Head in the Sand (16 page)

‘That’s Mrs Cromwell.’

Dixon looked over to see Mrs Cromwell stirring. She had oxygen tubes in her nose and various pipes and tubes around her bed. She reached across to what looked like a white television remote control and pressed a large red button.

‘That’s the morphine,’ said Julie.

‘She’s awake,’ said Dixon. He turned to Julie. ‘Look the other way.’

‘But...’

‘That question you asked me...’ said Dixon.

‘About the beheadings?’

‘The answer’s yes.’

‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ said Julie. She turned and walked back towards the nurse’s station.

Dixon looked at Jane. She frowned at him.

‘Any evidence is going to be...’

‘I’m not after evidence, Jane. Just a point in the right direction.’

Dixon sat in the chair next to Mrs Cromwell’s bed. He leaned over and spoke quietly into her right ear.

‘Vicky?’

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her eyes were glazed over and Dixon could see that she was having difficulty focussing on him.

‘Where’s Martin?’ asked Dixon.

‘He’s gone.’

She turned away.

‘Where’s he gone?’

Vicky Cromwell turned her head back to him and looked Dixon straight in the eye.

‘He’s gone to look for his father.’

Then she closed her eyes and was gone. Dixon watched her for a moment to check she was still breathing. The pause was longer than he had expected but then her chest heaved and she took a deep breath.

Dixon and Jane walked back out to the nurse’s station. Julie Pritchard appeared from behind a door opposite marked ‘staff only’ and Dixon could see a police sergeant approaching along the corridor.

‘Anything?’ asked Julie.

‘Enough,’ said Dixon.

‘Detective Inspector Dixon?’

Dixon turned to face the police sergeant.

‘Hargreaves, Sir. I’m sorry we missed him.’

‘Any news on the CCTV, Sergeant?’

‘We’ve got it for the foyer, Sir. You can view it now in the Control Room.’

‘I’ve asked Nurse Pritchard to have a look at it with me so she can identify Cromwell.’

Dixon turned to Julie and nodded.

They followed Sergeant Hargreaves along the corridor and back through the double doors to the top of the stairs. Dixon had thought they were on the top floor but Hargreaves turned right and climbed a flight of narrow stairs to a small landing. The door off the landing was locked. It had a small window in it and Dixon could see large steel ventilation pipes on the wall opposite. Hargreaves knocked loudly and a few moments later a security guard appeared behind the window. He looked through the window, left and right, and then unlocked the door.

‘This way.’

Dixon followed Hargeaves and the security officer along the corridor. Jane and Julie Pritchard were behind him. They walked in silence, apart from the clicking of their heels on the lino floor. The CCTV Control Room was at the far end of the corridor. The door was locked but the security guard opened it and stood to one side to let them in.

The room contained twelve screens, all bar one of which was split into four smaller screens. Dixon looked at the screen that was not split and recognised the foyer of the Orthopaedic Centre.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ replied the security officer. ‘I’ve wound it back to the start of visiting time.’

‘Better go back a bit further. What time did he arrive on the ward, Julie?’

‘About half past five,’ she replied.

Dixon gestured to Julie to sit in front of the screen next to the security officer. Dixon and Jane stood behind them. The security officer wound the film back and then turned to Julie.

‘OK, we’ll go from here. I’ll take it forward at double speed and you sing out when you see him.’

Dixon could see the time stamp in the bottom right corner of the screen. 5.20pm. He watched and waited. Various people could be seen coming and going. The footage was grainy, Dixon thought due to the camera quality, but it could soon be enhanced. He thought also about the last piece of CCTV footage he had looked at and wondered whether this would be the second time he had seen Martin Cromwell on camera. His mind flashed back to a dark night in the Morrisons car park and a knife glinting in the streetlights.

‘That’s him,’ shouted Julie. ‘Wind it back, wind it back.’

Dixon looked intently at the screen. The security officer scrolled the film back slowly.

‘There he is,’ said Julie, pointing at a figure that appeared to be walking backwards around a group of people standing in the foyer. The security officer stopped rewinding the tape and then took it forward until the figure was no longer obscured by the group. He was in the left hand side of the screen, with the camera looking down on him from above. His head was turned to the left and he was carrying a coat in his right hand.

