Kickback (15 page)

‘He may have inherited it,’ replied Jane.

The front door of the house opened and a man wearing a red silk dressing gown stepped out and waited under the porch. He was in his late fifties or early sixties with very short grey hair. A number two cut with clippers, thought Dixon.

‘Nice of him to get off his death bed just for us, isn’t it?’

‘Behave,’ said Jane.

Dixon glanced into the back of the Land Rover as he got out. Monty was fast asleep.

‘Mr Stockman?’

‘I’m sorry to have mucked you about. I’ve got one of my migraines.’

‘That’s alright, Sir, we won’t keep you long,’ replied Dixon, handing his warrant card to Philip Stockman. ‘May we come in?’

Stockman did not reply. He stood staring down at Dixon’s warrant card. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

‘I loved him, you know.’

‘Noel?’

‘Yes. He didn’t love me though. I was just a meal ticket.’

‘Shall we go inside, Mr Stockman?’

‘Yes, sorry. Come in.’

Dixon and Jane followed Stockman into the living room. There was a large sofa opposite an open fire, with an ornate marble mantelpiece. Above that was hanging a huge gilt framed mirror. At the front of the room was a large bay window with full height sash windows and velvet curtains.

‘This is a beautiful room,’ said Jane.

‘Thank you,’ replied Stockman.

Jane sat on the sofa next to Philip Stockman. Dixon stood looking out of the window before sitting on the window seat.

‘You were saying about Noel...’

‘There’s not a lot else to say, really. ‘

‘When did you meet him?’

‘Two years ago, give or take.’

‘Where?’

‘We met in the car park. That’s where I meet all my friends.’

‘Which car park?’

‘On the A39. Just by the bridge there over the King’s Sedgemoor Drain.’

‘Were you a customer of his?’

‘Only the first time.’

‘Then he moved in here?’

‘Not straightaway but eventually I persuaded him to.’

‘Where was he living at the time?’

‘I don’t know. He moved around.’

‘And when he came here, what happened?’

‘I gave him money. Trying to stop him...selling himself. I could cope with the infidelity. Just not the risk.’

‘And did he stop?’

‘For a while. Until one day he came home all battered and bruised and I knew he’d been doing it again.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you were giving him money...’

‘It was the danger, Inspector. He loved the danger of it.’

‘How did he come to get involved with horses?’

‘I used to go riding and he came with me a few times. He was a good rider. Confident in the saddle. So I introduced him to Georgina Harcourt. I thought it would give him a direction and it did. The first time he rode a horse on the gallops there he was hooked.’

‘The speed?’

‘Yes. He must have been an adrenaline junkie, or whatever they call it.’

‘What happened then?’

‘He got the job there and went to live in that stinking caravan. But he loved being near the horses.’

‘Did you keep in touch?’

‘Yes. We’d meet up occasionally. I saw him in the car park once so I knew he was up to his old tricks too. He didn’t see me, thankfully.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Two weeks before he died. He came here for the weekend.’

‘Did he ever mention anyone in particular? Someone who had been violent towards him, perhaps?’

‘No. We never spoke about his other encounters.’

‘What about money?’

‘He didn’t ask for any and I didn’t offer it. He was getting paid by Michael Hesp, don’t forget.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that he had an iPad, a PlayStation and six hundred quids worth of Canon digital camera?’

‘Yes, it would. Definitely,’ replied Stockman. ‘Where on earth did he get that lot from, I wonder?’

‘That’s what we need to find out,’ replied Dixon. ‘And you know Georgina Harcourt?’

‘Yes, we’ve been friends for years.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr Stockman, but Mrs Harcourt is dead.’

‘What?’

‘She was found this morning, in her bed. I’m afraid that it looks like suicide.’

Jane looked at Dixon and raised her eyebrows. Philip Stockman began to sob.

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘What?’

‘That Mrs Harcourt committed suicide?’

‘It saddens me. No, it doesn’t surprise me. She’d been unhappy for some time, bless her.’

‘Did she tell you why?’

‘No. Which is odd because we used to talk about anything and everything, but I could never get her to open up about it.’

‘It?’

‘Whatever it was that was bothering her.’

‘Did she like whisky?’

‘What an odd question?’

‘Humour me.’

‘No. She hated it. Never touched the stuff.’

‘Thank you, Mr Stockman. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ll be wanting to get back to bed, I expect.’

Jane waited until the Land Rover was off the gravel drive.

‘What was all that about suicide?’

‘I never thought much about your murder theory, to be honest, Jane. It’s interesting that she hated whisky but it’s the only thing you’ve got on your side. You have to admit, it’s pretty thin, isn’t it?’

‘Git.’

‘Let’s get back to the station and see what Louise has been able to rustle up.’

Nine

‘There’s nothing on the camera or the iPad but we’ve got two numbers unaccounted for on Noel’s phone,’ said Louise.

‘Two?’

