‘Immediately, if we can. As soon as it gets dark.’
‘All right. There clearly is a need to establish the true cause of the deceased’s death; necessary in justice to the deceased and his family. Get the completed papers to me straight away and you can take it that I’ve granted the faculty based on this telephone call and the emailed drafts.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Chapter Twelve
‘That’s all we need.’
They were sitting in the corner of the Rose and Crown in Bradford Abbas, the half an hour spent on the phone, lining up the various teams for the exhumation, coinciding with opening time. They had already been standing by, but it would be at least another hour until everybody arrived: Scientific Services, Roger Poland and the mortuary van, the gravediggers, the vicar too – prayers were an essential requirement, apparently.
Dixon was scrolling through local news reports of the investigation, the phrase ‘serial killer’ cropping up several times, despite it having been denied at the press briefing.
‘Journalist at three o’clock,’ continued Louise. ‘Standing at the bar. It’s that tosser from the Bridgwater Mercury. And he’s got a photographer with him.’
The foot-long zoom lens slung over a shoulder was a bit of a giveaway. That and the huge flash mounted on top of the camera.
‘He’ll flog the story to the nationals.’
‘Someone’s tipped him off,’ said Dixon. He took a swig of beer and stood up. ‘Let’s go and see what he’s got to say for himself.’
Warren Hugget, whose every question at press conferences seemed designed to embarrass the police in general, and Dixon in particular. An old green waxed jacket, the pockets torn open, matching waxed flat cap, jeans and wellington boots. The photographer was wearing what looked like golf waterproofs and a wide-brimmed leather hat. They kept their backs to Dixon as he approached, but they knew full well he was there.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Dixon, placing his pint on the bar next to them. He didn’t use Hugget’s name for the simple reason he didn’t want him to think he knew it. ‘What’s the going rate for a story like this?’
Smug grins from the pair of them. ‘Now, Inspector – sorry, Superintendent,’ replied Hugget, ‘you don’t expect me to give up my source.’
‘No. I just asked how much it cost you.’
‘Thinking of getting in on the act?’
Dixon waited.
‘Five hundred quid, if you must know.’
‘If you’d asked, I’d have told you free of charge.’
‘Really?’ Hugget thought he’d try his luck. ‘Whose body is it you’re exhuming then?’
‘I’m not going to reveal that unless and until foul play has been confirmed,’ replied Dixon. ‘What I can tell you is we suspect the deceased is indeed a third victim, but we won’t know for sure until a post mortem has been carried out overnight. Until then you’ll just be publishing speculation.’
‘We do that all the time, mate. Ah, right on cue.’ Hugget was watching Roger Poland shaking off his umbrella in the entrance lobby. ‘What about his age, can you tell me that?’
‘No.’
‘So, you’re not actually going to tell me anything I don’t already know, are you?’
‘Beer, Roger?’ Dixon asked, turning to Poland.
‘What about the threats?’ demanded Hugget. ‘The “publish and I’ll run you out of town” stuff I usually get from you lot.’
‘Would it make a difference?’
‘No, it bloody well wouldn’t.’
‘Thought not.’
‘Let’s go over to the graveyard, Warren,’ said the photographer. ‘It’s bound to be a recent burial and there can’t be that many.’
Hugget finished his drink in one gulp and slammed his glass down on the bar. ‘Good idea, mate.’
Actually, it wasn’t, thought Dixon, but he wasn’t going to tell them there was no gravestone in place yet. ‘Are you serving food?’ he asked the barman, when Poland’s pint was placed on the bar.
‘No bloody gravestone,’ muttered Hugget. ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’
Dixon was standing under the lychgate at the entrance to the graveyard and hadn’t noticed Hugget sidling up to him until it was too late.
‘You never asked,’ he said.
‘The questions I have asked, you haven’t answered.’
‘Occupational hazard. You get used to it.’ Dixon was watching the photographer leaning on the wall, filming video footage on his camera, not that it would show much from that range, apart from a Scientific Services tent lit from the inside by arc lamps, the gravestones in the vicinity covered in bubble wrap. Uniformed officers had arrived and were keeping spectators, and the press, at a suitable distance.
Poland was still in the pub. After all, there was no point getting wet until the gravediggers had done their bit.
‘Well, we’re going to run with the story anyway,’ said Hugget. ‘And if it’s not another victim you’re going to look a bit of a wally, aren’t you?’
