Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4) Page 16

  ‘Drink, mainly. They went to rock concerts sometimes.’

  ‘Who was the dominant one?’

  ‘Derek was the boss.’

  ‘So, Clive would do what Derek said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘When did his drinking become a problem?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. A couple of years before he left St Dunstan’s? Maybe. More, perhaps. It was amazing they put up with him so long.’

  ‘What was his relationship with Derek like around this time?’

  ‘It fell apart. They were always fighting. It was Derek he hit when he got the sack. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Did he ever explain to you why he was drinking heavily?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he get help for it?’

  ‘What, Alcoholics Anonymous or something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, he never did that. Never accepted he had a problem.’

  ‘Did you discuss it with him?’

  ‘No. Never. He wasn’t that sort of person and we didn’t have that sort of relationship.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Derek? Explain why they’d fallen out?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want anything more to do with him. Couldn’t go along with it anymore.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Those were his words. I asked him what he meant but he refused to explain.’

  Dixon looked at the wall next to Mrs Cooper’s chair. There was a picture of Jesus Christ in an ornate gold frame with rosary beads draped around it. She was wearing a crucifix too.

  ‘What about his religion?’

  ‘He was brought up a strict Catholic and stayed that way until the end.’ She pointed at the picture on the wall. ‘Those are his rosary beads. They found them in his pocket when they pulled him out the river.’

  ‘What about the rest of his stuff?’

  ‘His clothes went to the tip. That’s all they were fit for.’

  ‘You mention a rucksack in your statement?’

  ‘It’s in the wardrobe in the spare room. I couldn’t bear to touch it.’

  ‘Can we see it?’

  ‘Just take it.’

  Dixon looked at Jane and nodded. She up got and went to get the rucksack.

  ‘It’s the door on the left, dear,’ said Mrs Cooper.

  ‘One last question,’ said Dixon, ‘what d’you think happened to him?’

  ‘I don’t know and, to be honest, I really don’t care anymore.’

  ‘What d’you make of that?’ asked Jane, as they sped east on the B3227 towards Taunton.

  ‘Clive started drinking a couple of years or perhaps longer before he got sacked from St Dunstan’s. That’s what she said. That was before Phelps left ten years ago.’

  ‘Which was not long after Fran disappeared,’ said Jane.

  ‘It’s not. And he fell out with Derek at the same time because he couldn’t go along with “it” anymore.’

  ‘I’d love to know what the “it” is.’

  ‘It’s going to be one of two things. Either Derek killed Fran or he was blackmailing whoever did.’

  ‘D’you think he killed Fran?’

  ‘Not a chance. He’d never’ve got away with it.’

  ‘So, he was blackmailing someone?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I dunno. But it sure as bloody hell wasn’t Rowena Weatherly.’

  Dixon’s phone rang just as Jane was parking her car behind Taunton Police Station. It was Roger Poland.

  ‘It’s a hockey stick, all right. Let me rephrase that. The injuries are consistent with being hit by a hockey stick.’

  ‘Phelps?’

  ‘Both. The pathologist in Cardiff emailed over her photos.’

  ‘Thanks, Roger.’

  ‘How’re you getting on?’

  ‘Close. Just need to be a bit closer.’

  ‘You’ll get there.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And don’t do anything stupid when you do.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Dixon rang off. Jane had parked the car and was walking out of the car park with Monty on a lead. No doubt she would be back in five or ten minutes, so he opened the glove box and pulled a pair of disposable rubber gloves out of the box that was wedged in alongside the service booklet, a torch and a pair of sunglasses. Dixon also spotted a packet of fruit pastilles. He smiled. She must have put them there just for him.

  He reached over his shoulder and dragged Clive Cooper’s rucksack between the seats into the front of the car, dumping it on the driver’s seat. Then he opened it. The top flap felt heavy, so he unzipped the pocket and looked in. There was a penknife, a half empty tube of toothpaste and a roll of toilet paper in a plastic bag, presumably to keep it dry. There was also a blue plastic cigarette lighter.

  He zipped the pocket back up and allowed the flap to fall behind the rucksack. Then he peered into the main compartment. He had no intention of emptying out the contents in Jane’s car and was really just killing time until she got back with Monty. Her calming influence might be useful if he bumped into DCI Chard in the station.

  He reached in and began feeling around inside the main compartment. There was some light coming from the police station windows and the outside light above the back door but not nearly enough for him to see what he was doing. It felt a bit like a lucky dip.

  Then his fingers closed around a small book. It felt soft to the touch, even through rubber gloves. He flicked it open and felt the paper. It was thin. Pocket Bible thin.

  Jane arrived back with Monty ten minutes later to find Dixon waiting by the back of her car. She noticed that he was wearing gloves and carrying Clive Cooper’s rucksack.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Can you get Phelps’ stuff out of store?’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, again.’

