Swansong (4 page)

Dixon sat on the arm of the sofa next to Jane. She reached up and put her arm around him.

‘The sad part about it is she wasn’t even supposed to be there.’

‘Where?’ asked Jane.

‘She should’ve gone on a hockey tour to Holland but her
parents
blocked it. Too close to her exams, they said.’

Jane shook her head.

‘Looking back, it’s why I took up rock climbing, I think,’
continued
Dixon. ‘Hanging on by your fingertips three hundred feet up a cliff takes your mind off most things. It’s why I joined the police too and why I came back to Somerset. One day I was going to get the chance to find out what happened to her.’

‘And now you have?’

‘And now I have. Isobel Swan is identical in almost every way except two. Different school and her body’s been found. Same age, profile, looks, everything. This bastard’s killed before.’

‘You’re personally involved . . .’

‘No one must know. They’ll take me off the case. Someone in that school knows what happened to Isobel and if I find her killer, I find Fran’s killer too.’

Dixon stood up and walked over to the window. He opened the curtains and looked out. ‘It’s down to you now. I couldn’t do it without telling you and I can’t do it without you.’

Jane stood up, walked over to Dixon and put her arms around him.

‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘What’re you going to wear?’ asked Jane.

‘I thought about that brown sports jacket my old man gave me.’

‘That’s tweed.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘And there’s that wool tie . . .’

‘You can go off people, you know,’ said Dixon, taking the plates out to the kitchen.

‘We’ll have a look in the wardrobe.’

‘No, it’s fine. I can . . .’

Dixon dropped the plates in the sink and ran upstairs,
arriving
in the bedroom just in time to watch Jane unzip the cover on the ‘wardrobe’. She was being generous. It was a clothes rail with a
canvas
cover on it that Dixon had got for twenty quid online. It had served its purpose but would soon be going to the tip when Jane moved in with all her furniture. They had intended to hire a van the following weekend, but those plans were on hold now.

‘Is that it?’

There were several pairs of trousers, a couple of shirts and a suit that he wore for court appearances. Behind that was the sports jacket.

‘It’ll have to do,’ said Jane, flicking the dust off the shoulders. ‘What about shirts?’

Dixon opened a suitcase that was lying on the floor and produced two shirts that were still in their plastic bags. ‘Brand new, with tags,’ he said.

‘eBay?’

Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

‘I am not living with someone who buys their clothes on eBay,’ said Jane.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dixon, putting the sports jacket on. Then he did up the top button on his shirt and straightened his tie. ‘How do I look?’

‘Like a trainee teacher going to a boarding school for two weeks’ work experience.’

‘You know just what to say.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Jane.

Dixon threw the shirts and some clean underwear into his sports bag and then went into the bathroom.

‘What’s the plan, then?’ shouted Jane, sitting on the end of
the bed
.

‘Haven’t got one yet,’ came the reply. Dixon reappeared in the doorway carrying his toothbrush, razor, a can of shaving gel and a towel, which he stuffed into the top of his bag. ‘I’m just gonna play it by ear to begin with.’

‘And me?’

‘You’ve got the difficult job. I need details of anyone arriving at Brunel within the last seventeen years. Teachers and support staff.’

‘Support staff?’

‘Kitchen and grounds staff, bursar, secretaries, the lot. Look for anyone who was at St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago and moved to Brunel. It’d be useful to have details of anyone who left St Dunstan’s within the last seventeen years too.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘It’ll be easy to get the Brunel stuff. Chard should’ve done full background checks on all of them anyway. Just look for the dates they arrived.’

‘What about St Dunstan’s?’

‘That won’t be so easy.’

‘What reason can I give without giving away the connection?’

‘I know. For now, just focus on the Brunel staff and where they were before. We can worry about the rest later if we come up with nothing.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Jane. ‘If someone was at St Dunstan’s and killed Fran and is now at Brunel and killed Isobel then they might recognise you, surely?’

