Swansong (5 page)

‘So I gather.’

‘It’s been terrible. Knocked everyone for six.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Dreadful. God bless her. She was a lovely girl.’ Father Anthony shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder why these things happen
sometimes
, doesn’t it?’

‘It does.’

‘I even found myself doubting my faith . . .’ Father Anthony’s voice tailed off. ‘Will you be joining us for worship?’

‘Er, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘If I can.’

‘Jolly good. There’s evening prayers tomorrow at six and then Sunday morning at ten for Communion.’

‘Can you get everyone in?’

‘Just about. There’s always a few stragglers. It’s a sport for some of them, missing chapel,’ replied Father Anthony. ‘And it’s been extended over the years. There’s a stone in the floor halfway along the aisle marking where the altar used to be in the old days.’

‘I assumed that the library . . .’

‘No, that was the assembly hall until the Bishop Sutton Hall was built.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Anyway, I must lock up. Nice talking to you,’ continued Father Anthony. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

Suddenly, they heard footsteps running along the cloisters behind them and Dixon turned to see three girls rushing into the chapel, tears streaming down their faces.

‘Can we talk to you about Isobel, Father?’ spluttered one.

‘Of course, of course. Let’s sit over here,’ replied Father Anthony, gesturing to the pews at the back of the chapel.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Dixon.

Father Anthony smiled and nodded.

Dixon walked back along the cloisters and had reached the steps at the end before he could no longer hear the girls crying. He opened the door to the masters’ common room and looked in. It was pretty much as he imagined it would be. Old armchairs and sofas with a small kitchen area against the back wall. There was no one at home so he looked at the notice boards to the left of the door, which
displayed
the team sheets for the various rugby matches the following day. The 1st XV were playing St Dunstan’s at home so Dixon made a mental note to keep away from the rugby pitches, just in case.

He fetched his overnight bag from his Land Rover and then went back up to his rooms on the first floor, in amongst the physics labs. He smiled when he remembered sitting a physics multiple choice paper and scoring four out of fifty. Physics had never been one of his better subjects and he could hear the teacher’s voice
even now.

‘
Dixon, a monkey could’ve got more than that.
’

Needless to say, physics hadn’t been his first choice at A Level.

There was a small jug of milk in the fridge so he made
himself
a cup of tea. Then he threw his overnight bag on the bed and unzipped a pocket in the bottom. He pulled out the file on
Isobel
Swan, which he had wrapped in a towel, and began flicking through the
witness
statements. There were twenty-one in all, from her parents, the headmaster, her housemaster, teachers and
various
friends who had seen her at some point that evening. She had her own
study/bed
room in Gardenhurst and no one had seen her arrive back, her disappearance only coming to light when her body had been found the following morning by one of the ground staff. Dixon thought it odd there was no statement from the groundsman who had found her. He made a mental note to ask Jane about that.

Isobel had been studying maths, physics and chemistry and had been expected to sail through her exams on her way to medical school. She was one of those lucky students for whom studying and passing exams came easily. Dixon had been one of them too, until Fran had disappeared.

He turned to the statements of Emily Setter and Susannah Bower and read them again. After Isobel’s driving lesson they had gone to the cinema and then called in at Pizza Hut for a bite to eat. Susannah had driven and they had got back just after 10 p.m.,
leaving
her car in Conway Road, a small residential cul-de-sac opposite the school. They had last seen Isobel in the hall at
the mai
n entrance when they had gone in different directions along the
main corrid
or, Emily and Susannah turning left and Isobel turning right. Nothing that Isobel had said had given either of them any cause for concern or reason to believe that she might run away. Dixon thought about his last night with Fran and it all sounded a little bit too familiar.

The officer who had taken Susannah’s statement had been more thorough, having asked her to describe Isobel’s route to
Gardenhurst
from the main entrance. Dixon read Susannah’s statement several times before putting all of them back in the file and hiding them under the mattress. Then he walked back down to the main entrance and followed Isobel’s route back to Gardenhurst.

Once past the headmaster’s house the corridor narrowed and at the far end double doors led into the boys’ toilets. There were also doors either side of the corridor: a pair of large double doors to the left, leading to the back of the school, opposite a smaller door leading to the front. Dixon looked out of the window in the smaller door. It was almost dark this way, illuminated only by the glow from the lights at the back of the headmaster’s house.

Once through the door Dixon found himself in a small car park, which he took to be the headmaster’s private parking area. There were flowerbeds on three sides with large bushes that gave it an intimidating feel. If Isobel had been anything like Fran there was no way she would have come this way, even if it was a shortcut.

Dixon walked back to the side door, into the main corridor and then out of the swing doors opposite. The area behind the school was well lit with several outside lights and there were a number of students milling around, two throwing an American football to each other on a lawn to the left. Dixon walked around the side of the toilet block and into the bright lights coming from a large building set at right angles to the main school. The sign above the door told him it was the Underwood Building, and it was a hive of activity. Every light was on and all of the rooms were occupied.

