Head in the Sand

by Damien Boyd

  Dixon had learnt nothing new. He looked around the room. David Selby was still asleep. There were no books or magazines anywhere but then reading was well beyond Selby now. Dixon looked in the wardrobe and also the chest of drawers. As expected, he found nothing of interest amongst the clothes.

  The top drawer of the bedside table contained several pairs of spectacles, packets of sweets and not much else. Dixon opened the small cupboard underneath and found two half eaten boxes of chocolates, an empty address book and a small photograph album. He sat on the edge of the bed to look through it. It reminded him of the album that his mother had put together for his grandmother. He had spent many an hour going through it with her, triggering memories with each picture. Clearly, someone had done the same for Selby.

  Each photograph was annotated in pencil. ‘David aged 1’ through to the inevitable school uniform shot, ‘David first day at King Alfred’s’. There were photos of Selby with his parents, in various football teams and then the last of the black and white photographs taken at his graduation from Durham University.

  The photographs then switched to colour and began with more wedding shots, ‘David and Jean Wedding 30th September 1983’. The gap was obvious. Not a single photograph of his first wife, Frances, or his daughter, Rosie. Maybe none existed or perhaps Mrs Selby did not want to trigger bad memories. Dixon made a mental note to ask her. He also noticed that there were no photographs of their two sons as infants. Another question for Mrs Selby. He flicked through the remaining photographs in the album. None were particularly interesting. Selby appeared to enjoy sea fishing from a boat and latterly with his two sons, but that was the only conclusion Dixon was able to reach.

  The photographs ended several pages before the back of the album, leaving the last few pages blank. Dixon continued to turn the pages, although he was no longer looking at them. David Selby was stirring. He opened his eyes and looked at Dixon. Selby yawned, closed his eyes and then was gone again. Dixon looked down. Inside the back cover of the album was a loose photograph. It was black and white, curled at the corners and, judging by the line down the middle, had once been folded in half. Dixon picked it up, unfolded the corners and looked at it intently. He recognised a young David Selby. Older than at his graduation but younger than on his wedding to Jean Selby. He was sitting in a deck chair on a beach. Next to him, also in a deck chair, sat a young woman. Dixon knew he was looking at Frances Southall. In front her on the sand sat a young child wearing a nappy. She was holding a small spade and appeared to be hitting an upturned bucket with it. That must be Rosie, thought Dixon. Behind her stood a small boy in swimming trunks. Three or perhaps four years old. He was looking down at the girl and smiling. Dixon recognised the smile of an older brother. He looked at Selby and then back to the photograph. He turned it over. There was a pencil note on the back, ‘Dawlish Warren June 1974’. He noticed that David Selby was looking at him.

  ‘You had a son, David?’

  Dixon felt sure that he saw a flicker of recognition in Selby’s eyes. Then he was gone again.

  Dixon put the photograph in his inside jacket pocket. Then he closed the album, replaced it in the bedside cabinet and left David Selby asleep.

  Dixon arrived at Burnham-on-Sea Police Station just after 11.30am. Jane Winter was waiting for him in the reception area.

  ‘She’s asked for a solicitor. Poole’s on his way from Ashtons in Weston. He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Is everyone here?’

  ‘Except Dave. He’s organising the reconstruction for later today.’

  ‘Has he found Spalding?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What about Selby’s medical records?’

  ‘Mark has got them.’

  Dixon walked into the CID room. Mark Pearce was reading Selby’s medical records. Louise Willmott was on her computer.

  ‘Let me have those, Mark.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Pearce, bundling up the records.

  ‘Right then, Louise and I will interview Mrs Selby.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Jane, I want you and Mark to find the son.’

  ‘Which one? He’s got two.’

  ‘Wrong. He’s got three.’

  ‘Three?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Yes. He had a son by his first wife.’

  ‘Rosie had a brother?’ asked Louise.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Mrs Selby will know.’

  ‘He wasn’t on Vodden’s patient lists,’ said Jane.

  ‘He wasn’t, which is odd. Maybe he was a patient of another doctor in the same surgery? But top priority is to find him.’

  ‘Do we know what happened to him?’

  ‘He was probably taken into care, unless he went to live with relatives. He was only three or four at the time remember. Start with Social Services.’

  ‘It’s Saturday, don’t forget,’ said Jane.

  ‘Ring the emergency line. Then kick their door down if you have to,’ replied Dixon. ‘And we need to pick up his other two sons as well. Richard is in Puriton and Marcus in London, so get onto the Met.’

  Dixon sat at a vacant desk and opened Selby’s medical records. The cover had been amended to reflect his change of name. Southall had been crossed out and Selby written above it. Dixon leafed through the letters and medical reports attached. He found a report, a little over a year old, from a consultant psychiatrist in elderly client medicine confirming the diagnosis of vascular dementia. A further report from an occupational therapist dated 11th May recommended an urgent move into residential care on the grounds that Mrs Selby was no longer able to cope with him at home. Selby was described as suffering from advanced vascular dementia. He had suffered a ‘significant episode’ over Easter, which had resulted in a dramatic deterioration in his condition. His Addenbrooke’s Cognitive Examination score was unusually low and he was far from mentally capable. The OT also recommended registration of his lasting power of attorney.