‘I doubt it. Anyway, it’s a chance I’ve got to take.’

‘You’d have been at St Dunstan’s at the same time.’

‘I know.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I was only there for two years and it was seventeen years ago. I’ll be using a different name as well, don’t forget.’

‘It’s too risky,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

‘I’ll be fine, really. I’m the hunter, not the hunted.’

‘You’d better be.’

‘The driving instructor,’ said Dixon, changing the subject.
‘I have
n’t got a copy of his statement.’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Fran passed her test the day she disappeared.’

‘What about her file?’

‘My name’ll be all over it so we’d best leave it in store for the time being.’

Jane followed Dixon down the stairs. Monty was curled up on the sofa so Dixon sat next to him and scratched him behind the ears. ‘Keep an eye on her, matey. I’m relying on you.’

Jane rolled her eyes.

‘Routine stuff on the usual number, OK? They’ll expect that. Get a pay as you go SIM card for anything else, just in case,’
said Dixon
.

‘OK.’

Dixon opened the back door of his cottage. It was still raining. He turned back to Jane and kissed her.

‘Don’t do anything stu . . .’

He reached up and put his fingers over Jane’s lips, stopping her mid-sentence.

‘Once upon a time, maybe, but I’ve got too much to lose now,’ he said.

Chapter Three

T
he rain had been replaced by sleet, which danced in the
headlights
of Dixon’s Land Rover as he drove south on a quiet M5. He had stopped at the supermarket just off the
motorway
roundabout and paid cash for a pay as you go SIM card with twenty pounds of credit, which was safely tucked into his inside
jacket p
ocket.

He turned off West Road into the main entrance of
Brunel
School, and parked on the far side of the car park, opposite the main school building, to take in the scene. To the left of
the ca
r park was a large single storey building that looked as if it had once been the school chapel. Stained glass windows revealed rows of bookshelves inside, telling Dixon that it was now the library. The main building itself was set over three floors with leaded windows and old weathered brickwork. The top floor had
dormer
windows and there was a large tower in the centre above the entrance. Two large carved oak doors were set side by side in an ornate stone porch.

Dixon could not see a single room that was unoccupied. Either that or someone had left the lights on. He winced at the thought of the electricity bill. The view was familiar to him from visits with hockey and rugby teams from St Dunstan’s and it hadn’t changed. He knew that the playing fields and sports hall were behind the main school and he remembered the long corridor with the tiled floor that ran the full length of the building. The only other thing he knew was where the dining room was.

To the right of the school, as he looked up at it, was a smaller two storey building with a private garden enclosed by a high box hedge. This was the headmaster’s house. Dixon drove across the car park and parked in the corner close to the front door. He stepped out of the Land Rover and pulled up the collar of his coat before walking over and ringing the front doorbell.

The door was opened by a woman in a tweed suit. Dixon smiled. At least he wouldn’t look out of place in his tweed jacket.

‘I’m looking for the headmaster. I believe he’s expecting me.’

‘Yes, of course. Won’t you come in? I’m Miranda Hatton, the headmaster’s wife.’

Dixon stepped into the hall. As he did so a man, presumably the headmaster, appeared from behind the door opposite. A small springer spaniel ran out from behind him and began jumping up at Dixon. Mrs Hatton took hold of it by the collar.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

‘You’ll be Dixon,’ the man snapped.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘You’re late.’

‘I wasn’t aware I had to be here at a specific time. Just as soon as I could.’

‘And this is as soon as you could, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’ll have to do. Follow me.’

Dixon followed the man along the corridor and into a room at the far end.

‘Sit down.’

Dixon sat down on a leather sofa. The man poured himself a drink from a decanter on the sideboard. At the far end of the room was a desk.

‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘My name’s Hatton. I’m the headmaster,’ said the man, sitting down in a leather armchair opposite Dixon. ‘Charlesworth tells me you’re St Dunstan’s?’

‘A long time ago, Sir.’

‘They’re not a bad lot.’