‘That’s the man who identified himself to you as Vicky Cromwell’s son?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes,’ said Julie.

‘Can you zoom it in?’ asked Dixon.

The security officer enlarged the figure until he filled the screen.

‘Will that do?’

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ replied Dixon. ‘What’s he looking at?’

‘The lift?’ asked Julie.

Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘What do you think, Jane?’

‘He’s a big lad.’

Dixon tapped the security officer on the shoulder.

‘Can I sit there?’

Dixon changed places with the Security Officer. He sat in front of the screen and stared intently at the image of Martin Cromwell. The screen flickered and the image was, if anything, grainier once enlarged but he could make out Cromwell’s facial features. He squinted at the screen for several seconds before turning to Jane Winter.

‘I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

‘What? Where?’

‘If I knew that we’d be home and dry.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes, I think so. Give me a minute.’

It was that feeling again.  Recognising the actor but not remembering their name or the films they had been in. His usual tactic was to reach for his iPhone and Google it but that was not an option this time. Dixon closed his eyes. Various pictures flashed across his mind. Sitting in the Dunstan House with Jane. He looked around at the other diners. Nothing. He moved on to the reconstruction. Standing outside Morrisons looking at the crowds on the pavement outside the Pier Tavern. Nothing.

Walking on the beach. The Zalshah. His mind jumped from scene to scene, situation to situation. The Somerset Archive; the Shire Hall, Taunton. He imagined himself standing in Court One looking at the faces staring at him. Nothing.

Jane looked at Sergeant Hargreaves and shrugged her shoulders.

Dixon thought about Mrs Cromwell. ‘He’s gone to look for his father.’ He thought about David Selby in the Allandale Lodge Residential Care Home. He opened his eyes. He had a clear picture in his head. He was standing outside Susan Procter’s office in the doorway of the kitchen at the Allandale Lodge. He was looking at two carers drinking coffee. Both were leaning against the worktop and wore blue uniform. One was female. She was laughing loudly. The other was looking at her and smiling. It was Martin Cromwell.

‘Gotcha,’ said Dixon.

Ten

It was nearly 10.00pm before Dixon and Jane got away from The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. A panda car had been despatched to Highbridge railway station to intercept Martin Cromwell should he be travelling home by train. Another was waiting at the bus stop at the top of Pier Street.

Dixon rang the Allandale Lodge Care Home as Jane drove out of Exeter towards the M5.

‘This is Detective Inspector Dixon. Can I speak to Susan Procter, please?’

‘She’s not in now until Monday.’

‘Do you have a home number for her?’

‘I can’t give that out, I’m afraid.’

Dixon did not have time to argue.

‘Please ring her and tell her to ring me straightaway.’ Dixon gave his mobile number. ‘Do it now. And tell her this is just about as urgent as it gets. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I’ll do it now.’

Dixon leaned across and looked at the speedometer.

‘For heaven’s sake, Jane, put your foot down.’

Jane accelerated to fifty miles per hour.

‘It is a thirty limit, you know,’ said Jane.

They approached the traffic lights just beyond the Exeter Crematorium. Jane slowed.

‘There’s no one there. Keep going,’ said Dixon.

Jane muttered something that was lost in the noise of the diesel engine.

Dixon was about to respond when his phone rang. It was a Burnham number.

‘Nick Dixon.’

‘It’s Susan Procter. I had a message to ring you urgently.’

‘Yes, thank you, Susan. I need Martin Cromwell’s home address and I need it now, please.’

‘He’s not mixed up in this is he?’

‘I really can’t say...’

‘He can’t be. He’s such a nice lad.’

‘If I could just have his address, please?’

‘I haven’t got it here. It’ll be in my office in his personnel file. Will Monday morning do?’

‘No it won’t, Susan. Can you get over there now and ring me with the address as quickly as you can?’

‘I can’t, no. I’ve had a few glasses of wine...’

‘I’ll send a car for you. What’s your address?’

‘36 Westfield Close, Mark.’

‘I’ll send a car now, Susan. I also need to know when he’s due in next.’

‘I can tell you that now. He’s got the weekend off. His mother was having surgery, he said.’

‘Ok, we’ll speak later. Ring me as soon as you have his address to hand.’

‘Will do.’

Dixon ended the call and then rang Bridgwater Police Station. A few minutes later a car was on its way to collect Susan Procter.

