by Damien Boyd
‘It does,’ replied Dixon. ‘And you think it’s an electric carving knife?’
‘Yes, something like that. Definitely not a chainsaw. You can tell them a mile away.’
‘So, she’s in the driver’s seat of a four door Fiat Uno. Her killer is already sitting in or jumps into the back seat behind her. A belt is put around her neck tying her to the headrest.’
‘Very possible, yes,’ said Poland.
‘She’s then forced to drive out to Berrow Beach where her throat is cut below the restraining belt. She’s then stabbed in the back, for good measure, as you put it.’
Dixon paused.
‘It would be interesting to know if she was stabbed through the car seat, Roger.’
‘I can look for fibres when I open her up.’
‘I’ll get the forensic team to look for any marks on the seat too. The cover has been burnt away but there may be a mark on the frame,’ said Dixon.
‘All sounds good to me,’ said Poland.
‘Then the restraint is removed and her head severed. The car is then torched.’
‘That certainly fits with what I’ve found so far. I’ve still got a few hours work ahead of me though.’
‘And the wound on the back of her hand could have been inflicted either when she was taken or during the drive to the beach?’
‘It could.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then, Roger, if you don’t mind,’ said Dixon, removing his mask. ‘We must have that beer some time too.’
‘That would be good, Nick,’ replied Poland.
Dixon called in at Berrow Church to find the area still sealed off, with a panda car in attendance. He arrived home just after 8.30pm, fed Monty and sent text messages to Dave Harding and Mark Pearce calling a briefing at Burnham-on-Sea Police Station for 8.00am the following morning. He then sent a text message to Jane Winter asking where she was.
He felt sure that he heard the tell tale ‘bleep bleep’ of a text message arriving. Seconds later there was a knock at his door. It was Jane. She held up a large white carrier bag full of silver trays.
‘Chinese?’
‘You, Jane, are a mind reader.’
Three
Dixon left home at 7.15am and called at Berrow Church on his way to Burnham-on-Sea Police Station. The fingertip search of the churchyard and golf course was due to start again at 8.00am. He spoke to Police Sergeant Dean who was coordinating the search.
‘How many men have you got, Sergeant?’
‘Thirty, Sir.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Check the undergrowth between the Church and the green, will you? And around the car park.’
‘What are we looking for, Sir?’
‘Weapons, obviously. A knife and possibly also an electric carving knife or similar. Also a belt and a bag of some sort. Her head must have been carried here in something.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Let me know when you’ve finished and I’ll let the golf club know.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And ring me immediately if you find anything.’
Dixon arrived at Burnham-on-Sea Police Station just before 8.00am. It was a red brick building on the Burnham Road, mid way between Burnham and Highbridge. Jane Winter, Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were already there. As was DCI Lewis. Dixon wondered how he knew.
‘Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’ said Dixon.
The incident room was the old CID room on the second floor of the police station. It was used primarily for storage now that there was no permanent CID presence in Burnham, although some effort had been made to clear it for the current investigation. There was a white board and computers had been put in the afternoon before too.
Dixon pinned an enlarged version of the photograph of Valerie Manning holding the Yorkshire terrier on the whiteboard.
‘This is our victim. Mrs Valerie Manning. Aged 68. Lives at 7 Manor Drive, Berrow with her husband, Peter, and son, Simon. Dinner lady at Berrow School. The formal identification will take place later today. The son’s agreed to do it hasn’t he, Dave?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Married in name only, as we know. More on that in a minute. It’s all over the press now and the nationals have picked it up too. It’s out there that she was decapitated but nothing else. Let’s keep it that way, please.’
All agreed.
‘Right then, who spoke to Diane Weller, the lady who found the car?’
‘We did,’ said Dave Harding.
‘Anything?’ asked Dixon.
‘No, not really. She was out with her dog, as usual apparently, saw the car in the distance and walked over to it. The tide was in round the wheels, which attracted her attention. When she had finished screaming she dialled ‘999’. She was in a bit of a state to be fair to her. She saw no one, heard nothing. There were no footprints or tyre tracks in the sand either. The tide was on its way out at the time.’
‘Is that it?’
‘She gave a statement but that’s the gist of it, yes, Sir.’
‘What about the greenkeeper, Jane?’
‘Much the same. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. He was out raking the bunkers and found her head. Simple as that, really.’
‘Ok, what about the husband, Jane?’ asked Dixon. ‘What did he have to say for himself?’
‘He was quite open about their situation, I think. He admitted that the marriage was over and that they were trapped in the house because they couldn’t sell it. Not at a sensible price anyway. It had been very difficult at first, when divorce proceedings started, but things had calmed down recently.’
‘What does "very difficult" mean, I wonder?’ asked Dixon.
‘He admitted hitting her on a couple of occasions. Her solicitor applied for an injunction against him at one stage too. That was a while ago though.’
‘We’d better have a word with her solicitor,’ said Dixon.
‘I’ve got her details,’ said Jane.
‘What about his alibi? Dave, you spoke to the son.’
