by Damien Boyd
‘We’re looking for his son from his first marriage, Martin. He was five years old when his sister died.’
‘You’ve got the wife in the cells too?’
‘That’s Southall’s second wife, Sir. Jean Selby. His first wife, Frances, committed suicide after Rosie’s death. She hanged herself and was decapitated in the process.’
‘Decapitated?’
‘Yes, Sir. Southall then suffered a breakdown and was sectioned.’
‘Which explains the delay before the murder of Dr Vodden, I suppose?’
‘It does.’
‘So, what happened to the son?’
‘We’re trying to find out. Jane is at social services now.’
‘Poor little bastard. His sister dies, his mother commits suicide and then his father goes nuts.’
‘It’s difficult not to feel sorry for him.’
‘We don’t really need this reconstruction then?’ asked Lewis.
‘It’s too late cancel it now,’ said Vicky Thomas.
‘Quite. We’ll go ahead anyway. You never know what might come out of it.’
‘We might as well, Sir,’ said Dixon.
‘Good work though, Nick.’
‘It will be if we can find the son before he gets to Spalding.’
‘Remind me, who’s Spalding?’
‘The last of the witnesses who gave evidence at Rosie Southall’s inquest. Dave’s been on it but hasn’t found him yet. He’s not dead. We know that much.’
‘Keep at it then and keep me posted too.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Will you be at the reconstruction?’
‘I’ll be there, yes.’
‘We’d best get over there now,’ said Vicky Thomas, ‘the press will be arriving soon.’
‘Right. See you later, Nick,’ said Lewis.
Dave Harding held the door open for DCI Lewis and Vicky Thomas to leave the room. Then he handed Richard Selby’s statement to Dixon.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Not really, Sir. Alibi seems perfectly reasonable to me but I’ll get uniform to check it out when they take him home. I’ve got a DNA swab.’
‘Well done, Dave. You’d better head over to the reconstruction. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Remind me where you got to with Spalding.’
‘Waiting to hear from the DWP and NHS Pensions with bank details. His pensions are still being paid but the address they have for him has other occupants according to the electoral roll.’
‘It could be let? Have you knocked on the door?’
‘Not yet.’
Dixon frowned.
‘I’ll do it after the reconstruction, Sir.’
Dixon arrived at the Morrisons car park just before 5.00pm. All the roads were closed but he was allowed through the police cordon. He parked on the far side, well away from the reconstruction. It was dark but the area was well lit by street lighting and the lights in the supermarket, which was still open. He could see a red Fiat Uno parked adjacent to the bus stop opposite the Pier Tavern and several film crews and photographers waiting nearby. A large crowd of onlookers was watching from outside the pub. He took out his phone and sent Jane Winter a text message.
‘Any news?’
He walked over to the bus stop to find Dave Harding briefing a group of uniformed officers under the supervision Police Sergeant Dean. Each was given leaflets to hand out. He spotted DCI Lewis giving a television interview under the supermarket canopy. Vicky Thomas was standing close by, listening in.
Dixon watched as Dave Harding walked over to a police van parked on the other side of the road, outside Fortes ice cream parlour. Harding opened the back of the van and spoke to the occupants. A figure then stepped out of the back of the van. Dixon winced when he recognised PC Cole. He was wearing grey trainers, black trousers and a black or navy blue hooded top, Dixon couldn’t tell in the artificial light. Cole was carrying a black holdall.
Dixon watched the reconstruction unfold from under the canopy of Morrisons. PC Cole did his best to loiter unobtrusively in and around the bus stop. He then walked over to the jetty and back several times, each stage being filmed for the evening news. He walked with his head down and covered by the hood of his top. A WPC played the part of Valerie Manning and together they created an accurate reconstruction of Valerie’s abduction. Uniformed police officers mingled with the crowd handing out leaflets and asking questions. Dixon could see more of them in the Reeds Arms and Morrisons doing the same.
