Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4) Page 11

  He opened the door to the chapel and listened. Silence. No one would have had the time to run the full length of the aisle and escape through the Lady Chapel at the far end before Dixon opened the door, so they must have gone out through the main double doors at the back of the chapel. He switched on the lights and checked the doors. The left hand door was unbolted. He opened it and looked outside into the darkness, but could see and hear nothing except the wind whipping the tall pine trees on the far side of the lawn to and fro.

  He closed the door and bolted it from the inside. Then he turned and looked down the aisle. He could see something on the floor halfway along, so he walked towards it. He stopped when he recognised it was a Ouija board. On the floor next to it was a pad of paper and a white candle that had probably blown out when he opened the back door. Dixon took out his iPhone, switched it to camera mode and took several photographs of the scene. Then he walked up and down the aisle, checking the pews on either side.

  When he was satisfied that the chapel was deserted, he went back to the Ouija board and crouched down to have a closer look at it. It had been placed on the stone plinth that marked the site of the old altar, no doubt to add to the drama, the planchette pointing to the words ‘GOOD BYE’.

  Dixon froze when he looked at the pad of paper. On it was written one word. The writing was faint but he could just about make it out.

  FRAN.

  Dixon tore the top piece of paper from the pad, folded it in half and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Then he took several more photographs of the scene before leaving the chapel, switching off the lights on his way out. At the door he looked back and smiled. Someone had been trying to spook him, but it hadn’t worked.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he muttered, as he walked back down the cloisters.

  Dixon sat on the end of his bed and took out his iPhone. He deleted the first set of photographs he had taken of the Ouija board showing the writing on the pad of paper. Then he sent Jane a text message.

  How’s Monty? x

  He waited a couple of minutes and then dialled Jane’s pay as you go number. She answered straight away.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Someone just tried to get me off the case.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They left a Ouija board on the floor in the chapel with Fran’s name written on a pad next to it. It would’ve been found in the morning and then you can bet I’d have faced some awkward questions.’

  ‘A Ouija board?’

  ‘You communicate with the dead. You sit round it with your fingers on a pointer and it spells out words.’

  ‘And it’s supposed to have spelt out Fran?’

  ‘That’s what we’re meant to think. Only I got there first.’

  ‘Someone else knows who you are, then?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Are you’re sure it wasn’t . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe that stuff? It takes more than one person, for a start, and I only heard one set of footsteps.’

  ‘No, I meant are you sure it wasn’t the headmaster or Rowena Weatherly. They both know who you are.’

  ‘I didn’t get a look at ’em, unfortunately. Could’ve been, I suppose. Check if either of their parents got divorced too, will you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It was pure chance I was there. Otherwise it’d still have been sitting there in the morning.’

  ‘And the chaplain finds it, calls the police, Chard gets Fran’s file out and then you’re off the case . . .’

  ‘That was the plan, no doubt.’

  ‘But then the connection would’ve been made, surely?’

  ‘It will be anyway, sooner or later. Or at least it should be. And he’ll be banking on getting away with it again. Just like he did last time.’

  ‘So, what happens next?’ asked Jane.

  ‘That depends on what you turn up, doesn’t it? Otherwise, I’m just sitting here waiting for something to happen.’

  ‘It has already, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Phelps?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not sure that’s down to me being here or not. I’m not sure it’s the same killer, for a start. I need to have a word with Roger tomorrow.’

  ‘Not the same killer . . . ?’ asked Jane.

  ‘No. Think about it. He’s armed with a knife and knows how to use it. He cut Isobel’s throat, didn’t he?’

  ‘Chard hasn’t even considered that possibility.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. It’s just an idea, but Roger’ll tell me one way or the other at the post mortem tomorrow. You going to be there?’

  ‘No. I’d better keep digging.’

  ‘Don’t forget Clive Cooper.’

  ‘I won’t. And you be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Monty’s missing you,’ said Jane.

  ‘Only Monty?’

  ‘No. Now get some sleep.’

  Jane rang off, leaving Dixon staring at his phone. He took the piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and looked at the writing. It was in block capitals with any semblance of handwriting style disguised by almost childlike straight lines. No doubt the writer wore gloves too but, either way, it was evidence and might come in useful later. He took the file out from under his mattress, slotted the piece of paper into it and then put the file back.

  Dixon set his alarm for 7 a.m. and then closed his eyes. He thought about the Ouija board and remembered rumours of two boys getting caught playing with one at St Dunstan’s. Nothing had come of it, of course, except for several lost Saturday afternoons in detention. Then there was the urban myth that every generation told as if it were a true story that happened only last week. The version Dixon knew involved the death of a boy called Rufus at Upham School. He had been experimenting with a Ouija board and legend had it that it spelled out the words ‘death to Rufus’. Only a few days later Rufus had been killed in a car accident. Dixon didn’t believe in coincidence but on this occasion he could make an exception.

