‘I’ll bung a fish pie in the microwave.’
‘Has he been out?’ asked Dixon, the dog jumping up at him.
‘Just round the field.’
‘I might take him up the hill in a bit then.’
‘Take that,’ Jane said, gesturing to a can of beer on the worktop. ‘And go and sit down.’
Dixon sat down on the sofa, leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘What did Sarah find out about the other one, Thomas Fowler?’
‘Not a lot,’ replied Jane, raising her voice over the noise of the microwave. ‘And the legal department is closed until tomorrow. She tried the emergency number, but was told an exhumation wasn’t urgent and could wait.’
‘Was she, indeed?’ A swig of beer. ‘Deirdre’s stepson was in the pub, would you believe it? Lucky for him they didn’t go back, otherwise I’d have had uniform waiting for him at closing time with their breathalyser.’
‘They didn’t get on?’
‘Actually, he was a bit sheepish about it, I think. We’ll do the usual checks, but unless he’s in deep trouble financially, I can’t really see a motive.’
‘It may be that there’s no connection between Deirdre and Michael Allam.’ Jane placed a tray on Dixon’s lap, the fish pie still in the plastic container, which had buckled in the heat. Not that he could say anything, mind you, having an equally relaxed attitude towards food presentation.
‘No-added-sugar ketchup.’
‘There’s none of the other stuff.’ Jane was lying, and knew that he knew she was lying, but there was no hint of an apology. ‘You shouldn’t be having it with fish pie anyway.’
‘There must be a connection between them,’ said Dixon. ‘The alternative is that the killings are random and that’s just too horrible to contemplate.’ He was watching a wisp of steam rising from the mashed potato, half an eye on Monty, who was inching closer. ‘Yes, they were both teachers at schools in Burnham, at the same sort of time, but there must be more to it than that.’
‘Thomas Fowler was a retired lift engineer and there were no lifts at either school. We checked.’ Jane had sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘He retired twenty-five years ago, but we’ve got employment details from his son. Sarah’s going to check which area he covered, but you’re seeing the son at two anyway.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe wassailing wasn’t so bad after all?’
‘At least we get the team from Devon tomorrow.’ Dixon was breathing in sharply, trying to cool the mouthful of fish pie.
‘I don’t think they can be short of a bob or two, down there,’ said Jane. ‘They’ve all gone to the Premier Inn on expenses.’
‘You never know, we might get some help from Dorset too, if Thomas Fowler turns out to be another victim.’
‘That’ll please you-know-who.’
‘Oh shit, I didn’t do my jab.’ Dixon dropped his fork and began fumbling in his inside jacket pocket for his insulin pen.
‘How are you getting on with that thing in your arm?’
‘Completely forgot about it, to be honest.’
‘Give me your phone.’ Jane held out her hand in front of him, not giving Dixon much choice in the matter. Then she entered the passcode and held it to the sensor on the back of his arm. ‘Ten-point-one, going up. You’ve been at the fruit pastilles again. And you’ve switched off the alerts.’
‘I can’t have the thing bleeping at me all day.’
‘It’s supposed to alert you if your blood sugar level is going too low.’
‘I can feel it, don’t worry,’ he said, with a dismissive wave of his fork.
‘I’m going to install the app on my phone, then I can creep up behind you and check your blood for myself.’
‘It’ll only pair with one device.’
‘You need to take this seriously. You’re going to be a father – and my husband, if we ever get round to sorting it out.’
‘Sooner rather than later, please,’ said a voice from the top of the stairs, Jane’s sister Lucy leaning over the banister. ‘I’m still waiting to be a bridesmaid. I’ve got the dress and everything.’
‘What time’s your train in the morning?’
‘Twenty past eight.’
‘Go to bed.’
‘After this investigation.’ The mouthful of fish pie hid the tiredness in Dixon’s reply, mercifully.
‘You said that last time, and the time before that. Then, when you finally set a date, it got cancelled.’
‘Postponed,’ snapped Jane. ‘And you know why that was.’
Dixon reached over and put his hand on Jane’s knee. Lucy was a good kid who had been pushed from pillar to post: from one foster home to another, back to her drug-addicted mother, then back into care. Jane had been spared that, by parents who adopted her at birth. Her father, Rod, was waiting patiently to walk her down the aisle too.
It was a conversation they’d had many times, Dixon reminding Jane that Lucy needed a friend first and foremost; a sister, not yet another mother figure.
‘I’ll speak to Jonathan.’ He was holding the empty plastic tray for Monty to lick the last of the fish sauce.
‘You’ve got until the end of the week,’ said Lucy. ‘Then I’ll text him.’
