Swansong (7 page)

‘No way up. The only access is through that door, which I know is locked.’

Against the far wall beneath the gallery was a chest of drawers next to a wardrobe. On top of the chest of drawers, upside down, was a wooden chair.

‘Really?’

Dixon stepped up onto a pile of mattresses and then onto another before arriving at a line of tables that he was able to use as stepping stones across to the chest of drawers. He stepped up onto the wardrobe, taking the wooden chair with him. He then stood
on th
e chair and was able to reach the balustrade. A short step up and across and he was on the gallery. Those days spent crossing
glaciers
in the Alps hadn’t been wasted after all.

Dixon was not impressed by what he saw. It reminded him of certain alleyways he’d walked down, never alone, whilst in the Met. He counted ten syringes, a pile of discarded silver foil and at least three blackened dessert spoons. Cigarette butts and empty bottles of vodka completed the picture.

Try not to act like a policeman.

‘Can you get up here?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’ll give it a go.’

Phillips was clearly not as agile as he had once been but, after a good deal of huffing and puffing, he made it as far as the wooden chair. He lost his nerve at the step across to the gallery but got a clear view of the scene through the balustrade.

‘Oh, fuck.’

‘Quite,’ said Dixon.

‘The headmaster’ll do his nut.’

‘Do you know who it is?’

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’

‘A webcam, then. Set up over there . . .’

‘What about the police? Shouldn’t we tell them?’ asked Phillips.

‘Was Isobel . . . er . . .’

‘Swan.’

‘That’s it. Was she involved in it?’

‘God, no. Squeaky clean, that one.’

‘Needn’t trouble the police, then. It’s hardly relevant. An
internal
matter for the school.’

‘Perfect,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ll get our computer studies boffin to sort out the webcam next week.’

Dixon was last out of the old chapel and closed the door b
ehind him.

‘Let’s go and watch the rugger,’ said Phillips.

Dixon scanned the touchlines of the four rugby pitches he could see for anyone from St Dunstan’s who might recognise him, and saw only one teacher he’d need to steer clear of watching a team of younger boys, probably the junior colts. He’d also need to give the AstroTurf hockey pitches a wide berth. His old housemaster was watching one game and his biology teacher, Miss Macpherson, was watching the other.

‘Let’s give the thirds a bit of support,’ said Phillips. ‘Everybody and their dog watches the firsts.’

‘OK.’

Dixon looked across the car park in front of Gardenhurst to the far corner where the mysterious small car had been parked. The four minibuses that were usually parked there had gone, taking students to the away matches at St Dunstan’s and Roedean, no doubt.

According to the various witness statements, the car had been reversed into the corner space, adjacent to the wall, with its boot facing the playing fields. The wall that ran along the far side of the car park dropped away in the corner down the slope and then along the outer perimeter of the sports field. Just inside the wall was a line of mature and very large leylandii that would have
provided
more than enough cover for the killer to disappear into had he been disturbed. The leylandii ended at a hedge that then
continued
the outer boundary at right angles. According to the file the whole area, including the gap between the wall and the trees, had been the
subject
of a fingertip search, but nothing had been found except cigarette butts and empty bottles. Dixon would have a look for himself later.

In the meantime, he followed Phillips around the back of the sports hall and down through a line of trees to the 3rd XV rugby pitch. A small crowd was assembled along the near touchline at the halfway line. Phillips looked at his watch. It was just after 3.30 p.m.

‘Second half must be under way.’

He spoke to a boy standing at the end of the crowd.

‘What’s the score, Thompson?’

‘15–9, Sir.’

‘Who to?’

‘Them.’

‘What about over there?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the 1st XV pitch.

‘We’re winning, 21–0,’ came the reply.

‘That’s better,’ said Phillips. ‘Want to watch that game instead?’

‘Sounds like this lot need our support more,’ replied Dixon.

‘You’ll go far,’ replied Phillips, smiling and lighting his pipe at the same time.

‘Not watching the firsts, Robin?’ The voice came from behind them.

‘Ah, Rowena, how did your girls get on?’ asked Phillips, turning around.

‘We won, 3–0.’

‘Well done.’ Phillips pointed at Dixon with his pipe. ‘This is our trainee teacher. You got the email?’

