Several copies of the Radio Times, a couple of flattened Amazon delivery boxes, the daughter’s name – Mrs C Woodard – and the father’s address; cleaning stuff, probably. A calendar had been torn in half and thrown in the bag, although there were no entries for January, except on the ninth: ‘gas fire service, 2.30pm, Grandisson’.
‘What was the date of death?’
‘Sometime on the eleventh, according to the pathologist. The old boy was found on the thirteenth,’ replied Small.
‘Has anyone spoken to Grandisson?’
‘Not yet, Sir,’ said Wevill after a short pause, during which Small had glared at him, no doubt. Not that Dixon could see them standing behind him – hands on hips, probably.
The writing on the calendar entry was hardly the sort of spidery writing you’d expect from a ninety-one-year-old man. ‘What about carers?’
‘He used the agency along the way there; a hundred yards down the road. They’d sent three in the last few weeks and we’ve got statements from them. You’ll find them on the system.’ There was more than a measure of frustration in Small’s voice now; much more petulant and he’d be stamping his foot. ‘We’re checking with them about a visit from an OT.’
‘We’ve re-run the house to house this morning asking the same thing,’ offered Wevill. ‘Nothing.’
‘You see what I mean about the road, though,’ said Small. ‘No one would notice a marching band, let alone a medic.’
Dixon was still sifting through the pile of rubbish on the bed, before gesturing to Louise to tip the contents of the third bag on top.
More copies of The Times, mainly just the Mind Games section, the crosswords and other puzzles done, some more than others. Michael Allam had been good at cryptic crosswords, but hadn’t seemed to have got the hang of sudoku. Not that Dixon would criticise him for that; he couldn’t even understand some of the puzzles, particularly the maths problems. It was why he had trained as a lawyer, not an accountant.
‘Puzzles seem to be the order of the day,’ he said, handing a crumpled piece of newspaper to Louise, letters and numbers scribbled all over it. ‘He’s got all the history questions right in the quiz too.’
‘Kept him busy, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Deirdre Baxter had a puzzle book and played games on her iPad.’
‘Something to look forward to,’ said Small. ‘I’m only eighteen months off retiring, myself.’
Dixon had moved on to the last bag that had been tied at the top and labelled ‘for shredding’. Utility bills, old bank statements, investment valuations; it explained why it had not gone in the recycling, perhaps. ‘We’ll keep this lot,’ he said, stuffing the papers back into the bag.
‘We went through his bank statements,’ said Small. ‘There was nothing untoward.’ He tapped Wevill on the arm and gestured to the bag, the surly DS doing the honours. ‘I’ll tell my team – well, what was my team – to get to you for eight o’clock sharp. Is that all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll tell them to be on their best behaviour too.’
Chapter Seven
Dixon was sitting in the corner of the canteen at Express Park. He bit into a soggy baguette, brushing away the grated cheese that fell down his front.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Jane. ‘I saw Lou, so I knew you were back. Is that an early supper or a late lunch?’
‘Late lunch,’ he replied, spraying more cheese everywhere. ‘Who puts grated cheese in a baguette, for heaven’s sake?’
Either Jane recognised the rhetorical question or she chose to ignore it. ‘If you missed lunch, then you must’ve kept your blood sugar levels up with fruit pastilles, I suppose?’
Dixon braced himself for the lecture.
‘I’ve had Michael Allam’s daughter on the phone and you’re going to love this,’ she said, surprising him with the sudden change of subject. ‘Cynthia Woodard. She’s on her way down from Sunderland, hopes to get here about seven, and expects the senior investigating officer to make himself available to speak to her.’
‘I would anyway.’
‘Of course you would, and I told her that, but she’s just so bloody rude. You’ll need to take a deep breath and count to ten.’
‘Anything else?’ he asked, through a mouthful of baguette.
‘We’re still a bit thin on the ground upstairs. Mark’s on the traffic cameras with a couple of PCSOs. Sarah’s come up with something though, but I’ll leave her to brief you on that.’
‘More bad news, I take it.’
‘It’s not all bad,’ replied Jane. ‘There are fairly active Facebook groups for old pupils of both schools, so we should be able to find out if Michael Allam and Deirdre Baxter knew each other. I’ve even traced a couple of their teaching colleagues who are still alive.’
‘But there’s no obvious connection between the two?’ Dixon knew the answer to that one but asked it anyway.
‘No, sorry.’
That would have been too easy.
‘It’s going to be a long day for Monty, poor sod.’
‘I nipped home at lunchtime; gave him a run in the field, don’t worry. And Lucy’s going to be there later. She’s not going back to Manchester until the morning. I’ll drop her at the railway station first thing.’
‘He’ll have to come with me tomorrow.’ Dixon stuffed the last of the baguette back inside the wrapper and left it on the plate. ‘We’ve got eight coming from Devon.’
‘Yes, I know. I emailed over an accommodation list for them, so they’ll have to take pot luck. Some might commute too; it’s only an hour down the motorway.’
‘Not even that.’ Dixon stood up.
‘What did you find at Sidmouth?’ Jane asked, following him along the landing.