Dixon noticed two officers in animated conversation with possible witnesses, one with an elderly couple in the foyer of the supermarket, and the other outside the Pier Tavern. Dixon gestured to Dave Harding, who came over. Dixon pointed out the witnesses to Harding.
‘Dave, it looks like we have someone who thinks they saw something. Find out what they’ve got to say, will you?’
Dave Harding walked over and spoke to each of the officers in turn, first the officer in Morrisons and then outside the Pier Tavern. He jogged back across the road to where Dixon was standing.
‘The guy in the pub is a time waster. The elderly couple were doing their weekly shop and remember seeing someone carrying a black bag.’
‘What time?’
‘Same time. They always shop same time, same day every week.’
‘Male or female?’
‘They don’t know.’
‘What was this person wearing?’
‘They can’t remember.’
‘Is there anything they can remember?’
‘Just that the person was smaller than Cole.’
‘Is that it?’
‘‘Fraid so.’
Dixon looked at PC Cole. He was of medium height and medium build, possibly five feet ten or eleven inches and twelve stone. ‘Smaller than Cole’ described half the population. Dixon looked across the car park. The elderly couple were loading their shopping into the back of their car. He was about to walk over to question them further when his phone rang. It was Jane Winter.
‘We’ve got a name.’
‘Well?’
‘He spent time in two foster homes before he was adopted by a Mr and Mrs Cromwell. They lived in Yeovil at the time. I’ve got an address but it’s going back to the late seventies.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘We’re on our way back to the station.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
Dixon rang off.
‘Gotta go, Dave. Check that address for Spalding and keep me posted.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon arrived at Burnham Police Station just after Jane and Mark Pearce. Jane was sitting at a computer. Pearce was standing behind her looking at the screen.
‘I’ve searched the PNC and they’re not known to police. Nothing on the drivers’ database either,’ said Jane.
‘What about Martin Cromwell?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Try the electoral roll. What are their full names?’ asked Dixon.
‘Victoria Katherine Cromwell and Eric Cromwell.’
Dixon sat at a computer. He opened a web browser and went to Google. He typed ‘Eric Cromwell announcement’ into the search field and hit the search button. All of the results on the first page came from iannounce.co.uk. He scrolled down and clicked on the third result, ‘Eric Cromwell Death Notices, South West England’.
‘How about this?’ Dixon read aloud. ‘Eric Cromwell, on 7th November 2007 at Exmouth Community Hospital, aged 81. Formerly resident in Knowle Road, Yeovil. Beloved husband of Vicky and father to Martin. Funeral service at St. Paul’s Chapel, Exeter Crematorium on 22nd November at 3.15pm. Any enquiries via Caunters Funeral Service. Family flowers only.’
‘How did you find that?’ asked Jane.
‘Google the name followed by announcement. Try the wife.’
Dixon watched while Jane typed and then hit ‘enter’. He followed her eyes as she scanned the screen.
‘Not
hing.’
‘Chances are she’s still alive then,’ said Dixon. ‘Get onto Exmouth police. We need an address and it would be good if they would kindly send a car to check it out. If she’s in we need to know straightaway.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘Mark, check the electoral roll for Exmouth, will you?’
‘Will do.’
Dixon poured himself a drink from the water tower.
‘Nothing on the electoral roll, Sir.’
‘That’s not the end of the world. You can opt out these days. Try ringing the funeral directors, Caunters.’
‘At this time on a Saturday?’
‘They’ll have a twenty four hour emergency line. People don’t always die between 9.00am and 5.00pm Monday to Friday.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Both Jane and Mark Pearce were on the phone. Dixon tried to keep up with both conversations. Jane’s finished first.
‘They’ve got an address in Hulham Road, wherever that is. They’re sending a car now.’
Mark Pearce’s call ended.
‘No luck with Caunters. They won’t have access to their computer until Monday morning.’
