Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  The golf club secretary, Paul Durkin, had recovered his composure and was suitably outraged at the likely closure of the course for a second day. He was equally concerned by the removal of the sand from the bunker, which would have to be designated ‘ground under repair’ until it could be replaced. Dixon could not understand the fuss, given that there was no shortage of sand in the vicinity.

  He had managed to fit in a brief lunch sitting in his Land Rover with Monty followed by a short walk on the beach. He was now waiting for the Family Liaison Officer to arrive before knocking on the door of 7 Manor Drive. House to house enquiries at the other properties in Manor Drive would start at the same time.

  The Family Liaison Officer arrived shortly before 4.00pm. Police Sergeant Karen Marsden was in her early forties with bleached blonde hair. She wore dark trousers and a cream top under a navy blue jacket. Dixon thought it unusual to see a police sergeant out of uniform but the work of family liaison no doubt required a less formal approach.

  They knocked on the door of 7 Manor Drive just after 4.00pm. It was a large red brick house with built in double garage. Dixon was relieved that Karen Marsden had agreed to do the talking, at least initially, but no doubt there would come a point when he would need to ask the difficult questions. The door was answered by a large man in his early seventies. He was balding and wore dark horn rimmed spectacles. He was dressed casually and wore an open neck shirt, cardigan and dark corduroys. Karen Marsden spoke first.

  ‘We are looking for Mr Peter Manning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked suspicious but then so would anyone confronted with three people on their doorstep at 4.00pm on a Sunday afternoon. Dixon thought he could read nothing into that.

  ‘I am Police Sergeant Karen Marsden. This is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon and Detective Constable Jane Winter. We’d like to have a word with you if we may, Mr Manning.’

  ‘It’s not Simon is it?’

  ‘No, Sir, may we come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Peter Manning stepped to one side allowing Karen Marsden, Jane Winter and then Dixon into his hallway. Dixon looked to his right before he went in and could see the other properties in Manor Drive being called upon by police officers conducting house to house enquiries.

  ‘Go through into the sitting room,’ said Peter Manning, gesturing towards an open door adjacent to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Karen Marsden and Jane Winter sat on a sofa opposite the fireplace. Dixon sat in the armchair to their right. Peter Manning stood with his back to the fire. He turned to Dixon.

  ‘May I see your warrant cards again? I didn’t get a clear look at them on the doorstep.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Dixon, producing his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket. Karen Marsden and Jane Winter produced their warrant cards from their handbags and handed them to Peter Manning. He looked at them carefully and then handed them back.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘When did you last see your wife, Mr Manning?’ asked Karen Marsden.

  ‘Yesterday. She went to the theatre in Bristol with some friends.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen her since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of her?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Manning turned around and took a photograph off the mantelpiece. He passed it to Karen Marsden, who looked at it and then passed it to Dixon. It was a photograph of Valerie Manning holding a Yorkshire terrier. He glanced across at Jane Winter and nodded before handing the photograph back to Karen Marsden.

  ‘Is it unusual for Mrs Manning to stay out all night?’ Karen Marsden continued.

  ‘No, not unusual. Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Is anyone else living here with you?’

  ‘Our eldest son is, temporarily. He’s getting divorced, unfortunately.’

  ‘Is that Simon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he in at the moment?’

  ‘No, he’s taken his children out for the day. He only gets to see them every couple of weeks.’

  ‘Is there anyone else you can ring, who can come and sit with you?’

  ‘You are starting to worry me now. There’s my daughter and son-in-law. They live at Edithmead.’

  ‘Could you give them a ring and get them to come over?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. What’s happened to Val for God’s sake?’

  ‘I am sorry to have to tell you, Mr Manning, but we have found a body and have reason to believe that it’s your wife,’ said Karen Marsden.

  ‘Found a body? You mean she’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that she is.’

  Dixon had long since given up trying to interpret how people react when informed that a loved one had died. He invariably arrived at a different conclusion to his colleagues and people react in so many disparate ways. Having said that, it was the first occasion that Dixon could recall the news that a man’s wife had died being greeted with a wry smile and shrug of the shoulders. Dixon looked at Jane Winter and then Karen Marsden. Clearly, they too had found Manning’s reaction odd.

  Karen Marsden handed the photograph back to Peter Manning. He looked at it, sat on a chair next to the telephone table in the front window of 7 Manor Drive, put his head in his hands and began to sob. It was several minutes before he regained his composure. Dixon took the initiative.

  ‘I’m a bit confused, Mr Manning…’

  Manning wiped the tears from his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps I should explain. Val and I haven’t enjoyed a good relationship for some time. We should have gone our separate ways long ago but we can’t sell this fucking house thanks to the recession. Nothing’s selling, At least not at a sensible price. So, we are stuck here. Trapped together you might say.’

  ‘And the tears?’

  ‘For old time’s sake. We were close once.’

  ‘So, you lead separate lives?’

  ‘Entirely separate.’

  ‘Have you started divorce proceedings?’