‘I did,’ replied Rowena.

‘Nick, this is the Miss Weatherly I was telling you about.’

They shook hands.

‘All good, I hope,’ said Rowena.

‘Yes,’ replied Dixon.

Rowena Weatherly was tall and slim with short hair, dyed jet black. She looked every inch the hockey coach in a red and black Brunel tracksuit with a Grays hockey stick bag slung over her
shoulder
.

‘How long are you here for?’ she asked.

‘Till the end of term.’

‘Having fun?’

‘He’s sitting in on His Lordship’s law classes,’ said Phillips, rolling his eyes.

‘Oh. Still, it could be worse. It could be chemistry . . .’

‘Yes, thank you, Rowena.’

‘It’s not that bad, really,’ said Dixon.

‘Well, a change is as good as a rest. I must dash. Got another match starting in ten minutes.’

Dixon turned back to the rugby match. He felt odd cheering for a team he had always thought of as the opposition but did his best to sound enthusiastic, even remembering to limit his reaction to a St Dunstan’s try under the posts to polite applause. At one point he thought he had been spotted by his old housemaster, who had come across from the hockey pitches and was walking along the far touchline, but he turned away just in time and his housemaster continued over to the 1st XV pitch.

The ditch where Isobel had been found was still cordoned off with blue tape and attracted a good deal of attention from students, teachers and parents walking to and from the hockey pitches in the far field. It seemed that no one was capable of crossing the footbridge over the ditch without stopping to look in.

The game ended in a resounding victory for St Dunstan’s, 33–15. Dixon watched the Brunel players shake hands with their
opposite
numbers and then trudge back to the changing rooms in the spo
rts hall
.

‘Tea?’ asked Phillips.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Dixon

They walked back up through the treeline and then along
a pat
h that led to the dining room. It was starting to get dark n
ow and
Dixon could see lights on in various rooms in the main school
and in
the Underwood Building.

‘That’s the sanatorium up there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a door off to the right, ‘and behind that is where the kitchen staff live. Those who live in, anyway.’

‘Right,’ said Dixon.

Once through the double doors, a short passageway led to the main corridor. Dixon turned left and headed towards the masters’ common room.

‘No, this way, old chap,’ said Phillips, ‘tea’s in the dining room.’

Dixon smiled. This was his chance to get a look at the kitchen staff, or at least some of them. At best, he could remember perhaps three or four from St Dunstan’s, so the chances were likely to be very slim that he would recognise any now, and that was assuming that the ones he could remember had moved to Brunel. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be a pointless exercise. If progress was to be made in this section of the school then he would need the names of any kitchen staff working at Brunel who had previously been at St Dunstan’s. He checked his watch. It was just after 4.30 p.m. Plenty of time for tea, then he would make his excuses and get over to the Greyhound to meet Jane.

Phillips handed Dixon a tray as they approached the front of the queue.

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘What, no cake?’

‘Diabetic. Just a mug of tea for me.’

‘You poor sod.’

Phillips helped himself to some bread and jam, two jam tarts and a piece of fruit cake. ‘I’ll have yours then.’

‘You carry on,’ replied Dixon.

He recognised none of the kitchen porters on duty behind the counter but there were only three, one serving the tea and the others topping up the supply of bread and cakes.

At the end of the counter, two steps up led into the dining room. It was larger than St Dunstan’s with long tables, bench
seating
and walls covered with small shields, each listing in gold lettering the names of the first team members for the relevant year. Green for cricket, red for hockey and black for rugby. Dixon found the rugby shield for the team he had played against seventeen years ago. He recognised none of the names now but could still remember the score.

At the far end of the dining room, near the exit, was a
counter
where trays were collected by a kitchen porter, any
rubbish
tipped into large bins and the dirty crockery stacked for washing. Dixon stared at the man standing behind the counter. He was immediately familiar to him; older, of course, and with grey hair and moustache rather than black, but he definitely recognised him. It had been a standing joke at St Dunstan’s: two kitchen porters who always worked together called Derek and Clive. Dixon did not know whether this was Derek or Clive. In fact he could not recall ever having known who was who, but he did remember that the man standing at the counter in the Brunel dining room had been a big Beatles fan. He used to say he had even seen them live in the Cavern Club and everyone had believed him.

