Head in the Sand (9 page)

‘No.’

‘The parents?’

‘No. No names. That really is all she ever said in all the time I knew her, Inspector. Just that once. We’d had a few glasses of wine and she got a bit emotional. Had a few tears.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Townsend. You’ve been very helpful.’

Dixon placed his card on the table.

‘If you think of anything else, no matter how trivial it may seem, please telephone me straightaway, will you?’

‘I will.’

Dixon arrived at Bridgwater Police Station just before 11.00am. He gave DCI Lewis a full briefing on the investigation to date, including a detailed account of the murder of Dr Vodden and its implications for the current enquiry. Lewis had expressed some concern that Dixon was focussing too much on patients as the only connection between the two victims but was content for him to pursue it for the time being.

He readily agreed to the reconstruction scheduled for the Saturday night and would set it up with the PR Officer, Vicky Thomas. Lewis’ parting shot, ‘Don’t fuck it up’, was ringing in Dixon’s ears as he walked out to his Land Rover.

Dixon decided to go for a quick walk in Victoria Park before heading back to Burnham and was just letting Monty off the lead when his phone rang. It was Jane Winter.

‘Hi, Jane, what’s up?’

‘We’ve got another one.’

‘Where?’

‘A block of flats at the top of Poplar Road.’

‘Where are you?’

‘On my way there.’

‘Wait for me before you go in. Ring Scenes of Crime and Roger Poland as well, will you?’

‘Will do.’

Poplar Road led directly to the beach and was sealed off at the junction with Herbert Road by the time Dixon arrived. He could see three police cars and an ambulance parked adjacent to the block of flats. They were just behind the seating area overlooking the beach. He noticed Jane Winter’s car parked in Herbert Road, so he parked behind it. It had started to rain so he reached for his umbrella and then walked across to the waiting group of officers. Jane Winter was sheltering under the open car port of the property opposite. He beckoned her over.

‘What’s the story then?’ asked Dixon.

A uniformed police constable moved forward to shelter under Dixon’s umbrella and opened his notebook.

‘Mr John Hawkins, Sir. He didn’t turn up for his usual bridge evening at the Community Centre last week and when he didn’t turn up last night either, Mrs Norris decided to knock on his door, which she did an hour or so ago.’

‘And?’

‘When she got no reply, she opened the letterbox to look through. It was then that she dialled 999.’

‘What could she see?’

‘Nothing, Sir. It was the smell.’

‘Anyone been in there yet?’

‘Only me,’ said the police officer. ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’

‘Scenes of Crime and the Pathologist on their way?’

‘Yes,’ said Jane.

‘Come on then, Constable Winter, let’s get this over with.’

Dixon looked at the police officer.

‘Flat 21, Sir. PC Jones is at the bottom of the stairs and will show you up. PC Heath is on the door.’

‘Thank you.’

Seaview was a block of flats familiar to Dixon. It had been built on the sea front adjacent to the beach, with each flat facing directly out to sea. Many years before its front garden had been his shortcut into town when the tide was in. It was constructed of grey stone, or at least had been clad in grey stone, and had been built in three connected blocks, each containing eight flats over four floors. All of the flats had a square bay window at the front facing directly out to sea. A view to die for.

Dixon looked along the back of Seaview and could see three entrances. Flat 21 was in the third block along. PC Jones was standing at the entrance, sheltering as best he could from the rain. Dixon and Jane showed their warrant cards.

‘Third floor, Sir. PC Heath will show you in.’

‘What about the other residents?’

‘They’ve been asked to stay indoors.’

Dixon noticed the smell before he reached the first floor. It was unmistakable. John Hawkins had clearly been dead for some time. They arrived on the third floor to find PC Heath standing next to the door to Flat 21. It was open.

‘Keep the bloody door shut, constable,’ said Dixon. He pointed to a window on the landing, ‘and for heaven’s sake open that window.’

Dixon turned to Jane Winter.

‘You got any gloves?’

Jane reached into her handbag and produced two pairs of disposable rubber gloves. She passed one pair to Dixon and put the other on.

‘This is not going to be pleasant.’

Jane nodded. She was holding her breath and couldn’t speak.

Dixon stepped forward into the doorway of the flat. The full horror of the smell hit him. He turned away. Jane began to retch.

Dixon reached into his pocket and produced a handful of black plastic bags. He split them into two bundles, placed one over his nose and mouth and then handed the other to Jane. She put them in her right hand and clamped them over her nose and mouth. She looked quizzically at Dixon.

‘Scented dog bags.’

Dixon walked along the hallway and into the lounge. He opened the windows at the front of the flat. He stood for a moment in front of the open window, taking in the fresh air, before replacing the bags over his nose and mouth. He then stepped to one side to allow Jane some fresh air.

The room was tidy. It contained a three seater sofa and two armchairs arranged around a pine coffee table. There were two empty wine glasses on the table. An artificial fireplace had been bolted to the wall and in the back corner of the room was a small pine dining table and chairs. A laptop computer was open on the table. A doorway led through into the kitchen. There was an open bottle of red wine on the side. Dixon had been a police officer long enough to know that the bottle was half empty rather than half full.

He walked back into the lounge. Jane was still standing in front of the open window. He could see her chest heaving, with each deep gulp of fresh air. Dixon touched the radiator. It was on. That would explain the powerful smell.

He retraced his steps back to the hallway and followed the passage to the rear of the flat. The door to the master bedroom was closed. He took several shallow breaths and then ensured that his dog bags were forming a tight seal around his nose and mouth. Then he opened the door.

