‘Not long in a person of this age,’ replied Poland. ‘She’d have been unconscious in a matter of seconds, dead in a couple of minutes.’ Poland reached over and turned back the sheet covering Deirdre’s body. ‘She may have died quicker of heart failure, of course. I haven’t got that far yet, but it would still be murder, either way.’
It was difficult to reconcile the body lying on the slab with the photograph of Deirdre on her wedding day. Ageing is a cruel business, thought Dixon.
‘Your Mr Allam had prostate cancer,’ continued Poland, turning to Small. ‘Although there’s no mention of it in his medical records, so he almost certainly didn’t know. It moves fairly slowly at that age anyway, and if he’d seen a doctor, he’d probably have been told something else would get him first.’
‘And it did,’ muttered Small.
‘Would it require much strength?’ asked Dixon.
‘Ordinarily, yes, but look at her.’ Poland looked sombre. ‘Hardly going to put up much resistance, is she? And her neck’s painfully thin.’
‘What about the bruising?’
‘There are several small bruises on the left side, which could be fingertips; a larger one on the right side, the killer’s thumb, possibly – probably. The pressure to the front of her windpipe is narrow, so I suspect the killer used the base of their thumb, rather than the flat of the palm.’
‘One hand or two?’
‘If you’re asking whether I can tell from the bruising, the short answer is I can’t. It could’ve been one large hand or two small ones, or maybe even one hand on top of the other. The best I can say is there’s more damage to the left side of her neck, but that’s hardly conclusive either way.’
‘So, you can’t tell if it was a man or a woman?’
‘No. Sorry.’ Poland was sucking his teeth. ‘One thing I can say is this: there’s no more up close and personal way of killing someone. You’re there, right in front of them, looking into their eyes as they lose consciousness. Then you keep squeezing, and you keep squeezing. This is no mad slash with a knife, or pull of a trigger. You’re right in their face, watching the life drain out of them. And it takes time.’
‘Time for second thoughts,’ said Dixon.
‘Plenty. It’s just about as deliberate as it gets.’
Dixon was standing under the gazebo outside Deirdre Baxter’s bungalow, watching through the front window as Small and his sidekick walked around the dining room. Small picked up Deirdre’s wedding photograph, then the picture of her and her husband holding the large trophy, before setting them back down. Scientific Services had finished inside the house, so it was latex gloves only. Even the stepping plates had gone.
‘Small seems all right,’ said Louise. ‘But I hardly got two words out of DS Wevill. Had a charisma bypass, I think. I hope they don’t find something we’ve missed.’
‘They won’t.’
The garage was standing open, the bonnet of a red Ford Fiesta poking out from underneath a bedsheet. One careful lady owner from new no doubt, low mileage; it probably hadn’t moved for twenty years. Dixon took a step closer and looked at the tax disc: August 2004, and there were at least five or six more discs slotted into the holder behind it. Late nineties then, which corresponded with the number plate.
‘There’s nothing in here,’ said Watson. ‘The key was in a drawer in the kitchen and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been in here for ages. All the gardening stuff is in the shed, so not even the gardener comes in here.’
‘It’ll make someone a nice runaround,’ Dixon said, gesturing to the car.
‘Needs to be scrapped,’ replied Watson, dismantling the last arc lamp. ‘Cars need to be driven, and that one’ll be buggered; all the hoses perished, the electrics shot. Cost you more to fix it than it’s worth.’
Dixon pulled back the sheet and tried the driver’s door, which was open. Someone had wound down the windows, but the seat and dashboard were still covered with small spots of mould. The door pocket was empty apart from two Shirley Bassey cassettes, a few car park tickets and a chocolate bar wrapper Dixon didn’t recognise.
Louise had followed him into the garage and opened the passenger door. ‘Smells damp,’ she said, turning up her nose.
‘Nice low mileage example,’ said Dixon.
‘How many miles has it done?’
‘Seventeen thousand,’ he replied. ‘But it’s only a five-digit counter, so I suppose it could be one hundred and seventeen thousand.’
‘The MOT records would confirm it.’ Louise tried the glovebox, which contained several damp invoices, the last coming from Kwik Fit, and a mouldy leather document wallet. ‘She’s still got the owner’s manual. Had a new tyre on the front in July 2003 too. Kwik Fit Torquay that was.’
‘What about the last MOT?’ asked Dixon.
‘August 2003. Sixteen thousand eight hundred and eighty-one miles. Ugh. Fancy a twenty-year-old Murray Mint?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I wonder why she stopped driving?’ Louise was trying a biro on the palm of her hand. ‘That’s it, apart from a packet of tissues, a small first aid kit, a pen that doesn’t work and a baby’s dummy.’
‘She married again, so maybe her husband had a car,’ replied Dixon. ‘What about the boot?’
‘There’s nothing in the boot,’ shouted Watson, from outside on the lawn. ‘I looked.’
The internal door opened. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Small, stepping into the garage. ‘Where to now? We’ve seen enough here, I think.’
Chapter Six
‘This is posh.’ Louise was leaning over and looking out of the driver’s side window of Dixon’s Land Rover as they followed Small along the Bickwell Valley Road in Sidmouth. ‘I dread to think what that one’s worth. One-point-five maybe?’
On the nearside it was high hedges and walls, with gates and garages at unusually long intervals. The houses on the right were set on the side of the hill, with perfectly manicured front lawns and long drives; far too far for a doorbell camera to pick up any footage of the road.
‘Even a flat would be worth half a million,’ continued Louise, in full Homes Under the Hammer mode. ‘Sorry, apartment.’ She was rummaging in her pocket for her phone. ‘That one’s for sale, let me have a look on Rightmove.’
‘Don’t bother on my account,’ replied Dixon.