‘Holds up. At home all evening apparently, watching the golf. It was the HSBC Champions, whatever that is. They both sat up and watched it until it finished at around midnight and then he went to bed. The son stayed up to watch a film and went to bed at about 2.30am.’
‘She was killed some time between 11.00pm and 2.00am so it’s possible if the husband had gone out after midnight...’
‘The son was adamant he would have heard his father go out, Sir, and says that he didn’t,’ said Mark Pearce.
‘Ok, we’ll take that at face value for the time being. I don’t think the husband did it anyway,’ said Dixon.
‘Neither do I,’ said Jane. ‘Even though his reaction to the news of her death was a bit...odd.’
‘So, her movements on Saturday night,’ said Dixon. ‘She went to the theatre in Bristol with two friends. We need detailed statements from those friends. I expect they met somewhere and went in one car. Where did they meet? I’m guessing that Valerie Manning left her car in a car park somewhere or perhaps outside a friend’s house. CCTV will be crucial. We also need to look at every single traffic camera on their route between the end of the show and 2.00am. Dave and Mark, that’s your job. Ok?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ in unison.
Dixon turned to DCI Lewis.
‘They’ll need some help with that, Sir, and we need some help with answering the phones.’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘Some time between leaving her car and getting back into it at the end of the evening, someone got into the back seat and lay in wait for her. Or…’ Dixon paused, ‘…they jumped her when she got back to her car. They could also have got into the back of the car when she was on her way home. While she was at traffic lights, perhaps, but this is less likely. Depending on her route, we may get a look at this person on one or more of the cameras. Better still there may be CCTV of the car park itself.’
‘Do we know
what happened then, Sir?’ asked Pearce.
‘We do. Some of this is guesswork and I am waiting for Dr Poland’s final report but it looks as though a belt was used to tie her round the neck to the headrest of the car. She was then forced at knifepoint to drive to Berrow Beach. There’s a superficial injury to the back of her left hand that may have been caused either when she was taken or during the drive to the beach.’
‘Superficial?’ asked Pearce.
‘Compared to being decapitated, yes. Once on the beach, the killer slit her throat and then stabbed her through the heart. That was the fatal wound. It was a thin blade, possibly a fish filleting knife, and I expect we will find that she was stabbed through the car seat. That’s to be confirmed.’
‘Who the fuck would want to do that to a school dinner lady?’ asked Pearce.
‘Could she not have met the killer on the beach, Sir?’ asked Harding.
‘Possible but unlikely. Why else the neck restraint? According to Dr Poland, the belt was round her neck for some time. If the killer had met her on the beach, she would have been stabbed straightaway, surely?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘We’ll know soon enough though,’ Dixon continued. ‘The belt was then untied from around her neck and she was decapitated using an electric carving knife or saw of some sort. Not a chainsaw. Dr Poland is quite definite about that. Her head was then taken, possibly in a bag, and the car set fire to.’
‘We need to find that belt and bag,’ said DCI Lewis.
‘We do, Sir,’ replied Dixon. ‘As well as the knives. I briefed the search team this morning on my way here.’
‘Good.’
‘The killer then cut across the golf course, dumped her head in the bunker and left the scene in his car, which had been left in the Church car park, hidden from view. That last bit is supposition, of course.’
‘Sounds plausible,’ said Lewis.
‘Right then, let’s get on with it. Jane, we need to speak to her solicitor and her sisters as well. She has two, I think. See if the Family Liaison Officer can set that up. We’ll pay a visit to Berrow School too. Meet back here at 6.00pm.’
‘There’s something about sitting outside a head teacher’s office that just makes you feel guilty, isn’t there?’ whispered Dixon.
Jane Winter rolled her eyes.
They had arrived at Berrow Primary School just after 9.00am and were now waiting outside the office of the head teacher, Ruth Smith. She was currently dealing with a set of parents and raised voices told Dixon that their child was not top of the class. The meeting ended abruptly. The door to Ruth Smith’s office flew open and a young couple made for the exit at the far end of the corridor, closely followed by the head teacher. She turned to look at Dixon and Jane Winter.
‘And you are?’
‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Winter. Avon and Somerset Police,’ replied Dixon, producing his warrant card. Jane Winter did the same.
Ruth Smith was in her early fifties, slim, with short greying hair. She wore black trousers and a purple blouse.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Come in. Sorry about that. Nobody likes being told their child is a bully, do they?’
‘No,’ said Dixon.
‘Do sit down. I am Ruth Smith, the head teacher here. Horrible news about Val. Her husband rang me yesterday. I still can’t believe it. Terrible.’
‘Yes. How long had she worked here?’
‘About three years, I think. Ever since she retired.’
‘Retired?’
‘Yes, she wanted to keep busy, she said.’
‘And she retired from?’
‘Nursing. She was a nurse.’
‘Do you have a personnel file for her, please?’
‘Well, I...’
‘This is a murder inv...’
‘Of course it is. Give me a second.’
