Head in the Sand (12 page)

‘This is a murder enquiry and time is short. I suggest you go and get her out of whatever meeting it is. Now.’

The receptionist sighed.

‘Unless you want to be arrested for obstruction.’

The receptionist got up and left the room through a door behind her desk. Dixon paced up and down in the waiting area. He noticed a plaque on the wall commemorating the opening of the new surgery by the Mayor of Burnham on 31st July 2001. The building was octagonal in shape with the doctor’s surgeries and other treatment rooms arranged around the central reception and waiting area. It was timber framed, Dixon thought it oak, and glass. At least it was not the same reception that Frances Southall had been turned away from.

‘Detective Inspector?’

Dixon turned to find himself looking at a woman in her early fifties. She had short blonde hair and wore a two-piece tartan trouser suit with a cream blouse. She was in a wheelchair.

‘Yes, Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.’ He produced his warrant card.

‘I’m Lorna Campbell, the practice manager. Come through to my office.’

Dixon followed her around the octagonal reception desk to an office at the rear.

‘Do sit down.’

Dixon sat in the chair in front of Lorna Campbell‘s desk.

‘How can I help?’ she asked.

‘I need to track down a patient of this surgery in the mid to late seventies. Is that going to be possible?’

‘Does this have anything to do with the death of John Hawkins?’

Dixon hesitated.

‘He was a patient here,’ said Lorna Campbell.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘We only keep records here for current patients, I’m afraid. If they move away or change doctor, the records go to the new doctor.’

‘And if they die?’

‘They go to the NHS Records department.’

‘Do you have a record of where a patient’s records might have been sent and when?’

‘It’s all on computer these days but back then it was index cards. We went over to computer records in 1997.’

‘And where are the index cards now?’

‘We sent them to the NHS Records department when we moved to the new surgery, I’m afraid. They should still have them.’

‘What about the doctors themselves?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are there any still here who were practising here in the seventies?’

‘Not now. Dr Stevenson is the senior partner and he joined the practice in the early eighties, I think.’

‘Can you ask him if any of the senior partners from the seventies are still alive, please?’

Lorna Campbell picked up her phone and dialled a three-digit extension number.

‘Richard, I’ve got a police officer with me. He wants to know if any doctors who practised here in the mid seventies are still alive?’

She began making notes on the pad in front of her.

‘Thanks.’ She put the phone down.

‘You’re in luck, Inspector. Dr Hugh Maunder. Retired in 2001 when we moved to this surgery. He lives at Wedmore.’

She handed Dixon the note.

‘Thank you,’ said Dixon. He got up to leave.

‘Apologise to your receptionist for me. I may have been a bit brusque.’

Dixon sat in his Land Rover. He looked at his watch. 10.35am. It had started to rain. He watched the water pouring down his windscreen.

He knew he was missing something. It was there, somewhere in the documents. But was it in Dr Vodden’s file or in Rosie’s Inquest file? He didn’t know. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain hitting the roof of his car. It was a disconcerting feeling, much like recognising an actor but not remembering their name or what film they had been in.

He decided to drive to Wedmore to see Dr Maunder. He turned out of the car park and drove along the Berrow Road. His phone rang so he pulled into the car park of the Dunstan House Hotel.

‘Dixon.’

‘Mark Pearce, Sir.’

‘What’s up, Mark?’

‘Sandra Gibson, the receptionist. She married an Australian and emigrated in 1978. Went to live in Brisbane, apparently.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Get onto Brisbane Police and see if she’s known to them.’

‘Will do.’

‘What was her married name?’

‘Docherty.’

‘Give them both names and see what they come up with. Let me know straightaway.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Put Jane on will you?’

Dixon could hear muffled voices.

‘Hello?’

‘Jane, anything from the DWP?’

‘They have a National Insurance number for David Southall. Nothing for the wife. They’re digging out whatever they’ve got and will come back to me as soon as they can.’

‘Good. See you later.’

Dixon rang off. He sat in his car and watched the rain for several minutes before he put his phone back in his coat pocket. He started the engine and then switched it off again straightaway.

‘Idiot,’ he shouted, hitting his forehead with the palm of his right hand.

Monty woke up and started barking in the back of the Land Rover. Dixon reached for his phone and dialled Jane Winter. He got out of his car and paced up and down in the rain.

‘Jane, have you got Vodden’s patient lists there, the ones we looked at last night?’

‘Give me a minute.’

Dixon could hear paper rustling.

‘1974, ‘75 and ‘76?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got them. What’s up?’

‘Look at the 1974 list and turn to Rosie Southall’s entry.’

