‘We spoke to the boy’s father and he said his wife would’ve done everything she could to get their son out, and then gone back for her father.’
‘And the bloke who started the fire said in interview he saw a group on the terrace holding a small baby,’ said Louise, her voice wobbly. ‘Sorry, I keep thinking what I’d do if it was me and Katie.’
‘Whisky?’ mouthed Poland.
‘Best not,’ replied Louise, forcing a smile.
‘All right then, Roger,’ said Dixon. ‘You’re in the witness box, under oath. Where’s the baby?’
‘It’s possible he died in the fire, but based on my past experience, I’d say it’s more likely she got him out.’
‘That explains why the CPS dropped the charge,’ said Dixon, turning the key, pausing while his diesel engine rumbled into life. ‘A pathologist for the defence saying that in the witness box, and there’s your reasonable doubt. A jury would never have convicted Rodwell of killing the boy in the fire.’
‘Drop the charge, accept a plea to the murders of the mother and her father.’ Louise shook her head. ‘Case closed.’
‘Let’s go and see if Freya thinks her little brother died in the fire.’
‘She’s in one of the new houses over at Monkton Heathfield.’
A crescent of townhouses off one of the interminable number of new roundabouts; Dixon had lost count.
‘Number twenty-seven,’ said Louise. ‘Must be that way.’
Odd numbers to the left, evens to the right.
Three storeys, built in blocks of three; upstairs to the living room, judging by the sofa and the flicker of the TV screen visible in the first-floor window. A small car parked in the drive, child seat in the back.
‘She’s got a son,’ said Louise. ‘There was a picture on Facebook. She’s called him Patrick.’
A nice touch.
The front door opened before Dixon had a chance to ring the bell, a young man stepping out into the darkness. ‘I was just leaving,’ he said, narrowly avoiding a collision with Louise in the entrance porch. A glance at their warrant cards. ‘She’s expecting you. Upstairs, in the kitchen.’ And then he was gone, across the grass in the middle of the crescent, the lights flashing on a car on the far side.
‘They never build these new developments with enough parking,’ said Louise.
It hadn’t bothered Dixon, leaving his Land Rover across the drive. No, what bothered him was that he recognised the young man, but couldn’t place him. It would come; all in good time.
‘Miss Hudson,’ called Louise, from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Up here.’
Long, straight black hair, black leggings and a white T-shirt spattered with food; a small child sitting in a high chair banging a plastic spoon on the tray in front of him.
‘My father rang, said you’d want to speak to me about the fire.’
‘Who was that just leaving?’ asked Dixon.
‘Oh, you met Jos?’ She was warming something in a microwave, keeping an eye on whatever was inside through the Perspex window. ‘He’s my ex-boyfriend. Jos Hope-Bruce. His family owns the Oake Cider Farm. Well, he does, actually.’
And there it was. Behind the temporary bar at the wassailing.
‘Is he your son’s father?’ asked Louise, pulling a face at the child waiting not so patiently for his pudding.
‘No. He’s not part of our lives any more, and we’re fine with that.’ She was emptying the contents of a plastic tray on to a small plate, blowing on it. ‘Look, I was only two at the time of the fire, so I’m not sure how much help I can be. I don’t even remember my mother or my brother, I’m sorry to say. I have images in my head, but I don’t know whether they’re real memories, or I’ve just picked them up from family photographs.’
‘What d’you think of Sean Rodwell’s statement that he saw a group of people on the terrace, during the fire, holding a baby? He said he thought it was one of the bridge teams.’
‘I know my dad wants to believe it. He’s always thought Patrick was alive, somewhere.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
‘Never have. I’m not saying I’d have felt it in my bones, or anything daft like that. I just don’t think he’s alive. I thought my dad was moving on as well, to be honest, and now we’ve got you lot dragging it all up, opening all the old wounds. He could really do without it, especially if it comes to nothing. He’s struggled with his mental health and I really don’t want this to tip him over the edge. Again.’
‘We’ve got four murders to investigate, all of them members of the Somerset bridge team that was there that night.’
‘I understand that. I’m sorry, I just don’t want my father having another breakdown, that’s all. I’m not sure Sally could cope with it, either.’
‘Tell me about Sally.’ Dixon was walking around the open-plan first floor, pictures printed on to canvas mounted on the wall; all of Freya’s young son, none of her brother.
‘I was just grateful he met someone. It was about ten years ago, and they got married, making her my stepmother. Then two sisters came along; half-sisters I suppose, to be technically correct, but it’s never felt like that. Later on, I moved out, got pregnant, and Dad lets us live in one of these. He bought the whole block of three off plan. The other two are rented out.’
‘What are your earliest memories of the aftermath of the fire?’
‘Dad obsessing about it. It was all he ever did. I was dragged to meetings with a private detective; I can remember his grubby little office in Paignton, up a side street. Sitting outside the Palace Hotel in the car. We’d do that for hours at a time. I think Dad was hoping my brother would come back, for some reason; that he was still in the area. We even checked into the hotel a couple of times and stayed in the rebuilt bit. I can remember swimming in the pool. And the dining room, playing in the ballroom – the new one.’ Her eyes glazed over. ‘I never felt as if I was enough. There was always something missing. And there was, obviously.’
‘Did he ever talk about your mother?’
