by Damien Boyd
‘Talk about seeing to it that your friend gets home safely,’ said Dixon.
‘She knows that now, Sir.’
‘Bit bloody late isn’t it, Dave?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What happens next?’ asked Dixon.
‘This is where we pick it up on CCTV. Mark, wind the film back to when Mrs Townsend’s car appears. Can everyone see this screen?’
Jane Winter switched the lights off and then stood next to Dixon. Mark Pearce and Dave Harding were seated at the desk the screen was sitting on. The other officers in the room gathered around. Mark Pearce started the film.
The Morrisons car park was on the corner of Pier Street and the Esplanade. It was deserted apart from four cars, all parked in bays adjacent to Pier Street. The cars were clearly visible, there being no boundary fencing or bushes to screen the car park from either the road or the CCTV camera.
Dixon watched a red Mazda 6 estate car appear in the bus stop and Valerie Manning get out of the front passenger seat. She leant back into the car and exchanged words with the driver, then she closed the door and turned to walk across the pavement.
‘Stop the tape,’ said Dixon. ‘What does she say to Mrs Townsend?’
‘Just goodbye and thank you, that’s all. Nothing of any significance.’
Dixon looked at the bus stop. It was of stone construction, rather than glass, with a pitched roof and wood cladding to the front gable end. It was open at the front, although sideways on to the prevailing wind. There was a bench along the back wall. It was empty.
‘Ok, start the film.’
‘This is where it gets interesting, Sir,’ said Pearce.
‘That’s Valerie’s car there,’ said Harding, pointing to a red Fiat Uno parked three spaces up from the bus stop. ‘Now, watch the back of the bus stop.’
Dixon could feel his pulse quicken. He had a clear understanding of what was about to happen. He could feel beads of sweat on his forehead and in the small of his back. He watched Valerie Manning walking across to her car. She was looking down, fumbling for her car keys in her handbag.
Suddenly, a figure appeared from behind the bus stop. He or she was wearing dark trousers and a dark coat with the hood up obscuring the face. A blade glinted in the streetlights.
‘Stop the tape,’ said Dixon.
‘Are there any other cameras that might give a view of the back of the bus stop?’
‘No, Sir. We’re getting this from the Reeds Arms, the Wetherspoon pub opposite. There’s another camera on the Tourist Information Centre by the jetty but this is the better angle.’
‘Ok, Mark.’
Pearce started the film. The figure had almost reached Valerie Manning before she turned. Soft shoes, thought Dixon. The figure slashed at Valerie with the knife. She dropped her handbag and clasped the back of her left hand with her right. She stumbled back against the driver’s door of her car. The figure was waving the knife in front of her. He or she then pointed the knife at the handbag on the ground. Valerie stepped forward, bent down and picked it up. Then she was fumbling for her keys again. Greater urgency this time.
‘Stop the tape.’
Pearce obliged.
‘Any views on whether that’s a man or a woman?’ asked Dixon.
‘Looks female to me, Sir.’
Dixon turned to the WPC who had spoken. ‘And you are?’
‘WPC Willmott, Sir. We met on Berrow Beach.’
‘Of course we did. Why do you think it’s female then?’
‘Size, stature, the way it’s holding the knife...’
‘Explain.’
‘A man would stand tall. Look at her. She’s almost crouching behind the knife, holding it up at Mrs Manning.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Look at the way she’s holding it too. The palm of her hand is facing up.’
‘It’s pissing down with rain,’ said Harding, ‘anyone would be hunched over, surely?’
‘And nervous,’ said Pearce.
‘What you’re saying then is that it could be male or female?’
‘Well, there’s nothing obvious that leaps out at you is there, Sir?’ said Jane.
‘Do we ever get a clear view of the face, Dave?’
‘No, Sir, sadly not.’
‘Well, for present purposes we’ll refer to the killer as ‘he’. Start the tape, Mark.’
