Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  ‘She may not have known the real reason anyway.’

  ‘I want Valerie’s complete NHS personnel file. We can start by comparing it to Vodden’s. And access to his patient records from his surgery in Burnham.’

  ‘We don’t even know which one he was at yet.’

  ‘That should be in the personnel file we brought back from Norfolk. And we’ll need to speak to any of the other doctors who are still alive. See if they remember anything.’

  ‘What about patient confidentiality?’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  The briefing had already begun by the time Jane Winter arrived at Burnham Police Station. She had driven over in her own car, having left Dixon’s cottage ten minutes after him to avoid arriving together.

  ‘Come in, Jane,’ said Dixon, ‘you’re late.’

  She glared at him from the back of the CID room.

  ‘I was just bringing everyone up to date on the Norfolk developments.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Jane noticed a photograph of Dr Vodden pinned to the white board. Underneath it Dixon had written Vodden 1979 in red ink.

  ‘So, we have two murders, over three decades apart, and yet clearly connected. Jane and I will be focussing on that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘What’s the connection then, Sir?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘We’re going to be working on the basis that it’s a patient or patients. Both were happily married at that time so we can rule out personal involvement for the time being, I think. We can always come back to it later if we get nowhere. That leaves work. A doctor and a nurse. So we’ll be going back through patient records to find anyone they both treated.’

  ‘Will the records be available going back that far?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Good question, Dave,’ replied Dixon. ‘We’ll soon find out. And we’ve got a copy of Dr Vodden’s personnel file already, of course.’

  ‘So we’re ruling out the husband?’ asked Pearce.

  ‘We are.’

  Dixon pointed to the box of papers that he had brought back from Norfolk. It was on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Jane, Vodden’s personnel file is in there.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon looked at WPC Willmott.

  ‘Christian name?’

  ‘Louise, Sir.’

  ‘Louise, would you help DC Winter go through that box and extract anything else that might be relevant. There’s all sorts of stuff in there from the 1979 investigation. We didn’t have time to go through it all in detail so just copied the lot.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Jane, start with getting hold of Valerie Manning’s NHS file. And we need Dr Vodden’s patient list for each year he was in Burnham. He was at Arundel House Surgery in Love Lane.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Right then, what else have we come up with?’

  Silence.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Sir,’ said Harding. ‘We’ve had no sightings at all on the Saturday evening from Morrisons. House to house drew a blank too so all we’ve got is the statement you took from Daniel Fisher and the CCTV footage.’

  ‘Ok,’ said Dixon, ‘let’s go for a full reconstruction this coming Saturday. From 4.00pm onwards. I’ll liaise with DCI Lewis and get the TV cameras there. Plenty of officers handing out leaflets. The usual drill. We can have officers in Morrisons and the pubs opposite all evening speaking to anyone and everyone.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can’t jog someone’s memory. Can you organise that, Dave?’

  Harding nodded.

  ‘Let’s assume that the murderer waited until the last minute to hide behind the bus stop. They must, at some point, have come to Morrisons to check that Valerie’s car was there. Right?’

  ‘They could have driven past before going out to Berrow Church, surely?’ said Jane.

  ‘Good point,’ said Dixon. ‘The jetty camera has Automatic Number Plate Recognition doesn’t it, Dave?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Then check every car that drove past it from 4.00pm onwards.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, is my guess. Any local would know the cameras are there but it’s worth a try. Anything else?’

  WPC Louise Willmott raised her hand.

  ‘Yes, Louise.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, but if it was a patient treated by Dr Vodden before he left for Norfolk in 1976, why did he or she wait until 1979 to kill him? That’s over three years.’

  ‘That’s a very good question. There could be any number of reasons for that though and don’t forget the old saying, ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’?’

  Dixon sat at a spare computer, logged in and checked his email. Nothing of interest. He sent a message to Dave Harding asking him to email across a copy of the CCTV footage from the car park at the time Valerie Manning was abducted. Then he switched off the computer. Jane Winter shouted to him from the other side of the CID Room. She had a phone in her right hand and was covering the microphone with her left.

  ‘DCI Lewis is on the phone, Sir. Says he wants to see you at 10.00am.’

  Dixon looked at his watch.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be there at 11.00am, will you?’

  17 Margaret Avenue was a double fronted red brick bungalow with new PVC windows. Dixon noticed that the bungalow next door had the original metal window frames and the paint was peeling off them too. No doubt an estate agent would say it was in need of refreshment. Mrs Emily Townsend’s was, however, immaculate. The concrete path that led to the front door was new and appeared to have been swept recently. Dixon knew from experience that keeping a front garden clear of sand anywhere near the sea front at Burnham was all but impossible. He knocked on the door and waited. A dog started barking. Dixon could hear footsteps and a female voice telling the dog to shut up.

