by Damien Boyd
‘The friend who dropped Valerie off at Morrisons car park?’
‘That’s right. Friend and…’ Dixon paused, ‘…former work colleague.’
‘Shit. She was, wasn’t she?’
‘They started in the A&E at Weston on the same day in 1974 and have been friends ever since.’
‘Well?’
‘Emily couldn’t hack it in A&E and moved on to geriatrics, I think she said. Valerie stayed in A&E. She was the Triage nurse. She would make the initial assessment when a patient first arrived. She only ever mentioned this once to Emily, they were on holiday and Valerie had a few glasses of wine, but she said that she got it wrong once, in the early days, and turned away a child who later died.’
‘A patient of Dr Vodden’s?’
‘That remains to be seen. I’ve confirmed it with Peter Manning who remembers Valerie giving evidence at an inquest not long after they got married. He thought it was 1975. They married in 1974.’
‘And no one can remember a name, I suppose?’
‘That’d be too easy,’ replied Dixon. ‘I was hoping there’d be a copy of the statement Valerie gave to the Inquest on her file.’
‘No such luck. So, where have you been?’
‘To see the Coroner and then to the Somerset document archive. The document manager will be getting all of the inquest files out for us in the morning and we’ll go through each one until we find the file we’re looking for.’
‘That could take days,’ said Jane.
‘Not if we can find an infant in Dr Vodden’s patient lists who dies.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘We check his patient lists for anyone named as a patient of his on 1st January 1974 but who was not listed on 1st January 1976. There will be some who have moved away, some who died and some who changed doctor. But it narrows it down, doesn’t it?’
‘Have you seen these lists?’
‘No.’
‘They’re huge.’
‘Drink up then. It’s going to be a longer night than I thought.’
Dixon looked at Dr Vodden’s patient list for 1st January 1974. It gave patient name, National Health Service number, date of birth and address for eight hundred and fifty one patients.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do. You look at the January 1975 list and I’ll read out the name of any patient on my list born after 1st January 1964. We are looking for any child whose name is on this list but not on your list. Ok?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we repeat the process with the 1975 and 1976 lists.’
‘Ok.’
‘We should end up with a list of names of children who, for whatever reason, ceased to be a patient of Dr Vodden’s in either 1974 or 1975. If needs be we can go through the other lists tomorrow.’
Dixon began looking down the list of patients.
‘Here we go. Adams, Simon John. Born 2nd December 1966.’
‘Still on the list,’ said Jane.
‘Still alive on 1st January 1975 then,’ replied Dixon.
By midnight they had finished comparing the 1974 list to the 1975 list. Dixon looked at the list of names he had written on the back of his gas bill.
‘Thirteen. All of whom either died, changed doctor or moved away in 1974.’
‘That’s a lot isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know if it’s a lot or not. But, don’t forget, there was a boarding school in Burnham back then, so some of them may have been pupils there.’
‘That might explain it,’ replied Jane.
Dixon began reading out names from the 1975 list. Jane compared them to the 1976 list and by 1.00am they had had added another ten names to the list.
‘Time for bed,’ said Dixon.
By 7.00am, Dixon and Jane were waiting outside the staff entrance at the Somerset Heritage Centre. The car park was otherwise empty. Dixon had sent Rachel Smerdon a text message to let her know that they had narrowed it down to a list of twenty-three names. She had replied saying she was on her way.
A few minutes later a black Ford Ka turned into the car park and pulled into the space next to Dixon’s Land Rover.
Dixon made the introductions.
‘You’ve had a long night then,’ said Rachel.
‘It didn’t take as long as I thought it might,’ replied Dixon, ‘but we’ve only checked two years. The most likely ones based on what we know so far.’
Rachel showed them through to her office. She switched on the coffee machine. Dixon handed her the list of names.
‘This is a list of twenty-three children who ceased to be patients of Dr Ralph Vodden in either 1974 or 1975. Some will have moved away or changed doctor but some will have died. And I’m hoping at least one will have been the subject of an Inquest.’
‘Help yourselves,’ said Rachel, gesturing to the coffee machine. ‘I’ll go and see what I can find. It might take a while though.’ She closed the door behind her.
‘What if she doesn’t find anything?’ asked Jane.
‘She’ll find something. And if she doesn’t, we widen the search.’
Dixon picked up a copy of the Somerset County Gazette and pretended to read it. Jane closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. It was not a conversation either of them wished to pursue.
It was nearly twenty minutes later when Rachel Smerdon reappeared. She was carrying three files, each of them light brown and perhaps an inch thick. She handed them to Dixon.
‘Here you go, Inspector. Three. I wasn’t expecting to find any, to be honest.’
‘We’re going to need to read through these quite carefully…’
‘That’s ok. I’ll leave you to it. Ring me on my mobile when you have finished.’
Dixon handed the top file to Jane. He then looked at the next on the pile.
It belonged to Rosemary Claire Southall. The label on the cover gave a date of birth of 25th March 1972 and a date of death of 17th September 1974. Aged two and a half, thought Dixon. The Inquest took place on 11th February 1975. The cause of death was given as 1(a) meningitis and the Coroner had recorded a narrative verdict.