Ruth Smith opened the top drawer of her desk and produced a set of keys. She then went to a filing cabinet in the corner of her office behind her desk and removed a thin file. She handed it to Dixon. ‘Nothing very exciting, Inspector. Just a copy of her application form and contract. I don’t recall any issues arising that would be recorded at all.’
‘Was she here on Friday?’
‘Yes. It was a normal day.’ Ruth Smith’s eyes welled up with tears. ‘A perfectly normal day.’
‘Who did she work with?’
‘We had two dinner ladies. Val, of course, and Anne Brooks. They were both here on Friday.’
‘Is Anne here now?’
‘It’s a bit early but she might be in the kitchen.’
‘I’d like to speak to her, if I may?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘This may sound like a daft question to ask of a primary school dinner lady but can you think of anyone who may have wished to do her harm? A parent perhaps?’
‘You obviously never met her, Inspector.’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘It’s difficult to imagine meeting a nicer person. She never had a falling out with anyone, let alone one of the parents.’
‘I understand. We have to ask.’
‘Of course, you do,’ replied Ruth Smith. ‘Is it true she was de...decap...?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ replied Dixon.
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Have the children been told?’ asked Jane Winter.
‘No, not yet. I am liaising with the Local Education Authority about how best to do that.’
‘Can we speak to Anne now, please? I’d also like to keep this file, if that’s alright,’ said Dixon.
‘Er, yes, that should be fine. Follow me.’
Anne Brooks was chopping lettuce in the kitchen. She was in her early sixties with tightly permed dark hair.
‘Annie, these are two police officers. They’d like to have a word with you about Val...?’
Anne Brooks immediately burst into tears. She began sobbing uncontrollably. Her legs went from under her and she fell forward onto the work surface. Ruth Smith put her arms around her while Dixon fetched a chair from the adjacent dining area.
‘Another time,’ said Dixon. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’
‘You’ll be back?’ asked Ruth Smith.
‘We will,’ replied Dixon.
They could hear Anne Brooks still sobbing as they walked along the corridor to the exit.
‘What did you make of Anne Brooks’ reaction, Jane?’ asked Dixon.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting...’
‘What? Two dinner ladies have an argument and one cuts the other’s head off? No, I meant did you think her reaction was genuine?’
‘Yes, I did, actually,’ replied Jane.
‘So did I,’ said Dixon. ‘Has the FLO set up a meeting with the sisters yet?’
‘I’ll check,’ said Jane, reaching into her handbag for her mobile phone.
Dixon drove along Coast Road and parked in Manor Way opposite Berrow Church. He could see the search still going on. He could also see three large white vans with satellite dishes on top, sign written BBC, Sky News and ITN. He could hear a helicopter overhead. He looked and could see that it was private rather than police. Probably hired by one of the news agencies to get aerial shots of the search, Dixon thought.
He could hear Jane’s telephone call coming to an end.
‘Well?’
‘One sister lives in Brisbane,’ said Jane, looking at Dixon.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘The other lives in Woolavington.’
‘Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?’
‘No, but she’s agreed to see us at 10.30am.’
Lockswell Cottage, Woolavington, was a small double fronted stone cottage on the main road through the village. Dixon parked in Higher Road, a side road opposite the cottage, and watched the net curtains moving in the front window. He knocked on the door just before 10.30am. A small dog started barking.
‘Mrs Sheila Cummins?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dixon and this is Detective Constable Winter. You’re expecting us, I believe?’
‘Please, come in.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you bear a striking resemblance to your sister, Mrs Cummins,’ said Dixon.
‘We’re twins, Inspector. Were twins, I should say. Not quite identical but almost.’
‘I gather you know what happened to Mrs Manning?’
‘Peter rang me last night, yes. Please sit down.’
The front door opened straight into the lounge. Dixon sat on an armchair. Jane Winter sat next to Mrs Cummins on the sofa, opposite a large open fire.
‘How would you describe your sister’s relationship with her husband, Mrs Cummins?’
‘I’m sure you know all about that already.’
‘We know what Mr Manning has told us but I would like to know what you think?’
‘It was good once. Then they got divorced. I know that he hit her although she always denied it. It was difficult with them being stuck in the same house.’
‘And recently?’
‘They’d arrived at an understanding. She kept out of his way and he kept out of hers. They lived separate lives, as far as one can living in the same house.’
‘And your relationship with her, how would you describe that?’
‘Not as close as we were once, I suppose. We grew apart as we got older. At least, that’s how it felt.’
‘Did you see much of her?’
‘Not recently. I can’t think why, really. And now it’s too late...’ Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
‘Jane, make Mrs Cummins a cup of tea,’ said Dixon.
‘No, I’m fine, really,’ said Sheila Cummins. ‘Did she suffer?’
‘No.’ Dixon lied again. ‘Tell me about your other sister.’
‘Emily. She’s our elder sister. She married an Australian in the early eighties and went to live out there. We rarely see her these days, for obvious reasons. I haven’t told her yet. She’ll want to come for the funeral.’
‘Did Valerie ever tell you she was in any sort of danger or in fear for her life, perhaps?’