In front of Dixon was the Bishop Sutton Hall. He could hear the school play rehearsal going on inside and, judging by the noise, it was a musical. He followed the path around to the left. It was wide, well lit by lamps along the side of the hall and overlooked by all of the windows along the side of the Underwood Building. Isobel would’ve come this way.

‘Can I help you, Sir?’

‘And you are?’

‘Chamberlain, Sir. I’m a prefect.’

‘My name’s Dickson. I’m a trainee teacher here for two weeks’ work experience before the end of term.’

‘Do you have any identification, please, Sir?’

‘A letter from the headmaster.’ Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed the letter to the boy. He read it and handed it back.

‘Thank you, Sir. I’m sorry . . .’

‘Don’t be,’ replied Dixon, ‘and well done.’

At the far end of the hall was a door with a sign on it. ‘Sixth Form Bar.’ Dixon shook his head. At that time of night on a
Saturday
there would have been students everywhere, surely? He could see
Gardenhurst
a short distance away and the car park off to the left, down a slope. She would have been in plain view of any number of different people if she had come this way just after 10 p.m. on a Saturday night. Dixon felt sure that she would have done, which left only one alternative. She was intercepted before she got here.

He walked back to the end of the corridor and stood outside the toilets, in between the two exit doors. It was possible that Isobel had been snatched by an assailant waiting in the darkness behind the smaller door. Possible but unlikely. The noise would have alerted anyone in the toilets to her abduction, and certainly if she had screamed. She would also have been taken to a waiting car and, in all probability, have simply disappeared. Like Fran.

The exercise had confirmed what Dixon already knew. Isobel had been taken by someone familiar to her and who presented
no obvi
ous threat. Someone she trusted. There would have been no sound, no scream, and it would explain the red wine in her system.

Dixon looked back down the corridor towards the entrance hall. There were several doors on either side, one leading to the headmaster’s house, and two flights of stairs, one leading up to
Reynell
House and the other to Neales. Dixon checked the time. It was almost 11 p.m. and no time to be creeping about a boarding school, unless he wanted to get himself arrested.

Dixon sat down on the end of his bed and rang Jane.

‘You still awake?’

‘I am now,’ replied Jane. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Pretty much as I expected, really. I’ve had a look at the route she’d have taken back to Gardenhurst. It’s well lit and would’ve been buzzing with students at that time on a Saturday night so it’s unlikely she was snatched. I reckon she went with somebody she knew.’

‘One of the teachers?’

‘Don’t know yet. I’ve only met the headmaster and the chaplain so far. And one prefect who wanted to know who I was. He asked me for ID and I nearly gave him my warrant card.’

‘That would’ve been a great start.’

‘I remembered in the nick of time.’

‘Did he fall for it?’

‘What?’

‘The trainee teacher bit.’

‘Seemed to.’

‘He’ll go far.’

‘I’ve got a letter from the headmaster. My get out of jail
free card
.’

‘I’ve got to be in Taunton at 8 a.m. so I may see you tomorrow.’

‘Watch out for Chard. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. The DI seems all right, though. Baldwin’s her name.’

‘I know her. We worked together on a fraud case a couple of years ago.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll get a copy of the driving instructor’s statement and see about the other stuff.’

‘OK. I’ll catch up with you over the weekend, if I get the chance,’ said Dixon.

‘And be careful,’ replied Jane. ‘Remember . . .’

‘I know.’

Dixon rang off. He picked up the wooden wedge propping open the living room door and pushed it under the front door from the inside. Then he dropped the catch on the Yale lock. The
previous
night spent travelling home from Cyprus, despite seeming like a lifetime ago, was beginning to catch up with him so he lay back on the bed, set the alarm on his iPhone for 7.30 a.m. and was asleep before its backlight went out.

Chapter Four

D
ixon found a box of stale cornflakes in the cupboard and used the last of the milk in the jug. Skipping breakfast hadn’t been an option since he had been told that he was diabetic. He had thought about going down to the dining room but decided it would be best to avoid answering awkward questions, if he could. After all, it was his job to ask them and he didn’t want to risk his cover before he had to.

He managed to negotiate the crowd of pupils waiting on the landing for the physics lab to be unlocked and dropped down to
the master
s’ common room for 9 a.m., as instructed. A small crowd had gathered around the notice board to look at the various team sheets for the day’s rugby matches but it soon dispersed when a loud bell rang. He knocked on the door and went in.

‘Are you Dickson?’

‘Yes.’

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t knock. Come in. I’m Phillips. Robin Phillips.’ He was tall and wore a blazer, which seemed to be the acceptable alternative to tweed, a white shirt and a tie Dixon didn’t recognise.

