Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  Jane Winter appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. Dixon spoke through the dog bags clamped over his mouth with his right hand.

  ‘Single stab wound to the heart. Then the head was severed. I don’t envy Roger Poland this one.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Jane.

  ‘In the sink.’

  It again.

  Jane stepped forward to look in the sink. The discolouration of the skin was less noticeable through John Hawkins’ thick grey hair and beard. She turned to Dixon.

  ‘He looks almost calm.’

  ‘He does. Pop outside will you and find out when Poland and the Scenes of Crime team will get here.’

  Jane did not need to be asked twice. Dixon moved back through to the lounge and stood in front of the open window to get some fresh air. He replaced his makeshift mask over his mouth and turned to examine the lounge more closely. He noticed a pile of letters that had been opened and replaced in their envelopes. He picked up the letters from the dining table and then returned to the relative safety of the open window to go through them one by one.

  The correspondence was routine. John Hawkins was methodical in his approach, each letter having been opened, read and then replaced in the envelope. Dixon found gas, water and electricity bills, all paid by direct debit. There was also a bank statement and two letters dealing with a forthcoming hospital appointment. There were several birthday cards, one containing a letter from his sister, a credit card bill and a letter from the Department for Work and Pensions dealing with his Winter Fuel Payment.

  The last envelope in the pile contained what Dixon had been looking for. It was a payslip for the October payment of John Hawkins’ occupational pension. And it came from NHS Pensions.

  Dixon replaced the pile of letters on the dining room table, having kept the pension slip, and went outside to find Jane Winter. He could see that two Scientific Services vans had arrived and Jane was briefing the senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Donald Watson. Dixon retrieved his umbrella from PC Jones and walked over to them.

  ‘Sounds grim,’ said Watson.

  ‘It is,’ replied Dixon. ‘Looks to me as if he was killed before Valerie Manning and he’s been in there with the central heating on for at least a week.’

  Watson turned to address his team, who were unloading equipment from the backs of the vans.

  ‘Masks, everybody.’

  ‘There are two wine glasses on the coffee table, so it looks like he had company, and a computer on the dining table that’ll need to go to High Tech.’

  ‘Leave it to us,’ replied Watson.

  ‘What about Roger Poland?’ asked Dixon, turning to Jane Winter.

  ‘Ten minutes. He’s on his way.’

  ‘I’ll hang on for him. There’s something I need you to do, Jane.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How far have you got with Valerie Manning’s personnel file?’

  ‘The NHS Trust Records Office assured me I would have it by the end of tomorrow.’

  ‘What about Vodden’s patient lists?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Not good enough. Yell and scream at them if you have to, but we must have those lists by the end of today.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘We’ll also need John Hawkins’ NHS file.’

  ‘He worked for the NHS?’

  ‘He did.’

  Dixon handed the NHS Pension pay slip to Jane.

  ‘That can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  ‘We’re on the right track, alright.’

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘Just get those patient lists, Jane. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  Dixon watched Jane walk down Poplar Road towards her car. She went round the corner into Herbert road and out of sight just as Dr Poland turned off the Berrow Road into Poplar Road at the far end. He drove up to the police cordon at the junction of Poplar Road and Herbert Road and was allowed through. He parked behind the Scientific Services vans. Dixon walked over to meet him.

  ‘Jane Winter said this one’s pretty grim.’

  ‘He’s been dead for anything up to two weeks and the central heating has been on in there.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t had my lunch yet.’

  ‘Good job.’

  Roger Poland went round to the boot of his car and took out his bag. He then followed Dixon over to the communal entrance of the block of flats. Once in the hallway he put on a set of disposable overalls and a facemask. He handed a spare mask to Dixon and then they walked up the stairs to Flat 21.

  There were already four Scenes of Crime Officers at work in the flat and Dixon could see camera flashes coming from both the lounge and the rear bedroom. He gestured towards the bedroom at the rear of the flat.

  ‘The body’s in there.’

  Dixon stood behind Roger Poland as he examined the body. Dr Poland looked first at John Hawkins’ body and then at his severed head in the sink. He took no more than a couple of minutes before gesturing to Dixon to follow him outside. They stood by the open window on the landing at the top of the communal stairway.

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate the fresh air.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Have you spotted the stab wound to the heart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Looks like the same knife and it was probably the fatal wound. Judging by the blood pattern, the head was severed post-mortem and it looks like an electric knife again. I’ll need to look at him under the microscope to confirm that though.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘At least a week, possibly longer. I’ll need to check the central heating settings. I’ll let you know soon as I can.’

  ‘Good. I’ll leave you to it, if I may.’

  Dixon walked towards the top of the stairs.

  ‘We still haven’t had that beer,’ said Poland.

  ‘No, we must do that,’ replied Dixon. ‘We must do that.’

