by Damien Boyd
The file on the murder of Dr Ralph Vodden remained open but the case was not actively under investigation. The files were being retrieved from store that afternoon. At Dixon’s insistence, a meeting had also been set up with the now retired Senior Investigating Officer, DCI John French, at his bungalow in Cromer.
Jane was searching the internet on her phone, looking for accommodation for the night.
‘There’s a Premier Inn at Norwich?’
‘They don’t take dogs,’ replied Dixon.
‘Nobody’s going to steal Monty, are they?’
‘It’s more likely, if anything. Dog fighting.’
‘Oh, ok,’ said Jane, turning back to her phone.
They drove on in silence, Jane trying to find them a room for the night, Dixon deep in thought.
‘How about the Old Vicarage at Thetford. It’s a B&B but they take dogs?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ replied Dixon, ‘don’t forget to book two rooms.’
‘Two?’
‘The expenses claim will look a bit odd if we don’t.’
Jane smiled. She rang the Old Vicarage and booked the rooms. Ten pounds extra for Monty.
‘That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’ said Jane, ‘particularly as he won’t use the bed or have breakfast.’
‘He will, we just won’t tell them that,’ said Dixon.
They had reached Bristol before Dixon spoke again.
‘Why do people kill each other, Jane?’
‘Money, jealousy and revenge. It’s usually one or more of those reasons, when it boils down to it.’
Dixon nodded and carried on driving. They turned east onto the M42 south of Birmingham and finally arrived in Norfolk just after 4.00pm. It was already starting to get dark, the clocks having gone back two weeks before. They checked in at the Old Vicarage and then walked to the local pub for supper. It came highly recommended and allowed dogs, which was an added bonus.
‘You never told me how you won the Police Medal,’ said Jane.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well?’
‘No, I didn’t win the Queen’s Police Medal.’
‘You said...’
‘I won the George Medal.’
‘How?’
‘Long story.’
‘We’ve got all night.’
‘Actually, it’s not a long story at all. I’d nipped into M&S for a sandwich. Heard a shotgun blast, came out, and there’s a man on other side of the road with a shotgun. He had a motorcycle helmet on and he’d just come out of the bookmakers. Someone followed him out and he shot them in the legs, then made for a motorbike that was parked on the corner.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I ran across the road and rugby tackled him. We crashed through the window of Starbucks and that was that, really.’
‘You tackled an armed man?’
‘I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time. It was a double barrelled shotgun and he’d fired one barrel in the bookies and the other outside so I thought he was out of ammo.’
‘And?’
‘I found out later that he’d fired both barrels in the bookies and then reloaded before he came out. I nearly shit myself.’
Jane was laughing so much she started choking on her wine.
‘Turned out it was a hit. Anyway, that’s it, really.’ Dixon reached over and patted Jane on the back. She stopped coughing and took a sip of wine.
‘The accidental hero. Isn’t that a film?’ she said.
‘Piss off.’
Norfolk Police Headquarters, Wymondham, was a large red brick complex nine miles south west of Norwich. There were several buildings on the site, including the Operations and Communications Centre, apparent from the aerials and radio masts on the roof, and the main office building. They were greeted in Reception by DI Alan Dentus and, after the usual formalities, were shown to a meeting room on the first floor with large windows overlooking the car park.
There were three document archive boxes on the table and a photocopier in the corner. DI Dentus spoke only to offer tea or coffee and to confirm that he had no personal knowledge of the Vodden case whatsoever. It had been ‘done and dusted’ long before his time, apparently. He also gave Dixon a telephone extension number to ring when they had finished and he would come down and show them out. He switched on the photocopier and then left them to it.
‘You start that end, Jane. I’ll start this end and meet you in the middle. Photocopy anything that looks interesting.’
Dixon opened the archive box in front of him. It contained a number of blue folders, each no more than an inch think. He removed the one nearest to him and looked at the label. ‘Witness Statements’. The first came from a member of the greens staff at the Royal West Norfolk Golf Club. He had found Dr Vodden’s severed head in a greenside bunker on the twelfth hole. Dixon did not think it odd that a greenkeeper had found it. They would usually be the first out on the course in the morning. It was clearly significant that it had been found on the twelfth hole and he placed the statement to one side to be photocopied. Next he found a statement from a dog walker who had found the burnt out car on Holkham Beach. He added it to the pile to be photocopied.
‘What’ve you got, Jane?’
‘Telephone call log. Nothing exciting.’
Dixon turned back to the witness statements. He found a statement from Dr Vodden’s widow. She had last seen her husband that morning and knew of no one who might have wanted to kill him. There were several from other doctors at the surgery where Dr Vodden had been working. He had been there six months and was working as a locum. Dixon decided to photocopy all of the statements in the folder and set them to one side. He then added Dr Vodden’s NHS file to the pile to be copied.
The next folder contained interview transcripts and was the thickest of the folders by some considerable margin. It seemed that any and every local man with a history of violence had been pulled in for interview. The investigation clearly lacked any significant leads, even early on, and any likely culprit was arrested and brought in. Dixon closed the folder and put it back in the box.
