Swansong (22 page)

Another hymn that Dixon did not recognise and service was over. He looked at his watch. It was just after 7 p.m. and he was due to be meeting Jane in half an hour at the Greyhound. He waited in the cloisters, hoping to catch Ben Masterson leaving the chapel, but felt a hand on his shoulder before he got the chance.

‘Enjoy that?’ asked Phillips.

‘Bit of a trip down memory lane.’

‘I bet.’

They walked side by side back along the cloisters, occasionally being jostled by the lines of younger pupils pushing past them on either side.

‘Where are they off to in such a hurry?’ asked Dixon.

‘Supper.’

‘That explains it.’

‘I gather we’re all going to be DNA tested on Friday morning?’

Dixon nodded.

‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, I suppose,’ said
Phillips
.

‘Is that the time?’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Dixon drove out towards the Greyhound Inn at Staple Fitzpaine with the heater and fans on full blast. It was a clear night, crisp and cold, and it had taken the last of his de-icer to clear the
windscreen
.

He thought about the DNA test that he now knew would be taking place on Friday morning. It occurred to him that if
Phillips
knew then so did Rowena’s father and only he would know or suspect the real reason for it. The rest would think it was purely standard procedure. Still, at least they would know who they were looking for if he did a bunk. Dixon shook his head. That would not do at all. Watching him being interviewed on a TV screen or looking through the slit in a cell door was not enough. Not by a long way. Dixon wanted to look him in the eye when he arrested him, assuming he decided not to kill him, of course. Try as he might, Dixon still had no real idea how he would react when he came face to face with Fran’s killer. What concerned him more was that it was still an ‘if’ rather than a ‘when’ he came face to face with him.

He parked next to Jane’s car and checked for any sign of Monty. Shame. She must have left him at home. Then he thrust his hands as deep as they would go into his pockets and walked across the car park listening to the ice crunching beneath his feet. Each crunch was followed by a splash as he broke through the thin layer of ice that had formed on the puddles.

Monty spotted Dixon first when he walked into the public bar and almost pulled Jane off her chair trying to get to him before she let him go. He ran over to Dixon and began jumping up at him while he was waiting at the bar.

‘You got a drink?’

Jane held up what looked like a Diet Coke.

Dixon picked up a menu, walked over and sat down oppo
site Jane
.

‘We’re gonna be all right, aren’t we?’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jane.

‘You and me. When this is all over.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It must be difficult for you . . .’

‘Don’t be silly. Of course we’ll be all right.’ Jane smiled at him. Then she stood up, leaned across the table and kissed him. ‘And I’m with you every step of the way.’

‘Thank you.’

Jane looked down at Monty curled up on the floor at Dixon’s feet. ‘I gave him a run on the beach and he’s been fed.’

‘Thanks. Tell me about the DNA test.’

‘It’s fixed for Friday morning.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘The headmaster’s. Tomorrow is the last day of term now and they’ll all be too busy, apparently.’

‘There’s a rumour going round that he was having an affair with Isobel and he killed her,’ said Dixon.

‘Hatton?’

‘It’s just schoolboy mischief.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘I was one once, don’t forget.’

‘Shouldn’t we look into it?’

‘No time left. Chard can follow it up later if needs be.’

Jane nodded.

‘What about the driving instructor?’ asked Dixon.

‘We’ve got a sample from him.’

Dixon took the business card out of the top pocket of his jacket.

‘I had a rummage in Phelps’ room and found this in a cigar box in his bedside table,’ he said, handing it to Jane.

‘Why would . . . ?’

‘Exactly. Ask him, will you? First thing in the morning.’

Jane took her notebook out of her handbag and began ma
king not
es.

‘Maybe he wanted to learn to drive?’

‘Quite possibly,’ replied Dixon. ‘And it’s reasonable to assume he’d ask an instructor he saw coming to the school regularly.’

‘I’ll speak to him in the morning.’

‘And don’t go alone.’

‘OK, OK.’

‘Take someone from Bridgwater, if you’re stuck. Louise
Willmott
.’

‘I get it.’

‘Have you found anything else on Rowena’s father?’
asked Dixon
.

‘No. There’s no record of a Gordon Patrick Lee appearing
anywhere
after Rowena’s date of birth, but then we knew that. And that’s assuming it really is her date of birth.’

‘She was Rowena Abbot at St Dunstan’s.’

‘I checked for a Gordon Patrick Abbot. Nothing.’

‘So, he kills Rowena’s mother,’ said Dixon, ‘takes her to Kenya for five years and then comes back with a new identity.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘And it’s all hunky dory until he meets Fran . . .’

‘Possibly not.’

‘What’d you mean?’

