Kickback (14 page)

‘Kevin, finish bandaging up Toby’s leg, will you?’

‘Ok.’

Once in the kitchen, Hesp sat down at the table.

‘We’ll use the living room, I think,’ said Dixon.

Hesp sat on the sofa. Dixon stood opposite him with his back to the fireplace. Jane sat on an armchair, notebook at the ready.

‘Where were you last night, Mr Hesp?’ asked Dixon.

‘Wait a minute, you can’t possible think that I...?’

‘Where were you?’

‘I stayed at a friend’s house in Taunton.’

‘Name?’

‘She’s married.’

Dixon looked through the front window and saw a police car and an ambulance pull into the courtyard.

‘How did she die?’ asked Hesp.

‘It’s too early to say, I’m afraid, Mr Hesp,’ replied Dixon. ‘What time did you leave last night?’

‘About 7.30pm. Once we’d finished for the night.’

‘And when did you get back?’

‘This morning. Sevenish. In time to help Kevin with the feeding.’

‘When did you last see Mrs Harcourt?’

‘Yesterday, late afternoon, say fiveish. I came in for a cup of tea. Then she went out in her car and got back after I left, I suppose. I didn’t see her after that.’

‘How was she when you saw her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Her mood. How did she seem?’

‘Fine. Her usual self. Why?’

There was a knock at the front door.

‘Excuse me, Mr Hesp. We’ll continue this in a moment.’

Dixon and Jane left Michael Hesp in the living room.

‘Jane, get a statement from Tanner. See if he can shed any light on Mrs Harcourt’s movements yesterday afternoon and whether he confirms Hesp’s story.’

‘Ok.’

Dixon turned to the two paramedics and the uniformed officer who had arrived.

‘At the moment, I want this treated as an unexplained death. Disturb as little as you can and watch out for anything that might be evidence.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon followed the paramedics upstairs. They pulled the duvet cover back far enough to check Mrs Harcourt’s vital signs before confirming that she was dead. Dixon then left the uniformed officer guarding the room.

He watched the ambulance back out of the courtyard from the living room window.

‘I’m going to need your friend’s name, Mr Hesp.’

‘I can’t...’

‘We’ll be discreet.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s just say that Mrs Harcourt’s death is currently unexplained and it may help to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘Miriam Sims. She lives at 37, Bennet Avenue.’

‘How often do you stay with Mrs Sims?’

‘Whenever her husband’s away. He’s a diver on the oil rigs. He works a month on, month off.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What’ve we got then?’ asked Poland. ‘This is supposed to be my day off.’

‘Mrs Georgina Harcourt. Dead in bed upstairs. She owns the place and rents it to the trainer, Michael Hesp. We interviewed her a couple of days ago and she denied any knowledge of the betting scam and any involvement in Noel’s death. I’ve since learnt that she at least knew about the drugs.’

‘Drugs?’

‘In the horse lorries.’

Poland shook his head.

‘Was she involved?’

‘I don’t think so. She knew about it but that’s all. She rang the station last night, asking for me, but the message wasn’t passed on. Next thing we know, she’s dead. You’ll see what it looks like...’

‘I get the picture. Lead on.’

They stood in the doorway of the bedroom watching the Scientific Services team at work. One was taking photographs and the other dusting the bedside table for fingerprints.

‘You finished?’

‘Almost, Sir.’

Dixon stood behind Poland as he surveyed the scene. The whisky bottle and sleeping pills were in separate evidence bags.

‘Restoril. Temazepam is the active ingredient. It’s a benzodiazepine usually used as a sleeping pill. Fatal in sufficient quantity, especially when mixed with half a bottle of scotch.’

Poland pulled back the duvet. Georgina Harcourt was lying on her back. Her right arm was at her side and her left across her chest. Her eyes and mouth were closed.

‘She looks asleep, doesn’t she?’ said Dixon.

‘That’s what happens. You go to sleep,’ replied Poland, ‘then the breathing goes.’

‘Any sign of foul play?’

‘What makes you think...?’

‘She tried to ring me at 9.37pm last night. Then this.’

‘But...’

‘And there’s no suicide note.’

‘That doesn’t prove anything. You know the statistics for that.’

‘These Albanians are good, Roger. They’d know she took sleeping pills. She takes a pill and is sound asleep. They creep in. Two hold her down. Two others pour the pills and scotch down her throat using a funnel so there’s no mess. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

‘But, there’s no sign of restraint...’

‘What if they were wearing soft gloves when they held her wrists? That wouldn’t leave a mark.’

‘No, it wouldn’t, I suppose.’

‘And the scotch. She was a drinker. You only have to look in the living room to see that. But there’s no sign of whisky anywhere.’

The uniformed officer appeared in the doorway.

‘Her doctor’s here, Sir.’

‘Send him up, will you?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘So, what you’re saying is that we’ve got no suicide note and she didn’t like whisky, therefore it must be murder. Is that it?’ asked Poland.

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that...’

‘You’re clutching at straws, Nick.’

‘I’m Doctor Carpenter, Mrs Harcourt’s GP.’

‘Come in,’ said Dixon.

‘It’s very sad. I always hate suicides,’ said Carpenter. ‘Never commit suicide, you might regret it later.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Winston Churchill, I think. He was talking political suicide but it still applies.’

‘It does,’ replied Dixon. ‘Forgive me, I’m Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Roger Poland, Pathologist at Musgrove Park.’

