‘God, you are old-fashioned, aren’t you?’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’
‘I’m not saying obey. Love, cherish, till death us do part, all of that, but not obey.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charlesworth’s text message arrived while Dixon was waiting for Louise the following morning.
We can’t justify police protection for Sean Rodwell. Tell him to stay in the halfway house at all times. He’ll be safe there.
It had been worth a try, but the response was inevitable, perhaps, Charlesworth following it up with a second message.
If revenge was the motive, Rodwell would be dead already. After all, he’s been out of prison and accessible for two weeks.
It was a fair point, although it hadn’t become public knowledge until recently.
The bridge team had been silenced; killed to prevent them telling the truth about something. That much was clear from the fact that George Sampson had been left alive. And that something could only be that they had indeed handed young Patrick Hudson to the mystery woman in a red coat on the terrace of the Palace Hotel during the fire that fateful night more than twenty years ago.
If that was right, then there was no need to kill Rodwell. He hadn’t been believed back then, and without the bridge team to back him up, there was no chance he’d be believed now. He’d be a lone voice, crying in the wind; assuming he decided to speak up, anyway. He could be forgiven for avoiding the limelight like the plague.
That said, revenge remained a powerful motive, and the killer might just be biding his or her time.
Dixon tapped out a reply to Charlesworth.
On your head be it.
He thought better of it, hitting the Delete button instead of Send. Then tapped out another to Jane.
Can we cross check the guest lists against the statements taken. Look for anyone at the hotel that night who didn’t give a statement. Nx
The chances were slim, but if the abduction of Patrick Hudson had been opportunistic, as it must surely have been, then the woman in the red coat had had another reason to be there that night.
A dinner guest, possibly. No hotel asked the names of all diners when taking a dinner reservation.
Another text to Jane:
Check leisure centre members too. Ta
Dixon was almost hoping Louise would be late when the barking started. Seconds later, a knock at the door.
‘We’ll take your car,’ he said, opening the front door of the cottage.
‘We’re not taking him with us, are we?’
‘I’ll pick up the Land Rover and him on the way back.’
The halfway house was just another house in the street. No signs, or fences to keep anyone in or out. Dull grey stone with bay windows, the front garden paved over for parking; a police patrol car fifty yards further along – Dixon had organised it anyway.
Mercifully, there was a space for Louise to park.
‘Shall I go in there?’
‘I would,’ replied Dixon.
‘I know you would.’
The front door flew open. ‘You can’t park there!’
Warrant cards at the ready.
‘You can put those away, please. We like to be unobtrusive around here, for obvious reasons.’
‘We’ve come to see Sean Rodwell,’ said Dixon, his voice hushed – being unobtrusive, as instructed.
The man’s eyes were darting from side to side; checking for neighbours snooping, probably. ‘He’s in. Top of the stairs, first door on the right.’
The front room with the bay window.
Nice.
Rodwell was lying on the bed, shoes on, watching breakfast television. He’d have done much the same for the last twenty years, and old habits die hard.
Louise sat down at the table in the window and took out her notebook, Dixon standing at the end of the bed between Rodwell and This Morning.
‘I smell coppers,’ said Rodwell.
