Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4) Page 10

  ‘Maybe ten to one. Something like that.’

  ‘Which route did you take?’

  ‘We went the same way.’

  ‘All the way?’

  ‘No, we left the bikes in the bushes at the bottom of the drive and went on foot the rest of the way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Less likely to be seen.’

  ‘What was the weather like that night?’

  ‘Clear sky, windy.’

  ‘Lights?’

  ‘The lights were on outside Gardenhurst and the light on the corner of the Bishop Sutton Hall.’

  ‘So, what did you see when you got back to the school?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Think, Simon, this is very important. Did you see anything unusual at all?’

  Simon was looking at the table and shaking his head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the car park in front of Gardenhurst? Did you see anything down there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hear anything?’

  Simon hesitated. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ said Baldwin.

  ‘Nigel thought he heard something and we froze where we were for a split second before we scarpered. He said it was on the far side the car park but we couldn’t see anything. It was pitch dark down there.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was this noise?’

  ‘Nigel heard it, not me. Could’ve been anything.’

  ‘Or nothing,’ said Brian.

  ‘OK, what about last night?’ asked Baldwin.

  ‘Same, really, but we went on foot. We ate it in Vivary Park and got back about oneish.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Or hear?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Chard, leaning forward and switching off the television. ‘Where the hell’s that vicar?’

  ‘Father Anthony Johns. And he’s the chaplain,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Is there a difference?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Chard pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. ‘The fact is that we’re no further forward, are we? They saw nothing and think they might’ve heard something but don’t know what it was. It could’ve been a bloody fox . . .’

  ‘If they could identify the killer then they’d have done so before now,’ replied Dixon. ‘Not even these two idiots would’ve held that back. What it has confirmed is that they were out and about both nights and it’s possible it was them who disturbed Isobel’s killer. We are also left with the possibility that it was them the killer was after last night and that Derek Phelps stepped in.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Chard. ‘Pure bloody guesswork. There’s not a shred of evidence . . .’

  The phone rang. Chard answered it.

  ‘Yes. Good. I’m coming now.’ He replaced the handset. ‘The vicar’s here. Let’s get this bloody fiasco over with.’

  Dixon waited until Chard left the room.

  ‘Did you get anywhere with Haskill?’ he asked Jane.

  ‘Haskill’s in Kuala Lumpur. Malaysian police spoke to him this morning,’ she replied.

  ‘And Griffiths?’

  ‘We’ve got his CV from the agency. Nothing exciting but it confirms he’s taught at both schools. CRB check is clear and he’s not known to police.’

  ‘He and I need to get better acquainted, then, I think. What about Clive?’

  ‘Clive Cooper. Sacked from St Dunstan’s a couple of years before Derek left. Alcohol problems, by all accounts.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘And Isobel’s father?’

  ‘Bus driver now but used to drive coaches for Woodberrys. They had the contract for . . .’

  ‘. . . St Dunstan’s. I remember going on them for away matches.’

  ‘He’s divorced from Isobel’s mother and married again,’ said Jane.

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I can’t very well speak to him, though, without alerting Chard.’

  ‘True,’ said Dixon. ‘Leave him for now. What about Isobel’s mother?’

  ‘Married again and living in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Find out, will you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Almost ready,’ said DI Baldwin, switching on the television. ‘DCI Chard’s doing this one.’

  Dixon nodded. He looked at Jane and rolled his eyes.

  DCI Chard was sitting opposite Nigel Lloyd. Next to him was Father Anthony. The dog collar had been replaced by a thick wool pullover, both Sunday services at the school having been cancelled, and he had been going from house to house offering pastoral care to those who needed it, hence the delay in his arrival at the station.

  Chard reminded Lloyd that he was not under arrest and then spent the next twenty minutes extracting an almost identical version of events to that given by Simon Gittens. Dixon thought that either they had prepared their stories in advance or both were sensible enough to omit any reference to the gallery in the old convent chapel. Chard pressed him on the noise he heard when he got back to the school.

  ‘It came from the far side of the car park. It was faint but I’m sure I heard something.’

  ‘What could you see?’

  ‘Nothing. We were in the lights at the front of Gardenhurst looking into the dark. Couldn’t even see the minibuses in the far corner.’

  ‘What did the noise sound like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was it something moving?’

  ‘It could’ve been.’

  ‘Large or small?’

  ‘Don’t know that either.’

  ‘If you had to make the noise yourself, how would you do it?’

  Dixon thought that an interesting question and made a mental note of it for future use. He watched Lloyd mulling it over for several seconds.

  ‘Take your time, Nigel,’ said Father Anthony.