  ‘OK, if you say so.’

  Dixon followed Jane to the store and waited while she fetched the box. They were on their way up the stairs when Chard appeared on the landing above them.

  ‘Where have you two been?’

  ‘Doing your j . . .’

  ‘To interview Clive Cooper’s mother. We’ll fill you in later, Sir,’ said Jane.

  ‘Who’s Clive Cooper?’

  ‘A friend of Derek Phelps.’

  ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering. The lab’s confirmed blood on the hockey stick and we’re gonna charge her in the morning.’

  ‘For Isobel Swan and Phelps?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she didn’t kill Isobel Swan.’

  ‘And you can prove that, I suppose?’

  ‘Can you prove she did?’

  ‘She’s confessed. And she knows all sorts of stuff that’s not been made public.’

  Dixon sighed.

  ‘Just don’t go mucking it up,’ said Chard.

  ‘You don’t need my hel . . .’

  ‘We won’t, Sir,’ said Jane.

  Once in the comparative safety of a vacant office off the CID Room, Dixon took the small Bible out of the box of Derek Phelps’ belongings and put it on the table. It was bound in soft black leather with gold lettering on the front. New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures. Then he reached into Cooper’s rucksack and felt around for the book that he knew was in there. His fingers closed around it and he pulled it out of the rucksack, placing it on the table next to Derek’s. It too was bound in black leather with identical gold lettering on the front.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Jane.

  Dixon frowned at her.

  ‘Pardon the pun,’ she said. ‘What’s the New World Translation?’

 
‘Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ replied Dixon.

  Jane nodded.

  Dixon picked up Cooper’s Bible and opened it. On the flyleaf, written in faded black ink that had turned brown with the passage of time, was the reference ‘Colossians 3:25’. The handwriting was old fashioned, classical even, and he was sure a fountain pen had been used.

  ‘What does it say on the flyleaf of that one?’ asked Dixon.

  Jane picked up Derek’s Bible, opened it and read aloud. ‘Colossians 3:25.’

  ‘It’s from the New Testament.’ Dixon turned to the back of the Bible and began flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. “Certainly the one that is doing wrong will receive back what he wrongly did, and there is no partiality”.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Do wrong and you’ll get it back. No exceptions. Otherwise known as revenge. Do we know any Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

  ‘Arnold Davies.’

  ‘The driving instructor,’ said Dixon, nodding. ‘I think we need to have a word with Mr Davies, don’t you?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Cotford St Luke was a maze of new houses built on the site of the old Tone Vale Hospital. It was described as a ‘new village’ on Wikipedia and had been built almost entirely from scratch in the years since Dixon had left St Dunstan’s. He switched to Google Maps and looked for Burge Avenue, which was at the western end of the village. He sighed.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s all communal car parks and allocated parking. I was hoping for a car with “L” plates on it parked in a drive.’

  ‘Lazy bugger. Enter the full address and it’ll drop a pin on it.’

  Dixon typed 37 Burge Avenue into the search field, hit ‘Enter’ and watched a red pin drop onto the grey tiled roof of a house at the furthest end of the avenue, backing onto open fields. He zoomed in.

  ‘There is a drive so we’ll soon see if he’s in.’

  ‘Good.’

  Dixon took Arnold Davies’ witness statement out of the file, switched the internal light on in the car and tried to read it again.

  ‘Try not to swing the car about, will you? I’m gonna throw up in a minute.’

  ‘What’d you expect, reading in a car?’ replied Jane. ‘You must’ve read it five times already.’

  She turned into Cotford St Luke and slowed down.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Straight over the first roundabout, left at the next and then just keep going. Burge Avenue is a dead end.’

  Jane crept along Burge Avenue looking for the house numbers on the right while Dixon peered at the houses on the left. Few had their outside lights on and spotting the numbers was far from easy in the streetlights.

  ‘There it is,’ said Jane.

  Parked in the drive of a house at the far end of Burge Avenue, directly under a street lamp, was a light green Nissan Micra. It had a large white sign on the roof announcing ‘Arnold’s Driving School’, the ‘L’ of Arnold being large and bright red, just like an ‘L’ plate.

  ‘Why do driving instructors have to do that?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was taught to drive by a bloke called Nigel and his “L” was . . .’

  ‘I get it,’ said Jane.

  She parked across the drive of number 37 and turned to Dixon.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Let’s go and speak to him. Just checking the detail in his statement at this stage. All right?’

  Jane nodded and got out of the car. She put her hand on the bonnet of the Nissan Micra.

  ‘Still warm.’

  Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after 5 p.m. ‘You’d have thought he’d be out on the road now, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose you would,’ said Jane, ringing the doorbell.

