‘All the time, but it was always about how brave she was, about how she’d have seen to it Patrick was safe, and that she’d have gone back for her father, my grandfather. There’s a photo somewhere of him holding me in his arms, but I can’t remember meeting him, can I?’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I can’t remember my mother, let alone my grandfather. Just photos, that’s all I’ve got.’
‘And later?’
‘After Sally came along she got the brunt of it; nearly split them up in the beginning, but he just kept it inside – eating away at him, it was. He started drinking, had a breakdown, but then the girls came along and he seemed to settle. Then when I called this little one Patrick, Dad seemed to move on.’ She sighed. ‘God knows what will happen now.’
‘We have some formalities we need to deal with, if that’s all right,’ said Dixon, with an apologetic smile.
‘Dad warned me,’ replied Freya, rolling her eyes. ‘We’re suspects.’ Her voice was loaded with sarcasm, not that Dixon could blame her for that. Her father was more realistic, but the idea that a woman who was two at the time of her brother’s disappearance would kill four members of a bridge team in revenge was a bit of a stretch, perhaps. That said, the one witness thought the mysterious OT was female.
Louise stepped forward, notebook in hand.
‘I won’t really have an alibi, as such. I’ll have been here with him,’ Freya said, gesturing to her little boy.
They went through the dates, one by one.
‘That Saturday I went out with a friend, so she’ll vouch for me, and there’ll be the babysitter as well.’
Then the DNA swab.
‘How long have you known Jos?’ asked Dixon.
‘About three years. We went out for a while, but it wasn’t to be.’ She was feeding her son, most of the stewed apple ending up down the boy’s front. ‘Have you got children?’
‘Louise has a four-year-old,’ replied Dixon. ‘Mine’s on the way.’
‘If Patrick’s out there, you will find him this time, won’t you? I’m not sure my father will survive another disappointment. His marriage to Sally certainly won’t.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Find him this time,’ muttered Dixon, his voice just carrying over the diesel engine as he accelerated up the on-slip on to the motorway.
‘The Devon and Cornwall major investigation team twenty years ago was three times the size of our regional task force,’ said Louise. ‘And they were at it for three years.’
‘Four.’
‘Four years. Plus there was that private detective reinterviewing everybody.’
‘It might be useful to speak to him.’
‘I’ll see if he’ll come to Express Park, save us flogging down to Paignton.’
‘They both seem fairly relaxed about being suspects in four murders.’
‘Maybe they know they didn’t do it?’ Louise was dialling the private detective’s telephone number.
‘Maybe they think we can’t catch them,’ replied Dixon. ‘We’ve got no forensics and they’ve got alibis. Sort of.’
He drifted off while Louise spoke to the private detective, lights flashing by on the southbound carriageway as he drove north. No mention of a baby in the witness statements from the Somerset six – don’t start calling them that, for God’s sake; if the bloody press got hold of it – but then that might be expected if they’d put their heads together and decided to lie about it; to forget about it.
But then there was no mention of him in any of the witness statements. Surely someone else must have seen a baby on the terrace? Pandemonium it certainly must have been: smoke swirling, gas bottles exploding, sirens, blue lights, screaming, flying glass. Maybe everybody had just been too busy saving themselves?
And they could be forgiven for that.
He’d forgotten to ask William Hudson where he’d gone to school, but then the investigation had moved on from that with the murders of Thomas Fowler and George Sampson anyway.
‘Simon Copeland,’ said Louise, ringing off. ‘Said he can be at Express Park for seven.’
‘Good.’
‘William had been on to him already, he said, so he was expecting a call.’
‘We’re going to need to be careful,’ said Dixon. ‘We’re investigating four murders, and looking at the fire at the Palace Hotel as a possible motive for those murders. That’s all. Charlesworth will tell us it’s not our job to find the boy.’
‘What do you tell him if he tries that on?’
‘Find the boy, find the killer.’
‘And if the boy really is dead?’
‘Then it’s likely to be revenge and we’re looking at the father.’
‘He seemed genuine, I thought.’
‘Some people are accomplished liars,’ said Dixon. ‘They get a lot of practice.’
DS Wevill cut a lone figure, leaning against the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. He was looking at something on his phone, but then most people seemed to spend most of their time doing that these days, thought Dixon. He wondered how long it would have taken the Devon ACC, Yeend, to start throwing his weight around after their meeting. And how many times that day Wevill had been contacted by Superintendent Small.