  Dixon looked through the older documents. He found a letter from Dr Vodden dated 17th January 1976. It was a referral to a consultant psychiatrist recommending that David Southall be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Southall had been unable to deal with the loss of his daughter and then the suicide of his wife. He was a risk to himself and his son, Martin, and he had, according to Dr Vodden, ‘stuck his head in the sand’.

  Dixon handed the letter to Jane.

  ‘Read this.’

  He watched Jane reading the letter, waiting for her to reach the relevant passage.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Dixon.

  ‘What a shitty thing to say about a man who’d lost his wife and child,’ said Jane.

  ‘It is. But at least we now know why Vodden’s head was left in a bunker. And we’ve got a name for the son.’

  The interview with Jean Selby began at 2.00pm in an interview suite at Burnham-on-Sea Police Station. Dixon had deliberately kept her waiting, despite protests from her solicitor, Mr Poole.

  ‘I really must protest, Inspector. My client is not under arrest and to keep her waiting nearly three hours is unacceptable.’

  ‘I can arrest her if you prefer, Mr Poole.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Perverting the course of justice, assisting an offender, take your pick.’

  Jean Selby glared at Poole.

  ‘Now, shall we make a start?’ asked Dixon.

  Jean Selby nodded.

  Dixon made the introductions for the tape. He reminded Mrs Selby that she was not under arrest and was free to leave at any time.

  ‘When did you meet David Southall?’

  ‘We met in 1982 and married the following year. I told you that.’

  ‘You did. You also said that he told you everything about his life before you met. What exactly did he tell you?’

  ‘That his daughter had been killed by incompetent doctors and first wife ha
d committed suicide soon after.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He went to pieces and ended up being sectioned.’

  ‘And when he was released?’

  Jean Selby took a deep breath. She looked at Poole and then back to Dixon. She was twisting her wedding band around her ring finger with her right index finger and thumb. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  ‘He went after them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The doctors. The people he blamed...held responsible.’

  ‘And what did he do to them?’

  ‘He killed the doctor and his receptionist.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You already know the answers to these questions.’

  ‘We need to hear it from you.’

  ‘His wife was decapitated when she hanged herself. So, he stabbed them...and then decapitated them.’

  ‘Let’s start with the doctor then. What was his name?’

  ‘Dr Vodden.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s on the internet, Inspector. Read it for yourself.’

  ‘I need to know what you know, Mrs Selby.’

  ‘Not a lot. He didn’t go into graphic detail. Just that he killed him, cut his head off, dumped the body and set fire to the car.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘The doctor said that David had stuck his head in the sand, so he did the same to him.’

  ‘What about the receptionist?’

  ‘He flew to Australia to kill her. Brisbane I think it was. Again, it’s on the internet.’

  ‘And you knew this when you married him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dixon looked at Louise Willmott.

  ‘I loved him, Inspector,’ said Jean Selby. ‘You need to understand, he was mentally ill at the time he did it. He was a different person when I met him.’

  ‘You were qualified to make that assessment?’

  ‘I was actually. I was his community psychiatric nurse. That’s how we met.’

  ‘And you never thought to tell the police that he had murdered two people in cold blood?’

  ‘I knew I should, but I couldn’t do it. I loved him.’

  ‘So, why are you telling us now?’

  ‘Look at him. What can you possibly do to him now?’

  Tears were streaming down Jean Selby’s cheeks.

  ‘What about his innocent victims and their families...?

  ‘They weren’t innocent,’ snapped Jean Selby. ‘They killed his wife and child. And look what the stress of it has done to him...’ Her voice tailed off and she began to sob.

  ‘I think this has gone on long enough, Inspector,’ said Poole, ‘so, unless you have any further questions...?’

  ‘I do, as it happens. Several,’ replied Dixon. ‘Tell me about your sons. It’s Richard and Marcus, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’ve they got to do with it?’

  ‘Let me be quite clear, Mrs Selby. I am investigating the murders of Dr Ralph Vodden in 1979 and also that of his receptionist, Sandra Docherty, in 1981. You have just told me that your husband, David John Southall, otherwise known as David John Selby, committed those murders.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jean Selby had stopped crying and was listening intently to Dixon.

  ‘I am also investigating the murders of Valerie Manning and John Hawkins. Both were killed within the last two weeks. They were stabbed and then decapitated. What can you tell me about their deaths?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Both were involved in the treatment of Rosie Southall and gave evidence at her inquest.’

  Jean Selby looked at Poole. She said nothing.

  ‘The general consensus of opinion seems to be that your husband is not capable of that.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So, who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So, we come back to your sons...’

