‘Not yet. I’ve left a couple of messages, but her phone’s switched off. There’s still no sign of Sean Rodwell either, but uniform are aware.’
Dixon was staring at the computer screen, watching the traffic camera footage, a Fiat 500 entering a roundabout on the A303. The clip had been edited and was rolling on a loop, the same car entering the same roundabout over and over again. ‘That’s Sparkford.’
‘The night Thomas Fowler was murdered,’ replied Mark. ‘What d’you notice about it?’
‘There are two people in the car.’
‘Can’t get a good look at them, I’m afraid. Give me a sec.’ Then he paused the film. ‘That’s as good as it gets. You’ve got to remember the cameras are really just after the number plate. That’s plain as day, but cloned.’
Driver and passenger sideways on, hooded coats or hoodies; either way, their faces were obscured.
‘Everybody knows the cameras are there these days,’ offered Mark.
Jane flicked on a desk lamp while Dixon opened the box and pulled out a lever arch file, white plastic and emblazoned with the Oxenden Hart logo; a label on the spine: ‘Acquisition of Oake Cider Farm Ltd by Diagent Plc – Disclosure 1’.
‘Imagine having to go through this lot,’ said Jane. ‘Corporate finance lawyers must lead dull lives.’
Dixon resisted the temptation.
‘The Memorandum of Understanding is in a plastic document wallet. I slotted it down the side,’ said Mark.
It ran to three pages, but was the starting gun on a transaction that would take months to complete.
‘How much d’you reckon this lot would cost?’ asked Jane. ‘In fees, I mean.’
‘That’s only one box,’ said Mark. ‘There are six more downstairs.’
‘Cost?’ Dixon pursed his lips. ‘About two hundred and fifty thousand. And four lives.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘All right, clever clogs,’ Dixon said. ‘What’s the most important thing about that document?’
Jane was sitting in the passenger seat of the Land Rover. ‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going?’
‘Oake.’
‘Who lives there?’
‘Malcolm Hope-Bruce, Jos’s uncle.’
The converted mill was visible from the other side of the bridge in the middle of the village, illuminated by lights on the lawn; even the old waterwheel immaculately restored and lit up for all to see.
‘I’ve never understood that,’ said Jane, idly. ‘Lighting up your house like that. What’s the bloody point? And think of the electricity bill.’
‘We’ve got a streetlight outside ours that does it for free.’
Several cars were parked outside the house, more lined up down the drive, so Dixon pulled in off the lane and left his Land Rover blocking them all in.
‘They must have guests,’ said Jane. ‘One family couldn’t have all these cars.’
‘You still haven’t told me what’s important about the Memorandum.’
‘What?’
‘The date.’ Dixon reached up and rang the doorbell. ‘It’s dated three weeks before the baby’s remains were found in Torquay.’
The large oak door opened slowly. ‘I’m guessing you’re not here for the wine and cheese?’ asked Malcolm, recognising Dixon in the light.
‘No, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘We’re having a bit of a fundraiser for the local Conservatives. Wine and cheese, a raffle, that sort of guff, you know.’
‘Might we have a word in private?’ asked Dixon. ‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’
‘Yes, of course. Follow me.’
A hall table made an imaginative use of the millstone. At least it wasn’t turning. The flagstone floor was original too. Voices in the room to the left, a gathering visible through the open door, guests with a glass in one hand and a plate in the other, large windows overlooking the millstream behind.
Malcolm was tall, a fully paid-up member of the red corduroy brigade, wearing a check shirt and tie; late forties, maybe – the younger brother, almost certainly.
‘My wife can hold the fort for a while. They’re her cronies, really,’ said Malcolm, opening the door to his office. ‘Now, how can I help? I still haven’t found out what you were doing at the cider farm. Has it got anything to do with Diana’s arrest?’
‘I’m afraid there’s very little I can tell you at the moment, Sir,’ replied Dixon.
‘Surely not. She’s my sister-in-law.’
‘I do need to ask you about this, though.’