He knew he would need to copy the contents of the third folder but opened it and read it anyway. It was the Home Office Pathologist’s report. He turned to the conclusions and read aloud.
‘Cause of death 1(a) Myocardial infarction caused by stab wound to the heart; and 1(b) Desanguination caused by laceration to the neck severing the carotid artery.’
‘What’s desanguination?’ asked Jane.
‘Massive blood loss. Listen to this,’ said Dixon. ‘The head was then severed from the body post mortem.’
‘Well, that’s no coincid...’
‘Significant contusion to the front of the neck consistent with restraint, possibly to the car seat headrest. Did car seats have headrests in those days?’
‘We’ll soon find out. What was he driving?’ asked Jane.
Dixon flicked through the witness statements. ‘A Rover 3500.’
Jane reached for her phone and opened the web browser. A quick search of Google images confirmed that the Rover 3500 did indeed have headrests.
‘This cannot be a coincidence,’ said Jane.
‘Did you ever think it was?’
By 11.30am they had finished going through the boxes and had photocopied all of the documents and witness statements they thought remotely relevant. Dixon also kept two bound sets of photographs, hiding them in amongst his papers. He rang Alan Dentus, who arrived to show them out.
‘Do you happen to know if the widow is still alive?’
‘No, she died. I can tell you that. About ten years ago maybe.’
‘And the children?’
‘Didn’t know he had any.’
Dixon and Jane signed out of Norfolk Police Headquarters and walked over to the Land Rover. Half an hour later they were driving north on the B1149.
‘You’ve gone the wrong way. We need the A140 for Cromer,’ said Jane.
‘We’re not going to Crom
er, Jane.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Holkham Beach.’
Dixon turned off the A149 opposite Holkham Hall, home to the Earl of Leicester, and drove along Lady Ann’s Road. It was a tree lined avenue leading straight to the beach that was once the private beach access for the Hall. He parked on the grass verge at the end and let Monty out of the back.
‘C’mon, Jane. We’ve got time. We’re not due at Cromer till 2.30pm.’
They walked out through the Nature Reserve and onto the beach. The tide was out revealing a vast expanse of sand, far bigger even than Berrow. An icy north wind was blowing onshore straight off the North Sea and it was bitterly cold.
‘Where was his car found?’ asked Jane. ‘I’m assuming that’s why we’re here.’
‘Over there,’ said Dixon, pointing back behind them. ‘Monty needs a run. We’ve got six hours in the car ahead of us.’
They turned and walked back to the gate at the end of Lady Ann’s Road. Dixon then turned east and walked for one hundred yards along the edge of the Nature Reserve. He stopped and turned to Jane.
‘This is where his car was found.’
Thick marsh grass extended out towards the beach. Inland, between the reserve and the road, were pine trees. Plenty of cover to screen a car fire.
‘Does the tide reach this high?’ asked Jane.
‘Don’t know,’ replied Dixon. ‘Does it matter?’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
‘Let’s get to Cromer for some fish and chips.’
87 Burnt Hills, Cromer, was a small grey stone bungalow with white painted wood cladding at the front. There was a drive leading to a single garage with a white painted door. Dixon parked in the drive.
The garden was immaculate, which told Dixon that the occupant was retired, but then he knew that anyway. The door was answered by a woman in her late seventies with grey hair.
‘Come in. My husband’s expecting you. He’s in the conservatory.’
Dixon and Jane followed her through to the rear of the bungalow.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ said Dixon.
‘Yes, please,’ said Jane.
They walked into the conservatory and were greeted by a tall man with thinning grey hair. He wore red corduroys, a shirt open at the neck and a cardigan. He looked them up and down.
‘You two got here pretty damn quick.’
‘Vodden 1979?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes, that was me. How did you…?’
‘Google,’ said Jane.
‘I’m John French, retired Detective Chief Inspector. Twenty years now.’ He shook hands with Dixon and Jane, who introduced themselves.’
‘What’ve you got then?’ he asked.
‘A sixty eight year old woman. Murdered. Decapitated. Body found in a burnt out car on the beach and her head in a greenside bunker on the twelfth hole at Burnham and Berrow Golf club,’ said Dixon.
‘Have you been to Wymondham?’
‘This morning.’
‘Then you’ve seen Dr Vodden’s post mortem report.’
‘Almost identical.’
‘Fucking hell.’
‘I heard that.’ Mrs French appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea, which she placed on the glass coffee table in the conservatory. There were chocolate biscuits on a plate too.
Dixon and Jane sat on a two seat bamboo sofa. John French sat in an armchair opposite them.
‘I’ll pour the tea, Iris, don’t worry,’ said French.
‘Thank you very much, Mrs French,’ said Dixon.
‘What did Valerie Manning do for a living?’ asked French.
‘She was a Primary School Dinner Lady.’
Jane looked at Dixon. He nodded. She said nothing.