‘We used to say the same about Brunel.’

‘I bet you did,’ said Hatton, smiling. ‘I’m sorry about . . . well, anyway, this is all incredibly difficult for me. There’s nothing in the manual about dealing with a murder and the school governors are getting very jumpy. The idea that there’s someone running around out there who’s killed one of our pupils . . .’

‘Out there?’

‘Yes, of course. They’re not going to be in here, are they?’

Dixon did not reply.

‘It stands to reason. You’re not seriously suggesting someone in the school did it?’

‘I really don’t know, Sir.’

‘Is that why Charlesworth sent you in here?’

‘I don’t think he knows either.’

‘Inspires confidence, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s my job to find out . . .’

‘Well, for God’s sake, be discreet about it. Whatever you find, we don’t want to see it ending up in the papers. It could be devastating for the school.’

‘A girl is dead . . .’

‘I know that,’ said Hatton. ‘We just need to be careful how it’s handled, that’s all.’

Dixon nodded. He could hear his mother’s voice ringing in his ears, ‘
If you haven’t got anything useful to say, say nothing at all.
’

‘Now, I’ve arranged for you to work with Mr Phillips. He teaches chemistry but is also in charge of school discipline, so it’ll give you a good insight into what’s going on,’ continued Hatton. ‘He doesn’t know who you are, of course.’

‘Good.’

‘I did send an email to all staff letting them know you’d be here until the end of term.’

‘What name did you use?’

‘Dickson, but I spelt it with a “cks” instead of an “x” just in case anyone saw the news the other day. That was quite a show you put on at Taunton Racecourse.’

Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘You heard about that?’

‘I was there,’ replied Hatton.

‘Not much of a false ID, is it?’

‘Sorry, Charlesworth never . . .’

‘It’ll have to do. Did you mention which school I went to?’

‘No, why? Is that a problem?’

‘I wouldn’t want anyone knowing I’d gone to a school in Taunton. If anyone asks, we can say I went to King Alfred’s in Burnham-on-Sea.’

‘Fine. I’ve got a couple of lessons tomorrow morning that you can sit in on. The first one’s at 10 a.m. so be here just before that. Robin Phillips is expecting you in the masters’ common room at
9 a.m
. and he’ll give you a tour of the school. You’ll be with him for the rest of the weekend after lunch.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘This is a letter I’ve written confirming who you are and what you’re doing here,’ said Hatton, handing an envelope to Dixon. ‘Just in case anyone asks.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Come along, then, and I’ll show you to your rooms. They’re Haskill’s, actually, but he’s on sabbatical. He won’t mind. Laos or Cambodia, somewhere like that, I think. We go past the MCR on the way too.’

The door at the back of Hatton’s office led to a small corridor that connected directly to the main corridor inside the school building. Dixon followed Hatton along it, past the main entrance hall towards the library. He looked at the green felt notice boards that lined both sides of the corridor above the dado rail, each with any number of different bits of paper pinned to it, and tried to read them as he went past. Various drama groups, the canoe club, team sheets for all sorts of different sports, martial arts he had not even heard of, the debating society, computer club. He gave up halfway along.

‘Everyone’s studying now until 9 p.m., so it should be pretty quiet. There’s the odd thing going on. Father Anthony has a confirmation class in the Lady Chapel and there’s a rehearsal for the school play in the Bishop Sutton Hall. That’s it, I think.’

Hatton stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

‘That’s the library,’ he said, looking at two large doors opposite. ‘And that’s the MCR over there,’ pointing to a smaller door further along the corridor. There were more notice boards in between the two. A door at the end of the corridor led outside and a flight of steps opposite the MCR led down to a corridor running at right angles to the main corridor. ‘That takes you down to the dining room. Turn left along the cloisters for the chapel.’

Hatton then turned and went up the stairs. He paused at
the top.

