by Damien Boyd
‘It isn’t,’ said Charlesworth. ‘Where was she found?’
‘In a ditch at the bottom of the playing fields. There was a large quantity of blood on a small footbridge over the ditch so it looks like her throat was cut on the bridge before she was pushed in.’
‘What else?’
‘Several witnesses report seeing a car in the car park behind the Bishop Sutton Hall they’d not seen before or since. It had been there a few days and then disappeared.’
‘Make, model?’
‘They couldn’t say. Only that it was blue and small with a boot. Definitely not a hatchback. The obvious inference is that it was for moving her and the killer was disturbed.’
‘Why is that obvious?’
‘There’s CCTV covering the main car park at the front of the school, but none on this car park. It’s also adjacent to the playing fields. I’m guessing now, but it’s possible he was carrying her across to the car when he was disturbed and had to drop down onto the playing fields. There’s a line of leylandii he could have hidden behind and it leads out to where she was found.’
‘Who uses it?’ asked Dixon. Lewis glared at him.
‘What?’ asked Chard.
‘The car park,’ replied Dixon.
Chard looked at his notes. ‘Parents visiting Bishop Knox, Markham and Tuckerman houses. Staff as well. And anyone visiting the sports hall.’
‘Any CCTV of the car?’ asked Charlesworth.
‘None, Sir. We’ve checked the town cameras but if you come out of the school and turn left you’re straight out into the country.’
‘What about her friends? What do they say?’
‘We’ve talked to her two best friends, Emily Setter and Susannah Bower. They say it was just an ordinary Saturday afternoon, really. They’d watched the 1st XV rugby match. They beat Millfield 22–10 . . .’
‘I’m not interested in the bloody score, Simon.’
‘Sorry, Sir. Then they went into town after Isobel’s driving lesson.’
‘Into town?’
‘Sixth formers are allowed into town, Sir.’
‘Last sighting?’
‘Just before ten at the main entrance. Emily and Susannah went back to Tuckerman and Isobel headed for Gardenhurst House. Different directions.’
‘Is there a boyfriend?’
‘She was friendly with a lad called . . .’ Chard began thumbing through a notebook, ‘. . . Ben Masterson, but there’s no evidence they were boyfriend and girlfriend.’
‘What about the driving instructor?’ asked Dixon.
‘He checks out. He picked her up at 5.30 p.m. for a half hour lesson and then dropped her back.’
‘Dropped her back where?’
Chard looked at DI Baldwin.
‘The car park behind the Bishop Sutton Hall,’ said Baldwin.
‘So, apart from some guesswork about an otherwise unidentified car, we’ve got no leads at all. Is that right?’ asked Charlesworth.
‘We’re going to be doing a public appeal, Sir. I’ve already spoken to Vicky about it,’ replied Chard.
‘Appeal for what?’
‘Information about the car. Sightings, anyone who can report it missing.’
‘I’ve set up a press conference for Monday morning,’ said Vicky Thomas.
‘Well, go ahead with that, by all means; you never know what might turn up. In the meantime, we’ve another plan, thankfully.’ Charlesworth turned to Lewis. ‘I’m assuming you’ve told Dixon why he’s here?’
‘Not specifically, Sir, no. I briefed him about the investigation, not his part in it.’
Dixon sat up. He had spent much of the last ten minutes brushing the dust off a box of memories and wondering whether the time had come to open it. And whether he could face it. He had drifted in and out of the conversation, blurting out the odd question when it had occurred to him, if only to make it look as if he had been paying attention. The mention of his name brought him back to the present with a jolt.
‘Dixon.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Fancy trying your hand at a bit of teaching?’
‘Teaching?’
‘Yes. Get in there and find out what the bloody hell’s been going on in that place.’
‘Undercover?’
‘You’ll be a student teacher doing a Postgraduate Certificate in Education at Bristol University. Two weeks’ work experience before the end of term. It’s all been set up with the headmaster.’
‘But . . .’
‘You won’t have to do any real teaching. Just sit in on a few lessons, that’s all. The head teaches law A Level. You can sit in with him to make it look genuine.’
‘Why me?’
‘Two reasons. Firstly, you went to one of these places.’
‘I went to St Dunstan’s, Sir. On the other side of town.’
‘They’re all the same, and you know how they work. None of us have got a bloody clue.’
Dixon noticed the sneer on Chard’s face.
‘And, secondly,’ continued Charlesworth, ‘DCI Lewis tells me you’re the best we’ve got.’
‘Remind me to thank him later, Sir,’ said Dixon, glaring at Lewis.
‘I asked for a copy of the investigation file to be made available.’
‘It’s here, Sir,’ said Chard, offering a green document wallet to Charlesworth in his outstretched hand.
‘I don’t want it. Give it to Dixon.’
