Swansong (15 page)

It was just after 7 p.m. when Dixon stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked in the mirror. His face and neck were covered in scratches, some of them deep, and it would be a few days before he could shave again. Every cloud, he thought. He hated shaving.

He walked into the living room to find Jane sitting on the arm of the sofa reading the
Iliad
. She looked up.

‘It’s all Greek to me.’

‘It is Greek,’ said Dixon.

‘I know that, idiot. And these rooms are so dark and miserable. Haskill must be a bit . . .’

‘He does teach ancient history.’

‘That explains it,’ said Jane, shaking her head. She looked at her watch.

‘Baldwin rang. Rowena’s staying in hospital overnight. Chard will interview her in the morning. They’re going into her rooms here in ten minutes.’

‘Let’s get over there, then.’

‘She’s got a flat down by the river too, one of the new ones at Firepool Lock.’

The headmaster was letting DI Baldwin and a team of
scientific
services officers into Rowena’s rooms on the first floor
of Gardenhurst
when Dixon and Jane arrived. Hatton stepped back to allow the others past and then held out his hand to Dixon. They shook hands.

‘I gather I have you to thank that I’m not explaining to more parents that their child is dead.’

‘They were never the target.’

‘Who was?’

‘Me.’

‘Why?’

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘Well, at least you’re all right. I’ve explained to DI Baldwin that we’ve got a rifle missing from the range. Miss Weatherly had a key.’

Dixon nodded. The information came as no surprise.

‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Hatton. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than stand around chatting.’

‘We do,’ replied Dixon.

He followed Jane into Rowena’s room. It was a large bedsit, with the kitchen along the wall to the left of the door, a small dining table, a lounge area and then the bed along the far wall. A door led into a small en suite shower room.

‘There’s similar teachers’ accommodation on each floor so they can keep an eye on the students, apparently,’ said Baldwin. She turned to the scientific services team. ‘Right, get to it.’

Dixon noticed a hockey stick bag hanging over the back of a dining chair.

‘Bag up that hockey stick, will you?’

‘Why?’ asked Baldwin.

‘Possible murder weapon,’ replied Dixon. ‘Derek Phelps.’

An officer wearing disposable paper overalls picked it up.

‘It’s empty, Sir.’

‘Bloody thing could be anywhere,’ said Baldwin.

Dixon looked at the piles of exercise books on the dining table, before putting on a pair of disposable rubber gloves and flicking through them. Essays on Mussolini, the rise of Adolf Hitler and the causes of World War One. Someone’s homework wasn’t going to get marked for a while.

‘Jane, check the bedside table, will you?’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Dunno. But you’ll know it when you see it.’

Jane shrugged her shoulders and began opening the drawers. Dixon turned his attention to a bookshelf, flicking through each book in turn.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Jane.

‘Nothing in the bathroom either,’ said Baldwin, squeezing past a scientific services officer in the doorway.

‘No jewellery even?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s try her flat, then,’ said Dixon.

A scientific services team was already at work in Rowena’s ground floor flat at Firepool Lock by the time Dixon and Jane arrived. Overlooking Firepool Weir on the River Tone, it was a new purpose built block of flats rendered and painted white with wood
cladding
and large windows. The flat itself was immaculate. Polished oak
flooring
throughout the open plan living area, white leather
furniture
and glass tables with matching dining suite and kitchen units gave Dixon the distinct impression that Rowena had bought the show flat. He picked up a copy of
House Beautiful
magazine from the
coffee
table and looked at the date.

‘This is last May’s.’

‘D’you think she’s ever stayed here?’ asked Jane.

‘SOCO will soon tell us,’ said Dixon. ‘You check the wardrobes, I’ll start in the kitchen.’

The kitchen cupboards contained tins of beans, chopped
tomatoes
and a bag of spaghetti. Otherwise nothing. The fridge was empty, switched off and the door ajar. Not surprising of itself
perhaps
, given that she would be living in the school during
term time.

‘There are some clothes in the wardrobe,’ shouted Jane.

Dixon walked through into the bedroom to find Jane sliding clothes along on their hangers in a large built in wardrobe. He noticed a suitcase on the top shelf.

‘All women’s,’ said Jane. ‘The bedside tables are empty too.’

Dixon looked at the bed. The duvet hardly had a crease in it and he wondered if it had ever been slept in. It was a divan bed, with a large drawer in the base, so he knelt down and opened it. He reached in underneath the piles of clean bedding and felt around, more in hope than expectation. Then he pulled the clean bedding to the front of the drawer and felt around at the back. He stopped when his fingers closed around a small box, black leather with a large gold lock.

‘It’s a jewellery box,’ said Jane, looking over his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing in the bathroom either except a few towels and a bottle of shampoo.’

Dixon flicked the clasp with his finger and it opened to reveal a gold locket and chain with small diamonds set into the front in the shape of a star. He held it up by the chain and could see that the back was blank, possibly to accommodate an inscription.

