‘She did.’
‘Can you remember what she was wearing?’
The old man hesitated, his eyes welling up with tears of frustration.
‘What did you talk about?’
‘The old days. We always talk about the old days.’
‘He doesn’t remember the old days,’ said Tammy, softly to Louise.
‘Did you ever know a woman called Deirdre Baxter?’
‘Is she my wife?’ George was looking at Tammy quizzically.
‘No, George, your wife’s name was Edith,’ Tammy said.
‘What about Michael Allam?’ asked Dixon.
‘Is he my doctor?’
‘That’s Dr Morgan, George,’ said Tammy, calmly.
‘One last question then, George,’ said Dixon. ‘Does the name Thomas Fowler mean anything to you?’
The old man’s eyes glazed over, the connection lost. Dixon watched him looking around the room, his gaze settling on the television, where Hercule Poirot was frozen in mid-sentence. ‘Bridge,’ George mumbled.
‘That’ll be The Bridge on the River Kwai. It’s his favourite film. I’ll put it on now for you, George.’ Tammy opened a DVD case and took out a disc. ‘Although he’ll probably fall asleep in front of it, he usually does.’
‘It was lovely to meet you, Mr Sampson,’ said Dixon, shaking the old man’s hand. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘What shall I tell Scientific?’ asked Louise, once they were back out in the corridor.
‘There might be fingerprints, I suppose,’ replied Dixon.
‘There won’t.’ Faith had been hovering in the doorway while they spoke to George and was now loitering in the corridor. ‘She was wearing latex gloves, which I thought was odd, come to think of it. She came in wearing them.’
‘See what I mean about George?’ Tammy spoke softly, anxious that the old man shouldn’t hear. ‘He’s probably forgotten all about it already. Sometimes I can get him to recognise the people in those photographs. He’ll say things like “That’s my wife,” but when you ask him her name, he can’t remember. It’s so sad.’
‘Is his daughter really coming next month?’ asked Louise.
‘Oh yes. We never lie to them,’ replied Tammy. ‘She’s a trooper, she really is. Comes for three weeks every year, even though she knows full well her father will have no idea who she is.’
‘We’ll need to take your visitors’ book, please,’ said Dixon, following Tammy along the corridor towards the front door.
‘We will get it back?’
‘In due course.’
Louise was on the phone behind him, ringing off as they turned the corner into the entrance lobby. ‘I’ve told Scientific they’re free to go elsewhere and the sketch artist will be here in half an hour.’
‘We’ll need statements from you, and Faith as well,’ said Dixon.
‘So you think it was the serial killer. Here, in my care home?’ asked Tammy.
‘I do,’ replied Dixon.
‘Why didn’t she kill George, in that case?’
‘There’s no need, is there? Not if she’s killing to keep a secret he can’t remember anyway.’
Chapter Fourteen
The morning briefing had been put back to midday, the staff car park at Express Park almost full when Dixon arrived on the top floor just before eleven-thirty. He’d spotted Charlesworth’s car in the visitors’ car park and suspected an ambush. They waited, hoping for someone else to open the security door, but in the end Louise needed the loo and that was that.
If Louise was in, then so was Dixon, and Charlesworth would be on the prowl.
He got as far as the canteen.
‘Ah, there you are, Nick.’
Dixon pretended not to hear.
‘You haven’t updated the Policy Log for quite some time. It’s supposed to be an active record of the SIO’s decision-making process.’
And that was the point. Dixon hadn’t made any decisions. Yet.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Sir?’ he asked, arriving at the front of the queue just as Charlesworth appeared at his elbow.
