Swansong (6 page)

Dixon knew this one too. It was all coming flooding back.

‘Masterson, what about you?’

Dixon watched the pupils at the front of the class turn as one and look at the boy sitting next to Jenkins. He had ginger hair and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked up, slowly.

‘I . . .’

‘You weren’t listening were you, Ben?’

‘No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

‘All right, don’t worry about it. We were talking about
negligence
and what you have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages,’ said the headmaster. ‘Mr Dickson, what about you? You’re a solicitor, I’m told.’

Oh, shit
.

‘Liability, causation and quantum,’ he replied, dredging up the knowledge just in time. ‘That it was someone else’s fault, their negligence caused the injury and then the extent of the injury itself so the damages can be quantified.’

‘Perfect.’

Dixon nodded. He knew that he had just been tested. And that he had passed. He looked across at Ben Masterson, sitting at the back with his head bowed, once again. He was still hurting, mourning even, which told Dixon that he and Isobel had been more than just friends, at least as far as Ben was concerned. Maybe his feelings for Isobel had not been reciprocated? Dixon had seen the effect of unrequited love before and knew it could be toxic. He would need to have a talk with Ben but, in the meantime, there was one thing of which he could be sure. Ben Masterson would have been a babe in arms when Fran disappeared.

Dixon hadn’t appreciated that Phillips meant a liquid lunch but the Winchester Arms at Trull was clearly a popular spot with the teachers at Brunel. Dixon could see McCulloch, Small and the supply teacher, Griffiths, at the bar.

‘A few beers and a toastie’ll set us up for the afternoon,’ said Phillips, ‘unless you’d rather watch the rugby.’

‘No, I’m fine. Whatever you’d usually be doing and I’ll tag along.’

‘How did you get on in class?’

‘I haven’t had so much fun since I had my wisdom teeth out,’ replied Dixon.

Phillips roared with laughter.

‘No, it wasn’t too bad,’ continued Dixon. ‘They were quite subdued, really. Hardly surprising, I suppose.’

‘The whole school is.’

‘One boy seemed worse than the rest. Ben Masterson, I think his name is.’

‘Isobel’s boyfriend. Poor lad. Seems a bit lost to me.’

‘He will be.’
Take it from me, he will be
.

‘Another?’

‘It must be my round, surely?’ replied Dixon.

‘Good God, no. We can’t have a student teacher putting his hand in his pocket for the beers. Wouldn’t hear of it.’

Dixon watched Phillips go to the bar and could see him telling Small and Griffiths who he was. The inevitable glance across from them both gave it away. They saw him watching and raised their glasses. Dixon smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. He looked for any glimmer of recognition on their faces and saw none. Nor did he recognise them.

He thought about everyone he had met so far. Phillips had been right. He couldn’t put names to all of the faces, despite his best efforts. More importantly, perhaps, he recognised none of them from St Dunstan’s, but then it had been a long time ago. If Isobel’s killer had also killed Fran seventeen years ago then he or she might well have changed their appearance over the years.

He hadn’t yet got a look at the kitchen staff and porters either. He’d need to engineer a tour of the kitchens this afternoon, and perhaps eat in the dining room at some point too. But would he recognise a kitchen porter anyway after all this time? Some of them, possibly, but it would not be easy.

He needed the names of anyone arriving at Brunel in the last seventeen years who had previously worked at St Dunstan’s. That would, at least, narrow it down. Or it should.

‘Here you go,’ said Phillips, placing a pint of bitter on the table in front of Dixon.

‘Thank you.’

‘Why teaching, then?’ asked Phillips.

Dixon had prepared for this one. ‘I qualified as a solicitor then realised it was the academic study of the law that fascinated me rather than the practice of it. So, here I am. I plan on teaching
history
too . . .’

‘What period?’

‘Early twentieth century. The Great War is my specialist
subject
.’

‘Fascinating stuff,’ replied Phillips. ‘Any connection?’

‘My great grandfather served in the Somerset Light Infantry.’

‘Never got the hang of history. Still, you’re either scientific or arty farty, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

Their toasted sandwiches arrived but a mouthful of food did not stop Phillips continuing the conversation.

‘What did you study at A Level, then?’

‘English, history and biology.’

‘An odd combination . . .’

‘They seemed the easiest. The ones I was most likely to pass.’

‘And did you?’

‘Just.’

‘University?’

‘Staffordshire.’

‘Why there?’

‘Chosen mainly for its proximity to the Peak District, I think. I spent most of my time rock climbing and just enough studying.’

‘A climber? You should come on Easter Camp in the Lakes.’

Dixon smiled. He had done that very thing with St Dunstan’s, although it had been Snowdonia that year.

‘I’d love to.’

‘C’mon, let’s get back. We can finish that guided tour and perhaps catch some of the rugby. I’ll just nip to the . . . er . . .’

Dixon took the opportunity to send Jane a text message.

Meet me at the Greyhound Staple Fitzpaine at 6 x

It was just before 2.30 p.m. when Phillips turned right off West Road into the main entrance of the school. Dixon could see three coaches from St Dunstan’s College parked in a line on the other side of the car park, adjacent to the library at the front of the main school building. The visiting teams had arrived and so had some visiting schoolteachers who might recognise him, thought Dixon. Unlikely out of context, of course, but he’d need to be careful all the same.

