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Dixon could hear the conversation playing over in his head as he walked up the stairs: Keep an eye on things, Deano, and let us know . . .

Gits.

He was sure it was Wevill feeding information to that journalist too. If he could remember, he’d let slip some crap and see if it popped up in print.

‘Jane’s gone to see her dad,’ said Sarah. ‘He’s home early, they discharged him this afternoon. Said she’d stop off at your cottage to feed Monty on the way.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon, sitting down at a computer, intending to update the Policy Log. Hoping something else might pop up, suitably urgent, that meant he didn’t have to.

‘We’ve got people out checking alibis, and you’ll find additional witness statements from the bridge players on the system,’ said Mark. ‘Fire brigade who attended the scene too, hotel staff. It’s going to take a while with a team this size.’

‘Find anything on the cameras?’

‘Only the cloned Fiat. No clear image of the driver.’

Dixon saved the changes to the Policy Log, his phone buzzing on his desk within seconds.

Charlesworth.

He could imagine it – Well done, good work, you’re sticking your neck out, tread carefully. He decided to save the ACC the bother, dropping his phone into his jacket pocket, careful not to answer the call by mistake. Voicemail was a wonderful thing.

‘There’s a Mr Copeland in reception asking for you,’ said Sarah, her head appearing over the top of Dixon’s computer.

‘Where’s Louise?’

‘Gone home,’ replied Sarah. ‘You told her to go and get some rest.’

‘You are claiming your overtime, aren’t you?’

‘I wasn’t, but Jane insisted. She’s got the forms.’

‘Good. Grab a notebook then, and let’s go and see what Mr Copeland has got to say for himself.’

He didn’t look much like a private detective, but then American telly hadn’t done them many favours. Grubby little men in dirty raincoats, cigarettes sticking out of the corners of their mouths. Thomas Magnum was different, of course, with his flowery shirts and Ferrari, but Copeland didn’t fit either stereotype.

He looked more like a bank manager, back in the days when banks had managers, with a touch of the Private Walker about him, perhaps, although that may have been the moustache.

‘Ah, the SIO himself,’ said Copeland, when Dixon opened the security door. ‘I saw the press conference on the television. So, it’s true then?’ He was clutching a thin file tightly to his chest. ‘Will Hudson rang me, said you might be in touch.’

Dixon gestured to the three doors standing open at the far end of the reception area. ‘Pick an interview room.’

Sarah closed the door behind them.

‘Five members of the Somerset bridge team are dead, four of them murdered.’

‘Who’s last man standing?’ asked Copeland. He clearly understood the gravity of the situation and was trying to contain his excitement.

‘George Sampson,’ replied Dixon. ‘We believe our killer visited him, but left him alive because he’s in the advanced stages of dementia.’

‘I always thought that lot were hiding something,’ said Copeland. ‘They were the only ones who refused to speak to me. Everybody else was happy to go over it again – even though they couldn’t add much to their police statements, if anything – but I could never persuade any of the Somerset team to cooperate. And they all said pretty much the same thing, that they’d given detailed statements to the police and had nothing to add.’

‘You think their refusal was coordinated?’

‘Definitely. They’d put their heads together and agreed what they’d say. They even used much the same language.’ He sighed. ‘So, they were Rodwell’s bridge team, were they?’

‘It’s a line of enquiry.’

‘Five years of my life I spent on this case, on and off.’

‘Were there any flaws in the original police investigation?’

Copeland appeared surprised by the question, raising his eyebrows above his horn-rimmed glasses, albeit fleetingly. ‘Not really, if I’m honest. They did everything you’d expect. Took statements, asked the question of everybody.’

‘And what d’you think happened to Patrick Hudson?’

‘He was taken.’ No hesitation, no room for doubt. ‘Tucked under a red coat, off across the golf course to the coast path and gone. There was a gate on the far side of the trees that took you out on to Anstey’s Cove Road, then another path into the trees on the far side. It’s no bloody wonder nobody saw anything. Dense woodland, it is.’

‘A local then, who knew the area.’

‘Unquestionably. Then you can go in either direction on the coast path – north to Babbacombe or south towards Hope Cove and the Wellswood area. Anybody out and about would’ve been watching the fire.’

Copeland had placed the thin yellow file on the table in front of him face down, hiding the label, and was turning it as he spoke.

‘Have you spoken to Sean?’ he asked.

‘I’m seeing him tomorrow morning.’

‘You develop a good bullshit detector in this line of work, and I thought Sean was telling the truth about the woman in the red coat. Days I spent, out on the coast path, talking to anybody and everybody, asking if they remembered seeing a woman in a red coat. In both directions too, where the path drops down to Babbacombe beach and further south.’ He inhaled deeply through his nose, then turned the file over. ‘And eventually I found a witness.’

Are sens

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