‘Not as such, but she had the uniform on under her coat. And an ID card on a lanyard. It looked legit, so I let her in.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Dark hair, curly, short. She put her hood back when I let her in. Black glasses. A bit of make-up, maybe. I didn’t take too much notice, I’m afraid. She said she was here to see George, signed in the visitors’ book, then I pointed her in the direction of his room and left her to it.’
‘And nothing about it struck you as odd?’
Faith was standing in the doorway of Tammy’s office, elderly residents walking past in the corridor behind her. ‘I thought a visit from an OT was unusual, because we provide whatever a resident needs, but apart from that, not really.’
‘Would you be able to identify this person again?’
‘Maybe.’
Dixon turned to Louise. ‘Let’s get a sketch artist over here to see Faith.’
‘Can I go home and get some sleep first?’ asked Faith, over a long yawn.
‘We’ve got three dead and whoever is doing it clearly has no intention of stopping.’
‘I’ll make myself another coffee.’
George Sampson’s room was in the ground floor annexe. A long corridor with rooms either side, those at the front with bay windows looking out over the car park, the ones at the back with doors out to private patios and more expensive, no doubt.
All of the doors were open, giving the residents no privacy, but it meant that Dixon could see through to the back garden. Well maintained, a raised pond in the middle, the fountain switched off.
Tammy stopped outside an open door, ‘George Sampson’ inscribed on a small nameplate.
‘He’s a lovely man,’ she said. ‘Some of them get angry, violent even, and you wouldn’t believe the language, but he just sits there quiet as a mouse, watching his television.’
‘He has dementia?’ asked Dixon.
Tammy gave a sad smile. ‘George?’ She tiptoed into his room, looking around the corner of the bathroom. ‘There’s someone to see you.’
The old man was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the bed, the television mounted on the wall above a chest of drawers opposite. Corduroys, a shirt open at the neck and a cardigan, a blanket sliding off his knees on to the floor.
He appeared fascinated by what was on the TV, watching it intently.
‘He loves the crime dramas,’ whispered Tammy. ‘And when you’ve got dementia, there’s no such thing as repeats.’ She picked up the remote control and paused the programme just as Hercule Poirot was about to reveal the killer’s identity. George looked up, bemused rather than cross. ‘There’s someone here to see you, George.’
‘My daughter came to see me yesterday,’ he said.
Tammy turned to Dixon and mouthed, ‘His daughter lives in New Zealand.’
‘Who are you?’
‘They’re police officers, George.’
The old man reached out and took Louise’s hand. ‘Are you Alison?’
‘Your daughter’s not here today,’ said Tammy. ‘This is a police officer.’
‘What’s Alison been up to?’
‘It’s not Alison. She’s fine.’ Tammy gave a beaming smile, trying to reassure the old man. ‘She’s coming to see you next month. Remember?’
A blank look.
‘These officers want to talk to you about someone who came to see you yesterday.’
‘I never get any visitors. I do wish my wife would come to see me more often.’
Dixon was standing at the chest of drawers, looking at the selection of family photographs on the top. And the small pile of DVDs, mostly old British war films: The Cruel Sea, Sink the Bismarck! and The Bridge on the River Kwai among them.
‘Your wife died, George.’ Tammy was holding the old man’s hand now. ‘She died before you came to live with us.’
‘She could do more to help, but she’s probably busy with the baby.’
Tammy reached across George and took a small photo album off the table next to him, where a cup of tea had long since gone cold. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, holding the album open at the first picture and pointing at a black and white image of a small boy in school uniform.
‘Is it him?’ George was pointing at Dixon.
‘No, it’s you, George,’ said Tammy. ‘When you were a boy.’
The old man squinted at the photograph, running the tip of his index finger softly over the image. ‘Me?’
Dixon took the photograph album from Tammy and sat down on the edge of George’s bed, next to the old man. ‘You said your daughter came to see you yesterday.’
