60
PC Dixon was desperate to talk to his girlfriend. He’d been calling her for days but she wasn’t picking up or returning his calls. He’d gone to her home but there was no answer at the door. The neighbours hadn’t seen her either. Completely baffled by her disappearance, and wondering what the silly cow was up to, he’d returned to the station only to run into more bad news. Daniels had called in Professional Standards.
Ray Montagu, a severe-looking detective superintendent, was facing him now, an equally serious female DI by his side. The pair had years of experience under their belts, impressive reputations in their field of expertise. Dixon didn’t need telling that his own good name was on the line.
You want a better class of detective, complain about a polis.
Report a rape, you get a numpty.
Those words had come from his shift sergeant as he’d left to face the big guns. He could say that again. Montagu was looking right through him, judging him before he’d even opened his mouth, a cause of deep anxiety for Dixon. A file on the table had his name, rank and number written in thick black pen on the cover. There was no mistake. He was fighting for his life here.
Taking her cue from her senior officer, the woman introduced herself as Detective Inspector Jane Trent. Advising Dixon that she was recording the interview, she then cautioned him, giving the time, date and location of where the interview was taking place. ‘You’re entitled to have a solicitor present,’ she said. ‘Or someone from the Police Federation, if you’d prefer.’
‘I don’t.’ Dixon cleared his throat. ‘Want anyone, I mean. I’ve done nothing wrong, ma’am.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about, Constable.’ The DI’s lips were smiling but her eyes were not.
Dixon kept shtum, so Trent carried on: ‘On Saturday the twenty-sixth of June you were spoken to by Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels of the Murder Investigation Team with regard to an incident in Ralph Street. An old man, since identified as George Milburn, had collapsed in the street. You left her crime scene to render assistance. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dixon said.
‘Following on from that interview,’ Montagu chipped in, ‘we have a few more questions for you. You’re aware that an amount of money was taken from the old man?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Money which you deny having any knowledge of.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Have you anything further to say on the matter?’
Montagu waited, searching Dixon’s face for clues. There were none. The PC was showing no signs of distress. He sat stony-faced, not a flicker of concern, his expression deadpan. After a moment, he told them that he had nothing at all to add to what he’d already told DCI Daniels when first questioned.
‘That’s a shame,’ the Super said. ‘I really was hoping you’d help us out here.’
Montagu looked away deliberately. Opening up Dixon’s personnel file, he flicked through a few pages, commenting on his exemplary record, reminding him what he stood to lose should any impropriety be uncovered during the interview. A ploy designed to make him sweat. Closing the file, he looked up.
‘I’ll get straight to the point then, shall I?’
‘If you would, sir. I’m due on at two.’
Cocky shit!
‘You allege that a young woman at the scene may have taken the money.’
‘That may well be the case, sir.’
‘But that’s not true, is it?’ Montagu said. ‘What if I told you we’ve already established that you were the only person within touching distance of the old gentleman while he was lying prostrate on the ground – what would you say?’
‘I’d say you’re mistaken,’ Dixon replied. ‘The girl was with him when I got there, sir.’
‘We’re willing to accept your word on that score,’ Trent said. ‘That would be Chantelle Fox, yes? The young woman you described as a “gobby cow” to DCI Daniels?’
Dixon’s gaze shifted from the Super to Trent. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Yes, indeed . . .’ Montagu let some time pass before moving the interview along. ‘We’ve made extensive enquiries. We’ve spoken to a number of witnesses to the old man’s unfortunate collapse. I have to tell you, the information coming back is fairly conclusive. Everyone agrees that, while Chantelle Fox did take photographs of him lying on the deck, she did not approach him at any time. Therefore she couldn’t have removed anything from his person. What have you got to say about that?’
‘Not true. She was very close to him.’
‘You’re saying the people we’ve interviewed are lying and you’re telling the truth?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Shit stick together, sir.’
‘Do they?’ Trent bristled. ‘You got something against people living in the West End?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Sounds like you have.’ Trent glanced at Montagu. ‘The people we interviewed were very cooperative, weren’t they, sir?’ Taking in Montagu’s nod, Trent turned back to Dixon. ‘Chantelle may be gobby, but she had the decency to admit taking inappropriate images. Her neighbours back up her claim that she went nowhere near the old man. They seemed pretty genuine to me.’
‘Someone’s lying.’ It was a statement, not a question. Montagu was watching Dixon closely. Making a fist of his hand, the PC propped up his chin, his elbow on the table, all the time insisting that Chantelle Fox was with the old man when he got there. ‘So you said. And sit up straight when you’re talking to me. You’re not in the staff canteen now, son.’
His harsh words had the desired effect.
Dixon sat back, couldn’t look the detectives in the eye.
