‘You’ll find out then, soon enough. The usual stuff – bottles, nappies, changes of clothes, toys. One bag for her and three for him. I helped her load the car.’
‘Did Patrick have a dummy?’
‘He’d just started teething so he had one, yes. It helped calm him down; it was blue with a cartoon fox on it.’
Louise must have given it away; Dixon had done his best poker face.
‘Have you found his dummy?’ demanded Hudson, looking from one to the other.
‘We’ve found a baby’s dummy that matches that description in the glovebox of Deirdre Baxter’s car,’ replied Dixon. ‘Mrs Baxter was a member of the Somerset bridge team at the Palace Hotel that night and was found murdered last Saturday. It’s being tested for DNA now, but I have to tell you a result is unlikely after all this time.’
Tears had started to roll down Hudson’s cheeks. ‘She bloody well lied. All this time, my son was alive and she lied. They all must have done, the whole team.’ He looked up at Dixon, fighting to keep his composure. ‘Why?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘That could’ve been worse.’ Louise broke the silence. ‘I thought he took it rather well. I’d have . . . well, I don’t know what I’d have done if it had been Katie.’
‘Grief is a brutal business,’ replied Dixon. ‘It can do terrible things to people. And make people do terrible things.’
‘I just hope to God it’s not the son behind these killings, because I’d hate to have to break that news to him. We’ve found your son, but he’s going down for four murders.’
‘Let’s get his alibis checked.’
‘Freya, the daughter, lives in Taunton,’ said Louise. ‘So we could call in on Dr Poland on the way if you want. I emailed him the pathologist’s report earlier, like you asked.’
‘Let’s do that.’
The Pathology Department had closed, the reception in darkness, so Dixon followed the flowerbeds around the back, just enough light coming from the orthopaedic department opposite. Lights were on inside the lab, a green figure looming large in the frosted windows.
Dixon tapped on the glass.
‘Who is it?’ Poland’s voice.
‘Nick.’
‘Fire escape.’
Poland had removed his apron, gloves and mask before he opened the fire escape door, although blood was still smeared on the sleeve of his smock. ‘They still haven’t fixed this,’ he said, closing the door behind them and lifting the lever. ‘We’ll go in my office. I’ve got a grim one on the go in there.’
‘The Ilminster bypass again, is it?’ asked Dixon.
‘The A37 this time.’
‘You free on Valentine’s Day?’
‘It’s already in the diary,’ replied Poland, grinning. ‘Jane texted me, not that it’s really the bride’s job to organise the best man.’
Dixon glanced into the lab through the open door of Poland’s office.
‘Go and have a look, if you want,’ offered Poland, knowing full well he’d be ignored.
‘Did you have a look at the stuff Lou sent over?’
‘Heat-induced changes in the infant skeleton are a bit of a specialist subject of mine,’ said Poland. He had opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and taken a bottle of Scotch from behind the files. ‘Fancy a nip?’
‘We’re on duty, Roger.’
‘Of course you are, sorry.’ Poland looked confused, wondering why that had never been an issue before, probably. ‘Let’s cut to the chase then, shall we?’ He picked up a mug from his desk and drained the dregs of a cold coffee before pouring himself a whisky. ‘I can’t disagree with the pathologist’s findings. And I’ve never met the fellow, so can’t comment on his competence, either; he’s long since retired too.’
‘I can feel a “but” coming on.’
‘But I am surprised by them.’
‘Go on.’ Dixon had perched on the windowsill, leaving the one chair in front of Poland’s desk for Louise, who was making notes.
‘It was certainly a high-intensity fire. That much is clear from the photographs of the mother and her father. We’re soft tissue and bone, basically, and the body fat acts as fuel. In an adult, the bone has calcified and will survive a fire in one form or another. Even the local crem has to crush the bones so we get ashes to scatter, but in a baby it’s different.’ Poland drained the whisky in one go before putting the bottle back in the filing cabinet, talking over the clang of the drawer. ‘The bones are soft, and calcification doesn’t start until about three months after birth, so it’s a reasonable assumption there’d be nothing left in a high-intensity fire.’
‘I’m still waiting for this “but”.’
‘In my experience – and I have some, sadly – a mother in that situation will do everything she can to try to shield her baby from the flames, and if she does that, the likelihood is that something of the child’s body will survive underneath the mother’s body. Survive is the wrong word in that instance.’ Poland grimaced. ‘Something of the baby’s body will remain, possibly even fused to the mother’s body by the fire. Here, there’s nothing.’
‘So, she didn’t have her baby with her?’
‘Possibly not is the best I can say, I’m afraid.’
‘Is there anything else in the photographs?’
‘Not really. Our muscles contract when we burn, so it’s difficult to read too much into the pose. The mother and her father were together, in the corner of the hotel room, embracing, which makes it less likely she had her baby with her, unless they were both trying to shield him, but then you’d expect some remains, as I say.’