  ‘She served me with a divorce petition but we haven’t got the Decree Absolute yet.’

  ‘It must be difficult, living under the same roof.’

  ‘It was. We’ve got used to it now. Resigned to it is probably a better word. Now, we can just about tolerate each other.’

  ‘Where were you last night between 11.00pm and 2.00am?’

  ‘Here with Simon. Hang on a minute, what the hell has happened?’

  ‘Mr Manning, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your wife has been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Yes. We are going to need a detailed account of your movements last night. We are also going to need to speak to Simon. Do you have his mobile number?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He’s with his sons though.’

  Jane Winter made a note of Simon Manning’s mobile number and then left the room to speak to him. Karen Marsden used the opportunity to make some tea. When they were left alone, Peter Manning turned to Dixon.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘We are not sure yet, I’m afraid. The post mortem is due later today or possibly tomorrow morning but at this stage it looks as though she was stabbed.’

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘No.’ Dixon lied.

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘You’d have to admit you have just given us a powerful motive.’

  ‘I suppose I have, but I didn’t kill her.’

  Jane Winter appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Simon is on his way back from Bristol Zoo. I’ve arranged for Dave and Mark to meet him at his ex wife’s house.’

  ‘Good, Jane, thank you.’

  Karen Marsden reappeared with tea for all.

  ‘Shall I ring my daughter now?’ asked Manning.

  ‘Not yet. We are going to need a detailed statement from you, Mr Manning, if you wouldn’t mind coming with us to the station,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Not at a
ll. I want to help. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘In that case, would you also be content for us to search the house?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t need my permission.’

  ‘No, as it happens, we don’t.’

  Usually closed at the weekend, Burnham-on-Sea Police Station was now the incident room for the investigation. This meant that Karen Marsden and Jane Winter would be able to use the interview suite there to take a statement from Peter Manning rather than travelling all the way to Bridgwater. Dixon reminded Jane that Peter Manning was not under arrest. He was a bereaved relative assisting police with their enquiries and was to be afforded every courtesy unless and until they had evidence to the contrary. A shrug of the shoulders at the news of his wife’s death and ongoing divorce proceedings were not themselves evidence of murder.

  Dixon returned to Bridgwater Police Station for a meeting with DCI Lewis and the Press Officer. The press conference was due at 6.00pm. He had not previously met the Press Officer, every effort having been made to keep his last case out of the newspapers.

  It was very rare that Dixon took an instant dislike to someone. He would usually wait until they had given him good reason to dislike them. It had only happened on perhaps two or three occasions previously and his initial judgement had always proved correct. Before DCI Lewis had introduced them, Dixon decided that he did not like the Press Officer, although it was unclear to him why he had arrived at that conclusion. She was in her late forties with long straight blonde hair and sharp features. She wore a pinstriped skirt and jacket with a white blouse.

  DCI Lewis made the introductions.

  ‘Thankfully, we managed to keep your last fiasco out of the papers,’ said Vicky Thomas.

  ‘I can see that you and I are going to get on like a house on fire,’ replied Dixon.

  DCI Lewis intervened.

  ‘Let’s focus on the job in hand, shall we? What can we tell them?’

  ‘We can tell them that the victim had been decapitated, I think. It’s inevitable that will leak from the golf club. Otherwise, there has been no formal identification, although the family have been informed,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘The murder took place some time between 11.00pm last night and 2.00am this morning. The charred remains of her body were found by a dog walker in a burnt out car on the beach at Berrow and her head was found by a member of the greens staff in a bunker on the Burnham and Berrow golf course.’

  Both Lewis and Vicky Thomas were taking notes. Dixon continued.

  ‘And that the victim is an elderly white female, aged approximately seventy five. A detailed search of the scene will be going into a second day and house to house enquiries are continuing.’

  ‘Haven’t you got the husband in custody?’ asked Vicky Thomas.

  ‘News travels fast. No. He’s not under arrest. He’s helping us with our enquiries at this stage and I certainly don’t think we should be releasing any information that may identify the family.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said DCI Lewis, ‘we don’t want a repeat of that shambles in Bristol.’

  Dixon glanced across at Vicky Thomas. She was looking at her shoes.

  ‘Lastly, an appeal for information,’ said Dixon. ‘Anyone who saw anything unusual in the vicinity of Berrow Church, the beach and on Coast Road on Saturday or the early hours of Sunday morning to contact the Incident Room etc etc.’

  DCI Lewis turned to Dixon.

  ‘Are you going to sit in?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, if I must.’

  ‘I think it would be a good idea,’ said Vicky Thomas.

  Dixon’s phone was ringing in his pocket. He looked at the caller ID.

  ‘I’d better take this,’ he said, getting up and leaving the room.

  ‘Hello, Roger.’

  ‘Nick, I’m just about to start the PM. Can you get here? It’s going to be a very interesting one, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Do you know where we are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Park next to my car. You won’t get a ticket on a Sunday. You’ll see the green doors. Just ring the bell and someone will come and get you.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. And thanks, Roger. Perfect timing.’

