‘Nigel Cole’s going home later too,’ said Dixon.
‘I said I’d go and see him this afternoon.’ Charlesworth smiled. ‘The chief con has approved an application for a George Medal, which is quite something if Cole gets it.’
‘He deserves it, Sir.’
‘So, where does all this leave us with this case, Nick?’ asked Potter. ‘You can pin Sean Rodwell’s murder on William Hudson easily enough, but what about the other four, the bridge team?’
‘There are five murders, actually,’ replied Dixon. ‘But whether we’re able to bring a charge for all of them is up for grabs at the moment.’
‘Sorry,’ said Charlesworth, a frown etched deep into his forehead. ‘Are you saying you know what’s gone on?’
‘I know exactly who has done what, to whom, when and why. Whether or not I can prove any of it is another matter.’
A set of reading glasses slid across the table. ‘Are you going to tell us?’ asked Potter.
‘It’s about coincidences,’ replied Dixon. ‘The case is riddled with them, but if you strip them out, accept there was a causal connection between all these events – that everything happened for a reason – then it all drops into place.’
‘The relationship between Jos and Freya, you mean? It turning out they were brother and sister?’
‘That’s hardly a coincidence that. They both live in the area and met at sixth form college. Nothing unusual there. Nothing unusual that a brother and sister felt a connection either. If they didn’t know they were brother and sister they might very well have confused it for something else. No, the biggest coincidence – the elephant in the room – was Diana Hope-Bruce being at the Palace Hotel the night of the fire.’
‘You said that was opportunistic?’
‘It seemed reasonable, and it was a means of explaining away the coincidence, but there was a causal connection all along. She was there for a reason. The evidence from Sean Rodwell was that he saw her approaching Deirdre Baxter along the terrace, which means she was at the hotel already.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Well, that becomes clear if you accept that what she said when she approached Deirdre and took the baby boy from her was true.’ Dixon stood up, turning for the door. ‘It was a throwaway line and she never imagined in her wildest dreams we’d take it seriously; she dressed it up as a lie to get Deirdre to hand the boy over, but it was true. All along it was true. The fire’s raging, blue lights flashing, people milling about everywhere, alarms blaring, and she runs up to Deirdre and says, “He’s my nephew. I’ll look after him.”’
Chapter Forty-Two
‘You can’t go up there.’
‘I think you’ll find we can.’ Dixon was standing in the foyer of the canning plant at Oake Cider Farm, looking up the glass staircase to the mezzanine floor above while he waited for the police officers to file in behind him.
Louise, Mark, Jane and several in uniform. They were mainly there for their bodycams, Dixon not expecting any trouble. Live footage of the arrests might be useful; anything you do say may be given in evidence and all that.
The only slight fly in the ointment was the glass walls of the conference room, heads turning as the uniforms appeared at the top of the stairs, two of them following Mark and Louise to the other door at the far end of the corridor.
Most of the seats were taken at the long table. Diana Hope-Bruce and Jos sitting one side with their legal team, opposite five from Diagent Plc, a couple of directors – finance and the chief executive would be usual for a deal of this size – and their solicitors, pinstripe suit jackets slung over the backs of chairs revealing starched shirts and red braces. It looked like an organised crime squad meeting.
Malcolm Hope-Bruce was there too, sitting at the far end with two women; one must be his sister, Penny, and the other their own solicitor.
Dixon had attended several completion meetings on the sale of companies during his time as a trainee solicitor, and this one looked no different: boxes strewn on the floor, the table all but covered in open lever arch files. Long, drawn out and extraordinarily boring affairs, often going on until the early hours of the morning. Perhaps he’d be doing them a favour, livening this one up a bit?
And shortening it.
He recognised none of the lawyers from Oxenden Hart, but then they’d be from the corporate team and he’d never got to meet them. He hadn’t even bothered to look at their website when he’d been applying for a job – such was his enthusiasm, or lack of it.
‘You can’t come in here. This is a private meeting,’ said the older man, standing up. The head of department, probably. A deal of this size was big for any law firm and would merit his presence.
Dixon walked slowly around the table to where Jos was sitting, the young man turning in his seat to look up at him. ‘I’m going to use your proper name,’ he said. ‘Patrick Hudson, I am arresting you on suspicion of fraud. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court.’ Dixon paused, listening for any reaction in the room – watching Diana – but there was none. ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Jos stood up, glaring at Diana, pleading. ‘My name is Jos Hope-Bruce. Tell them!’
‘Who is Patrick Hudson?’ demanded Malcolm. ‘Is this anything to do with the incident down at the barn?’
‘We made full disclosure of the police incident,’ said the head of department, leaning across the table towards the legal team on the other side. ‘What we know about it so far, anyway. It was being used as a bolthole by a man alleged to have committed several murders; he held two police officers captive for a time, but I believe the incident ended satisfactorily and there is no connection with the cider farm.’
‘Actually, there is,’ said Dixon. ‘The whole thing is about the cider farm, and the man killed was your father, Patrick. William Hudson.’
‘So you say.’
‘A DNA test will settle it.’
There would come a point when Diana had heard enough, but Dixon clearly hadn’t got there yet.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Malcolm. ‘If you’re Patrick Hudson and not Jos, then you don’t inherit the shares, you’re not the majority shareholder in the company – never have been – and can’t force us to sell it.’
The legal team from Diagent Plc were taking a real interest now, one even taking shorthand notes.
‘My father left me those shares.’
‘He didn’t, I’m afraid, Patrick,’ replied Dixon. ‘His will is quite clear; he left them to my son Jos. And you’re not his son Jos.’
‘I was as far as he was concerned.’
‘He may have thought you were, but only because of a cruel deception on the part of his wife, Diana, who is charged with the manslaughter of Jos, the concealment of his body on waste ground behind her house in Richmond Close, Torquay, and the abduction of you to take his place.’