  He thought about the other urban myth that used to do the rounds and the vision of an axe murderer banging a severed head on the roof of a car flashed across his mind. Thankfully, he was asleep before the unfortunate victim’s wife had to get out of the passenger door.

  The staff meeting got under way just after 9 a.m. Dixon had thought it odd that the teachers were required to stand when the headmaster walked into the masters’ common room—they were adults after all—but found himself conforming before he had time to question it. Not that he would have done so out loud, of course.

  He was sitting on the window seat watching Rowena Weatherly. She was sitting in a leather armchair with her back to him, reading from an exercise book in her lap. From time to time she looked up at the headmaster standing at the front of the room with Robin Phillips. Dixon thought he could recognise most of the teachers now, but there were still some he didn’t. They must have had the weekend off. He also noticed that the supply teacher, Griffiths, was not there.

  Hatton began by assuring the staff that progress was being made in the police investigation, which came as news to Dixon. Hatton looked away sharply when he saw him looking at him. Hatton had, he said, spoken to the senior investigating officer and been informed that the police would have finished their initial enquiries by lunchtime, after which the school could return to normal. The school would, therefore, spend the morning in private study with lunch, as usual, at 1 p.m. After that, the normal Monday afternoon timetable would take effect and, in the meantime, all housemasters were asked to ensure that their pupils had enough to keep them occupied for the morning. Any coursework due that week could be posted on the intranet so the students could make a start on that if needs be.

  ‘Any questions?’ asked Hatton.

  A hand went up at the front of the room. The man wa
s wearing army combat trousers, a khaki shirt and green pullover, which told Dixon that he ran the Cadets. At St Dunstan’s the CCF had been run by a retired naval chief petty officer.

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘We’ve got the Ten Tors teams doing an orienteering exercise on the Quantocks this afternoon, Sir. Should that go ahead?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. What d’you think, Robin?’

  ‘We’ve not been told it can’t, Sir,’ replied Phillips.

  ‘Better check with DCI Chard,’ said Hatton.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Hatton waited. No hands went up so he continued. ‘Right, well, moving on, there’s a meeting of the school governors tomorrow afternoon. The proposal is to end the term a week early so the carol service will be Thursday evening and then everyone goes home on Friday morning. Those of you who haven’t done so already, give some thought to homework for the holidays and we’d better give them a bit more than usual if they’re going to be off for an extra week.’

  Dixon was surprised by the mixed reaction amongst the teachers. Some smiled and obviously appreciated the extra week off. Others shook their heads. Rowena Weatherly did neither.

  This was not the Rowena Abbot Dixon remembered from St Dunstan’s. She had changed her appearance, but there could be any number of reasons for that. She had been a year below them and, apart from playing in the same hockey team as Fran, she had never really had that much to do with them. Then it dawned on him. What had kept him up for hours last night was suddenly all too obvious. Maybe she was just trying to be polite, but Fran was not and never had been ‘a good friend’.

  ‘You can manage the carol service this Thursday, Father?’ asked Hatton.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Father Anthony. ‘The Christmas tree is being delivered on Friday but I’ll see if I can bring that forward.’

  ‘Cancel it,’ said Hatton. ‘I think we can dispense with the tree, in the circumstances.’

  Father Anthony nodded.

  ‘Assuming the governors agree, I’ve arranged for emails to go out straight away and letters in the first class post so all parents should’ve got the message by the end of Wednesday. No doubt there’ll be some complaints, but they know what’s been going on and I doubt many will be too surprised.’

  ‘Some’ll want a bloody refund. You can bet on that.’ The broad Scottish accent gave away William McCulloch sitting at the back.

  ‘Thank you, William. I’m sure the bursar can handle them.’

  Hatton turned to Phillips. ‘Anything else, Robin?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Well, unless anyone has any other questions . . . ?’

  ‘It’s our Christmas lunch tomorrow, Sir. Do we go ahead with it?’

  Dixon had been watching Rowena Weatherly and did not see who asked the question.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Dixon had often wondered what possessed people to teach in a boarding school, some of them all their adult lives, and in that moment it came to him. He thought about the character Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption who was freed after decades in prison and committed suicide. Dixon made a mental note to look up the definition of ‘institutionalised’ when he got home. An easier way of putting it, perhaps, was to say that they simply never left school. Dixon smiled. No doubt Jane would tell him that the police was an institution, and she was probably right.

  ‘Right, then, that’s it, everyone. Don’t tell the students about term ending early until we have a decision from the governors. Mr Dickson, my office, if you will.’

  Hatton slammed his office door behind them. ‘There’s been a distinct lack of progress but I could hardly tell them that, could I?’

  Dixon did not respond.

