Read Dead Level (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 5) for Free Online Page B

the short distance from Bridgwater because the narrow lanes had been jammed with farmers moving their livestock out of the area and lorries bringing vast quantities of mud in.
    ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ shouted Janice, trying to make herself heard over the rain hammering on the roof of the car.
    ‘They’re building a dyke around a house back there,’ replied Unwin, pointing to a lane behind him. ‘To keep the water out.’
    ‘What water?’ asked Janice.
    Jane noticed several residents placing sandbags across the front doors of their bungalows. Then she remembered the weather forecast and the silted up River Parrett.
    That water.
    ‘Where are these witnesses then?’ shouted Janice.
    ‘Park on the corner over there. That’s the house,’ replied Unwin, pointing to the first bungalow on the left in the lane leading down to Waterside Cottage. It was right on the junction. ‘A Mr Albert Grafton. Says he heard an engine pulling away from the junction at about twoish. He can’t be too sure of the time though.’
    ‘You wait here,’ said Janice. She turned the car around and parked across the drive of Mr Grafton’s bungalow.
    Jane jumped out of the car and ran around the front, sheltering under her handbag. She was grateful that there was room enough for them both to huddle under the porch.
    ‘Your mascara isn’t waterproof,’ said Jane, shaking her head.
    Janice wiped under her eyes with her index fingers while Jane rang the doorbell.
    ‘D’you think they know something we don’t?’ asked Janice, looking at the sandbags piled up at her feet.
    A figure, hunched over and moving slowly, appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. Janice leaned over and shouted through the letter box.
    ‘Police to see you, Mr Grafton.’
    ‘I know, I know.’
    Jane counted two locks, a chain and two bolts before Mr Grafton finally opened the door. He was still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, even though it was nearly lunchtime.
    ‘I’m Detective Insp . . .’
    ‘Never mind that,’ said Grafton, ‘you’re letting all the heat out. Can you step over these things?’
    ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Janice.
    ‘My neighbour did it for me. Waste of bloody time. Won’t do any good if it comes to it.’
    ‘Nice of him though,’ said Jane, stepping over the sandbags and thanking her lucky stars she’d thrown on a trouser suit that morning.
    ‘Suppose so.’
    They followed Grafton into the lounge and sat down side by side on the sofa. Grafton sat down on an old armchair next to an even older gas fire. The middle one of three burners glowed bright orange and hissed, but it didn’t appear to be giving out much heat.
    ‘You heard something in the early hours, I’m told, Mr Grafton,’ said Janice.
    ‘An engine. Outside.’
    ‘What time was it?’
    ‘I can’t be sure. Twoish, perhaps.’
    ‘What were you doing up at that time of night?’
    ‘I take diuretics to stop fluid building up on my lungs. Heart trouble, you see. Anyway, it keeps me up all night, peeing. Up and down like a bloody yo-yo, I am.’
    ‘Is there a Mrs Grafton?’ asked Jane.
    ‘Died two year since.’
    ‘And you think it was about 2 a.m.?’ continued Janice.
    ‘There or thereabouts.’
    ‘Where were you when you heard it?’
    ‘In the loo.’
    ‘And what exactly did you hear?’
    ‘An engine. It came along the lane and turned right towards Bridgwater. Going slow, it was.’
    ‘Did you look out of the window?’
    ‘No. I didn’t think anything of it, really. Until one of your lot knocked on my door this morning.’
    ‘What did you do after you heard this engine?’
    ‘Nothing,’ replied Grafton. ‘I just went back to bed.’
    ‘What sort of engine was it?’ asked Jane.
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘Car or motorbike, perhaps?’
    ‘Car, or possibly a small van.’
    ‘Petrol or diesel?’
    ‘Now you’ve asked me,’ said Grafton, rubbing his grey stubble with his right hand. ‘D’you know, I think it