‘Those are the physics labs over there,’ he said, pointing to three doors on the far side of the large landing. ‘Locked at this time of night, as you might imagine. And those are Mr Small’s rooms.
Classics
and ancient history.’ He began rummaging in his trouser pocket and produced a Yale key. ‘Haskill’s.’

Dixon followed Hatton through a door that led into a dark
corridor
, with wood panelling that made it gloomy even after
Hatton
switched the lights on. There was a small kitchen on the right as Dixon went in, then a shower room with no window and, at the
end of
the small corridor, a larger room with a small lounge area in front of the door and a single bed at the far end. The whole of the wall to his left was covered in bookshelves and the furniture
consisted
of a coffee table, a two seater sofa and a small armchair.

‘I asked Matron to change the bed, so you should be all right. Here’s the key and I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’

Dixon heard the door slam. He looked around the room but could not see a television so he looked at the books on the shelves. He decided that he wasn’t in the mood for Homer or Plato so he took out his phone and sent Jane a text message.

No effing telly x

Dixon waited five minutes to give the headmaster time to get back to his house and then walked down the stairs and across to the library. The left of the two large oak doors creaked as he opened it. He could see rows of bookshelves either side and desks at the far end, some of them occupied. Presumably working in
the lib
rary rather than your own study was allowed. It had been at St
Dunstan’s
. Just inside the door was a sloping newspaper table, with various newspapers laid out on it, each secured in place by brass clips. All of them were open at the sports pages and all of the crosswords had been done.

He went back out to the main corridor, which was eerily quiet, and then down the steps leading to the cloisters. He stopped halfway along and looked out of the window at the school war memorial in the centre of a manicured and immaculate lawn. Gravel paths led from each corner to the memorial itself in the centre and it was
completely
enclosed by the school buildings. Several wreaths were still lying on the plinth at the base, no doubt placed there on Remembrance Sunday only a few weeks before. It had been the
tradition
at St Dunstan’s for the school to gather at the war
memorial
and for the headmaster to call the roll of those who had not come back. It looked as though Brunel held the same tradition.

Dixon shook his head. He was looking back on a part of his life that he had shut out for years and the memories were
flooding
back. Not all of them good. He remembered the one thing he had done in his life of which he was truly ashamed. He had been
presented
with a petition calling for the abolition of the Remembrance
Sunday
service and he had signed it. It was the one and only time he had bowed to peer pressure, the first and last time, and he had
been hau
nted and embarrassed by the memory. It didn’t
matter
that the
headmaster
had ignored it. What mattered to Dixon was
that he
had signed it. He had been to see the headmaster to
withdraw
his name from the petition and he winced at his wor
ds, wh
ich hit
home again
.

‘
I was surprised and disappointed to see your name on it, Dixon.
’

‘
Yes, Sir.
’

‘
But at least you’ve had the courage to put it right now. Well done.
’

‘
Thank you, Sir.
’

‘
An important lesson learnt?
’

‘
Yes, Sir.
’

Dixon heard a door bang at the end of the corridor and looked to his left to see a crowd of younger pupils streaming out of the chapel and along the cloisters towards him. He stepped back and allowed them to pass, which they did at speed and noisily, none of them appearing to notice that he was there.

The door at the end of the cloisters had been left standing open, so Dixon walked into the chapel and stood at the back. Huge
banners
were hanging either side, each depicting a scene from
the Bibl
e. At the far end was the altar and behind that a large and ornate stained glass window. Dixon could see a smaller chapel off to the side, adjacent to the altar, presumably the Lady Chapel. He gave up trying to count the pews but there must have been enough to fit everyone in.

He was about to leave when he realised he had been spotted by the chaplain, who was striding towards him along the aisle. He was dressed in black robes with a dog collar and had thinning white hair, a grey beard and thick horn rimmed glasses.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I was just looking around, Father. Getting to know the lie of the land.’

‘You’ll be Dickson, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did we manage before email?’ asked the chaplain,
shaking
Dixon’s hand. ‘Welcome. I’m Father Anthony. I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a very bad time for the school.’