Dixon could hear more paper rustling.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s the name above it?’

‘Frances Anne Southall.’

‘Now look at the 1975 list. Rosie’s name has gone, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Frances Southall’s is still there?’

‘It is.’

‘Ok, now look at the ‘76 list.’

‘Give me a second.’

Dixon could feel his pulse racing. He waited.

‘She’s gone.’

‘That’s it. Thanks, Jane. Better go. Keep me posted.’

‘Hang on. Is she dead?’

‘She is, which explains your ‘nothing for the wife’ from the DWP.’

Dixon rang off. He then rang Rachel Smerdon at the Somerset Archive.

‘Rachel, it’s Nick Dixon.’

‘How can I help, Inspector?’

‘I need you to check for another Inquest file. 1975 or 1976. The name of Frances Anne Southall.’

‘Give me ten minutes. I’ll call you back.’

Dixon left his car in the Dunstan House car park and walked around the corner into Manor Gardens. He let Monty off the lead and stood under a tree to shelter from the rain. He watched Monty and waited. Fifteen minutes later his phone rang.

‘I’ve got an inquest file in my hand, Inspector. Frances Anne Southall died on 21st October 1975. The Inquest took place on 12th April 1976. Verdict suicide.’

‘I’m on my way, Rachel.’

Dixon sat in his Land Rover in the staff car park at the Somerset Heritage Centre and opened Frances Southall’s inquest file.  He turned first to the Coroner’s findings of fact.

She died at the Hotel Senator in Marbella, where she had been staying with her husband in a room on the fourth floor. She had attached a rope to a radiator, placed the other end around her neck and then jumped from the balcony. The cause of death was given as 1(a) hanging. Despite the absence of a suicide note, the coroner had been satisfied that Frances Southall’s state of mind at the material time was depressed and/or suicidal. He, therefore, recorded a verdict of suicide. He expressed great sadness at her death, which he said had been caused either in whole or in part by the tragic death of her daughter, Rosie, a little over a year earlier. He offered his condolences to the family and expressed the hope that they would, in time, be able to come to terms with their loss.

Dixon turned next to the post mortem report. It was a translation of the original Spanish report, which was also on the file. He found the cause of death on the final page but had to read it several times before he was able to grasp the significance of it. He was alone in the car but still he read aloud.

‘Cause of death; 1(a) hanging and 1(b) external decapitation.’

Dixon reached for his phone and rang Jane Winter.

‘Jane, are you at your computer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go to Google.’

Dixon waited.

‘Yes.’

‘Put in external decapitation will you and tell me what you get?’

‘Give me a second,’ said Jane. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. There’s a Wikipedia entry for internal decapitation.’

‘Click on it and read it to me.’

‘Internal decapitation, atlanto-occipital dislocation, or orthopedic decapitation describes the rare medical condition in which the skull separates from the spinal column during severe head injury. This is generally fatal, since it generally involves nerve damage or severing the spinal cord. The practice of hanging relies on internal decapitation, as it creates a situation where subjects’ necks are broken under their own weight. A botched hanging can result in an external decapitation...’

‘That’s enough.’

‘What does it mean then?’

‘She hanged herself. Get everyone together for another briefing. I’m on my way.’

Seven

‘I’ve got Superintendent Sean Smart of Queensland Police asking to speak to the Senior Investigating Officer, Sir.’

Dixon took his coat off and hung it over the back of Mark Pearce’s chair. Pearce stood up, leaving Dixon to sit at his desk. He passed him the phone.

‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Sir. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘That’s alright, Inspector. I prefer first names. I’m Sean.’

‘Nick.’

‘You’ve been asking about Sandra Docherty, Nick?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’ve you got?’

‘She gave evidence at an Inquest in February 1975. She was one of five witnesses. Three are now dead.’

‘Make that four.’

‘What?’

‘Four are dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘You’re asking about Queensland’s most notorious unsolved murder. I was a humble constable at the time. Sandra came to live in Brisbane in 1978. Her husband, Neil, was working in Sydney during the week and coming home at weekends. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement but it had gone on for a year or so. Anyway, he leaves on the Monday morning and then hears nothing further from her, which was unusual. So, he comes home early.’

‘And he finds her decapitated?’

‘Yes.’

‘Body on the bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Head in the sink?’

‘In the bathroom, yes. How the fuck would you know that?’

‘When was this?’

‘July 3rd 1981.’

‘Can you email me a copy of the post mortem report, Sean?’

‘No problem. If you promise to keep me in the loop.’