  The door was answered by a woman in her early seventies. She had dark brown hair, obviously dyed, a round face and wore horn-rimmed spectacles. A second pair hung around her neck on a string. She was dressed in a smart two piece wool suit.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Emily Townsend.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Mrs Townsend stood to one side and allowed Dixon into her hall. She looked nervously up and down the road outside and was embarrassed when she realised that Dixon had noticed.

  ‘Nosy neighbours,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  Dixon followed her through to the kitchen at the back of the bungalow.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, that would be very kind.’

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Mrs Townsend.

  Dixon sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to answer a couple of questions for me?’

  ‘Of course, but I’ve already given a statement to DS Harding.’

  ‘I’ve read it but have a couple of other questions, if that’s ok?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Mrs Townsend handed Dixon a mug of coffee and a spoon. She placed the sugar bowl on the table and then sat down opposite him.

  ‘Your statement mentions that you were a former work colleague of Valerie’s?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Are you a nurse?’

  ‘Long since retired, Inspector. But, yes, I was a nurse. An SEN. State Enrolled Nurse. Heaven knows what they call them these days.’

  ‘And Valerie?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Where did you work?’

  ‘We met at Weston-Super-Mare Hospital. The old one. Before they knocked it down and built the new one.’

  ‘Which department were you in?’

  ‘A&E. We were both in A&E.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘We met in January 1974. Started on the same day, would you believe it? Seems like a lifetime ago.’

 
; ‘How long did you work together?’

  ‘I left A&E the following year, in 1975. I moved over to geriatrics and then on to private nursing in the end. We stayed friends, of course. Val stayed in the NHS until she retired.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ten years ago, I suppose.’

  ‘And was she in A&E all that time?’

  ‘Yes, she was. She loved it.’

  ‘What did she do. What was her job?’

  ‘She was the Triage Nurse. It was her job to see patients on arrival and assess them. Urgent, can wait, go home, that sort of thing.’

  ‘The cutting edge.’

  ‘Very much so. The drunks were the worst. More recently it’s been druggies. She was glad to retire when she did, I think.’

  ‘Was she ever assaulted?’

  ‘A few times. It’s an occupational hazard in A&E, especially on the Saturday night shift.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Once. That’s why I moved, although it wasn’t much safer on a geriatric ward.’

  ‘Did anyone ever threaten Valerie?’

  ‘All the time. She never took it seriously. You can’t otherwise you’d go mad.’

  ‘Ok, leaving aside drunks and cranks, were there any particular cases that upset her or disturbed her. We are looking around the late seventies.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago.’

  ‘It is.’

  Emily Townsend shook her head.

  ‘Were there any cases that she mentioned to you?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I really can’t think of anything, Inspector.’

  ‘This really is very important, Mrs Towns...’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. He noticed that Emily Townsend was no longer listening to him. She was deep in thought. He waited.

  ‘We went on holiday together a few years ago. A week in Marbella. It was the first and only time she mentioned it.’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘A young child. A girl. She turned her away from A&E. The child died later that same day or maybe it was the next day. That’s all I know.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t really know. But I got the impression it was a long time ago.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘She said it had haunted her for years.’

  ‘Did she mention the name of the child?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The parents?’

  ‘No. No names. That really is all she ever said in all the time I knew her, Inspector. Just that once. We’d had a few glasses of wine and she got a bit emotional. Had a few tears.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Townsend. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Dixon placed his card on the table.

  ‘If you think of anything else, no matter how trivial it may seem, please telephone me straightaway, will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  Dixon arrived at Bridgwater Police Station just before 11.00am. He gave DCI Lewis a full briefing on the investigation to date, including a detailed account of the murder of Dr Vodden and its implications for the current enquiry. Lewis had expressed some concern that Dixon was focussing too much on patients as the only connection between the two victims but was content for him to pursue it for the time being.

  He readily agreed to the reconstruction scheduled for the Saturday night and would set it up with the PR Officer, Vicky Thomas. Lewis’ parting shot, ‘Don’t fuck it up’, was ringing in Dixon’s ears as he walked out to his Land Rover.

  Dixon decided to go for a quick walk in Victoria Park before heading back to Burnham and was just letting Monty off the lead when his phone rang. It was Jane Winter.

  ‘Hi, Jane, what’s up?’

  ‘We’ve got another one.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A block of flats at the top of Poplar Road.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way there.’

  ‘Wait for me before you go in. Ring Scenes of Crime and Roger Poland as well, will you?’

  ‘Will do.’

  Poplar Road led directly to the beach and was sealed off at the junction with Herbert Road by the time Dixon arrived. He could see three police cars and an ambulance parked adjacent to the block of flats. They were just behind the seating area overlooking the beach. He noticed Jane Winter’s car parked in Herbert Road, so he parked behind it. It had started to rain so he reached for his umbrella and then walked across to the waiting group of officers. Jane Winter was sheltering under the open car port of the property opposite. He beckoned her over.

