by Damien Boyd
‘I should think not,’ replied Evans, ‘he wouldn’t hurt a fly, that lad. And he’s my best tenant. Always pays his rent on time.’
Dixon turned to Jane Winter.
‘I’m starting to see a pattern emerging here, Jane.’
‘Me too.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind, Mr Evans, thank you,’ said Dixon. He walked past Mr Evans, up the stairs, and stood in the doorway of Cromwell’s bedsit. Mark Pearce and Jane Winter followed.
It was a large room at the front of the building, with the same view across to Hinkley Point enjoyed by the late John Hawkins. It occurred to Dixon that Seaview was only two or three hundred yards along the beach.
The room itself was sparsely furnished. There was a single bed along the right hand wall, a table and chairs in the front window and a rudimentary kitchen along the left hand wall. A sofa filled the middle of the room and formed a partition of sorts between the bedroom and the dining area. A television stood on a table opposite the sofa and the bed so that it could be watched comfortably from both.
‘Furnished?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes,’ replied Pearce.
‘How much does he pay for this shit hole?’
‘Eighty five pounds a week.’
‘Bathroom?’
‘Upstairs on the landing. It’s shared.’
Dixon spotted Louise Willmott emerging from a walk in cupboard at the end of the bed. She was wearing white paper overalls and plastic gloves.
‘Anything, Louise?’
‘Nothing, Sir.’
The Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Donald Watson, appeared behind Dixon in the doorway.
‘Compared to the last one you laid on, this one’s a delight.’
‘Have you found anything?’
‘Lots of fingerprints, but I expect they’ll all be his. Nothing else. And I mean nothing else. Just a few clothes and some wash stuff.’
‘He’s not planning on staying long then?’ asked Dixon.
‘Apparently not,’ replied Watson.
Dixon turned to Mark Pearce.
‘What’s the tenancy length, Mark? Monthly or six months?’
‘Month by month, according to Mr Evans.’
‘And there are no photos or anything like that?’
‘No,’ replied Watson.
‘Well, we’ll check his alibi now. Let me know if you find anything.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Pearce.
Dixon’s Land Rover was parked along the Esplanade. He walked back to it in silence. The tide was in and all he could hear was the noise of the water crashing against the sea wall. He looked across to the power station but his view was obscured by spray and foam rising up from the waves below.
He had no doubt that he would shortly be confirming Cromwell’s alibi. Cromwell had gone from victim to prime suspect and back to victim again in the space of eighteen hours. Dixon knew that he too was almost back to square one. Almost, but not quite. He turned and looked back to Cavendish House.
‘Poor bastard,’ he muttered, but it was lost in the roar of the waves.
They drove along Berrow Road, turned right into Rectory Road and arrived at the Allandale Lodge Residential Home just before 10.30am. They saw Susan Procter in the car park and so they waited in the Land Rover until she had gone in. A patrol car was parked in the space nearest the front door. It was occupied by an officer Dixon recognised from the search of the golf course. He appeared to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. Dixon tapped on the window. The officer looked up, saw Dixon and then got out of the car.
‘You been here all night, constable?’
‘No, Sir. We came on at 8.00am. PC Cole is on duty outside Selby’s room.’
‘Seen anything unusual?’
‘Nothing, Sir.’
‘Good. Well, try to keep your eyes open.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon and Jane Winter walked over to the front door and rang the bell. The front door was locked and was opened from the inside by a carer typing a code into a keypad above the door handle.
‘We’re here to see Susan Procter. She is expecting us,’ said Dixon.
‘Would you mind signing in, please?’
Dixon wrote his own and Jane Winter’s name in the book. He added his vehicle registration number and ‘time in’. 10.25am. He noticed that this was the first entry on a fresh page in the visitors book. He turned the page to glance at the previous entries but noticed nothing untoward. Lots of different residents receiving lots of different visitors. He wondered about those who had received none at all. Nobody had visited David Selby in the previous twenty-four hours.
They followed the carer along the hall, past the dining room on the left and the lounge on the right. They turned right at the foot of the stairs, which were opposite the front door, and then followed the corridor around to the left, past the lift, and into a narrow corridor that lead to Susan Procter’s office. Dixon took the opportunity to look into the kitchen. This time it was empty.
‘Come in, Inspector. What can I do for you?’
Dixon sat in the chair opposite Mrs Procter’s desk. Jane closed the door behind them and then stood in front of it.
‘We have Martin Cromwell in custody, Mrs Procter.’
‘Whatever has he done?’
‘He is David Selby’s son by his first wife.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘At the moment he is helping us with our enquiries. We are trying to establish whether he is involved in the recent murders and we need to check his alibi for last Saturday night. Martin says he was at work here, on nights.’
‘I can check the rotas easily, Inspector,’ said Mrs Procter. She reached down to her right and powered up her computer.
‘When did he start work here?’ asked Dixon.
‘About three months or so ago. I can give you the exact date in a second.’
‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’
‘Not really. At interview he said he had just moved into the area and that his family was from Exmouth. That’s about it.’
‘Did he give you a reason for moving here?’
