Swansong (3 page)

He heard his name and felt an arm around his shoulder. They were talking quickly and he noticed that the headmaster’s wife was crying. He couldn’t remember much of what was said but two words from his housemaster got through.

‘She’s gone.’

Chapter Two

R
oger Poland was waiting outside the pathology lab at Musgrove Park Hospital when Dixon arrived, his large frame blocking the doorway. Dixon watched him rubbing his huge hands together and blowing on them for warmth. Poland always joked that he was too clumsy to be let loose on patients while they were still alive.

‘Good holiday?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘How come you’re involved in this one, then?’ asked Poland, opening the back door to the lab.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Try me.’

‘I’m going undercover as a trainee teacher . . .’

Poland roared with laughter. ‘You?’

‘What’s so funny about that?’

‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall.’

‘I’m not going to do any real teaching,’ said Dixon, following Poland along the corridor. ‘Just sitting in on a few lessons to make it look real.’

‘Why you?’

‘I’ve got the right old school tie, apparently.’

‘Which one did you go to, then?’ asked Poland.

‘St Dunstan’s.’

‘When was that?’

‘I left seventeen years ago.’

‘And the dead girl was at Brunel?’

‘She was.’

‘Chances are no one will recognise you, then.’

‘I hope not.’

‘You know Brunel, though?’

‘I played away matches there. Hockey and rugby. I was useless at cricket.’

‘You played rugby?’

‘Not very well.’

Dixon sat down on the corner of a desk in the lab while Poland fetched Isobel Swan’s file from the cabinet in his office.

‘You’ve read my report?’ asked Poland, appearing through the swing doors.

‘Just the summary. Tell me about ketamine.’

‘It’s an anaesthetic. It causes hallucinations, so it’s not first choice these days, but it’s still used in certain situations. Vets use it a lot too, on horses, mainly. Powerful stuff.’

‘And druggies?’

‘They use it, or rather abuse it, for the hallucinatory effect. It’s a dissociative too so they get an out of body experience and
hallucinations
at the same time. Not my cup of tea.’

‘How long does it take?’

‘It’s quick, maybe ten minutes or so and it tastes bitter, which explains the red wine in her system.’

‘How much had she had?’

‘Enough to stop a horse. She’d have been unconscious pretty quickly, thank God.’

‘Why thank . . . ?’

‘You haven’t read that bit?’

Dixon shook his head.

‘Her finger was cut off while she was still alive,’ said Poland. ‘Through the proximal phalanx, just about where a ring would sit. Bolt cutters, I think . . .’

Dixon stood up and walked over to the window. Sitting on a bench under a large tree on the far side of the lawn was a man smoking a cigarette. He wore a raincoat and was sheltering under an umbrella. Next to him was an oxygen bottle, the tube connected to his nose. Dixon watched him for several seconds before he shook his head.

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

‘What does?’

‘A young life snuffed out in here and he’s over there . . .’

‘Are you all right, Nick?’

When he turned back to Poland, Dixon’s face was ashen. He was gritting his teeth so hard he could feel them creaking in his jaw and could taste blood.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Poland.

‘Something like that, Roger,’ replied Dixon.

Dixon sucked the blood from in between his teeth and
swallowed
hard.

‘Can I see her?’

‘Er, yes, give me a minute.’

Dixon turned back to the window and watched the man
finish
his cigarette and then light another. But Dixon was elsewhere, delving into a box of memories, all of them good this time. He was brought back to the present by the crash of a trolley into the swing doors on the far side of the lab.

‘Here she is,’ said Poland.

Dixon walked over and stood next to Poland.

‘Ready?’

Dixon nodded.

Poland turned back the green sheet as far as her chin and no further.

‘D’you know her?’ he asked.

Dixon stared at Isobel Swan, lying on the trolley in front of him with her blonde hair swept back, her eyes closed and her skin a deathly grey.

‘What colour are her eyes?’

‘Green,’ replied Poland.

‘No, I don’t know her.’

‘What’s up, then? I’ve never seen you react like this before.’

Dixon took a deep breath and looked at Poland. Then he uttered the three words he knew changed everything.

‘He’s killed before.’

Dixon was sitting on a chair in Poland’s office watching him
rummage
in the back of the top drawer of his filing cabinet. Then, with a flourish, Poland produced a half empty bottle of Famous Grouse and poured two large drinks into white plastic cups that he had taken from the water tower.

‘No one must know about this, Roger . . .’

‘Hang on a minute. You’re telling me the killer’s done it before and no one must know?’

‘That’s right. I never told you. You never knew.’

‘Why?’

‘If anyone finds out, I’ll be taken off the case. That can’t
happen
.’

‘Let’s have it, then,’ said Poland, handing a plastic cup to Dixon.

‘This one’s personal.’

‘Personal?’

‘I was sixteen. My parents sent me to St Dunstan’s to study for my A Levels. There were girls in the sixth form back then and . . . there was one . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. He took a large swig of Scotch. He was staring into the bottom of the plastic cup and spoke without looking up. ‘. . . And . . . we were . . .’ He took another swig of Scotch.