Jane opened the file on the table in front of her and handed Dixon a photograph.

‘Lynnette Margaret Peters. Aged eighteen. Reported missing
in 1983
.’

‘She’s the spitting image of Fran,’ said Dixon, staring at the photograph.

‘And Isobel.’

Dixon shook his head. ‘Where?’

‘Wells. She went to a local school.’

‘The Cathedral School?’

‘No. Chard’s getting the files out now.’

Jane watched Dixon’s eyes glazing over the more he stared at the photograph and could see he was no longer focussing on it. She waited. Suddenly, he slammed the picture down on the table with his left hand. Monty woke up and started growling.

‘What’s he doing about it?’

‘Who?’

‘Chard.’

‘Tracking down all the staff at her school and interviewing them, I think.’

Dixon picked up the menu and passed it to Jane. ‘Hungry?’

‘Er, yes,’ replied Jane, frowning. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s right in front of me, Jane. Right in front of me. So close I could reach out and touch it.’ Dixon grimaced. ‘But I can’t see it.
I ju
st can’t see it.’

‘What?’

‘If I knew that, we’d be home and dry.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘It’s like doing a huge jigsaw puzzle and finding the last bit’s missing.’

‘Jigsaw puzzle?’

‘Only you’ve seen it, lying around somewhere, you just can’t remember where . . .’

‘You know who it is?’ asked Jane.

‘No,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘But it’s there. The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle is right there.’

‘So, what do we do?’

‘We eat.’

‘You can eat at a time like this?’

‘I have to. I’m diabetic, don’t forget. And what do we do when we can’t remember an actor’s name?’

‘Google it.’

‘If you can’t google it,’ said Dixon, rolling his eyes.

‘Think about something else . . .’

‘Exactly. Now what d’you want to eat?’

They both ordered the curry and then sat in silence watching Monty lying fast asleep in front of the fire. It was at least ten minutes before Dixon spoke again.

‘What about Haskill?’

‘He left Malaysia on a flight to Shanghai this morning. Chard’s onto the Home Office and the request’s gone in to see if the Chinese will pick him up.’

‘And Griffiths?’

‘Squeaky clean. Here’s a copy of what we’ve got,’ said Jane, handing a plastic document wallet to Dixon.

‘Is he a Jehovah’s Witness?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll read it later,’ he said, putting the file to one side. ‘What happened after I left this morning?’

‘You mean apart from all the cursing and swearing?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was a lot of shouting and yelling, barking of orders, that sort of thing. Lewis managed to calm him down, though, I think.’

‘What worries me most of all is that it’ll be Chard making the arrest and not me.’

‘He’ll have you off the case when Fran’s file comes out
tomorrow
. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

The smell of curry distracted them both and several minutes passed before Jane spoke again. Dixon had cleared his plate before she was even halfway through her own meal.

‘You were hungry,’ she said.

‘School food.’

Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the photograph. He handed it to Jane.

‘I found this in a suitcase in Phelps’ room. Where is it, d’yo
u know
?’

‘It’s Clive Cooper.’

‘I know that, but where is it?’

‘Looks like the King’s Sedgemoor Drain to me. Too wide to be anything else and the banks are that steep, I think. D’you want me to check?’

‘No, don’t bother.’ Dixon slid the photograph back in his pocket.

‘I thought Derek Phelps’ room had been searched?’ asked Jane.

‘It had but they didn’t know what they were looking for,
did they
?’

‘I suppose not.’

Dixon was staring at his empty glass.

‘Another drink?’ asked Jane.

No reply. Jane waited.

‘Wasn’t Phelps illiterate?’

‘He was,’ replied Jane. ‘Couldn’t read or write.’

‘Yet he managed to write the letters ‘KF’ in the mud . . .’ Dixon frowned. ‘Email me the photo of his murder scene, will you. The letters in the mud. Zoom in so I can see them. Nice and clear.’

‘Will do.’

Jane added it to her list of things to do. ‘So, what happens now?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. But it’s shit or bust tomorrow, one way or the other.’

It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time Dixon parked in front of the school. He had spent the last ten minutes sitting in the car park at the Greyhound waiting for his windscreen to clear and Jane was well on her way home by then. The heated windscreen in her red VW Golf had done the trick for her in less than thirty seconds and it was yet another reminder that Dixon had bought the wrong car.

He walked along the main corridor, the silence broken only by the slow and deliberate click of his heels on the tiled floor. The notice boards on either side were emptier now, evidence of cancelled meetings and activities now that the term was ending a week early. Good news for some, bad news for others. Dixon could certainly have done with a few more days. He was still no nearer to finding the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle, although it would be found by a process of elimination on Friday morning. And by someone else. That was the bit that hurt the most. The prospect of being thrown off the case and languishing at home while Chard arrested the man who had killed Fran. Or, worse still, let him get away.

