Head in the Sand (17 page)

But was Selby physically capable of it? It might explain the electric carving knife that Roger Poland had been banging on about perhaps.

Dixon knew that, apart from checking Martin Cromwell’s alibi, very little progress could be made until the psychiatrists examined Selby on Monday. He would need to brief them on his suspicions but, in the meantime, he needed some sleep.

Eleven

Dixon woke early to find Jane standing next to him with a mug of coffee in each hand. She was naked. He sat up and she passed him the mug from her left hand. Then she sat astride him on the sofa.

‘So, what happens now?’ she asked.

‘We check his alibi and search his flat.’

‘No, I meant...never mind.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Jane. ‘What are you doing on the sofa?’

‘It was late and I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘You should have,’ she said, smiling.

‘Oh, I see. Sorry!’ replied Dixon.

‘You go steady. A penny dropping from that height could cause you serious injury.’

She leaned forward and kissed him. He reached across and put his mug of coffee on the arm of the sofa. Then he placed his hands on Jane’s shoulders and pushed her gently away from him. He allowed the kiss to linger for a moment as he did so.

‘Would you mind if we continued this later?’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

Jane stood up and then went upstairs to get dressed. Dixon checked his watch. It was 7.20am. He knew that Mark Pearce would be at Burnham Police Station for 8.00am so he sent text messages to Dave Harding and Louise Willmott asking them to be there too. Then he fed Monty.

Dixon was standing at his kitchen window looking out across the fields behind his cottage when Jane appeared next to him. He put his arm around her waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her. Then he whispered in her ear.

‘Later.’

Dixon arrived at Burnham Police Station just before 8.00am. Jane arrived in her own car a few minutes later. The rest of the team were waiting for them in the CID room.

‘Right. Sorry to drag you in on a Sunday but we have a lot to get done. We’ve got Selby’s son by his first wife in custody. Martin Cromwell was adopted in the seventies and only found his father three months ago. He is working at the Allandale Lodge as a carer so he can be near him.’

‘A likely story,’ said Dave Harding.

‘Oddly enough, I believe him, Dave. That’s not to say he’s not involved though. He seems to have the perfect alibi for Valerie Manning’s murder but Jane and I will be following that up this morning.’

‘Where was he?’ asked Pearce.

‘At work, apparently, Mark. On the night shift.’

‘He could have left and gone back.’

‘He could. He could also have let his father out and then back in again.’

‘Selby has vascular dementia though, Sir,’ said Louise Willmott.

‘He does, but do you or I really know how bad it is? He could be putting it on.’

‘That would be quite an act,’ replied Louise.

‘Well, he’s going to have to get past two psychiatrists tomorrow so we’ll see,’ replied Dixon. ‘Now, the son lives at Flat 5 Cavendish House, The Esplanade, which is a bedsit. We need a full search of it. Can you organise that Mark? Louise, perhaps you would help him?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Get SOCO there and give it the full works,’ said Dixon. He turned to Dave Harding. ‘How did you get on with Spalding?’

‘I knocked on his door, as you suggested, Guv. You were right. Tenants are in there. They pay the rent to a firm of solicitors in Wells but obviously I can’t speak to them until Monday.’

‘What’s the name of the firm?’

‘Ambrose and Tucker.’

‘Check their website and find out who the partners are. If that doesn’t work, try the Law Society website. Then go and see them at home. We must find Spalding today, Dave.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What did we get from the reconstruction?’

‘Very little so far but it will be on the evening news today and tomorrow.’

‘And DNA from the wine glasses in Hawkins’ flat?’

‘None, Sir,’ replied Pearce, ‘they’d been wiped.’

‘How about a date of death for John Hawkins?’

‘Roger Poland is coming back to us with that on Monday,’ replied Harding, ‘but it won’t be with any real accuracy, for obvious reasons.’

‘Makes it difficult to check Cromwell’s alibi doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I’ll speak to Poland tomorrow,’ said Dixon.