Poland smiled at Dixon and nodded.

‘Then one day she disappeared,’ said Dixon.

‘Disappeared?’

‘Not a trace. Not a bloody thing. They never even found a body. It was all over the news at the time.’

‘I was in Birmingham back then,’ said Poland. ‘What
happened
?’

‘I was all over the place. Bombed all my exams. Had to resit them at some grotty tutorial college in Oxford.’

‘You poor sod.’

‘It’s why I joined the police and came back to Somerset.’

‘Does Jane know about this?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to tell her?’

‘I haven’t got that far yet.’

‘But . . .’

‘I’ve waited seventeen years to come face to face with this son of a . . .’

‘All right, all right, I get it. No one will hear it from me. But don’t you do anything stupid.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Answer me this, though. If a body was never found, how d’you know it’s the same killer?’

‘They’re identical.’

‘Who are?’

‘Both girls,’ replied Dixon. ‘They could be twins, identical twins, and I don’t believe in coincidence.’

Poland had the last word, as usual, and as Dixon drove north on the M5, it was ringing in his ears.

‘Tell Jane.’

And he knew that he would. After all, if he couldn’t trust Jane, who could he trust?

He glanced across at the copy of Isobel Swan’s investigation file on the passenger seat. Find her killer and he would find out what happened to Fran. At last. Then maybe he could move on.

He had already begun to, if he was honest, despite having always sworn that he wouldn’t. He had met Jane and their relationship had crept up on him. That phrase again. He smiled at the idea of Jane creeping anywhere. Yes, he would tell her and she would help him. He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

He glanced up at the stars and wondered whether Fran was looking down at him. He had felt her presence from time to time over the years, but less so in recent months. Anyway, one way or the other, he was determined that she would soon be able to rest in peace. So would her family and so would he.

Dixon grimaced. A car on the southbound carriageway with its lights on full beam dazzled him. He blinked and shook his head.
Suddenly
, the image of Fran having her ring finger cut off flashed across his mind. He saw her screaming. He blinked again and she was gone.

It was a question he knew he had to answer. He would find out soon enough and had no real idea how he would react when he did. He had promised Poland that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but finding out that Fran had suffered as Isobel Swan had done might just change that.

Dixon arrived home just after 6 p.m. to find Jane cooking a
spaghetti
bolognese. She was standing by the cooker stirring the onions and minced beef, which sizzled in the pan. Monty was sitting at her feet hoping for something, anything, to drop on the floor.

‘Hello, Mr Chips,’ said Jane.

‘Very funny.’

‘Hungry?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dixon, lying. ‘How d’you . . .’

‘Lewis rang me. There’s some beer in the fridge.’

‘I’d better not. Roger filled me up with whiskey.’

Dixon stood behind Jane and put his arms around her waist. She turned her head and kissed him, all the time looking into
his eyes
.

‘What’s up?’

‘Long story.’

Jane switched off the gas under the pan and turned round to face Dixon, his arms still around her waist.

‘Something’s up. I know it is. Tell me.’

‘It’s . . .’ Dixon hesitated, ‘. . . difficult.’

‘Is it to do with Isobel Swan?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘No. Look, let’s go and sit down.’

‘You’re worrying me now,’ said Jane.

Dixon took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room. She sat down on the sofa, while Dixon paced up and down in front of the television.

‘Just start at the beginning and tell me, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Everyone’s got a past. You’ve got one, I’ve got one.’

‘Of course we have.’

‘This is about mine. I’m just going to blurt it all out and then you can let me know what you think when I’ve finished.’

‘Fine.’

Dixon took a deep breath.

‘You remember me telling you I went to St Dunstan’s College to study for my A Levels?’

‘The posh school?’

‘That’s the one. I’d never been to boarding school before and I was like a fish out of water, in amongst all these kids who’d been there for years. Sink or swim, it was. Anyway, I swam.’

Jane nodded.

‘Then I met Fran,’ continued Dixon. ‘Fran Sawyer. She was in the lower sixth too. It was like walking into a brick wall. Bang. And that was it. Love’s young dream.’ Dixon smiled. ‘They tried
separating
us. Fran was switched to a different class but it didn’t work. In the end, they gave up.’

Dixon looked at Jane, sitting on the sofa, listening intently.

‘It’s never occurred to me before, but she’d probably look much like you now. She was beautiful. Blonde hair in a ponytail, green eyes.’

Jane smiled.

‘And she had a beautiful smile too,’ said Dixon. ‘We even got engaged. Told no one, of course, but we were going to be
married
. Till death us do part and all that.’ Dixon turned to face the
television
. ‘I loved her, Jane.’

‘Go on.’

‘Anyway, just before Easter, at the end of the Lent term, before our final exams, she disappeared. All hell broke loose. There was a huge investigation but they never found her. Not a trace. And that was that.’