Chard slid the folder across the table. Dixon opened it and flicked through the contents. There was a bundle of witness statements, from which he did not expect to learn much, Roger Poland’s post mortem report and then, at the back, a bundle of photographs. He started with the post mortem report.
‘Take it away and read it, but for God’s sake don’t take it into the school with you,’ said Charlesworth.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Dixon, without looking up.
‘The headmaster’s expecting you this evening. One of the masters is away on a sabbatical in the Far East so you’ll be using his rooms in the main school.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What about liaison?’ asked Charlesworth.
‘I thought we might assign Jane Winter to Simon’s team for the duration of the investigation, Sir,’ replied Lewis. ‘She could act as Nick’s contact. After all, what could be more plausible than his real girlfriend?’
‘A relationship with a fellow officer, Dixon?’ asked Charlesworth.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well, it makes sense, I suppose.’
Dixon began flicking through the bundle of photographs. It started with shots of Isobel Swan lying face down and naked in a shallow stream, her hair waving in the current. Her left arm was resting on the bank with her right arm underneath her. Dixon could see that the ring finger was missing from her left hand. The photographs had been taken from above, the photographer standing on the bank and also on the small footbridge that crossed the stream and led through a gap in the hedge into the adjacent field, where the all weather hockey pitches were.
Dixon recognised the spot. Memories came flooding back. Of away hockey matches and the walk down to the all weather pitch; there had been only one back then. Of times he had chosen not to think about since.
The last photograph in the album showed Isobel Swan lying on the slab in the mortuary. Dixon stared at it. There was no going back now. The box was open and the memories were running wild. People, places, sounds, smells, laughter, tears. He was reliving his school days in a split second as the images flashed across his mind.
He could hear voices but was no longer listening to the conversation going on around him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
‘Dixon.’
He closed the photograph album and looked up. All eyes in the room were on hi
m. Watching and waiting. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he looked at Charlesworth.
‘It is a consolation, Sir.’
‘What is?’
‘To know that she didn’t suffer.’
The day began much like any other Sunday during term time. He had remembered to adjust the time for the lost hour in bed now that the clocks had gone forward and his alarm had gone off just after 7 a.m., as usual. Then it was a quick shower, a shave and over to breakfast in the main school. After breakfast came chapel, hence the Sunday suit; regulation dark grey with a white shirt and navy blue tie.
The shave was not strictly necessary but he had bought the cheap plastic razors and a can of foam the day before, so he thought he’d give it a try.
They always had breakfast together at 8 a.m. Always. Without fail. But then they did everything together and had done since they had first met. They were inseparable, or so it seemed to the rest of the school. She watched him play rugby and hockey and he watched her play netball and tennis. They never missed a match. They even studied together in the school library.
They had got used to the constant jibes and whistles from the other pupils. Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde, even Pinky and Perky, they had heard it all. But he didn’t care. She was beautiful and he knew they were just jealous.
It had been love at first sight for her and a little longer for him, perhaps an hour. They used to joke about it. She always said he was a bit slower.
They had got it all mapped out. They were engaged to be married, they just hadn’t told anyone yet. Next came the same university to study the same subject. It didn’t matter what. Then they would get married. Earlier if they summoned up the courage to defy their parents. They had talked about Gretna Green many times but they knew they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. Time was on their side and all that mattered was that they would never be apart again.
But today she wasn’t there.
8 a.m. came and went. He waited. It had never happened before and he knew straight away that something was wrong.
The night before they had gone to the wine bar in the High Street. The one that never asked your age. She had passed her driving test and they were celebrating.
Then they crept over the wall at the bottom of the playing fields and across the new AstroTurf hockey pitch to the car park. They had said goodnight on the steps of the girls’ house, as usual, and their kiss had attracted several wolf whistles and shouts of ‘get a room’ from the students piling out of the 287 Club. Full of watered down beer, the lot of them.
That was the last time he saw her.
He looked around the dining room, which was starting to empty now. 8.15 a.m. came and went and breakfast was over. She had never missed it before. He was starting to panic. Then he noticed that none of the girls were there.
He ran out of the dining room and along the corridor towards the girls’ house. He took the flight of steps halfway along in two bounds and then stopped abruptly when he saw his housemaster and the headmaster’s wife walking towards him.
He heard his name and felt an arm around his shoulder. They were talking quickly and he noticed that the headmaster’s wife was crying. He couldn’t remember much of what was said but two words from his housemaster got through.
‘She’s gone.’
Chapter Two
Roger Poland was waiting outside the pathology lab at Musgrove Park Hospital when Dixon arrived, his large frame blocking the doorway. Dixon watched him rubbing his huge hands together and blowing on them for warmth. Poland always joked that he was too clumsy to be let loose on patients while they were still alive.
‘Good holiday?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘How come you’re involved in this one, then?’ asked Poland, opening the back door to the lab.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Try me.’
‘I’m going undercover as a trainee teacher . . .’
Poland roared with laughter. ‘You?’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall.’