‘What about Mrs Selby?’ asked Jane.

‘Let her go. Bail. The usual drill.’

‘I’ll lay on a car to take her home.’

‘No, you won’t. She can bloody well make her own way home. She knew full well what her beloved husband had done and kept it secret for over thirty years.’

‘Yes, but...’

‘It’s the least she can do. And she’ll be doing time for perverting the course of justice if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Jane.

‘Right then everyone, you know what you’ve got to do, so let’s get on with it.’

Dixon sat at a computer, powered it up and logged in. He checked his email and spent the next five minutes deleting messages that were of no interest to him. That left three. The first came from Dave Harding and attached a short wmv file. It was the footage of Valerie Manning’s abduction. Dixon clicked on the attachment and watched the film several times. He felt no emotion now; his pity for Valerie Manning tempered by the deaths of Rosie and Frances Southall. They were the real victims. He froze the film with the hooded figure in full view, albeit in profile, enlarged the shot and stared intently at the screen. It was not Martin Cromwell.

‘Jane, come and have a look at this.’

Jane got up from her desk and walked over. She looked at the screen.

‘Martin Cromwell?’ asked Dixon.

‘Definitely not.’

‘It could be his father though, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it could.’

Dixon closed the email. Something was niggling him but he was not sure what it was. He stared at a blank screen for several minutes before opening the next email. It attached a witness statement that came from the elderly gentleman who had come forward at the reconstruction, Ronald Drayton. He gave a short description of a person wearing dark clothes with a hooded top. He had seen him loitering around the bus stop when he left Morrisons, although, when pressed, he was unsure whether it was male or female. He described the build as slight and certainly smaller than the officer reconstructing the scene.

‘You seen that statement from Drayton, Jane?’

‘Yes. Confirms it, doesn’t it?’

Dixon went back to the first email and watched the film again. He called Jane over to watch it with him.

‘What do you notice about it?’

Jane shook her head. ‘What?’

‘Watch it again.’ Dixon scrolled back to the start of the clip. The figure appeared from behind the bus stop.

‘Watch the movement. It’s not an old man, is it?’

Jane watched. ‘No, it isn’t. The movement is too...dynamic.’ Dixon left the film running to the end.

‘Let’s have a look at the statements from Selby’s other two sons, Richard and...?’

‘Marcus,’ replied Jane.

‘Who checked their alibis?’

‘I’ll have a look.’

Dixon turned to the last email. It came from Roger Poland and suggested meeting for a beer. Dixon added Poland’s mobile number to the list of contacts on his iPhone and then deleted the email. He looked at his watch. It was 8.45am. Mark Pearce and Louise Willmott had left to begin the search of Martin Cromwell’s flat. Dave Harding was on his way to Wells.

Jane handed Dixon a copy of Richard Selby’s witness statement.

‘Dave interviewed him. Simple alibi. He was at home with his wife.’

‘Anyone check it?’ asked Dixon.

‘No. Not yet,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s likely to hold up though, isn’t it? Even if it’s bollocks.’

‘What about Marcus?’

‘He lives in Richmond and was picked up by the Met. He was at a friend’s for dinner and it checks out. There are two statements here from a Mr and Mrs Pollard. He was with them all night at their home in...’ Jane looked at the statement, ‘...Teddington and left at gone midnight.’

‘What does Richard Selby look like then, I wonder,’ said Dixon.

‘I’ve not met him.’

‘Me neither. I suggest we put that right sooner rather than later.’

‘Good idea. Shall I ring him?’

‘No, we’ll call unannounced, I think. First things first, though. We need to check Cromwell’s alibi.’

Dixon picked up his phone and rang Susan Procter. She was cooking Sunday lunch but could spare him half an hour at 10.30am. They agreed to meet at Allandale Lodge.

‘I’ll drive,’ said Dixon.

