Dead of Night: A Di ‘Dibs’ Beacon Novel

By Clive Hopkins

Sixty-three-year-old night shift cabinetmaker Robby Burns is murdered while taking an illicit smoke break outside the railway carriage maintenance sheds adjacent to the beach at Hockley, a quiet seaside town on Englands south coast.

Professional isolationism among the too many government agencies involved, resulting in an inadequate response to the increasingly frequent landings of illegal immigrants on south coast beaches leads Detective Inspector Dibs Beacon to suspect that the murder might not be personal but associated with the old mans observation of such a landing and the need to preserve the secret of local involvement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524597443

Clive Hopkins

Clive Hopkins joined the Royal Navy at the age of fifteen and served for ten years. Upon leaving the Royal Navy, he emigrated to Toronto, Canada, where he served as an auxiliary police officer. Returning to the United Kingdom, he joined the International Publishing Company’s industrial division as a staff writer, subsequently becoming editor and then group editor of three titles in the scientific/technical list. Since then he has published a naval trilogy about the Korean War, well received by the cognoscenti, and the first book in the ongoing Detective Inspector Dibs Beacon series of crime novels, An Appropriate Death.

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Copyright © 2017 by Clive Hopkins.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017901447

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-9746-7

      Softcover      978-1-5245-9745-0

      eBook         978-1-5245-9744-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/17/2017

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Contents

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

D.I. ‘Dibs’ BEACON NOVELS

Remembrance Day

An Appropriate Death

Sister Dear, Sister Dead

SEA STORIES

Challenger’s War

China Sea Challenger

Challenger’s Way

1

The foreman was off having his illicit cup of tea, usually followed by an equally illicit half an hour’s kip, and ‘Robby’ Burns saw his opportunity to slip out for his usual smoke.

Built for the old Southern Railway Co., the beach-side railway siding sheds just west of Hockley served the very useful purpose of providing facilities for the thorough washing and valeting of trains during the night. They had provided this facility for many years and, with the exception of one or two occasions in the nineteen seventies, when striking coalminers had caused nationwide power failures and temporarily made work impossible for their fellow workers, the operation ran with speed and efficiency; the occasional member of staff sloping off for a fag notwithstanding. Only his mate Shaggy noticed his departure and he wasn’t going to tell, was he?

Robby hadn’t returned when the foreman got back from his tea break and a nature call but Shaggy said nothing.

Assuming that Robby was fully occupied elsewhere, it was at the end of the shift that Shaggy realised that Robby still hadn’t returned and, instead of going home, slipped round to the seaward side of the sheds to see if he was still there. He couldn’t imagine why he would be but that’s what mates do.

There was no immediate sign there nor, indeed, any sign of anyone ever having been there but there was something, he didn’t know what, that made Shaggy walk along the path between the beach and the sheds and that was when he found the body.

At first, he thought his mate had simply sat down for his smoke and fallen asleep but when he bent over him to wake him up he could see, even in the early light of morning, that his mate was dead. There was a small knife wound in his left side. Clearly Robby, who he knew was left handed, had raised his cigarette thus exposing his side and someone had stabbed him, a long, narrow-bladed knife going straight into his heart. Shaggy had spent some time in the Royal Marines and trained in close order combat techniques. He professionally assessed the situation and recognised that Robby most likely wouldn’t have felt anything. Lucky bugger. Still, it was no way to go.

Whilst this was what he might have done, would certainly have done if necessary in a war situation, this wasn’t a war situation and whoever had shafted Robby had no right to do so. Shit, Robby was sixty something if he was a day, Shaggy had never asked, and a harmless old bugger just trying to make a living repairing vandalised trains in the dead of the night. Everyone would agree that he didn’t deserve to die like that; he didn’t deserve to die at all yet.

Hell, sixty something was no age, not nowadays. He’d done his turn of National Service when called, he’d worked all his life and paid his taxes and he should have been entitled to retire and sit on the beach doing nothing when his turn came.

The desk sergeant called out to D.I. ‘Dibs’ Beacon as he came through the door.

‘Morning Dibs. The boss wants to see you as soon as you arrive. Seems someone got himself murdered during the night and Sir thinks you should do something about it.’

‘Kind of him to think of me, and there I was, fearing redundancy. OK.’

Dibs made first for his office and the advice of his sergeant, Detective Sergeant Sophie Fletcher, an émigré Australian who would by now have sorted any paperwork that had found its way into his in box during the night. Any such paperwork would have been addressed to DI.B, hence his nickname of Dibs. Who knows? There might be something there that would allow him to sound at least intelligently interested when he went upstairs to see Detective Superintendant Peter Bakewell, whose summons he had so far ignored.

‘Morning Boss. Seems there has been a dastardly murder on the beach. Note here says it was a knife attack but that there’s no simple explanation of why him, why there and why then. At least we know who, that’s a start eh?’

Dibs noted and ignored the mickey-taking tone and the use of the word dastardly, Sophie liked to adopt English words that, to her knowledge, only Dibs would nowadays use. Fond of Dibs as she was, indeed they had been a semidetached couple for some years, she couldn’t resist the temptation.

