Head in the Sand (13 page)

‘If anyone finds out about this I could lose my job,’ he said.

‘It’s hardly the end of the world.’

‘A hypo behind the wheel is a big deal for a diabetic. I could lose my licence. And I hit a parked car.’

‘Where?’

‘Back there, I think. It was red.’

Jane walked along the road in the direction of Wedmore. She came to a red Vauxhall Corsa with a dent in the driver’s side front wing. The wing mirror was in pieces in the road. She walked back.

‘Did you give them your name in the shop?’

‘No.’

‘Neither did I. Can you drive?’

‘I should be ok now.’

‘Get in and let’s the get the hell out of here.’

‘What about...?’

‘They’ll think it was farm machinery or something. The car’s an old heap anyway.’

Dixon followed Jane. They had reached Edithmead when Jane indicated left and pulled into a farm gateway. Dixon parked behind her. She got out and ran back. Dixon wound his window down. It had stopped raining.

‘We’ve got an address. Louise just rang.’

‘Where?’

‘17 Mark Close, Highbridge.’

‘Let’s go and have a look. Pull into the Bristol Bridge Inn. We can leave your car there.’

‘What are you going to do?

‘Just a drive by. Don’t panic. And what’s his name. You never told me.’

‘David John Selby. He got married in 1983 and took his wife’s name rather than the other way round.’

Jane parked in the Bristol Bridge Inn car park and they continued in Dixon’s Land Rover.

‘It’s off Maple Drive.’

Dixon turned into Maple Drive and then left into Mark Close. It was a short and narrow residential road with twelve bungalows on either side. All were constructed of red brick and appeared identical. Each had a bay window either side of the front door, a drive leading to a garage at the side, and a small area of lawn to the front split by a garden path.

There was a turning circle at the far end of the Close. Dixon drove to the end and turned the Land Rover. He then drove slowly back along Mark Close counting off the house numbers. Odd numbers were to his nearside.

Number 17 had a ‘For Sale’ board outside. There was a ‘Sale Agreed’ sticker across it. He stopped across the drive. 

‘It’s empty,’ said Jane.

‘Go and have a look through the window.’

Jane ran up the drive. She looked in the first window then crossed the garden path and looked in the window on the other side. She ran back across the lawn.

‘Empty.’

Dixon looked at the Estate Agents’ sign.

‘Let’s pay them a visit.’

They arrived outside the estate agent’s office in College Road, Burnham-on-Sea, just as it was closing. The door was locked but their warrant cards and some persistent knocking were sufficient to persuade him to unlock the door. The agent, Simon Perry, was happy to help in any way he could, once the importance and urgency had been explained to him.

He confirmed that Mr and Mrs David Selby were the owners of the property and that it was, indeed, sale agreed. The conveyancing was being handled by Malletsons Solicitors, whose offices were a few doors along College Road. The property had been cleared of its contents and Mrs Selby had moved in with her son, Richard, in Puriton. This was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Mr Selby had moved into the Allandale Lodge Residential Care Home on the Berrow Road.

There were some complications with the conveyancing transaction, which was on hold while Mr Selby’s Lasting Power of Attorney was registered with the Office of the Public Guardian. The agent was confident that the buyer would wait.

Dixon asked for and was given copies of the Selbys’ identity documents. Passports, driving licences and a copy of their gas and electricity bills. Dixon thanked Simon Perry very much for his help and reminded him that it was vital no one was informed that the Police had been making enquiries.

Dixon and Jane sat in the Land Rover. It started raining again. Dixon was deep in thought.

‘What does it mean that his Lasting Power of Attorney is being registered?’ asked Jane.

‘He’s lost his fucking marbles, hasn’t he?’

‘What do we do then?’

‘We arrest him anyway. Two psychiatrists will decide whether he’s fit to be interviewed. In the meantime, we get his medical records and speak to his wife. We can also get statements from the care home and the solicitor.’

‘You know what this means?’ asked Jane.

‘If he really is mentally incapable and in a care home, then he can’t have killed Valerie Manning or John Hawkins, can he?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Ring Dave and find out where he has got to with Spalding. We have to assume he is still in danger. Tell him to get everyone together for a briefing at 8.00am too.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Get your car. Fancy a bite to eat?’

