Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) (8 page)

‘Harry Unwin? Harry bloody Unwin?’ shouted Dixon, from the kitchen.

‘Yes.’

‘You never said he was on the team.’

‘I knew how you’d react.’

‘There’s a gang of Albanians who know where we live thanks to that prick.’

‘You can’t prove that.’

‘I can’t, but if I could . . . let me rephrase that. When I can . . .’

‘Look, this is a separate investigation. And besides, I’m working with Janice.’

‘Keep it that way.’

‘I will.’

Dixon appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He was carrying a large spoon and a jug.

‘D’you like bread sauce?’

A hot shower and a gin and tonic later and Jane tiptoed down the stairs wearing a pair of jeans and one of Dixon’s shirts. She squeezed between the sofa and the Christmas tree, which was far too big but Dixon had insisted, and placed her empty glass on the side in the kitchen with a bang. Dixon started refilling it right on cue.

‘What’s on telly tonight?’ she asked.

‘You choose.’

Chapter Seven

J
ane arrived at Express Park just before 8 a.m. the following morning. There were a few more cars in the car park but she was still able to get a space on the ground level. The skeleton staff on for Boxing Day was bigger than the day before but not that big.

She glanced through the window of the staff canteen as she walked past and spotted Janice sitting alone in the corner, so
she poked
her head around the door.

‘Are you all right, Jan?’

‘Yeah fine.’ She replied without looking up from her coffee, so Jane walked over and sat down next to her.

‘Everything all right at home?’

‘He did at least wait until the children went to bed, I suppose. How about you?’

‘Fine. Look, he married a police officer. What the bloody hell does he expect?’

‘You try telling him that.’

‘Gladly.’

Janice shook her head.

‘He was just disappointed, I think, but I could’ve done without all the histrionics. He was drunk too, which didn’t help.’

‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’

‘God, no.’

‘Twat.’

‘We’ll get through it. Tell me about your evening.’

‘Nick had cooked roast turkey,’ replied Jane.

‘Detective Inspector Dixon cooked?’

‘He did. Then we sat and watched a film and polished off a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.’

‘Sounds lovely.’

‘It was. Till Monty was sick on the carpet. Too much turkey, I think.’

Janice laughed.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued Jane, ‘have we had SOCO’s report yet?’

‘No. I asked Watson. He’s dictated it and it’ll be typed up today. We’ll get the post mortem report tomorrow too.’

‘What about the lab report?’

‘We’ve got PGL’s. That’s how we made the match with
Stanniland
.’

‘What does it say about the vomit?’

‘Too much stomach acid and rainwater to get a decent profile, apparently. But the cigarette’s a good match. It’ll be in your email.’

‘When are our labs open again?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘And Stanniland?’

‘Special sitting of the mags later this morning. We’ll get another twenty-four hours to hold him.’

‘What’s the plan for this morning then?’ asked Jane.

‘We need to have another word with the husband, I think. Then her parents.’

It would have been easy for Jane to have got lost in the maze of new bungalows on the outskirts of Trull, a small village to the south-west of Taunton, had it not been for the four large vans with satellite dishes mounted on top parked outside one particular property. She counted at least six camera crews and several other journalists waiting patiently in the road outside the bungalow, all of them standing under umbrellas and most of them smoking.

Jane turned into the cul-de-sac and hooted at the journalists gathered at the gate. They moved to the side, allowing her to park in the drive. She looked up at the bungalow. It was small, possibly two or three bedrooms at most, with bay windows either side of the front door. Roses had been planted in large tubs on either side and a small tree, possibly a magnolia although it was difficult to tell at this time of year, grew in the middle of the lawn. The bungalow itself was built of red brick and looked no more than a few years old.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Janice, sitting in the passenger seat of Jane’s car.

They had telephoned ahead and the Perry family were expecting them so they jumped out of the car and made the short dash down the side of the bungalow to the back door without bothering with umbrellas and ignoring the shouted questions from the journalists at the gate. The back door opened as they stepped into the porch.

‘Come in.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Janice, looking up to see Tom Perry’s father standing in the doorway.

‘Leave your coats over those chairs,’ he said. ‘Tom’s in the living room. Down the hall, on the left.’

Jane left her coat over the back of a kitchen chair and followed the hallway towards the front of the property. She pushed open the door on the left and peered into the room. The curtains were closed and there was only one small lamp, making the room all but dark. She recognised Tom Perry sitting in an armchair by the fire. He was wearing jeans and a green sweatshirt with ‘Exeter, probably the best university in the world’ written on it. To his right was his mother, sitting on the sofa, and next to her was the family liaison officer, Karen Marsden.

‘Let me make some tea,’ said Karen. ‘Tom?’

‘Yes, please.’

Jane and Janice sat down on the sofa either side of Mrs Perry. Jane sat nearest to Tom Perry.

‘Hello, Tom,’ she said.

He nodded.

‘I gather DCI Lewis has spoken to you?’

‘He has. And Karen’s been great.’

‘Good,’ replied Jane. ‘We need to know if either of you ever met John Stanniland before.’

Tom Perry shook his head.

‘It’s very important, Tom.’

Janice took a photograph out of her handbag and passed it to Jane. Mrs Perry craned her neck to see it as it was passed in front of her.

‘Is that him?’ she hissed.

