Swansong (20 page)

‘I do. But I need you to tell me.’

‘It’s my mother.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Charlotte. Charlotte Sampson.’

‘What do you notice about all three photographs, then?’

Rowena spoke without looking at them.

‘They all look the same.’

‘Who do?’

‘The people in them.’

‘Describe them for the tape.’

‘You can see them for yourself.’

‘I want to know what you see.’

‘Blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Smiling.’

‘What happened to your mother?’

The question caught Rowena off guard. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Dixon watched and waited.

‘She . . .’ Rowena hesitated. ‘She abandoned me. Disappeared.’

‘When?’

‘Just after I was born.’

‘Disappeared where?’

‘We never knew.’

‘Who never knew?’

‘My father and I.’

‘I think your father did know, Rowena, don’t you?’

Dixon watched the tears falling slowly down Rowena’s cheeks, his facial expression blank.

‘He told me she didn’t want me and left.’

‘Did he.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother told your father she didn’t want him, not you.’

Rowena was shaking her head violently.

‘That’s why he killed her,’ continued Dixon.

Rowena threw herself forward onto the desk, her tears falling onto the picture of her mother.

‘And why he kills anyone who looks like her.’

Dunn opened his mouth to speak but decided against it when Dixon glared at him.

‘Fran Sawyer seventeen years ago. Isobel Swan. How many
others
are there we don’t know about, Rowena?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And you’re protecting him. The man who killed your mother.’

‘He didn’t. He couldn’t have done.’

‘He cut off her ring finger and then killed her. Just like he did to Isobel.’ Dixon paused. ‘And just like he did to Fran.’

Lewis and Chard were watching Rowena on the television screen. Jane watched Dixon. He reminded her of a shark hunting its prey, no expression in his dark, blank eyes. She knew it was an act. He was dying inside with each question, just a little. And she was dying for him too.

Rowena sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Let’s assume your birth certificate is real . . .’ said Dixon.

‘It is real.’

‘How do you know?’

‘My father told me. He got it for me.’

‘They weren’t married, were they? So, he asked her to marry him, and she said no. Rejected him. So he killed her. He cut off her ring finger so no one else could have her. That was your expression when you confessed to killing Isobel, wasn’t it? Then he killed her and dumped her body somewhere. Took you to Kenya and told you she disappeared when you were old enough to understand.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘How old were you when you first came to England?’

‘Seven.’

‘Really? So, it was like that?’

‘No.’

‘What was it like, then?’

‘No comment.’

‘You saw all the other kids with their mummies so you asked Daddy where your mummy was?’

‘No.’

‘What did he say when you asked him, Rowena?’

Her eyes glazed over. Dixon waited.

‘He said she didn’t want me and abandoned us. That’s when we went to Kenya.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Kenya? Becoming a bit of a routine that, isn’t it? A girl
disappears
then you and Daddy go to Kenya. It happened after Fran disappeared, didn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Dixon waited.

‘He said Mummy left us.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘What choice did I have?’ asked Rowena, screaming now.

‘None,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘None. But you did have a choice when you killed Phelps and Cooper. And you have another choice now. You’re protecting the man who killed your mother. Aren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘You’re going to prison for life to protect the man who killed your mother.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Two men have died so you can protect him.’

Rowena shook her head.

‘How many more girls are going to die, their only crime being that they looked like your mother? How many, Rowena?’

‘None.’

‘Good. So, let’s start at the beginning. Did you kill Isobel Swan?’

‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘My . . .’ Rowena was shaking violently. Her eyes were
bloodshot
and tears were streaming down her cheeks, dripping onto the
photographs
on the table. A small drop of blood appeared under her left nostril. Dixon waited. ‘. . .  father.’

‘What’s his name? Give me his name.’

Rowena shook her head.

Dunn spotted the blood trickling down Rowena’s face. ‘I think that’s enough for now, Inspector. My client needs medical
attention
.’

Chapter Fourteen

W
hat just happened in there?’ asked Chard, storming into the CID Room with Jane and DCI Lewis close behind him.

Dixon was standing in the window, looking down at Jane’s car and watching Monty asleep on the parcel shelf. Any last hope that Fran was still alive somewhere had just vanished and he was hurting all over again. He had known it all along, of course, but now, for the first time in seventeen years, it had been confirmed. He thought about a long and difficult conversation that he knew was coming. Still, her parents had to know. He turned around and walked over to the coffee machine.