They watched while Valerie found her keys and opened the car. A prod of the knife and she climbed into the driver’s seat. The figure opened the back door, threw a holdall into the back and then got into the passenger seat behind her. They could see the figure raise his arms and reach forward over the driver’s seat. Valerie Manning lurched back into her seat. Her head thrashing to the left and right.
‘That’s the belt going round her neck,’ said Pearce.
The car then reversed slowly out of the parking space, turned and drove out of shot heading towards the exit. Dixon’s last view was of Valerie Manning driving with her assailant hunched in the back seat behind her.
‘We don’t see the car again on this camera, Sir,’ said Harding.
‘That means they must have gone along the sea front?’
‘Yes. There’s footage of the car passing the jetty camera and going straight along the Esplanade rather than turning right into Pier Street.’
‘But that’s the last camera?’
‘It is, Sir. There are no more between here and Berrow beach.’
‘Switch it off, will you, Mark. I’ve seen enough for the time being.’
Mark Pearce switched off the television and the officers returned to their seats. Dixon used the opportunity to pour himself a drink from the water tower.
‘What time does Morrisons close on a Saturday?’
‘9.00pm, Sir,’ said WPC Willmott.
‘So, the killer leaves his car at Berrow Church, in the overflow car park, well hidden from the road. He then, somehow, gets to Burnham, where he waits for Valerie to get back from the theatre. That means there is either an accomplice who gave the killer a lift or he took a bus or taxi. Dave, you know what to do?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘It’s possible that he could have walked all the way along the beach, I suppose. What is it, four miles?’
‘About that,’ replied Willmott.
‘Well, let’s try the buses and taxis anyway, Dave.’
Harding nodded.
‘Let’s assume that he arrived in Burnham early and waited in or around Morrisons until Valerie got back. I want the Reeds Arms and the jetty cameras checked from 4.00pm onwards. You know what you are looking for. We’ll also need two officers outside Morrisons until we find someone who saw something on Saturday evening. Speak to the regulars in the Reeds and the Pier Tavern too.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Harding.
‘Ok. Then, later, the killer cuts across the golf course back to Berrow Church. Leaves Valerie’s head in the bunker on the way, throws the bag with the belt in it into the bushes and then drives home in his own car.’
‘Covered in blood,’ said Jane. ‘Which explains the fainter trail leading from the bunker down through the churchyard to the car park.’
‘Good point,’ replied Dixon. ‘Right, well, that’s enough to be going on with, I think. Has everyone got a clear understanding of what they are doing tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. See you in the morning.’
Dixon saw Jane Winter in the car park outside the police station.
‘Are you...er...’
‘I’m going to go back to my flat if it’s all the same to you. I need some clothes and stuff.’
‘Yes fine. See you tomorrow.’
Dixon arrived home just before 8.00pm. He had intended to take Monty for a walk on Burnham beach but fireworks were going off all around and he didn’t want to risk him running off. Even a Staffie will be frightened on bonfire night. Instead he opted for a quick walk on the lead around the roads in Brent Knoll, followed by beans on toast
. He fed Monty, opened a can of beer and sat in the dark in his cottage, watching the flashes of rockets and roman candles light up the room.
He was in for a restless night. He thought about Valerie Manning and the figure in the car park, slashing at her with the knife. The image flashed across his mind over and over again like a short piece of film on a loop.
He switched on his television and reached for a DVD. His collection was small and universally regarded as awful by those who knew him. Places to go, rather than just films, he always said. He opted for his favourite, Goodbye, Mr Chips, finished his beer and was asleep before the opening credits had finished rolling.
Four
Dixon woke to the sound of knocking on his front door. He looked at his watch. 10.55pm. Monty woke up and started barking. Goodbye, Mr Chips had finished long ago leaving the DVD menu on the screen and the Brookfield School song playing over and over.
Dixon opened the door to find Jane Winter standing on his doorstep. She was carrying a bag.
‘I changed my mind.’
‘Come in,’ said Dixon, moving to one side to allow Jane into his cottage.
