Swansong (17 page)

‘Good.’

‘And I’ve sent two WPCs to search the girls’ changing rooms for Rowena’s hockey stick.’

‘Check whether she’s got any brothers, will you?’

‘How?’

‘They’d have gone to St Dunstan’s too, I expect. Check there first. If they were older they’d have been there before her and . . .’

‘I get the idea.’

‘And I want Rowena’s birth certificate. Plus anything else you can find on her family. Marriage certificate, decree absolute,
anything
. See if Louise Willmott can give you a hand.’

‘What I still don’t understand is how you can be so sure that Rowena didn’t kill Fran,’ said Jane.

‘Do you remember the hockey tour I told you about? The one Fran was supposed to have been on when she disappeared.’

‘Yes.’

‘The one her parents stopped her going on because it was too close to her exams.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Well, Rowena went on it,’ said Dixon.

‘So she was . . .’

‘. . . Playing hockey in Holland when Fran disappeared. Th
at’s righ
t.’

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Phillips. ‘Come and sit over here.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Dixon.

‘You’ve not missed anything. Don’t worry about it. Father Anthony will be saying grace in a min . . . here we go.’

Father Anthony was sitting at the next table and had his back to Dixon when he stood up.

‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

‘Here, have some wine,’ said Phillips, filling up Dixon’s glass. ‘We’ve dispensed with the silly hats this year but we can still have a glass or two of plonk, can’t we?’

‘I suppose we can.’

‘I gather you were the hero of the hour yesterday?’

‘What?’

‘Rowena’s car accident. Silly arse didn’t notice the cattle grid wasn’t there or something. Or so rumour has it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t think what she was doing up there, though.’

‘I just assumed she was looking out for the girls’ team,’ replied Dixon.

‘That might be it. Oh well, chin, chin.’ Phillips took a large swig of wine and then topped up his glass.

‘No sign of the headmaster,’ said Dixon, looking around the room.

‘He never comes to these things,’ replied Phillips. ‘And he’ll be lunching with the governors today, I should imagine.’

‘Or Mr Griffiths?’

‘Don’t know where he is. He was invited but then he is just a supply teacher.’

‘As opposed to a trainee teacher.’

‘Quite,’ said Phillips. ‘You can’t afford to miss out on a
free lunch
.’

Dixon smiled. He took a sip of wine and tried to listen to the various conversations going on around him. There were three long dining tables with bench seating on either side, smaller versions of the seating in the main dining room. To his left the conversation seemed to be about the governors’ meeting that afternoon and the possible cancellation of Saturday’s rugby match with Sherborne that might result. On his right, Phillips was involved in an animated discussion about the competence of the local police. Dixon resolved to keep out of that particular conversation and tried to focus on the next table, the third being out of earshot above the general hubbub. Father Anthony was surrounded by ladies and seemed to be fending off suggestions that he should play tennis again. A dodgy knee was his excuse, apparently.

Dixon marvelled at their ability to ignore the fact that a
member
of staff and a pupil at the school had been murdered. Still, the show must go on. No doubt that would be their excuse.

‘What d’you think of life in a boarding school, then?’ The
question
came from the teacher sitting opposite Dixon. ‘Clarke. French,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘Eventful,’ said Dixon,
shaking
Clarke’s hand.

‘It’s not usually like this. Pretty dull most of the time.’

‘You talking shop?’ asked Phillips.

‘I was just asking him if he was enjoying it here.’

‘Of course he is. Aren’t you, Nick?’

‘Very much so,’ replied Dixon, through a mouthful of
roast pota
to.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Sir. The headmaster’s asking to see you.’ It was Gabriel White, the head boy, given away by the badge on the collar of his jacket.

‘Better go,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t clear your plate away.’

‘Thanks.’

‘He’s in his office, Sir,’ said White.

‘Thank you.’

Dixon’s phone was ringing in his pocket as he walked along the main corridor.

‘We’ve got the hockey stick,’ said Jane when he answered.

‘Where is it?’

‘On the way to the lab.’

‘Ring Roger. Ask him whether a hockey stick caused the injuries to Derek Phelps. Email him a copy of Clive Cooper’s post
mortem
report and get him to liaise with the pathologist in Cardiff. Ask him if the pattern of injuries is the same or similar. And I want to
know if
a hockey stick could’ve caused Cooper’s injuries.’

‘You think she killed Clive Cooper as well?’

‘I do.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Dixon was standing outside the headmaster’s office. ‘Gotta go,’ he said, ringing off. Then he knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

‘Ah, Dixon, sorry to tear you away from your lunch but I’m meeting the governors in half an hour and Chard’s telling me Rowena Weatherly’s been charged?’

‘Not yet, no. Not as far as I know, anyway.’

‘What the . . . ?’

‘There’s a news blackout on it at the moment but she’s
confessed
to the murders of Isobel Swan and Derek Phelps and the attempted murders of Gittens and Lloyd.’

‘So, that’s it, then, surely?’

Dixon hesitated.

‘Come on, off the record. I have to know. More lives might be at stake.’

‘That’s not it, no.’

‘Why?’

‘You and I both know the answer to that question. Fran
Sawyer
. St Dunstan’s, seventeen years ago. Rowena’s protecting someone and doesn’t want the connection made.’