‘No.’ Mrs Procter looked down and kicked the computer under her desk. She then took hold of the mouse and shook it. ‘I’m afraid my computer is a bit slow.’
‘I’m assuming you didn’t know he was Selby’s son?’
‘No, I didn’t. And Mrs Selby didn’t say anything.’
‘She didn’t know either. She’s never met him and David Selby never spoke of him, apparently.’
‘What happened to him then?’ asked Mrs Procter.
‘He was adopted as a boy.’
‘Poor little blighter.’
‘Could David Selby have known?’
‘He no longer recognises his wife, Inspector. Let alone a child he’s not seen for years.’
‘Is it possible that Mr Selby is exaggerating his symptoms, perhaps?’
Mrs Procter shook her head. She was about to reply when Dixon continued.
‘I know it’s an odd question. But vascular dementia would give him a powerful alibi if he was able to convince everyone that he was incapable.’
‘I see what you’re saying but it’s impossible. He’d never be able to keep it up for that length of time. And I’ve certainly seen no sign of it.’
Mrs Procter turned to her computer screen.
‘Ah, here we go.’
Dixon watched her eyes scanning the screen and each click of the mouse with her right hand.
‘He joined us on 27th July, and...yes, he was working last Saturday night. He was on nights, four at a time so he did Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Eight in the evening until eight in the morning.’
‘Is there any way he could have left and come back?’
‘No.’
‘And been away for, say, two or three hours or so?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Does he have a car?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. He cycles everywhe
re.’
‘What makes you so sure he couldn’t have left and come back?’
‘Well, he...he’d have been spotted by the others on the night shift. It’s such a small team they’d know straightaway if he’d gone.’
‘Who else was on duty that night?’
‘Sam, that’s Samantha, and...’ Mrs Procter looked back to her screen, ‘Kanya.’
‘Are either of them here now?’
‘Kanya is.’
‘Can we have a word with her, please?’
Mrs Procter picked up her phone.
‘Kanya, is that you?...Can you pop down to my office for a moment, please?...Yes, now.’ Mrs Procter put the phone down. ‘She’s on her way.’
‘Let’s assume he didn’t leave, is it possible he could have let his father out and then back in again without anyone noticing?’
‘That would be possible, I suppose, but only if David was capable of it, and he’s not. At least, not in my opinion.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ shouted Mrs Procter.
The door opened and a carer in blue uniform walked in. She was in her early thirties with long straight black hair.
‘Kanya is from Thailand,’ said Mrs Procter. ‘Kanya, this is a policeman, Inspector Dixon, he wants to ask you about the night shift last weekend.’
‘Ok.’
‘Who was on duty?’
‘Me, Sam and Martin.’
‘What time did you start?’
‘We came on at eight.’
‘Is it possible that Martin could have left and come back later?’
‘What? Gone out, you mean?’
‘Yes. For about two or three hours.’
‘No. He here all night. I saw him.’
‘Was he ever out of your sight?’
‘Yes, but not for that long. He answer a buzzer in the night but he not gone for more than ten minutes at a time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. We all sit in the staff room together. All night.’
‘Thank you, Kanya.’
Kanya left the office and Jane closed the door behind her.
‘Does that deal with it, Inspector?’
‘I think it does, Mrs Procter. Thank you for you help and I hope we’ve not ruined your lunch.’
‘That’s fine, I’m just glad to help Martin, that’s all. He’s such a nice lad.’
Dixon turned to Jane Winter and raised his eyebrows.
‘We’ll show ourselves out, Mrs Procter.’
Dixon walked back along the narrow corridor, past the kitchen. Jane followed. At the end he turned right towards the small table with the visitors book on it that stood in the hall. It was against the wall between the entrance to the lounge and the front door. Just as he did so, movement to his left caught his attention. He turned to see the lift door closing. He looked up. It was Jean Selby. She had changed clothes and was wearing dark trousers and a black fleece top. She was carrying a red bag in her right hand. It had a long strap and the bag itself was hovering an inch or so above the floor. Her facial expression was blank. She had bloodshot eyes and was looking straight at Dixon but made no acknowledgement of his presence. Then the door closed and she was gone.
Dixon turned to Jane Winter.
‘That was Jean Selby.’
‘Didn’t see her,’ replied Jane.
Dixon stood in front of the small table looking at the visitors book. He checked the time, picked up the biro and then wrote 10.50 in the ‘time out’ column. He placed the pen back in the spine of the visitors book slowly, all the time staring at the left hand page.
‘She’s not signed in.’
He looked back to the lift and then back to the visitors book. He turned the page to check the entries for the previous Friday.
‘She signed in on Friday afternoon.’
Dixon walked over to the front door. The code for the lock was written in the bottom left hand corner of the Health and Safety sign on the wall to his right. He reached up with his right hand to enter the code into the keypad. He froze. He stood staring out of the stained glass window in the door panel.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jane.
Dixon did not respond. He was looking at a small dark blue car parked next to the police patrol car.
‘That car wasn’t there when we arrived was it?’
Jane peered over Dixon’s shoulder.
