‘George told me.’
‘I thought he’s got dementia?’
‘Long story.’ Dixon glanced at Charlesworth and Potter, catching them nodding at each other. ‘Michael Allam spent his days doing the bridge puzzles in The Times and, as we know, Deirdre Baxter spent a good deal of her day on her iPad playing bridge online on a website called . . .’ He looked at Louise.
‘Bridge Base dot com,’ she said. ‘It’s in the report from High Tech.’
‘My guess is that Michael Allam and Deirdre Baxter were bridge partners,’ continued Dixon. ‘Given that they knew each other through work.’
Potter and Charlesworth were already on their way back to the top of the stairs, a smile from Potter all he was going to get, for now.
‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ continued Dixon. ‘And we’re going to proceed with that as our principal line of enquiry for the time being. It connects all four of our victims.’
‘Cards?’ Wevill was looking at the Devon team one by one. ‘No one’s mentioned that to us in any of the interviews as a possible motive.’
‘I didn’t say it was a motive; I said it was a connection. And did you ask them?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘There’s a photograph, Sir,’ said Louise. ‘At Deirdre Baxter’s house, on the sideboard in the dining room. Her with an older man holding a trophy. I thought at the time it was her late husband, because it was with her wedding photos, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was Michael Allam and they’d won a bridge thing?’
‘I’ll get you the key to her house,’ offered Jane.
‘Right then, everybody, you know what needs to be done.’
‘Speak to all those bloody witnesses. Again.’ The voice was low and tight, and came from the Devon team as the briefing broke up.
‘Bridge?’ Jane asked, her voice just about carrying to Dixon over the hubbub going on behind them.
‘He can’t remember his own name,’ replied Dixon, wistfully. ‘But put a pack of cards in George Sampson’s hands and he’s transformed to another time and place.’
‘I’ll take Monty home in a minute. I only hung on for the briefing.’
‘I won’t be far behind you. I want to see that photo Lou was talking about, then there’s a bridge club that meets at the community centre in Burnham every Tuesday at seven.’
‘He looks very similar to her husband,’ said Louise, shining the light on her phone at the silver-framed photograph of Deirdre Baxter and Michael Allam. ‘Same height and everything.’
They were parked outside Deirdre’s bungalow in Berrow, Dixon having collected the picture from the sideboard in the dining room.
‘It’s definitely Allam, though,’ Dixon said, putting on his seatbelt. ‘Can you make out what the trophy is?’
‘No, it’s engraved, but I can’t read it. Hi Tech may be able to do something with it.’
‘Somebody will recognise a trophy like that.’ A huge silver cup with an ornate lid and handles, at least two feet tall, it had taken both of them to hold it up for the camera. ‘Let’s go and see what they’ve got to say for themselves at the community centre.’
Light streaming across from the swimming pool and community centre on one side of the road, pitch darkness from the old putting green on the other.
‘We need to get the speed camera van along here,’ said Dixon, watching cars racing past, despite the zebra crossing further along, by the vet’s.
The community centre had been recently painted, a fresh white that seemed to glow in the streetlights. A posh house once, the gardens lost under the car park. The curtains were open, revealing several tables of four people, all holding playing cards.
Swim club training in the pool next door, the usual cries of children playing replaced by a whistle and a man shouting.
‘It’s a pay and display,’ said Louise.
‘It’ll be free at this time of night,’ replied Dixon, placing the blue light on top of the Land Rover, just in case.
They were greeted by an empty table just inside the door, names on a clipboard and cash sitting in an open tin box. It wasn’t long before they were spotted, though; possibly the youngest man in the room – apart from Dixon – laying his cards face down on the table and getting up.
‘Five pounds each, to include tea and biscuits,’ he said. ‘We’re always glad to see new members.’
The sight of a police warrant card wiped the welcome from his face unusually quickly.
‘You need to do something with this cash, Sir.’ Dixon gestured to the open tin box. ‘We could’ve had that and gone before you’d looked up.’
The man closed the lid, turned the key and tucked the box under his arm. ‘You’re quite right, of course, but I’m guessing you’re not here to tell me that.’
‘No, Sir,’ said Dixon. ‘And you are?’
‘Lionel Woakes.’
‘Do the names Deirdre Baxter or Michael Allam mean anything to you?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Perhaps this photograph might jog your memory?’