Detective Constable Gerald Ford pushed the door open with his foot and delivered the morning coffee. As lowest man on the totem pole, he accepted that this was his primary function first thing in the morning; someone had to be the gofor.

‘Canteen tells me someone got himself murdered on the beach last night. Uniform have no idea why so I expect we’ll get to have a go at solving the mystery.’

‘There are, Gerald, a number of other detectives in this building, any of whom could perfectly well deal with this but, in this case, you could be right. It seems Peter Bakewell wants to discuss it with me. You, therefore, are detailed off to go about the station making enquiries of anyone that claims to know anything about this and garner such intelligence as is available. I shall disappear for half an hour or so and check with you before going up to see the Super. Sophie, you do the same amongst what few friends you have; see what we can claim to know before I go upstairs.’

2

‘Morning Blossom.’ Dibs greeted Peter Bakewell’s secretary, smiling. She hated being called that but Dibs had so christened her some years ago and, gradually, everyone started addressing her thus. ‘He asked to see me, I think.’

‘That was almost an hour ago. Go right in, he’s waiting.’

‘Ah, Dibs,’

Just as everyone now called the Superintendant’s secretary Blossom, everyone now called Detective Inspector Beacon Dibs.

The Superintendant waved lazily towards the only other chair in the office, inviting Dibs to sit down. ‘About this murder down on the beach, nasty thing; no apparent explanation.’

‘True Sir,’ Dibs liked to call the superintendant sir in spite of constantly being encouraged to address him as Peter, after all, they had known each other for years; since both had been sergeants. ‘But we do have some non-answers.’

‘Non-answers?’

‘Why was the victim on the beach at that place at that time. How was he killed, who didn’t do it.’

‘Oh, I see. Been doing some research already eh? Good. Keep me up to speed.’

‘Do you know anything I don’t know? I’ve only just been told about it but I gather it happened last night.’

‘Actually, at about three oclock this morning. According to the uniforms who attended the nine double nine call, the victim had sneaked out of work for a smoke and hadn’t come back. It wasn’t until six this morning that one of his workmates went in search of him and found the body. He told the manager who had just come in and he called us.’

‘What sort of manager comes in to work at six in the morning?’

‘It’s a twenty four seven operation Dibs, there’s someone in charge from six in the morning until two, another from two till ten at night, etc.’

‘Right, I suppose I’d better have a chat with this workmate. Perhaps he can explain why the shift foreman didn’t miss one of his workers. Not what you might call efficient is he?’

‘We can’t all be like you Dibs. On the job twenty four seven.’

Recognising a sly dig at his relationship with his sergeant, Dibs ignored the remark. ‘Another day another collar; hopefully.’

He closed the door behind him, knowing that the superintendant liked to boast that his door was always open to anyone wanting to see him.

Just west of the railway’s cleaning sheds, a stepped footbridge crossed the tracks to allow public access to the beach. Bridge Road served to allow access to the sheds on one side of the short road and to a second hand car dealership on the other. At the landward end of the road, where it joined the main A259, a café offered the workers a hearty breakfast; for the rest of the day, it relied upon passing truckers amongst whom it had established a reasonable reputation for food, accommodation and, if requested, personal services. A little further down the main road, an open area allowed them to park off-street but some turned into Bridge Road and parked there if there was space.

Sophie turned into Bridge Road and parked in the only empty space just beyond the entrance to the railway sheds; she pointed to a small pool of liquid oil indicating where another vehicle had been parked for some time recently.

The uniformed constable standing at the sheds’ entrance recognised and nodded them through. ‘The SOCO team are round the back, Sir.’

Three men were standing talking. The leader nodded to Dibs.

‘Just about finished. Forensics have been and gone. There’s not much to see, I’m afraid. Just a small amount of blood on the shingle and a couple of dog ends. Can’t tell if they have anything to do with the victim until forensics have done their science thing. Trouble is, the path is shingle and while there’s a gap in the chain link fence between that and the shingle of the beach but there’s no footprints; nothing.’

‘OK, let me have your report asap.’

‘No problem.’

Sophie had ventured into the work sheds, looking for the manager.

‘Good morning. Well, not really a good morning is it? I really don’t know what I can do to help. As I told the other policeman, I wasn’t here at the time. I gave the other man,’ he looked down at a piece of paper on his desk, ‘Inspector Barnes, the foreman’s name and address in the hope that he could help, but, I told him, I imagine he’s fast asleep by now, been up all night.

‘What a terrible thing. Fancy anyone doing a thing like that. Wouldn’t have thought that old Robby would have had any enemies, certainly not the sort that would murder him. It’s ridiculous, the man was sixty three, he’d worked here for years, long before I came here, it’s ridiculous. Used to have his own business I believe but it failed. Don’t know why. Imagine it was too old fashioned, he’s that sort of age.’

Dibs had been wandering about the sheds, generally poking his nose in, just observing the scene of the crime, as he told the SOCO team. ‘You’re right, there’s not a lot to see.’

