Swansong (8 page)

Then the scrambling began. Furniture moving under the weight of the boys clambering across it, knocking together, creaking and clunking. They were doing their best to be quiet but it was always going to be difficult. Every now and then Dixon could hear someone ‘ssshhhhh’ the others and the occasional ‘shut the fuck up’ but that was to be expected. They reached the gallery with a final crescendo of clattering, banging and muttering. Quite how nobody had caught these idiots before was beyond Dixon.

He waited. The group was well out of earshot now up on the gallery but he could make out whispering and glass bottles clinking. Then he saw what he had been waiting for. A flame flickering.

He slid down off the mattresses and ran the few steps across to the light switches, hitting all four at once with his left hand. Three lines of large strip lights, each running the length of the chapel, came on one by one. Dixon looked up at the gallery. There was no movement and no sound, the occupants clearly hoping that they had not been seen.

‘Either you come down or I’m coming up there. It’s up to you,’ shouted Dixon.

Silence.

‘I’m going to count to three.’

One boy stood up. Dixon recognised him immediately. It was Ben Masterson, Isobel’s boyfriend. He frowned. Ben had not looked the type to do drugs but then he could be forgiven for going off the rails, perhaps. Dixon had very nearly done so.

‘And the others.’

Two more boys stood up. They tried to hide under hoodies, which they pulled down over their faces. Only Ben didn’t bother.

‘Don’t just stand there, come down,’ said Dixon.

He watched them step across from the gallery to the top of the wardrobe and then scramble across the assorted furniture and junk. They lined up side by side in front of Dixon in the small space just inside the door, all of them looking at the floor.

‘Names.’

‘Ben Masterson, Sir.’

‘And you?’

‘Gittens, Sir.’

‘Lloyd, Sir.’

‘Well, I know you, Ben. You were in the law class this morning. But you two could be anybody. Take those hoods off.’

Gittens and Lloyd threw back the hoods on their tops, revealing their faces. Dixon took out his iPhone and took photographs of them both.

‘Now, empty your pockets.’

Gittens and Lloyd looked at each other and hesitated.

‘Pockets. On the floor. Now.’

All three boys emptied the contents of their pockets onto the floor in front of them. Dixon watched them to ensure that each pocket was emptied and that none were left out.

‘What’ve you left up there?’

‘Nothing, Sir,’ replied Gittens.

Dixon looked at the small piles of belongings on the floor. Ben Masterson’s consisted of a packet of chewing gum, a small amount of change, a pocket diary, a pen and a wallet. Gittens’ and Lloyd’s was much the same, except for the addition of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter each, a small plastic bag containing white powder and an even smaller piece of tin foil. Dixon picked up the powder and the tin foil.

‘What about the bottles?’

No reply.

‘Do I look like an idiot?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘That’s the right answer. Now piss off, the pair of you. And if
I s
ee you near this place again, you’ll be in deep trouble.’

Gittens and Lloyd looked at each other and then back to Dixon.

‘That’s right, go. Now.’

All three boys picked up their belongings and turned to go to the door.

‘Not you, Ben,’ said Dixon.

He waited for Gittens and Lloyd to leave the chapel.

‘What happens now?’ asked Ben.

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re not going to report us?’

‘I’d like to report them. They deserve it. But I can’t do that without dropping you in the shit too, can I?’

‘But . . .’

‘Everyone says they know exactly what you’re going through, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, they’re full of shit. Only someone who’s been through it knows.’

‘And you’ve been through it?’

‘I was your age when my girlfriend disappeared. They never even found a body. I fell apart just like you’re doing now. Failed all my exams. Got in with the wrong crowd. But I got out of it and so will you.’

‘Will I?’

‘Yes, you will. But you won’t if you get expelled for taking drugs with those two fuckwits.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I didn’t either.’

‘Did they find out what happened to her?’ asked Ben.

‘No. They never did.’

‘So, she could still be out there somewhere?’

‘That’s crossed my mind. I know she’d have got in touch with me, though. Somehow.’

‘If she could,’ said Ben.

‘You certainly know how to cheer someone up, don’t you?’

Ben smiled.

‘Tell me about Isobel,’ said Dixon.

‘She was beautiful. Funny. Perfect. I loved her.’

‘Did she feel the same about you?’

‘No. She wanted to be friends. And that was enough for me, you know. Just good friends.’ Ben shook his head. ‘It was better than nothing.’ Tears began rolling down his cheeks.

‘Who’d she hang around with?’

