Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  ‘What an odd question.’

  ‘It sounds it, I know. I’m just trying to rule things out at this stage. Can you think of anyone who may have wished her harm?’

  ‘Certainly, not!’ said Sheila Cummins.

  ‘What about her husband?’ asked Jane Winter.

  ‘No, surely you can’t think that?’

  ‘As I say, we are just trying to rule things out at this stage. Routine questions. By the book, as it were,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.’

  ‘And what about you? Are you married?’

  ‘My husband died two years ago. Prostate cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘When you reach fifty, Inspector, have your PSA level checked at least once a year. My husband didn’t and paid the price for it.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Make sure you do,’ said Sheila Cummins. Tears began to stream down her cheeks again.

  ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mrs Cummins. If you think of anything that might be relevant, anything at all, please give me a ring. Here’s my number,’ said Dixon, placing his card on the coffee table.

  ‘I will.’

  Dixon and Jane Winter got up to leave. A Yorkshire Terrier came running into the lounge from the kitchen and jumped onto Sheila Cummins’ lap. It began licking the tears from her cheeks.

  ‘We’ll show ourselves out.’

  ‘C’mon, Jane, there’s a park over there. Let’s take Monty for a walk. We’ve got ten minutes.’

  Dixon got Monty out of the back of the Land Rover and put his lead on. They crossed the road and walked the hundred yards or so along Lockswell to the small park.

  ‘What do you make of it then?’ asked Dixon, letting Monty off the lead.

  ‘I don’t think the husband did it, which leaves us with a primary school dinner lady, who everyone says is lovely, being stabbed to death and then beheaded. I don’t know, could it have been random?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No, it couldn’t. It’s Dixon’s law. There’s no such thing as a random killing.’

  ‘Dixon’s law?’

  ‘I made that bit up. But there’s always a reason…’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Even a psychopath has a reason for selecting his victims.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It may appear random, but there will be one somewhere, even if it’s twisted.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Trouble is, it becomes much harder to find if it only exists in the killer’s head.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘It’ll be there though. We just have to find it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, if it’s not in Valerie’s present, it must be in her past.’

  ‘Could the killer have intended to kill Sheila Cummins? They are almost identical twins after all?’

  ‘Mistaken identity, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much telly.’

  Jane nodded in Monty’s direction. ‘You have some clearing up to do.’

  Dixon reached into his coat pocket and produced a small black plastic bag. ‘One of the joys of dog ownership. You get used to it.’

  ‘We do a lot of that in this job, don’t we?’

  ‘We do. We certainly do.’

  Dixon walked across to the dog bin. He turned to see Jane throwing a stick for Monty.

  ‘Let’s get back to the station,’ said Dixon.

  They walked back to the Land Rover. Dixon put Monty in the back, sat in the driver’s seat and was about to switch on the engine when his phone rang.

  ‘Dixon.’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Dean, Sir. We’ve found a bag in the undergrowth between the green and the church.’

  ‘Is it…?’

  ‘There’s blood, Sir. Lots of it. One of the dogs found it.’

  ‘Any sign of a belt?’

  ‘There’s a leather belt in the bag.’

  ‘We’re on our way, Sergeant, thank you.’

  Dixon arrived at Berrow Church to find the Scientific Services van already there. He parked next to it and followed the track around to the right with Jane Winter. They walked up to the twelfth green and could see a group of officers standing on the path that led from the green back to the gap in the wall at the top of the churchyard. The undergrowth on either side of the path was thick and consisted of several large bushes, of a type that Dixon could not identify, and thick brambles. They appeared to form a circle with the interior being almost clear of all but long grass.

  The officers stood back to allow Dixon a clear view into the undergrowth. An opening had been cut and he could see the senior Scenes of Crime officer, Watson, crouched over what looked like a black bag lying in the long grass.

  ‘What’ve we got then?’

  ‘A black leather holdall. There’s lots of congealed blood in it. We’ll get a sample straight off to Dr Poland for analysis but you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to guess whose it is.’

  ‘No,’ replied Dixon. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a brown leather belt in the bag. Not a pretty sight.’

  Dixon turned to Jane Winter and nodded.

  ‘Any logos or anything like that?’

  ‘I can see a Fat Face label on the belt and the bag has a Footjoy logo on it.’

  ‘Our man’s a golfer then,’ said Jane.

  ‘Footjoy make ladies golf shoes as well, Jane,’ replied Dixon.

  Jane Winter shrugged her shoulders.

  Sergeant Dean appeared behind Dixon.

  ‘Mr Durkin has arrived, Sir, and would like a word.’

  ‘What have you got left to do, Sergeant?’

  ‘Very little, Sir. We’re almost finished and are just winding down.’

  ‘Has the undergrowth been checked that side?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the other side of the path.

  ‘Yes, Sir. We’ve had two dogs all over it.’

  ‘So, I can tell Mr Durkin we’ll be finished today and he can have his course back tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon walked back to the twelfth green. Paul Durkin was sitting in a golf buggy on the far side of the green. He got out and walked over to Dixon.

