‘All ri—’ Dixon was stopped mid-sentence by the slam of Lucy’s bedroom door.
‘It’s your fault,’ Jane said, airily. ‘You wanted Jonathan to marry us. And he’s practically part of the family now.’
Jonathan was the vicar of Westonzoyland and godfather to Lucy’s boyfriend, Billy. It was close enough.
Jane had taken the tray into the kitchen and was standing in the open back door, looking out at the rain. ‘Are you sure you’re going to take him out?’
Monty took one look out into the darkness and turned tail for the warmth of the sofa.
Dixon smiled. ‘Apparently not.’
Chapter Nine
The incident room was buzzing when Dixon arrived just before eight the following morning. Jane was already there, having left Lucy at Highbridge railway station suitably early for her train, despite protests.
‘I’ll be waiting forty minutes!’
‘Tough.’
The team from Devon had arrived and were sitting together at the back, apart from three of the younger ones who were crowded around Sarah Loveday’s workstation, being a little too attentive, perhaps.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Dixon, with a clap of his hands. ‘This is a major crime regional task force, not a speed-dating agency.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He felt sure he heard a ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ but decided to let it pass.
Detective Sergeant Wevill was there, in an animated conversation with a female officer, clearly more talkative now he was out of Superintendent Small’s shadow. Dixon wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but would reserve judgement for now.
‘First of all, welcome to our colleagues from Devon and Cornwall Police,’ he said. It was tempting to ask their names, but he’d almost certainly forget them anyway and time was short. ‘We’ll do introductions as we go along, if you don’t mind. I’m hoping you’ve found the canteen on the first floor. Just avoid the cheese baguette, would be my advice.’
‘And the flapjack.’
‘Thank you, Mark.’ It was good to hear Mark Pearce chiming in, and to see him smile. It had been a while.
The Devon team was matched in number by the new faces from Portishead that Dixon had been promised. He only recognised one of them, and that was from his time on the cold case unit while he waited for a disciplinary hearing. Happy days.
‘Devon team will stay on the murder of Michael Allam in Sidmouth, please. You know the ground. We need to revisit the witnesses in light of the new information we have from Deirdre Baxter’s murder. There are images of a car and grainy images of someone who appears to be dressed as an occupational therapist. I know doorbell cameras are difficult in that location, but we need to see if we can pick up the same car on traffic cameras in the area.’
‘We’ve got people on that at Middlemoor, Sir,’ said Wevill.
‘One of Allam’s neighbours – a Mrs Stanton – said she was out walking her dog and thought she saw a car turning out of the car park.’
‘We’re doing the house to house again and we’ve got officers stopping traffic in the area as well.’
‘Our focus has to be on finding a connection between Michael Allam and Deirdre Baxter.’
‘Nothing yet, Sir,’ said Jane. She was standing by the two whiteboards, a third one at the far end blank, ready for the next victim. And there would be one, Dixon was in no doubt about that. The only question was whether it would be Thomas Fowler or somebody else’s grandmother or grandfather.
‘There is a possible third victim. How far have we got with the exhumation, Sarah?’
‘The legal team at Portishead are already on it and will have the papers drafted by early afternoon. They want you to speak to the chancellor of the diocese, just to put him in the picture and impress upon him the urgency. He’s some senior lawyer from London, the Worshipful somebody-or-other, with letters after his name. The guy at Portishead was most anxious the SIO speaks to him.’
‘We can find a quiet lay-by somewhere,’ said Dixon.
‘He’s in court until four,’ continued Sarah. ‘So you’re to ring him at his chambers after that. I’ve spoken to his clerk and he’ll be expecting your call.’
‘Both confirmed victims were retired teachers who taught at private schools in Burnham-on-Sea, so we may find our connection there. We need to find old pupils who remember them and get statements, so we’ve got our work cut out.’
‘There are active Facebook groups,’ offered Jane. ‘And we’ve made contact with some already.’
‘Devon team will focus on old boys and girls from St Joseph’s. Michael Allam taught there for almost his entire career, until the school closed down. Find out what interaction there was with St Christopher’s – whether the teachers might have known each other. I’m teaching you to suck eggs now.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Wevill hid his sarcasm. Almost.
‘We’ll be focusing on St Christopher’s, which is where Deirdre Baxter taught,’ continued Dixon, turning to the group down from Portishead.
‘The Facebook group for St Christopher’s has ninety-three members,’ said Jane.
‘How many for St Joseph’s?’ asked Wevill.
‘One hundred and twenty-one.’
‘I’m sure there’ll be others who are not on Facebook,’ said Dixon. ‘I spoke to Michael Allam’s daughter yesterday.’
‘Rather you than me.’ Wevill again.
‘She said there was a joint pantomime, in the sixties possibly, with kids from both schools – she thought it might have been Old King Cole – and a girl is supposed to have fallen off the stage and broken her neck. The daughter said it was more of a ghost story than anything, but there may be some truth in it. We’re checking with the coroner, but ask the question anyway. Who directed it, produced it, who was in it. Anything.’