‘Nothing we can do now except wait,’ said Dixon.

‘How long will it be?’

‘There’s a patrol car in Mark now so it shouldn’t take too long.’

The motorway was all but deserted as they drove north. There were some wisps of cloud in the night sky now but Dixon could still see the Plough and Orion. Those were the only two constellations he could recognise and it hadn’t taken him long to find them. Next he checked his phone, then his watch and, lastly, the speedometer. It would be almost 11.00pm before they reached Burnham.

‘You got a signal?’ shouted Jane.

‘Yes.’

They were just south of Bridgwater when his phone rang.

‘Dixon.’

‘Inspector, it’s Susan Procter. I have Martin’s address.’

‘Go ahead, please, Susan.’ Dixon trapped his phone between his right ear and shoulder. He produced a biro from his jacket pocket and wrote on the palm of his left hand.

‘Flat 5, Cavendish House, The Esplanade.’

‘I’ve got that, thank you.’

‘I have his mobile number if you want that as well?’

‘Yes, please.’ Dixon made a note of the number. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Susan. The car will take you home.’

Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘Cavendish House, The Esplanande. That’s bedsitland, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll go straight there.’

Dixon rang Bridgwater Police Station again and arranged for two uniformed officers to meet them at Cavendish House. They arrived fifteen minutes later to find the patrol car parked along the sea front.

Cavendish House was a large Georgian terrace on the junction of The Esplanade and Sea View Road. He could see that lights were on but he had expected that of a house in multiple occupation.

Jane Winter rang the doorbell of Flat 5 just after 11.00pm. The two uniformed officers, both wearing stab vests, were standing directly in front of the door. Dixon stood behind them. They waited. Several seconds passed. Dixon looked at Jane and nodded. She rang the bell again.

‘Can I help you?’

The voice came from behind Dixon. He turned round to find himself looking at Martin Cromwell.

‘Martin Cromwell?’

‘It’s not about my mum is it?’ Martin Cromwell’s voice was deep and he spoke slowly.

‘No. I’m Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Jane Winter. We’re hoping you might be able to answer some questions for us?’

‘What about?’

‘I’d rather not talk in the street, Martin.’

‘Do you want to come in?’

‘I think it would be better if you came with us to the station, if that’s ok?’

‘Can we do this tomorrow? I’m tired.’

‘I’m afraid not. If you’d just like to go with these two officers, they will take you to Bridgwater Police Station.’ The two uniformed officers stepped forward and stood either side of Dixon.

‘Bridgwater?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what if I say no?’

‘Then I’d be forced to arrest you but I’d really rather not.’

‘Alright. Let’s go.’

The two uniformed officers escorted Martin Cromwell over to the patrol car, sat him in the back seat and then drove off.

‘What do you make of him?’ asked Jane.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Dixon, ‘but we’ll get the police surgeon to check him over before we interview him, I think.’

They got into Dixon’s Land Rover and followed the patrol car.

Dixon had taken the precaution of ringing ahead to have the surgeon called out and he arrived at Bridgwater Police Station to find her waiting for him. Doctor Angela Townsend was in her late fifties with short white hair. Crumpled black trousers and a red sweater told Dixon she had dressed in a hurry.

‘What have you got for me?’

‘That’s a long story,’ replied Dixon.

‘Give me the short version, please.’

‘Martin Cromwell. He’s the suspect in a multiple murder investigation. We just picked him up and I’d like you to check him over before we interview him.’

‘Drugs?’

‘I’m not sure. More of a capacity issue, I think. Could be alcohol, could be drugs, could be something else altogether.’

‘Ok, leave it with me.’

Martin Cromwell had been arrested on arrival at Bridgwater Police Station on suspicion of the murders of Valerie Manning and John Hawkins. He had been checked in and was waiting in an interview room. Dixon left Dr Townsend to it and went in search of the coffee machine. Jane Winter had beaten him to it and was on her second cup when he got there.

‘What happens now?’ asked Jane.

‘We wait for the surgeon.’

Dixon took his coffee from the machine and sat at his desk. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The next thing he was aware of was a knock at his door. It was Jane Winter.

‘Surgeon’s ready for us.’

Dixon picked up his coffee. It was stone cold.

