Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4) Page 22

  ‘What happens when it does, I wonder?’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we, but I’m guessing it’ll stick like glue.’

  ‘You’d see it, surely?’

  ‘Not if you were short sighted. And when was the last time you looked at the heel of your shoe?’

  ‘I’m not sure I ever have.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, how did her lens come out?’

  ‘Maybe she fell heavily or just rubbed her eyes, something like that,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It doesn’t take much for them to come out, that’s for sure,’ replied Poland. ‘I’m always having to stop the clock so some twit can put a lens back in.’

  ‘I forgot you referee rugby matches.’

  ‘Keeps me fit.’

  Dixon picked up his shoe and examined the contact lens. It was shrivelled at the edges but still only stuck to the shoe in the very centre of the lens.

  ‘That’s not it at all,’ said Dixon. ‘And you’d see that.’

  ‘Try another one the other way round,’ said Poland.

  Dixon tore the seal off another contact lens and placed it on the side of his shoe, this time facing outwards. The edge of the lens formed a seal of sorts to the leather.

  ‘That’s more like it. It’ll stick flat to the side when it dries out, you watch.’

  ‘It’ll take a while,’ said Poland.

  ‘Time for another coffee?’

  ‘I’ve got to check on a post mortem. I’ll bring one back with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  Dixon picked up his shoe and watched the contact lens stuck to the side gradually drying out. He prodded it with his finger and it moved but not much. It hadn’t taken long for a seal to form around the rim of the lens and only a direct hit would shift it now.

  By the time Poland returned with two more mugs of coffee the lens was stuck flat to the side of the shoe.

  ‘Forty-one minutes it took,’ said Dixon, holding the shoe out to Poland.

  He took it and examined the lens.

  ‘That’s not coming off in a hurry. It looks almost vacuum sealed.’

  ‘You could even polish over it and wouldn’t come off.’

  ‘Then you’d never see it.’

  ‘Only I did see it,’ said Dixon. ‘Plain as day. And so close I could reach out and touch it.’

  Dixon sat in his Land Rover and listened to the rain hammering on the roof. He looked at his watch: 11 a.m. He turned out of Musgrove Park Hospital and then drove north-west out of Taunton. It had been seventeen years since he had last been to St Dunstan’s and he had always sworn that he would never go back. Still, needs must, he thought.

  He looked down at the school from the bridge over the railway line before turning right into the main entrance. It was a grand building, almost Gothic in its appearance and very much like Brunel, built of grey stone with a central tower over the front entrance.

  Dixon parked across the front door and ran in. He knew exactly where he was going. He turned right along the main corridor and then left along the corridor leading to the assembly room. He was looking at the photographs on the walls either side as he ran. School teams going back in time the further along the corridor he went. Rugby, football, hockey, cricket and tennis. He slowed as he went further back and stopped at the team photographs from seventeen years ago. He stood in front of the girls’ tennis team looking at the picture of Fran. She was sitting in the middle of the front row of three, with three teammates standing behind her and the coach standing on the left. Mr Adrian Saunders, according to the names printed beneath the photograph.

  Dixon shook his head. He could not remember an Adrian Saunders at all.

  ‘Dixon, isn’t it?’

  He spun round and recognised his housemaster from all those years ago. A bit greyer, perhaps, but otherwise he had hardly changed a bit.

  ‘Mr Hopkins,’ said Dixon, holding out his hand.

  They shook hands, as Mr Hopkins looked him up and down.

  ‘You look well. What’re you up to these days?’

  Dixon took out his warrant card and handed it to him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hopkins, rolling his eyes. ‘Are you here on business?’

  ‘Yes. What can you tell me about Adrian Saunders?’ asked Dixon, pointing at the photograph of the girls’ tennis team.

  Hopkins peered at it.

  ‘Not a lot, really. I seem to remember he was a postgraduate teaching assistant or a trainee here for a year or two, perhaps. I think. But it didn’t work out so he just left as far as I . . . d’you want me to ask? Someone may remember him.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I never forget a face. Pupils, that is; teachers and staff are a different matter. I don’t know half the ones here now.’

  Dixon looked at the picture mounted on the wall. It was in a brown wooden frame screwed to the wall with brass brackets on either side.

  ‘You’re gonna have to bear with me, Mr Hopkins. I’ll be back to pay for the damage later.’

  ‘What damage?’

  Dixon smashed the glass with the edge of his phone. Then he pulled the photograph out from behind the cardboard mounting and ran back to his car. It wasn’t the first time that Mr Hopkins had been left to pick up the pieces.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dixon sped north up the M5. He had his foot down hard on the accelerator and his old Land Rover was creaking and rattling in protest. Not only that, but he could hardly hear himself think over the roar of the engine. He needed to get the photograph blown up and then the subject, Adrian Saunders, aged.

