Kickback (16 page)

‘You’ve been busy, I see,’ said Jane.

‘Took Monty for a walk though. Remembered that,’ replied Dixon.

Louise walked into Dixon’s office and sat at Janice Courtenay’s desk.

‘Well, what’d you get?’ asked Dixon.

‘He enjoys his weed, does Mr Freer,’ said Louise.

‘Jason Freer is a rent boy. He and Noel used to work the car park on the A39. They looked out for each other, apparently,’ said Jane.

‘Give me the bones of it,’ said Dixon.

‘Well, Freer remembers Noel meeting Philip Stockman. After that he didn’t see him for a while. Then he started appearing in the car park again. Noel told him he was working at some stables and the pay was shit.’

Dixon nodded.

‘This was about eighteen months ago,’ continued Jane. ‘He had a regular client too. Freer couldn’t recall anything about him but he did remember that Noel stopped showing up at the car park almost completely about a year ago. He’d see him once a month or so after that.’

‘Do we know why that was?’ asked Dixon.

‘Noel told Freer he had a new meal ticket and didn’t need the money anymore.’

‘A new meal ticket...’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. ‘A year ago, you say?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jane.

Dixon looked at the list of mobile phone calls.

‘That was when these calls started,’ he said. ‘The ones to and from the unregistered pay as you go.’

‘Same man?’ asked Louise.

‘Let’s assume so, for the time being. How much money was he getting?’

‘Freer didn’t know but said he thought it was...’

‘Quite a lot, was the phrase he used,’ said Louise, looking at her notes.

‘Enough for an iPad and PlayStation,’ said Dixon.

‘And that camera,’ said Jane.

‘So, Noel’s blackmailing someone and is killed for it. It’s a regular punter of his…’ Dixon piled up his empty coffee cups, one inside the other. Then he walked over to the other side of his office and dropped them in the bin. ‘The key is in these phone calls.’

‘Must be,’ replied Jane.

‘Good work, the pair of you,’ said Dixon.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Louise.

‘I’ve spoken to DCI Lewis about the mobile positioning, Louise. He’ll clear it with the Chief Super for us if you can get the details over to him straightaway.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly 7.30pm.

‘Then you’d better go home. Be back here at 8.00am sharp.’

‘Will do.’

Jane waited until Louise had left Dixon’s office.

‘What are we gonna do?’

‘Your place or mine?’

Dixon took his left arm out of the sling and tried stretching his shoulder as much as he could. He was sitting in the living room at Jane’s flat in Bridgwater.

‘Feels a bit better,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Jane, pouring two large glasses of red wine.

She looked over at Monty, curled up on the rug in front of the fire. It was an artificial fireplace and an electric fire, but Monty didn’t know or care.

‘A tiny little house and a garden full of rubbish and that idiot Freer’s got a rottweiler living there.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, but we’ll be going back as soon as this is over. Louise and I came out of there as high as kites just from the fumes.’

Dixon laughed. Jane sat on the sofa next to him and then turned to face him. She put her legs across his lap.

‘What is going on in there?’ asked Jane, tapping Dixon on the side of his head with her finger.

‘We’ve had an armed siege, a betting scam, drug smuggling and organised crime all thrown in and it’s going to boil down to a simple bit of blackmail. Funny how thing’s turn out, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

There was a loud ping from the kitchen.

‘Dinner is served,’ said Jane.

‘Got any mango chutney?’ asked Dixon.

‘Don’t push your luck.’

They were half way through their microwaved chicken tikka masalas when Dixon’s phone rang. It was Roger Poland. Jane listened to Dixon’s end of the conversation.

‘Hi Roger...what?’

Silence.

‘Nothing at all?’

Silence.

‘Well, thank you for trying.’

Silence.

‘Yes, we must. Ok.’

Dixon rang off.

‘Don’t tell me. No evidence of foul play on Georgina Harcourt’s body?’ asked Jane.

‘None. It doesn’t mean there wasn’t foul play, of course, just that there’s no evidence of it.’

‘So, what happens now?’

‘File to the coroner. Verdict suicide.’

‘But you’re not convinced?’

‘When I was at school I got hold of a small bottle of whisky. I drank the lot and was really ill. I mean really ill. I didn’t wake up till the next day. Point is ever since then I’ve hated whisky. Even the smell of it makes me want to puke. So, if I was going to take an overdose I’d hardly wash it down with scotch, would I? I’d just throw the pills up again.’