‘Who?’

‘That remains to be seen. Her father. Brother, possibly.’

Dixon looked for the slightest flicker of a reaction in the
headmaster’s
eyes but saw none.

‘So we should still go ahead and end the term early?’

‘Yes, you should.’

Dixon watched Hatton sucking his teeth.

‘Thank you. This conversation won’t go any further.’

Dixon nodded and then left the room. He stood in the main entrance hall and looked up at the clock above the corridor. There was just enough time to get back to the dining room for his
Christmas
pudding before Jane arrived at 2.30 p.m. He had done his insulin injection before lunch and needed the sugar.

Dixon was standing outside the main entrance of the school, with his back to the front door, watching the sleet melt as soon as it hit the ground and listening to his stomach grumbling. Phillips had done as he had promised, although all that was left on Dixon’s plate when he got back to the dining room had been one roast potato and several Brussels sprouts sitting in a puddle of congealed gravy. All of it stone cold. The Christmas pudding had not made up for it either.

He was thinking about the Ouija board and Rowena’s feeble attempt to have him taken off the case. That was assuming it had been Rowena, of course. The board had disappeared, so dusting for fingerprints was not an option now and the handwriting on the note he had kept was deliberately disguised. Were there prints on it, perhaps? Unlikely. Whoever wrote it would have worn gloves. Particularly if it hadn’t been Rowena. Whoever she was protecting was smart enough to have got away with killing Fran and would be unlikely to make such a simple mistake now. Anyway, he could hardly reveal the connection himself. All in good time, perhaps,
but no
t yet.

The sleet had turned to rain by the time Jane pulled into the car park. She saw Dixon sheltering in the doorway and parked across the entrance with her passenger door facing him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, getting in.

‘My pleasure.’

Jane waited until Dixon had put his seatbelt on before
turning
out of the car park and heading west out of Taunton towards Wiveliscombe.

‘Tell me about Edna Cooper, then.’

‘She lives at 91c Stile Road, Wiveliscombe. It’s a small housing association flat. Has an ancient conviction for shoplifting. A widow. Husband died in 1989.’

‘Long time to be a widow,’ said Dixon.

‘It is.’

‘What’d she get for the shoplifting?’

‘Conditional discharge.’

‘Does she have any other children?’

‘No.’

‘Lost her husband and her son,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.

Dixon unzipped his jacket, reached in and pulled out Clive Cooper’s inquest file. He took out Mrs Cooper’s witness
statement
and then threw the file onto the back seat. He had read the
statement
three times before Jane spoke.

‘I didn’t think it was that interesting.’

‘It’s interesting for what it doesn’t say more than what it does,’ replied Dixon, without looking up.

Jane shook her head and carried on driving.

Stile Road was to the north of Wiveliscombe and they had driven up and down it several times before they spotted number 91. It was a small block of four flats, built of red brick, with a
central
entrance hall and stairs leading up to a balcony on the first floor. Each flat had its own front door, the ground floor flats at the side and the upstairs flats on the balcony. 91c turned out to be up
the sta
irs.

‘No lift,’ said Dixon.

‘You don’t need a lift.’

‘I don’t but Mrs Cooper might. One day.’

‘True,’ replied Jane. ‘They’d move her into a home, I suppose. Or a warden controlled block.’

‘There’s a cheerful thought.’

Dixon knocked on the pane of frosted glass in the door and then began rummaging in his pockets.

‘Here,’ said Jane, handing him his warrant card just as a figure appeared behind the door.

‘I owe you one.’

‘One more.’

‘Quite.’

Mrs Edna Cooper looked them up and down. ‘Police?’

‘Yes. Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable
Winter
.’

‘You’d better come in.’

Dixon and Jane followed her into a small living room at the back of the flat. It overlooked the garden, although ‘area of
wasteland
’ was a more accurate description.

‘They keep threatening to come and sort it out but never do. Cuts,’ said Mrs Cooper, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Sit down.’

Dixon looked at the sofa. It was old, covered in cat hair and turned out to be just as uncomfortable as he had feared. Jane pulled a chair out from under the small table in the window, took out her notebook and sat down.

‘I need something to lean on, if that’s OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘We wanted to talk to you about your son,’ said Dixon.

‘What d’you want to know?’

‘Tell me about his relationship with Derek Phelps.’

‘They were friends. It wasn’t a relationship in that sense.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘Yes, a couple of times.’

‘How did they meet?’

‘At work. They were both kitchen porters at St Dunstan’s. Worked together there for years, they did. Until Clive got the sack.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Drinking. He was supposed to have hit someone as well but it never went any further. It was the finish of him. He was never going to get a job anywhere else.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’d only got that thanks to a local charity. He wasn’t quite . . . well, he couldn’t read or write, you see. Neither of
them could
.’

‘I understand,’ replied Dixon. ‘D’you have a photo of him?’

Mrs Cooper reached into her handbag on the floor and took out her purse. She opened it and passed it to Dixon, jabbing her finger at a Perspex window on one side.

‘That’s him. Taken twenty years ago. The other one’s my
husband
.’

Dixon looked at the photograph. He recognised Clive from
St Du
nstan’s and remembered an intimidating man who often
muttered
to himself under his breath. He had quite a reputation, did Clive.