He made a cup of tea and then sat down on the small sofa in his rooms to read the file that he had pulled out from under the
mattress
. It was the only place the missing piece could be or, at least, it was the only place he had left to look. Either way, it felt better than doing nothing and he was unlikely to sleep. He read the
witness
statements again and then Isobel Swan’s post mortem report, before taking a sip of tea that was by then stone cold.

It was going to be another long night.

Chapter Sixteen

D
ixon was shivering violently when he woke up just after 5 a.m., slumped on the sofa with Isobel Swan’s post mortem report lying on his chest. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and began fumbling for the plug on the wall next to him, eventually finding the switch. Then he sat in the dark listening to the oil fired electric radiator clicking and cracking as it warmed up.

He thought about the day ahead. It would be the day the full extent of his personal involvement in the case would be laid bare for all to see. And it could well turn out to be the day his police career came to an abrupt halt. Shit happens, he knew that only too well, but it would be a price worth paying.

He waited until he could feel the warmth from the radiator and then got up to make a cup of tea. If he had been at home, he would have taken Monty for a walk around the lanes, but today
he would hav
e to make do with tea. Shame. He did his best
thinking
when he was out with his dog. He sat down on the edge of the bed,
holding
the mug of tea in both hands and with his feet resting on the radiator.

He was hunting a man who had killed four women. The mother of his own child and then three girls he encountered
who look
ed like her. Dixon shook his head. He knew exac
tly wh
o he was looking for and where to find him but he was
missing
one last piece of information to complete the puzzle. A name.
He thou
ght about having another go at Rowena in interview but he couldn’t risk a visit to Taunton Police Station and another run in with Chard. Not when Chard would have Fran’s file on his desk. No, the longer he could stay out of his way, the better. He would have to leave Rowena to Chard or
Baldwin no
w.

It would end today, one way or the other. Dixon just had to hope that Rowena’s father made one mistake to give himself away. That’s all it would take, just one mistake. Unless he had made it already and Dixon had missed it. Fuck it. That feeling hit him again. The missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Dixon gritted his teeth and nodded. The mistake had been made. He knew that. And he had seen it, whatever it was. He just had to hope the true significance of it hit home in time.

The smell of burning socks got the better of him before the pain and he took his feet off the radiator. Time for a shower. A quick glance in the mirror told him that a shave was out of the question, but at least his stubble was starting to cover the cuts and scratches he had picked up on the Quantocks. A shower would have to do, then down to breakfast nice and early.

Dixon was listening to the excited chatter in the dining room while he checked his email on his phone. The most recent was from Jane and attached a photograph of the letters in the mud next to
the body
of Derek Phelps. Dixon opened it and stared at the picture for several minutes. There was a clear mark adjacent to the second letter that looked to be the beginnings of a third, but Phelps had died before he could complete it. Dixon was frowning as he tapped out a reply.

which bloody idiot thought that was KF?

He was surprised that so many pupils were there at that time in the morning but no doubt the excitement of the last day of term would account for that. A morning of lessons to endure, an
afternoon
spent packing and then the carol service at 5 p.m.,
followed
by Christmas dinner.

Dixon was sitting alone at the top table, watching all the comings and goings and picking at a bowl of lumpy porridge. A food fight started on a table in the far corner but stopped before he felt the need to intervene. Anybody would think he was a real teacher but then it might have looked a bit odd if he hadn’t stepped in.

‘Nobody warned you about the porridge, then?’

Dixon looked up. It was Ben Masterson.

‘No, sadly not.’

Ben smiled and moved to walk away.

‘Sit down, join me. I’d like to have a word with you, if you’ve got a minute.’

Ben looked nervously around the dining room and then sat down opposite Dixon.

‘You all right?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’

‘Less of the “Sir”. In any other setting I’d be calling you Sir, don’t forget.’

Ben smiled.

‘I wanted to ask you about that note . . .’

‘That was nothing, really. But I did just want a chat about . . . well . . . there’s
a rum
our . . .’ His voice tailed off.

‘About what?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘Mr Hatton?’

‘You’ve heard it?’

‘Yes,’ said Dixon, nodding.

‘Is it true?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, at least you know about it.’

‘I do.’

Dixon watched Ben prodding his cornflakes with his spoon.

‘Did they offer you counselling?’ he asked.

‘Matron mentioned it but I said no.’

‘Me too. The British stiff upper lip and all that.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Did Isobel have an unusual relationship with any of the other teachers?’ Dixon asked.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m not sure I know, to be honest, Ben. I’m just looking for anything out of the ordinary.’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Was she worried about anything in particular?’

