‘We were at a pig farm over at East Brent,’ Cole said, the impatient edge to his voice all but gone. ‘We thought it best to preserve the scene, just in case.’
‘The scene?’
‘The intranet says we’re to notify CID if we come across an unexplained death – an elderly person in their own home.’
Dixon knew Cole better than that. ‘You’ve looked at the intranet?’
‘She did.’
Sarah was standing on the doormat, her boots off and placed neatly on a piece of newspaper in the porch.
‘Well done, Constable.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
He was tempted to ask if the intranet mentioned why CID should be alerted, but thought better of it. Perhaps reading it himself in future might be an idea? ‘Who is she?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Deirdre Baxter,’ replied Sarah, her notebook already open. ‘Aged eighty-eight. She was found by her carer, Christine MacBride, just after six. She called the duty doctor, but he couldn’t find any obvious cause and there’s nothing in Deirdre’s medical records. She’s not seen her GP in the last twenty-eight days, so it needs to be referred to the coroner anyway.’
‘See what I mean?’ muttered Cole.
‘Is Christine still here?’
‘She had other clients to see to, so we let her go,’ replied Cole. ‘She said she can pop back after ten if we need her.’
‘The armchair opposite Deirdre has been moved, Sir.’ Sarah stood to one side when Dixon stepped into the hall. ‘It’s not sitting in the indentations on the carpet. The TV was off too. Christine said it was usually on all day; Deirdre liked the company. The voices, you know.’
‘And that’s it, is it?’
‘It’s all we could see,’ replied Cole.
‘I’ll go and have a look then,’ said Dixon. ‘While I’m doing that, you go and have a word with that nosy bugger opposite. Lights on, curtains open, you can bet he’s got chapter and verse on comings and goings.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Sarah was hastily putting on her boots, and set off down the garden path with the laces still undone.
‘She’s going to be the death of me,’ said Cole, under his breath. ‘D’you want me to go with her?’
‘You stay there, Nige.’
Dixon walked on the newspaper, careful to avoid the muddy boot prints. An alert to be on the lookout for unexplained deaths among the elderly meant there had been others – with, at the very least, a suspicion of foul play. Where, though? Certainly not on his patch. Someone would have mentioned it.
Looking for anything that might be remotely suspicious explained Sarah noticing the wandering armchair too. A bright kid.
The newspaper in front of the electric fire was well trodden, but even the warmth from the single bar was welcome on a cold January night; not quite the same as the fire pit at the cider farm, but better than nothing. Dixon looked down at Deirdre Baxter. The colour had drained from her face some time ago, replaced by the pallid grey of death.
Eyes closed. Died in her sleep, possibly, but then how many people slept with their fists clenched?
A pair of reading glasses on a cord around her neck, folded flat so you had to look carefully to notice one arm was missing.
A personal alarm was on the floor under the small table to her left, the elasticated wrist strap still intact. Dixon slid a pen out of his inside jacket pocket, squatted down and pressed the button.
‘Hello Deirdre, it’s Ruth from Taking Care. Are you all right?’ The voice was coming from a base unit on the sideboard.
‘Ruth, this is Detective Chief Inspector Dixon of Avon and Somerset Police. I’m afraid Mrs Baxter is deceased. Can you tell me whether you’ve received any other calls from this alarm today, please?’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. No; no calls. It would be on the system if we had.’
‘When was the last one?’
‘Boxing Day, it says here. Deirdre pressed the button by mistake. It happens a lot at Christmas. Sometimes they just want someone to talk to.’
‘All right, thank you,’ replied Dixon. ‘Someone will be in touch in due course.’
He turned back to Deirdre and stared at her. Something wasn’t quite right, he knew that much, but as for what it was . . .
Sarah was right, the armchair had been moved, but not by much; maybe six inches nearer the fire. And nearer Deirdre. The indentations in the carpet were deep and there were no other marks, so the chair was rarely moved, if ever. That was the best Dixon could come up with, no matter how hard he stared at it.
The wrist strap was tight, so maybe she’d taken off her alarm and put it on the table, from where it had fallen on the floor? Then she’d died peacefully in her sleep.
No, it was her face, something forced about it.
‘Sir, Sir.’ There was an urgency in Sarah’s voice and her footsteps on the newspaper in the hall. ‘You need to come and hear this. That bloke opposite.’
Sleet was falling as they crossed the road, which would have put paid to Jane’s wassailing and given her the perfect excuse to head for the safety of Roger’s house, and the curry. Dixon checked his phone and there was the text message:
Pissing down. Gone back to Roger’s Jx
‘This is Mr Hardy,’ said Sarah, making the introductions on the doorstep over the yapping of a small terrier in the window. Unshaven, balding; the unmistakeable whiff of beer, although the can of Stella in his right hand might have had something to do with it. ‘DCI Dixon. Tell him what you told me.’