They shook hands.

‘Scotch and Restoril,’ said Poland. ‘Had you prescribed her Restoril?’

‘Yes. I started her on Zopiclone but after a while it didn’t work for her so we tried Restoril.’

‘There are eighty here. Could she have stockpiled that many?’

‘Yes, probably. She’s been on it for a while.’

‘Did she have any problems with alcohol?’

‘Not that she told me about. She was a social drinker. Nothing excessive that I saw.’

‘Any other medication,’ asked Poland.

‘She took a statin but apart from that, no.’

‘What about her mental state?’

‘Prone to bouts of depression but nothing too dramatic. I seem to recall one prescription of Fluoxetine some time ago but that’s it.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Dixon.

‘The trade name is Prozac,’ replied Poland.

Dixon nodded.

‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Poland.

Doctor Carpenter left and Poland turned to Dixon.

‘I’ve got to do a PM anyway so I’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious but I think you are way off the mark with this one, Nick.’

‘Looks like it. I’ve just got this alarm bell going off...’

‘Even if you’re right, there’s no physical evidence to prove it.’

‘So, if it was murder...?’ asked Dixon.

‘…it was a thoroughly professional job,’ replied Poland.

Dixon stood under the canopy on the corner of the stable block and watched Georgina Harcourt being carried out of the farmhouse to the waiting mortuary van. It looked disturbingly similar to the Albanians’ Range Rover. Black with tinted windows. The Scientific Services van had left a few minutes before and Roger Poland was almost finished at the scene as well. The next step would be the post mortem. He shouted across to Dixon.

‘I’ll let you know if I find anything.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You owe me another one for this.’

‘Curry?’

‘After last time?’

Poland followed the mortuary van out of the courtyard on foot and got in his car. Then he sped off down the drive after the van. Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly midday.

‘Let’s get some lunch.’

‘Ok,’ replied Jane.

‘What’d you make of it then?’ asked Dixon.

‘If it wasn’t for the telephone call the night before, I’d say it was suicide. That’s the only issue for me. It still could have been suicide, couldn’t it? But...maybe she couldn’t live with whatever it was she was going to tell us?’

‘Or maybe she was killed for it?’

‘It’s a tricky one,’ said Jane.

They were sitting at a small table in the corner of an otherwise deserted lounge bar in the Lamb in Spaxton. A dreary Monday lunchtime in November was clearly not their busiest time. Two cheese sandwiches and a bowl of chips arrived.

‘She couldn’t just disappear after Zavan told me that was their speciality. So it had to look like suicide...’ Dixon’s voice tailed off.

‘What?’

‘Do you remember when Collyer said that Georgina was a reluctant participant in whatever was going on, or something like that? I asked him how he knew...’

‘And he said ‘we listen’. I wondered what he meant by that.’

‘I reckon they’ve got the house bugged.’

‘Zephyr?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could just be a telephone tap,’ said Jane.

‘We’ll get Lewis to find out. About time he did something useful.’

Jane parked on the pavement outside The Glastonbury Music Shop in Benedict Street, a narrow side road off Market Place, Glastonbury. A little further down on the opposite side of the street was a red brick terraced cottage with hanging baskets either side of the front door. It had once been a residential address but was now the offices of Stockman Accountancy Services, as evidenced by the brass plaque on the wall. Dixon moved the flowers to one side and read aloud from the plaque.

‘Philip Stockman FCA, trading as Stockman Accountancy Services.’

‘FCA?’ asked Jane.

‘Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants.’

Dixon tried to peer through the front window but it was obscured by a dirty net curtain. He tried the door, which was locked, so Jane rang the doorbell.

The door was answered by a woman in her early sixties, smartly dressed in a two piece navy wool suit.

‘We’re looking for Philip Stockman,’ said Dixon.

‘Is he expecting you?’

‘Yes. I am Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Winter. We have an appointment at 2.00pm.’

‘He sends his apologies, I’m afraid. He wasn’t feeling well and has gone home.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t...’

Dixon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was enough to stop the woman mid sentence.

‘Let me explain. This is a murder investigation, Mrs...?’

‘Stevens. Ms Stevens.’

Dixon showed her his warrant card.

‘Now, I can get his address the hard way unless you’d like to save me the trouble.’

‘Beck House. It’s off Turnhill Road, High Ham.’

‘Do you know it, Jane?’

‘I know High Ham.’

‘Head out of the village on Turnhill Road. It’s about five hundred yards on the left. A gravel drive. If you reach the sharp right hand bend, you’ve gone too far.’

‘And what did he say was wrong with him?’

Hesitation.

‘A headache.’

‘Thank you, Ms Stevens.’

‘I bet she rings him,’ said Jane, as they drove out of Glastonbury.

‘Of course she will. She’s got to tell him what’s wrong with him for a start. But if he’s done a bunk before we get there, he’s got something to hide, hasn’t he?’

‘He has.’

‘C’mon, Jane, step on it. This isn’t an old milk float, you know.’

‘Might just as well be.’

It took no more than ten minutes to find Beck House. They turned into the drive and, for once, noise from outside the car drowned out the diesel engine. Dixon was surprised at how loud crunching gravel could be. It would certainly announce their arrival to anyone in the house.

Jane parked next to a red BMW estate. Dixon looked up at the large grey stone double fronted manor with a columned porch.

‘Plenty of money in accountancy, isn’t there?’