‘Emily and Susannah, mainly. And me.’

‘You’ll get through this,’ continued Dixon. ‘Just don’t do
something
you’ll regret for the rest of your life. All right?’

‘Yes.’

‘One day at a time and it will get easier.’

Ben nodded.

‘And you know where I am if you need to talk.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now, hop it.’

Ben left the chapel and closed the door behind him. Dixon waited until he had gone before picking up the foil and the bag of white powder and putting them in his pocket. Then he went back up to the gallery and collected another bag of powder and two full bottles of cheap vodka.

Dixon unwrapped the foil to reveal about an eighth of an ounce of marijuana resin. Twenty quid’s worth. It would be interesting to know where they had bought it. Then he threw it into the bushes outside the chapel. Next he poured the vodka down the sink and flushed the powder down the toilet. It was another line crossed for Dixon, but it was worth it if it kept Ben Masterson out of trouble.

By 10 p.m. Dixon was standing in the main entrance to the school. At the same time exactly two weeks before, Isobel Swan had last been seen alive by Emily Setter and Susannah Bower, and he wanted a clear understanding of just how busy the school would have been at that time of night on a Saturday.

A few boys came and went from the computer room. Dixon opened the door and looked in. All but two of the seats were empty.

‘Where is everybody?’

Two boys sitting in front of one computer both turned to look at Dixon.

‘Don’t know, Sir,’ said one.

Dixon closed the door behind him. Most of the younger boys would be in bed and, thinking about it, where would he have been on a Saturday night? In town with Fran. Most of the pupils would have their own computers too, of course. Laptops and iPads. Dixon rolled his eyes. He suddenly felt old.

A group of smaller boys ran along the corridor from Dixon’s left and up a flight of stairs. Late for bed, no doubt. Apart from that, it was much quieter than he had expected and certainly quieter than the night before. You could hear a pin drop, let alone a girl scream.

Dixon followed Isobel’s route back to Gardenhurst again. He turned left at the end of the corridor, out through the double doors and around to the front of the Underwood Building. Most of the ground floor lights were off except for those in the corridor and there was no sound coming from the Bishop Sutton Hall
opposite
either. He followed the path around to the sixth form bar and peered in through the window. He could hear music and see
students
enjoying
a drink, some sitting at a table with the
headmaster
. Dixon counted thirty-two in all. He checked the opening hours on the door. It closed at 10.30 p.m. on a Saturday, after which all of them would come piling out into the cold.

Dixon walked back to the main entrance and sat on the window seat in the foyer. He had underestimated just how quiet the school would be and had forgotten how quiet St Dunstan’s was on a Saturday night too. There would have been plenty of opportunity for someone to intercept Isobel and, if done carefully, very little chance of being seen.

Dixon stood at the bottom of one of the flights of stairs leading up to the accommodation and typed out a text message to Jane.

Missing you too. Need a floor plan of the main school asap x

Then he walked along the corridor back to his rooms. He listened to the sound of his heels clicking on the tiled floor. At the bottom of the stairs opposite the library, he turned and looked back down the full length of the corridor. It occurred to him that in the last twenty minutes while he had been sitting on the window seat, not a soul had walked past. Not one.

Chapter Six

D
ixon was shaving when there was a loud bang on the door of the flat. It was just before 7 a.m. and breakfast wasn’t due to start for another hour.

‘Nick?’

It was Phillips. Dixon opened the door, his face still covered in shaving foam.

‘Can I come in?’ Phillips didn’t wait for the answer and stepped forward. Dixon closed the door behind him. Phillips was sweating profusely and out of breath.

‘What’s up?’

‘There’s another body.’

‘Where?’

‘Behind the sports hall.’

‘Who is it, do we know?’

‘One of the porters.’

‘Which one?’

‘The headmaster didn’t say.’

‘How . . . ?’

‘He didn’t say that either.’

‘Have the police been called?’

‘They’re on the way now. The head’s ringing around putting the houses on lockdown.’

‘Give me a second.’

Dixon wiped the shaving foam off his face with his towel and then put on his shirt and tie.

‘Our job is to find any stragglers,’ continued Phillips. ‘Some may be in the pool and a few go running. I need you to sit in the dining room and send back any who turn up for breakfast. Sports hall first, though, and check the pool.’

‘What about breakfast?’

‘It’ll be sent over to the houses.’