‘Open it,’ said Jane.

Dixon tried to pull it open but found it impossible wearing disposable rubber gloves.

‘You got a pen?’

Jane fumbled in her handbag and produced a black BIC biro.

‘Perfect.’ Dixon took the top off and then pushed the sharp end of the lid gently into the small indentation along the leading edge of the locket. It was designed for a fingernail, but he could not risk leaving prints and so the pen would have to do. It opened. Just a crack but that was enough and he was then able to prise it apart. Inside he found a lock of blonde hair and a tiny black and white photograph of a woman holding a baby. The picture was faded and had been cut to fit into the locket. He froze.

‘What is it?’ asked Jane.

Dixon handed her the locket.

‘It looks like Isobel Swan,’ she said, staring at the photograph.

‘Or Fran.’

‘Yes, it could be Fran.’

‘It’s neither of them, though, is it?’

‘Who is it, then?’ asked Jane, closing the locket. She dropped it into an evidence bag and then put it in her handbag.

‘Rowena’s mother,’ said Dixon. ‘And the baby is Rowena.’

‘How d’you . . . ?’

‘A hunch. Think about it. The photo is the right age and who else is the lock of hair going to belong to?’

‘It could . . .’

‘Of course it could. But a DNA test will soon tell us, won’t it?’

‘It will.’

‘And what colour do you think Rowena’s hair is underneath all that black dye?’

‘You still haven’t told me why Rowena tried to kill you,’ said Jane.

They had arrived at the Greyhound at Staple Fitzpaine with seconds to spare before the pub stopped serving food and were now sitting by the fire waiting for their fish and chips to arrive.

‘I’m the only one making the connection with Fran’s disappearance. At least that’s what she thinks.’

‘It’ll be interesting to see what she says tomorrow.’

‘It will,’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘I’m glad you left Monty with your parents. Poor bugger’d be starving by now.’

‘I’m picking him up in the morning. They’re off to my aunt’s for the week.’

‘Bring him with you.’

‘OK.’

Dixon took a large swig of beer.

‘What’s it like being shot at, then?’ asked Jane.

‘Didn’t really have to time to think about it. One of the boys heard a bee buzz past him and then we were into it.’

‘A bee?’

‘That’s what it sounds like if you’re on the receiving end. The bullet whizzes past you, then you hear the shot. Speed of sound and all that.’

‘How’d you know that?’

‘Haven’t you ever seen
Saving Private Ryan
?’ asked Dixon.

‘No.’

‘You have got a treat in store.’

‘You and your bloody films,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

Jane dropped Dixon outside the front entrance of the school just before 11 p.m. He leaned across and kissed her.

‘Can I . . . ?’

‘Better not. You’ll get me expelled. Text me when you get home.’

‘OK. And be careful.’

He got out of her car, ran across to the shelter of the doorway and turned just in time to watch her tail lights disappear down the drive. He hoped Jane understood. It was Fran’s time now. Find her killer and then he could move on. Perhaps.

He tried the front door. It was locked, so he walked around the headmaster’s house and in through the back door of the school. He tiptoed along the main corridor, keeping his heels off the tiled floor, and up the stairs to his rooms. He opened the front door to find a folded piece of paper that had been pushed under the door.

‘Masters’ Christmas lunch. Small dining room (opposite big one). 12.30 for 1 p.m. Robin.’

He made himself a coffee and sat on the small sofa to read Clive Cooper’s inquest file. The cause of death was given as 1(a) drowning, although the pathologist was unable to confirm whether his head injury occurred before or after he entered the water. Nor was there any evidence of where or how he entered the water, hence the open verdict. Dixon noticed that the coroner had released the body for cremation after the inquest, so exhumation for further
examination
by Roger was not an option. He wondered whether it would be worth Roger looking at the pathologist’s notes and photographs to see if there was any similarity with the injuries to Derek Phelps. Dixon would be speaking to him in the morning about his hockey stick theory anyway.

Of the witness statements, the only one of interest came from Clive Cooper’s elderly mother, Edna. She lived in
Wiveliscombe
and gave a detailed and tragic account of her son’s descent into alcoholism, which had begun fifteen years ago. Dixon frowned. No mention was made at all of her son’s
longstanding
friendship with Derek Phelps, nor was any reason given for his drinking.

She had last seen her son the Christmas before he died, when he was living in a hostel in Cardiff. She had sent him a train ticket home but he had stayed only a few days before he disappeared, along with the contents of her purse. She heard nothing further from or about him until a knock on the door from the police three months later.

Her closing remarks dealt with what she understood to be her son’s state of mind the last time she saw him. He had been brought up a strict Catholic and was, as far as she was aware, not the type to commit suicide, nor had he ever demonstrated any suicidal
tendencies
. It was an odd phrase for an elderly woman to use about her son and Dixon suspected she had been led in this
evidence
by the officer taking the statement. Nevertheless, her statement was clear as far as it went. He closed the file and hid it under the
mattress
with Isobel’s file.