‘Yes, all the rest we can identify. His brother and sister, Kevin Tanner, Clapham, Hesp and Philip Stockman. There are a couple of landlines too. His doctor, father’s house and Stockman’s office.’

‘Father’s house?’ asked Jane.

‘Don’t forget Natalie lives there,’ said Dixon.

Jane nodded.

‘What about these other two then?’ continued Dixon.

‘One’s a Vodaphone number. I’ve been onto them and am just waiting for a call back. The other is an unregistered pay as you go number with Tesco Mobile.’

‘Buy it at the checkout. Stick some money on it and then away you go. Untraceable,’ said Dixon.

‘Here’s the list,’ said Louise, passing the printout to Dixon, ‘dates, times and call length.’

‘Get onto the phone networks. We need positioning records for both numbers when the calls were made and received. I want to know where Noel was when he rang that number and where that number was when it received his call. Ok?’

‘Can they do that?’

‘Yes. A mobile phone communicates with any base station within range. The strongest signal will be with the nearest base station and then you triangulate from there. It’ll give us a rough idea where he was.’

‘But in the countryside the base stations are further apart…?’

‘They are, Jane. I did say a rough idea.’

‘DCI Lewis will need to authorise it, surely?’ asked Jane.

‘It’ll come from higher up the food chain, but he can sort it out,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the background checks on everyone else, Louise?’

‘Still working on it, Sir.’

Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly 4.30pm.

‘How far have you got?’

‘I’ve got a list of names and addresses, landlines where they’ve got them, and mobile phone numbers. I’ve also got their previous convictions where they’re known to us, and I’ve been digging around on the internet too. Employment, businesses, company directorships, that sort of thing.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Lots. Sixteen horses, eleven private owners and five syndicates. A total of forty two people.’

‘Shit,’ said Jane.

‘We’ve got our work cut out then haven’t we,’ said Dixon.

The phone rang on Janice Courtenay’s desk. Louise answered it.

‘Yes.’

She reached for a notepad and pen and began making notes.

‘Thank you, very much.’

She rang off.

‘Jason Freer. Vodaphone contract customer. Lives at 51, Berryvale Avenue, Bridgwater.’

‘Well done, Louise,’ said Dixon.

Dixon looked at Jane.

‘Don’t just sit there then, go and interview him,’ he said. ‘And take Louise with you.’

‘Me?’ asked Louise.

‘Yes, you. It’s about time you got out and about a bit.’

Jane looked at Louise and shrugged her shoulders. They got up and left.

Dixon made himself a coffee from the machine and then turned back to the list of mobile phone calls. It started with the most recent and worked backwards. He highlighted the calls Noel made to and received from the unidentified pay as you go number and wrote them out on a separate piece of paper. He reversed the order of the list so that they now appeared in chronological order, starting with the first. Dates, times and call length. Made or received.

He sat staring at it for several minutes.

‘You alright?’

Dixon looked up. DCI Lewis was standing in the doorway of his office.

‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’

Lewis turned to walk away.

‘Could I have a word with you, Sir?’

‘Of course,’ said Lewis, walking into Dixon’s office and closing the door behind him. He sat down on the chair in front of Dixon’s desk.

‘What’s up?’

‘You’re going to get a request for mobile phone positioning records. I know it’s expensive but it’s all we’ve got at the moment.’

‘Those have to be approved by the Chief Super.’

‘Yes, but she’ll ask your advice...’

‘She will.’

Dixon raised his eyebrows.

‘Leave it with me,’ said Lewis. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes. Georgina Harcourt...’

‘The suicide?’

‘It’s looking increasingly like it. But she hated whisky, so why did she use that? And why did she call me on Sunday night? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it.’

‘Poland found anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Maybe she wanted to make a death bed confession?’

‘Maybe she did. Anyway, when Collyer came to see me in the hospital he said that she was a reluctant player in the drugs. She knew about it but wasn’t actively involved. I asked him how he knew and he said ‘we listen’. So, I’m thinking...’

‘They’ve got the house bugged?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Dixon.

‘It’s illegal,’ replied Lewis.

‘Needs must.’

‘Anything you got from it would be inadmissible.’

‘I’m only after a point in the right direction, Sir.’

‘The more likely explanation is a telephone tap, which would give you nothing.’

‘It’s worth asking, surely?’

‘Alright, I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Lewis, getting up.

Dixon turned back to his handwritten list of telephone calls and began staring at it again.

Berryvale Avenue was a narrow tree lined road of former council houses towards the north of Bridgwater. Cars were parked on the pavement either side of the road. Number 51 was at the far end, close to the junction with Osborne Road. It had a chicken wire fence around what lawn was visible under rusting car parts, two motorcycles, a small caravan that had collapsed on its wheels, and a fridge.

The tiny patches of lawn that were clear of rubbish were enough to tell Jane that a large dog also lived in the house.

It was just getting dark when she knocked on the door. She stopped when loud barking started.