‘And she hated whisky?’

‘You heard what Stockman said.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Let it go. We’d never get Lewis to authorise a murder investigation on this evidence.’

‘True.’

‘Fight your battles where you can win them, Jane,’ said Dixon. ‘Fancy a DVD?’

‘No.’

Dixon sat up in bed. Jane was fast asleep. He checked the time. 2.15am. Red wine always did this to him, particularly when mixed with painkillers. He looked around the room. Light from the street lamps was streaming in around the curtains. He could make out the dressing table, wardrobe and Monty asleep on the end of the bed. He could hear a police siren in the distance and remembered why he had moved to a little cottage in the country. Peace and quiet. Until two men break in at the dead of night, that is.

He lay back, closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. He saw his handwritten list of mobile phone calls Noel made to and received from the unregistered pay as you go number. The calls began a year ago, just at the time Noel found his new meal ticket. Dixon thought about the dates of the calls. Irregular and often weeks apart.

He sat bolt upright in the bed. Jane woke up and tried to pull the duvet back over her shoulders.

‘What is it?’

‘Where’s your laptop?’

‘In the drawer under the coffee table. What...?’

Dixon had already jumped out of bed and was running into the lounge. Jane put her dressing gown on and followed him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Just a theory.’

‘A theory? You get me out of bed at this time in the morning for a theory?’

Dixon was powering up Jane’s laptop.

‘What’s your password?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘Tea would be nice,’ said Dixon, smiling.

Jane went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Dixon turned back to the laptop, opened a web browser and went to racingpost.com. He typed Westbrook Warrior into the search field and hit ‘enter’. Two results appeared immediately under the search tab. HORSES (1) and GREYHOUNDS (1). Odd name for a greyhound, thought Dixon. He clicked on HORSES (1) and beneath that appeared the entry ‘Westbrook Warrior (IRE) - 2010’. Dixon clicked on it and a new window opened. It contained Westbrook Warrior’s complete Race Record.

Dixon jumped up and ran into the bedroom. He picked up his jacket and found the handwritten list of calls in the inside pocket. Then he sat back down in front of the computer and checked the dates of the races against the dates of the calls.

They were a perfect match.

Ten

‘She’s late.’

‘You did say 8.00am.’

‘Did I?’ asked Dixon, shaking his head. He looked at his watch. It was 7.45am.

DCI Lewis stood in the doorway of Dixon’s office.

‘I got clearance on the mobile positioning. The request went in last night. Should be through today.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Dixon, without looking away from his computer. ‘Any news on the...?’

He looked up. Lewis had gone.

‘Marvellous.’

‘What happens now?’ asked Jane.

‘See if you can find Louise’s notes on the owners, will you?’

Jane went outside to Louise’s desk in the CID room. Dixon opened Internet Explorer on his computer and went to racingpost.com. He entered Westbrook Warrior into the search field, clicked on his name in the results and then went to his Race Record, which opened in a new window, as before. At the top of the page was the information he was looking for. Owner B & M Mayhew, S & J Somerville, Lady Winton.

‘Found anything?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Jane.

‘Find out when Hesp started training Westbrook Warrior then.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘Use your initiative.’

Jane took her phone out of her handbag and rang Kevin Tanner. Dixon listened to her end of the conversation.

‘Mr Tanner, it’s Detective Constable Winter.’

Silence.

‘I was hoping you could answer a simple question for me?’

Silence.

‘When did Mr Hesp start training Westbrook Warrior?’

Silence.

‘Thanks...yes that’s it. Thanks again.’ Jane rang off and turned to Dixon.

‘A year ago, when he came over from Ireland.’

Dixon nodded.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Jane.

‘Morning all,’ said Louise, from the doorway.

‘Perfect timing,’ said Dixon, ‘come in and sit down. Saves me going through it twice.’

Louise sat at Janice Courtenay’s desk.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘We have some progress, which narrows it down for us. Where are your notes on the owners, Louise?’

‘Bottom drawer of my desk.’

‘Ok. We know from Freer that roughly eighteen months ago Noel started appearing in the car park on the A39 again and on a fairly regular basis. We also know that he had a regular client. Right?’

‘Yes,’ said Jane.

‘Then about a year ago he stopped going so often. Freer tells us that Noel said he no longer needed the money...’

