‘No, you don’t. There might be a look, Sean, but there isn’t a smell.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘Nice room.’
‘They keep this one for the lifers out on licence.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since I got out. I’ll be here six months, I expect. I would’ve gone home after that, but my mother’s dead.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be getting a job, integrating into society?’
‘I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up. Got a plumbing qualification on the inside.’ Rodwell was leaning back on his pillows, his hands behind his head. ‘Look, what d’you want exactly, or are you just here to pass the time of day?’
‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Patrick Hudson,’ replied Dixon. A little white lie, but it had the desired effect.
Rodwell sat up. ‘Disappearance?’
‘You said in your first interview you saw him with a bridge team on the terrace.’
‘That’s right. An older woman was holding him and she handed him over to the woman in the red coat.’
‘Describe the bridge team.’
‘There were six of them, all around the same age, sixty or so, maybe older; two women and four men. I was watching from the trees on the far side of the golf course, so it was difficult to see what they were wearing. The lights on the terrace had gone off, so they were in silhouette – almost – and then there was the smoke. There were people running about, screaming.’
‘How far away were you?’
‘The trees curved around and it was only a pitch and putt, so they were seventy yards from where I was. No more than that.’
Dixon slid a photograph out of his coat pocket, the one of Deirdre Baxter and Michael Allam holding the county bridge trophy. ‘Do you recognise these two?’
‘Yes, that’s them, and that’s the woman who was holding Patrick. Definitely. It’s the hair. I’d been on lunches that day and had served them a buffet at the back of the ballroom.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened when the baby was taken.’
‘They were standing at the end of the terrace, waiting to get to the steps down to the gardens, and from there on to the golf course. There was a lot of people being evacuated that way. A woman in a red coat, it had a hood that was up, ran up to them, said something to the woman with Patrick and then she handed him over.’ Rodwell had gone back in time, deep in thought, his eyes glazed over. ‘Then the woman in the red coat ran along the terrace, behind the crowd, and I lost sight of her at the far end. She went behind some big bushes at that end of the rose garden.’
‘Did she look like she knew where she was going?’
‘Oh, yeah. She made a beeline for the trees at the far end of the terrace. There’s a path through the trees and then it’s out on to the road that runs around the back. She knew full well where she was going all right.’
‘What did the bridge team do then?’
‘I lost sight of them in the crowd. I reckon they’d have followed everyone else, down the steps and out on to the golf course.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘I decided I’d seen enough and was walking home along the Babbacombe Road when your lot picked me up. I’d been sacked that afternoon and was top of the list of suspects, apparently.’
‘Why were you sacked?’
‘Eating leftovers, they said, but the head chef had it in for me and it was a way of getting rid of me without paying notice.’ Rodwell sighed. ‘If only the bloody bridge team had said something about the boy.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to your sentence.’
‘I suppose not, but there’s the family. His father came to see me in prison, but there wasn’t a lot I could tell him. And I got what I deserved. His wife and father-in-law died thanks to me.’ He was sitting with his legs over the side of the bed now, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘Why now though?’
‘The bridge team are dead.’
‘Which ones?’
‘All of them, except one who’s got dementia. One died of a heart attack in 2012, the other four have been murdered.’
‘Fuck me.’
‘And you’re sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about that night?’
‘There was a private detective. Had the same name as that bloke from The Police – the rock band, you know. Copeland, was it? He was brought in by the boy’s family and I tried to help him as best I could. He said he’d found a witness who saw the woman in the red coat.’
‘We know about her,’ replied Dixon.
‘Where is she?’
‘Dead.’
‘All I can say is, that boy didn’t die in the fire. I accept entirely that his mother and grandfather did, and I’ve done my time for that; there’s not a day goes by that I don’t regret what happened. But Patrick Hudson is out there somewhere. He’ll be, what, twenty-one by now?’
