‘This is Detective Sergeant Winter,’ said Dixon, before Small could say anything from the Stone Age. ‘Jane will be running the incident room.’
‘Does your partner know you’re working a murder investigation?’
‘My fiancé does,’ replied Jane.
‘And what does he think of that?’
‘He’s fine with it, not that he has a lot of choice.’ There was mischief in Jane’s voice, and her glance at Dixon.
‘Right, well, you’ve got a crime scene, which is one-up to you,’ said Small. ‘Who have you got to thank for that?’
‘Sarah,’ replied Dixon. ‘Come and meet Superintendent Small, a colleague from Devon and Cornwall.’
Small cleared his throat; introductions over, he turned to Dixon and whispered, ‘A bright kid.’
‘That’s what we think.’
It didn’t take long to brief Small on the death of Deirdre Baxter. He took a copy of the image of the mystery car from the doorbell camera and a photograph of Deirdre, but it was still early days and there were no results yet from Forensics to get excited about.
Dixon was far more interested in finding out from Small about the death of Michael Allam in Sidmouth.
‘He hadn’t been seen for a couple of days and a neighbour rang us, so a couple of PCSOs did a welfare check. They saw nothing, so a constable tried again the next day. Usual story, really.’ Small looked around ineffectually, trying to hide his embarrassment. ‘Happens any number of times a day. The neighbour was there saying she saw him most days, so that was it, in went the door and there he was slumped in his armchair. The doctor spotted nothing untoward and off went the body to the coroner. We notified the daughter and she came down from Sunderland, started clearing the place and cleaning. Then we got the results of the post mortem.’
‘Strangulation?’
Small was still avoiding eye contact. ‘It wouldn’t have taken much. Michael was frail and old. We stopped the daughter cleaning, obviously, and have alibied everyone we can think of. House to house turned up nothing; neither did doorbell cameras in the vicinity. It’s all high walls and long drives. You’ll see for yourself when you come down.’
‘Any visits from an OT in the previous days?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’re checking that now. We’ve got a team on it at Exeter, although they’ll be coming up here tomorrow to join your RTF.’
‘And who was Michael Allam?’
‘A retired teacher, from a private school in Burnham-on-Sea, oddly enough. St Joseph’s, although I believe it’s closed down now.’
Jane had been standing at the whiteboard and spun round, marker pen in hand. ‘Deirdre Baxter was a retired teacher,’ she said. ‘St Christopher’s, also in Burnham-on-Sea, also long since closed down.’
‘Could be a coincidence,’ Small said, dismissively.
‘We don’t believe in those, do we, Sir?’ said Sarah, turning to Dixon.
‘No, we don’t.’
‘There’s no fracture of the hyoid bone.’ Poland was waving a scalpel like a conductor’s baton. ‘I’ve read the PM report on your Mr Allam and his wasn’t broken either.’
‘Do you know Superintendent Small, Roger?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’ve met,’ replied Small.
Introductions would’ve been all but impossible anyway, given that Poland was covered in blood – gloves, apron, sleeves; there was even some on his wellington boots.
Louise had opted to wait in the anteroom with Small’s sidekick, who still hadn’t said a word.
Deirdre Baxter was laid out on the slab, a green sheet covering her from just below the shoulders down to her feet. Her head was tilted back, the skin of her neck cut vertically from just below her chin to the top of her sternum, the flaps peeled back and held in place by clamps.
Dixon watched Poland’s mortuary assistant leaning over and taking close-up photographs of Deirdre’s windpipe.
‘You don’t always get a fractured hyoid bone with strangulation anyway, and not where the pressure has been applied low on the neck, as in this case. Donald Watson said he reckoned the killer was forensically aware and I reckon they’re anatomically aware as well.’ Poland paused while his assistant took a last photograph and then stepped back. ‘Here’s the hyoid bone,’ he continued, pointing with the scalpel. ‘It’s shaped a bit like a horseshoe and sits just below the jaw, protecting the windpipe, so you can see why it’s often broken in these cases. But here it’s perfectly intact, look.’
Small leaned over and did as he was told, Dixon thinking better of it.
‘In fact, a break of the hyoid is more likely in the elderly, if anything, because it becomes brittle with age. All bones do.’
‘But you can tell she was strangled, surely?’ asked Dixon, trying to hide his impatience.
Poland’s eyes gave away his smile, his mouth covered by a face mask. ‘Oh yes. Beneath the hyoid bone, you’ve got the thyroid cartilage, although it’s more of a bone by this age – it ossifies, the older we get. Also known as the Adam’s apple in men. Women have it too, it’s just smaller.’
Dixon drew breath, but was silenced by a wave of the scalpel.
‘Then beneath that you’ve got the cricoid cartilage, which again ossifies as we get older and so becomes more of a bone. And it’s Mrs Baxter’s cricoid bone, we’ll call it, that’s broken.’
‘And that corresponds with the bruising I saw on her neck?’ asked Dixon.
‘Most certainly.’ Poland peeled off his gloves and pulled his face mask below his chin. ‘Cause of death, strangulation. Pretty much identical to your Mr Allam,’ he said, turning to Small.
‘How long would it have taken?’ asked Small.
