‘Angela. We don’t speak.’ Mrs Woodard crumpled, the anger that had been keeping her going all but gone. ‘She buggered off to America years ago. She’s a couple of years younger than me; followed me through the same schools, then met an American at Oxford and was gone. Hardly seen her since. We weren’t even invited to her wedding. None of us were.’
‘When was the last time she saw your father?’
‘She saw him once in the last twelve years of his life, and that was at our mother’s funeral.’
‘Does the name Deirdre Baxter mean anything to you?’
‘Mrs Baxter taught me maths. God, she’s not the other victim, is she?’
Dixon remained impassive.
‘She was lovely, bless her.’
‘Did your father know Mrs Baxter?’
‘I really don’t know. I expect so.’
‘What about Thomas Fowler?’
‘Is there another one?’ Her husband this time, unable to contain his curiosity. ‘That makes three.’
Mrs Woodard had clearly got the message, even if her husband hadn’t. ‘No, I’m afraid that name doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘Where was your father living before he moved to Sidmouth?’
‘My parents retired to Brean. A bungalow on Coast Road. You got straight out on to the beach from the end of the garden and the dogs loved it. Wire-haired Dachshunds; he had three, but the last died not long after Mum. He only moved to Sidmouth after my mother died, then you got that job up north,’ she said, turning to her husband again. ‘I felt awful about that, but we had to go and that was that. Dad didn’t want to come with us, so . . .’
‘How did he spend his time?’
‘Watching TV, doing puzzles. His eyesight was becoming a problem for him and we’d been talking about a care home, but he was stubborn. He used to read a lot, used a magnifying glass and tried audiobooks when the macular degeneration started to get worse.’
‘Did he have a computer?’
‘No. Never wanted one. No internet connection either.’
‘Well, please rest assured we’re going to be doing everything we can to find your father’s killer.’
‘I know, young man,’ replied Mrs Woodard. ‘Thank you.’ She stood up.
‘You’ve still not told him, have you,’ said her husband, staying put. ‘And I’m not leaving this place until you do.’
Dixon had been rising from his chair but sat back down, glancing at Louise, who was opening her notebook again.
‘It’s got nothing to do with his murder,’ said Mrs Woodard, with a heavy sigh. ‘It can’t possibly have. It was so long ago – that’s if it even happened at all. I’ve always thought it was more of a legend than fact; one of those stories that goes around schools, like chicken pox.’
Dixon gestured to the chair Mrs Woodard had vacated.
‘You need to understand, my father never confirmed any of this – I did ask him about it, but he always changed the subject, never would discuss it. He just said it was rubbish and I should forget about it, so it might very well not be true at all,’ she said, sitting back down. ‘There was supposed to have been a school play, a pantomime; a joint production between St Joseph’s and St Christopher’s, boys and girls. Old King Cole, I think it might have been. It would have been long before I was there in the seventies, so it might even have been the sixties, I really don’t know. Anyway, one of the girls is supposed to have fallen off the stage and broken her neck.’
‘No name, I suppose?’
‘No. Look, us kids told it more as a ghost story to scare the younger kids, so I really wouldn’t waste any time on it.’
‘Who would have been directing the pantomime?’
‘My father, possibly. I know he directed some of the school plays.’
‘And there’s nothing else you can remember about it?’
‘No. It was just a ghost story. Really.’
‘Well, that wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,’ said Louise, locking the front door behind Mr and Mrs Woodard. ‘You had her eating out of the palm of your hand by the end.’
‘She’s bound to be angry with the Devon lot.’
‘I’d be fuming.’
‘We’ll start with the teachers, anyone who knew Michael Allam or Deirdre Baxter; hopefully we’ll find one who knew both.’
‘Where does Thomas Fowler fit in, I wonder?’
‘We’ll worry about that if and when he’s exhumed and a post mortem confirms he was murdered.’
‘What about the ghost story?’ asked Louise, her voice loaded with mischief.
‘Stranger things have happened, but we won’t waste too much time on it.’ Dixon was punching the code into the lock at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Check and see if the coroner’s records go back that far. Otherwise, we’ll ask if anyone else remembers it. We’ve got to speak to them anyway.’
