Free Head in the Sand by Damien Boyd Page A

take dogs,’ replied Dixon.
    ‘Nobody’s going to steal Monty, are they?’
    ‘It’s more likely, if anything. Dog fighting.’
    ‘Oh, ok,’ said Jane, turning back to her phone.
    They drove on in silence, Jane trying to find them a room for the night, Dixon deep in thought.
    ‘How about the Old Vicarage at Thetford. It’s a B&B but they take dogs?’
    ‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Dixon, ‘don’t forget to book two rooms.’
    ‘Two?’
    ‘The expenses claim will look a bit odd if we don’t.’
    Jane smiled. She rang the Old Vicarage and booked the rooms. Ten pounds extra for Monty.
    ‘That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’ said Jane, ‘particularly as he won’t use the bed or have breakfast.’
    ‘He will, we just won’t tell them that,’ said Dixon.
    They had reached Bristol before Dixon spoke again.
    ‘Why do people kill each other, Jane?’
    ‘Money, jealousy and revenge. It’s usually one or more of those reasons, when it boils down to it.’
    Dixon nodded and carried on driving. They turned east onto the M42 south of Birmingham and finally arrived in Norfolk just after 4.00pm. It was already starting to get dark, the clocks having gone back two weeks before. They checked in at the Old Vicarage and then walked to the local pub for supper. It came highly recommended and allowed dogs, which was an added bonus.
    ‘You never told me how you won the Police Medal,’ said Jane.
    ‘I didn’t.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘No, I didn’t win the Queen’s Police Medal.’
    ‘You said...’
    ‘I won the George Medal.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Long story.’
    ‘We’ve got all night.’
    ‘Actually, it’s not a long story at all. I’d nipped into M&S for a sandwich. Heard a shotgun blast, came out, and there’s a man on other side of the road with a shotgun. He had a motorcycle helmet on and he’d just come out of the bookmakers. Someone followed him out and he shot them in the legs, then made for a motorbike that was parked on the corner.’
    ‘So what did you do?’
    ‘I ran across the road and rugby tackled him. We crashed through the window of Starbucks and that was that, really.’
    ‘You tackled an armed man?’
    ‘I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time. It was a double barrelled shotgun and he’d fired one barrel in the bookies and the other outside so I thought he was out of ammo.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I found out later that he’d fired both barrels in the bookies and then reloaded before he came out. I nearly shit myself.’
    Jane was laughing so much she started choking on her wine.
    ‘Turned out it was a hit. Anyway, that’s it, really.’ Dixon reached over and patted Jane on the back. She stopped coughing and took a sip of wine.
    ‘The accidental hero. Isn’t that a film?’ she said.
    ‘Piss off.’
     
    Norfolk Police Headquarters, Wymondham, was a large red brick complex nine miles south west of Norwich. There were several buildings on the site, including the Operations and Communications Centre, apparent from the aerials and radio masts on the roof, and the main office building. They were greeted in Reception by DI Alan Dentus and, after the usual formalities, were shown to a meeting room on the first floor with large windows overlooking the car park.
    There were three document archive boxes on the table and a photocopier in the corner. DI Dentus spoke only to offer tea or coffee and to confirm that he had no personal knowledge of the Vodden case whatsoever. It had been ‘done and dusted’ long before his time, apparently. He also gave Dixon a telephone extension number to ring when they had finished and he would come down and show them out. He switched on the photocopier and then left them to it.
    ‘You start that end, Jane. I’ll start this end and meet you in the middle. Photocopy anything that looks interesting.’
    Dixon opened the archive box in front of him. It contained a number of blue folders, each no more than an inch think. He removed the one nearest to him and