Dixon watched Phillips eating his cake. At the same time, he was watching the kitchen porter on the far side of the dining room. There was no chance that Dixon would be recognised, he was sure of that, but he now had positive identification of at least one person who had been at St Dunstan’s when Fran disappeared and at Brunel when Isobel had been murdered. He wondered how many more there might be. Taunton was a small place, after all.

As soon as Phillips finished his cake, Dixon picked up the tray.

‘I’ll take that.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

He joined the back of the small queue and waited. When he got closer to the counter, he began whistling ‘Norwegian Wood’, a suitably obscure song that would only be recognised by a real Beatles fan. He waited for a reaction and the man did not disappoint,
turning
sharply to look at Dixon.

‘You a Beatles fan?’

‘Is there anyone else?’ replied Dixon.

‘John or Paul?’

‘John.’

The man smiled. ‘Good taste.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

‘Have we?’ replied Dixon.

‘I never forget a face.’

Fuck it
.

Dixon handed the man his tray and walked out of the dining room. Phillips was just getting up, giving him a few seconds. He tapped the student in front of him on the shoulder.

‘What’s that man’s name?’

‘Derek.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon stepped out of the line filing out of the dining room and waited for Phillips to catch him up.

‘Right, that’s me off duty. I’m going home,’ said Phillips. ‘What are you up to this evening?’

‘I said I’d meet my girlfriend for a bite to eat in town.’

‘Fine. See you in the morning for chapel patrol?’

‘What time?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘See you then.’

Chapter Five

J
ane arrived at the Greyhound Inn at Staple Fitzpaine to find Dixon’s Land Rover already in the car park behind the pub. She parked next to it and ran across the gravel car park to the back door, sheltering under her handbag. The last few red leaves still clinging to a large Virginia creeper were visible in the light streaming from the windows. The rest were on the ground or being blown around by the wind.

Once inside the door she wiped the raindrops from her nose and looked in the mirror on the wall. She was grateful that her mascara was waterproof. Then she spotted Dixon at the bar, tiptoed over and stood next to him. He was sitting on a bar stool, staring into his beer and did not notice her arrive. She nudged his arm and he looked up. There were tears in his eyes.

‘You all right?’

‘Miles away,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.

He put his arm around Jane’s waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her.

‘We do rooms,’ said the barman. The look on Dixon’s face stopped him in his tracks. ‘Sorry.’

‘Gin and tonic, please,’ said Dixon.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘How’s it been?’ asked Jane.

‘Teaching is definitely out.’

Dixon paid for Jane’s drink and they sat down in the far corner of an otherwise deserted lounge bar.

‘Apart from two law lessons that I sat in on, God help me, I’ve spent the day with Phillips, the school gamekeeper. Please tell me he’s not on your list.’

Jane shook her head.

‘He’s got an oddly relaxed attitude to drug taking at the school but, apart from that, he’s . . .’

‘Drug taking?’

‘I found the drug den but my guess is he knew it was there all along and just never wanted to look.’

‘Why not?’

‘School’s reputation, I expect.’

‘Well, that’s buggered now anyway, isn’t it?’

Dixon nodded. ‘How many on your list?’ he asked.

‘Four.’

‘I’ve spotted one. Derek somebody. A kitchen porter.’

‘Derek Phelps. Left St Dunstan’s ten years ago and then popped up at Brunel a year or so later.’

‘He said he knew me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, it’s nothing to worry about. He’d have no idea from where.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes. Does he live in?’

Jane took a plastic wallet out of her handbag and passed it to Dixon.

‘Copies?’

Jane nodded.

Dixon slid the papers out of the wallet and then flicked through them until he found the ones he was looking for. Jane watched his eyes scanning the pages.

‘He does,’ said Dixon, nodding. He looked up. ‘At St Dunstan’s he used to work with a man called Clive . . .’

‘Derek and Clive?’

‘I know. Find out what became of him, will you?’

‘What was his surname?’

‘No idea.’

Jane took her notebook out of her handbag and began making notes.