‘You said if it wasn’t in her present, it must be in her past.’
‘I did.’
‘Get your computer out. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘What on earth is that?’ asked Jane, looking at the television.
‘Goodbye, Mr Chips. What’s this all about?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
Dixon switched off the television and then powered up his laptop. Jane appeared from the kitchen with a mug of tea in each hand.
‘Go to Google.’
Dixon did as he was told. Jane handed him a mug of tea and then sat on the arm of the sofa next to him.
‘Right, now, search against Vodden 1979 and look at the very first result.’
Dixon looked quizzically at her. Jane nodded. He typed Vodden 1979 into the search field and hit the ‘enter’ button. The search took 0.35 seconds and returned 1,620,000 results. It took a moment for the significance of what he was looking at to sink in. Dixon looked at Jane and then back to his computer screen. He was stunned. He read aloud.
‘List of unsolved murders in the United Kingdom – Wikipedia, the free encyclopaedia. 1979, Ralph Vodden; Royal West Norfolk Golf Club; on 4 November 1979 the body of Dr Ralph Vodden was found. He had been brutally…’
He looked at Jane Winter.
‘Open it,’ she said, ‘and scroll down to 1979.’
Dixon clicked on the Wikipedia entry and waited for the page to load. Then he scrolled down. It was a long list, starting in 1752 with the murder of Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure. There were five entries for 1979. Again, he read aloud.
‘1979, Ralph Vodden; Location body found, Royal West Norfolk Golf Club; Notes, on 4 November 1979 the body of Dr Ralph Vodden was found. He had been brutally murdered and then decapitated. He was last seen alive leaving his surgery on the evening of 3 November 1979. His body was found in a burnt out car on the beach at Holkham, Norfolk, and his head was found in a bunker on the Royal West Norfolk Golf Club. So far, nobody has been convicted of his murder.’
‘It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’ asked Jane.
‘No, it bloody well can’t. What made you…?’
‘I just thought I’d Google it and see what came up.’
‘Apart from the obvious, what else connects the two cases then, clever clogs?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me.’
‘Valerie Manning was a nurse and Ralph Vodden was a doctor. That leaps out at me. Apart from that, I can’t think of anything.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I can tell you what we’ll be doing tomorrow afternoon though.’
‘What?’
‘Driving to Norfolk.’
Dixon knocked on the door of Daniel Fisher’s bungalow in Warren Road, Brean just after 8:30am. It was situated on the coast road, fronting the road itself and backing onto the beach. It was midway between the village and Brean Down.
The bungalow was for sale and Dixon did not expect it to remain on the market for long. They would need to keep track of Daniel Fisher. He would no doubt be a key witness.
The bungalow itself was of red brick construction with a conservatory at the front that appeared to be perched on top of a double garage. Dixon thought it odd that the conservatory was at the front of the bungalow facing inland rather than at the back looking out to sea.
The door was answered by a man in his early thirties. He was taller than Dixon, slim with short dark hair.
‘We are looking for Daniel Fisher.’
‘That’s me. Come in.’
Dixon and Jane followed Daniel Fisher through to the kitchen at the back of the bungalow.
‘I’ve just come in from work and am having a bite to eat.’
‘That’s fine, Mr Fisher. I’m Detective Inspector Nick Dixon and this is Detective Constable Jane Winter.’
‘I’m not sure how much help I can be, to be honest. I didn’t get a clear look at him I’m afraid.’
‘You said “him”?’ asked Dixon.
‘Just a figure of speech, I suppose. I couldn’t really tell whether it was male or female.’
‘Ok. Well, let’s start at the beginning. You’d been into Burnham for the evening?’
‘Yes.’
Jane Winter was handwriting a statement.
‘I met some friends for a meal at the Zalshah. We had a few drinks in the Railway, the Pier and Reed’s. Then we went to the club.’
‘Is that Blue Sky’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘About 1.30am, I think. It had been a fairly boring evening, to be honest. I couldn’t drink because I was driving.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I dropped two friends home on the way. They share a flat in Grove Road. Then I drove home.’
