‘I must start doing the lottery again.’
Dixon parked across two corrugated iron gates where the road swung around and away from the tree-lined cliff edge on his right, a gravel track beyond visible through a gap in the gates cut for the padlock and chain. The ‘For Sale’ board had helped.
‘The estate agent said he’d meet us here at two-thirty,’ said Louise. ‘He’s only five minutes away, down in Wellswood, he said.’
‘You did tell him we weren’t here to buy anything?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Sorry, I was doing a viewing over at Babbacombe.’ The suit was climbing out of a Mini emblazoned with estate agency logos.
‘They’re good-sized plots.’
Dixon turned away, cringing to himself as Louise turned property developer.
‘How much are they?’ she asked.
‘One-point-one each.’
‘Just for the plot?’
‘With full planning permission.’ The agent was rummaging through a set of keys. ‘Five bedrooms, double garage and an indoor pool. Good-sized gardens too, with sea glimpses.’
Dixon turned around, looking for the sea.
‘It’s in that direction, from the upstairs windows and the top of the garden,’ continued the agent. ‘There are balconies and you could put a summer house up there to make the most of it.’
‘You did tell him we weren’t buying?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The chain slid out of the padlock, the gate swinging open to reveal a gravel track, the building plots marked out beyond with wooden stakes and white tape.
‘What are the houses on the left?’ asked Dixon.
‘That’s the back of Richmond Close. And those over there are part of Ilsham Marine Drive.’
‘And out the back?’
‘That’s owned by the council. It’s part of the coast path and there’s a seating area. The coast path used to come through here, but they’ve moved it to the other side of those houses. It was only a hundred yard section.’
Both plots had been cleared to bare earth and levelled, the whole area enclosed in brand new wood panel fencing.
‘What did it look like before it was cleared?’
‘It was very overgrown, trees and brambles mainly. Kids used to play in here; sometimes you’d get druggies, people living in tents, hidden in the bushes. There was even an old shelter in the middle someone had built out of bits of this and that – pallets and old sections of fence.’
‘Could you move about without being seen?’
‘Oh, God yes. It was woodland, basically, and very overgrown, as I say.’
Dixon was weaving in between the puddles, his hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. ‘Who owned it?’
‘A local developer bought it off the family when the owner died,’ replied the agent. ‘He lived in the bottom corner of Richmond Close and bought it years ago just to stop it being built on, I think. Anyway, when he died, the family moved on and sold the land.’
‘And the house?’
‘Yes, that was sold last year. Probate held it up a bit, you know how it is.’
‘Where were the baby’s remains found?’
‘That corner, I think.’ The agent was gesturing to the far side of the plot, furthest from the sea, close to the back of the houses in Richmond Close. ‘About there,’ he said, when Dixon was standing on the spot.
Not that there was anything to see except bare earth, neatly levelled by a digger, a new fence and planting beyond; evidence that the residents of Richmond Close weren’t entirely happy with the idea of new neighbours. Most had opted for leylandii.
The old fence was still there, oddly enough, the new one having been built just inside the boundary, a gap of no more than a few inches between the two.
‘They’ve all got back gates,’ Dixon said, dropping back down and brushing his hands together. ‘Not much use now though.’
‘Yes, I think they used to use it as a bit of a dumping ground,’ replied the agent. ‘Grass clippings and stuff like that. Garden rubbish.’
‘Drive round and park in Richmond Close,’ Dixon had said, getting on for half an hour ago.
Louise had resisted the temptation to sigh loudly. She hadn’t commented on the houses either, which was unusual. Modern, timber clad, conservatories, front lawns open to the road; Dixon had never understood that. Large blue hydrangeas, pine trees and conifers, the lines of leylandii at the back just getting going.
He had been working his way through the results of the DNA testing done by Torquay police the previous October and November, just before someone started killing the bridge team. All the local residents had dutifully complied, according to the spreadsheet. Past residents too; DNA had been taken from those fortunate enough – or unfortunate enough, depending on which way you looked at it – to live in Richmond Close covering the entire five-year period given by the pathologist. ‘Been in the ground between twenty and twenty-five years.’
