Kickback by Damien Boyd Page A

then released on bail.
    ‘What did you make of that, Jane?’
    ‘He’s shitting himself.’
    ‘He is but he did a good job of covering it up.’
    ‘Who was his solicitor, Louise? I’ve not seen him before.’
    ‘Paul Richards from Bristol.’
    ‘Bristol?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He came all the way from Bristol for that?’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘Find out what you can about Richards will you, Jane? You can head off, Louise. We’ll see you back here in the morning.’
    ‘Thank you, Sir.’
     
    Dixon and Jane were back at his cottage in Brent Knoll by 6.15pm. Dixon took Monty for a walk while Jane put a frozen fish pie in the oven. Then they opened a bottle of red wine and sat on the sofa. It had been a tiring day and it wasn’t long before Dixon was asleep. He woke up briefly for his supper before falling asleep again. Soap operas tended to have that effect on him.
    The next thing he knew it was 2.00am. He was in bed, but was not entirely sure how he had got there. Jane was asleep next to him and Monty was curled up on the end of the bed by his feet. Monty had his own bed on the floor next to Dixon but rarely slept in it.
    Dixon lay in bed dozing, his mind wandering from the sea cliffs at Pembroke to the slate quarries of North Wales. Then to a bunker on Burnham and Berrow golf course with a severed head in it.
    Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes. Monty was standing on his chest, staring at him, his head tipped to one side. The dog turned and ran to the end of the bed. Dixon watched as he stood there, growling softly at the curtains, much as he had done only three nights before when PC Cole had arrived in the early hours.
    Dixon sat up. He could hear footsteps in the road outside. He climbed out of bed and looked out of the crack between the curtains. He could see two men, one carrying a double barrelled shotgun and the other a large blade. It glinted in the streetlights. Both were wearing balaclavas. Further along Brent Street was a car. Engine on, lights off.
    Dixon woke Jane. He put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
    ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
    ‘We’ve got company. Call it in. We need armed response. One of them’s got a gun.’
    ‘Oh shit.’ Jane started to shake.
    Her phone was on the bedside table.
    ‘Don’t panic, Jane. Just make the call. And keep hold of Monty. If they get past me, let him go.’
    Jane hooked her fingers in Monty’s collar with one hand and dialled 999 with the other.
    Dixon opened the divan drawer under his side of the bed. He felt down through the socks and underwear until his fingers closed around the handle of his great grandfather’s trench cosh. It was a bamboo cane with a lump of lead on the end, all wrapped in brown leather. He put his right hand through the loop and gripped the handle as tight as he could.
    Then he reached down behind his bedside table with his left hand and produced an ice axe. His last souvenir from his old climbing days, it had seen him safely to the top of Mont Blanc and back down again. He had kept it for just such an occasion as this. He held the top of the axe in his left hand with the handle running along the outside of his left forearm.
    ‘Be careful,’ said Jane.
    Dixon closed the bedroom door and crept down the stairs. He could hear Jane on the phone. There was an urgency in her voice. Dixon was relieved that she had got through. Help would be on its way soon. But soon enough?
    He reached the bottom of the stairs before he heard the back door creaking. Then the plastic splitting, which told him that it was being levered open with a crow bar. He ran over to the kitchen doorway and looked in. He could see two shadows outside through the frosted glass. One was trying to open the door. The other was standing behind him.
    He could hear the car parked further along Brent Street, its engine still running. That meant a third man. The getaway driver. Either way, he’d scarper, with or without his passengers.
    Dixon stepped