‘Who else’ve we got?’ asked Dixon, turning back to the bundle of papers. ‘Marcus Haskill. I don’t remember him.’ Dixon shook his head.

‘Isn’t he the one on sabbatical?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes, I’m using his bloody rooms, for heaven’s sake.’

‘He only taught at St Dunstan’s for your last year.’

‘I see that. And ancient history wasn’t exactly on my radar.’

‘Do you want me to check him out?’

‘Yes. See if he’s really gone to the Far East,’ replied Dixon. He was speed reading Haskill’s employment history. ‘Ex-army. Did the old SSLC, saw active service in the Falklands and then went into teaching.’

‘What’s an SSLC?’ asked Jane.

‘Short Service Limited Commission. Three to five years then you’re out. Don’t think it exists any more. That’s odd . . .’

‘What is?’

‘You’d expect him to be involved in the Cadets, wouldn’t you? With his background . . .’

‘I’ll find out if there’s a reason why not.’

Dixon was reading the next set of papers.

‘Rowena Weatherly?’

‘She was a contemporary of yours,’ said Jane.

‘But I don’t . . .’ Dixon closed his eyes. ‘Rowena Abbot, of course. She was in the year below us. Played hockey with Fran. Must’ve got married, I suppose. I was only introduced to her this afternoon, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Did she recognise you?’

‘“A change is as good as a rest”, my . . .’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes, she recognised me. But I sure as hell didn’t recognise her.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s dyed her hair, for a start. And we only overlapped for a year, I suppose.’ Dixon shook his head. ‘I wonder why she didn’t say anything?’

He turned to the last set of copy documents. Jane waited for the inevitable expletives to follow.

‘What the f . . . ?’ Dixon looked at Jane and then back to the papers in front of him. ‘The headmaster?’

‘Seems so.’

‘I don’t remember him being there . . .’

‘It was just the one term. He was doing the Oxbridge entrance exams. It would’ve been your first term too. And he’d been gone for over a year by the time Fran disappeared.’

‘He never let on he’d been to St Dunstan’s.’

‘It means he must know about Fran, surely?’ asked Jane.

‘Not necessarily, if he’d left by then.’

‘I suppose so. Wouldn’t he have been there at the same time as her, though?’

‘She’d have been a couple of years below him,’ replied Dixon.

‘If you assume he knows, then there can be only two reasons why he’s said nothing. One, he doesn’t want the added scandal or, two, he’s in it up to his neck,’ said Jane.

‘Get his school records, will you. I want to know what sort of pupil he was.’

‘Why?’

‘There are two types. Those who leave and never look back and those who wear the old school tie every chance they get. If he was one of the never look back lot then it’s possible he doesn’t know about Fran.’

‘Which were you?’

‘Never looked back. Not once.’

Dixon glanced around the bar. It was filling up, so they ordered some food before the kitchen became too busy.

‘Did you get a pay as you go SIM card?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jane.

They exchanged numbers and agreed a code. Any reference to Monty in a text message would trigger a switch to the new numbers.

‘What about alibis?’

‘They’ve all been checked. The headmaster was with his wife, Derek Phelps was in the Dolphin. The barman remembers him, or rather the barman would remember if he hadn’t been there because he always is. Haskill’s abroad, but I’ll check that, and Rowena Weatherly was home alone. Well, in her rooms in Gardenhurst.’

‘And the driving instructor?’

‘Arnold Davies. He was at Bible study earlier in the evening then at home with his wife.’

‘Have you come across anything on a supply teacher called Griffiths?’ asked Dixon.

‘No.’

‘Chard is a useless tosser. Well, there is one. Filling in for Haskill. Better get his records.’

‘Will do,’ replied Jane, scribbling in her notebook.

‘It’s quite possible he’s been to St Dunstan’s in the past and he’s certainly old enough to have been teaching seventeen years ago.’

‘OK.’

‘What about Isobel’s father? Has he been checked?’

‘Not by me.’

‘Do so. See if he’s ever had anything to do with St Dunstan’s.’

‘OK.’

‘And the groundsman who found Isobel. I’ve not seen his statement. Better check it for anything unusual.’

‘Listen, I was thinking. Isobel had her ring finger cut off,’
said Jane.

‘She did.’