‘What was the weather like?’
‘It was pouring with rain and pitch dark, obviously.’
‘Did you have your windscreen wipers on?’
‘Yes. Not fast though. Just normal speed.’
‘Tell me what you saw then,’ said Dixon.
‘I’d just come round the bend at Berrow Church and saw a car turning out of the car park there. It was turning right towards Burnham. It just struck me as odd that’s all, with it being so late.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘Briefly.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Dark clothing, that’s all I can say, really. A coat or jacket with a hood. It was up.’
‘Did you see the face?’
‘No, he had the hood up and was hunched over the steering wheel. He may also have looked away but I can’t be sure.’
‘What about the car?’
‘Small and dark. Either dark blue or black, dark grey perhaps. Newish. Possibly a Toyota Yaris or Nissan Micra. Something like that. It struck me as odd because he could only have been up to the church.’
‘Did you see this person drive off?’
‘I looked in my rear view mirror but didn’t see anything, I’m afraid. I’d either missed him or he waited until I’d gone.’
‘Is there anything else we’ve not covered?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Well, if you think of anything else, please let us know straightaway. We’ll leave you to get some sleep. Where do you work?’
‘Storey Juices over at Bridgwater. We make fruit juices and stuff.’
‘I see your house is up for sale. Are you going far?’
‘That’s my parents. They’re only planning to move into Burnham.’
‘Let us know if you do change address, though,’ said Dixon.
‘I will.’
Jane Winter had handwritten a short statement for Daniel Fisher, which he read and then signed at the bottom of each page. Once back in the Land Rover Jane spoke first.
‘Seems to confirm it?
’
‘Possibly. If it was the husband though, why would he drive when he lives so close?’
‘True,’ said Jane.
‘C’mon, let’s call in at Burnham. Then we need to get to Norfolk.’
Dixon drove south along Coast Road heading towards Burnham-on-Sea. He turned right onto the beach road. This time there was no police constable in attendance or blue tape that needed to be removed. He drove past the Sundowner Cafe and out onto the beach. He turned south towards where Valerie Manning’s Fiat Uno had been found.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Jane.
Dixon remained silent.
He parked the Land Rover facing out to sea, switched off the engine and then walked around the back to let Monty out for a run. Jane got out of the passenger side and walked round to the back just in time to see Monty take off in pursuit of his tennis ball.
‘What’s up?’
‘I just wanted a minute to think,’ said Dixon.
The tide was coming in and the waves were crashing through the hull of the SS Nornen.
‘It looks like an old Viking long ship, doesn’t it?’ said Jane.
‘I always used to think it was but it dates from the end of the nineteenth century. It ran aground in a storm.’
Dixon stood where Valerie Manning’s car had been found.
‘It was about here, wasn’t it?’
The image of Valerie Manning and the killer in the car park flashed across Dixon’s mind. He thought about what had happened on that spot only a few days before. He looked down and kicked the sand. Just then Monty appeared at his feet with his tennis ball in his mouth.
‘That’s a first,’ said Jane, ‘he’s never brought the ball back before.’
‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Dixon. He wrestled with Monty to loosen his grip on the ball. Eventually, Monty let go and Dixon threw it along the sand.
‘Let’s assume Doctor Vodden and Valerie Manning were killed by the same person. Why the long gap between the killings?’ asked Dixon.
‘There could be any number of reasons,’ said Jane.
‘There could. It might not even be the same person.’
‘Same motive then?’
‘Must be. Decapitation is making one hell of a statement, isn’t it?’
By mid morning Dixon was driving north on the M5 in his Land Rover. Jane Winter was sitting in the passenger seat and Monty was asleep in the back. DCI Lewis had agreed the trip and a meeting had been scheduled for 9.00am the following morning with Detective Inspector Alan Dentus at Norfolk Police Headquarters, Wymondham, a few miles to the South West of Norwich.