  ‘What’s the story then?’ asked Dixon.

  A uniformed police constable moved forward to shelter under Dixon’s umbrella and opened his notebook.

  ‘Mr John Hawkins, Sir. He didn’t turn up for his usual bridge evening at the Community Centre last week and when he didn’t turn up last night either, Mrs Norris decided to knock on his door, which she did an hour or so ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When she got no reply, she opened the letterbox to look through. It was then that she dialled 999.’

  ‘What could she see?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir. It was the smell.’

  ‘Anyone been in there yet?’

  ‘Only me,’ said the police officer. ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Scenes of Crime and the Pathologist on their way?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane.

  ‘Come on then, Constable Winter, let’s get this over with.’

  Dixon looked at the police officer.

  ‘Flat 21, Sir. PC Jones is at the bottom of the stairs and will show you up. PC Heath is on the door.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Seaview was a block of flats familiar to Dixon. It had been built on the sea front adjacent to the beach, with each flat facing directly out to sea. Many years before its front garden had been his shortcut into town when the tide was in. It was constructed of grey stone, or at least had been clad in grey stone, and had been built in three connected blocks, each containing eight flats over four floors. All of the flats had a square bay window at the front facing directly out to sea. A view to die for.

  Dixon looked along the back of Seaview and could see three entrances. Flat 21 was in the third block along. PC Jones was standing at the entrance, sheltering as best he could from the rain. Dixon and Jane showed their warrant cards.

  ‘Third floor, Sir. PC Heath will show you in.’

  ‘What about the other residents?’

  ‘They’ve been asked to stay indoors.’

  Dixon noticed the smell before he reached the first floor. It was unmistakable. John Hawkins had clearly been dead for some time. They arrived on the third floor to find PC Heath standing next to the door to Flat 21. It was open.

  ‘Keep the bloody door shut, constable,’ said Dixon. He pointed to a window on the landing, ‘and for heaven’s sake open that window.’

  Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

  ‘You got any gloves?’

  Jane reached into her handbag and produced two pairs of disposable rubber gloves. She passed one pair to Dixon and put the other on.

  ‘This is not going to be pleasant.’

  Jane nodded. She was holding her breath and couldn’t speak.

  Dixon stepped forward into the doorway of the flat. The full horror of the smell hit him. He turned away. Jane began to retch.

  Dixon reached into his pocket and produced a handful of black plastic bags. He split them into two bundles, placed one over his nose and mouth and then handed the other to Jane. She put them in her right hand and clamped them over her nose and mouth. She looked quizzically at Dixon.

  ‘Scented dog bags.’

  Dixon walked along the hallway and into the lounge. He opened the windows at the front of the flat. He stood for a moment in front of the open window, taking in the fresh air, before replacing the bags over his nose and mouth. He then stepped to one side to allow Jane some fresh air.

  The room was tidy. It contained a three seater sofa and two armchairs arrange
d around a pine coffee table. There were two empty wine glasses on the table. An artificial fireplace had been bolted to the wall and in the back corner of the room was a small pine dining table and chairs. A laptop computer was open on the table. A doorway led through into the kitchen. There was an open bottle of red wine on the side. Dixon had been a police officer long enough to know that the bottle was half empty rather than half full.

  He walked back into the lounge. Jane was still standing in front of the open window. He could see her chest heaving, with each deep gulp of fresh air. Dixon touched the radiator. It was on. That would explain the powerful smell.

  He retraced his steps back to the hallway and followed the passage to the rear of the flat. The door to the master bedroom was closed. He took several shallow breaths and then ensured that his dog bags were forming a tight seal around his nose and mouth. Then he opened the door.

  He had known what to expect but that had not prepared him for the full horror of the scene that lay before him. The headless body of the late John Hawkins lay on the double bed, which now had the appearance of summer fruit pudding. He was naked and the process of decomposition was well advanced. His skin was a hideous patchwork of black, blue and yellow. The blood on the pillow and mattress had congealed into a dark red sickly sweet crust.

  Dixon noticed a single stab wound to the left side of John Hawkins’ chest. If it had been the same knife used to kill Valerie Manning then the blade would certainly have penetrated the heart killing him instantly. The head had been severed halfway up the neck. There appeared to be very little blood spatter up the walls or the headboard, which told Dixon that John Hawkins’ heart had stopped beating before he was decapitated.

  Dixon looked around the room. There were built-in wardrobes either side of the bed and a chest of drawers against the wall behind him. Opposite the end of the bed was a dressing table and to the right of that, in the corner of the room, was a sink.

  Dixon walked around the end of the bed to look out of the window. Only then did he notice the severed head of John Hawkins in the sink. It was lying on its side, facing the taps. Dixon leaned over to check the eyes. They were closed and the facial expression was calm. John Hawkins had not known what was happening to him.