‘Thanks, Mark. You may as well head off. Be back here at 8.00am sharp.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Jane.
‘We wait. What number did you give them?’
‘My mobile.’
‘Good. Have you had lunch?
‘Lunch? No.’
‘Let’s go and get you something to eat then.’
It was just before 7.30pm when Jane Winter’s telephone rang. They were sitting in the bay window at the Dunstan House Hotel. Dixon was half way through a gammon steak and chips. Jane Winter was picking at the remains of her chicken curry. She fumbled in her handbag to find her phone.
‘Jane Winter.’
Dixon listened to Jane’s end of the conversation.
‘Yes...thank you...did you try the neighb...when was this?’
Jane took a pen from the side pocket of her handbag and scribbled on a paper napkin.
‘Yes…Princess Elizabeth Orthopaedic Centre...Royal Devon and Exeter Hosp...got it, thanks...which ward is she on?...Dyball...thank you.’
She turned the paper napkin around and slid it across the table to Dixon.
‘One last thing. Have the neighbours seen her son recently?...Are you still sat outside the house?...Sorry to be a pain but could you go and ask them, please? And then ring me straight back...thank you...yes...thanks.’
Jane rang off.
Dixon picked up the napkin. ‘What the f...?’
‘It’s not what you think. She’s had a new hip. The neighbour dropped her at the hospital this morning. She had the operation this afternoon, apparently.’
‘Is she alright?’
‘He didn’t know.’
Dixon took his iPhone out of his jacket pocket. He opened the web browser and navigated to Google. He typed in ‘exeter hospital’. The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital was the first result. He wrote the telephone number down on the corner of the napkin and then proceeded to dial it. When he had finished dialling, he got up and walked outside to make the call in the comparative privacy of the car park. It was dark but the lights from the hotel lit up the car park. Dixon stood by the bay window.
‘Dyball Ward, please.’
He waited for the click.
‘Dyball Ward.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon of Avon and Somerset Police. Can you tell me whether you have a Mrs Cromwell on the ward?’
‘Well I...?’
‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Staff nurse Julie Pritchard.’
‘Listen to me very carefully, Julie, I am who I say I am and this is a murder investigation. Now, do you...?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she in a fit state to answer questions?’
‘No. She’s not long out of recovery. She only had her op late afternoon so she’s very groggy still.’
‘When do you think...?’
‘It’s unlikely to be until tomorrow, really. She’ll be on morphine over night.’
‘Do you have her next of kin’s contact details in her records?’
‘Yes, it’s her son, I think. I’ll check. Hold on.’
Dixon’s heart was racing. He could hear papers rustling.
‘Yes, it’s her son, Martin Cromwell. We’ve only got a mobile number though...’
Dixon opened his mouth to speak but Julie continued.
‘...Do you want to speak to him now? He’s sitting by her bed.’
Dixon banged on the window of the Dunstan House and waved at Jane Winter to come outside.
‘Where are you, Julie?’
‘I’m out by the nurse’s station. Is there a problem?’
‘This is very important, Julie. I need you to act as if nothing has happened. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t speak to anyone about this conversation and most of all do not approach Martin Cromwell. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. What’s going on?’
‘Just let him sit there as long as he wants. We’ll be there as quick as we can.’
‘Visiting time finishes at 8.00pm’
Dixon looked at his watch. Twenty minutes.
‘Don’t ask him to leave whatever you do, Julie. Let him sit there. We’re on our way.’
‘He’s not a murderer is he?’ There was panic in Julie’s voice.
‘We just need to speak to him that’s all. Just go about your business in the usual way and forget he’s there. Ok?’
‘Yes, ok.’
Dixon rang off just as Jane Winter’s phone rang. She answered it.
‘Hello.’
‘Three months...ok, thank you for that...’
Dixon interrupted. ‘Is that Exmouth?’
‘Yes.’
Dixon snatched Jane’s phone from her hand.
‘This is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon. Who am I speaking to?’
