

Zavan threw his head back and roared with laughter. He stopped abruptly.

‘You don’t scare easy, do you, Mr Dixon?’

‘No.’

‘You are not scared now?’

‘I’m working on the basis that if you wanted me dead I’d be at the bottom of the Bristol Channel...’

‘We could be on our way there now,’ said Zavan.

‘We could. But then you wouldn’t be here getting your hands dirty and I certainly wouldn’t have been taken in broad daylight. Now, would I?’

Zavan nodded. He spoke in Albanian to the driver. The Range Rover turned north on the A38 towards Bristol.

‘We do not kill policemen, Mr Dixon. We are not barbarians.’

‘And you’re not stupid either.’

‘That is true. We are not stupid.’

‘So, what do you want?’

‘Our interests do not conflict, your’s and mine. You seek a murderer and we have killed no one.’

‘But you are breaking the law,’ replied Dixon.

‘Mere trifles, by comparison,’ said Zavan. ‘Is that the right expression?’

‘It is.’

‘And they are someone else’s problem, are they not?’

‘They are.’

‘We did not kill the groom. I give you my word.’

‘And you don’t know who did, I suppose.’

‘No.’

‘Hesp will be closed down. You know that?’

‘The horse racing was never going to last long. And it was small change.’

Dixon decided not to let on that he knew about the drugs.

‘And what about Hesp?’

‘He will be more careful who he borrows money from next time,’ replied Zavan.

‘He’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

‘So, we have an agreement?’ asked Zavan.

‘We have arrived at an understanding,’ replied Dixon.

‘Is there a difference?’

‘There is. Buy yourself a dictionary.’

Zavan smiled and barked an order in Albanian. The Range Rover came to an abrupt halt on the side of the road.

‘Goodbye, Mr Dixon. I hope our interests never conflict.’

‘So do I.’

Dixon watched the Range Rover speed off towards Bristol, it’s lights disappearing into the distance. He looked around. He could see the lights of the Sidcot Arms set back from the road about five hundred yards away and started walking towards it. He reached into his pocket and rang Jane as he walked.

‘Are you alright? Fuck. Tell me you’re alright.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Sidcot.’

‘Fucking hell. I thought you were...’

‘I’m fine, really, Jane. They just wanted a chat.’

‘I nearly shit myself.’

‘You and me both.’

‘I called it in. I’d better let them know you’re ok.’

‘I’ll be in the Sidcot Arms.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Dixon was on his second pint by the time Jane arrived at the Sidcot Arms. She ran over and threw her arms around him. Tears were streaming down her face.

‘I thought you were...’

‘I’m fine, really.’