‘But…’

‘He’s not going anywhere, is he?’

Eight

Allandale Lodge Residential Care Home for the Elderly was a new, purpose built home on the corner of Rectory Road and Berrow Road, Burnham-on-Sea. A Google search told Dixon that it was home to thirty one residents, thirty two including David Southall. Dixon arrived with Jane Winter just before 10.00am and rang the doorbell promptly on the hour. At precisely the same time, Dave Harding and Louise Willmott knocked on the door of David Southall’s son, Richard, in Puriton.

Dixon was let in by a care assistant. He asked for the manager and was shown through to a small office adjacent to the kitchen. He glanced into the kitchen as he walked past and could see two carers, a man and a woman. They both wore light blue uniforms and were standing by the sink drinking coffee. Dixon could hear the dishwasher running.

‘Susan, two people to see you.’

The manager looked up from her computer.

‘Can I help you?’

Dixon stepped to one side to allow Jane Winter into the office and then closed the door behind them. He produced his warrant card.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Nick Dixon. This is Detective Constable Jane Winter. And you are?’

‘Sorry, Susan Procter.’

‘Tell me about David Southall, or Selby I suppose we have to call him now.’

‘I really ought to ring his wife.’

‘There’s no need. She’s on her way here now.’

‘Well, he has vascular dementia. It’s aggressive and early onset.’

‘And from a practical point of view, that means what?’

‘He’s incapable. He doesn’t even know who his wife is now.’

‘Children?’

‘Two sons. They visit from time to time. He doesn’t know them either.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About four months, perhaps a bit longer.’

‘And he’s been incapable throughout that time?’

‘Completely. It’s amazing Mrs Selby was able to keep him at home as long as she did.’

‘Is there any chance he could have left Allandale Lodge and returned unnoticed?’

‘Definitely not. Not only is he incapable of it but the front door is locked at all times. That’s to keep people in, not out.’

‘Which room is he in?’

‘Seven. In the ground floor annexe.’

‘Can you show us, please?’

‘Yes. Can I ask what for?’

‘I’m going to arrest him for murder.’

‘Oh, my god.’

‘Can he be moved?’

‘He’s physically fit so I suppose he could be, yes.’

‘Who is his doctor?’

‘He’s still with his own GP in Highbridge at the moment. His records are going to be transferred to our doctor’s surgery though.’

‘Which is?’

‘Arundel House.’

Dixon looked at Jane Winter. She shook her head.

‘And the surgery in Highbridge?’

‘Corner Place.’

Dixon turned back to Jane Winter.

‘Ring Mark, Jane, and get him over there now.’

Jane stepped outside the office to make the call.

‘If I explain to Mr Selby that I am a police officer, will he understand what that means?’ asked Dixon.

‘No,’ replied Susan Procter. ‘He’s gone, I’m afraid. He’s beyond that.’

‘Well, I need to make the arrest and then it’ll be for two psychiatrists to decide whether he’s fit to be interviewed.’

‘Follow me.’

Dixon and Jane followed Susan Procter through the lounge to the ground floor annexe and along the corridor to David Selby’s room. The door was propped open and a care assistant was clearing away a breakfast tray. David Selby was dressed. He wore brown corduroys, a blue check shirt, open at the neck, and a cardigan. He was sitting in an armchair facing the door. He was slumped forward, his eyes vacant and his mouth open. Dixon noticed that he was dribbling onto the collar of his shirt.

‘Give us a minute, will you, Nikki?’ said Susan Procter.

The care assistant wiped Selby’s mouth with a tissue, picked up the tray and then left the room. Susan Procter closed the door behind her. The room contained a single hospital bed, a bedside table, pine wardrobe and matching chest of drawers. The only other item of furniture was the armchair that Selby was sitting in. Dixon noticed family photographs on the bedside table and on top of the chest of drawers.

Dixon reached into his jacket pocket and produced the photocopy of David Selby’s passport. He passed it to Jane, who looked at it, nodded and then handed it back. Selby was older and he had lost weight but it was definitely him. His face was thin, almost gaunt, and his eyes were deep set. His head was tipped to one side. He began dribbling onto his shirt collar again.

Dixon stepped forward and sat on the end of the bed opposite Selby.