  ‘I’d drag my toe in gravel.’

  ‘So it was someone moving on the far side of the car park?’ asked Chard.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Or something. I couldn’t say it was definitely a person.’

  Chard terminated the interview and arranged for a car to take Father Anthony back to the school. Dixon and Jane followed DI Baldwin up to the CID Room on the first floor of Taunton Police Station where Chard was waiting for them.

  ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’

  ‘If you were expecting them to identify the killer, then, yes, it was a waste of time,’ replied Dixon. ‘But only an idiot would’ve been expecting that.’

  Jane watched the anger flash across Chard’s face. His eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak but DI Baldwin spoke first.

  ‘It was useful to the extent that we know the killer was disturbed, surely?’

  ‘And the killer doesn’t know that he wasn’t seen,’ replied Dixon. ‘Perhaps he thinks he was, which explains why he killed Isobel down on the playing fields.’

  ‘He must’ve returned later to get rid of the car too,’ said Baldwin. ‘Everyone said it was gone the next day.’

  ‘That’s right. So he didn’t go far, presumably. It also brings us back to the possibility that these lads were the target last night and Phelps got in the way . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ said Chard. ‘We’ve got two witnesses who heard something. That’s it, so let’s not get overexcited. There’s certainly no evidence whatsoever that these boys were any sort of target at all. Don’t forget, they saw and heard nothing unusual last night.’

  �
�Where are they now?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘They’ve gone back to the school with the vicar.’

  ‘Back? You’ve sent them back?’

  ‘What else did you have in mind?’ asked Chard.

  ‘I’d have sent them home, to be on the safe side. Get Hatton to rusticate them.’

  ‘Rusticate them? What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘Send them home for the rest of term.’

  Chard turned to Baldwin. ‘These bloody places even have their own language now.’

  ‘I’d better get back,’ said Dixon.

  ‘They’re no more in danger than anyone else in that place . . .’

  Dixon stared at Chard. ‘You’d better hope so. Sir.’

  Jane sat in the Land Rover with Dixon while he waited for the windscreen to clear. A can of de-icer had dealt with the outside and the fans would clear the inside. Eventually.

  ‘Did you get the floor plans of the main school?’ asked Dixon.

  Jane handed him two rolls of paper.

  ‘Here they are. First and second floors.’ Jane had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise of the fans and the old diesel engine.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You need to be careful with Chard. If he finds out you’ve withheld the connection with Fran’s disappearance, he’ll have you.’

  ‘He’s bound to find out about it at some point. It’s just a question of when.’

  Jane shook her head. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

  ‘It’s not a game. Besides, I haven’t found a connection yet, if you think about it. It’s still just a . . . well, I don’t know what it is, really.’

  ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘I’d better go.’

  Dixon arrived back at the school to find a line of girls walking in a crocodile along the main corridor, presumably back from the dining room after supper if the smell wafting from that direction was anything to go by. He didn’t recognise any of them, nor did he recognise either of the teachers supervising them. He stepped back into the foyer and watched them troop past. He felt a sudden blast of cold air behind him and turned to see Phillips coming in through the front door.

  ‘It’s bloody cold out there,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Nipped home for a couple of hours. What’s going on?’

  ‘They’re coming across one house at a time for supper.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘All finished out the back but there are still some here taking statements. Have they spoken to you?’

  ‘Yes. Is there anything I can do?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Not at the moment. I’ll give you a shout if I need you.’

  ‘OK.’

  Dixon waited for the line of pupils to pass along the main corridor and then went up to his rooms. Once inside, he made himself a cup of tea and spent the next hour reading Isobel’s post mortem report again and examining the floor plans. Then he went down to the dining room for something to eat. He was surprised to find it empty but could see that the kitchen staff were getting ready for the arrival of another house for supper. Dixon helped himself to some food and then sat in the dining room to eat it. He was alone apart from a kitchen porter waiting to collect the dirty plates at the counter in the far corner, where Derek Phelps had been only the day before.

  Dixon finished his meal and carried his tray over to the counter.

  ‘Shame about Derek.’

  The kitchen porter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Harry.’

  ‘How long have you been here, Harry?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘Did you know Derek?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Did he ever mention someone called Clive?’

  ‘Not for a while.’ Harry spoke slowly and without looking up.

  ‘He did mention him then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why not for a while?’

  ‘Clive’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘He killed himself.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A year ago. I dunno.’

  ‘Where . . .’ Dixon turned his head to see a long line of schoolboys streaming along the corridor into the serving area behind the dining room. He raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Cardiff.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon went back to his rooms, sat on the end of the bed and sent Jane a text message. He waited two minutes and then rang her on the pay as you go number.