‘No, that space was empty.’
‘Daniel Fisher’s statement…’ Dixon’s voice tailed off.
‘A small dark car?’ asked Jane.
‘Oh, shit.’
Dixon spun round and ran back to the visitors book. He turned the page and looked again at the previous entries.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
‘What is it?’ asked Jane.
‘What was the name of that firm of solicitors in Wells that Dave said Spalding’s rent was being paid to?’
‘Ambrose and Tucker, I think he said.’
Dixon read aloud from the visitors book.
‘Friday afternoon; Simon Ambrose. Visiting J Spalding. Time in; 3.55pm. Time out; 4.30pm.’
‘Spalding is here?’ asked Jane.
Dixon was already on his way back in the direction of Susan Procter’s office. He met her in the narrow corridor walking towards him.
‘Julian Spalding?’
‘What about him?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Room twenty nine. Third floor. Top of the stairs, through the double doors, turn left and he’s at the end of the corridor. Why?’
Dixon ignored her. He turned and ran towards the stairs. He shouted to Jane Winter who was standing in the lounge doorway.
‘Get Cole from outside Selby’s room. Radio for back up, then follow me up to the third floor.’
‘Not Mrs Selby...’
‘What the fuck is she doing in the lift, Jane?’
Dixon was halfway up the first flight of stairs. Jane looked through the lounge to the corridor of the ground floor annexe that led to David Selby’s room. She could see PC Cole sat in a chair outside his door. She looked back to the stairs. Dixon had gone.
Dixon ran up the stairs, through the double doors and along the corridor. The door to room twenty nine was on the right just before Dixon reached the fire exit at the end. Opposite was a fire extinguisher mounted on a wall bracket at waist height. He tried the door to Spalding’s room. It was locked. He stepped back, brought his left foot up and kicked the door just above the handle. Nothing happened. He kicked it again. Still nothing.
He turned around and took the fire extinguisher off the wall. Holding the top in his right hand and the bottom in his left, he slammed the end of the extinguisher into the door handle, pulling his left hand away as he did so. The doorframe splintered. He picked up the fire extinguisher and hit the door again, just above the handle. The wooden doorframe shattered and the door swung open.
Dixon dropped the fire extinguisher and stepped into Spalding’s room. The door closed behind him. There was an en suite bathroom to his right, which created a narrow entrance hall of sorts. Dixon took three steps forward into the room itself.
There was a large bay window at the front. He could see Spalding sitting in an armchair in front of the window. Behind him stood Jean Selby. She was holding a long thin bladed knife across Spalding’s throat. She pointed the knife at Dixon and screamed at him.
‘Stay back.’
Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was red. She was breathing heavily and her nostrils flared with each breath she took. Tears were streaming down her face. The palm of her right hand was facing upwards and Dixon could see that her knuckles were white from the effort of holding the knife.
‘It’s alright, Jean. Calm down.’
Dixon took a moment to survey the room. He moved his eyes without turning his head away from Jean Selby. The room was large, much larger than David Selby’s. A hospital bed stood against the wall to Dixon’s right. To his left was a wardrobe, opposite t
he end of the bed. Against the wall to the left of the bay window was a bow fronted chest of drawers. Dixon could see Jean Selby’s red bag sitting on top of it next to what looked like an electric carving knife. In the bay window were two armchairs behind a long low coffee table. Spalding sat in the chair nearest to Dixon and was almost sideways on to him.
Spalding himself appeared to be asleep. He looked much like David Selby. He was old, gaunt and slumped in his chair.
‘Look at him, Jean. What is the point of killing him?’
‘The point?’
‘It’s more of a punishment to let him live, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No I wouldn’t,’ screamed Jean Selby. ‘You haven’t got a clue what this is about.’
She replaced the knife across Spalding’s throat. He stirred but did not wake up.
‘You blame him for what’s happened to your husband. David blamed the doctors for the deaths of Rosie and Frances and you blame them for his dementia.’
Jean Selby tried to wipe her tears away with her left hand.
‘Look what they’ve done to him.’
‘Look what they’ve done to you, Jean,’ said Dixon.
She began to sob.
‘I’ve watched him tear himself apart for over thirty years and now this. And it’s their fault,’ she screamed. ‘I’m finishing what he started.’
Dixon could hear footsteps coming along the corridor. They were running. Jean Selby pointed the knife at Dixon.
‘Stay back.’
Sirens could be heard in the distance. Jean Selby glanced to her left out of the window. She lowered the knife. Not much but enough. Dixon took his chance. He ran forward, three paces, stepped up onto the coffee table and launched himself at Jean Selby.
She turned at the last moment and tried to bring the knife back up to meet him. Dixon tried to knock it from her grasp with his left hand as he flew through the air. At the same time he pushed her head back with his right. He felt a solid blow to his left shoulder. Jean Selby fell back. Dixon landed on top of her. He tried to get up and found himself kneeling astride her. She was screaming and flailing at him with her fists. He tried to restrain her but his left arm wouldn’t move. He managed to take hold of her left wrist with his right hand and then used his left knee to hold down her right arm.