Dixon picked up his jacket and followed Phillips down to the sports hall. Once outside, they cut across the grass, which appeared white in the lights from the Underwood Building. The
crunching
sound beneath his feet told Dixon it was frost rather than a
trick of
the light. He could just about make out the first light of dawn
on the hor
izon and a small group of people standing on the
corner of
the hall, looking along the back.

‘Who’s that?’

‘The head porter and the catering manager, Mrs Weston,’ replied Phillips.

Dixon looked across to the car park in front of Gardenhurst. Only two patrol cars were there so far but he could hear sirens in the distance. No doubt some disgruntled CID officers, including Jane, were getting the call right now.

The sports hall was empty apart from two boys
playing
squash who were sent back to their house by Phillips. The
swimming
pool was still locked and the changing rooms empty. Phillips’ mobile phone rang as they walked back out into the cold
morning
air.

‘Phillips . . . yes . . . yes, Sir. Leave it with me.’

Phillips rang off and turned to Dixon.

‘We’ve got two missing from Markham. Their housemaster thinks they’ve probably gone for a run. And two scrotums from Reynell who’ll be up to no good, I expect.’

‘Who . . . ?’

‘Gittens and Lloyd. Probably lying drunk somewhere, if they haven’t frozen to death.’

‘What about the old chapel?’ asked Dixon.

‘Good thinking. I’ll try there. You head back to the dining room. Anyone turns up for breakfast, just send them back where they came from.’

‘OK.’

Dixon waited until Phillips had gone through the gate in the wall to the old convent and then walked along the side of the sports hall to the back corner. He arrived just as the head porter and Mrs Weston were being moved away by a uniformed police
constable
. Dixon thought it best not to pull rank and risk his cover. Besides, he had left his warrant card at home. He managed to get a glimpse along the back wall of the hall before he too was moved along, but it was enough to confirm what he had suspected.

Derek Phelps was sitting up against the back wall of the sports hall, although slumped forwards. It was impossible to know whether he had been left in that position or whether he had managed to crawl there under his own steam. Dixon would need to wait for Roger’s report before he would know the answer to that question. The glimpse had been enough to answer Dixon’s main question, though. Both Phelps, and the congealed blood on the back of his head, were covered in frost.

By 8.30 a.m. Dixon had sent five pupils back to their houses. Three swore blind that nobody had told them and the other two said that they had been in the shower. Dixon felt a little bit guilty sending them away with empty stomachs while sitting there
tucking
into a bowl of Weetabix, but he reminded himself that he was diabetic and had to eat on medical grounds. He just wished he could get ‘Norwegian Wood’ out of his head. A pleasant tune under different circumstances, perhaps, but today it felt unusually sombre.

He put his empty bowl on the side in the far corner of the
dining
room and looked up to see Gittens and Lloyd standing in the doorway. They turned to run away.

‘Oi.’

They stopped and turned to Dixon when they realised he had seen them.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

Neither of them looked as if they had been to bed. Their eyes were bloodshot and their pupils dilated.

‘Never mind,’ said Dixon. ‘The whole school’s gated so get back to your house straight away.’

‘Gated?’

‘Yes. Everyone’s out looking for you so get back there now.’

‘Are we . . . ?’

‘It’s not about you, no. But it will be if you don’t get back.’

Dixon handed them his apple and banana.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, get going.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

It was past 9.15 a.m. and Dixon thought it unlikely that any more pupils would turn up now. Noises from the kitchen and the smell of toast told him that breakfast was being prepared to be taken out to the various houses, and he watched two porters push trolleys past the door of the dining room. They were accompanied by a police constable. A second officer saw Dixon sitting in the dining room and walked over to him.

‘May I ask who you are, please, Sir?’

‘I’m a trainee teacher here on two weeks’ work experience,
officer
. I’ve been asked to sit here and send anyone who turns up for breakfast back to their house.’

‘Mr Dickson, is it?’

‘Yes. I’ve got a letter . . .’ replied Dixon, fumbling in his inside jacket pocket.

‘There’s no need for that, Sir.’

The officer winked at Dixon and then handed him a note.

‘I’ll leave you to it, Sir.’

Dixon looked at the note.

‘Your phone’s off. Can you get over to the sports hall? J’

He checked his phone, which was still on silent mode, and switched alerts back on. He had missed five calls and three text messages. All of them from Jane and all asking if he could get over to the sports hall. He tapped out a reply to the last message.

On way. What’s up?

The reply came in seconds.