Dixon had found the file he was looking for.
He opened it. The first document was the Coroner’s verdict. Dixon knew that a narrative verdict was reserved for those rare cases requiring further explanation or comment from the Coroner, above and beyond the usual accident, natural causes, open or misadventure verdicts.
He read aloud.
‘Cause of death 1(a) meningitis. Verdict…natural causes…contributed to by neglect and/or lack of care…gross failings…failed to realise significance of vital signs…should not have discharged….gross failure to refer…’
Jane Winter stopped reading and looked up.
‘That sounds like it.’
‘It does. Let’s have a look at the witness statements, shall we?’
Dixon leafed through the documents in the file. He extracted a statement from the file and banged it down on the desk.
‘Dr Ralph Vodden. I am a general practitioner…’
He banged a second statement on the desk.
‘Valerie Manning. I am a nurse employed in the Accident and Emergency department…’
Then another.
‘John Hawkins. I am an ambulance paramedic…’
He stopped.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘What?’
Jane waited.
‘What?’
‘There are two more.’
‘Who?’
‘Sandra Gibson. Receptionist at Arundel House Surgery.’
Dixon began reading the statement.
‘And?’ asked Jane.
Dixon turned back to the other statements.
‘Mr Julian Spalding FRCS, Consultant Paediatrician at Weston-super-Mare Hospital.’
‘What happened to them, I wonder.’
‘We need to find out pretty damn quick. What’s the time?’
‘Nearly eight,’ replied Jane.
‘I want a briefing at 9.00am. See if y
ou can get Lewis there too.’
Jane rang Dave Harding while Dixon rang Rachel Smerdon. He could hear her phone ringing in the corridor outside and she opened the door to her office without answering it.
‘Found what you are looking for?’ she asked.
Dixon disconnected the call.
‘Yes. I’m going to need to take this file, Rachel.’
‘I can’t let it go but you can copy it.’
‘No time, I’m afraid.’
‘But…’
‘Did you read about that woman who was beheaded last Saturday?’
‘Yes. Don’t tell me it’s…’
‘We found another one yesterday.’
Rachel opened her mouth to speak but said nothing.
‘They both gave evidence at this inquest,’ said Dixon, pointing to the file. ‘As did two other people who may still be alive. We have to find them and I don’t have time to waste photocopying.’
‘Take it,’ replied Rachel.
Dixon and Jane headed north on the M5. It was just after 8.00am on a dull and overcast November morning. Jane was driving Dixon’s Land Rover. He sat in the passenger seat reading Rosie Southall’s Inquest file.
They arrived at Burnham-on-Sea Police Station just before 8.30am. Jane left Dixon sitting in the passenger seat and went into the station. He was still reading when there was loud tap on the passenger window. It was DCI Lewis. Dixon got out the car.
‘This had better be good, Nick.’
The briefing began at 9.00am sharp.
‘Rosie Southall. Died 17th September 1974. Aged two and a half. The Inquest took place in February 1975. This is the file,’ said Dixon, holding it up. ‘The cause of death was meningitis. The Coroner recorded a verdict of natural causes contributed to by neglect and/or lack of care on the part of the medical staff who attended her. In other words, she died due to medical negligence.’
‘And Dr Vodden and Valerie Manning were among the medical staff?’ asked Lewis.
‘They were. And so was John Hawkins.’
‘That comes in the major breakthrough category.’
‘It does, Mark,’ said Dixon. ‘It’s a long story but I’ll keep it short.’ He poured himself a drink from the water tower. ‘The statement from the mother, Frances Southall, gives the overall picture of what happened. Frances was concerned about her daughter on the morning of 16th September. Rosie had a high temperature and was having difficulty breathing. So, she took Rosie to see her doctor.’
‘Ralph Vodden at Arundel House Surgery?’
‘That’s right, Dave. He says in his statement that he thought it was nothing serious and sent her home. He told Frances to give her Calpol, apparently.’
‘Was Calpol available then?’ asked Jane.
‘I suppose it must have been,’ replied Dixon. ‘Anyway, Rosie’s condition deteriorated throughout the day so Frances took her back to see Vodden around 3.00pm. He was out on home visits and the receptionist, Sandra Gibson, refused to let her see another doctor. She told Frances to take Rosie home and put her to bed.’
‘The receptionist said that?’ asked Lewis.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Lewis shook his head. Dixon continued.
‘The father arrived home at 6.00pm. Rosie was still no better so he called an ambulance. Enter John Hawkins, who took them to the A&E at Weston-super-Mare hospital.’
‘Where they met Valerie Manning?’
‘Yes, Dave.’
‘You can just see it coming, can’t you?’
‘Sadly, you can,’ replied Dixon. ‘Valerie thought Rosie was suffering from flu. The Consultant Paediatrician, Mr Julian Spalding, was consulted but, based on Valerie’s assessment, he refused to see them. So, Valerie sent them home. By midnight, Rosie’s condition was such that her father, David, called an ambulance for the second time. Unfortunately, it was manned by John Hawkins, and he refused to take them to the hospital again. He accused them of time wasting, according to Frances Southall’s statement.’