  Dixon stood in the doorway of DCI Lewis’ office.

  ‘That was Roger Poland. He’s about to start the PM and thinks it would be a good idea if I was there.’

  ‘Convenient,’ said Vicky Thomas.

  ‘Very. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sir,’ said Dixon, addressing DCI Lewis.

  The post mortem was well underway by the time Dixon arrived at Musgrove Park Hospital. He had driven slowly in the hope that Dr Poland would start without him and his plan appeared to have worked. He had rung the bell and been let in by one of the technicians he had seen earlier carrying the black picnic box. He was shown through to an anteroom adjacent to the pathology lab and could see through viewing windows that Roger Poland was hard at work, dictaphone in hand. He could see Valerie Manning laid out in the slab.

  Dixon watched the mortuary technician go through into the laboratory and speak to Dr Poland. The next thing he knew the intercom crackled into life.

  ‘Don’t just sit there. Come in. You won’t see anything from there.’

  Dixon was grateful that he had not had much to eat all day. Monty had eaten half his sandwich at lunchtime and he had kept himself going since then with medicinal fruit pastilles. Being diabetic was a pain at the best of times but keeping his blood sugar levels up on days when he had no time to eat was always difficult. Fortunately, they were few and far between. Today it was a positive advantage. He took a deep breath and walked through into the lab.

  ‘What have you got then, Roger?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Quite a lot, actually,’ replied Poland, ‘take a look at this for starters.’

  Poland pointed to Valerie Manning’s neck. Dixon stepped forward. The sight that greeted him took his breath away. He stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Sick is it?’ asked Poland.

  ‘Sickened,’ replied Dixon.

  Valerie Manning’s eyes and mouth were now closed, affording her a measure of tranquility. Her head had been placed on the slab in its proper position on her body and she looked almost human again. Her charred and blackened body made a stark contrast to her white head and neck. Her lower legs and feet were also white and had clearly escaped the flames. She did at least appear at peace and Dixon was grateful that he could now refer to her as ‘she’ rather than ‘it’. He quickly regained his composure.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  Then the smell hit him. Burnt flesh and petrol. He turned away sharply and walked over to the window. It was closed.

  ‘Tracey, get Inspector Dixon a mask, will you?’

  ‘Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, at least you didn’t pass out.’

  The mortuary technician handed Dixon a paper mask. He put it across his nose and mouth and hooked the elastic over his ears.

  ‘There you go, you’ll be ok now,’ said Poland.

  ‘Right then, let’s try again shall we?’ said Dixon, ‘what am I looking at?’

  ‘The bruising on the neck. See it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A ligature of some sort. What sticks out is that it’s uniform in width. See that? My guess is a belt was used.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Look at this too.’

  Poland stood at the end of the slab. He placed his hands either side of Valerie Manning’s head and turned it to the left. Dixon was standing to Dr Poland’s right. He looked away just in time.

  ‘See? There’s no bruising at the back of the neck.’

  ‘I see that, yes.’

  ‘It stops at the same point on either side. Have a look this side.’

  Dixon walked around the back of Dr Poland while he turned Valerie Manning’s head to the right.r />
  ‘It does,’ said Dixon.

  ‘What does that tell you?’ asked Poland.

  ‘That the belt was used to tie her to something.’

  ‘That’s right. And we should be able to tell the width of whatever it was she was tied to by measuring the marks on her neck. It’s basic trigonometry, really.’

  ‘My money’s on the headrest in her car.’

  ‘That’s your department,’ said Poland.

  ‘What about the cause of death?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There are two wounds, both of which would have killed her.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes. There’s the stab wound just below her left shoulder blade that penetrated her heart. A long thin blade, fish filleting knife or something like that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her throat was cut.’

  ‘Before her head was severed?’

  ‘Yes, and using a different implement. That’s how I can tell.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Dixon.

  ‘I won’t ask you to look too closely. The head was severed using an electric blade. The cuts are uniform in their stroke and that could only have been done with some form of electric carving knife. In places though there’s a cut with no backwards and forwards stroke to it. It’s just a smooth sweep in one direction. That would have been made when her throat was cut. I can tell you her killer is right handed from that too.’

  Dixon was making notes. ‘Would an electric carving knife be powerful enough?’ he asked.

  ‘A top of the range one would be, or a fish filleting knife possibly. They’re pretty powerful these days. It’ll all be in my report,’ said Poland. ‘There’s also a wound to the back of her left hand. Much of the flesh has been burnt away but it’s still visible. A cut or slash. Something like that.’

  ‘So, what actually killed her?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘The stab wound to the heart. From the blood loss, her throat was cut first. She was then stabbed in the back for good measure.’

  ‘Why do you think the first cut was made so low on her neck? She’s been decapitated almost at shoulder level, which is unusual, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘That’s easy, Nick. The belt was still around her neck at the time so her throat was cut below it. Her head was then severed using the same incision. Make sense?’