‘Rowena admitted that her father killed Isobel Swan,’ he said.

‘And who the hell is Fran Sawyer?’

‘She was a seventeen year old student at St Dunstan’s who
disappeared
seventeen years ago.’

‘And Rowena’s father killed her too?’

‘He did.’

‘Where’s her body?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Let me get this straight. You were at St Dunstan’s when that happened?’

‘I was. That’s why I was sent in there, don’t forget.’

‘So, you knew the cases were connected . . .’

‘Not until now, no.’

‘But you suspected . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you never thought to mention it?’

‘I’m mentioning it now. And if you’d done your job properly you’d know about it . . .’

‘You cheeky little . . .’

‘Dixon has a point, though, Simon,’ said Lewis. ‘Perhaps he should have told you about it before now, I don’t know, but you’ll need to be able to explain why you don’t know about it anyway. Have you checked for previous cases?’

‘Murders, yes, of course.’

‘But not missing persons?’

‘Where’s Margaret Baldwin?’

‘Her fault now, is it?’ asked Dixon.

‘It’s not a question of fault,’ replied Chard.

‘It will be when the shit hits the fan.’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Lewis. ‘What happens
now, Nic
k?’

‘We find her father.’

‘How?’ asked Chard.

‘Rowena was born on the second of July 1979, as far as we know, so we DNA test every male in that school old enough to be her father. Anyone born on or before second July 1963 should cover it.’

‘We’ll need authorisation for a test like that.’

‘Get it,’ replied Dixon. ‘There are several teachers who were at St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago, so start with them. Griffiths . . .’

‘Who’s he?’ asked Chard.

‘The supply teacher. Haskill and the headmaster.’

‘The headmaster?’

‘He was only there for one term but check him all the same. And the driving instructor. Don’t forget the driving instructor.’

‘Was he at St Dunstan’s?’

‘He taught Fran Sawyer to drive.’

‘How do you know that?’

Because I waited for her with a bunch of flowers when she took her test
.

‘I interviewed him,’ replied Dixon.

‘Haskill’s in the Far East, isn’t he?’ asked Lewis.

‘A man holding Haskill’s passport was spoken to by Malaysian police. That’s all we know for sure, Sir.’

‘We can have another go at Rowena this afternoon too,’ said Chard.

‘You can try but I doubt you’ll get very far.’

‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out, Simon,’ said Lewis.

‘Don’t think this is over, Dixon. You’ve got some serious explaining to do . . .’

Dixon turned his back on Chard and walked towards
the doo
r.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’

‘Back to school,’ replied Dixon, without turning round.

Dixon was sitting in his Land Rover looking up at the front of Brunel School when a beep coming from his pocket announced the arrival of a text message. He checked his phone.

Monty’s claws need clipping J x

He wondered what on earth had made Jane think of that, while he switched the SIM cards over. Another text message arrived
seconds
later.

Chard getting Fran file out of store

He tapped out a reply.

inevitable. how long

He looked at his watch. It was just before 1 p.m.

tomorrow morning x

He nodded. Things had to happen fast now, or not at all. And a few risks needed to be taken.

Dixon spotted Ben Masterson sitting on the far side of the dining room with three other boys he had not seen before. He walked over and stood next to him, holding his tray of food in both hands.

‘You all right, Ben?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sir.’

Dixon noticed him look nervously at his friends.

‘Only you pushed a note under my door yesterday.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, Sir, really,’ replied Ben, blushing.

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Yes, Sir, I’m fine now.’

Dixon put his tray on the table and took a business card out of his pocket. He handed it to Ben and watched him reading it.

‘So you can find me, if you need a chat.’

Ben looked at Dixon and then back to the card. Then he slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket.

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Ben. He smiled at Dixon and nodded.

Dixon sat down at an empty table to eat his lunch and
wondered
what it was that Ben had wanted the day before. Whatever it was, he was clearly too nervous or embarrassed to discuss it in front of his friends. Dixon also wondered whether and if so how long it would be before everyone in the school knew he was a police officer.

It was just before 2 p.m. when Dixon walked into the masters’
common
room. It was largely deserted apart from Clarke, the
English
teacher of French, and McCulloch, the Scottish teacher of English. Mercifully, Clarke spotted him first.

‘Robin was looking for you. He’s gone down to his lab, I think.’