  ‘They’ve got nothing to do with it.’ Jean Selby started shaking. ‘They know nothing about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘His past.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview them and take DNA...’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ screamed Mrs Selby. She turned to Mr Poole. ‘They can’t do that. Stop them.’

  ‘Is this really necessary, Inspector?’ said Poole.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t...’

  ‘Mrs Selby, perhaps it would be better if you told me why we can’t.’

  She began to sob. She covered her face with her hands. Dixon waited for her to regain her composure.

  ‘They’re adopted. The DNA won’t match.’ She spoke in between sobs and was struggling to catch her breath. ‘They don’t know. We never told them. It’ll break their hearts.’

  ‘And what about your stepson?’

  The effect was immediate. Jean Selby stopped crying and stared at Dixon. He reached into his pocket and produced the crumpled black and white photograph. He placed it on the table in front of her. Mrs Selby picked it up and looked at it before placing it back on the table.

  ‘It was in the photograph album, Mrs Selby.’

  Dixon waited.

  ‘Martin. He was adopted in 1976. Marcus and Richard don’t know about him.’

  ‘Has he ever made contact with his father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘What was his adoptive name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did your husband ever try to find him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he talk about him or wonder what became of him perhaps?’

  ‘No. It was a part of his life he tried to forget.’

  ‘His own son?’

  ‘Unless you have been in that situation, Inspector, you will never understand.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ said Dixon. ‘This interview is terminated at 2.27pm.’ He got up to leave the room.

  ‘I’m assuming my client is free to leave, Inspector,’ said Poole.

  ‘Mr Poole, if your client attempts to leave the station she will be arrested on suspicion of perverting the course of justice.’

  Dixon and Louise Willmott went back up to the CID room. It was empty apart from Dave Harding, who was eating a sandwich.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Jane and Mark have gone to meet someone from social services at County Hall. They left about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘What about Richard and Marcus Selby?’

  ‘Richard is on his way here and the Met have picked up Marcus. They are checking alibis and a DNA sample will be couriered down here overnight.’

  ‘Any news on Spalding?’

  ‘No, Sir. I’m waiting to hear from the DWP but it’s the weekend, of course. The reconstruction is set for 5.00pm onwards though.’

  ‘Good.’

  Dixon turned to Louise Willmott.

  ‘Let’s keep Mrs Selby in tonight, Louise. While we speak to her precious sons and track down Martin Southall. Arrest her for perverting the course of justice and stick her in a cell. We can release her on police bail tomorrow but don’t tell her that.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Dixon looked at his watch.

  ‘Do me a favour will you, Dave? Check with SOCO to see if they got any DNA off that wine glass at John Hawkins’ place.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I’m just nipping out for a bite to eat.’

  Nine

  Dixon drove around to the sea front. He parked in the Morrisons car park close to the spot where Valerie Manning had parked, bought a small bag of chips from the takeaway in Abingdon Street and then sat on the sea wall next to the jetty to eat them. He threw Monty’s tennis ball along the beach and watched as he tore off after it.

  All he could do was wait. Martin Southall was the obvious priority but Dixon knew that without a name for his adoptive parents it was going to be difficult to make any real progress. He needed to b
e found before he got to Spalding, the consultant paediatrician and the last of Frances Southall’s inquest witnesses still alive.

  Dixon found it difficult not to have some sympathy for Martin Southall. He had watched his little sister die in his mother’s arms and then had to endure his mother’s suicide. As if that wasn’t enough, his father then suffered a mental breakdown. He had lost his entire family by the time he was five years old. Shit happens, thought Dixon, but Martin Southall had someone to blame for his misfortune. Someone criticised for it in a court of law. And he was exacting his revenge. Finishing what his father had started. Martin Southall had to be found.

  Dixon felt like a jockey whose horse refused to leave the stalls. The race was on but all he could do was watch it unfold. And throw the ball for his dog.

  Dixon was back at Burnham Police Station by 4.00pm. There was still no news from Jane Winter. Dave Harding was interviewing Richard Selby, who had arrived in a panda car escorted by two uniformed officers. Mrs Selby had been moved to a cell in the custody suite at Bridgwater Police Station, much to the annoyance of her solicitor, Mr Poole.

  DCI Lewis and the Press Officer, Vicky Thomas, were waiting for Dixon in the CID room.

  ‘Where is everybody, Nick? What’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve found David Southall, Sir. He’s suffering from vascular dementia and is in Allandale Lodge care home. His wife has confirmed that he killed Dr Vodden and also Vodden’s receptionist, Sandra Docherty. She had emigrated to Australia and was found decapitated in 1981.’

  ‘What about Valerie Manning and the paramedic?’

  ‘John Hawkins. No, he didn’t kill them. He’s incapable to say the least. I’ve got two psychiatrists lined up to assess him on Monday.’

  ‘So, who did?’