‘He had a new meal ticket.’

‘He did, Louise.’

‘This coincides almost exactly with the start of the telephone calls passing between the unregistered pay as you go and Noel’s phone. Not only that but the dates of the calls, leaving aside the close season…’ Dixon paused. ‘…exactly match the dates of Westbrook Warrior’s races.’

‘Shit.’

‘Precisely, Jane.’

‘Now we find this morning that Hesp began training Westbrook Warrior a year ago, when the horse came over from Ireland. We can check the exact dates, of course...’

‘So, what d’you think happened?’ asked Louise.

‘Noel has a regular punter. An anonymous suit. Noel knows nothing about him, not even his name. All he knows is the car he drives, of course. Then one day, a year or so ago, this suit turns up at Gidley’s Racing Stables with his shiny new racehorse and meets the groom...’

‘Noel.’

‘Yes. Now let’s say this proud new racehorse owner is accompanied by his wife and perhaps the other members of the syndicate too?’

Jane and Louise were both nodding.

‘You can just see the cogs going round in Noel’s head, can’t you?’

‘You can,’ said Louise.

‘Which makes Noel’s new meal ticket one of Westbrook Warrior’s owners?’

‘It does, Jane.’

‘I’ll get the file,’ said Louise, jumping up from her chair.

‘It really is blackmail then,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

‘Well, he paid a heavy price for it,’ replied Dixon.

‘He did.’

‘And we’ve still got to prove it.’

Louise reappeared carrying a brown file. She began sorting through the papers and produced a plastic wallet.

‘These are Westbrook Warrior’s,’ she said, passing the documents to Dixon.

Dixon read aloud.

‘Brian and Mary Mayhew, Simon and Jean Somerville. Lady Ruth Winton. Mean anything to anyone?’

‘No,’ said Jane.

‘Not known to police,’ said Louise.

‘The Mayhews live in Exford, the Somervilles in Trull. Is this it?’ asked Dixon, holding up three pieces of paper in his right hand.

‘I’d not got to them yet,’ replied Louise.

‘What about Lady Winton?’ asked Jane.

‘Stoke Gabriel, Devon. It says here she’s ninety-one. Is that right, Louise?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ok, Jane you take the Mayhews and, Louise, you concentrate on the Somervilles. Anything and everything you can find out about them.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Then we’ll pay ‘em a visit.’

‘Shall I ring them?’ asked Jane.

‘No. We’ll go unannounced,’ replied Dixon.

Westbrook House, Trull, was set back off the road with ornate stone pillars and large wrought iron gates at the entrance. They were open. Jane turned into the drive and followed it around to the right, parking directly in front of the property, next to a silver Land Rover Discovery.

‘Not short of a bob or two, are they?’ said Jane.

Dixon looked up at the house. It was whitewashed with black painted timber framing over an open porch. Bay trees stood in pots on either side and, under cover, large stacks of firewood had been stored within reach of the front door. A Virginia Creeper covered the wall to the left of the porch.

‘No.’

Dixon rang the doorbell. It was a small white plastic box stuck onto the door frame. It had a soft grey rubber button and a green light flashed when he pressed it.

‘I hate these bloody things. You can never tell whether it’s rung or not.’

They waited. No sound came from inside so Dixon knocked on the front door. This time they could hear dogs barking at the side of property, closely followed by shouting. A woman’s voice.

‘Come here. Pepper, come...oh for heaven’s sake.’

Monty was barking and scrabbling at the side window of Dixon’s Land Rover. Dixon and Jane turned just in time to greet two black labradors. The dogs began jumping up at them just as the woman appeared.

‘I’m so sorry about that,’ she said, hooking her fingers in the dogs’ collars. ‘They’re quite friendly, just a bit bouncy.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Dixon. ‘We’re looking for Mrs Jean Somerville.’

‘That’s me. And you are?’

‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Winter, Avon and Somerset Police. May we have a word, please?’

‘What about?’

‘We’re investigating the death of Noel Woodman, Westbrook Warrior’s groom.’

‘Wasn’t that an accident?’

‘No,’ replied Dixon.

‘Oh. You’d better come round the back. The kitchen door’s open.’

‘Is your husband in?’

‘He’s down at the orchard, tidying up. Do you want me to get him?’

‘We’ll have a word first, if that’s ok.’