‘Yes,’ replied Jane, holding the photo in front of Tom Perry.

‘Do you know him, Tom?’

He stared at the photograph for several seconds before shaking his head.

‘I’ve never seen him before.’

‘What about online? Has he ever got in touch with you over the Internet? About politics perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Where does he live?’ asked Perry.

‘Bristol.’

‘That’s not even in the constituency.’

‘What about Elizabeth? Did she know him?’ asked Jane.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘She never mentioned his name?’

‘No.’

‘I thought you went to Reading University, Tom?’

‘Lizzie went to Exeter.’

‘You called her Lizzie. I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ said Jane.

‘That’s OK.’

‘What about that lot out there?’ asked Janice, gesturing to the front of the bungalow.

‘They’ll have to wait,’ said Mrs Perry. ‘They remind me of . . .’

‘That’s enough, Mum.’

‘We’ve even had his constituency chairman on the phone already, would you believe it?’ said Tom Perry’s father, walking into the room and standing behind his son’s chair.

‘What did you tell him, Tom?’

‘I didn’t speak to her. My father did.’

‘I told her he’d got more important things to worry about at the moment and they’d have to wait.’

‘Will they?’

‘I don’t know, I can’t think . . .’ Tom Perry’s voice tailed off as he buried his face in his hands. His father leaned forward and put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

Suddenly, Perry looked up.

‘I want to know why he killed her.’

‘We’ll find out, Tom,’ replied Jane.

‘Why her, why now?’

‘It may have been a burglary gone wrong,’ said Janice.

‘I need to know whether it was something I did. Whether there was anything I could have done to stop it.’

‘We’ll keep you informed, Tom.’

‘Then, one day, Stanniland and I are going to meet.’

The drive to Poole took nearly an hour and a half and much
of the
journey was spent in silence. Jane guessed that Janice was not in
the mood
for conversation and so kept her thoughts to herself, although Janice was clearly thinking about the case, judging by the questions she blurted out from time to time.

‘Was she insured?’

‘What?’ asked Jane.

‘Life insurance. Was there any?’

Next came a real belter.

‘They’re doing a DNA test on the child, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, they are.’

That was followed by ‘Have we had the bank statements yet?’

‘No.’

‘Were they in debt, d’you think?’

‘We’ll soon find out,’ replied Jane.

‘What about his reaction? Genuine, do you think? Or put on?’

‘I thought he was genuine.’

Janice had sighed at regular intervals, shaken her head and even grimaced. Eventually, Jane lost patience.

‘You don’t seriously think Tom Perry was behind it, do you?’

‘It’s possible,’ replied Janice. ‘He could have paid Stanniland.’

‘Right in the middle of a by-election? Do me a favour, Jan.’

‘Depends what she was gonna reveal about him, perhaps? Have you thought of that?’

Jane hesitated. Stanniland being paid to kill Elizabeth Perry would explain a great deal.

‘All right. I’m with you up to a point,’ said Jane. ‘Someone coming out of Bristol looking for a remote house to burgle is unlikely to drive all the way to Bridgwater, is he? It also explains why nothing was taken. Where you’ve lost me is Tom Perry.’

Janice took her phone out of her handbag and began tapping out a text message. Jane leaned across and tried to read it.

‘I’m telling Mark to chase up the bank statements. Stanniland’s and Perry’s.’

‘Waste of time,’ said Jane. ‘Stanniland’ll have been paid cash.’

Janice began tapping out a second message, reading it aloud as she did so.

‘Ask Watson if he found any cash in Stanniland’s flat.’

‘It’ll be stashed somewhere else,’ said Jane. ‘Well hidden.’

‘I suppose so. It’s hardly going to be under his mattress, is it?’

The Antelope was just behind the quay in Poole and proved easy to find, once Jane had got the hang of the one way system. She parked on the pavement outside an empty shop and directly opposite the hotel, placing one of her Avon and Somerset Police business cards on the dashboard in the hope that an officer from the Dorset Constabulary might not give her a ticket.

‘You’d have thought they’d have gone home, wouldn’t you?’ asked Janice, looking up at the antelope on a plinth above the front door.

‘Maybe they wanted to be with their son?’

‘Maybe.’

Jane followed Janice into the hotel and waited behind her while the receptionist rang Mr and Mrs King in their room.

‘They’re expecting you. Room seven. Through that door, up the stairs, then follow the corridor around to the right.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Another one that’s not going to be easy,’ said Jane.

‘They never are.’

Janice knocked on the door and waited.

‘Yes.’

The man was young, perhaps late twenties or early thirties, with short dark hair that was shaved at the sides of his head. He was very tanned and wore a polo shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of chinos.

‘Er, we’re here to see Mr and Mrs King,’ said Janice.

‘Let them in, Simon.’ It was a woman’s voice, coming from behind the door.

Jane followed Janice into the middle of the large room and listened while Janice made the introductions. Mrs King was sitting on a purple sofa behind the door and her husband, Charles, was pacing up and down in the bay window.

‘This is our son, Simon. He’s based at RM Poole and on standby so he can’t get away,’ said Mrs King.

‘What do you do there?’ asked Janice, turning to Simon King.

‘I’m not allowed to talk about it.’

‘Do sit down.’

There were two small chairs either side of a chest of drawers, which Simon carried into the middle of the room.