‘The ballroom burned to the ground on the Saturday night. Three people were killed; one of the competitors – from Cornwall, I think – his daughter and her little baby. The whole hotel had to be evacuated, and I remember standing out in the road watching the fire engines. There were people everywhere, milling about. It was chaos. Turned out it was arson in the end, and the bloke got a life sentence. Quite right too.’
‘Did you see Michael or Deirdre during the fire?’
‘Not that I recall. It was a huge hotel and some people were evacuated on to the golf course behind it. I suppose it depended on where you were staying in the complex. There used to be the terrace, then a nine-hole par-three course for residents to potter about on out the back. I had a go once, with Deirdre on the first afternoon; hired some clubs and off we went. She was bloody good.’
‘You said used to be?’
‘It’s been knocked down for houses now, I believe. The whole place. Not as a result of the fire. The ballroom was rebuilt and we took the Regional Qualifier back there again a couple of years later. We used the Winter Gardens in Weston once, I think. That was for the rescheduled last day about a month after the fire. Then the Riviera Centre in Torquay for a couple of years, then back to the Palace Hotel.’ Dolan had drifted off, deep in thought. ‘I can remember the smell as if it was yesterday; the flames climbing high into the sky, the noise, blue lights everywhere, people screaming, trying to move cars out of the car park, would you believe it. As if that mattered.’
‘Where were you when the fire started?’ asked Dixon.
‘In my room, so I was left standing out in the road in my pyjamas and dressing gown. It must’ve been ten or so. It had been a long day and I was due to be refereeing the first match on the Sunday morning. There were people everywhere. A huge crowd had gathered on the far side of the road to watch the fire, and I remember the hotel staff had terrible trouble trying to call the roll. It was horrible, really. The hotel was down a slope, so from the road you were almost looking down on it. The ballroom off to the right, huge pine trees behind it; you could see them starting to burn too.’ Dolan was gesturing with his arms, laying out the geography. ‘Behind and to the left as you looked at it was the leisure centre, which was untouched, and the main part of the hotel was all right, as well. It was just the ballroom and the rooms above it. Gas bottles in the kitchen, apparently.’
‘Did you see the Somerset teams later that night?’
‘No. I didn’t see them again until the reconvened last day at the Winter Gardens about a month later. I was bit disorientated that night, ended up on someone’s sofa in the flats opposite. Nice couple, they were. They even took me home the next day. We still exchange Christmas cards.’
‘Did you speak to Michael and Deirdre at the Winter Gardens?’
‘Not about the fire, and they seemed to have lost interest in the bridge, to be honest. Several pairs didn’t turn up at all; only the few who had been in contention to qualify for the nationals, really. Michael and Deirdre were going through the motions, you might say; Sampson and Fowler too. And the other pair didn’t turn up at all. It was odd, come to think of it.’ Dolan was opening and closing the top drawers of the filing cabinets one by one before pulling out a file and flicking through it. ‘Yes, I thought so,’ he said to himself.
Dixon was doing his best to stay patient. He glanced down at Louise, her pen hovering over her notebook.
‘Yes, look at this. None of the three pairs that went to the Regional Qualifier that year ever competed again as far as I can see. Certainly none of them made it through to the County Finals together again. It looks like they just stopped playing competitive bridge.’
‘We know that Deirdre started playing with a new partner and ended up marrying him,’ said Dixon.
‘Maybe he wasn’t any good at bridge, then,’ replied Dolan. ‘Or maybe the litigation and all the nastiness that went with it was too much for her?’
‘What about Sampson and Fowler?’
‘There’s no record of them competing together again either.’ Dolan was turning the pages of the ring binder. ‘There’s George Sampson reaching the County Finals three years in a row after that, but with a new partner. No mention of Thomas Fowler, I’m afraid.’
‘What about the other pair?’ asked Dixon. ‘You said Somerset sent three pairs to the Regional Qualifier.’
‘No record of them competing again at all,’ said Dolan. He closed the file and turned to his computer, scrolling through a spreadsheet on the screen on the left. ‘Not current members, either. I can give you the addresses I’ve got for them, but they might be a bit out of date, I’m afraid.’
Chapter Twenty
‘Judith Bolam died in 2012,’ said Louise, as Dixon accelerated along the main road towards Martock. ‘Jane’s going to speak to the daughter, but she lives in France. According to the electoral roll, Geoffrey Pannell still lives in Martock at the same address. He must be knocking on a bit now, though.’ Her lips were moving as she did the maths in her head. ‘Yeah, he’ll be eighty-nine.’
‘Get uniform over there now to do a welfare check,’ said Dixon. ‘Tell them to stay with him until we get there.’
‘Yes, Sir’ – her phone to her ear.
‘It’s got nothing to do with fucking bridge at all. Something happened during that fire and I want to know what it was.’ He was talking out loud, ignoring Louise’s telephone conversation.
She turned away, her left hand blocking her other ear. ‘Sorry, I can’t hear . . .’
‘There’s a reason why those teams never played together again and it’s not that litigation. In fact’ – he thumped the steering wheel – ‘it’s probably the same reason why they settled it and went their separate ways.’
Louise rang off. ‘There’s a patrol car on the way now.’
‘Something happened at that Regional Qualifier, something to do with that fire.’
Two patrol cars were parked in the lane outside the small cottage on the edge of Martock, dog walkers standing under umbrellas on the opposite side of the road, neighbours leaning over the garden fence. The streetlights were on, drizzle falling on the officers as they looked in Geoffrey Pannell’s front windows.
Dixon parked next to the patrol cars, blocking the lane, Louise jumping out of the Land Rover before it had come to a stop, warrant card at the ready.
‘No sign of life, Sir,’ said a uniformed sergeant Dixon didn’t recognise. ‘A neighbour has rung the daughter and she’s on her way down from Bath. Said she’d be at least an hour and a half.’
Louise had squatted down and was looking through the letterbox. ‘It’s got one of those bloody brush things on it. Can’t see a thing.’
A solid uPVC door, brand new by the looks of things; the type with a barrel lock and latches all the way down. There was no easy way through that. ‘What’s round the back?’ asked Dixon.
‘Kitchen door’s wooden, Sir,’ replied the sergeant, recognising the gist of the question. ‘With a pane of glass. Probably bolts top and bottom. We haven’t got a battering ram, though, I’m afraid.’
Dixon followed the path around the side of the cottage, picking up a stone urn on the way and emptying the mud in it on to the flowerbed. Flat bottomed, it looked much like a goblet; good grip, and ideal for breaking in.
‘Like I said, though, Sir,’ said the sergeant, following him, ‘the daughter’s on her way with a key if we can wait a bit.’
‘We can’t,’ replied Dixon. He stopped in front of the back door, kicking the bottom of it with his toe. ‘No bolt there anyway.’
‘Usual protocol would be to wait, Sir,’ said the sergeant, trying again.
‘Somerset sent three pairs to the Regional Qualifier for the English National Pairs Final in 2003. One of them has dementia, four are dead – three of them murdered – which makes Mr Pannell last man standing.’
‘And I have a horrible feeling someone’s beaten us to him,’ said Louise. She was standing on the edge of the small lawn, shining the light on her phone at the back door.