Sophie introduced him. ‘I know that, as the manager, you don’t officially know about such breaches of the rules but, was there a regular procession of people going outside for a smoke? I imagine, whilst it was probably against the rules, it must have happened; obviously Mr Burns was in the habit of doing so.’

‘As the manager, I must tell you that this was not known to me but, unofficially, of course there was. Most of our workers on the night shift are from the generation that was brought up to smoke, so was I. As long as the work got done, I’m sure the foreman would do a Nelson, providing it didn’t get out of hand. One at a time wouldn’t make any difference to throughput but if they all buggered off at once, it would have to be stopped but, as I say, they are from the generation that play by the rules; even if they tended to make them up on the hoof.’

Dibs smiled, remembering his own lifetime habit of smoking and remembered also that although he had given it up a couple of years ago now, he would still kill for a smoke sometimes; particularly after a meal and a drink. Not literally, of course, as appeared to be the case here, but he understood Mr Burns’ need for his cigarette. The manager was right, it was a generation thing.

‘Very democratic. Right. We’ll come back this evening to chat to the other members of the night shift. There doesn’t seem to be much we can do here at the moment. I’ll tell the copper on the gate to go back to the station and let you get on with cleaning trains. Have to admit, I didn’t know this place was here. I’d seen the sheds of course but I had no idea what happened inside them.’

‘No. Well, it’s not what you might call glamorous but the commuters would soon notice if we didn’t do it.’

Sophie let Dibs walk out of the office then asked the man, ‘Have you had a delivery of anything this morning? Anything that would have been delivered by road?’

‘No, why?’

‘I just noticed that there was a pool of oil outside your gate, thought you might want to warn whoever dropped it.’

‘No, nothing to do with us, Love. Might be them across the road though.’

‘Thank you. If you do hear or think of anything you think might be useful, do give me a ring,’ she handed him a card. ‘Detective Sergeant Fletcher.’ She didn’t much like being called Love by anybody.

She crossed the road to the car dealership. ‘Good morning.’

A young lad, she supposed he was in his low twenties, looked her up and down and smiled. ‘Yes Love, what can I give you?’

She handed him a card. ‘A little respect for your elders would be nice.’

He glanced at the card. ‘Sorry Love. How can I help?’

‘Have you had anything delivered this morning or had one of your old bangers parked across the road? There’s a pool of oil over there, thought you might want to know.’

‘Nothing to do with us Love.’

‘You call me Love just once more and I’ll have your balls for earrings.’

The young man smiled. ‘Sorry Love.’

‘What was all that about?’ Dibs tried hard to control his inclination to laugh. If Sophie ever decided to teach the lad his manners, he would remember them for the rest of his life.

‘There’s that pool of oil under the car which suggests that something was parked there earlier this morning but both the railway and the car boy deny all knowledge of it.’

‘That might be anti-social and even potentially dangerous for the vehicle but is it really our problem?’

‘If it wasn’t delivering to the railway, if wasn’t anything to do with the car place and there wasn’t anything parked here when we arrived, I just wondered, what had been parked here, who parked it and, if it was last night, could it be relevant? Haven’t yet worked out how but you taught me to ask silly questions.’

‘You could be right, good thinking. That’s why you’re a sergeant my love.’

‘Don’t you start. I’ve been called Love five times this morning by a grown man who should know better and a young man who will if he ever does it again.’

‘Pax ! I think we will be best employed back at the office. I agree, I’m the only one allowed to call you Love.’

‘And, only when we’re in bed.’

3

Shaggy Turner ate his breakfast slowly and with little interest. His wife, Annie, could see that food was not uppermost on his mind though she had no idea what was.

She didn’t mind his lack of attention to and appreciation of his usual monumental fry-up, what he frequently described as his main meal of the day, but she was concerned that he had been late home due to some unspecified trouble at work.

In her experience, trouble at work was a term she understood to mean potential problems domestically. She had vivid memories of the nineteen seventies and her father having what he called trouble at work arising from his position as union representative. She had no doubt that much of this so-called trouble resulted from her father’s avid communist beliefs but, until now, Shaggy had shown no inclination to follow in her father’s footsteps. He was a member of the union, of course, but he wasn’t the shop steward or whatever. She hoped that he would tell her what the trouble was; she hated secrets.

His meal finished, he stretched, yawned and, winking at Annie, said ‘you want to join me?’

‘Gerroff yer cheeky bugger, you’re in no state to give a girl a good time. Ask me again when you wake up.’

Gerald Ford had been busy. He had interviewed the sergeant and the two constables who had attended the nine double nine at the railway workshops and left a message for Inspector Barnes to contact Dibs when convenient.

He greeted Dibs and Sophie when they returned from the site with the news that, as far as could be established, sneaking out for a fag was not allowed but two or three others who had popped out for a spit and a drag had seen nothing untoward; certainly not Robby’s dead body. One had reported thinking he had heard a lorry rev up but couldn’t be sure and, anyway, why would a lorry be there at that time of night? Probably been somewhere else and the sound carried on the wind; there were traffic lights just down the road and it probably came from there.

They had reported that although they had popped out for a smoke, they