Head in the Sand (3 page)

Another police constable on the beach gestured to the south. Jane Winter turned left and headed along the beach towards a vehicle they could see parked in the distance.

‘Back towards the golf course,’ said Dixon.

They arrived to find the remains of what looked like a red Fiat Uno. It was parked facing out to sea, just inland from the wreck of the SS Nornen. The tide was out and the skeletal remains of the old ship protruded from the sand. The timbers reached skyward and reminded Dixon of the ribs on a rotting carcass.

Dixon looked inland. No more than fifty yards away was a path leading across the golf course through a gap in the sand dunes.

‘Get someone to follow that path, Jane. They should meet PC Carroll coming the other way.’

‘Where does it go?’

‘Straight across the course to the Church.’

Dixon walked around the Fiat Uno. The passenger compartment was almost entirely destroyed by fire leaving the engine intact. Clearly, this was not an engine fire that got out of control. Dixon walked around the back of the car and noticed that the rear number plate was still there. Saved by the rain, no doubt. They would be able to trace the vehicle and, hopefully, identify the owner, if someone had not already done so.

He could also see a charred body in the driver’s seat. It was leaning forward, resting against the steering wheel and its head was missing.

It
again.

Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘Get Watson and his team over here as quick as you can. We are in a race with the tide now so this must be the priority.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Tell them not to worry too much about tyre tracks.’

‘Why not?’

‘Washed away on this morning’s tide. Look.’

DCI Lewis had parked behind Jane. He tapped on the passenger window. Dixon got out of the car. He leaned back into the car through the open door.

‘And find out what time high tide is, Jane.’

He turned to DCI Lewis, who spoke first.

‘We’re going to have the press all over this any minute now. I’ll get onto the press officer. She can organise liaison. The buggers are going to have a field day.’

‘Don’t they always?’

‘We’ll sort out the details of exactly what we release later, ok?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon approached the police constable standing by the burnt out car.

‘And you are?’

‘WPC Willmott, Sir.’

‘Who found it?’

‘A Mrs Diane Weller. She was out walking her dog. I’ve got her address.’

‘You let her go?’

‘Yes, Sir. She was very distressed, I’m afraid. She lives locally though and will be available to speak to you when required.’

‘Have you checked the number plate?’

‘Yes.’

WPC Willmott produced her notebook.

‘The registered keeper is a Valerie Manning of 7 Manor Drive, Berrow.’

‘That’s right opposite the Church isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Sir. Just off Manor Way.’

Dixon turned to Jane.

‘You know what to do, Jane.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Jane Winter went back to her car, sat in the driver’s seat and reached for her radio.

Dixon addressed WPC Willmott again.

‘We’ll need a flatbed lorry to recover this vehicle when the pathologist has finished, constable. Can you rustle that up, please?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Otherwise, it’s over to you, Roger.’

Roger Poland was looking in through the driver’s side window of the Fiat Uno.

‘The body is badly burned, I’m afraid, and there’s a strong smell of petrol. I can see what looks like a stab wound below the left shoulder blade. Subject to its depth, that would have been sufficient to kill her. I won’t really know though until I do the post-mortem. I’ll get that done as quick as I can.’

‘Thanks, Roger. I’ll leave you to it.’

DCI Lewis shouted across to Dixon.

‘I’ve spoken to the press officer. She’s had journalists on already so she’s going to go for a press conference at 6.00pm today, ok?’

‘If we must, Sir.’

‘And Dave Harding and Mark Pearce are on their way to give you a hand.’

‘Thank you.’

DCI Lewis gave Dixon a wave, got back into his car and drove back down the beach. Dixon got into the passenger seat of Jane Winter’s car.

‘Well?’

‘Valerie Manning.  Sixty eight years of age. Married to Peter. Lives at 7 Manor Drive. The electoral roll shows possibly one adult son still living at home. None of them are known to police.’

‘Right. Well, we’ve got Dave Harding and Mark Pearce coming so we’ll wait until they get here and then go and knock on the door and see what we find.’

‘Ok.’

‘See if you can get a family liaison officer out here as well, just in case.’

Jane nodded and reached for her radio.

‘God alone knows how we’re going to deal with the identification,’ said Dixon.

By mid afternoon the forensic examination of each scene was largely complete. The burnt out Fiat Uno had been recovered from the beach just before the high tide reached it and the sand had been dug out of the bunker on the twelfth hole. A fingertip search of the church car park and the path across the golf course was now under way but it would be dark soon and so this was likely to go into a second day. House to house enquiries were also taking place in the local area, with the exception of Manor Drive.

Valerie Manning was now in the mortuary at Musgrove Park Hospital awaiting her post mortem. Dixon was not sure whether her head had been reunited with her body or her body reunited with her head but, either way, it would not be long before she could rest in peace.

The golf club secretary, Paul Durkin, had recovered his composure and was suitably outraged at the likely closure of the course for a second day. He was equally concerned by the removal of the sand from the bunker, which would have to be designated ‘ground under repair’ until it could be replaced. Dixon could not understand the fuss, given that there was no shortage of sand in the vicinity.