‘Gladly. Keep it under your hat for the time being though. We haven’t made an arrest yet.’

‘Can you tell me any more? What’s the story?’

‘All of the victims were medics involved in the treatment of a two year old girl. She died of meningitis in 1974. The doctor was murdered in 1979 and Sandra Gibson in 1981. We’ve now got two more victims, killed within the last two weeks. I’m fairly sure they were killed by the child’s father.’

‘Revenge?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Good luck, Nick. Email’s on its way. Keep me posted, mate.’

‘Will do.’

Dixon turned around. Everyone had been listening to his call.

‘I suppose you all got that?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dave Harding.

‘She was killed in an identical way to John Hawkins?’ asked Mark Pearce.

‘She was, Mark, yes,’ replied Dixon. He turned to Dave Harding. ‘What news of the paediatrician, Dave?’

‘None, I’m afraid, Sir. Seems to have dropped off the radar.’

‘Keep at it. If he’s alive, we have to find him.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Mark, now that we know what happened to Sandra Docherty I want you to help Jane find the husband, David Southall. You help them too, Louise. I want to be kicking his bloody door down at 5.00am tomorrow morning, so get me an address.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well, I can account for Frances Southall,’ continued Dixon.

‘She’s dead,’ said Jane.

‘21st October 1975. They were staying at the Hotel Senator in Marbella. She tied a rope to the radiator, put the other end around her neck and then jumped off the balcony.’

‘Suicide by hanging.’

‘That’s only part of the story, Louise. The technical term is ‘external decapitation’.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The rope was too long for the weight of her body.’ Dixon paused. ‘The force of it pulling tight took her head clean off.’

‘She was decapitated?’

‘Explains a lot, doesn’t it?’

Dixon parked across the drive of Dr Maunder’s house on the outskirts of Wedmore. It was a large property opposite the primary school on the main road into the village. There was a high stone wall fronting the road with evergreen shrubs planted along it. Dixon recognised camellias, azaleas and rhododendrons. The house was large, rendered and painted white. There were pink roses planted in tubs either side of the porch and a wisteria in a small flowerbed adjacent to the garage. It grew up the corner, then across the front of the house and over the porch. There was a brand new blue Volvo V70 parked in the drive.

Dixon knocked on the door. A large dog started barking. He could hear a woman’s voice shouting.

‘There’s someone at the door, Eric.’

‘You get it.’

A woman in her late sixties answered the door. She wore a brown denim skirt and black polo neck sweater. The fingers of her left hand were hooked in the collar of a large doberman pinscher.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Dr Maunder.’

‘Are you selling something?’

‘No. I’m a police officer.’

Dixon produced his warrant card.

‘Wait here.’ The woman closed the door. Dixon waited. A few moments later the door reopened.

‘‘You’d better come in.’

‘And you are?’ asked Dixon.

‘Mrs Maunder.’

Dixon followed her up the stairs.

‘He’s in his office. He’s writing a book.’

‘What about?’

‘Delville Wood.’

‘Really?’

‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Maunder pushed open a door off the first floor landing.

‘The policeman’s here, Eric. He can’t be all bad. He’s heard of Delville Wood.’

Dr Maunder looked up from his computer.

‘You’ve heard of Delville Wood?’

‘I went there a couple of years ago. I was on the Somme following my great grandfather’s footsteps.’

Eric Maunder stood up from his desk and shook Dixon’s hand. He was a tall man with thinning hair. He wore black jeans and a brown cable sweater.

‘Which regiment was he in?’

‘The Somerset Light Infantry. Second battalion.’

‘They weren’t at Delville Wood, surely?’ asked Maunder.

‘No. The sixth battalion were, I think, but not the second. But don’t get me started on that. We’ll be here all day and I’m afraid time is short.’

‘Yes, sorry. How can I help?’

‘Does the name Dr Ralph Vodden mean anything to you?’

‘He was a doctor at Arundel House in the seventies. Left under a bit of a cloud if I remember rightly.’

‘Tell me about this cloud.’

‘Now you’re testing my memory. I remember that a child died. A baby girl.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The mother committed suicide a year or so later. It hit Vodden really hard.’

‘Can you recall what happened to the father?’

‘He was detained under the Mental Health Act. Sectioned or whatever it was in those days. It was after his wife killed herself. He went off the rails...’ Maunder’s voice tailed off.

‘What?’

‘It’s coming back to me now. She hanged herself and was decapitated in the process. They were at a hotel in Spain or somewhere. He was by the pool and saw her jump.’

‘How long was he detained for?’

‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’

‘What about Vodden?’