‘There’s a surprise,’ said Jane. ‘You alright with dogs?’

‘Fine,’ replied Louise.

They listened at the door and heard a man shouting.

‘Come here. Come...Right, now, get in there.’ Then the sound of a door being closed.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Jane.

Louise smiled.

A figure appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. Jane could pick out blue trousers, probably jeans, a red shirt and dark hair. The door opened. Jane immediately recognised the tell tale smell of marijuana and could see a cloud of smoke coming from the kitchen at the back of the house.

‘Jason Freer?’ asked Jane.

‘Who wants to know?’

She held up her warrant card.

‘It’s personal use...’

‘I’m not interested in that. Are you Jason Freer?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’d like a word about Noel Woodman. May we come in?’

‘Give me a minute,’ said Freer, closing the door.

Jane could hear muffled voices and then the back door being opened and closed again.

‘The dope fiends make their escape.’

‘They’ll be back,’ said Louise.

‘And so will we,’ replied Jane, ‘when they least expect it.’

Louise grinned.

Freer opened the front door. ‘You’d better come in.’

‘Thank you, Mr Freer,’ replied Jane.

They stepped into the hall.

‘I am Detective Constable Winter and this is Police Constable Willmott.’

‘We’ll use the kitchen. Luka’s in there,’ said Freer, pointing at the lounge door.

‘And what is Luka?’

‘A rottweiler.’

They walked along the hall to the kitchen. Louise and Freer sat either side of the small kitchen table. Jane stood by the sink. Louise was taking notes.

‘When did you last see Noel?’

‘Three or fours weeks ago. What’s he been up to now?’

‘He’s dead, Mr Freer.’

‘Dead?’

‘Murdered to be precise.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Freer. He reached for a packet of cigarettes on the table. Jane could see that he was trembling as he fumbled with the lighter.

‘How did you know him?’ asked Jane.

‘What...what happened to him?’

‘How did you know him, please, Mr Freer?’

‘We met in a car park on the A39. Same line of work, you might say.’

‘Sex workers?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes.’

‘When was that?’

‘About three years ago. He’d left home.’

‘How...?’

‘Actually, he’d been thrown out. He hadn’t left.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘We used to look out for each other, you know. It can be dangerous. He got beaten up a few times. It’s happened to me too. So we’d keep an eye out for each other.’

‘Who beat him up, do you know?’

‘No. Just random punters.’

‘Where was he living?’

‘He moved around. It was a way of getting a bed for the night. Sometimes he stayed here.’

‘How often?’

‘A couple of times.’

‘Did you have a sexual relationship with him?’

Freer shook his head.

‘Did he have any regular clients?’

‘Not to begin with. Then he met Philip.’

‘Philip Stockman?’

‘I never knew his surname.’

‘What happened then?’

‘He went to live over Glastonbury way. I didn’t see him for a while after that. Then he began showing up again.’

‘When was this?’

‘Eighteen months or so ago. He said he was working at a stables and the pay was shit.’

‘How often would you see him then?’

‘Not as often as before. Maybe once or twice a week at first.’

‘What do you mean ‘at first’?’

‘The last maybe year or so he’s not been so often.’

‘How often?’

‘Once a month.’

‘So, let me make sure I’ve got this right,’ said Jane, ‘he’s a regular at the car park until he meets Philip Stockman. Then he’s not there at all for a while?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then, when he starts coming back, he’s there once or twice a week but for the last year or so it’s only been once a month.’

‘If that, thinking about it,’ replied Freer.

‘What changed then?’ asked Jane.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me about his clients.’

‘Different cars, different people.’

‘No regulars?’

‘Philip.’

‘When he started coming back, I mean?’

‘Yeah, there was then.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘He never spoke to you about this person?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember the car?’

‘I seem to remember a four wheel drive but I may have got that wrong.’

‘So, what you’re saying is when he started coming back, when he was at the stables, he had a regular client, then about a year ago he stopped almost completely?’

‘He still came from time to time but he didn’t need the money anymore, he said. It was just for the fun of it.’

‘Why not?’

‘He had a new meal ticket.’

‘Meal ticket?’

‘Those were his words exactly.’

‘You’ve got no idea who this person might be?’

‘No.’

‘Let’s be quite clear that it’s not Philip Stockman we’re talking about, is it?’

‘No. That was before.’

‘And he was getting money from this person?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say how much?’

‘No, but I got the impression it was quite a lot.’

‘Was he a client?’

‘I assume so.’

‘Did Noel say anything else that might be relevant?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Ok, we’ll leave you to it, Mr Freer, but if you think of anything else...’

‘And you’re not interested in the...er...?’

‘No, we’re not interested in that.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Freer.

Dixon was still staring at his handwritten list of mobile phone calls when Jane and Louise arrived back at Bridgwater Police Station. There were three empty plastic coffee cups on the desk in front of him.