He had known what to expect but that had not prepared him for the full horror of the scene that lay before him. The headless body of the late John Hawkins lay on the double bed, which now had the appearance of summer fruit pudding. He was naked and the process of decomposition was well advanced. His skin was a hideous patchwork of black, blue and yellow. The blood on the pillow and mattress had congealed into a dark red sickly sweet crust.

Dixon noticed a single stab wound to the left side of John Hawkins’ chest. If it had been the same knife used to kill Valerie Manning then the blade would certainly have penetrated the heart killing him instantly. The head had been severed halfway up the neck. There appeared to be very little blood spatter up the walls or the headboard, which told Dixon that John Hawkins’ heart had stopped beating before he was decapitated.

Dixon looked around the room. There were built-in wardrobes either side of the bed and a chest of drawers against the wall behind him. Opposite the end of the bed was a dressing table and to the right of that, in the corner of the room, was a sink.

Dixon walked around the end of the bed to look out of the window. Only then did he notice the severed head of John Hawkins in the sink. It was lying on its side, facing the taps. Dixon leaned over to check the eyes. They were closed and the facial expression was calm. John Hawkins had not known what was happening to him.

Jane Winter appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. Dixon spoke through the dog bags clamped over his mouth with his right hand.

‘Single stab wound to the heart. Then the head was severed. I don’t envy Roger Poland this one.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Jane.

‘In the sink.’

It
again.

Jane stepped forward to look in the sink. The discolouration of the skin was less noticeable through John Hawkins’ thick grey hair and beard. She turned to Dixon.

‘He looks almost calm.’

‘He does. Pop outside will you and find out when Poland and the Scenes of Crime team will get here.’

Jane did not need to be asked twice. Dixon moved back through to the lounge and stood in front of the open window to get some fresh air. He replaced his makeshift mask over his mouth and turned to examine the lounge more closely. He noticed a pile of letters that had been opened and replaced in their envelopes. He picked up the letters from the dining table and then returned to the relative safety of the open window to go through them one by one.

The correspondence was routine. John Hawkins was methodical in his approach, each letter having been opened, read and then replaced in the envelope. Dixon found gas, water and electricity bills, all paid by direct debit. There was also a bank statement and two letters dealing with a forthcoming hospital appointment. There were several birthday cards, one containing a letter from his sister, a credit card bill and a letter from the Department for Work and Pensions dealing with his Winter Fuel Payment.

The last envelope in the pile contained what Dixon had been looking for. It was a payslip for the October payment of John Hawkins’ occupational pension. And it came from NHS Pensions.

Dixon replaced the pile of letters on the dining room table, having kept the pension slip, and went outside to find Jane Winter. He could see that two Scientific Services vans had arrived and Jane was briefing the senior Scenes of Crime Officer, Donald Watson. Dixon retrieved his umbrella from PC Jones and walked over to them.

‘Sounds grim,’ said Watson.

‘It is,’ replied Dixon. ‘Looks to me as if he was killed before Valerie Manning and he’s been in there with the central heating on for at least a week.’

Watson turned to address his team, who were unloading equipment from the backs of the vans.

‘Masks, everybody.’

‘There are two wine glasses on the coffee table, so it looks like he had company, and a computer on the dining table that’ll need to go to High Tech.’

‘Leave it to us,’ replied Watson.

‘What about Roger Poland?’ asked Dixon, turning to Jane Winter.

‘Ten minutes. He’s on his way.’

‘I’ll hang on for him. There’s something I need you to do, Jane.’

‘What?’

‘How far have you got with Valerie Manning’s personnel file?’

‘The NHS Trust Records Office assured me I would have it by the end of tomorrow.’

‘What about Vodden’s patient lists?’

‘Same.’

‘Not good enough. Yell and scream at them if you have to, but we must have those lists by the end of today.’

‘Ok.’

‘We’ll also need John Hawkins’ NHS file.’

‘He worked for the NHS?’

‘He did.’

Dixon handed the NHS Pension pay slip to Jane.

‘That can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

‘We’re on the right track, alright.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘Just get those patient lists, Jane. I’ll catch up with you later.’

Dixon watched Jane walk down Poplar Road towards her car. She went round the corner into Herbert road and out of sight just as Dr Poland turned off the Berrow Road into Poplar Road at the far end. He drove up to the police cordon at the junction of Poplar Road and Herbert Road and was allowed through. He parked behind the Scientific Services vans. Dixon walked over to meet him.

‘Jane Winter said this one’s pretty grim.’

‘He’s been dead for anything up to two weeks and the central heating has been on in there.’

‘Well, I haven’t had my lunch yet.’

‘Good job.’

Roger Poland went round to the boot of his car and took out his bag. He then followed Dixon over to the communal entrance of the block of flats. Once in the hallway he put on a set of disposable overalls and a facemask. He handed a spare mask to Dixon and then they walked up the stairs to Flat 21.

There were already four Scenes of Crime Officers at work in the flat and Dixon could see camera flashes coming from both the lounge and the rear bedroom. He gestured towards the bedroom at the rear of the flat.

‘The body’s in there.’

Dixon stood behind Roger Poland as he examined the body. Dr Poland looked first at John Hawkins’ body and then at his severed head in the sink. He took no more than a couple of minutes before gesturing to Dixon to follow him outside. They stood by the open window on the landing at the top of the communal stairway.

‘I thought you’d appreciate the fresh air.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon.

‘Have you spotted the stab wound to the heart?’