They followed Mrs Somerville around the side of the property. She was crouched over with her fingers still hooked in the dogs’ collars and once in the back garden she let them go. Dixon looked along the back of the property. A timber framed conservatory stuck out into the lawn and beyond that was a large bay window.

‘What a lovely garden,’ said Jane.

‘Thank you. Mowing the lawn was a bit of a pain till I bought my husband a sit on mower. Tremendous fun.’

The back door was open.

‘Come in. Do sit down,’ said Mrs Somerville, gesturing towards the kitchen table, ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

Dixon turned to Jane.

‘Notice the uniform?’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Blue Barbour jacket, green wellies, Burberry hat.’

‘Tweed on race day?’ asked Jane.

‘Guaranteed.’

Mrs Somerville reappeared. The hat and coat had gone revealing long grey hair tied up in a bun, grey pullover and jeans. Dixon estimated that she was in her early sixties.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely,’ replied Dixon, ‘thank you.’

Jean Somerville spoke while she filled the kettle. Jane was taking notes.

‘So, if it wasn’t an accident, what happened to him?’

‘He was murdered,’ said Dixon, matter of fact.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Who? Why?’

‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with that.’

‘You don’t think that I...we…had anyth...?’

‘There are certain questions we have to ask everyone, Mrs Somerville,’ replied Dixon. ‘Procedure.’

‘Of course.’

‘Tell me about Lady Winton.’

‘She’s my aunt. Housebound now but loves to watch him run on the television. Keeps her going, I think, following the racing.’

‘And your husband. What does he do for a living?’

‘Retired now but he was a property developer.’

‘Did either of you have much to do with Noel?’

‘Not really. We saw him at the races and on the odd occasion we went to Spaxton but that’s it.’

‘Ever see him outside racing?’

‘No.’

‘So, you weren’t friends?’

‘Certainly not.’ Indignant.

‘Let’s start at the beginning then,’ said Dixon. ‘When did you buy Westbrook Warrior?’

‘Just over a year ago. Simon and Brian...Brian Mayhew, went over to Tattershalls Ireland and bought him. They brought him back and put him with Michael Hesp.’

‘Why Hesp?’

‘We wanted a local trainer so we could keep in touch with him and he had a vacancy.’

‘Was Noel working there at that time?’

‘Yes. We were there when the Warrior arrived in the lorry and so was Noel.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘When we brought him over?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not much to tell, really.’ She laughed to herself. ‘It was a bit embarrassing. He was going berserk in the lorry. Put a couple of dents in the side of it. No one would go in and untie him. So, Noel went in. Calm as anything, untied him and led him down the ramp.’

‘Is the Warrior aggressive?’

‘He can be.’

‘But not with Noel?’

‘No.’

‘They had a special relationship?’

‘They did.’

‘Didn’t you think it a bit odd then that the Warrior kicked him to death?’

‘I did, to be honest.’

‘Did you say anything to anyone?’

‘Only to...’

‘Can I help?’

Dixon and Jane looked over to the back door. A green Barbour jacket and green wellies.

‘Simon, this is the police. They’re asking about the groom, Noel.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was murdered, Sir.’

‘Murdered? You’re joking, surely?’

‘No, Sir. How well did you know him?’ asked Dixon.

‘Hardly at all. We saw him on race days but that’s about the extent of it.’

‘Did you ever see him anywhere else?’

‘No.’

‘How would you describe Westbrook Warrior’s temperament?’

‘No one could go in his stable, that’s for sure. I tried it once and only just got out in one piece. And he gives the farrier a hell of a time by all accounts. Vicious little...’

‘What about Noel?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell me about his relationship with Westbrook Warrior. Did he go in his stable, for example?’

‘No one did, unless he was tied up. That was the golden rule.’

‘And his results?’

‘We expected better, I think it’s fair to say.’

‘Have you ever tackled Michael Hesp about them?’

‘Once or twice. He fobbed us off with some rubbish about false splints.’

‘Splints?’ asked Dixon.

‘It’s damage to the splint bone in the lower leg. It causes a bony lump to form.’

‘I’ve felt his leg. There are no splints,’ said Mrs Somerville.

‘We’ll be changing trainer as soon we can,’ said Mr Somerville.

‘I think you will,’ said Dixon.

Mrs Somerville handed Dixon and Jane a mug of tea each and then placed a sugar bowl on the table.