Head in the Sand (6 page)

‘Would you want to get involved with someone who was beating up his wife?’ Anne Barton addressed the question to Jane Winter.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Must be nearly three years ago. Been in limbo ever since. They agreed a fifty fifty split of everything but couldn’t sell the house. It’s quite common that at the moment. Leads to all sorts of problems.’

‘Can we have a copy of the witness statement Mrs Manning gave in support of the injunction application?’

Jane Winter looked across at Dixon, who was now standing by the fireplace at the side of the desk.

‘I’ll need to run that by my Managing Partner but I don’t see why not. Can I email it to you?’

‘That’d be fine,’ said Dixon, handing his calling card to Anne Barton.

‘I’ll try to do it this afternoon or perhaps tomorrow, if that’s ok?’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

Dixon called in at Bridgwater Police Station to check his post and emails. The police station was a purpose built red brick and glass building that could best be described as functional. His office was on the second floor adjacent to the CID room.

Dixon was standing at the coffee machine when DCI Lewis appeared behind him.

‘Any news, Nick?’

‘We’ve found the bag with the belt in it, Sir. It’s a black holdall with a Footjoy logo on it. The belt is leather and comes from Fat Face. There’s a lot of blood congealed in the bottom of the bag and a sample is on its way to Roger Poland.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing substantive. We’ve spoken to the headteacher at Berrow School and also Valerie Manning’s sister in Woolavington. The other sister lives in Australia.  I was hoping to speak to the work colleague in the kitchens at the school but couldn’t get a word out of her, unfortunately.’

‘And?’

‘Getting a picture of a lovely lady who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. No one can imagine why anyone would wish to do her harm at all it seems. Her solicitor gave an interesting insight into the divorce proceedings and the domestic violence but even that was three years ago. I’ve asked her to let me have a copy of the witness statement that Mrs Manning gave in support of the application for an injunction.’

‘An injunction?’

‘Yes, apparently the violence got so bad at one point that Mrs Manning tried to get her husband out of the house. He persuaded her to drop the proceedings though and things have been calm ever since. The solicitor thinks that Peter Manning was seeing someone else, hence the divorce, and the injunction application put an end to that relationship.’

‘Well, keep me posted.’

‘Will do, Sir. It’ll be interesting to see what Dave and Mark come up with. There’s a briefing at 6.00pm if you can make it?’

‘I won’t be able to get there, unfortunately, but let me know how you get on.’

‘Will do.’

‘The Chief Superintendent seems to think you are an officer who makes things happen, Nick.’

‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’

Dixon sat at his desk with his coffee and powered up his computer. It was a small office that he shared with DCI Janice Courtenay. She had left a note on his desk telling him that she would be on holiday for the next two weeks. Dixon screwed it up and threw it in the rubbish bin.

He opened his emails to find two hundred and seventy nine new messages. For the most part each email represented a telephone call received from members of public following the press conference on Sunday evening. Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 4.00pm, giving him an hour and a half before he would need to leave to get back to Burnham for the 6.00pm briefing.

He reached over and switched his printer on. He then began opening the emails in chronological order, beginning on the Sunday evening. It quickly became apparent that very few contained any useful information. A central record would be kept of each message received so Dixon deleted from his computer those that were not relevant. The usual cranks, nutters and those whose information was either irrelevant or clearly wrong. He also deleted all internal police newsletters and memoranda. Although not technically junk mail, he regarded them as such and took great delight in hitting the delete button.

By 4.30pm he had narrowed it down to fifty nine emails that would require closer scrutiny. His attention was drawn to a telephone message received at 10.27pm on the Sunday evening, he thought just after the evening news. The witness, Daniel Fisher, said that he was driving from Burnham-on-Sea to Brean in the early hours of Sunday morning when he had seen a car turning out of the track that leads to Berrow Church. Fisher had been to a nightclub in Burnham and was on his way home. Dixon made a note to follow this sighting up. Otherwise, the messages were of very little interest apart from one timed at 3.23pm that day. The male caller had not left his name and number. The message read simply ‘Vodden 1979’. Dixon hit the delete button.

He turned off his computer and printer, having printed off only one email. It was disappointing but there was, at least, a possible sighting of the killer.

Dixon shouted across to Jane Winter, who was sitting at her computer in the CID room.

‘Did you see anything interesting in those emails, Jane?’

‘Not really, apart from the obvious one, of course.’

‘Daniel Fisher?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give him a ring and see if he can see us this evening.’

‘Will do.’

A few minutes later Jane appeared in the doorway of Dixon’s office.

‘He works shifts and is on nights at the moment. He can see us in the morning though. I’ve made an appointment to see him at home at 8.30am.’

‘Good. C’mon, we need to get to Burnham.’

The Incident Room on the second floor of Burnham-on-Sea Police Station was a hive of activity when Dixon and Jane Winter arrived for the briefing just before 6.00pm. Dave Harding and Mark Pearce were staring intently at a television screen and various other officers, who had been drafted in to assist the investigation, were either answering telephones or reviewing CCTV footage on their computers. Dixon sat on the edge of an empty desk next to the whiteboard and called the briefing to order.

‘Good evening, everyone. As you know we’ve found the holdall and belt so it seems Dr Poland was right about the mechanics. I’m just waiting for his formal report. We also have a sighting of a car turning out of the Berrow Church car park in the early hours of Sunday morning. Jane and I will be interviewing the witness in the morning. Dave, what have you come up with?’