‘So, perhaps the killer has an issue with marriage?’

Dixon nodded.

‘Why else cut off that particular finger?’

‘And keep it,’ added Dixon.

‘Quite.’

‘Good thinking. Look for anyone who’s been divorced. Let’s have a look at the school governors too. Full background checks on the current lot. Look for any who were at St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago.’

‘All of them?’

‘It’ll keep you out of trouble,’ said Dixon, smiling.

‘And what’s gonna keep you out of trouble?’

The answer to that one was ‘nothing’. Dixon fully expected to get into trouble but he thought it best not to worry Jane with
that now
.

They left the Greyhound just before 8 p.m. A lone figure was standing under the smokers’ gazebo, sheltering from the rain. Neither Dixon nor Jane noticed him step back into the shadows. Nor did they notice that he wasn’t smoking.

Dixon followed Jane back towards Taunton and flashed his lights at her when she turned off towards the M5. Then he pulled into the front entrance of the convent and parked behind a line of garages.

He tried the door of the old chapel. It was still on the latch, just as he had left it. He opened the door a crack and listened. Nothing, so he crept inside, dropped the latch, holding it with both hands to ensure there was no sound, and then closed the door behind him. He stopped to put on his shoes, which he had carried along the cloisters, and then looked around. Just enough light was
coming
in through the stained glass windows that he could make out the
gallery
at the far end and the outline of the junk that had to be negotiated to get there. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He fumbled for the light switches on the wall just inside the door but did not turn them on. He just needed to know where they were. Then he looked for a suitable place to hide.

Three large piles of mattresses where the altar had once been offered the perfect spot, not far from the lights and ensuring that Dixon would be between the gallery and the door. He moved two of them to form a screen of sorts, switched his phone to ‘silent’ mode and then lay back with his hands behind his head. He did not expect to have to wait long.

He allowed his mind to wander back to days at St Dunstan’s, some of them sad, others not so. When he tried to picture Fran’s face he couldn’t see her. Just her outline and a blank face. It had been that way for a long time but it was not unusual, or so people said. ‘Think about doing something together and it’ll come to you.’ He thought about their first kiss and could see her right in front of him, just as she had been all those years ago. He could see her now, giggling. He had thought it had been nerves until months later when she told him he’d overdone the Extra Strong Mints.

Then there was the time they bunked off to see U2 at Wembley Stadium. They had spent the night at her sister’s flat in Teddington. ‘
Are you supposed to be here?’
‘
We’ve got permission, it’s fine.
’ They hadn’t, of course, but they got away with it. The first train out of Paddington on the Sunday morning got them back to Taunton in time for Fran’s tennis match. They missed chapel but Dixon could live with that.

His mind jumped from memory to memory, scene to scene. Smiles, laughter, tears, he saw them all. Again. He remembered his housemaster, in the corridor at St Dunstan’s that Sunday morning. He could see his lips moving but even now he could only hear two words, ‘
She’s gone.
’

Back to the business in hand. He thought about Jane’s marriage theory and liked it more and more. It would explain the
missing
ring finger. Then there was the prospect of finding Fran’s body with her ring finger missing. Or of finding her ring finger and not
her body.

Dixon grimaced. He took his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. It was just after 9 p.m. and he had received one text message from Jane.

Missing you x

He was halfway through tapping out a reply when he heard voices outside the chapel. He slipped his phone back into his inside jacket pocket and listened. The door handle moved, more voices, then someone running. Wooden chair legs on the tiled floor. More voices. Seconds later he heard the pane of glass in the ceiling above the door start to slide across the wooden frame. He waited.

Dixon sat up just enough to see over the mattresses that he had piled in front of him. A head appeared through the opening above the door. Dixon watched him look down and speak to those
waiting
below him. It reminded him of Steve McQueen opening up the tunnel in
The Great Escape
. Then the boy hopped up inside the chapel and looked around. Dixon lay back and listened to the boy climbing down inside the door and then opening it. A short pause and then the door was closed again. Dixon lay still and listened. He was unsure whether there were three or four of them. He heard only two voices and so concentrated on the footsteps. No more than four, certainly. More whispering and then light. He thought that they were probably using their smartphones as torches. He had meant to download that app himself.