  ‘Haven’t you finished yet, Inspector?’

  ‘Almost, Mr Durkin. We’re just winding down, as it happens. There’ll be some delay though. We’ve found some items in the undergrowth back there that will need to be removed carefully. That may take some time.’

  ‘Not into a third day, surely?’

  ‘Mercifully, not. The course can reopen tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that. This has caused a great deal of inconvenience, Inspector.’

  ‘When I catch the killer, Mr Durkin, I’ll be sure to pass that on.’

  Dixon walked back over to where Jane Winter was standing.

  ‘C’mon, Jane, let’s go and get something to eat.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Berrow Inn will be full of journalists. How about the Red Cow?’

  It was just after 2.30pm when Dixon rang the bell on the locked front door of Lester Hodson Solicitors in Bridgwater. It was a two storey double fronted Georgian building that had been converted into offices. The large front door was painted black and there was a polished brass plaque on the wall to the left, listing the partners in the firm. The lock gave out a familiar buzzing sound prompting Jane Winter to push open the door. Once inside, a sign with an arrow pointing to the left led them to the reception desk.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Jane Winter to see Anne Barton, please?’ said Dixon. He produced his warrant card, as usual.

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘One of her clients was murdered yesterday so she should be, yes.’

  ‘No, I mean do you have an appointment?’

  ‘I think you’ll find we don’t need one.’

  ‘Do sit dow
n,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘We’ll stand if you don’t mind. I don’t expect Miss Barton to keep us waiting.’

  The receptionist picked up the telephone and dialled a three digit extension number. She spoke so quietly that Dixon thought it unlikely that the person on the other end could have heard what was being said. Dixon certainly couldn’t. He was assured that Miss Barton would be straight down to see them.

  A few moments later a door at the back of the reception area opened.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Dixon turned to see a tall, smartly dressed woman wearing a grey two-piece suit and white blouse. She had short blonde hair and was, Dixon thought, in her late forties.

  ‘I am Anne Barton. You’ll be here about Valerie Manning?’

  ‘Yes. Is there anywhere we can...?’

  ‘Of course. Do come through.’

  Dixon and Jane Winter followed Anne Barton through to an interview room behind the reception area. Anne Barton and Jane Winter sat either side of the desk. Dixon stood in the window looking out at the River Parrett, which ran behind the offices.

  ‘You’ll appreciate that I am bound by client confidentiality, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m afraid all of that stuff goes out the window in a murder investigation, Miss Barton.’

  ‘Well, I shall certainly help in any way that I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it true that she was...?’

  ‘It is, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘We are just building a picture of Mrs Manning at this stage, and I have a fair idea of what you are going to say, I think. But can you tell me about her relationship with her husband, Peter?’

  ‘He was a bit of a bastard, actually. At least to begin with. He wanted the divorce. Valerie didn’t. He’d met someone else. He eventually got her to start the divorce proceedings based on his adultery.’

  Jane Winter was taking notes.

  ‘It was a very difficult time. He hit her a few times and, in the end, I made an application for an injunction to force him out of the matrimonial home.’

  ‘What was the outcome of that?’

  ‘He persuaded her to drop it before the hearing and things have been largely quiet ever since. I think it caused the break up of his new relationship, actually.’

  ‘The injunction?’

  ‘Would you want to get involved with someone who was beating up his wife?’ Anne Barton addressed the question to Jane Winter.

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Must be nearly three years ago. Been in limbo ever since. They agreed a fifty fifty split of everything but couldn’t sell the house. It’s quite common that at the moment. Leads to all sorts of problems.’

  ‘Can we have a copy of the witness statement Mrs Manning gave in support of the injunction application?’

  Jane Winter looked across at Dixon, who was now standing by the fireplace at the side of the desk.

  ‘I’ll need to run that by my Managing Partner but I don’t see why not. Can I email it to you?’

  ‘That’d be fine,’ said Dixon, handing his calling card to Anne Barton.

  ‘I’ll try to do it this afternoon or perhaps tomorrow, if that’s ok?’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Dixon called in at Bridgwater Police Station to check his post and emails. The police station was a purpose built red brick and glass building that could best be described as functional. His office was on the second floor adjacent to the CID room.

  Dixon was standing at the coffee machine when DCI Lewis appeared behind him.

  ‘Any news, Nick?’

  ‘We’ve found the bag with the belt in it, Sir. It’s a black holdall with a Footjoy logo on it. The belt is leather and comes from Fat Face. There’s a lot of blood congealed in the bottom of the bag and a sample is on its way to Roger Poland.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing substantive. We’ve spoken to the headteacher at Berrow School and also Valerie Manning’s sister in Woolavington. The other sister lives in Australia. I was hoping to speak to the work colleague in the kitchens at the school but couldn’t get a word out of her, unfortunately.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Getting a picture of a lovely lady who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. No one can imagine why anyone would wish to do her harm at all it seems. Her solicitor gave an interesting insight into the divorce proceedings and the domestic violence but even that was three years ago. I’ve asked her to let me have a copy of the witness statement that Mrs Manning gave in support of the application for an injunction.’

