Head in the Sand (14 page)

‘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 had 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 be 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?’

‘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.

‘Nothing.’

‘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?’