Swansong (12 page)

‘Any questions?’ asked Hatton.

A hand went up at the front of the room. The man was wearing army combat trousers, a khaki shirt and green pullover, which told Dixon that he ran the Cadets. At St Dunstan’s the CCF had been run by a retired naval chief petty officer.

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘We’ve got the Ten Tors teams doing an orienteering exercise on the Quantocks this afternoon, Sir. Should that go ahead?’

‘I don’t see why not. What d’you think, Robin?’

‘We’ve not been told it can’t, Sir,’ replied Phillips.

‘Better check with DCI Chard,’ said Hatton.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Anything else?’ Hatton waited. No hands went up so he
continued
. ‘Right, well, moving on, there’s a meeting of the school governors tomorrow afternoon. The proposal is to end the term a week early so the carol service will be Thursday evening and then everyone goes home on Friday morning. Those of you who haven’t done so already, give some thought to homework for the holidays and we’d better give them a bit more than usual if they’re going to be off for an extra week.’

Dixon was surprised by the mixed reaction amongst the
teachers
. Some smiled and obviously appreciated the extra week off. Others shook their heads. Rowena Weatherly did neither.

This was not the Rowena Abbot Dixon remembered from
St Dunstan
’s. She had changed her appearance, but there could be any number of reasons for that. She had been a year below them and, apart from playing in the same hockey team as Fran, she had never really had that much to do with them. Then it dawned on him. What had kept him up for hours last night was suddenly all too obvious. Maybe she was just trying to be polite, but Fran was not and never had been ‘a good friend’.

‘You can manage the carol service this Thursday, Father?’ asked Hatton.

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Father Anthony. ‘The Christmas tree is being delivered on Friday but I’ll see if I can bring that forward.’

‘Cancel it,’ said Hatton. ‘I think we can dispense with the tree, in the circumstances.’

Father Anthony nodded.

‘Assuming the governors agree, I’ve arranged for emails to go out straight away and letters in the first class post so all parents should’ve got the message by the end of Wednesday. No doubt there’ll be some complaints, but they know what’s been going on and I doubt many will be too surprised.’

‘Some’ll want a bloody refund. You can bet on that.’ The broad Scottish accent gave away William McCulloch sitting at the back.

‘Thank you, William. I’m sure the bursar can handle them.’

Hatton turned to Phillips. ‘Anything else, Robin?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well, unless anyone has any other questions . . . ?’

‘It’s our Christmas lunch tomorrow, Sir. Do we go ahead with it?’

Dixon had been watching Rowena Weatherly and did not see who asked the question.

‘I don’t see why not.’

Dixon had often wondered what possessed people to teach in a boarding school, some of them all their adult lives, and in that moment it came to him. He thought about the character Brooks in
The Shawshank Redemption
who was freed after decades in prison and committed suicide. Dixon made a mental note to look up the definition of ‘institutionalised’ when he got home. An easier way of putting it, perhaps, was to say that they simply never left school. Dixon smiled. No doubt Jane would tell him that the police was an institution, and she was probably right.

‘Right, then, that’s it, everyone. Don’t tell the students about term ending early until we have a decision from the governors. Mr Dickson, my office, if you will.’

Hatton slammed his office door behind them. ‘There’s been a
distinct
lack of progress but I could hardly tell them that, could I?’

Dixon did not respond.

‘I gather you found evidence of drug taking in the old chapel?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve agreed to keep it quiet?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘What would you say?’

‘I’m here to investigate the murder of Isobel Swan. I’m only interested in drugs if they’re relevant. Otherwise, it’s an internal matter for the school.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It may become relevant, of course.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘Quite.’

‘So, what happens now?’ asked Hatton.

‘We have various lines of enquiry.’ Dixon wondered how many times he had used that exact turn of phrase in the seven years he’d been a police officer.

‘You can’t tell me, I understand.’

Dixon looked at his watch.

‘D’you need to be somewhere?’ asked Hatton.

‘Derek Phelps’ post mortem.’

‘Yes, of course. No lessons this afternoon but you’re welcome to join me for lunch.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

Dixon’s usual tactic in the Met had been to watch post mortems from the comparative safety of the anteroom and listen to the pathologist dictating his notes over the intercom. That had been thwarted of late by Roger Poland, who seemed to take great delight in keeping an eye out for him and inviting him into the lab at the first opportunity. On this occasion, however, Dixon marched straight in.