‘You’re looking at my tie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Royal Artillery.’

Dixon nodded.

‘Work experience, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wish I’d had the chance when I was training.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’d never have become a bloody teacher if I’d known what it was like.’ Phillips laughed loudly, revealing yellow teeth. ‘Let me finish this, then I’ll show you around.’ He was pushing a small amount of tobacco into a pipe, which explained the teeth. Dixon looked around the room. All but two of the chairs were empty, classes for the day having started.

‘How rude of me. Let me introduce you,’ said Phillips. ‘That’s Keith Foster, maths, and that’s Janet Parkin, art and drama.’

Neither stirred from their chairs but they did at least
acknowledge
Dixon’s presence.

‘C’mon, let’s leave these miserable buggers to it. We’ll start outside seeing as it’s not raining.’

Dixon followed Phillips out of the masters’ common room.

‘How long’ve we got?’

‘I’ve got a class with the headmaster at 10 a.m.’

‘Lucky you,’ replied Phillips. ‘This way.’

They went out of the door at the end of the corridor and down a flight of stone steps. Once outside, Phillips paused to light his pipe.

‘That’s Geldard over there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a detached building off to the left. ‘Day pupils only.’

Dixon nodded.

‘And that’s the old gym. Rather surplus to requirements now we’ve got the sports hall. Plan is to knock it down and replace it with new classrooms. The gym and those prefabs you can see. They’re getting a bit tired now. The rifle range is down that alleyway too.’

Dixon looked across at two blocks of single storey prefabricated buildings that had clearly seen better days. The gap between them was presumably the alleyway that Phillips had been referring to.

‘Rifle range?’

‘Small bore target stuff. We do quite well in the competitions. Miss Weatherly’s our crack shot.’

‘What are the main disciplinary issues you have, then?’ asked Dixon.

‘You mean apart from murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry. My little joke. Bloody mess it is, really. And the fucking police are useless. Haven’t got a bloody thing to go on, by all accounts.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘If you say so,’ said Phillips, sucking hard on his pipe, which he was struggling to light in the wind.

‘You were going to tell me about the other . . .’

‘Yes, sorry. We’ve got the usual, really. Nothing too dramatic. A bit of pot smoking. Sometimes something harder gets in. We know who it is but can never catch the little shits. What irks is that it’s getting to the younger pupils these days and that’s the worry. There’s some home brewing going on and occasionally a bit of petty pilfering.’

Nothing much had changed since Dixon’s school days if that were the case. Except the casual attitude to hard drugs, perhaps.

‘Do you try and catch them?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about smoking?’

‘Sixth formers are allowed to but few do. Catching the younger ones at it is good sport.’

Dixon could see lessons going on in the classrooms to his right.

‘Classics,’ said Phillips. ‘That’s Small in there. Latin. And in the next one is Griffiths. Ancient history. He’s filling in for Haskill, who’s buggered off to the Far East on holiday.’

‘A supply teacher?’ asked Dixon.

‘Yes.’

Dixon followed Phillips around the side of the chapel. He could see lessons going on in the prefabs across the lawn.

‘French and German in there. Mr Clarke and Miss Heath.’ Phillips stopped. ‘We’re round the back of the dining room now. Those are the kitchens.’

Dixon looked across to see a van unloading boxes of frozen food. Several porters wearing blue overalls were standing in a small group, all smoking.

‘Where does that alleyway go?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the back of the dining room.

‘It leads to the Memorial Quadrangle. Always a good spot for catching smokers. We’ll have a go later.’

They continued along a path until it met a service road at the back of the school. Dixon recognised the cricket pavilion and the squash courts off to the left. The old cricket nets had gone and been replaced with new buildings all along the boundary of the cricket pitch.

‘Two new houses over there. Havens and Hardwicke,’ said
Phillips
.

They turned right along the road and Dixon could see that they were now walking towards the Underwood Building, which was directly in front of them. He looked down across the playing fields and could just about make out an area cordoned off with police tape on the far hedge line. That was where Isobel Swan had been found.

Phillips stopped to light his pipe again.

‘That’s the Underwood Building there. Biology labs at the far end. History above them. Bishop Knox and Markham are in there too. The sports hall’s behind it.’

‘What do you teach?’ asked Dixon.

‘Chemistry.’

‘How long’ve you been here?’

‘Twenty years. Ever since I came out of the army. And that’s the Bishop Sutton Hall,’ continued Phillips, ‘school plays, assemblies, that sort of thing.’

Phillips stared into the bowl of his pipe.

‘Bloody thing’s gone out again. C’mon, let’s go and get a cup of tea.’

‘Did you know her well?’ asked Dixon, once they were back in the staff room.

‘Who?’

‘The girl who was murdered?’

‘I taught her chemistry,’ replied Phillips, handing Dixon a mug of tea. ‘She was very bright.’