‘Time wasting?’
‘Yes, Jane.’
‘What happened next?’ asked Lewis.
‘Rosie Southall died in her mother’s arms at 5.00am that morning.’
Dixon looked around the room. Silence. There were tears streaming down Louise Willmott’s cheeks.
‘Sorry, Sir. I have a two year old girl at home.’
‘Ok, everyone, what’s done is done. Let’s get on with sorting this mess out, shall we?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Mark Pearce.
‘Let’s assume Rosie’s father, David Southall, is killing them for revenge...’
‘You could hardly blame him.’
‘C’mon, Mark, you know the score. We can’t allow that sort of sentiment to creep in.’
‘No, Sir.’
‘So, we come back to your question, Louise.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes. Why the gap of over thirty years? And what’s the significance of the decapitation?’
‘Does it have to be significant?’ asked Pearce.
‘Yes, it does, Mark. It’s too much of a statement for it not to be. First things first though. We have two Inquest witnesses unaccounted for. Dave, I want you to drop everything and find Mr Spalding, the Paediatrician.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘He’s probably retired by now, so try the Department for Work and Pensions, NHS Pensions and the Royal College of Surgeons.’
Dave Harding was making notes.
‘And the usual, of course, electoral roll, council tax, HM Inspector of Taxes. When you find him, take him into protective custody. Any objections, let me know.’
Dixon turned to Mark Pearce.
‘Mark, I want you to find the receptionist, Sandra Gibson. Louise, will you help him, please?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Louise Willmott.
‘Find her and take her into protective custody. And don’t take any crap.’
‘And what are you going to do?’ asked Lewis.
‘Jane and I will be going after Rosie’s parents.’
‘What about the reconstruction scheduled for Saturday night?’
‘We’ll go ahead with that. I want the killer to think we are still stumbling around in the dark. As far as the outside world is concerned, we have no leads whatsoever. Right?’
‘We need to release a statement about John Hawkins,’ said Lewis.
‘Has anyone told his next of kin? I found a birthday card from his sister.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Louise Willmott. ‘She lives in Canada. She’s coming over.’
‘Then we can release his name and that the family have been informed. I’d rather no mention was made of his former occupation. Just that he was retired.’
‘Vicky Thomas won’t like that. We’ll look like a bunch of idiots.’
‘Yes, Sir. But we know different,’ replied Dixon. ‘Right then, everyone clear what they have to do? Any developments let me know straightaway. Otherwise, meet back here at 6.00pm.’
DCI Lewis gestured to Dixon to follow him outside. They met on the landing outside the CID room.
‘I can tell the Chief Super we should have a result by the end of the day then?’
‘I wouldn’t tell him that, Sir. We are closing in. We are very close even but there’s still a long way to go.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are too many unanswered questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘If it was Rosie’s father who killed Dr Vodden, why did he wait over thirty years before killing Valerie Manning and John Hawkins?’
‘There could be...’
‘We have to find him too, don’t forget.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Tell him we are close and have made a major breakthrough. But we are still some way from wrapping this up, Sir.’
‘Ok, Nick. I get the message. Keep me posted.’
Lewis turned to go down the stairs.
‘And well done.’
‘Thank yo
u, Sir.’
‘Right then, Jane. We’ll start with the father. David Southall. Find him. Concentrate on the DWP.’
‘What about the electoral roll and council tax?’
‘My guess is that he will have changed his name. Try them by all means but I expect you’ll draw a blank.’
‘How do you know he’s changed his name?’
‘I don’t. But I would if I’d just decapitated my daughter’s doctor. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose I would.’
‘You can change your name easily enough, but you can’t change your National Insurance number.’
‘They’re always painfully slow though.’
‘You have my permission to scream and shout at them, if you have to.’
Dixon was putting on his coat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Arundel House Surgery.’
Dixon waited until he had no queue behind him and the reception area was quiet. He produced his warrant card and showed it to the receptionist.
‘I’d like to speak to the practice manager, please.’
‘She’s in a meeting.’
Dixon was not in the mood for an obstructive doctor’s receptionist. A picture flashed across his mind. It was of Frances Southall, with a dying Rosie in her arms, being turned away at the same surgery.
‘This is a murder enquiry and time is short. I suggest you go and get her out of whatever meeting it is. Now.’
The receptionist sighed.
‘Unless you want to be arrested for obstruction.’
The receptionist got up and left the room through a door behind her desk. Dixon paced up and down in the waiting area. He noticed a plaque on the wall commemorating the opening of the new surgery by the Mayor of Burnham on 31st July 2001. The building was octagonal in shape with the doctor’s surgeries and other treatment rooms arranged around the central reception and waiting area. It was timber framed, Dixon thought it oak, and glass. At least it was not the same reception that Frances Southall had been turned away from.
‘Detective Inspector?’
Dixon turned to find himself looking at a woman in her early fifties. She had short blonde hair and wore a two-piece tartan trouser suit with a cream blouse. She was in a wheelchair.
‘Yes, Detective Inspector Nick Dixon.’ He produced his warrant card.