  ‘Clive Cooper’s dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Committed suicide about a year ago in Cardiff, according to one of the kitchen porters.’

  ‘I’ll get the file.’

  ‘Thanks. I need to know why.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Soon after Fran disappears he starts drinking, gets sacked from St Dunstan’s and ends up killing himself.’

  ‘I’ll get it tomorrow. The Cardiff lot may still have their file open.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon set the alarm on his phone for 9 p.m., lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He still hadn’t recovered from the trip back from Cyprus. It wasn’t proper jet lag, of course, but it felt like it and he needed a couple of hours’ sleep to sharpen his mind. He knew that someone had said something today that had not rung true. It was irritating him but try as he might he could not pin it down. It was either in direct conversation with him or he had overheard it, and all he could say with any degree of certainty was that he had not seen it on a screen, so it was not something that either Gittens or Lloyd had said in interview.

  He thought about each conversation in turn. None had been particularly enlightening. Was it something Roger had said, perhaps? Dixon decided he would go to Musgrove Park Hospital for Derek’s post mortem in the morning, but Roger had said nothing today to ring any alarm bells, surely? The headmaster, perhaps? Chard? Rowena Weatherly? She knew who he was and why he was there, of that there was no doubt, but she hadn’t said anything that might compromise him, nor had she given any indication that she would. The headmaster also knew about Fran but had given Jane no cause for concern. It was also possible that if Rowena Weatherly and the headmaster knew who he was, so did the killer.

  Dixon sat up. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the investigation, nor was he getting any sleep. It didn’t help that he was now in a race against time. If the school governors opted to end the term early, as the headmaster would be recommending, that gave him four days. It would also not be much longer before Chard started looking at previous cases and then Dixon’s personal connection would come out.

  So far, his only progress had been to identify Gittens and Lloyd as possible witnesses, but neither had seen anything of use. He felt as if he had just had his hair cut and all of the hair down his back was just out of reach. Try as he might, he just couldn’t scratch it.

  Chapter Eight

  Dixon woke just before midnight. He had a vague recollection of his alarm going off earlier but did not remember switching it off or deciding to have another five minutes’ sleep. He was still fully clothed so he got up and stood in the window, looking out into the darkness. He could see two lights on at the far end of the Underwood Building off to his right, and the street lights on the far side of the playing fields were still on, marking the boundary of the school grounds. Otherwise, it was pitch dark.

  He stood there for several minutes, listening to the wind and watching the stars disappear behind clouds and then appear again a few seconds later. If he had been at home he might have taken Monty for a walk, but that was not an option tonight.

  He
began to feel a little shaky so he checked his blood sugar levels. He was getting better at recognising the early signs of a hypo these days and this was confirmed by a blood sugar level of 4.8. Dixon knew it was a bit low for him, particularly at this time of night when it was likely to be dropping still further. He needed something to eat quickly before his level dropped much lower and, whilst he had packets of fruit pastilles, these were for emergency use only. A quick search of the small kitchen revealed a packet of stale biscuits and some cornflakes but no milk, so he decided on a visit to the school kitchens.

  He went out onto the landing, locking the door of the flat behind him. All the lights were off, so he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness rather than switch the lights on. He tiptoed down the stairs and stood in the middle of the main corridor in front of the library. He could see lights on at the far end of the corridor but otherwise the only light this end was coming from under the door of the masters’ common room. He tried it and was surprised to find it locked.

  He walked down the steps opposite and along the corridor towards the dining room. Light was streaming in through the large windows on his left from the war memorial, which was lit by four lamps set in the ground around it.

  He walked past the dining room and down the steps into the kitchens. A light had been left on in the far corner above the ovens, and illuminated green fire exit signs above the doors cast an eerie glow across the stainless steel worktops. Dixon waited until he was satisfied that no one was there and then went in search of food. He guessed that the two large steel doors in the far wall with red and green lights above them were the fridge and freezer but did not risk venturing into either of them. A safer bet was the store room, which had no lock on the door, and he emerged a minute or so later with a piece of fruit cake and a banana.

  He was walking back along the corridor towards the masters’ common room, brushing crumbs from his jacket, when he heard soft footsteps in the cloisters off to his right. He stopped and waited. The footsteps were running away from him towards the chapel. Then he heard the door of the chapel open and close again with a bang. Dixon sprinted along the corridor and down the two stone steps into the cloisters. He was running on the balls of his feet trying to stop his heels clicking on the tiled floor.