Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  They parked in the car park next to one of the panda cars. Dixon reached into a cardboard box in the passenger foot well behind the driver’s seat. He produced a blue light and placed it on the roof of the Land Rover.

  ‘Cheaper than buying a parking ticket.’

  The Princess Elizabeth Orthopaedic Centre was a three storey red brick and glass building attached to the main hospital. It had a large green canopy over the front doors and a small forecourt for use by ambulances and taxis. Dixon and Jane walked in to find the large reception area deserted.

  ‘It is Saturday night, I suppose,’ said Jane.

  Dixon looked at a large map on the wall.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he said. He turned around looking for either the stairs or the lift.

  ‘Over here,’ said Jane, walking towards large double doors on the far side of the foyer.

  Once on the second floor they followed the signs for Dyball Ward and arrived at the nurse’s station to find three uniformed police officers in conversation with two nurses, one in light blue uniform and the other dark blue. Dixon had never understood the colour coding of hospital uniforms. He produced his warrant card.

  ‘I’m looking for Sergeant Hargreaves and Nurse Pritchard.’

  ‘I’m Julie Pritchard,’ said the nurse in the dark blue uniform. She was sat back in an office chair holding a cup of tea in both hands.

  ‘Sergeant Hargreaves has gone to the Security Office, Sir,’ said one of the police officers.

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dixon. He turned to Julie Pritchard. ‘Is there somewhere we can have a word?’

  ‘We can use the day room,’ said Julie, getting up. ‘It’ll be empty now.’

  Dixon and Jane Winter followed her back along the corridor and into a room on the right. It contained a number of tables and chairs, two reclining chairs and a television, which was switched off. Dixon noticed the usual collection of two-year-old magazines and a jigsaw puzzle half done on one of the tables.

  Julie Pritchard was tall and slim, with dark hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore dark blue trousers, a dark blue top and light blue crocs. She sat opposite Dixon at one the tables. Jane sat to her left.

  ‘I’m Nick Dixon. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Jane Winter.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘You went off duty at eight, I gather, Julie?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you for staying behind.’

  ‘It’s fine. Is this anything to do with those murders on the news? The beheadings...?’

  ‘I really can’t say, Julie,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Of course you can’t, sorry,’ said Julie.

  ‘Tell me about Mrs Cromwell.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell, to be honest. She only came up to the ward late so I’ve not had a chance to speak to her, really. She’s had a new hip. She’s on a morphine infusion pump at the moment and will be overnight, probably.’

  ‘What about the son, Martin?’

  ‘He’d been here all day, apparently. He waited with her until she went down and then hung around until she came out of recovery.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Yes. Before you rang.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just small talk, really. He asked if it was ok to sit with her and I said ‘fine’. It was about 5.30pm and visiting time hadn’t started officially, you see?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I asked him if she was his mum and he said she was. Then I assured him she’d be alright and that was about it. He seemed really nice.’

  ‘Describe him to me.’

  Jane Winter was making notes.

  ‘He’s late thirties, possibly forty or so. Tall.’ Julie shrugged.

  ‘Hair?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Brown, dark brown and short.’

  ‘Build?’

  ‘Big. He was big.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘Blue jeans and a dark green fleece.’

  ‘Did he have any facial hair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tattoos?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘A waterproof coat.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Dark blue.’

  ‘Did it have a hood?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?’

  ‘Not that I can think of. He seemed painfully shy, I suppose, so I left him to it. Then you rang.’

  ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Would you mind staying so we can have a look at the CCTV together? You could point him out to me, perhaps?’

  ‘Of course. They’ve only got it in the foyer though.’

  ‘We’ll see him coming and going, at least. Let’s go and see if we can find Sergeant Hargreaves.’

  They stood up to leave.

  ‘Actually while I think of it, could you point out Mrs Cromwell to me?’

  ‘Yes. Follow me.’

  Dixon and Jane followed Julie back past the nurse’s station and into Dyball Ward itself. Eight of the beds were occupied; the first four on either side of the ward, and all of the female patients had had either a new knee or a new hip within the last few days. They stood just inside the doorway and Julie pointed to the first bed on the left.

  ‘That’s Mrs Cromwell.’

  Dixon looked over to see Mrs Cromwell stirring. She had oxygen tubes in her nose and various pipes and tubes around her bed. She reached across to what looked like a white television remote control and pressed a large red button.

  ‘That’s the morphine,’ said Julie.

  ‘She’s awake,’ said Dixon. He turned to Julie. ‘Look the other way.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘That question you asked me...’ said Dixon.

  ‘About the beheadings?’

  ‘The answer’s yes.’

  ‘I’m just nipping to the loo,’ said Julie. She turned and walked back towards the nurse’s station.

  Dixon looked at Jane. She frowned at him.

  ‘Any evidence is going to be...’

  ‘I’m not after evidence, Jane. Just a point in the right direction.’