‘Tell me about the Vodden murder,’ said Dixon.
‘It was my first case as a DCI and it broke my heart. It went cold on me almost straightaway. No sightings, no witnesses, nothing. We didn’t have CCTV and DNA in those days, of course.’
‘What about Dr Vodden?’
‘We went back through his personal life, work life, everything. And came up with nothing. He had no money worries, was happily married, and no issues at work. We came to the conclusion it was some random psycho.’
‘It happens,’ said Dixon.
‘I always thought he’d kill again. Never thought he’d wait this long though.’
‘He?’
‘It’s got to be a man. A woman could never do that.’
‘The CCTV footage we have is inconclusive.’
‘I kept in touch with the widow for years but never had any positive news for her. She died in 2004. Cancer.’
‘Children?’
‘There were two, aged eight and eleven at the time. The daughter married an American and went to live in Washington. The son emigrated to New Zealand. That was the last straw for their mother, I think.’
‘Where was Dr Vodden living?’
‘Sheringham. A nice house overlooking the sea.’
‘Where was he working at the time?’
‘He was a locum at a surgery here in Cromer, as it happens. He’d been there for six months.’
‘And before that?’
‘He was at a surgery in Norwich, from memory, and maybe Thetford as well before that. He was doing locum work, which is not unusual for doctors.’
‘And you didn’t find anything unusual in his work history?’
‘Nothing at all. No money problems, partnership disputes, nothing. We went right back through all of the patients he had dealt with too and found nothing of interest.’
‘How far did you go back?’
‘Right back to when he first moved to Norfolk. About three years, as far as I can remember.’
‘What were you looking for in his patient histories then?’
‘Anything unusual, really. Relationship with a patient, misdiagnosis, that sort of thing. There really was absolutely nothing at all. By all accounts he was an excellent doctor.’
‘Are any of the other doctors still alive?’
‘Yes. At least one is still practising here in Cromer.’
‘I may need to speak to them in due course.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ said French. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘The murders are almost identical. That tells me that either the killer or the motive, or both for that matter, are the same. It’s possible that the killer may be different, given that the murders are over thirty years apart, but the motive for each killing must surely be the same.’
‘Which means that there must be a connection between Valerie Manning and Dr Vodden?’
‘There is,’ said Dixon. ‘What I didn’t tell you is that although Valerie Manning was a school dinner lady, she was also a retired nurse. At some point her path must have crossed with Dr Vodden’s. Find that point and we find the motive.’
‘It’s the obvious connection,’ said French.
‘It is,’ replied Dixon. ‘You mentioned that you went back through his work history to when he moved to Norfolk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where was he before that?’
‘Burnham-on-Sea.’
Five
Dixon arrived home just before midnight and, despite over six hours in the car, managed to get very little sleep. He spent most of the night pacing up and down in the dark or drinking tea. By 6.30am he was on Berrow beach with Monty. It was a clear and crisp morning with the faintest of breezes. The tide was coming in and the waves were rolling up the beach rather than crashing, making barely a sound. He watched the sun rise to the east just before 7.00am to reveal a clear blue sky.
Dixon had parked by the Sundowner Cafe and walked out to where Valerie Manning’s car had been found. He was convinced of the connection between her murder and that of Ralph Vodden. He was also conscious of the need to keep the investigation moving forward. A wrong turn now and it might go cold on him, as it
had done to DCI French in 1979.
A nurse and a doctor. Dixon had decided their paths must have crossed before 1976 when Dr Vodden moved from Burnham to Norfolk. It could perhaps have been later but that was unlikely. The search would begin in 1976 and work back in time from there. If that produced nothing then it could always be widened. Both were happily married at the time, by all accounts, so it was unlikely that their connection would have been a personal one. Still possible, of course, but unlikely. That left work, and what connects a doctor and a nurse? That was not such an easy question to answer. He thought about the possibilities. Drugs perhaps, theft of hospital property, money, he ruled them out one by one. The most likely one was the most obvious one. A patient.
He looked at his watch. 7.20am. Then he looked at his feet. He was standing in two inches of water. He climbed up onto the sand dunes and walked back to his car. Monty opted to paddle back along the beach to the Land Rover. They were back at Dixon’s cottage in Brent Knoll by 8.00am. Jane Winter was still asleep.
Dixon fed Monty and was eating a bowl of cornflakes when Jane appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing his dressing gown.
‘How long have you been up?’
‘Since about two o’clockish,’ replied Dixon. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
Dixon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Jane sat on the sofa.
‘How long have we got?’
‘Plenty of time. I’ve scheduled a briefing for 9.00am.’
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Jane.
‘We start in 1976 and work back.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Patients. At some point before Vodden left for Norfolk in 1976 they were both involved in treating the same patient or patients.’
‘That’s quite an assumption.’
‘I prefer to call it a leap of faith. But something happened, something went wrong. And I’m guessing it’s the reason Vodden left for Norfolk. I’d love to be able to speak to his widow but can’t.’