Chard’s made an arrest Jx

Dixon resisted the temptation to race straight over to the sports hall. First he checked the chapel, which was empty, the message having clearly got through to the chaplain that Holy
Communion
was cancelled for the day. Next he checked the library and then the masters’ common room. Both were deserted. Then he walked back down to the dining room, out of the side door and along the path that formed the boundary of the cricket pitch. This would take him straight around the end of the Underwood Building and across to the sports hall whilst at the same time reducing the chances that he would bump into anyone on the way.

He stopped at the end of the Underwood Building, stood on the steps leading up to the biology labs and looked across to the end of the sports hall. He could see DI Baldwin and Jane standing outside a Scientific Services tent talking to Roger Poland. Camera flashes were going off inside the tent despite the spot lamps.

Dixon looked up. Students were peering out of every window along that side of the Underwood Building overlooking the scene. Bored, no doubt. Or maybe they would grow up to slow down and gawp at car accidents.

Dixon sent Jane a text message.

Behind you x

He watched her take her phone out of her pocket, look at it and then look over her shoulder. She spoke to DI Baldwin and then walked over to him.

‘You look cold,’ said Dixon.

‘Freezing,’ replied Jane, her teeth chattering.

‘C’mon, let’s go and get a cup of tea.’

They walked back along the path to the dining room, in the side entrance and then turned left along the corridor to the masters’ common room.

‘What’re you doing out and about, then? I thought the school was on lockdown?’

‘I’m a teacher, don’t forget,’ replied Dixon.

Jane smiled.

‘The dead man was at St Dunstan’s . . .’ she said.

‘I know. Derek Phelps, the KP. Did you find out what
happened
to Clive?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Who’s Chard arrested?’

‘Keith Foster, maths teacher. D’you know him?’

‘I’ve met him.’

‘Well?’

‘Not a chance,’ replied Dixon. He put the kettle on and rinsed two mugs under the tap. ‘He wasn’t at St Dunstan’s, was he?’

‘No.’

‘Why the arrest, then?’

‘Written in the mud next to the body are the letters “K” and “F”. Chard thinks Phelps was blackmailing Foster and he
killed hi
m.’

‘Investigation by numbers . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. He handed Jane a mug of tea. ‘What does Roger say?’

‘Hit over the head, several times, and left for dead. He’s not sure yet if the head injury got him or the cold, but he’ll let us know.’

‘Where was he killed?’

‘At the scene.’

‘That means he knew his killer, surely? To follow him to the back of the sports hall.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Must’ve been late last night. Phelps was covered in ice when
I sa
w him this morning.’

‘What time was that?’ asked Jane. She was sitting in an
armchair
holding her mug of tea in both hands.

‘Sevenish.’

‘I’ll let Roger know.’

‘Well, it narrows it down a bit, doesn’t it? Haskill, Rowena Weatherly and the headmaster are the only ones left who were at St Dunstan’s.’

‘I’ve still got to check Isobel’s father and the supply teacher, Griffiths.’

‘Check their alibis for last night too.’

‘Will do,’ replied Jane.

Dixon turned to look out of the window and sighed. ‘Keith Foster. It just doesn’t work.’

Jane nodded.

‘Where is he now?’ asked Dixon.

‘At the station. Chard’s interviewing him this morning.’

Dixon was stirring his tea. He was looking at the mug
but hi
s mind was elsewhere. And Jane knew better than to interrupt
his tra
in of thought. Unless she had to, of course.

‘You’re gonna spill your . . .’ Jane rolled her eyes.

Dixon spilt his tea on his leg but didn’t flinch. He put down his mug and took out his iPhone, holding it horizontally. Jane guessed he was searching for something online.

‘There’s a restaurant in town that stays open until 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Always used to and still does, according to this. Go in and look at their CCTV footage and get me stills of every customer in there between, say, 11 p.m. and closing time. Get it for the night of Isobel’s murder too.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s just say I’m clutching at straws.’

Jane frowned at him. ‘Can I tell Chard?’

‘If you have to.’

‘What’re you looking for?’

‘Some things never change, do they?’

‘What things?’

‘Every generation thinks they’re the first to do it when the
reality
is it’s been going on for years.’

‘What?’

‘Every Saturday night at midnight we’d tie a rope to the
radiator
and abseil out the window. Then someone’d let us in through the fire escape when we got back.’ Dixon smiled. ‘I remember
one time my
housemaster
walked right under me. I only just pulled the rope up in time.’

‘Why not just go out through the fire escape?’ asked Jane.

‘Not nearly as much fun.’

‘You needed to get out more.’

‘Less, actually, if you think about it,’ replied Dixon.