  Dixon knocked on the door of 7 Manor Drive just after 3.00pm. The door was answered by Peter Manning.

  ‘Do you have any news, Inspector?’

  ‘We’re working on it, Mr Manning. I do have a couple of questions that I need to ask you, if you can spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  Dixon followed Peter Manning through to the lounge. Manning sat in the armchair by the fireplace and Dixon sat on the sofa.

  ‘Fire away,’ said Peter Manning.

  ‘How long did you know Mrs Manning?’

  ‘We met in 1972 and married in 1974.’

  ‘That was when she moved to Weston-super-Mare Hospital?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes. She moved down here when we got married. She was at Frenchay Hospital in Bristol before that.’

  ‘What did she do at the hospital?’

  ‘She was the Triage Nurse in A&E.’

  ‘And that involved?’

  ‘It was her job to make the first assessment of a patient when they arrived. Being at the sharp end, she called it. And she loved it.’

  ‘Stressful, I’d imagine?’

  ‘Yes, it was and sometimes dangerous. I begged her to do something else but she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you ever remember her getting it wrong?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Making the wrong assessment of a patient, perhaps, and treating them as not urgent when they should have been urgent?’

  ‘You don’t seriously think…’

  ‘It’s one line of enquiry, Mr Manning. Please can you think of any…’

  ‘There was one case, I remember. Years ago.’

  ‘Involving a child?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes. it was a little girl. She died.’

  ‘Can you remember her name?’

  ‘No. Val thought she had flu and sent her home.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The child died the next day. Turned out it was meningitis.’

  ‘And you can’t remember th
e name?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Was there an inquest?’

  ‘Yes. Val had to give a statement.’

  ‘Did you go to the inquest?’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Not long after we got married. So, say, 1974 or 1975.’

  ‘What happened after the inquest?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know. She never mentioned it again. You don’t seriously think this has got anything to do with her murder?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Mr Manning, but I can assure you I will find out.’

  Dixon sat in his Land Rover and rang Jane Winter.

  ‘What news on Vodden’s patient lists, Jane?’

  ‘He was at Arundel House Surgery from August 1971 to March 1976. They’ve promised to fax the lists to me this afternoon. 1st January in each year.’

  ‘Good. Let me know soon as they arrive and run me off a few spare copies of ‘74, ‘75 and ‘76, will you?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘See you later,’ said Dixon, ringing off.

  Six

  It was just before 4.00pm when Dixon parked across the entrance to the Shire Hall in Taunton, a magnificent grey stone Gothic building with stone parapets and turrets. Once the council offices, it was now the Taunton Crown Court and the venue for Inquests held by the West Somerset Coroner. A security guard spotted him straightaway.

  ‘You can’t leave that there.’

  Dixon produced his warrant card.

  ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. Keep an eye on it, will you?’

  The security guard allowed him through the checkpoint.

  ‘Where will I find the Coroner?’

  ‘Up the stairs, turn right. He’s sitting in Court One.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon ran up the stairs. He slowed to a walking pace as he arrived at the door to Court One. He opened the door quietly, stepped inside and allowed it to close behind him. The West Somerset Coroner, Michael Roseland, was hearing an inquest into the death of a man killed in a jet skiing accident off Burnham-on-Sea. A solicitor was cross-examining a witness. The Court Usher looked up. Dixon waved to him and gestured outside. The Usher understood the message and followed Dixon back out onto the landing.

  Dixon produced his warrant card again.

  ‘I need to speak to the Coroner urgently.’

  ‘He’s hearing an inquest...’

  ‘I am investigating a triple murder and I need to speak to him now. Ask him to adjourn for five minutes. That’s all I need.’

  The Court Usher looked again at Dixon’s warrant card.

  ‘He finishes for the afternoon in half an hour.’

  ‘Now, please.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Dixon followed the Usher into Court One and waited at the back. He watched the Usher approach the Coroner and whisper in his right ear. The Coroner reached forward and placed his left hand over the microphone on the front of his desk. The Coroner looked at Dixon and then back to the Usher.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m afraid that an urgent matter has come up. There will be a short adjournment. No more than five minutes, I’m told.’

  The Coroner stood up.

  ‘All rise,’ said the Usher. All present stood up. They then turned and looked at Dixon.

  The Coroner left the Court through a door behind the bench. The Usher walked over to Dixon and escorted him out of the Court and along the landing. A locked door led through to a long corridor.

  ‘This had better be good. He’s not happy about this. At all.’

  Dixon ignored him.

  The Usher stopped outside a large carved oak door.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, opening the door.

  ‘Detective Inspector Dixon, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, James. I’ll buzz when I’m ready to go back in.’

  ‘This won’t take long, Sir’, said Dixon.

  The Usher left the room.

