Louise sat down at the kitchen table and took out her notebook while they waited for Samantha to leave.
‘I went into the office in the morning,’ continued Baxter. ‘Came home for lunch and then we spent the afternoon in the field. The fence was down on the far side and the horses were getting out, so we fixed it. After that, a shower – together – how much detail do you want?’
Dixon ignored the question.
‘Then we went into Yeovil about six and met some friends for a bite to eat. We’re fairly social animals, if you hadn’t guessed already.’
‘The friends?’
‘Oh God, you’re not going to pester them, are you?’ Baxter was allowing his impatience to creep in. ‘I know, I know, most people are killed by someone they know. Neil and Kelly Wood. He’s a property developer and I’m after the contract to supply the windows and doors. He’s got a development over at Stembridge.’
‘When did Deirdre meet your father?’ asked Dixon. He was standing in front of the fridge, looking at the various magnets. A travelogue, of sorts.
‘My mother died in 2002 and they married in 2005, I think it was. It was a second marriage for both of them. I was an only child and Deirdre had no children.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘They started out as bridge partners before becoming husband and wife.’ Baxter snapped open a can of Coke that he’d taken out of the fridge when Dixon had moved on. ‘Look, I was twenty-six when they married, and had flown the nest, so to speak, so it wasn’t as if it made much difference to me.’
‘Why the tension between you?’ asked Dixon. ‘You said you didn’t get on.’
‘We got on all right to begin with, but it was the same old story: jealousy and suspicion creeps in. She could be difficult, cantankerous even, and I thought she was just after Dad’s money. She was on her uppers and he was well off. She’s had his pension and been living in his house ever since he died.’
‘When was that?’
‘2019. Prostate cancer. She did look after him when he was ill, though, nursed him at home despite her age. I’ll give her that.’
‘What about you?’
‘Divorced. I’ve got two boys, aged fifteen and eighteen. The younger one’s at Blundell’s, the other’s just started at uni. Their mother still lives in our old house at Martock.’
‘And is Samantha just after your money?’
Louise looked up from her notebook, surprised at the question, but not as surprised as Baxter.
‘Of course not!’ Indignant now.
‘Perhaps your children think she is?’
‘They don’t think that at all. They get on well with her.’
‘Are you planning to marry?’
‘Maybe one day.’
‘So, if Samantha’s not after your money, what makes you think Deirdre was after your father’s money?’
Dixon watched Baxter soften as the realisation began to hit home. ‘I don’t know, when you put it like that.’
‘Have you seen a copy of her will?’
‘We never talked about things like that.’
‘She left her entire estate to you.’
‘Really?’ The surprise seemed genuine. ‘I thought she’d have left it to charity or something like that. Maybe I’ve been a bit hard on her?’
‘Maybe you have.’
‘I get the house anyway, though, but you probably know that already.’ Baxter dropped his empty can into a bag hanging on the back door handle. ‘The house was in my father’s name and Deirdre got to live there until she died, then it comes to me.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose you think that gives me a motive to kill her?’
‘It’s something we have to rule out, Sir.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How often did you see Deirdre?’ Dixon knew it was a question to embarrass Baxter, but he asked it all the same.
‘Not often. We used to invite her at Christmas, but she never came, so we stopped. I feel awful now.’
And so you should.
‘How is your business doing?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ replied Baxter, the question snapping him out of a moment’s reflection. ‘We’ve got our share of debts, but it’s under control. Cash flow is good.’ Spelling it out now. ‘I don’t need the money.’
Dixon was looking at the photographs on the exposed brickwork above the fireplace, a double-sided wood-burning stove heating the kitchen and the adjacent TV room. Leather sofas and oak furniture, a huge television mounted on the wall.
Two boys at various ages, playing cricket and rugby; a school photograph, the pupils lined up in rows, so no doubt Baxter’s boys would be in there somewhere.