‘What happened?’

‘I got the call before breakfast on the Sunday. She’d been found in the ditch at the bottom of the playing fields and the police were on their way. We put the school on total lockdown. Everyone confined to barracks on pain of . . . well, you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’

‘They were here for two days taking statements from everyone and anyone who knew her. Looking at the CCTV too. We’ve got some but not much and probably not as much as we should. No doubt the governors will stump up the cash for that now.’

‘I wouldn’t want to have been the one to tell her parents,’ said Dixon.

‘The police offered to do it but the head did it in the end. Admired him for that. Couldn’t have been easy.’

‘Are they local?’

‘Yes. Yeovil, I think. He’s a bus driver.’

‘How . . .’

‘She was here on a scholarship, if that’s what you’re wondering. Bright girl. She’d have gone far.’

So would Fran
.

Dixon took a swig of tea. Just as he did so the door flew open and three teachers rushed into the common room. They each threw a pile of books onto a chair and then headed for the kettle at the back of the room.

‘That’s McCulloch. Scottish but he teaches English lit. The
others
are Whitmore and Rowena Weatherly, both history.’

Dixon nodded.

‘You’ll never remember everyone’s name so I wouldn’t even bother to try,’ said Phillips.

‘Who’s this, then?’ asked McCulloch. He was small with a closely cropped grey beard and smelt strongly of cigarettes, which Dixon noticed even over Phillips’ stale pipe tobacco.

‘Dickson,’ replied Phillips. ‘Two weeks’ work experience.’

‘Bugger me. I wish I’d had the chance. I’d never have . . .’

‘I’ve already used that line, William,’ said Phillips.

‘Git.’

Phillips smiled. ‘You’d have thought a teacher of English
literature
would have a better vocabulary, wouldn’t you?’

‘Knob.’

‘Ignore him, he’s like this with everyone.’

Dixon was ignoring him. He was watching Rowena Weatherly. She was sitting on a window seat on the other side of the room
sipping
from a mug of coffee. He knew from the statements that she was in charge of girls’ hockey and that Isobel played in the team. So did Emily Setter and Susannah Bower.

‘You’d better go,’ said Phillips. ‘Don’t want to keep His
Lordship
waiting.’

‘No, thanks,’ replied Dixon, getting up from his chair.

‘Back here oneish and we’ll go off and get some lunch.’

Dixon stopped outside the masters’ common room and looked again at the rugby team sheets. He still needed to track down Ben Masterson, Isobel’s boyfriend, or perhaps he wasn’t? Chard hadn’t known and neither Emily nor Susannah had confirmed it in their statements. Dixon spotted Ben’s name on the 2nd XV sheet, playing away at St Dunstan’s. Next he checked the girls’ hockey notices to find that both Emily and Susannah were playing in a home match against Roedean. He frowned. It was going to be a long day catching smokers with Robin Phillips.

Dixon was no stranger to difficult and stressful situations. He had found himself in a few in his time and had even gone undercover before, although he hadn’t mentioned it. It had been several years ago when he was in the Met, but there seemed a world of difference between a trainee teacher in a murder investigation and a shop assistant in a newsagent trying to catch shoplifters. It was hardly relevant experience. But now he faced, more than anything else, the part of his current situation that he dreaded the most. Even more than coming face to face with Fran’s killer.

He had been introduced to the class by the headmaster and was sitting by the window trying to look as though he knew what Hatton was talking about. He had not let on that he was a qualified solicitor, not least because it had been years ago and he had neither studied nor practised law since, except perhaps criminal law. Today, however, the class were learning about the law of tort.

Dixon could remember that it had something to do with negligence and he could even recall a case involving a snail in a bottle. But that was the extent of his knowledge. Jane would wet herself laughing if she knew.

He looked at the pupils, most of whom appeared to be looking out of the window. Dixon counted nineteen, none of them studying law A Level, but the headmaster had decreed that all students in the sixth form would have one law class each week, presumably to broaden their general knowledge. Dixon thought it might be useful if they ever appeared on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
but that was about it. The next class was for the A Level students and there were only eight of them.

‘So, which part of the law of tort do we think is most commonly encountered in daily life?’

Dixon knew the answer to that one but managed to resist the urge to put his hand up.

‘Anyone?’

A hand went up at the back of the class.

‘Yes, Jenkins.’

Dixon looked at the boy with his hand up. He had dark curly hair and was tall, judging by his height when sitting. Probably played in the second row, he thought, recognising the boy’s name from the 1st XV team sheet.

‘Accident compo, Sir,’ he said, in a strong Welsh accent.

‘That’s right, Darren.’

‘Where there’s blame, there’s a claim, Sir.’

‘Yes, I think we’ve got the idea, Darren, thank you,’ said the headmaster. ‘Accident compensation. So, what three elements do we have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages?’