  ‘An injunction?’

  ‘Yes, apparently the violence got so bad at one point that Mrs Manning tried to get her husband out of the house. He persuaded her to drop the proceedings though and things have been calm ever since. The solicitor thinks that Peter Manning was seeing someone else, hence the divorce, and the injunction application put an end to that relationship.’

  ‘Well, keep me posted.’

  ‘Will do, Sir. It’ll be interesting to see what Dave and Mark come up with. There’s a briefing at 6.00pm if you can make it?’

  ‘I won’t be able to get there, unfortunately, but let me know how you get on.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘The Chief Superintendent seems to think you are an officer who makes things happen, Nick.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’

  Dixon sat at his desk with his coffee and powered up his computer. It was a small office that he shared with DCI Janice Courtenay. She had left a note on his desk telling him that she would be on holiday for the next two weeks. Dixon screwed it up and threw it in the rubbish bin.

  He opened his emails to find two hundred and seventy nine new messages. For the most part each email represented a telephone call received from members of public following the press conference on Sunday evening. Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 4.00pm, giving him an hour and a half before he would need to leave to get back to Burnham for the 6.00pm briefing.

  He reached over and switched his printer on. He then began opening the emails in chronological order, beginning on the Sunday evening. It quickly became apparent that very few contained any useful information. A central record would be kept of each message received so Dixon deleted from his computer those that were not relevant. The usual cranks, nutters and those whose information was either irrelevant or clearly wrong. He also deleted all internal police newsletters and memoranda. Although not technically junk mail, he regarded them as such and took great delight in hitting the delete button.

  By 4.30pm he had narrowed it down to fifty nine emails that would require closer scrutiny. His attention was drawn to a telephone message received at 10.27pm on the Sunday evening, he thought just after the evening news. The witness, Daniel Fisher, said that he was driving from Burnham-on-Sea to Brean in the early hours of Sunday morning when he had seen a car turning out of the track that leads to Berrow Church. Fisher had been to a nightclub in Burnham and was on his way home. Dixon made a note to follow this sighting up. Otherwise, the messages were of very little interest apart from one timed at 3.23pm that day. The male caller had not left his name and number. The message read simply ‘Vodden 1979’. Dixon hit the delete button.

  He turned off his computer and printer, having printed off only one email. It was disappointing but there was, at least, a possible sighting of the killer.

  Dixon shouted across to Jane Winter, who was sitting at her computer in the CID room.

  ‘Did you see anything interesting in those emails, Jane?’

  ‘Not really, apart from the obvious one, of course.’

  ‘Daniel Fisher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give him a ring and see if he can see us this evening.’

  ‘Will do.’

  A few minutes later Jane appeared in the doorway of Dixon’s office.

  ‘He works shifts and is on nights
at the moment. He can see us in the morning though. I’ve made an appointment to see him at home at 8.30am.’

  ‘Good. C’mon, we need to get to Burnham.’

  The Incident Room on the second floor of Burnham-on-Sea Police Station was a hive of activity when Dixon and Jane Winter arrived for the briefing just before 6.00pm. Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were staring intently at a television screen and various other officers, who had been drafted in to assist the investigation, were either answering telephones or reviewing CCTV footage on their computers. Dixon sat on the edge of an empty desk next to the whiteboard and called the briefing to order.

  ‘Good evening, everyone. As you know we’ve found the holdall and belt so it seems Dr Poland was right about the mechanics. I’m just waiting for his formal report. We also have a sighting of a car turning out of the Berrow Church car park in the early hours of Sunday morning. Jane and I will be interviewing the witness in the morning. Dave, what have you come up with?’

  ‘We spoke to the friends Valerie went to the theatre with and got detailed statements from them both. They’re being typed up now.’ Dave looked at his notebook, ‘Mrs Emily Townsend of 17 Margaret Crescent, that’s off South Esplanade in Burnham. An old work colleague of Valerie’s, apparently. Anyway, she drove. She picked Valerie up in the Morrisons Car Park at the top of Pier Street and then picked up Mrs Claire Stewart at her home in Stoddens Road. That was on their way out to the motorway, of course.’

  ‘So, Valerie’s car was left unattended all evening in the car park?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘There should be CCTV coverage then?’

  ‘There is. I’ll come on to that in a second,’ said Harding. ‘They went to see The Lion King at the Hippodrome and left Bristol just after 11.00pm. They dropped Mrs Stewart at home and then Mrs Townsend dropped Valerie off in Pier Street at about 11.45pm.’

  ‘She didn’t drop her at her car?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘No, sadly not. She pulled up in the bus stop opposite the Pier Tavern and left Valerie to walk to her car.’

  ‘Did she wait and see if Valerie got to her car?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, I’m afraid. She drove off. She last saw Valerie walking across the pavement by the bus stop.’