‘I thought Wednesday afternoon was sports?’ asked Dixon.

‘Cancelled. We’re running Thursday afternoon’s timetable, given that we shut up shop tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’

Dixon walked down to Phillips’ chemistry lab and peered in through the small window in the door. It was empty, so he opened the door and then looked in the small office at the back. Phillips was sitting at his computer with his back to the door.

‘Come in, Nick. You need eyes in the back of your head in a place like this.’

‘Or a small mirror stuck to your computer.’

‘Quite,’ replied Phillips, spinning round on his chair. ‘How’re you getting on?’

‘Fine.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I had to nip into town.’

‘What for?’

‘Some parts for my car.’

‘And you get those from the police station, do you? I drive past there on my way in every morning and saw you.’

Dixon hesitated.

‘Who are you?’

Dixon shut the door. Then he took his warrant card out of his pocket and handed it to Phillips.

‘I knew it,’ said Phillips, smiling and nodding at the same time. ‘All that farting about in the old convent chapel. And there was me thinking the local plod were useless.’ He handed Dixon back his warrant card. ‘No one’ll hear it from me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘We’re making progress.’

‘What have you . . . ?’

‘I really can’t say.’

‘No, no, of course not. I quite understand. So, what ha
ppens no
w?’

‘I need to speak to Mr Griffiths, the supply teacher. D’you know where can I find him?’

‘Jack Griffiths? He’s not mixed up in this, is he?’

Dixon raised his eyebrows.

‘No, sorry, of course, you can’t say,’ continued Phillips. ‘He’s here now, actually, teaching . . .’

‘Can you get me in there? As a trainee teacher to sit in,
perhaps
?’

‘Yes, we’ll give it a go. He can’t really object, can he? Follow me.’

Dixon followed Phillips down the steps and along the
cloisters
. He watched Phillips walking in front of him and
wondered
whether he really had seen him by chance or whether he had
followed
him.

At the far end, on the left just before the doors of the chapel, was a flight of two stone steps that led up to a small classroom.

‘One question before we go in,’ said Dixon.

‘What?’

‘Is he a Jehovah’s Witness?’

‘No idea. Sorry.’

Phillips knocked on the door and went in. Dixon counted three rows of four desks, two of them empty, such was the popularity of the classics these days.

‘Jack, can Nick here sit in with you? He’s a trainee teacher.
I thou
ght he might like to see an old master at work.’

‘Literally,’ said Griffiths, rolling his eyes. ‘What do you teach?’

‘Law and history, hoping to anyway,’ replied Dixon.

‘Yes, well, come in and sit down. Latin will bore the pants off you but so be it.’

‘It does us.’

‘I heard that, Smallwood.’

‘Sorry, Sir.’

Griffiths was a small man with thinning grey hair and his love of the classics clearly extended to his clothes; suede shoes,
corduroys
, a tweed jacket and a yellow and black waistcoat that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Rupert Bear. Dixon thought him to be in his late sixties and hoped he had long since retired by the time he reached that age. If he reached that age, as Roger would no doubt remind him.

Dixon listened to the lesson unfold. He had forgotten about Latin declensions long ago and, judging by his exam results, what little he had learned had been picked up from
The Life of Brian
. It had been a subject he had dropped at the first opportunity, at much the same time as he had abandoned any pretence of learning physics.

A loud bell at 3 p.m. signalled the end of the lesson. Griffiths wished the class a happy Christmas and reminded them about the essays to be written over the longer than usual school holidays, before
letting
them go. Dixon waited behind.

‘Did you enjoy that?’ asked Phillips.

‘Yes.’ Dixon lied. ‘It was interesting to see how you keep their attention with such a dry subject.’

‘I have the advantage that they’ve all opted to take this subject but it doesn’t always work that way.’

‘What else do you teach?’

‘Ancient history, mainly, but Latin and Greek as and when required.’

Dixon watched him stacking a large pile of books into a box.

‘Can I give you a hand with that?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind carrying it out to the car, that’d be very helpful.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Dixon.

Griffiths was carrying a briefcase in each hand. Dixon walked behind him carrying the box.

‘We’ll take a shortcut. My car’s round the back.’

He went into the chapel and then out of the back doors, which were open. Dixon followed him around the side and along to the car park by the kitchens.

‘There are no deliveries in the afternoons, so it’s usually all right to park here, but they can get quite sniffy about it,’ he said, opening the boot of the car.