  ‘I gather you found evidence of drug taking in the old chapel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve agreed to keep it quiet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I’m here to investigate the murder of Isobel Swan. I’m only interested in drugs if they’re relevant. Otherwise, it’s an internal matter for the school.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It may become relevant, of course.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ asked Hatton.

  ‘We have various lines of enquiry.’ Dixon wondered how many times he had used that exact turn of phrase in the seven years he’d been a police officer.

  ‘You can’t tell me, I understand.’

  Dixon looked at his watch.

  ‘D’you need to be somewhere?’ asked Hatton.

  ‘Derek Phelps’ post mortem.’

  ‘Yes, of course. No lessons this afternoon but you’re welcome to join me for lunch.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  Dixon’s usual tactic in the Met had been to watch post mortems from the comparative safety of the anteroom and listen to the pathologist dictating his notes over the intercom. That had been thwarted of late by Roger Poland, who seemed to take great delight in keeping an eye out for him and inviting him into the lab at the first opportunity. On this occasion, however, Dixon marched straight in.

  ‘What’ve we got, then?’

  Poland looked surprised to see him. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Playing truant.’

  Derek Phelps was lying face down on the slab revealing the injuries to the back and top of his head. Dixon leaned over for a closer look.

  ‘Still three blows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any other injuries apart from the head?’

  ‘No,’ replied Poland.

  Dixon leaned over and peered at Phelps’ hands.

  ‘No defensive injuries either,’ said Poland.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘The head injury got him before the cold.’

  ‘Any idea about the weapon?’

  ‘It was blunt. That’s about all I can say with any degree of certainty at the moment.’

  ‘Wood, metal, stone?’

  ‘Too early to say. I may have a better idea when I’ve done some more tests. There are a few fragments of this and that that I’ve sent to the lab for testing.’

  ‘What about the sequence?’

  ‘The blow to the back of the head came first, then the two on top. You can see where the fractured skull’s been compressed again by the later blows.’

  ‘How tall is he?’

  Poland picked up a notepad on the side.

  ‘One hundred and eighty-five centimetres.’

  ‘What’s that in real money?’

  ‘Six foot one or thereabouts.’

  ‘So his killer’s likely to be shorter?’

  ‘Probably. If he was taller then the first blow would’ve had more of a downward angle to it and been closer to the top of the head.’

  ‘Can you tell for sure?’

  ‘Not really. Not without knowing their relative positions, whether they were both standing on level ground. Phelps could’ve been bending over when he was hit, for starters. There are too many variables . . .’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘If we had the killer it might be different.’

  ‘We will, Roger. We will.’

  Dixon parked in the car park in front of Gardenhurst and walked along the near side of the sports hall, ensuring he would not be overlooked from the Underwood Building. Once at the end he surveyed the scene. The ground fell away steeply to the playing fields below and looked as though it had been built up to provide level foundations for the hall itself. He ducked under the blue tape and walked along the narrow path that ran along the back wall behind several wispy pine trees that had been planted on the bank. Too m
any cigarette butts to count told him it was a popular spot for a quick smoke.

  There was a small patch of dried blood at the base of the wall, perhaps a third of the way along, which was largely obscured from view by one of several supporting buttresses that jutted out. Dixon looked around. The spot was not overlooked by a single window in any of the buildings in the vicinity. Perfect for a smoke and perfect for a murder. It also occurred to him that Phelps could not have been keeping a look out for someone when he was killed. If he had been then surely he would have been at one corner of the hall and not a third of the way along the back wall. No, he had come to meet someone and that someone had killed him.

  Without knowing whether the killer had been standing on the narrow path running behind the trees or further down the steep bank, it was impossible to get a clear idea of the killer’s height from the injuries to Phelps. It was reasonable to assume he was on the path, perhaps, because that would be the only way of guaranteeing a sure footing when swinging the murder weapon and, on that basis, the killer could well be shorter than Phelps. Six foot one. That ruled out no one except Griffiths, the supply teacher, who was well over six feet tall. Dixon wondered how tall Isobel’s father was. And her driving instructor.

  It was just after 11.30 a.m. by the time Dixon got back to the masters’ common room. There was a note pinned to the door.

  ‘In my lab. Room 31. Down corridor opposite. Robin.’

  Dixon walked down the steps and along the corridor. The door to room 31 was open so he walked in and looked around. There were four long workbenches, each with a small sink at either end and another in the middle. Gas taps were spaced out at regular intervals along the bench, bringing back unpleasant memories of Bunsen burners and the various practical jokes that went with them. He winced at the memory of red hot ten pence pieces flicked along the desk. Mercifully, he hadn’t fallen for that one. Dixon had hated chemistry almost as much as he hated physics, but he wouldn’t tell Phillips that.

  ‘Is that you?’ The voice came from a small office at the back of the room, hidden behind the whiteboard.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dixon, peering around the door.