‘That means he’s been strangled,’ ventured Sarah.
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Poland. ‘It means there’s been a build-up of pressure in the head and the tiny little blood vessels burst. Strangulation is often the cause, but not everyone who exhibits petechial haemorrhaging has been strangled. And, as we know from Deirdre Baxter, not everyone who has been strangled exhibits petechial haemorrhaging.’
‘So, he hasn’t been strangled?’ Sarah again.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Poland picked up a scalpel.
Dixon had seen the same incision on Deirdre Baxter’s body and knew what was coming, turning away when Poland tilted Thomas Fowler’s head back.
‘Oh, shit,’ mumbled Sarah, under her breath.
‘The cartilage in the neck is ossified, as you would expect in a person of this age,’ said Poland. He was attaching clips to the flaps of skin either side. ‘The hyoid bone is intact, just as it was with the other two victims.’
Dixon waited.
‘Cricoid bone is cracked; front and sides, just like the other two.’ Poland straightened up. ‘He was strangled. Nearly got away with this one, too. Well done, you,’ he said, pointing at Sarah with the scalpel.
‘Thanks, Roger,’ said Dixon. He was already opening the door of the lab. ‘I owe you a curry.’
‘It’s nearly midnight, for heaven’s sake. I thought at least two!’
An exchange of text messages had saved Dixon a visit to Express Park and he got home just before one in the morning to find Jane asleep on the sofa. He had parked in the pub car park and crept across the road, managing to get his key in the back door lock before Monty woke up.
No barking this time, though; it was as if the dog didn’t want to wake Jane up either.
Dixon opened the back door and slipped on the dog’s lead before tiptoeing into the living room and standing over Jane. A black and white movie was still on pause – Mrs Miniver, by the looks of things – the light from the screen enough to illuminate Jane’s chest rising and falling as she slept.
Her skin looked pale, or perhaps it was just the light?
A police officer, doing her duty, working long hours. Exhausting for most, Dixon included, but Jane was six months pregnant.
She was eligible to go on maternity leave; they’d talked about it before and would do so again, first thing in the morning. And this time, she’d bloody well have to listen.
Would she, bollocks.
He closed the back door as silently as he could and set off along the road. It had stopped raining and Monty was running ahead, off the lead, but the dog knew which way to go, turning left up the narrow lane to the knoll, every now and then stopping to sniff something on the grass verge or in the hedge.
Three dead.
No nearer finding a motive.
A headline plastered across the homepage of the Bridgwater Mercury website – Police Exhume Possible Third Victim.
No doubt it had gone national by now, although Dixon hadn’t checked.
He’d had better days.
And he’d need to be updating the Policy Log in the morning, documenting the senior investigating officer’s decision-making process. Charlesworth was probably checking it hourly.
He looked to the west as he climbed the knoll, the lights of the vast building site at Hinkley Point twinkling through the gloom.
Actually, it wasn’t all bad news. Perhaps Sarah finding Thomas Fowler was a good thing? There were so many connections between Deirdre Baxter and Michael Allam, even a regional task force could disappear up its own backside investigating them all.
But what was their connection to Thomas Fowler?
That could narrow it down a bit, and be the key to unlocking the whole thing.
Possibly.
Hopefully.
Dixon had his phone in his hand, using the light to inspect what was left of something Monty had been eating, when Jane’s text arrived.
Where are you? Jx
An easy one to answer: Up the lane. Monty’s been eating horse shit. Go to bed. Nx
Is Fowler another victim? Jx
Yes.
Fuck.
We need to talk about maternity leave in the morning 
He added a smiley face to that one, not that it would do any good.
