Swansong (21 page)

Dixon placed the box in the boot and then stood back to allow Griffiths to put his briefcases in. Then Griffiths slammed the boot, shook hands with Dixon and got in the car, before winding down the window.

‘Good luck.’

‘What with?’ asked Dixon.

‘Your teaching career.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Griffiths drove off. Only then did Dixon get a clear look at the rear window of his car. In the bottom right hand corner was a sticker. It was a stencilled image of Jesus Christ, identifiable by his beard and crown of thorns, against a background of blue sky and white clouds. Underneath it was the message ‘
John 3:16’
.

‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son . . .’ said Dixon under his breath.

He took out his phone and sent Jane a text message.

The Greyhound 7.30 bring what we’ve got on Griffiths N x

‘What happened about the school play?’ asked Dixon.

‘
Sweeney Todd
, the musical,’ replied Phillips, ‘the head cancelled it. No time for it anyway, what with the term ending early.’

Dixon nodded.

‘And Geldard’s house play went the same way.
Arsenic and Old Lace
. Cancelled.’

‘Shame.’

‘Not really. I saw the dress rehearsal,’ replied Phillips. ‘They’ll inflict it on us next term instead, I expect.’

Dixon was looking at the timetable on the wall in the masters’ common room and noticed that the headmaster had a law class starting at 3.15 p.m.

‘Where’s room U7?’

‘Underwood Building. Ground floor on the right.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon looked over his shoulder as the door closed behind him and saw Phillips examining the timetable, no doubt trying to work out where he was going.

He arrived outside the classroom just as the lesson was getting under way, knocked and opened the door.

‘Come in, Nick. Everyone, this is Mr Dickson, a trainee teacher who’s going to sit in.’

The whole class watched him as he took a seat at an empty desk at the back of the room, clearly welcoming the interruption. There were far too many of them and they were too young to be studying law A Level so this was going to be another of the head’s general knowledge classes.

‘We were talking about crime last time, weren’t we,’ said
Hatton
. ‘What are the two elements of any crime?’

A hand went up at the desk in front of Dixon.

‘Tom.’

‘The actus reus and mens rea, Sir.’

‘Good.’

Dixon watched the headmaster. He appeared distinctly uncomfortable, glancing across at Dixon at regular intervals. Either he was nervous because there was someone in the room who knew far more about the subject than he did, or it was something else altogether.

‘What do they mean?’ continued Hatton. ‘Anyone?’ His eyes scanned the room. ‘Yes, Clare.’

‘The act and the mind, Sir.’

‘And what do we mean by the mind?’

‘Intent, Sir?’ The voice came from the front of the room.

‘That’s right. Intent. Someone give me an example.’

‘If you hit someone in a car, Sir. You could say it was an
accident
, then it’s death by dangerous instead of murder.’

‘You’ve been watching
The Bill
again, haven’t you, Craig?’

Hatton waited for the laughter to subside.

‘It’s a good example, though,’ he continued. ‘To prosecute for murder, the Crown would have to prove you intended to kill the victim, drove at him deliberately intending to kill him rather than just injure . . .’

‘What about if you slit someone’s throat, Sir?’

Stunned silence.

‘Get out, Welham,’ shouted Hatton.

Dixon watched the boy get up from his desk and trudge towards the door. His shirt was hanging out and his top button undone. How he got away with that Dixon would never know. He was a scruffy individual, of that there could be no doubt, but maybe he knew something.

‘Wait outside and don’t move.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right, we’ll talk about theft instead, I think,’ said Hatton.

Dixon waited until the discussion got going again. Then he got up and walked out of the classroom, avoiding eye contact with the headmaster as he went. Welham was sitting on the window ledge opposite, kicking his heels against the wall.

‘Welham, is it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘First name?’

‘Richard, Sir.’

‘What was that all about, then, Richard?’

‘Nothing, Sir.’

‘There was a point to your remark. What was it?’

‘There wasn’t, Sir.’

‘What did you think he was going to do? Give you a gold star?’

