‘Deirdre and Michael must’ve known each other.’
‘It would be odd if they didn’t, I suppose. Deirdre was teaching Michael’s daughter maths, for a start.’
‘I don’t know all of Katie’s teachers.’
‘My parents didn’t know all of mine,’ replied Dixon. ‘Some, but not all.’
Chapter Eight
‘Where is he?’ asked Dixon, his voice hushed. Louise turned away, her phone clamped to her ear.
They were standing on the doorstep of a converted barn on the edge of Kingsbury Episcopi, Dixon watching two horses, their heads over the stable doors, munching hay. More horse power in the carport opposite, although it was under a car cover, whatever it was. Suitably low to the ground, the familiar Ferrari logo over the middle of the bonnet and a cat curled up on the roof, out of the rain.
An outside light over the door – Dixon wasn’t sure whether it was the front or the back – illuminated a doorbell camera, so he was watching them, wherever he was. He’d known they were coming too.
‘He’s in the Rose and Crown at East Lambrook,’ said Louise.
‘His stepmother’s been murdered and he’s gone to the bloody pub?’
Louise knew a rhetorical question when she heard one. ‘He wants to know whether you want him to come home,’ she said, the phone pressed to her shoulder.
‘Tell him it’s either that or we come down to the pub and have our little chat in front of everybody.’
‘Yes, Sir, that would be most helpful,’ Louise said, into her phone. ‘We are waiting, so if you could come now that would be appreciated.’ She rang off. ‘He said he’s five minutes away; apologised profusely.’
‘He did know we were coming?’
‘He wasn’t given a time, apparently.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right then.’
‘He probably heard every word you said through the doorbell camera. They have microphones on them.’
Louise walked across the gravel to the carport and looked under the cover. ‘An F355 Berlinetta, with cream leather. It should be in an air-conditioned garage, really.’
Dixon sighed. Next she’d be telling him how much the house was worth.
‘It’s my husband who’s the car nut,’ continued Louise. ‘I get dragged around classic car shows and motor museums, but you have to do your bit, don’t you?’
‘And how much is the house worth?’ asked Dixon. It might not be totally useless information, after all.
‘Depends how much land it’s got. Maybe eight-fifty with a couple of acres?’
Dixon was standing under the carport now, watching Louise straightening the car cover. It was either that or shelter under the canopy over the front door, but that was too close to the doorbell camera and its microphone.
‘Remind me what he does for a living.’
‘Windows and doors, conservatories, that sort of stuff. He’s got a company based over at Yeovil.’
‘Have we done a company search?’
‘It’s on my list of things to do.’
Car headlights turning into the drive announced the arrival of Deirdre Baxter’s stepson, Lawrence. He parked behind Dixon’s Land Rover, a woman jumping out of the passenger seat of the Jaguar SUV and running across to the door. She opened it and disappeared inside, leaving it standing open.
Lawrence Baxter slammed the driver’s door and walked over to the carport. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said – half-heartedly, thought Dixon. ‘We were meeting friends; a long-standing arrangement, you know how it is.’
Dixon opened his mouth to speak, but Baxter beat him to it.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not going to lie. I never liked Deirdre and she never liked me, so I’m not going to be shedding any tears now she’s gone. And I’m certainly not going to miss dinner with friends.’ His voice reduced to a whisper, as if he suddenly thought better of being so blunt. ‘Or at least I wasn’t until you rang.’
A dismal night in late January, the rain had turned to sleet, and Dixon was buggered if he was going to conduct an interview in a carport. ‘Shall we go inside?’ he asked. Besides, he wanted to have a look around.
‘Er, yes, of course,’ replied Baxter. ‘How long is this going to take? Only we said we’d try to get back to the pub, and our friends are waiting for us.’
‘We’ll try to get you back in time for last orders, Sir,’ replied Dixon, following Baxter across the gravel.
‘Through here,’ said Baxter. ‘Would you like a coffee or something?’
‘No, thank you, Sir.’
The woman who had run into the house was leaning back against the worktop in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of white wine.
‘This is my partner, Samantha,’ said Baxter. ‘I was with Sam most of the day yesterday. That’s what you’re going ask me, isn’t it?’
‘Would you mind?’ asked Dixon, turning to Samantha.
‘Give us the room, Sam,’ said Baxter. ‘That’s what the Americans say, I think.’