Jane threw Dixon’s car keys over the bonnet of the Land Rover. He caught them and climbed into the driver’s seat. Monty woke up and tried to jump over into the front but Dixon pushed him back.

‘We’ll go and see how Mark and Louise are getting on at Cromwell’s flat on the way.’

They arrived at Cavendish House just after 10.00am. A Scientific Services van and two patrol cars were parked outside. The front door was standing open and Dixon could see uniformed police officers and Scenes of Crime officers in the entrance lobby. Mark Pearce was talking to a man in his late fifties. He had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail and wore jeans and a blue shirt.

‘This is the landlord, Sir. Colin Evans. He let us in,’ said Pearce.

‘Thank you, Mr Evans. That’s most helpful of you. I’m Detective Inspector Dixon.’

‘You’ve arrested Martin?’

‘We have him in custody at the moment, yes, but I must make it clear that he is not charged with any offence at the present time.’

‘I should think not,’ replied Evans, ‘he wouldn’t hurt a fly, that lad. And he’s my best tenant. Always pays his rent on time.’

Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘I’m starting to see a pattern emerging here, Jane.’

‘Me too.’

‘We’ll bear that in mind, Mr Evans, thank you,’ said Dixon. He walked past Mr Evans, up the stairs, and stood in the doorway of Cromwell’s bedsit. Mark Pearce and Jane Winter followed.

It was a large room at the front of the building, with the same view across to Hinkley Point enjoyed by the late John Hawkins. It occurred to Dixon that Seaview was only two or three hundred yards along the beach.

The room itself was sparsely furnished. There was a single bed along the right hand wall, a table and chairs in the front window and a rudimentary kitchen along the left hand wall. A sofa filled the middle of the room and formed a partition of sorts between the bedroom and the dining area. A television stood on a table opposite the sofa and the bed so that it could be watched comfortably from both.

‘Furnished?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes,’ replied Pearce.

‘How much does he pay for this shit hole?’

‘Eighty five pounds a week.’

‘Bathroom?’

‘Upstairs on the landing. It’s shared.’

Dixon spotted Louise Willmott emerging from a walk in cupboard at the end of the bed. She was wearing white paper overalls and plastic gloves.

‘Anything, Louise?’

‘Nothing, Sir.’

The Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Donald Watson, appeared behind Dixon in the doorway.

‘Compared to the last one you laid on, this one’s a delight.’

‘Have you found anything?’

‘Lots of fingerprints, but I expect they’ll all be his. Nothing else. And I mean nothing else. Just a few clothes and some wash stuff.’

‘He’s not planning on staying long then?’ asked Dixon.

‘Apparently not,’ replied Watson.

Dixon turned to Mark Pearce.

‘What’s the tenancy length, Mark? Monthly or six months?’

‘Month by month, according to Mr Evans.’

‘And there are no photos or anything like that?’

‘No,’ replied Watson.

‘Well, we’ll check his alibi now. Let me know if you find anything.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Pearce.

Dixon’s Land Rover was parked along the Esplanade. He walked back to it in silence. The tide was in and all he could hear was the noise of the water crashing against the sea wall. He looked across to the power station but his view was obscured by spray and foam rising up from the waves below.

He had no doubt that he would shortly be confirming Cromwell’s alibi. Cromwell had gone from victim to prime suspect and back to victim again in the space of eighteen hours. Dixon knew that he too was almost back to square one. Almost, but not quite. He turned and looked back to Cavendish House.

‘Poor bastard,’ he muttered, but it was lost in the roar of the waves.

They drove along Berrow Road, turned right into Rectory Road and arrived at the Allandale Lodge Residential Home just before 10.30am. They saw Susan Procter in the car park and so they waited in the Land Rover until she had gone in. A patrol car was parked in the space nearest the front door. It was occupied by an officer Dixon recognised from the search of the golf course.  He appeared to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. Dixon tapped on the window. The officer looked up, saw Dixon and then got out of the car.