  Dixon peered through the frosted glass window. A light came on in the hall and he watched a figure walking towards the door. Blue trousers and a red top of some sort. At least there was no dog barking to set Monty off in the back of Jane’s car.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re looking for Arnold Davies.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Police, Sir.’

  Davies didn’t wait to see their warrant cards. He stepped forward onto the front step, closing the door behind him. Dixon thought him to be in his early sixties perhaps. A pair of reading glasses was sitting on top of a thick head of greying hair.

  ‘Can we do this somewhere else? My wife’s . . .’ his voice tailed off and he looked nervously over his shoulder.

  ‘Down at the station, Mr Davies? asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes, yes. Anywhere.’

  ‘Station it is, then.’

  ‘How long will we be?’

  ‘That depends on you, really,’ replied Dixon. ‘Say, a couple of hours.’

  Davies opened the front door and shouted. ‘Got a couple of lessons, dear. Back about sevenish.’

  ‘OK,’ came the reply.

  Dixon looked at Jane and shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned to Davies.

  ‘Constable Winter can drive your car, Sir, otherwise Mrs Davies will wonder what it’s still doing there, won’t she?’

  ‘What did you make of that?’ asked Jane.

  Arnold Davies was waiting in an interview room at Taunton Police Station, drinking a cup of tea.

  ‘Buggered if I know what he’s up to,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘I was half expecting a chase across the fields at the back, but that . . .’

  ‘It was odd, I’ll give him that. Anything from Louise?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let’s go and see what Davies has got to say for himself, then.’

  Dixon and Jane sat down opposite Arnold Davies. Dixon switched on the tape, introduced everyone for the record and then reminded Davies that he was not under arrest. He nodded.

  ‘I need you to acknowledge, for the tape.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry.’

  ‘You’ve declined a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We wanted to clarify certain issues arising from your statement . . .’

  ‘I’ve not made a statement yet.’

  ‘Yes, you have.’ Dixon opened a file on the desk in front of him and took out a copy of a handwritten witness statement. He looked at the names at the top. ‘You gave this statement to WPC Hamzij on 27th November, it says here.’

  ‘That was about the dead girl.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, this isn’t about . . . oh, thank God.’ Davies closed his eyes and began muttering under his breath.

  ‘About what, Mr Davies?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘I’ve had a girl complaining about me, making threats to report me for touching her. It’s all lies. She failed her test, that’s all, and wants her money back.’

  Dixon looked at Jane. She shook her head.

  ‘No complaint has been made to police, Mr Davies, and that is not why you’re here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What does Colossians 3:25 mean to you?’

  ‘Certainly the one who does wrong will be repaid for the wrong he has done, and there is no partiality.’

  ‘You know it by heart?’

  ‘Bible study is part of being a Jehovah’s Witness, Inspector. I would expect every Witness to know that quotation.’

  ‘That’s a modern version?’

  ‘The 2013 Revision. The 1984 version is “Certainly the one that is doing wrong will receive back what he wrongly did, and there is no partiality”.’

  ‘And what do you understand it to mean?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Do wrong and you’ll receive it back. No exceptions.’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Revenge, retribution, vengeance, call it what you will.’

  ‘What happene
d to turning the other cheek?’

  ‘It’s all in the context. You can twist the words any way you want when you take them out of context.’

  ‘Have you ever given a Bible to anyone?’

  ‘I give Bibles to people all the time. It’s what we do.’

  ‘How about one with Colossians 3:25 written on the flyleaf?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with Isobel Swan.’

  ‘The word “relationship” worries me. I didn’t have a relationship with Isobel. I teach people to drive and she was learning.’

  ‘So, it was a teacher and pupil relationship?’

  ‘I suppose it was, seeing as you put it like that.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Not well at all. She had a lesson once a week. She’d started at the beginning of term so what’s that, ten lessons, perhaps?’

  ‘Do you keep records?’

  ‘My appointment diaries.’

  ‘Going back how far?’

  ‘Since I started. Thirty-two years.’

  ‘Have you ever taught pupils from St Dunstan’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Isobel say anything during her lesson that day that gave you any cause for concern?’

  ‘Nothing. It was just an ordinary lesson. We did some parallel parking, I think, then I dropped her back at about six o’clock.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Like her usual self.’

  ‘Does the name Rowena Weatherly mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Fran Sawyer?’

  ‘No.’ Davies shook his head.

  ‘She was a pupil at St Dunstan’s. You taught her to drive seventeen years ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  It does to me.

  ‘Let’s try again. She disappeared the day she passed her test . . .’

  ‘That was her name? I do remember that, yes. Tragic. I’m sorry, I couldn’t recall the name.’

  ‘What can you remember about that day?’

  ‘She took her test. Passed it. And then I dropped her back to the school. I remember her boyfriend was waiting for her with a bunch of flowers.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. I gave a more detailed statement at the time. Two, I think, from memory.’