Dixon opened the door, Watson following him in.
‘There’s some nice stuff,’ he continued. ‘That card table, for a start. Walnut inlay, envelope top. Maybe eight hundred in the right auction. The felt underneath is in good condition too.’
Dixon puffed out his cheeks. Still, being trapped in an episode of Antiques Roadshow made a pleasant change from Homes Under the Hammer.
‘That bureau in the bay window is nineteenth-century French walnut. Four and a half grand’s worth that.’
Two single beds were hidden under boxes and suitcases; a folding wheelchair leaning up against the wardrobe, much the same as the one in the porch, apart from the missing wheel. A set of golf clubs had been slotted in between the wardrobe and the wall, an old exercise bike gathering dust between the beds, a set of pine chairs stacked on the far side. A pair of filing cabinets completed the picture of a spare bedroom no one had slept in for years.
‘We’ll get that old computer off to High Tech,’ continued Watson. ‘Probably her late husband’s, so . . .’
‘I won’t hold my breath, don’t worry.’
Piles of magazines dating back to 2008, a combination lock briefcase.
‘We’re going to have to break that open,’ said Watson. ‘Don’t know the code.’
Dixon had seen enough for the time being and headed for the hall.
‘We’ve finished in her bedroom. Round to the right.’ Watson was gesturing to an open door. ‘Found her jewellery in a divan drawer, so robbery’s not the motive.’
‘Never thought it was.’ Three hundred and twenty pounds in cash and her bank cards still in Deirdre’s open handbag on the floor by her chair had been enough to confirm that.
Grab rails had been fitted either side of Deirdre’s bed, the divan base lifted on risers, a commode next to the bedside table.
Dixon was reminded of a line from a song by The Who, although getting old wasn’t the problem. It was getting too old.
He followed the stepping plates into the living room, Deirdre’s chair now empty, apart from her iPad sitting in an evidence bag on the cushion.
‘It’s not locked, but there are no banking apps installed on it. She doesn’t shop online by the looks of things, either; just web browsing – news sites, mainly – and playing bridge. She seems to spend a lot of time playing bridge.’ Watson shrugged. ‘Keeps the mind sharp, I suppose. My late mother did crosswords every day.’
Dixon opened the drawers in the sideboard one by one, recognising a long thin brown envelope, the end sticking out from under a pile of greetings cards. Solicitors were creatures of habit, the client’s copy of their will invariably sent in a brown envelope with the words ‘last will and testament of . . .’ printed in some fancy font. Still, it helped the family, who would no doubt be looking. And police officers.
‘When was this solicitor’s visit you mentioned?’ he asked.
‘Tuesday. It’s on the calendar in the kitchen. Doesn’t say what it was about, before you ask.’
The will was two years old, so Deirdre was either updating that or doing a power of attorney, perhaps. Equity release was another possibility.
‘How much money has she got?’
‘All her financial papers are in that red case. There’s a civil service pension and then about eighty grand in cash ISAs and savings accounts. There’s a copy of her late husband’s will and it looks like he owned this place, left it to her for life, then it goes to his son.’
A stepson, keen to get his hands on his inheritance a bit early. If only everything in life was that easy, thought Dixon.
It ruled out equity release, though.
‘Where’s her address book?’
‘He lives in Kingsbury Episcopi, out on the Levels.’
Knowing Jane, she’d have his photo on a board in the incident room already.
Several watercolours of Lake District scenes Dixon knew well were on the wall opposite Deirdre’s chair. Borrowdale, Coniston Water, Little Langdale, the name ‘D Baxter’ scribbled in the bottom right corner in spidery writing. A complete set of Wainwright guides to the fells, the dust jackets long gone, on the built-in shelves to the left of the fireplace, and a packet of Kendal Mint Cake that had passed its ‘best before’ date twenty years ago, bought on her last trip to the mountains, probably.
It was a sobering thought, that one day he’d be making his last trip to the mountains.
Too much of life revolved around death; too much of his, anyway. He had plenty of time.
Everybody does, until suddenly they don’t.
He stood in the window, the bottom end of the back garden emerging from the darkness in the first glow of dawn, the sun still not up. High hedges, a rotary washing line leaning with the prevailing wind in the middle of the lawn. The patio was lit by the bright light from the arc lamps in the living room: weeds growing in the cracks in the cement; a white plastic table and chairs, stained green with algae.
‘Have you been in the garage?’ asked Dixon.
‘I don’t think anyone’s been in there for yonks,’ replied Watson. ‘There’s an old Fiesta and a lawnmower, but I’m guessing the gardener brings his own.’
‘There’s a gardener?’
‘Once a week, for a couple of hours, that’s all.’
Nice work if you can get it.
Jane had been busy and the incident room on the second floor was already up and running by the time Dixon arrived at Express Park just before eight. The only thing missing was the major investigation team. Louise Willmott and Mark Pearce were there, sitting at workstations, but that was it.
Sarah Loveday was there too, hovering nervously at the back even though her shift didn’t start until two o’clock; ‘too keen by half’, Cole had said.