‘We spoke to the friends Valerie went to the theatre with and got detailed statements from them both. They’re being typed up now.’ Dave looked at his notebook, ‘Mrs Emily Townsend of 17 Margaret Crescent, that’s off South Esplanade in Burnham. An old work colleague of Valerie’s, apparently. Anyway, she drove. She picked Valerie up in the Morrisons Car Park at the top of Pier Street and then picked up Mrs Claire Stewart at her home in Stoddens Road. That was on their way out to the motorway, of course.’

‘So, Valerie’s car was left unattended all evening in the car park?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘There should be CCTV coverage then?’

‘There is. I’ll come on to that in a second,’ said Harding. ‘They went to see The Lion King at the Hippodrome and left Bristol just after 11.00pm. They dropped Mrs Stewart at home and then Mrs Townsend dropped Valerie off in Pier Street at about 11.45pm.’

‘She didn’t drop her at her car?’ asked Dixon.

‘No, sadly not. She pulled up in the bus stop opposite the Pier Tavern and left Valerie to walk to her car.’

‘Did she wait and see if Valerie got to her car?’

‘No, she didn’t, I’m afraid. She drove off. She last saw Valerie walking across the pavement by the bus stop.’

‘Talk about seeing to it that your friend gets home safely,’ said Dixon.

‘She knows that now, Sir.’

‘Bit bloody late isn’t it, Dave?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What happens next?’ asked Dixon.

‘This is where we pick it up on CCTV. Mark, wind the film back to when Mrs Townsend’s car appears. Can everyone see this screen?’

Jane Winter switched the lights off and then stood next to Dixon. Mark Pearce and Dave Harding were seated at the desk the screen was sitting on. The other officers in the room gathered around. Mark Pearce started the film.

The Morrisons car park was on the corner of Pier Street and the Esplanade. It was deserted apart from four cars, all parked in bays adjacent to Pier Street. The cars were clearly visible, there being no boundary fencing or bushes to screen the car park from either the road or the CCTV camera.

Dixon watched a red Mazda 6 estate car appear in the bus stop and Valerie Manning get out of the front passenger seat. She leant back into the car and exchanged words with the driver, then she closed the door and turned to walk across the pavement.

‘Stop the tape,’ said Dixon. ‘What does she say to Mrs Townsend?’

‘Just goodbye and thank you, that’s all. Nothing of any significance.’

Dixon looked at the bus stop. It was of stone construction, rather than glass, with a pitched roof and wood cladding to the front gable end. It was open at the front, although sideways on to the prevailing wind. There was a bench along the back wall. It was empty.

‘Ok, start the film.’

‘This is where it gets interesting, Sir,’ said Pearce.

‘That’s Valerie’s car there,’ said Harding, pointing to a red Fiat Uno parked three spaces up from the bus stop. ‘Now, watch the back of the bus stop.’

Dixon could feel his pulse quicken. He had a clear understanding of what was about to happen. He could feel beads of sweat on his forehead and in the small of his back. He watched Valerie Manning walking across to her car. She was looking down, fumbling for her car keys in her handbag.

Suddenly, a figure appeared from behind the bus stop. He or she was wearing dark trousers and a dark coat with the hood up obscuring the face. A blade glinted in the streetlights.

‘Stop the tape,’ said Dixon. 

‘Are there any other cameras that might give a view of the back of the bus stop?’

‘No, Sir. We’re getting this from the Reeds Arms, the Wetherspoon pub opposite. There’s another camera on the Tourist Information Centre by the jetty but this is the better angle.’

‘Ok, Mark.’

Pearce started the film. The figure had almost reached Valerie Manning before she turned. Soft shoes, thought Dixon. The figure slashed at Valerie with the knife. She dropped her handbag and clasped the back of her left hand with her right. She stumbled back against the driver’s door of her car. The figure was waving the knife in front of her. He or she then pointed the knife at the handbag on the ground. Valerie stepped forward, bent down and picked it up. Then she was fumbling for her keys again. Greater urgency this time.

‘Stop the tape.’

Pearce obliged.

‘Any views on whether that’s a man or a woman?’ asked Dixon.

‘Looks female to me, Sir.’

Dixon turned to the WPC who had spoken. ‘And you are?’

‘WPC Willmott, Sir. We met on Berrow Beach.’

‘Of course we did. Why do you think it’s female then?’

‘Size, stature, the way it’s holding the knife...’

‘Explain.’

‘A man would stand tall. Look at her. She’s almost crouching behind the knife, holding it up at Mrs Manning.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Look at the way she’s holding it too. The palm of her hand is facing up.’

‘It’s pissing down with rain,’ said Harding, ‘anyone would be hunched over, surely?’

‘And nervous,’ said Pearce.

‘What you’re saying then is that it could be male or female?’

‘Well, there’s nothing obvious that leaps out at you is there, Sir?’ said Jane.

‘Do we ever get a clear view of the face, Dave?’

‘No, Sir, sadly not.’

‘Well, for present purposes we’ll refer to the killer as ‘he’. Start the tape, Mark.’

They watched while Valerie found her keys and opened the car. A prod of the knife and she climbed into the driver’s seat. The figure opened the back door, threw a holdall into the back and then got into the passenger seat behind her. They could see the figure raise his arms and reach forward over the driver’s seat. Valerie Manning lurched back into her seat. Her head thrashing to the left and right.

‘That’s the belt going round her neck,’ said Pearce.

The car then reversed slowly out of the parking space, turned and drove out of shot heading towards the exit. Dixon’s last view was of Valerie Manning driving with her assailant hunched in the back seat behind her.

‘We don’t see the car again on this camera, Sir,’ said Harding.

‘That means they must have gone along the sea front?’

‘Yes. There’s footage of the car passing the jetty camera and going straight along the Esplanade rather than turning right into Pier Street.’

‘But that’s the last camera?’