Free As The Crow Flies (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series) by Damien Boyd Page B

it that was wired up to a small battery pack.’
    ‘It’s called an incubator, Sarah.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘There was one set into the rear seat armrest of the Subaru.’
    ‘He wired it up to the car battery. Even fitted an on off switch. He was pleased with himself for that.’
    ‘So, he was planning to do it again?’
    ‘Yes, when he got back. He said the birds should have lain again by then. He was going to try for twenty eggs but something went wrong. He didn’t go.’
    ‘To Dubai?’
    ‘Dan went on his own.’
    ‘They collected the eggs and then Dan took them to Dubai without Jake?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘£140,000. More than enough motive for murder wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘So, you have no idea who his contact was or how he got in touch with them?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did he ever tell you any of his passwords? Facebook perhaps?’
    ‘No, he kept that sort of information to himself. I never knew any of his passwords and he never knew any of mine.’
    ‘I’m sure our High Tech Unit will be able to sort it out. I’ve got his computer and iPhone.’
    Tears had started to stream down Sarah’s face. Dixon noticed that she had not touched her drink.
    ‘Am I in trouble?’ she said.
    ‘No, Sarah. You’re not.’
     
    Dixon walked along the sea front towards the amusement arcade. He bought some chips, gave them a liberal covering of salt and vinegar, and then walked down the ramp towards the beach. He sat on the concrete steps below the sea wall and watched the lights flickering on Hinkley Point across the estuary. He could see the marker flashing on the sandbank of Stert Island. The South Wales coast was visible in the distance and he could even pick out the street lighting on the M4. He looked up at the lights flashing in the arcade and his mind wandered back to many an hour spent playing the fruit machines.
    ‘Fruit machines? You might as well go and push your money through their bloody letterbox,’ his grandmother had said.
    He remembered Jake’s ascent of the sea wall too. Using only the tiny crack between the huge sections of concrete wall for finger and footholds, Jake had got up and over the overhang. It was made all the more impressive by the quantity of beer Jake had drunk that evening too. Happy days.
    A sense of frustration overtook him. Or was it sadness? He wasn’t sure. He was not convinced that he was making any progress at all with his investigation into Jake’s death. He was yet to find any evidence that it was anything other than a simple accident. He was finding plenty of evidence to blacken Jake’s character and despite their protestations to the contrary, he was under no illusion that John and Maureen Fayter would not thank him for that. But he was no nearer to finding out what had happened to Jake. Something was niggling him. It was irritating him like an itchy scab and he was determined to keep picking at it.
    Dan Hunter held the key, Dixon was sure of that. No doubt he would meet him at Jake’s funeral tomorrow. Hunter had a great many questions to answer on his own account. Even assuming he was not involved in Jake’s drug dealing, he was certainly up to his neck in the theft and sale of the birds’ eggs. Dixon made a mental note to have a look at the various offences under the Wildlife and Countryside Act and their sentences. He had no intention of arresting Hunter at this stage but it might be useful to put the wind up him if needs be. Much would depend on whether or not he co-operated. Funerals in murder cases were always interesting and Jake’s was likely to be no exception.

Seven
     
     
     
    Dixon never understood why crematoriums all looked the same. He had been to any number of funerals over the years and Weston-super-Mare crematorium was just like any other.
    He had arrived early and met Dan Hunter amongst the usual throng waiting patiently in the car park. He explained that he was investigating Jake’s death and would need to speak to him in due