He had managed to fit in a brief lunch sitting in his Land Rover with Monty followed by a short walk on the beach. He was now waiting for the Family Liaison Officer to arrive before knocking on the door of 7 Manor Drive. House to house enquiries at the other properties in Manor Drive would start at the same time.

The Family Liaison Officer arrived shortly before 4.00pm. Police Sergeant Karen Marsden was in her early forties with bleached blonde hair. She wore dark trousers and a cream top under a navy blue jacket. Dixon thought it unusual to see a police sergeant out of uniform but the work of family liaison no doubt required a less formal approach.

They knocked on the door of 7 Manor Drive just after 4.00pm. It was a large red brick house with built in double garage. Dixon was relieved that Karen Marsden had agreed to do the talking, at least initially, but no doubt there would come a point when he would need to ask the difficult questions. The door was answered by a large man in his early seventies. He was balding and wore dark horn rimmed spectacles. He was dressed casually and wore an open neck shirt, cardigan and dark corduroys. Karen Marsden spoke first.

‘We are looking for Mr Peter Manning.’

‘Yes.’

He looked suspicious but then so would anyone confronted with three people on their doorstep at 4.00pm on a Sunday afternoon. Dixon thought he could read nothing into that.

‘I am Police Sergeant Karen Marsden. This is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon and Detective Constable Jane Winter. We’d like to have a word with you if we may, Mr Manning.’

‘It’s not Simon is it?’

‘No, Sir, may we come in?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Peter Manning stepped to one side allowing Karen Marsden, Jane Winter and then Dixon into his hallway. Dixon looked to his right before he went in and could see the other properties in Manor Drive being called upon by police officers conducting house to house enquiries.

‘Go through into the sitting room,’ said Peter Manning, gesturing towards an open door adjacent to the foot of the stairs.

‘Please sit down.’

Karen Marsden and Jane Winter sat on a sofa opposite the fireplace. Dixon sat in the armchair to their right. Peter Manning stood with his back to the fire. He turned to Dixon.

‘May I see your warrant cards again? I didn’t get a clear look at them on the doorstep.’

‘Certainly,’ said Dixon, producing his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket. Karen Marsden and Jane Winter produced their warrant cards from their handbags and handed them to Peter Manning. He looked at them carefully and then handed them back.

‘How can I help?’

‘When did you last see your wife, Mr Manning?’ asked Karen Marsden.

‘Yesterday. She went to the theatre in Bristol with some friends.’

‘And you’ve not seen her since?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Manning turned around and took a photograph off the mantelpiece. He passed it to Karen Marsden, who looked at it and then passed it to Dixon. It was a photograph of Valerie Manning holding a Yorkshire terrier. He glanced across at Jane Winter and nodded before handing the photograph back to Karen Marsden.

‘Is it unusual for Mrs Manning to stay out all night?’ Karen Marsden continued.

‘No, not unusual. Why, is there a problem?’

‘Is anyone else living here with you?’

‘Our eldest son is, temporarily. He’s getting divorced, unfortunately.’

‘Is that Simon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he in at the moment?’

‘No, he’s taken his children out for the day. He only gets to see them every couple of weeks.’

‘Is there anyone else you can ring, who can come and sit with you?’

‘You are starting to worry me now. There’s my daughter and son-in-law. They live at Edithmead.’

‘Could you give them a ring and get them to come over?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. What’s happened to Val for God’s sake?’

‘I am sorry to have to tell you, Mr Manning, but we have found a body and have reason to believe that it’s your wife,’ said Karen Marsden.

‘Found a body? You mean she’s dead?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid that she is.’

Dixon had long since given up trying to interpret how people react when informed that a loved one had died. He invariably arrived at a different conclusion to his colleagues and people react in so many disparate ways. Having said that, it was the first occasion that Dixon could recall the news that a man’s wife had died being greeted with a wry smile and shrug of the shoulders. Dixon looked at Jane Winter and then Karen Marsden. Clearly, they too had found Manning’s reaction odd.

Karen Marsden handed the photograph back to Peter Manning. He looked at it, sat on a chair next to the telephone table in the front window of 7 Manor Drive, put his head in his hands and began to sob. It was several minutes before he regained his composure. Dixon took the initiative.

‘I’m a bit confused, Mr Manning…’

Manning wiped the tears from his eyes.

‘Perhaps I should explain. Val and I haven’t enjoyed a good relationship for some time. We should have gone our separate ways long ago but we can’t sell this fucking house thanks to the recession. Nothing’s selling, At least not at a sensible price. So, we are stuck here. Trapped together you might say.’

‘And the tears?’

‘For old time’s sake. We were close once.’

‘So, you lead separate lives?’

‘Entirely separate.’

‘Have you started divorce proceedings?’

‘She served me with a divorce petition but we haven’t got the Decree Absolute yet.’

‘It must be difficult, living under the same roof.’

‘It was. We’ve got used to it now. Resigned to it is probably a better word. Now, we can just about tolerate each other.’

