‘Sarah’s come up with a possible in Bradford Abbas,’ replied Dixon.
‘A genuinely regional task force.’ Charlesworth could hardly contain his relief. ‘It means the Dorset lot can help out. The more, the merrier. People, I mean; not murders.’
‘Of course, Sir.’
‘I’ll put a call out to my opposite number in Dorset. Has there been a post mortem?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘There’ll need to be one sharpish then. Where is he or she?’
‘Buried in consecrated ground at St Mary’s, Bradford Abbas.’
‘Sod’s Law, I think they call that.’ Charlesworth turned on his heel. ‘Well, keep me posted.’
‘Got off lightly,’ said Dixon, when Charlesworth was halfway down the stairs.
‘You won’t now,’ replied Jane, sliding her phone back into her pocket. ‘Michael Allam’s daughter is down in reception.’
‘I am not stupid, Richard.’
It was an animated whisper that carried across the reception area when Dixon appeared through the security door at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs Woodard’s husband reminding her not to be rude, probably.
Jane had done exactly the same at the top of the stairs.
Cynthia – frighteningly close to Hyacinth, although in name only, it seemed.
Mid-fifties, perhaps, greying hair tied back tightly in a bun; dressed for battle in a two-piece trouser suit. She stood up when she noticed Dixon and Louise walking towards them, grabbing her husband’s elbow to ensure he did the same.
The husband had an apologetic look on his face, but then he had the bearing of a man who spent his life apologising.
‘Superintendent Dixon?’ demanded Mrs Woodard.
‘Yes.’
‘I want to know what you’re doing about the murder of my father.’
‘Let’s take this in an interview room, shall we?’ he said, offering his best welcoming smile. ‘My colleague, Detective Constable Willmott, will be making notes, if that’s all right.’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Not rising to the bait was going to be the challenge. The obvious answer to that one was, ‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ but that was just inviting confrontation. There was a time for that, but not now, unless she pushed him too far, of course. ‘You’ll be Mr Woodard,’ he said, turning to the husband in the open doorway.
‘Richard,’ he replied, offering his hand, despite the disapproving glance from his wife.
‘Sit down, please.’ Dixon waited until they had both sat down before doing the same.
‘I take it you’ve read our witness statements?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, that’s a start. I just hope to God you’re not as incompetent as those idiots from Devon.’ Mrs Woodard was gathering steam. ‘You’re certainly very young to be a superintendent.’
Dixon could imagine the response the poor sod who had taken their statements had got when they’d asked her for her whereabouts at the time of her father’s death. At least he was spared that, although there were difficult questions to come.
‘Look, I’m not here to defend Devon and Cornwall Police, but in fairness to them the attending doctor gave the cause of death as old age. It was only referred to the coroner because your father hadn’t seen his own GP within twenty-eight days of his death.’
‘You spotted the second victim straight away,’ protested Mrs Woodard, ‘and preserved the crime scene.’
‘Yes, but we were on the lookout for elderly people dying alone in their own homes, precisely because of what happened to your father.’
‘That doesn’t explain the delay between the post mortem and Devon and Cornwall getting off their arses and doing something about it. By then I’d nearly finished clearing out Dad’s flat.’
Dixon couldn’t argue with that one, so thought it best not to try.
‘We’ve put in place a regional task force, consisting of officers from both Avon and Somerset and the Devon and Cornwall force. We’ll be collaborating closely to find your late father’s killer.’
‘Platitudes. Collaboration, blah blah. Do you have a suspect?’
‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry—’
‘Another platitude. That’s a no then.’ Mrs Woodard folded her arms. ‘It would be nice to think you took the murders of old people seriously, but that’s hardly the impression I get from the appointment of someone so young to lead the so-called regional task force.’
‘Look, let’s be clear right from the outset,’ said Dixon, firmly. ‘There are things that I can tell you and things that I can’t, and no amount of shouting is going to change that.’
Mrs Woodard looked surprised, in stark contrast to her husband’s look of amusement, although that was quickly wiped from his face when she glared at him.
