Two detective constables and a probationary PC.
A picture of Deirdre Baxter had been stuck on the whiteboard, a line across to a picture of her stepson, the name ‘Lawrence Baxter’ scribbled underneath in Jane’s handwriting. Dixon had seen the same photograph in a frame on the sideboard, tucked away behind several pictures of West Highland White Terriers.
Mark had managed to extract a cleanish image of the car from the doorbell camera footage. Sideways on, so no number plate and no real view of the driver. ‘That’s it for the moment, I’m afraid, Sir,’ he said, when he saw Dixon looking at it. ‘There are a couple of PCSOs downstairs on the traffic cameras.’
Two detective constables, a probationer and two community support officers. Deirdre Baxter deserved better.
A second whiteboard next to Deirdre’s was empty; that is until Jane appeared and stuck a photograph top middle. ‘Michael Allam,’ she said. ‘He’s the Sidmouth victim. Strangled in his own home; it was a couple of days before they found him. He was a widower, with two daughters, one living in Sunderland, the other in America.’
‘Making yourself indispensable, I see,’ said Dixon.
‘Don’t I always?’ Jane handed him a piece of paper. ‘He was ninety-one, but in good health. That photo was taken a couple of years ago.’ Wearing a panama hat, sitting on the deck of a cruise ship. ‘He had a lady friend,’ continued Jane. ‘Val Rose. She took the photo. Found him too. Poor sod.’
Sarah had finally summoned up the courage and was now standing right behind Dixon, not that he had heard her creeping up on him. ‘I was wondering if I could help, Sir,’ she said, hesitantly.
‘You’re on lates, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You should be in bed.’ Dixon shook his head. ‘So, you thought if there was going to be a major investigation team, you were going to try to get on it?’
Sarah blushed.
‘There’s a lot of it about,’ said Dixon, with a sideways glance at Jane. ‘What makes you think you wouldn’t be on it?’
‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘If it wasn’t for you, Deirdre would have gone off to the coroner and we’d have lost the crime scene.’
‘Ah, you are here.’ Charlesworth was standing at the top of the stairs, his hands on his hips. ‘It said on the system you weren’t in yet.’
‘I’m sure I swiped my pass when I came in, Sir,’ said Dixon, sure that he hadn’t done anything of the sort. He preferred to slip in unnoticed when someone else used their pass to open the security door, and never had to wait more than a couple of minutes for someone to come along.
‘Well, no harm done. We’re in meeting room two.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Deborah Potter was sitting on the far side of the circular pine table, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, her head bowed, staring at the screen of her phone. The press officer – or head of corporate communications, to use her full comedy title – Vicky Thomas, was doing the same, only with no glasses on the end of her sharp nose. Both placed their phones face down on the table when Charlesworth closed the door behind Dixon.
‘Sit down, Nick,’ he said.
It felt like bad news was coming, but then Charlesworth’s job, more often than not, was to tell people what couldn’t be done, rather than what could. A thankless task was management, as Dixon had found out during his weeks as managing DCI at Express Park.
‘I’ve just got off the phone with my opposite number at Devon and Cornwall.’ Charlesworth paused while Dixon pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. ‘There’s going to be a regional task force, Nick, given that we’ve got victims in both force areas. The feeling is there are likely to be others we don’t know about as well. It’s going to be a big team and it enables us to pool our resources. As you know, collaboration is the buzz word at the moment.’
Pool our resources and save a few quid. It really was amazing how Charlesworth managed to gloss over the real motive.
‘There’s a Superintendent Small on his way from Exeter now. He’ll be attending the post mortem with you at ten and would like to go to the crime scene after that. Please see to it he’s given every cooperation and courtesy.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘He will then brief the Devon team, who will be joining your RTF.’
Dixon hesitated. RTF was regional task force. No, more confusing was the your RTF.
Charlesworth had spotted his surprise. ‘The RTF is to be based here, given that we’re the ones with the live crime scene. Devon and Cornwall’s only stipulation was that it be led by a superintendent.’
Dixon glanced at Potter, who seemed amused at his irritation. ‘Not me,’ she said.
‘Who then?’ Dixon was trying not to bristle.
‘You,’ said Charlesworth. ‘We are all in agreement, and I’ve cleared it with the chief con, so you are now acting detective superintendent, with immediate effect. I know the ladies present will forgive my language when I say’ – he smiled, all too fleetingly – ‘just don’t fuck it up.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘It’ll be great publicity for us,’ said Vicky Thomas. ‘I was thinking of a press conference later on today.’
Dixon had known that one was coming. ‘Can you imagine the panic if we tell people there’s a killer out there wearing an NHS uniform targeting the elderly in their own homes?’
‘We need to say something,’ said Potter.
‘No mention of the murders. I agree.’ Charlesworth had the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, his horn-rimmed glasses bouncing up and down as he rubbed. ‘We need to alert people to someone in an NHS uniform up to no good; a doorstep burglar, perhaps?’
‘We’ll be misleading the press again.’
‘You can deal with it, Vicky. Tell them you didn’t know, if you have to.’
‘Now for the bad news.’ Potter sighed. ‘You knew there’d be some, Nick.’
He nodded, slowly.