‘Where were you last night between 11.00pm and 2.00am?’

‘Here with Simon. Hang on a minute, what the hell has happened?’

‘Mr Manning, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your wife has been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Yes. We are going to need a detailed account of your movements last night. We are also going to need to speak to Simon. Do you have his mobile number?’

‘Yes, of course. He’s with his sons though.’

Jane Winter made a note of Simon Manning’s mobile number and then left the room to speak to him. Karen Marsden used the opportunity to make some tea. When they were left alone, Peter Manning turned to Dixon.

‘How did she die?’

‘We are not sure yet, I’m afraid. The post mortem is due later today or possibly tomorrow morning but at this stage it looks as though she was stabbed.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘No.’ Dixon lied.

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘You’d have to admit you have just given us a powerful motive.’

‘I suppose I have, but I didn’t kill her.’

Jane Winter appeared in the doorway.

‘Simon is on his way back from Bristol Zoo. I’ve arranged for Dave and Mark to meet him at his ex wife’s house.’

‘Good, Jane, thank you.’

Karen Marsden reappeared with tea for all.

‘Shall I ring my daughter now?’ asked Manning.

‘Not yet. We are going to need a detailed statement from you, Mr Manning, if you wouldn’t mind coming with us to the station,’ replied Dixon.

‘Not at all. I want to help. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘In that case, would you also be content for us to search the house?’

‘I’m sure you don’t need my permission.’

‘No, as it happens, we don’t.’

Usually closed at the weekend, Burnham-on-Sea Police Station was now the incident room for the investigation. This meant that Karen Marsden and Jane Winter would be able to use the interview suite there to take a statement from Peter Manning rather than travelling all the way to Bridgwater.  Dixon reminded Jane that Peter Manning was not under arrest. He was a bereaved relative assisting police with their enquiries and was to be afforded every courtesy unless and until they had evidence to the contrary. A shrug of the shoulders at the news of his wife’s death and ongoing divorce proceedings were not themselves evidence of murder.

Dixon returned to Bridgwater Police Station for a meeting with DCI Lewis and the Press Officer. The press conference was due at 6.00pm. He had not previously met the Press Officer, every effort having been made to keep his last case out of the newspapers.

It was very rare that Dixon took an instant dislike to someone. He would usually wait until they had given him good reason to dislike them. It had only happened on perhaps two or three occasions previously and his initial judgement had always proved correct. Before DCI Lewis had introduced them, Dixon decided that he did not like the Press Officer, although it was unclear to him why he had arrived at that conclusion. She was in her late forties with long straight blonde hair and sharp features. She wore a pinstriped skirt and jacket with a white blouse.

DCI Lewis made the introductions.

‘Thankfully, we managed to keep your last fiasco out of the papers,’ said Vicky Thomas.

‘I can see that you and I are going to get on like a house on fire,’ replied Dixon.

DCI Lewis intervened.

‘Let’s focus on the job in hand, shall we? What can we tell them?’

‘We can tell them that the victim had been decapitated, I think. It’s inevitable that will leak from the golf club. Otherwise, there has been no formal identification, although the family have been informed,’ replied Dixon.

‘Anything else?’ asked Lewis.

‘The murder took place some time between 11.00pm last night and 2.00am this morning. The charred remains of her body were found by a dog walker in a burnt out car on the beach at Berrow and her head was found by a member of the greens staff in a bunker on the Burnham and Berrow golf course.’

Both Lewis and Vicky Thomas were taking notes. Dixon continued.

‘And that the victim is an elderly white female, aged approximately seventy five. A detailed search of the scene will be going into a second day and house to house enquiries are continuing.’

‘Haven’t you got the husband in custody?’ asked Vicky Thomas.

‘News travels fast. No. He’s not under arrest. He’s helping us with our enquiries at this stage and I certainly don’t think we should be releasing any information that may identify the family.’

‘Agreed,’ said DCI Lewis, ‘we don’t want a repeat of that shambles in Bristol.’

Dixon glanced across at Vicky Thomas. She was looking at her shoes.

‘Lastly, an appeal for information,’ said Dixon. ‘Anyone who saw anything unusual in the vicinity of Berrow Church, the beach and on Coast Road on Saturday or the early hours of Sunday morning to contact the Incident Room etc etc.’

DCI Lewis turned to Dixon.

‘Are you going to sit in?’

‘Yes, Sir, if I must.’

‘I think it would be a good idea,’ said Vicky Thomas.

Dixon’s phone was ringing in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID.

‘I’d better take this,’ he said, getting up and leaving the room.

‘Hello, Roger.’

‘Nick, I’m just about to start the PM. Can you get here? It’s going to be a very interesting one, I think.’

‘Yes, I’m on my way.’

‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Yes.’

‘Park next to my car. You won’t get a ticket on a Sunday. You’ll see the green doors. Just ring the bell and someone will come and get you.’

‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. And thanks, Roger. Perfect timing.’

Dixon stood in the doorway of DCI Lewis’ office.

‘That was Roger Poland. He’s about to start the PM and thinks it would be a good idea if I was there.’