‘Mr Selby?’

There was no answer.

Susan Procter stood next to Selby, put her left arm around his shoulder and spoke directly into his right ear.

‘David, there’s a police officer to see you.’

Again, no response.

‘I’m going to arrest him anyway, Mrs Procter. There’ll then be a uniformed officer on the door to this room, with your permission, until the psychiatrists have been to assess him. If needs be, he can then be moved to a secure unit.’

‘You do what you have to do, Inspector.’

Dixon turned to Selby.

‘David John Selby, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Ralph Ernest Vodden and Sandra Gwynneth Docherty. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘He’s going to get away with it,’ said Jane.

‘I almost think he’s been through enough already, don’t you? And he’s in a prison of sorts now anyway,’ said Dixon.

‘What will happen?’ asked Susan Procter.

‘The CPS will have to decide whether it’s in the public interest to prosecute him. And I think we can all guess what the answer to that one will be,’ replied Dixon.

Dixon was briefing the uniformed officers who would be keeping guard on David Selby for the time being when Dave Harding and Louise Willmott arrived with Mrs Selby.

‘She’s not a happy bunny,’ said Harding.

Mrs Selby was in her late sixties, with short dark hair, obviously dyed. A pair of glasses hung around her neck on a cord. She wore navy blue trousers and a black polo neck sweater under a dark green Barbour style jacket. She shouted across the roof of the car to Dixon.

‘Are you in charge?’

‘I am.’

‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

‘Come this way, Mrs Selby. We’ll find a private room where we can have a chat.’ Dixon turned to walk back into Allandale Lodge. He glanced across at Jane Winter. ‘You too, Jane.’

Susan Procter vacated her office. Dixon and Mrs Selby sat either side of the desk. Jane stood by the door.

‘Mrs Selby, I’m sorry to have to tell you that I have just arrested your husband on suspicion of two counts of murder.’

‘That’s ridiculous. He’s not capable...’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We met in 1982 and married in 1983.’

‘What did he tell you of his life before that?’

‘Everything.’

‘Then you know why we are here.’

Mrs Selby took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again they were full of tears. She did not reply.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think that we need to continue this conversation down at the station, if you wouldn’t mind accompanying us, Mrs Selby?’

Again, she did not reply.

Once outside, Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘Take a panda car, Jane. Sit her in an interview room and let her sweat.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To look at some family photographs. I’ll catch you up.’

Dixon paused in the hall and looked at himself in the mirror on the wall above the visitors book. He was wearing light trousers, a blue and white striped shirt, red tie and navy blazer. He was clean shaven and looked smart enough. But he did not like what he saw.

He was at risk of losing his driving licence and his job. Pure stupidity and he knew it. Leaving aside the hypo behind the wheel that would cost him his licence, he had failed to stop at the scene of an accident and failed to report it. Traffic offences they may be, but they implied an element of dishonesty that would not go down well at a disciplinary hearing. It was out of his hands, of course. It would all depend on the owner of the Vauxhall Corsa reporting the damage to the police. Dixon would know soon enough. A diabetic in a Land Rover and the owner of Mark Stores would be able to give a description of the driver. Even PC Cole would be able to solve that one.

And what about Jane? She now had something on him. He would need to make sure he didn’t fall out with her, although she would be slitting her own throat if she reported him. Dixon winced. It was an unfortunate choice of words.

He straightened his tie and walked through the lounge towards David Selby’s room. No good worrying about it now.

David Selby was asleep in his armchair. His head was tipped to one side and his mouth was open. The radio was on playing loud pop music. Dixon switched it off. He looked around the room. There were several framed photographs on the bedside table and more on the chest of drawers. He looked at each in turn.

On the bedside table was a colour photograph of Selby and his wife on their wedding day. She was wearing a pink dress and Dixon recognised the Burnham Registry Office. There was also a picture of Selby standing on the beach holding a Jack Russell and one of him on a boat with two boys, presumably his two sons from his second marriage. The photographs on the chest of drawers were much the same, but included several of elderly relatives, Dixon assumed them to be Selby’s parents, and others of him and Mrs Selby on various holidays. Dixon thought he recognised the Lake District. The rest appeared to have been taken in Greece or perhaps on some Greek Island.

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.