‘Yes, lovely.’ He shuddered to himself as he pushed Monty on to the floor and sat down next to Jane on the sofa. She turned away, trying not to laugh, probably.
‘D’you want me to start the film again?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s fine.’
Oddly enough, Monty was showing an interest in Dixon’s salad, although he might just have been after the cheese. He was sitting next to Dixon, his muzzle resting on the edge of the tray. ‘Et tu, Brute?’ he muttered, pushing the dog away.
‘Did you want to have that chat about me going on maternity leave now or later?’ asked Jane, looking pleased with herself.
‘Now,’ replied Dixon, through a mouthful of lettuce and cucumber.
‘Right, well, I’m not going yet, and that’s that. It’ll drive me round the bend sitting at home all day. I’m not due for another three months.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘They’ve stopped serving food at the pub,’ said Jane, trying not to sound smug. ‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready. All right?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
Jane reached over and took a pinch of grated cheese off Dixon’s plate, dropping it on the floor for Monty. ‘Right, well, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out,’ she said, with a note of triumph. ‘I’ll bung you a curry in the microwave.’
Brighton Rock. Jane was working her way through his collection of old black and white films.
‘Did you get anywhere at the bridge club?’ she asked, from the kitchen.
‘They were Somerset county champions in 2003, made it through to the Regional Qualifier, and then got banned for cheating.’
‘There’s your motive, right there,’ Jane said, her sentence punctuated by the slam of the microwave door.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Really?’
‘They took it to court and got an injunction; were reinstated and still went to the Regional thing. And their accusers were Sampson and Fowler, apparently.’ Dixon shrugged, not that Jane would see it from the kitchen. ‘I could understand Deirdre Baxter and Michael Allam having a grudge against Sampson and Fowler because they accused them of cheating, or Sampson and Fowler having a grudge against Deirdre and Michael because they cheated them out of the county win. But who’s going to be killing all four of them?’
‘Three.’
‘Only his dementia saved George Sampson.’
‘Here,’ Jane said, handing Dixon a beer. ‘We got George’s medical records and the diagnosis is confirmed.’
‘I never doubted it for a minute,’ he replied, snapping open the can. ‘I’ve played bridge with him, remember?’
‘So, where does that leave us?’
‘Closer.’ A swig. ‘Anything else would be far too much of a coincidence.’
‘We don’t believe in those.’
‘We don’t.’
‘Mark’s got some fairly good shots of the car,’ said Jane. ‘On traffic cameras at Wells, then again on the M5 at Burnham going south. You can’t see the driver, though. The number plate’s been cloned too, which is a pain.’
‘What is it?’
‘A Fiat 500. The little jelly mould thing. We’ve spoken to the owner of the cloned car; she lives in Bristol and has only just got back from ten days away skiing. She’s coming down to Express Park to make a statement tomorrow.’
‘Where was her car while she was away?’
‘Airport parking,’ replied Jane, placing a tray in Dixon’s lap, Monty taking more of an interest now. ‘We checked with them and it didn’t move the whole time she was away. Mark got someone to go over there and look at the CCTV to make sure. Strange how they managed to find just the right car to clone, though.’
‘Not really.’ Dixon was waiting for his curry to cool down a bit, the sauce still bubbling. ‘You just go to Facebook, join the relevant owners’ club group and wait for someone to post a picture of their lovely car that’s an exact match for yours. Then find an unscrupulous garage with the right machine to copy the number plate.’
‘There are plenty of them about,’ said Jane. ‘So what happens now?’
‘We dig a little deeper into this bridge thing and see where it takes us. It’s the only thing we’ve got that connects them all.’ He hesitated. ‘Did you really take Monty for a walk?’
‘No, not really.’ Jane smiled. ‘I knew you’d want to.’
‘We need to find out who leaked the exhumation to the press too.’
‘My money’s on Dean Wevill. I’m keeping an eye on him, but he gives me the creeps.’
Chapter Eighteen
Small world, thought Dixon, turning into the visitors’ car park at Oxenden Hart solicitors the following morning. Jane had been asleep by the time he’d got back from his walk with Monty, and had gone before he’d woken up in the morning; nothing if not conscientious.
‘It’s the incident room manager’s job to be first in and last out,’ she had said.