‘Have I been asleep?’

‘Half an hour or so.’

They went downstairs to the Custody Suite where Dr Townsend was waiting for them.

‘He’s fine, Inspector. He has a very mild intellectual disability perhaps. And he’s hard of hearing. But otherwise he’s fine and fit to be interviewed. No drugs or alcohol in his blood at all.’

‘I didn’t see any hearing aids?’

‘He prefers to lip read. And he has some hearing as well so he gets by.’

The interview with Martin Cromwell began just before 1.00am. Dixon made the introductions for the tape and then reminded Cromwell that he was under caution. To be on the safe side, Dixon also gave him the simplified caution.

‘I am going to ask you some questions, Martin. You do not have to answer any of them unless you want to. But if you go to court and say something there that you have not told me about, and they think you could have told me, it may harm your case. Anything you do say may be repeated in court. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have declined legal representation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ok, let’s make a start. Where were you last Saturday night?’

‘That’s easy. I was at work.’

Dixon looked at Jane Winter then back to Cromwell.

‘All night?’

‘Yes. I was on nights. Eight till eight.’

Dixon took a deep breath. He drew a large exclamation mark on the note pad in front of him and slid it sideways to Jane Winter with his left hand. He looked back to Cromwell. A change of direction was required.

‘Why do you work at Allandale Lodge, Martin?’

Cromwell stared at his hands. He was picking at the skin at the base of his thumbnail on his left hand with the middle finger of his right. He looked at Dixon and then back to his fingers.

‘C’mon, Martin. Why the Allandale Lodge?’

He spoke without looking up.

‘To be near my father.’

‘David Selby?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you start working there?’

‘Three months ago.’

‘When did you find him?’

‘Just before.’

‘How did you find him?’

‘The Adoption Agency helped me.’

‘What happened to your mother?’

‘She had a new hip.’

‘Your birth mother?’

‘She died when I was five.’

‘How?’

‘She killed herself.’

‘Why now, Martin?’

‘He’s all I’ve got left, apart from my mum. And he doesn’t know who I am. I left it too late.’

‘What about your sister?’

‘Rosie died before my mother. She was ill.’

‘Do you know what your father did after that?’

‘He was ill too.’

Dixon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He felt nothing but pity for Martin Cromwell.

‘Ok, Martin. That’s all for now. We’re going to keep you here overnight and then perhaps we’ll speak again in the morning. We’ll also need to check your work rota for last weekend.’

Cromwell said nothing. Dixon terminated the interview at 1.20am and Cromwell was taken to the cells for the night.

‘What happens now?’ asked Jane.

‘We go home and get some sleep,’ said Dixon. ‘Then we get up in the morning, check his alibi and go back to the drawing board.’

Dixon and Jane arrived back at his cottage in Brent Knoll just before 2.00am. Jane had asked the obvious question and Dixon had spent the rest of the journey brooding in silence.

‘If it isn’t Martin Cromwell, who the fuck is it?’

It was a simple enough question and it was going round and round in Dixon’s head.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he was unlikely to sleep so he fed Monty and then took him for a walk. It was a cold and crisp night and Dixon could feel a frost forming in the air. He walked in the middle of the road with Monty on an extending lead. He followed Station Road out of the village and into the countryside towards Berrow. He could not recall ever having seen so many stars in the sky. It was one advantage of a late night walk in the countryside, well away from light pollution.

He worked through the cast of characters one by one. Martin Cromwell was still the obvious suspect. He had motive, some might say justification, and was certainly big enough and strong enough. He winced when he remembered the elderly couple at the reconstruction. Nobody in their right mind would describe Martin Cromwell as ‘smaller than PC Cole’. Dixon thought about the dark figure wielding the knife when Valerie Manning was taken. It was not Martin Cromwell.

Then he thought about David Selby himself. Vascular dementia would give him the perfect alibi. Dixon did not doubt the diagnosis but was it possible that Selby was not as bad as he made out? Selby was due to be examined by two psychiatrists on Monday. He remembered the flash of recognition on Selby’s face and in his eyes when Dixon had found the old black and white photograph.

Dixon stopped in the middle of the road and looked skyward. What if father and son were working together? Martin could have let his father out of Allandale Lodge on the Saturday night and then back in again in the early hours of Sunday morning.