‘It was the last straw for him. He left. Went to Norfolk, I think it was.’

‘Is there anything else you can remember?’

‘No. I’m sorry. It was a long time ago and I’ve been retired over ten years now too.’

‘Well, thank you. You’ve been most helpful. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll give you a ring.’

‘And good luck with the book.’

It was just before 4.00pm when Dixon left Dr Maunder’s house in Wedmore. He drove out of the village towards Burnham-on-Sea. It was drizzling with rain and getting dark so he put his headlights on.

He was deep in thought. He now had a clear picture in his mind of what had happened all those years ago. He was also able to answer the two crucial questions that had been bothering him. Why decapitation and why the delay between Rosie’s death in 1974 and the murder of Dr Vodden in 1979? He was convinced that Rosie’s father, David Southall, murdered Vodden and then travelled to Australia to kill Sandra Gibson. He now needed evidence of it.

It would also be interesting to know what had happened to the paediatrician, Julian Spalding, if anything. But there remained one substantive question outstanding. Why the delay of over thirty years until the murders of Valerie Manning and John Hawkins? He knew that he wouldn’t find the answer to that question until he found David Southall. He reached for his phone and rang Jane Winter.

‘Jane, it’s Nick. Any news of Southall?’

‘Not yet. Where are you?’

‘On my way back from Wedmore. Southall was sectioned after the death of his wife, which explains the delay before the murder of Dr Vodden in 1979. We need Southall’s medical records.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Are you alright?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Your speech sounds a bit slurred. Have you been drinking?’

‘Of course not. You sound like my mother.’

Dixon rang off and threw his phone onto the passenger seat. He tried to think of reasons for the thirty year gap between the murders. He had always considered it possible that it was a different killer, of course. That was too obvious a possibility to be overlooked.

Suddenly, the vision of Valerie Manning in the car park flashed across his mind. The knife glinted in the streetlights. Then he saw her on the slab in the mortuary. Frances Southall was standing next to him with Rosie in her arms.

Dixon blinked and shook his head. He felt light headed. He took his hand off the steering wheel and held it out in front of him. It was shaking. He had been diabetic long enough to know the signs. Jane had been right. His speech was usually the first to go.

He reached into his jacket pocket for his fruit pastilles. Coated in sugar, they always did the trick. He produced a handful of empty wrapping paper.

‘Fuck it.’

He began to panic. He was sweating and could feel his legs beginning to weaken. It was becoming an effort to keep his foot on the accelerator and took all his concentration to keep driving. If he could make it to the village shop in Mark, he’d be fine.

He reached the outskirts of the village. He was driving slowly. Trying to hold the Land Rover in a straight line but, at the same time, he was desperate to reach the shop before he passed out.

‘Fucking idiot.’

He remembered that there was usually a spare packet of sweets in the glove compartment. He reached across and fumbled with the catch. Suddenly, there was a loud bang. He looked up. He had a hit a parked car. It was red and small but that’s all he knew. There was broken glass on the bonnet of his car. He kept driving.

He made it to the shop in Mark and parked with his front wheels on the village green and his rear wheels on the pavement. He switched the engine off but had no strength left to cross the road to the shop. He slumped over the steering wheel.

His phone rang. He reached across to the passenger seat but it was gone. He could see it on the floor in the footwell. He lay across the seat and picked it up. It was Jane Winter.

‘We’ve got a name.’

Dixon could not reply.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Sugar.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Mark. By the shop.’

‘In your car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you make it to the shop?’

‘No.’

Jane rang off. She picked up her handbag and ran out of the CID room. She rang directory enquiries. She asked for Mark General Stores and was connected straightaway.

‘Can you help me? This is an emergency.’

‘Yes.’

‘Look out of the front window of your shop. Can you see a Land Rover?’

‘Yes. It’s parked half on the village green.’

‘And the driver?’

‘Slumped over the steering wheel.’

‘He’s having a diabetic episode. Can you take him a Lucozade drink and a Mars bar, please? This is really urgent. I’m on my way and will pay for it when I get there.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Jane arrived twenty minutes later to find Dixon sat on a bench opposite the shop. Monty was on his lead and sitting at Dixon’s feet.

‘Are you ok?’

‘Getting there. Splitting headache.’

‘What happened?’

‘No lunch.’

‘Idiot.’

Jane went into the shop and reappeared a few minutes later.

‘They’re very nice in there. Very helpful.’

‘They are.’

‘Give me your keys.’

Jane got into the Land Rover and reversed it off the village green. She then handed the keys back to Dixon.