  ‘Now, what’s this all about, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m investigating a triple murder, Sir. I’ve got three people who have had their heads cut off. Two within the last few days, one in 1979.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘I need access to Inquest records going back to the mid seventies. They are held at the Somerset Archive and I need your written permission, I’m told, Sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s easily done.’

  The Coroner opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a piece of paper. He read aloud as he wrote.

  ‘I hereby authorise Detective Inspector Dixon to have access to all Inquest Records that he may require...’

  ‘And to keep copies, please, Sir.’

  ‘...and to take copies thereof. Signed Michael Roseland, West Somerset Coroner.’

  He handed the letter to Dixon.

  ‘Do you need anything else, Inspector?’

  ‘No, Sir. Thank you.’

  ‘I expect I’ll be finding out about all this in due course?’

  ‘You will, Sir.’

  Dixon was on his way to the door.

  ‘And good luck to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  Dixon arrived at the Somerset Heritage Centre just before 4.30pm. A large purpose built complex on the outskirts of Taunton, it housed the entire Somerset document and photographic archive. He presented his warrant card to the receptionist.

  ‘I need access to Inquest records from the mid seventies, please. And I need it urgently.’

  ‘We don’t accept document requests within an hour of closing and we close at 5.00pm.’

  Dixon took a deep breath. He noticed a CCTV camera above the reception desk and resolved to remain calm.

  ‘Is there a manager available who might be able to help me?’

  He watched the receptionist look at the clock on the wall.

  ‘It is rather urgent,’ he said.

  She sighed and picked up the telephone. ‘Inquest records are held in the document archive. I’ll see if the document manager is available.’

  Dixon paced up and down in the reception area.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ said the receptionist.

  A few moments later a door opened opposite the reception desk.

  ‘Are you the police officer?’

  ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.’

  ‘My name is Rachel Smerdon. I’m the document manager.’

  She was in her early twenties with dark brown shoulder length hair. She wore dark trousers and a white blouse.

  ‘Is there anywhere we can have a chat?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘There’s an interview room through here,’ said Rachel, gesturing towards the door.

  Once in the interview room Dixon showed her his warrant card.

  ‘I am investigating three murders. I’ll spare you the gory details. Two are recent and one took place in 1979. They are connected by the death of a child that took place some time between 1974 and 1976. Possibly 1979 but we’ll start with 1976. My understanding is that one of the murder victims gave evidence at the child’s inquest.’

  ‘That’s easy. What was the child’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s not so easy.’

  ‘I thought not. It’s possible I might be able to come up with a name, or at least narrow it down. But, otherwise I need to look at every file until I find the right one.’

  ‘You’ll need the Coroner’s permission.’

  Dixon handed her the letter from Michael Roseland.

  ‘Our records are not computerised that far back. It’ll be the old index cards.’

  ‘What about the files? Are they held together?

  ‘Yes. In archive boxes.’

  ‘And the index cards. What information is on them?’

  ‘I’ll need to have a look. It’ll be name, date of death and verdict, certainly. Possibly date of birth but I’ll need to check.’

  ‘How many boxes of files are there?’


  ‘Loads.’

  ‘Will you be able to get them out for me?’

  ‘The index cards?’

  ‘And the files.’

  ‘But you don’t know which ones.’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘It’s good old fashioned police work. I’ll be back first thing in the morning with some help and we keep looking until we find the one we are looking for.’

  ‘Yes, I can get the files out for you but it’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘What time do you open in the morning?’

  ‘9.00am but I can be here from 7.00am. I’ll make a start on the files.’

  ‘Can I have your mobile number, Rachel? If I can narrow it down overnight, it will save you getting all of them out.’

  Dixon exchanged phone numbers with Rachel and they agreed to meet back at the Somerset Heritage Centre at 7.00am the following morning. Rachel gave Dixon directions to the staff entrance at the rear of the building.

  Dixon sat in his Land Rover and rang Jane Winter.

  ‘Have you got Vodden’s patient lists, Jane?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Valerie’s personnel file?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Ok. I’m on my way home now. Shall I pick up a Chinese?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Taunton.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Do you want a takeaway?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want me to bring the lists?’

  ‘Yes, please. It’s going to be a long night.’

  Dixon was home just before 6.30pm. There was a note sticking out of his letterbox.

  ‘In the Red Cow. Jane.’

  He put the Chinese takeaway in the oven to keep it warm and then walked across to the pub with Monty. Jane was sat at the bar with a drink.

  ‘This is ridiculous. We must get you a key,’ said Dixon.

  ‘A key? Things must be getting serious,’ replied Jane. ‘Where’s the food?’

  ‘In the oven. I’ve got time for a beer.’

  Dixon ordered himself a pint and they sat at a table in the far corner of the bar.

  ‘What’s the story, then?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I went to see Emily Townsend.’