  Dixon sat in the chair next to Mrs Cromwell’s bed. He leaned over and spoke quietly into her right ear.

  ‘Vicky?’

  She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her eyes were glazed over and Dixon could see that she was having difficulty focussing on him.

  ‘Where’s Martin?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  She turned away.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  Vicky Cromwell turned her head back to him and looked Dixon straight in the eye.

  ‘He’s gone to look for his father.’

  Then she closed her eyes and was gone. Dixon watched her for a moment to check she was still breathing. The pause was longer than he had expected but then her chest heaved and she took a deep breath.

  Dixon and Jane walked back out to the nurse’s station. Julie Pritchard appeared from behind a door opposite marked ‘staff only’ and Dixon could see a police sergeant approaching along the corridor.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Enough,’ said Dixon.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon?’

  Dixon turned to face the police sergeant.

  ‘Hargreaves, Sir. I’m sorry we missed him.’

  ‘Any news on the CCTV, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’ve got it for the foyer, Sir. You can view it now in the Control Room.’

  ‘I’ve asked Nurse Pritchard to have a look at it with me so she can identify Cromwell.’

  Dixon turned to Julie and nodded.

  They followed Sergeant Hargreaves along the corridor and back through the double doors to the top of th
e stairs. Dixon had thought they were on the top floor but Hargreaves turned right and climbed a flight of narrow stairs to a small landing. The door off the landing was locked. It had a small window in it and Dixon could see large steel ventilation pipes on the wall opposite. Hargreaves knocked loudly and a few moments later a security guard appeared behind the window. He looked through the window, left and right, and then unlocked the door.

  ‘This way.’

  Dixon followed Hargeaves and the security officer along the corridor. Jane and Julie Pritchard were behind him. They walked in silence, apart from the clicking of their heels on the lino floor. The CCTV Control Room was at the far end of the corridor. The door was locked but the security guard opened it and stood to one side to let them in.

  The room contained twelve screens, all bar one of which was split into four smaller screens. Dixon looked at the screen that was not split and recognised the foyer of the Orthopaedic Centre.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the security officer. ‘I’ve wound it back to the start of visiting time.’

  ‘Better go back a bit further. What time did he arrive on the ward, Julie?’

  ‘About half past five,’ she replied.

  Dixon gestured to Julie to sit in front of the screen next to the security officer. Dixon and Jane stood behind them. The security officer wound the film back and then turned to Julie.

  ‘OK, we’ll go from here. I’ll take it forward at double speed and you sing out when you see him.’

  Dixon could see the time stamp in the bottom right corner of the screen. 5.20pm. He watched and waited. Various people could be seen coming and going. The footage was grainy, Dixon thought due to the camera quality, but it could soon be enhanced. He thought also about the last piece of CCTV footage he had looked at and wondered whether this would be the second time he had seen Martin Cromwell on camera. His mind flashed back to a dark night in the Morrisons car park and a knife glinting in the streetlights.

  ‘That’s him,’ shouted Julie. ‘Wind it back, wind it back.’

  Dixon looked intently at the screen. The security officer scrolled the film back slowly.

  ‘There he is,’ said Julie, pointing at a figure that appeared to be walking backwards around a group of people standing in the foyer. The security officer stopped rewinding the tape and then took it forward until the figure was no longer obscured by the group. He was in the left hand side of the screen, with the camera looking down on him from above. His head was turned to the left and he was carrying a coat in his right hand.

  ‘That’s the man who identified himself to you as Vicky Cromwell’s son?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Julie.

  ‘Can you zoom it in?’ asked Dixon.

  The security officer enlarged the figure until he filled the screen.

  ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ replied Dixon. ‘What’s he looking at?’

  ‘The lift?’ asked Julie.

  Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

  ‘What do you think, Jane?’

  ‘He’s a big lad.’

  Dixon tapped the security officer on the shoulder.

  ‘Can I sit there?’

  Dixon changed places with the Security Officer. He sat in front of the screen and stared intently at the image of Martin Cromwell. The screen flickered and the image was, if anything, grainier once enlarged but he could make out Cromwell’s facial features. He squinted at the screen for several seconds before turning to Jane Winter.

  ‘I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘If I knew that we’d be home and dry.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Give me a minute.’

  It was that feeling again. Recognising the actor but not remembering their name or the films they had been in. His usual tactic was to reach for his iPhone and Google it but that was not an option this time. Dixon closed his eyes. Various pictures flashed across his mind. Sitting in the Dunstan House with Jane. He looked around at the other diners. Nothing. He moved on to the reconstruction. Standing outside Morrisons looking at the crowds on the pavement outside the Pier Tavern. Nothing.

  Walking on the beach. The Zalshah. His mind jumped from scene to scene, situation to situation. The Somerset Archive; the Shire Hall, Taunton. He imagined himself standing in Court One looking at the faces staring at him. Nothing.