Phillips followed the drive around to the right rather than forking left into the main car park and parked in the smaller car park in front of Gardenhurst, where the suspicious car had been left for several days, according to the witness statements. No one had been able to identify the make or model. Dixon thought it an odd place to hide a car, if indeed it had been hidden. Although there was no CCTV coverage, the car park was in full view of just about everyone in the school. Either it was a red herring or the killer would have no further use for it after the murder. Dixon suspected the latter. No doubt it would turn up in a remote field somewhere, burnt out.

It was a cold and crisp afternoon. Dixon could see spectators gathering along the touch lines of several rugby pitches down on
the play
ing fields. The corner flags were fluttering in the gentle breeze and red and black padding had been put in place around the base
of the
posts. Both AstroTurf hockey pitches were also already in use, the matches having started earlier to allow for another game on the same pitch before dark.

Dixon looked up at Gardenhurst. It was a modern
building
, with stone cladding and large windows. A service road ran along
the front and around to the far side. Several students were mil
ling around.

‘They’ll be off into town in a few minutes, that lot,’ said
Phillips
. ‘Two till five on a Saturday, they’re allowed out.’

Dixon nodded. He watched a small group of three girls appear through a gate in the red brick wall that he had thought marked the boundary of the school.

‘What’s through there?’

‘The old convent,’ replied Phillips. ‘We bought it in the seventies and it houses Woodward and Breward. About two hundred pupils in all. C’mon, I’ll show you round.’

Dixon followed Phillips through the gate.

‘That road goes round to the front and there’s an entrance off West Road too.’

A large oak door led into an entrance hall. Off to the left was an old cloister with a tiled floor and stained glass windows. It was being used as a bike store now. Racks had been fitted along the inner wall and Dixon counted at least forty bicycles before he gave up trying.

‘Seems a shame to use it as a bike rack, doesn’t it?’ asked
Phillips
.

‘Progress,’ replied Dixon.

‘C’mon, let me show you the old chapel.’

Dixon listened to the click of their heels on the tiled floor as they walked along behind the bicycles. Phillips had metal caps
on his
heels that made a distinctive sound. Anyone up to no
good wou
ld hear him coming and have plenty of time to
make go
od their escape. Dixon suspected that was the idea. At the end of the cloisters a short flight of stairs led up to a doorway. The corridor continued around to the right.

‘That takes you round to the accommodation block,’ said
Phillips
. ‘This is the bit I wanted to show you.’

He took a large bundle of keys out his pocket, selected one and then opened the door.

‘The old convent chapel. We use it as a storeroom now, as you can see.’

Dixon ignored the junk and looked instead at the building itself. It was small, by comparison with the school chapel, and had a high vaulted ceiling with ornate carved woodwork, stained glass windows and a large galleried landing at the far end. There was a door at the back of the gallery but no steps leading up to it.

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ asked Phillips.

Dixon treated it as a rhetorical question. He looked around at the piles of old mattresses, desks and chairs, folding tables and
wardrobes
. It was possible to walk in only a few paces. It
would then
be necessary to climb over old furniture to make any further
progress
, such was the extent of the clutter.

‘We know the little buggers are getting in here somehow,’ said Phillips, ‘we just don’t know how.’

‘Is it used much?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘The easy answer is to wait until someone comes in, sneak in and hide, then when they go just creep out and leave the door on the latch. It’s only got a Yale lock on it, hasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. You crafty devil.’

‘Still young enough to think like a schoolboy,’ said Dixon.

He looked at the entrance. It was a timber framed internal lobby with the door set back to allow the corridor outside to continue around to the right and up to the accommodation area. Dixon thought it a temporary measure, possibly put in when the building had been converted for use by the school in the seventies. He spotted two glass windows in the ceiling outside and above the door.

‘There’ll be another way by the looks of things.’

‘What?’

‘Come out for a minute and lock the door,’ said Dixon.

‘Now what?’

Dixon looked up. The panes of glass above him were just out of reach so he walked down the stairs, round the corner and reappeared a few seconds later carrying a bicycle.

‘Hold this, will you?’

Phillips held the handlebars while Dixon stood on the pedals. He reached up and pushed the glass. It moved.

‘What the f . . . ?’ said Phillips, his voice tailing off.

Dixon pushed the pane up with both hands. It was thick safety glass, heavy and with wire mesh set into it. He lifted it clear and pushed it to one side. Then he stood up on the crossbar of the bicycle with his hands either side of the opening and jumped up. It took only a few seconds then to replace the glass, drop down on the inside and open the door.

‘You missed your vocation,’ said Phillips.

‘Possibly.’

‘Certainly. You should’ve been a policeman.’

Dixon smiled. ‘Good pension, I suppose, but that’s about it.’

He looked at Phillips for any sign of recognition but there
was none
.

‘Let’s see what we can find, then,’ said Phillips, ‘while we’re here. I’ll get maintenance to nail down that glass on Monday and put another lock on the door.’

‘What about up there?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the gallery at the far end of the disused chapel.