  He tried hard to remember Adrian Saunders. A trainee teacher, according to Mr Hopkins. Dixon shook his head. It had been a week of memories flooding back at every opportunity, but the last one, the vital one, eluded him. Still, whoever he was then, Dixon knew damn well who he was now and they would soon be face to face.

  Taunton Police Station had not been an option so he had driven to Bridgwater and arrived at Express Park just after midday. At least there he would be out of Chard’s reach, for the time being. He would need to stay out of DCI Lewis’ way too.

  It was his first visit to the Bridgwater Police Centre at Express Park. Concrete blocks and glass, lots of glass. He ran in the main entrance, waved his warrant card at the receptionist, and then continued up the stairs to the open plan CID Room on the first floor. It looked more like a call centre than a police station. Still, it was his first visit and likely to be his last too, so there was no point worrying about it.

  He spotted WPC Louise Willmott sitting at a desk at the far end.

  ‘Where’s Jane?’ he asked.

  ‘She dropped me off and then went back to Taunton. Said she might pop home first, though.’

  ‘You saw Arnold Davies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘He was approached one day by a kitchen porter who said he wanted to learn to drive. He gave him a business card but heard no more about it.’

  ‘Did he give a description?’

  ‘Yes. Jane’s got my notes. She said it fitted with Phelps.’

  Dixon handed the photograph of the tennis team to Louise.

  ‘I need this photo blown up to focus on the coach. This man,’ he said, jabbing his finger at the man standing on the end of the back row. ‘Then we need to age him.’

  ‘When d’you need it done by?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Louise got up, taking the photograph with her, so Dixon sat at her desk. He looked along the line of desks in front of him, all of them white, with black partitioning, and shook his head. He didn’t recognise a single officer either, until he spotted DCI Lewis at the far end. He ducked down behind Louise’s computer and hoped for the best.

 
‘Hiding from anyone in particular, Sir?’

  Dixon looked up to see PC Cole standing over him.

  ‘The DCI, down the far end.’

  ‘He’s gone now, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Cole,’ said Dixon, sitting up.

  ‘Saw you on the telly the other day. At Taunton Racecourse.’

  ‘Not you as well?’

  ‘We all did.’

  Dixon was about to respond when he saw Louise standing behind PC Cole. She was leaning on the corner of the desk opposite, breathing hard.

  ‘Did you sort out the photo?’ he asked her.

  ‘We can blow it up easily enough,’ replied Louise, ‘But you’d need to go to HQ Portishead for the age progression software. It’s not same day either.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Know anyone who can use Photoshop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You could try SCAT.’

  ‘You, Louise, are a star,’ said Dixon. ‘Is there a back way out of this place?’

  ‘Follow me, Sir,’ said Cole.

  Dixon sat in his car and rang Jane. He tried three times but got no reply. Maybe she was at home. He just had time to get there and then get to the Somerset College of Arts and Technology before 2 p.m. Perfect.

  Monty started barking when he heard the sound of Dixon’s engine outside the cottage but there was no sign of Jane. He tried her mobile phone again. Still no reply. So he put Monty in the car and sped south on the M5, back to Taunton.

  As he raced past Express Park, which was visible from the motorway, he wondered if he would have a chance to get his mileage claim in before he was fired.

  Dixon parked in the loading bay directly outside the Arts and Design Centre at the Somerset College of Arts and Technology. It was nearly 2.30 p.m. More concrete and glass but the rusting steel statue on the lawn caught his attention as he ran up the path. It reminded him of Icarus, with his wings outstretched and full of holes. No chance of wax melting on a day like today, he thought, running with his hands in his pockets.

  He rubbed his hands together and blew on them as he waited for the receptionist to finish her telephone call. He looked around at the pictures on the walls, spinning round when he heard the call end.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Dixon placed his warrant card on the counter.

  ‘I need to find someone who can use Photoshop. And quickly, please.’

  ‘Photoshop?’

  ‘Yes. It’s software for editing photogra . . .’

  ‘I know what it is. Why do you need it?’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation and I don’t have time to go through the proper channels.’

  The receptionist turned round and shouted towards an open door behind her. Dixon had thought the room was empty.

  ‘Jan, who would use Photoshop?’

  ‘Try Peter Bailey. He teaches photography.’

  ‘Where would I find Mr Bailey?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘He’ll be in the canteen now, I expect. Down the corridor on the right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Dixon ran along the corridor, through the swing doors and into the canteen. The serving area was directly in front of him as he went in and a large queue of people waiting patiently with their empty trays turned and stared at him. To his left were perhaps twelve or so round tables, all of them occupied by six or more students.

  ‘Peter Bailey?’

  ‘Over there,’ replied one of the students in the queue, pointing to a table on the far side of the canteen occupied by older diners. Dixon ran over to it.

  ‘I’m looking for Peter Bailey.’

  ‘That’ll be me.’

  He had curly ginger hair and looked suitably casual in a white collarless shirt, open at the neck, under a threadbare brown corduroy jacket.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can have a private word, please, Mr Bailey?’

