An occupational therapist wasn’t an unusual visitor for an elderly person to have in their own home. Deirdre had a walking frame; the legs of her armchair were on risers. He’d glanced in the lavatory on the way past and there were handles on the wall and a folding seat in the shower, so she must’ve had visits in the past, and she’d certainly been supplied with equipment to help her manage in her own home.
‘Carer’s on her way now, Sir,’ said Cole, leaning around the door.
‘What d’you think, Nige?’ asked Dixon.
‘I’m happy to leave that to you, Sir,’ he replied, nodding in the direction of the hall, where Sarah was on the phone to one of the local hospitals. ‘And her.’
Strengths and weaknesses. Cole knew his own, which itself took a certain wisdom. And, either way, there was nobody Dixon would rather have by his side when confronted by a crossbow-wielding killer.
‘The medical centre doesn’t have an OT, Sir,’ said Sarah, squeezing past Cole’s large frame in the doorway. ‘I rang the emergency line. They say they’d have made a referral and there’s nothing in her records. No record of a visit either, not from Weston, Taunton or Burnham.’
Something wasn’t quite right, the eyes possibly. Dixon leaned over and examined Deirdre’s eyelids. It had only been a few short weeks since he had closed the eyes of a colleague killed in the line of duty. It gave an air of peace to the dead, but not quite. It looked forced.
It did then and it did now.
‘Her glasses are broken.’ Sarah had managed to fit on to the same piece of newspaper as Dixon and was looking over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t spot that before.’
‘Could have happened any time,’ said Cole.
He was right, of course, but it was about gut feeling.
‘Hello?’
‘Through here.’ Cole turned back into the hallway.
‘That’s the carer, Sir,’ said Sarah. ‘Christine MacBride.’
Christine looked nervous when she walked into the living room. ‘A detective chief inspector?’
‘It’s an unexplained death and we’re just trying to rule out anything else,’ replied Dixon, with his best disarming smile. ‘Did Deirdre take off her personal alarm often?’ he asked.
‘Never. Why, where is it?’
‘Under the table.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Christine leaned over and reached out to pick it up.
‘Don’t touch it, please. Here, put these on,’ Dixon said, handing her a pair of latex gloves.
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘What about her glasses? They’re broken.’
‘Are they?’ Christine frowned. ‘She never mentioned it. I’d have dropped them into the opticians for her, if she’d said.’
Dixon stepped back on to a piece of newspaper further away from Deirdre, allowing Christine to step closer. ‘Is there anything else you can see that’s out of place or unusual in any way?’ he asked.
The lid was open on the box of chocolates, so Christine picked it up in her gloved hand. ‘Someone’s eaten the nut ones. Deirdre hated them; they always went in the bin. Soft centres only.’
‘What about the hairdresser?’
‘She may have done, I suppose.’
Cole turned out into the hall, reaching for his phone.
‘What was she wearing when you saw Mrs Baxter this morning?’ asked Dixon.
‘Not that top, now you come to mention it. She had a blouse and cardigan on, with a low neck because she was having her hair done later.’
‘And what lady would pull on a roll neck sweater after she’d had her hair done?’ said Sarah. ‘My nan would rather freeze to death than ruin her hair.’
It was all still circumstantial. Someone else might have eaten the chocolates – the OT even, there for a perfectly innocent reason. And Deirdre could very well have felt cold and changed her top, sat on her glasses and taken off her own personal alarm.
‘Could she have changed without help?’
‘Just about,’ replied Christine. ‘It would have been a bit of an effort, mind you, but she could’ve done it.’
‘I’ve spoken to the hairdresser, Sir,’ said Cole, reappearing in the doorway. ‘Blouse and cardigan and she doesn’t eat chocolate.’
Dixon had options: an unexplained death with a recommendation to the coroner that Deirdre be referred for post mortem, or the nuclear option that would involve the crime scene manager, Scientific Services and tearing Poland away from his curry. ‘Thank you, Christine,’ he said, gesturing to Cole, who ushered her to the front door. Then Dixon leaned over Deirdre, taking hold of the roll neck collar of her sweater lightly between the latex-gloved thumb and index finger of each hand, rolling it back slowly to reveal her neck.
Everything he had seen in Deirdre’s bungalow up to that point was capable of perfectly innocent explanation.
But not that.
‘She’s been strangled,’ he said, rolling the collar gently back into position. ‘Call it in, will you, Sarah?’
Chapter Three
