‘Yes.’
Dixon held the box-framed photograph and handprint in front of her, moving it lower when she looked down at her feet. ‘And this is a picture of your son, isn’t it? We’ve got a partial DNA profile, but this gives us his handprint too, doesn’t it? Welcome to the world, it says.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Diana started to shake.
‘I think it’s time we—’
Dixon wasn’t having that. ‘Sorry for what?’ he said, interrupting her solicitor.
‘He wouldn’t stop crying. All night and all day, he just wouldn’t stop. I was at the end of my tether with it. I tried everything to make him stop, sitting up, leaving him. In the end I snapped and I shook him, and shook him.’ Sobbing now, her face hidden in her hands. ‘He went quiet, so I put him down in his cot. Then, when I went in the next morning, he was cold.’
‘So, you panicked and buried him on the waste ground behind your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Robert was due back from Saudi and he was expecting to see his son. I was drinking, walking out on the coast path. I was intending to jump off the cliff, I think. It seemed the only way out. Then I saw the hotel on fire and went to see what was going on. We spent a lot of time there, were members of the leisure centre, so I knew the area well.’
Diana was breathing heavily now, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘There were people milling about on the terrace, being evacuated, and I noticed a group at the end of the terrace; older people, and there’d been a bridge thing going on, so I guessed they were players. One of the women was carrying a baby, so I took my chance. I didn’t have a lot to lose at that point, did I?’
‘What did you do?’
‘I ran over to them, told them the baby was my nephew and that I’d look after him.’ Diana turned to face Dixon; a look of surprise, if anything. ‘She just handed him over to me. It was like someone was giving me a second chance, so I just ran.’
‘Did the woman say anything to you?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘What happened when Robert came home?’
‘Nothing, really. He was delighted to meet Jos, his baby boy.’
‘And you never told him?’
‘Never. He didn’t need to know, and he never knew.’
‘It was a road traffic accident,’ said Dixon.
‘He was a motorcyclist; had a Honda Fireblade he used to go out on. Someone was doing a three-point turn on the A39 and that was that. Killed instantly.’
‘What about the publicity, the hunt for the missing child. Did he never suspect anything?’
‘He was back in Saudi for most of that, and it soon died down.’
‘Does Jos know?’
‘No. And I’d rather he didn’t, if there’s any way we—’
The solicitor placed his hand on Diana’s arm. ‘There isn’t, Diana. We did talk about that.’
‘Didn’t Jos think it odd when you asked him to give the DNA sample?’ asked Dixon.
‘Why would he? We were asked to provide an immediate-family sample and he’s part of the family.’
‘All right, Diana, let’s move on,’ said Dixon. ‘Does the name Deirdre Baxter mean anything to you?’
The hand on the arm again. Not a good sign.
‘No comment.’
‘Deirdre was a member of the Somerset bridge team at the Regional Qualifier that night at the Palace Hotel. Deirdre has been identified as the woman who handed the baby boy to you.’
‘Who by?’ demanded her solicitor.
‘Sean Rodwell.’
‘A convicted murderer and arsonist.’
‘Deirdre was found dead in her home, strangled,’ continued Dixon, not that he was going to get anywhere. ‘In fact, all six members of the Somerset bridge team there that night are either dead or suffering from dementia; four of them have been murdered.’
‘No comment.’
‘Where were you on the night of—’
‘My client has provided me with details of her whereabouts for the relevant dates. I have them here,’ said her solicitor, ‘and am instructed to pass them to you at the conclusion of this interview.’