‘I’m not going to do any real teaching,’ said Dixon, following Poland along the corridor. ‘Just sitting in on a few lessons to make it look real.’
‘Why you?’
‘I’ve got the right old school tie, apparently.’
‘Which one did you go to, then?’ asked Poland.
‘St Dunstan’s.’
‘When was that?’
‘I left seventeen years ago.’
‘And the dead girl was at Brunel?’
‘She was.’
‘Chances are no one will recognise you, then.’
‘I hope not.’
‘You know Brunel, though?’
‘I played away matches there. Hockey and rugby. I was useless at cricket.’
‘You played rugby?’
‘Not very well.’
Dixon sat down on the corner of a desk in the lab while Poland fetched Isobel Swan’s file from the cabinet in his office.
‘You’ve read my report?’ asked Poland, appearing through the swing doors.
‘Just the summary. Tell me about ketamine.’
‘It’s an anaesthetic. It causes hallucinations, so it’s not first choice these days, but it’s still used in certain situations. Vets use it a lot too, on horses, mainly. Powerful stuff.’
‘And druggies?’
‘They use it, or rather abuse it, for the hallucinatory effect. It’s a dissociative too so they get an out of body experience and hallucinations at the same time. Not my cup of tea.’
‘How long does it take?’
‘It’s quick, maybe ten minutes or so and it tastes bitter, which explains the red wine in her system.’
‘How much had she had?’
‘Enough to stop a horse. She’d have been unconscious pretty quickly, thank God.’
‘Why thank . . . ?’
‘You haven’t read that bit?’
Dixon shook his head.
‘Her finger was cut off while she was still alive,’ said Poland. ‘Through the proximal phalanx, just about where a ring would sit. Bolt cutters, I think . . .’
Dixon stood up and walked over to the window. Sitting on a bench under a large tree on the far side of the lawn was a man smoking a cigarette. He wore a raincoat and was sheltering under an umbrella. Next to him was an oxygen bottle, the tube connected to his nose. Dixon watched him for several seconds before he shook his head.
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’
‘What does?’
‘A young life snuffed out in here and he’s over there . . .’
‘Are you all right, Nick?’
When he turned back to Poland, Dixon’s face was ashen. He was gritting his teeth so hard he could feel them creaking in his jaw and could taste blood.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Poland.
‘Something like that, Roger,’ replied Dixon.
Dixon sucked the blood from in between his teeth and swallowed hard.
‘Can I see her?’
‘Er, yes, give me a minute.’
Dixon turned back to the window and watched the man finish his cigarette and then light another. But Dixon was elsewhere, delving into a box of memories, all of them good this time. He was brought back to the present by the crash of a trolley into the swing doors on the far side of the lab.
‘Here she is,’ said Poland.
Dixon walked over and stood next to Poland.
‘Ready?’
Dixon nodded.
Poland turned back the green sheet as far as her chin and no further.
‘D’you know her?’ he asked.
Dixon stared at Isobel Swan, lying on the trolley
in front of him with her blonde hair swept back, her eyes closed and her skin a deathly grey.
‘What colour are her eyes?’
‘Green,’ replied Poland.
‘No, I don’t know her.’
‘What’s up, then? I’ve never seen you react like this before.’
Dixon took a deep breath and looked at Poland. Then he uttered the three words he knew changed everything.
‘He’s killed before.’
Dixon was sitting on a chair in Poland’s office watching him rummage in the back of the top drawer of his filing cabinet. Then, with a flourish, Poland produced a half empty bottle of Famous Grouse and poured two large drinks into white plastic cups that he had taken from the water tower.
‘No one must know about this, Roger . . .’
‘Hang on a minute. You’re telling me the killer’s done it before and no one must know?’
‘That’s right. I never told you. You never knew.’
‘Why?’
‘If anyone finds out, I’ll be taken off the case. That can’t happen.’
‘Let’s have it, then,’ said Poland, handing a plastic cup to Dixon.
‘This one’s personal.’
‘Personal?’
‘I was sixteen. My parents sent me to St Dunstan’s to study for my A Levels. There were girls in the sixth form back then and . . . there was one . . .’ Dixon’s voice tailed off. He took a large swig of Scotch. He was staring into the bottom of the plastic cup and spoke without looking up. ‘. . . And . . . we were . . .’ He took another swig of Scotch.
Poland smiled at Dixon and nodded.
‘Then one day she disappeared,’ said Dixon.
‘Disappeared?’
‘Not a trace. Not a bloody thing. They never even found a body. It was all over the news at the time.’
‘I was in Birmingham back then,’ said Poland. ‘What happened?’
‘I was all over the place. Bombed all my exams. Had to resit them at some grotty tutorial college in Oxford.’
‘You poor sod.’
‘It’s why I joined the police and came back to Somerset.’
‘Does Jane know about this?’
‘No.’
