‘There’ll need to be an IOPC investigation into the shooting, you do know that?’
‘It will exonerate him. I have no doubt about that.’
Dixon left Louise and Mark at the scene and hitched a ride in an Armed Response vehicle going back to Express Park. The area at the front of the station was a hive of activity; blue lights flashing, sirens wailing as cars and vans raced off towards Oake.
Dixon noticed three figures standing in the window of the canteen, watching all the comings and goings. Jane’s text message hadn’t helped, arriving just as he’d stepped out of the car:
Doctor had to relieve pressure on her brain. Craniectomy in the back of the ambulance. Leaving for Bristol now. Jx
Upstairs, a canteen assistant was just unlocking the doors.
‘Keep them locked,’ he said, pushing past the small queue and squeezing in the door.
‘We open at ten on a Sunday.’
‘Not today, you don’t.’
‘Have you found them?’ Nigel Cole’s wife was the first to summon up the courage to ask, probably still thinking her husband was having an affair.
‘Yes, we have,’ replied Dixon. ‘They were being held captive in a cellar south of Taunton. Both of them are alive and on their way to hospital.’
‘Alive, but not well?’ Sarah Loveday’s father – must be.
‘Sarah received a blow to the head. The doctor was able to relieve the pressure on her brain in the ambulance and she’s on her way to Bristol for surgery as we speak.’
Sarah’s mother was listening intently, but didn’t seem to be taking it all in.
‘Is someone with her?’
‘Detective Sergeant Winter went with her in the ambulance and is going to Bristol with her in the helicopter.’
‘Helicopter?’ If she hadn’t understood the seriousness of it until then, she did now, the tears starting to roll slowly down her cheeks.
‘What about Nigel?’ asked Cole’s wife.
‘Concussion, multiple cuts and lacerations. He’s on his way to Musgrove Park.’ Dixon tried a reassuring smile. ‘I’m arranging for cars to take you all to the relevant hospital as soon as you’re ready to leave.’
‘Are you Nick Dixon?’ asked Sarah’s mother.
‘Yes.’
‘She wants to be a CID officer, just like you, when her probation’s finished.’
‘She will be. She’s a very fine police officer; far better than she knows.’
Two cars, one going south to Taunton, the other north to Bristol. Dixon watched them leave from the floor to ceiling windows.
So many questions and few answers. Yet.
Charlesworth had thought it was all over, and perhaps it was? If revenge had been William Hudson’s motive and he’d killed all of the victims, then possibly. A forensic examination of the Fiat 500 was the first step, and a flatbed lorry had already arrived at the barn to take it away.
There could be little doubt that Hudson had killed Sean Rodwell, but what about the bridge team? One stabbed, so possibly that one, but three of them had been strangled in their own homes by a female occupational therapist with small hands.
Perhaps not, then.
And it wasn’t just about revenge. Hudson had said that much to Cole in the cellar. It was about money – sixty million quid.
All this, and it came down to money.
Several of the Devon and Cornwall officers were sitting in the incident room, but no sign of Dean Wevill, although he wasn’t due in until Monday morning.
‘The search team have arrived at Hudson’s place in Glastonbury, Sir,’ said one. ‘His wife’s in and they’re parked around the corner. Do you want them to go in or wait for Scientific?’
‘Wait. And his wife doesn’t leave until I get there. If she tries, stop her.’
‘We seem to have lost our sergeant, Sir,’ said another officer, with an apologetic shrug. ‘Is there anything you’d like us to do, or shall we continue working our way through people at the Palace Hotel the night of the fire?’
‘I need a file,’ replied Dixon. ‘Joanne Lucking. Drug overdose. She was found on a park bench on Babbacombe Downs. The coroner’s file too, if you can get hold of it on a Sunday.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon ignored the quizzical look and headed for the stairs.
Half an hour to Glastonbury, through the drizzle, his dog for company, Monty only jumping over on to the front passenger seat when Dixon switched off the engine. That was the time-honoured signal.
It didn’t look much from the road; a rather grubby double-fronted property in need of a coat of paint. Now would be the time to do it, thought Dixon, the huge wisteria growing up the corner pruned back to bare stems. The paved area was overgrown too, even in winter.
