‘—have both been murdered,’ continued Dixon. ‘As has Thomas Fowler, one of their accusers. The other has dementia, which we believe saved him. Do you know why—?’
‘Someone might have put them out of their misery,’ interrupted Wilkinson. ‘No, I don’t know, but I wish someone would do the same for me.’
. . . those of us who remember it are either dead or dying.
‘The Somerset Bridge Union doesn’t have an office, as such,’ said Louise. ‘They play twice a month at Woolavington Village Hall and there’s a committee that meets at the hon. sec.’s house in Creech St Michael.’
Dixon was already heading north on the M5.
‘His name’s Frank Dolan and he lives at 3 Old School Cottages. Part of the old school, I expect,’ mumbled Louise, busy scrolling on her phone.
Dixon could feel a valuation coming on.
‘The one next door’s on Rightmove for two-seventy.’ She looked up to check Dixon was listening. ‘Three bedrooms – small, mind. Looks nice.’
All he needed was Donald Watson and he could get a valuation of the household contents as well.
Dixon parked next to the ‘Residents Only’ sign in the small car park twenty minutes later, the rest of the journey having been spent in silence.
The water butt by the front door made an interesting feature in the gravelled front garden; paving slabs for stepping stones, a shed all but hidden under a clematis. The rose growing up the wall could’ve done with a prune too. A sloping roof with wonky tiles and Velux windows. It would’ve made a nice village school.
Dolan saw them approaching through the kitchen window and opened the door before they reached it. ‘Come in out of the rain,’ he said. ‘Wilko rang me and told me you were coming.’
‘How long have you known Mr Wilkinson?’ asked Dixon.
‘Thirty years. We played together for a while, but then he got involved in refereeing.’
Corduroys, a shirt and pullover; he’d even put a tie on for their visit. Ex-military, judging by the choice of prints on the wall.
The lounge/diner at the back of the cottage – Louise had tried to show Dixon the floor plan of next door on her phone – was more of an office with a sofa in it, French windows opening into a small courtyard area at the back.
Two desks, a computer with two screens, four filing cabinets, printers, piles of magazines, even a large photocopier against the back wall.
‘I had to downsize when my wife went into a care home.’ Dolan’s voice was tinged with sadness. ‘Ended up here and the office rather took over.’
‘How long have you been honorary secretary?’ asked Dixon, once Louise was seated on the sofa with her notebook at the ready.
‘Fifteen years. I was chair before that, membership secretary before that; treasurer too. I think I’ve done the lot over the years. It’ll be life president next, then a coffin.’
‘It looks like a full-time job.’ Dixon was standing by Dolan’s desk, watching emails flashing up on the computer, a large spreadsheet open on the other screen that looked like competition results.
‘It is, really. I get paid my expenses, but that’s it.’ Dolan shook his head. ‘It keeps me busy, keeps me going, I suppose.’
‘And what does it involve?’
‘Well, we don’t have a membership secretary any more, or a treasurer, so both of those jobs for a start. I’m competition secretary too, and that takes up most of my time: keeping track of the various leagues, pairs, teams of four, Swiss pairs. Then there are the trophy competitions, interclub competitions; updating the website, minutes of the committee meetings.’ Dolan was standing in the French windows, watching the rain hammering down on his patio. ‘What the bloody hell else am I going to do at my time of life? A widower, with no children.’
The wall above the filing cabinets was covered in framed photographs, mainly of Dolan presenting trophies to various bridge pairs and teams. And there it was: 2003, the trophy being presented to Michael Allam and Deirdre Baxter, both beaming at the camera, enjoying the moment, before the allegations of cheating started to fly.
‘I was going to point that one out,’ said Dolan, noticing Dixon staring at the picture. ‘They made a fine pair. Deirdre a maths teacher, and I seem to recall that Michael had been an engineer before he took up teaching.’
‘Can you tell me what you remember about the court case?’
‘I knew George Sampson and Thomas Fowler well enough, I suppose. They were the losing finalists who made the cheating allegations and you could’ve knocked me down with a feather, to be honest. I was there, refereeing, and you’ve spoken to Wilko, haven’t you. He was there as tournament director, and neither of us spotted anything untoward. Then, all of a sudden, Sampson and Fowler are crying “cheat”. It had never happened before and it’s never happened since either.’
‘You suspended Deirdre and Michael?’
‘The committee met the following day and we felt we had no choice, to be honest, once the allegations had been made. The press had picked it up and we needed to be seen to be taking it seriously. We took advice from the English Bridge Union and they confirmed it was within the rules to do so, so we did it.’
‘And you defended the court proceedings?’
‘We didn’t feel we had a lot of choice about that either, so we instructed a local firm to deal with it.’ Dolan sat down on his office chair and spun around to face Dixon. ‘I was fairly relaxed about it, though. I took the view that the court was the appropriate forum to decide these matters, and if a judge overturned the ban, then so be it. And he did, meaning that off they went to the Regional Qualifier at the Palace Hotel, Torquay. Michael, Deirdre and their accusers.’
‘Were you there?’
‘I was, refereeing, although not matches in which the teams from Somerset were competing.’
‘How many teams were there?’
‘We sent three pairs actually.’
‘Do you remember anything unusual happening?’
Dolan was stroking his grey beard with his left hand. ‘You mean apart from the fire?’
Dixon waited.