‘What’ve we got, then?’

Poland looked surprised to see him. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Playing truant.’

Derek Phelps was lying face down on the slab revealing the injuries to the back and top of his head. Dixon leaned over for a closer look.

‘Still three blows?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any other injuries apart from the head?’

‘No,’ replied Poland.

Dixon leaned over and peered at Phelps’ hands.

‘No defensive injuries either,’ said Poland.

Dixon nodded.

‘Cause of death?’

‘The head injury got him before the cold.’

‘Any idea about the weapon?’

‘It was blunt. That’s about all I can say with any degree of
certainty
at the moment.’

‘Wood, metal, stone?’

‘Too early to say. I may have a better idea when I’ve done some more tests. There are a few fragments of this and that that I’ve sent to the lab for testing.’

‘What about the sequence?’

‘The blow to the back of the head came first, then the two on top. You can see where the fractured skull’s been compressed again by the later blows.’

‘How tall is he?’

Poland picked up a notepad on the side.

‘One hundred and eighty-five centimetres.’

‘What’s that in real money?’

‘Six foot one or thereabouts.’

‘So his killer’s likely to be shorter?’

‘Probably. If he was taller then the first blow would’ve had more of a downward angle to it and been closer to the top of the head.’

‘Can you tell for sure?’

‘Not really. Not without knowing their relative positions, whether they were both standing on level ground. Phelps could’ve been bending over when he was hit, for starters. There are too many variables . . .’

‘I get the picture.’

‘If we had the killer it might be different.’

‘We will, Roger. We will.’

Dixon parked in the car park in front of Gardenhurst and walked along the near side of the sports hall, ensuring he would not be overlooked from the Underwood Building. Once at the end he surveyed the scene. The ground fell away steeply to the playing fields below and looked as though it had been built up to provide level foundations for the hall itself. He ducked under the blue tape and walked along the narrow path that ran along the back wall behind several wispy pine trees that had been planted on the bank. Too many cigarette butts to count told him it was a popular spot for a quick smoke.

There was a small patch of dried blood at the base of the wall, perhaps a third of the way along, which was largely obscured from view by one of several supporting buttresses that jutted out. Dixon looked around. The spot was not overlooked by a single window in any of the buildings in the vicinity. Perfect for a smoke and perfect for a murder. It also occurred to him that Phelps could not have been keeping a look out for someone when he was killed. If he had been then surely he would have been at one corner of the hall and not a third of the way along the back wall. No, he had come to meet someone and that someone had killed him.

Without knowing whether the killer had been standing on the narrow path running behind the trees or further down the steep bank, it was impossible to get a clear idea of the killer’s height from the injuries to Phelps. It was reasonable to assume he was on the path, perhaps, because that would be the only way of guaranteeing a sure footing when swinging the murder weapon and, on that basis, the killer could well be shorter than Phelps. Six foot one. That ruled out no one except Griffiths, the supply teacher, who was well over six feet tall. Dixon wondered how tall Isobel’s father was. And her driving instructor.

It was just after 11.30 a.m. by the time Dixon got back to the
masters
’ common room. There was a note pinned to the door.

‘In my lab. Room 31. Down corridor opposite. Robin.’

Dixon walked down the steps and along the corridor. The door to room 31 was open so he walked in and looked around. There were four long workbenches, each with a small sink at either end and another in the middle. Gas taps were spaced out at regular intervals along the bench, bringing back unpleasant memories of Bunsen burners and the various practical jokes that went with them. He winced at the memory of red hot ten pence pieces flicked along the desk. Mercifully, he hadn’t fallen for that one. Dixon had hated chemistry almost as much as he hated physics, but he wouldn’t tell Phillips that.

‘Is that you?’ The voice came from a small office at the back of the room, hidden behind the whiteboard.

‘Yes,’ replied Dixon, peering around the door.

Phillips was sitting at his computer with his back to him. ‘The orienteering exercise is on this afternoon and the head thought you might like to go.’

‘On?’

‘Yes. DCI Chard said it’d be OK.’

‘Did he.’ Dixon took a deep breath, closed his eyes and counted to ten.

‘The twerps responsible for your find in the old chapel are going,’ continued Phillips, turning around, ‘and the old man thinks it might be an idea if someone kept an eye on them.’