‘That’s better . . .’ Montagu waited until he had Dixon’s full attention. ‘According to DCI Daniels, you deny having taken possession of Mr Milburn’s cash, even for safekeeping. Is that still your contention?’
‘I didn’t take anything, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Montagu had a bombshell to drop. But not yet. Not until he was good and ready. Not until the little shit across the table denied his career away. For a moment or two he did just that, repeating his claim that Chantelle Fox was the guilty party, insisting he had nothing whatsoever to hide. He was simply doing his job, as always.
Silly boy.
The hiatus proved too much for Dixon. ‘I’m not pointing any fingers, sir. Perhaps she wasn’t the one who took the money. But I didn’t, that’s all I’m saying. I’m as clueless as you appear to be.’
Trent had to work hard to keep the smile off her face. Her eyes flicked to the Super. His expression was inscrutable. They had worked together for years and ‘clueless’ was not something he’d ever been called before. Not by anyone. It was a big mistake on Dixon’s part, because Montague had realized he was beginning to crack.
‘First she did, then she didn’t . . .’ Montagu paused. ‘You were certain a moment ago. Have you changed your mind?’
Dixon was sweating profusely. ‘No, sir. All I’m saying is, I didn’t see her take it. She was near him though, whatever her neighbours told you.’
‘You’re prepared to admit that you may have been mistaken though, yes?’ Trent pushed.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Cut the crap!’ Montague was angry now and it showed. ‘We have you bang to rights, son. For security reasons, DCI Daniels installed covert monitoring equipment in Ralph Street following the arson attack. It proves beyond a shadow of doubt that Chantelle Fox went nowhere near the dying man. Now what do you have to say for yourself?’
‘If she didn’t take the money, then the ambulance crew must’ve. Or the medics when he was in the hospital. I don’t know, do I?’
‘You’re prepared to admit you were the only person near the man having the heart attack?’
‘No! Yes, maybe . . .’ Dixon was showing classic signs of stress. He’d gone terribly pale and a thin film of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. ‘Look, I was on my own and under pressure. I’d left a crime scene unattended and I was trying to save a life. As I told DCI Daniels, I’d never done that before.’
Trent shook her head. She wasn’t buying it.
‘Chantelle wasn’t close enough to take the cash, was she?’ she asked.
‘Then the ambulance crew must have it. I don’t!’
‘No need to lose your temper, Constable. I’ll ask again, did you or did you not take money from George Milburn following his collapse? Think carefully before you answer.’
‘No!’
‘Let me recap,’ Montagu said. ‘You now accept that Chantelle Fox wasn’t close enough to take the money, so it must have been the ambulance crew. Is that correct?’
No reaction.
‘PC Dixon? There’s no point in denying it. We have unequivocal proof, man.’
‘Yes.’
‘You really aren’t as bright as your record suggests, are you, Dixon?’ The comment had come from Trent. ‘You’re obviously unaware that the ambulance service operates a strict protocol for taking patients to hospital, logging them in with a triage team. They also have equipment to protect themselves from outrageous allegations from the likes of you.’ Dixon dropped his head as she waited for a response. None came. It was time to go for the jugular. ‘Have you ever been in the back of an ambulance?’
Dixon looked up. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Answer the question,’ Trent said.
Dixon shook his head.
For the benefit of the interview room’s digital recorder, Trent indicated that he’d done so. ‘PC Dixon, you are telling lies! Throughout this interview you’ve shown classic signs of a guilty man, shifting the blame, changing the story when it suited you. First you tell DCI Daniels that Chantelle was quote: standing over him . . . with him. Those are your words, the ones you used when first questioned. You repeated them today and then back-pedalled as soon as you realized you weren’t getting away with it. The truth is, Chantelle Fox couldn’t possibly have taken the money. Then you tried shifting the blame to the ambulance service. Well, let me enlighten you. There is video recording of what happens to the patients in transit and CCTV inside and outside accident and emergency departments. We’ve viewed the footage, which includes the transfer of Mr Milburn between the ambulance crew and the trauma team. Guess what? He was searched by a member of the hospital staff – because they knew he was in a bad way – so they could ID him and inform next of kin. Barring a few coins, he didn’t have any money on him. We already know Chantelle was telling the truth, so that proves to me you’re lying – unless you are suggesting that all the hospital staff are conspiring together to commit an offence? And that doesn’t happen.’
Dixon’s head went down as the interrogation came to an end. He was beaten and he knew it. For a moment the room was silent. When he looked up at his superiors he had tears in his eyes and his chest was heaving under his uniform shirt. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I did take the cash, but I swear to you it was only for safekeeping. I was going to give it back. But when DCI Daniels contacted me, I panicked.’
‘Too. Late. Now,’ Trent said.