‘I don’t know.’

Dixon took his warrant card out of his pocket.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Then you are privy to some very important and highly
confidential
information.’

Welham nodded.

‘Now, you were making a point. What was it?’

‘Just rumours, Sir.’

‘What rumours?’

‘That he was having an affair with a girl at the school.’

‘The headmaster?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was Isobel Swan?’

‘I don’t know, Sir. It was just a rumour.’

‘When did you hear it?’

‘A few days ago.’

‘Had you ever heard this rumour before Isobel was murdered?’

‘No.’

Dixon shook his head and sighed. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 4 p.m. and the lesson would be ending within minutes.

‘Sounds like schoolboy mischief.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘This little situation you’ve got yourself into is going to end in one of two ways, Richard. Either you go in there and beg for
forgiveness
or you’re likely to spend your Christmas holidays
explaining
to your parents why you’ve just been expelled.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And who do you tell that I’m a police officer?’

‘No one, Sir.’

‘Good lad.’

The bell went.

‘Right, now get in there and get grovelling.’

Chapter Fifteen

D
ixon tore the blue tape off the door frame.

‘Should you be do . . . yes, of course you should, sorry,’ said Phillips. ‘Here’s the key. Drop it back down to Mrs Weston in the kitchens when you’ve finished.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon waited until Phillips had gone and then opened the door. Derek Phelps’ room was small and cluttered. There was a
single
bed, now stripped to the bare mattress, with a bedside table on one side and an armchair on the other. Opposite the end of the bed was a cheap pine wardrobe and then a sink in the corner. Every inch of wall space above the dado rail was covered with Beatles
pictures
and, in amongst them, Dixon recognised the photo cards and
collage
poster from the
White Album
. Originals too, by the looks of it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the top drawer of the bedside table. There was a pair of Bose headphones, a tube of Bonjela and a new tube of toothpaste that was still in its box, but apart from that nothing except empty sweet wrappers and several packets of paper handkerchiefs. The next drawer down seemed to be the tobacco store. There were several pouches of rolling tobacco, three Zippo lighters and a tin of lighter fluid. Dixon lost count of the packets of red and green Rizlas. Derek Phelps was a man who liked smoking and listening to the Beatles, possibly at the same time; that much was clear.

The cabinet underneath contained a pair of carpet slippers and, on the shelf, a wooden cigar box. Dixon picked it up and shook it. It was light and felt empty, but he heard a single piece of paper or card rattling around inside it, so he took it out of the cabinet and opened it. Inside he found a single business card. It was a few years old, judging by the state of it, and his logo had changed but there was no mistaking ‘Arnold Davies, Driving Instructor’. Dixon slipped the business card into the top pocket of his jacket before putting the cigar box back in the cabinet.

He noticed a CD player on the tiled windowsill and pressed the ‘Eject’ button. The lid popped up to reveal
Help!
so he closed it again, which started the disc spinning. He quickly switched it off at the wall and watched the disc slow back down again, but the song started in his head all the same. Dixon nodded. He needed help, perhaps, but Phelps was way beyond it.

Dixon was surprised to find that all of Derek’s clothes, apart from one jacket, had been thrown into a large black bin liner, which was sitting in the bottom of the wardrobe. He was tempted to open it but the smell persuaded him that this was not such a good idea. He checked the jacket pockets and found nothing.

Next, he pulled an obviously empty suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and threw it onto the end of the bed. He unzipped it and checked the elasticated pockets in the base, finding only three old style ten pence pieces, one euro and a pair of tweezers.

When Dixon reached into the largest pocket in the lid of the suitcase his fingers closed around what he knew to be a single
photograph
from the feel of the paper. He took it out and stared at it for several seconds before he recognised the man standing in the foreground.

The photograph had been taken in summer, if the leaves on the trees and the weed in the river were anything to go by, but, more importantly, Clive Cooper was just as Dixon remembered him from St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago, which dated the
picture
to within a year or two, perhaps. He wondered if Derek Phelps had taken it.