  ‘Now?’

  Dixon handed him his warrant card.

  ‘Oh, right, yes, through here.’

  Dixon followed Peter Bailey through a door at the far end of the canteen, into the corridor and then along to an office at the far end, his own, judging by the name on the door.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked, sitting down behind his desk.

  ‘I’m told you use Photoshop?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Would you be able to age a photograph for me?’

  ‘Don’t you have access to age progression software these days?’

  ‘We do but I don’t have time . . .’

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘Oh, God. Have you got the photo with you?’

  Dixon handed Bailey the team photo.

  ‘It’s the man standing back left. Can you blow it up and age it?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘An hour or so. Depends how accurate you want it.’

  ‘Just a general idea will do.’

  Bailey stood up and lifted the lid of a scanner on the table next to his desk. He placed the photograph face down on the glass, closed the lid and then pressed a large green button.

  ‘There we go. It’ll be in my email right about . . .’ The computer on the table in the corner of his office made a soft ping sound. ‘. . . now.’

  He took out the photograph and handed it back to Dixon. Then he sat down in front of his computer.

  ‘You can stand behind and watch if you want. You get used to people doing that in my line of work.’

  ‘I suppose you do,’ replied Dixon.

  Bailey opened his email and then clicked on the attachment to the first email in his inbox. The photograph opened in Microsoft Picture Viewer then he clicked on an icon bottom right, which closed that programme and opened another called Paint.

  ‘Now we can cut out the subject.’

  Dixon tried to follow the clicks of the mouse. He watched Bailey draw a square around Adrian Saunders then right click on the mouse and select ‘Cut’. Saunders disappeared from the photograph, leaving a small square hole. Seventeen years too late, thought Dixon.

  The mouse clicks began speeding up now and Dixon was soon lost. He watched Saunders reappear in a new picture, this time all on his own.

  ‘What shall we save it as?’ asked Bailey.

  Dixon was miles away and did not reply.

  ‘“Untitled one” will do,’ said Bailey. ‘Now we can import it into Photoshop.’

  Dixon nodded. He watched Bailey open Adobe Photoshop and then import the small photograph of Saunders into the middle of a large screen with a bewildering array of toolbars either side and above.

  ‘It’ll get a bit grainy when we blow it up but I can soon fix that, don’t worry,’ said Bailey. ‘D’you want me to explain to you what I’m doing as we go along?’

  ‘It won’t mean anything to me if you do, I’m afraid,’ replied Dixon. ‘You’ve lost me already.’

  ‘Photoshop does that to people, particularly if you’re not used to it.’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ said Dixon.

  ‘OK, I’m just going to blow it up as large as I dare, then tidy up the edges . . . just refining the mask . . .’

  Dixon looked out of the window. The sun had come out and was reflecting off the windows of his Land Rover parked outside.

  ‘Right, how old do you want to go?’

  ‘Let’s make him sixty-five. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m just gonna use the patch tool to add some wrinkles first . . .’

  Dixon shook his head and looked back out of the window. Monty was sitting on the passenger seat of the Land Rover looking around and sniffing at the small opening Dixon had left in the wind
ow.

  ‘What about the hair?’

  ‘Same style but grey.’

  ‘That’s easily done.’

  Bailey began humming as he worked. Dixon closed his eyes and counted to ten. It was a small price to pay.

  ‘I’m just gonna drop in some similar ears off an older subject. OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  Dixon watched Bailey scrolling through photographs of older men.

  ‘Those look about right, don’t they? Same shape.’

  ‘Look fine to me.’

  ‘We’ll use those.’

  More humming.

  ‘Now for the eyebrows. I just need to create a brush first.’

  Dixon checked his phone. He had missed a call from Jane, which was odd because he didn’t remember hearing it ring. Perhaps it had been drowned out by the noise of his diesel engine out on the motorway?

  ‘There we go. How do they look?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The nose is thinner, somehow?’

  ‘Maybe he’s had a nose job. Do you want me to . . . ?’

  ‘No, don’t bother. Can you make the hair whiter?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Dixon looked at his watch. It was nearly 4 p.m. He looked back to the computer screen. His eyes narrowed as he started to recognise the face looking back at him.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Glasses. Black, horn rimmed.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Dixon was breathing heavily now. His pulse was racing and a sick feeling was rising from the pit of his stomach.

  ‘They’re sitting nice and central. Anything else?’

  ‘A beard. Give him a beard.’

  ‘White?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Three inches or so.’

  Dixon tried to follow the last few clicks of the mouse as Bailey created a brush and then drew a white beard on the image of an older Adrian Saunders. But Saunders was long gone.

  ‘D’you know him?’ asked Bailey.

  ‘I do.’

  She parked in the car park at the back of the school and looked up at the sports hall. Only a few days before, she’d been standing behind it, shivering in the cold, looking down at the body of a kitchen porter with the back of his head bashed in.