‘Not really. Her driving test, perhaps.’

‘When was that?’

‘It would have been on the Wednesday afternoon.’

‘What did she say about it?’

‘Just that she didn’t feel ready. She was getting stressed out about it.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told her to take it anyway. What was the worst that could happen?’

‘Was she going to?’

‘I think so.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you . . .’

‘Tell me about your girlfriend,’ said Ben. He was looking down, still pushing cornflakes around his plate with his spoon.

‘She was my fiancée, technically,’ replied Dixon. ‘We were at
St Dunsta
n’s, seventeen years ago.’

‘You were engaged?’

‘We were. We hadn’t told anyone, but we were.’

‘D’you think it’s the same killer?’

‘I do,’ replied Dixon. ‘But that’s between you and me.’

‘You’ll get him, won’t you?’

Dixon got up to leave.

‘We’ll get him, Ben, don’t you worry.’

Dixon walked back along the corridor, past the cloisters towards the masters’ common room and up the flight of steps at the end. He stood looking along the main corridor. There were several groups of pupils walking towards him, no doubt heading for the dining room and breakfast. He felt a blast of cold air as another group came in through the door behind him.

The door of the masters’ common room was open, so he went in and spent the next five minutes looking at the notice board. There was a large notice about the DNA testing the
following
morning and a sealed envelope in each of the male teachers’ pigeonholes, no doubt a personal memo from the headmaster on the same subject.

He was distracted by a commotion in the corridor outside and looked at his watch. It was just before 8.15 a.m. so it was probably the late rush for breakfast. He went outside and watched the last of the pupils sprinting down the corridor towards the dining room and was surprised that he could still hear running and shouting even now that the corridor was empty. He spun round when he heard a loud crash followed by raucous laughter. It was coming from the library.

He pushed open the right hand door in time to watch the baton changing hands in what appeared to be a relay race over
the bookshe
lves. A line of girls was waiting in front of the shelves on the left and a group of boys were on the right. Dixon shook his head in disbelief as he watched a boy climb the shelves in front of him, drop down on the other side and then reappear on top of the next set of shelves, each book that hit the floor in the process being greeted by a loud cheer. A girl was doing the same over the left hand set of shelves and it was impossible to tell which team was winning.

Both groups were so intent on cheering on their
teammates that they
failed to notice Dixon’s arrival, so he let go of the door and waited for it to slam behind him. The effect was immediate.

‘Who’s winning?’

His question was greeted with stunned silence by both groups. The girl racing over the shelves on the left saw him and stopped but the boy on the right seemed oblivious to Dixon’s arrival and kept going, much to the amusement of the girls. His moment of triumph was shattered only when he arrived on top of the last shelf and spotted Dixon. He tried to stop himself, lost his balance, and fell from the top shelf, landing in a heap on a pile of books lying on the floor.

Dixon watched him get to his feet, mercifully none the worse for his fall.

‘And you are?’

‘Bromfield, Sir.’

‘Take a tip from me, Bromfield.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Don’t take up mountaineering.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ He was blinking furiously and rubbing his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Dixon.

Bromfield stopped blinking and looked up at Dixon.

‘I’ve lost a contact lens, Sir.’

‘Well, you’d better look for it, then.’

Dixon stood back and watched Bromfield and the other
boys searchi
ng for the contact lens. He turned to the group
of girls
.

‘And you lot can make a start getting those books back on the shelves.’

‘Here it is,’ said Bromfield, holding up a copy of
The Battlefields of England
by Alfred Burne. Dixon could see the lens stuck to the cover of the book and watched Bromfield peel it off. He held it up to the light on the end of his index finger and then put it back in his eye.

‘That’s fine,’ he said, blinking again.

‘Good. That means you can see to put these books back on the shelves.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘And make an effort to get them in the right order. I’ll be back to check in twenty minutes.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Dixon looked over his shoulder to check that the boys and girls were putting the books back on the shelves before he opened
the d
oor. Suddenly, the image of Bromfield’s contact lens stuck
to th
e cover of
The Battlefields of England
flashed across his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘That’s it,’ he muttered.

Then he left the door to slam behind him and sprinted up the stairs opposite. Leaving the key in the door of his rooms, he ran in and pulled the copy of Isobel Swan’s file from under the mattress. He took out her post mortem report and flicked through the pages until he found the passage he was looking for.

‘Left eye missing contact lens, soft, possibly disposable. Right lens retained for comparison.’

Dixon sat in his Land Rover and rang Jane. It was several rings before she answered and he grimaced when he heard the sound of a car engine in the background.