Cooper was smiling at the camera but Dixon thought it odd he was standing so far away. Maybe photographic composition was not one of Derek’s strong points? He turned it over, hoping for some caption or note on the back, but there was nothing.

Dixon slid the photograph into his inside jacket pocket, zipped up the suitcase and threw it up onto the top of the wardrobe. Then he locked the door behind him, stuck the blue tape back across the frame and went down to the kitchens to return the key to
Mrs Westo
n.

The sound of organ music coming from the chapel caught Dixon’s attention as he walked back along the corridor towards the masters’ common room. He stood at the end of the cloisters listening to it for several minutes, wondering whether Derek Phelps had been learning to drive or whether it was something more sinister than that. Why else might he have a business card belonging to Arnold Davies? Jane would need to check. And the photograph. What was the significance of the photograph?

Dixon heard the sound of keys jangling behind him and looked round to see Robin Phillips locking the door of his chemistry lab. He spotted Dixon straight away.

‘Find anything interesting?’

‘Nothing much. I dropped the key back to . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off when a crowd of boys and girls ran around the corner and down the steps straight towards him. He stepped back just in time as they turned into the cloisters, some of them jumping down the small flight of stone steps in one leap. They drowned out the organ music as they raced along the cloisters towards
the chape
l.

‘What the . . . ?’

‘The choir,’ replied Phillips. ‘Evensong’s at 6 p.m.’

Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 5.30 p.m.

‘You coming?’ asked Phillips.

‘I think I will,’ replied Dixon. ‘I’ve not been to a chapel
service yet.’

‘It’s going to be a Eucharist rather than an evensong, though, with prayers for Derek too.’ Phillips noticed the surprised look on Dixon’s face. ‘Headmaster’s orders. It’ll be the last Communion of the term now that everyone’s going home before Sunday.’

Dixon nodded. He had not been a regular churchgoer since Fran had disappeared. Births, deaths and marriages only, and there had been precious few of those in the years since her memorial
service
. He had been warned that his faith would falter and it had. He had not taken Holy Communion since then either.

‘I’ll catch you up,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ve just got to nip to
the . . . er . . .’

Dixon walked along the cloisters, sat down at the back of the chapel and switched his phone to silent mode.

The music teacher, Christopher Nelmes, was still playing the organ, although given that Dixon was the only one listening, he thought it more for practice than anything else. The chancel was a hive of activity with pupils coming and going, filling incense
burners
and lighting candles. Then the choir appeared from the Lady
Chapel
all dressed in flowing white robes over red gowns. Dixon could see Father Anthony, wearing white robes and a red stole, reading from notes in the pulpit.

By the time that Phillips arrived there were fifty or so boys and girls sitting near the front of the chapel. Phillips tapped Dixon on the shoulder.

‘Not compulsory, this one, so we tend to sit nearer the front.’

Dixon followed Phillips to a pew halfway down the aisle and adjacent to the old altar stone. He looked down, half expecting to see a Ouija board.

He sat down in the aisle seat and watched the pews in front of him filling up. He thought about the last time he had attended a chapel
service
at St Dunstan’s, Fran sitting next to him. He could see, even now, the boy to his left playing a key ring sized Rubik’s cube. Another reading a small war comic. And then there was . . . Dixon shook his head. He couldn’t remember his name. Whoever it was had been
listening
to the radio through a small earpiece up his sleeve. And he got caught. Faces, voices, memories. More of them came flooding back. Scenes he thought he had
blotted
out but they were still there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest chance to jump out at him.

The layout of the chancel at St Dunstan’s had been different but only marginally. There had been no Lady Chapel and the organ was on the right with the choir sitting opposite. At Brunel both were on the left, opposite the Lady Chapel. It was a familiar scene and it felt like only yesterday since he had last watched it unfold.

The sound of heavy and deliberate footsteps behind him brought Dixon back to the present. He checked his watch. It was exactly 6 p.m. No doubt this would be the headmaster, whose arrival would signal the start of the service. He looked over his shoulder and watched Hatton sit down in the aisle seat of an empty row behind. The organ music stopped and Father Anthony walked out from behind the altar to the top of the three stone steps leading up to the altar.