  Jane looked at Sergeant Hargreaves and shrugged her shoulders.

  Dixon thought about Mrs Cromwell. ‘He’s gone to look for his father.’ He thought about David Selby in the Allandale Lodge Residential Care Home. He opened his eyes. He had a clear picture in his head. He was standing outside Susan Procter’s office in the doorway of the kitchen at the Allandale Lodge. He was looking at two carers drinking coffee. Both were leaning against the worktop and wore blue uniform. One was female. She was laughing loudly. The other was looking at her and smiling. It was Martin Cromwell.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Dixon.

  Ten

  It was nearly 10.00pm before Dixon and Jane got away from The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. A panda car had been despatched to Highbridge railway station to intercept Martin Cromwell should he be travelling home by train. Another was waiting at the bus stop at the top of Pier Street.

  Dixon rang the Allandale Lodge Care Home as Jane drove out of Exeter towards the M5.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Dixon. Can I speak to Susan Procter, please?’

  ‘She’s not in now until Monday.’

  ‘Do you have a home number for her?’

  ‘I can’t give that out, I’m afraid.’

  Dixon did not have time to argue.

  ‘Please ring her and tell her to ring me straightaway.’ Dixon gave his mobile number. ‘Do it now. And tell her this is just about as urgent as it gets. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do it now.’

  Dixon leaned across and looked at the speedometer.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Jane, put your foot down.’

  Jane accelerated to fifty miles per hour.

  ‘It is a thirty limit, you know,’ said Jane.

  They approached the traffic lights just beyond the Exeter Crematorium. Jane slowed.

  ‘There’s no one there. Keep going,’ said Dixon.

  Jane muttered something that was lost in the noise of the diesel engine.

  Dixon was about to respond when his phone rang. It was a Burnham number.

  ‘Nick Dixon.’

  ‘It’s Susan Procter. I had a message to ring you urgently.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Susan. I need Martin Cromwell’s home address and I need it now, please.’

  ‘He’s not mixed up in this is he?’

  ‘I really can’t say...’

  ‘He can’t be. He’s such a nice lad.’

  ‘If I could just have his address, please?’

  ‘I haven’t got it here. It’ll be in my office in his personnel file. Will Monday morning do?’

  ‘No it won’t, Susan. Can you get over there now and ring me with the address as quickly as you can?’

  ‘I can’t, no. I’ve had a few glasses of wine...’

  ‘I’ll send a car for you. What’s your address?’

  ‘36 Westfield Close, Mark.’

  ‘I’ll send a car now, Susan. I also need to know when he’s due in next.’

  ‘I can tell you that now. He’s got the weekend off. His mother was having surgery, he said.’

  ‘Ok, we’ll speak later. Ring me as soon as you have his address to hand.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Dixon ended the call and then rang Bridgwater Police Station. A few minutes later a car was on its way to collect Susan Procter.

  ‘Nothing we can do now except wait,’ said Dixon.

  ‘How long will it be?’

  ‘There’s a patrol car in Mark now so it shouldn’t take too long.’

  The motorway was all but deserted as they drove
north. There were some wisps of cloud in the night sky now but Dixon could still see the Plough and Orion. Those were the only two constellations he could recognise and it hadn’t taken him long to find them. Next he checked his phone, then his watch and, lastly, the speedometer. It would be almost 11.00pm before they reached Burnham.

  ‘You got a signal?’ shouted Jane.

  ‘Yes.’

  They were just south of Bridgwater when his phone rang.

  ‘Dixon.’

  ‘Inspector, it’s Susan Procter. I have Martin’s address.’

  ‘Go ahead, please, Susan.’ Dixon trapped his phone between his right ear and shoulder. He produced a biro from his jacket pocket and wrote on the palm of his left hand.

  ‘Flat 5, Cavendish House, The Esplanade.’

  ‘I’ve got that, thank you.’

  ‘I have his mobile number if you want that as well?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Dixon made a note of the number. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Susan. The car will take you home.’

  Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

  ‘Cavendish House, The Esplanande. That’s bedsitland, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll go straight there.’

  Dixon rang Bridgwater Police Station again and arranged for two uniformed officers to meet them at Cavendish House. They arrived fifteen minutes later to find the patrol car parked along the sea front.

  Cavendish House was a large Georgian terrace on the junction of The Esplanade and Sea View Road. He could see that lights were on but he had expected that of a house in multiple occupation.

  Jane Winter rang the doorbell of Flat 5 just after 11.00pm. The two uniformed officers, both wearing stab vests, were standing directly in front of the door. Dixon stood behind them. They waited. Several seconds passed. Dixon looked at Jane and nodded. She rang the bell again.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The voice came from behind Dixon. He turned round to find himself looking at Martin Cromwell.

  ‘Martin Cromwell?’

  ‘It’s not about my mum is it?’ Martin Cromwell’s voice was deep and he spoke slowly.