‘PC Venables, Sir. Exmouth.’
‘Right then, constable Venables, we have a situation and I need your help.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The suspect in a triple murder investigation, one Martin Cromwell, is currently sitting by his mother’s bedside in Dyball Ward at the Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. We are on our way now but it will take us at least an hour to get there. I need you to get on the radio and get any and every officer within a ten mile radius to converge on Dyball Ward now. Can you do that?’
‘Leave it to me, Sir.’
‘Visiting time finishes at 8.00pm so he’ll be leaving soon.’
‘I understand.’
‘We are leaving now and will get there as quick as we can. Please keep us abreast of developments on this number.’
‘Will do, Sir.’
Dixon rang off and handed the phone back to Jane Winter.
‘He’s at the hospital now?’ asked Jane.
‘He is.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Quite,’ said Dixon. ‘C’mon, we need to get going.’
‘Have you settled up for the food?’
‘I’ll ring ‘em from the car and tell them we’ll pop back later. You drive.’
Dixon and Jane raced out of Burnham towards the M5. Jane managed to get Dixon’s old Land Rover up to seventy five miles per hour on the long straight before the railway bridge but the noise made conversation difficult. Dixon was sitting in the passenger seat shouting into his phone.
‘We’ll call in later to settle the bill...yes...police...yes....emergency...possibly tomorrow...sorry.’
He rang off.
‘That’s the Dunstan House sorted out. They’re fine.’
‘Good,’ replied Jane.
She turned onto the M5 and headed south. It was a bright moonlit night. Dixon sat with his own phone in his right hand and Jane’s in his left. He watched the traffic flashing past them in the outside la
nes and began to wonder whether he had made such a wise choice of vehicle. Still, other officers were no doubt converging on Exeter hospital already and whatever vehicle they were in, Dixon and Jane could play no part in that. He looked at his watch. It would be at least 8.30pm before they got there, assuming they didn’t get lost. He could do nothing but wait. He looked at the stars in the night sky and watched the fireworks going off in Bridgwater from the bridge over the River Parrett.
‘What’s the time?’ shouted Jane.
Dixon looked at his watch again. ‘Gone eight.’
‘They must be there by now.’
‘They must.’
They drove on, listening to the roar of the Land Rover’s old diesel engine. They had reached Taunton when Jane’s phone lit up and then began ringing. Jane eased off the accelerator to reduce the engine noise. Dixon answered the call.
‘DI Dixon.’
‘This is Sergeant Hargreaves, Sir, Exeter Police. I’m afraid we missed him.’
Dixon gritted his teeth. He turned to Jane Winter and shook his head.
‘Fuck it,’ muttered Jane, but it was lost in the engine noise.
‘We’ve checked the bus stops but he’s not there either. He left about ten to eight, I’m told, Sir.’
‘What time did you get there?’ asked Dixon.
‘The first car got here just after that. They missed him by a couple of minutes at most, according to the ward staff.’
‘Is Nurse Pritchard there?’
‘She’s doing the change over, Sir. The night shift are just coming on.’
‘We’re on our way, Sergeant, and will be there in about half an hour. Can you see to it that Nurse Pritchard stays? I’ll need to speak to her.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And the CCTV. We’ll need a look at that.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Sir.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll ring you on this number when we get there.’
Dixon turned to Jane.
‘They missed him. They bloody well missed him.’
‘By how much?’
‘A couple of minutes.’
‘Typical.’
‘Put your foot down and let’s get there as quick as we can.’
The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital was well signposted from Junction 30 on the M5 and it was just before 8.45pm when Dixon and Jane turned off Barrack Road into the main entrance. They followed the signs for the Princess Elizabeth Orthopaedic Centre, which took them past the visitor car parks and into the hospital one-way system. They were just beginning to think they might be lost when they recognised the Orthopaedic Centre on the left. It had two police cars parked outside and two more in the small car park opposite.