‘Welcome, everyone, to this the last Holy Communion of
the term.’

He raised his arms.

‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Gho
st.’

Dixon listened to the congregation reply.

‘Amen.’

‘
It will return to you, one day, my boy. Your faith will return.
’

Maybe it would. But Dixon knew then that day still lay ahead of him.

He listened to the greeting and then the congregation
singing
a hymn he didn’t recognise. He could hear the headmaster
singing beh
ind him and Phillips to his left but, whilst he followed the words in the hymn book, he could not bring himself to sing.

Phillips leaned across and whispered in his ear.

‘You don’t sing?’

Dixon gave a pained smile.

‘Long story.’

The look on Dixon’s face convinced Phillips not to press
the issu
e.

Dixon looked along the pew to his left. There were several
teachers
he recognised: Whitmore, McCulloch and Griffiths, the supply teacher. In the pew behind sat Clarke, Small and the maths teacher, Keith Foster. Dixon looked at him closely. If he was Rowena Weatherly’s father Dixon would find himself eating a large slice of humble pie. On the other side of the aisle were several more
teachers
, some he knew and, in the row in front of them, Ben
Masterson
, Emily Setter and Susannah Bower. Dixon smiled. Perhaps Ben would be all right after all. He wondered what it was that Ben had wanted to talk to him about when he left the note and decided to tackle him about it again after the service.

He looked over his shoulder at the headmaster, sitting alone and aloof at the back of the congregation. One thing he could be sure of was that Hatton was not old enough to be Rowena’s father. Her brother, possibly, but not her father.

Dixon was deep in thought when he heard the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer.

‘Thy will be done.’

Why was it your will that Fran die?

‘As we forgive those who trespass against us.’

Sorry, Lord, no can do
.

‘But deliver us from evil.’

That would be good, if you get a minute
.

He spoke the last sentence aloud.

‘For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’

He took his wallet out of his pocket and pulled a passport
photograph
of Fran from the zip compartment at the back. It was the first time he had looked at it for at least five years. Then he looked up at the cross on the back wall of the chapel, behind the altar. He thought about the crucifix that Fran wore on a gold chain around her neck and wondered if he would be seeing it again. And if he would get the chance to return it to her mother.

He noticed the boys and girls at the front of the chapel getting up, walking forward and kneeling on the top step in front of the altar. It was time for Communion. One row at a time. First the Body of Christ then the Blood of Christ, the bread and the wine. Dixon watched the pupils going up in an orderly fashion. As each row returned to their seats, so the next one would get up and walk forward.

Within a few minutes the more senior pupils at the back of the congregation were beginning to get up and file out of their pews. Dixon saw Ben Masterson stand up and join the back of the line walking down the aisle, so he followed him. Ben looked over his shoulder and saw Dixon behind him. He smiled.

As he shuffled along at the back of the line, Dixon asked
himself
why he had followed Ben. Had he just wanted him to know he was still there or was there more to it than that? He shook his head. He really didn’t know and before he had a chance to think too much about it he found himself kneeling next to Ben on the top step. He waited, trying to remember what he was supposed to do.

Dixon heard footsteps in front of him and looked up. It was Father Anthony. He made the sign of the cross with his right hand and then took a small white Communion wafer off the silver tray he was holding in his left, placing it in the palm of Dixon’s hand.

‘The Body of Christ.’

Father Anthony repeated the process along the line of pupils kneeling in front of him. Then he walked over to the altar, put down the tray and picked up a silver goblet.

‘The Blood of Christ.’

Holding the goblet in both hands, Father Anthony held it to Dixon’s lips. He took a sip and then watched Father Anthony work his way along the line giving each pupil a sip from the
goblet
. When Father Anthony reached the far end of the line, Ben
Masterson
nudged Dixon and gestured towards the aisle. Dixon got the
message
, stood up and walked slowly back to his seat.