Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4)

by Damien Boyd

‘Are you going to tell her?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ve waited seventeen years to come face to face with this son of a . . .’

  ‘All right, all right, I get it. No one will hear it from me. But don’t you do anything stupid.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Answer me this, though. If a body was never found, how d’you know it’s the same killer?’

  ‘They’re identical.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘Both girls,’ replied Dixon. ‘They could be twins, identical twins, and I don’t believe in coincidence.’

  Poland had the last word, as usual, and as Dixon drove north on the M5, it was ringing in his ears.

  ‘Tell Jane.’

  And he knew that he would. After all, if he couldn’t trust Jane, who could he trust?

  He glanced across at the copy of Isobel Swan’s investigation file on the passenger seat. Find her killer and he would find out what happened to Fran. At last. Then maybe he could move on.

  He had already begun to, if he was honest, despite having always sworn that he wouldn’t. He had met Jane and their relationship had crept up on him. That phrase again. He smiled at the idea of Jane creeping anywhere. Yes, he would tell her and she would help him. He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

  He glanced up at the stars and wondered whether Fran was looking down at him. He had felt her presence from time to time over the years, but less so in recent months. Anyway, one way or the other, he was determined that she would soon be able to rest in peace. So would her family and so would he.

  Dixon grimaced. A car on the southbound carriageway with its lights on full beam dazzled him. He blinked and shook his head. Suddenly, the image of Fran having her ring finger cut off flashed across his mind. He saw her screaming. He blinked again and she was gone.

  It was a question he knew he had to answer. He would find out soon enough and had no real idea how he would react when he did. He had promised Poland that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but finding out that Fran had suffered as Isobel Swan had done might just change that.

  Dixon arrived home just after 6 p.m. to find Jane cooking a spaghetti bolognese. She was standing by the cooker stirring the onions and minced beef, which sizzled in the pan. Monty was sitting at her feet hoping for something, anything, to drop on the floor.

  ‘Hello, Mr Chips,’ said Jane.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dixon, lying. ‘How d’you . . .’

  ‘Lewis rang me. There’s some beer in the fridge.’

  ‘I’d better not. Roger filled me up with whiskey.’

  Dixon stood behind Jane and put his arms around her waist. She turned her head and kissed him, all the time looking into his eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Long story.’

  Jane switched off the gas under the pan and turned round to face Dixon, his arms still around her waist.

  ‘Something’s up. I know it is. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Dixon hesitated, ‘. . . difficult.’

  ‘Is it to do with Isobel Swan?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘No. Look, let’s go and sit down.’

  ‘You’re worrying me now,’ said Jane.

  Dixon took her by the hand and led her into the sitting room. She sat down on the sofa, while Dixon paced up and down in front of the television.

  ‘Just start at the beginning and tell me, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Everyone’s got a past. You’ve got one, I’ve got one.’

  ‘Of course we have.’

  ‘This is about mine. I’m just going to blurt it all out and then you can let me know what you think when I’ve finished.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Dixon took a deep breath.

  ‘You remember me telling you I went to St Dunstan’s College to study for my A Levels?’

  ‘The posh school?’

  ‘That’s the one. I’d never been to boarding school before and I was like a fish out of water, in amongst all these kids who’d been there for years. Sink or swim, it was. Anyway, I swam.’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘Then I met Fran,’ continued Dixon. ‘Fran Sawyer. She was in the lower sixth too. It was like walking into a brick wall. Bang. And that was it. Love’s young dream.’ Dixon smiled. ‘They tried separating us. Fran was switched to a different class but it didn’t work. In the end, they gave up.’

  Dixon looked at Jane, sitting on the sofa, listening intently.

  ‘It’s never occurred to me before, but she’d probably look much like you now. She was beautiful. Blonde hair in a ponytail, green eyes.’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘And she had a beautiful smile too,’ said Dixon. ‘We even got engaged. Told no one, of course, but we were going to be married. Till death us do part and all that.’ Dixon turned to face the television. ‘I loved her, Jane.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Anyway, just before Easter, at the end of the Lent term, before our final exams, she disappeared. All hell broke loose. There was a huge investigation but they never found her. Not a trace. And that was that.’

  Dixon sat on the arm of the sofa next to Jane. She reached up and put her arm around him.

  ‘The sad part about it is she wasn’t even supposed to be there.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Jane.

  ‘She should’ve gone on a hockey tour to Holland but her parents blocked it. Too close to her exams, they said.’

  Jane shook her head.

  ‘Looking back, it’s why I took up rock climbing, I think,’ continued Dixon. ‘Hanging on by your fingertips three hundred feet up a cliff takes your mind off most things. It’s why I joined the police too and why I came back to Somerset. One day I was going to get the chance to find out what happened to her.’

  ‘And now you have?’

  ‘And now I have. Isobel Swan is identical in almost every way except two. Different school and her body’s been found. Same age, profile, looks, everything. This bastard’s killed before.’

  ‘You’re personally involved . . .’

  ‘No one must know. They’ll take me off the case. Someone in that school knows what happened to Isobel and if I find her killer, I find Fran’s killer too.’

  Dixon stood up and walked over to the window. He opened the curtains and looked out. ‘It’s down to you now. I couldn’t do it without telling you and I can’t do it without you.’

  Jane stood up, walked over to Dixon and put her arms around him.

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘What’re you going to wear?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I thought about that brown sports jacket my old man gave me.’

  ‘That’s tweed.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘And there’s that wool tie . . .’

  ‘You can go off people, you know,’ said Dixon, taking the plates out to the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll have a look in the wardrobe.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I can . . .’

  Dixon dropped the plates in the sink and ran upstairs, arriving in the bedroom just in time to watch Jane unzip the cover on the ‘wardrobe’. She was being generous. It was a clothes rail with a canvas cover on it that Dixon had got for twenty quid online. It had served its purpose but would soon be going to the tip when Jane moved in with all her furniture. They had intended to hire a van the following weekend, but those plans were on hold now.

  ‘Is that it?’

  There were several pairs of trousers, a couple of shirts and a suit that he wore for court appearances. Behind that was the sports jacket.

  ‘It’ll have to do,’ said Jane, flicking the dus
t off the shoulders. ‘What about shirts?’

  Dixon opened a suitcase that was lying on the floor and produced two shirts that were still in their plastic bags. ‘Brand new, with tags,’ he said.

  ‘eBay?’

  Dixon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I am not living with someone who buys their clothes on eBay,’ said Jane.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dixon, putting the sports jacket on. Then he did up the top button on his shirt and straightened his tie. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like a trainee teacher going to a boarding school for two weeks’ work experience.’

  ‘You know just what to say.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Jane.

  Dixon threw the shirts and some clean underwear into his sports bag and then went into the bathroom.

  ‘What’s the plan, then?’ shouted Jane, sitting on the end of the bed.

  ‘Haven’t got one yet,’ came the reply. Dixon reappeared in the doorway carrying his toothbrush, razor, a can of shaving gel and a towel, which he stuffed into the top of his bag. ‘I’m just gonna play it by ear to begin with.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You’ve got the difficult job. I need details of anyone arriving at Brunel within the last seventeen years. Teachers and support staff.’

  ‘Support staff?’

  ‘Kitchen and grounds staff, bursar, secretaries, the lot. Look for anyone who was at St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago and moved to Brunel. It’d be useful to have details of anyone who left St Dunstan’s within the last seventeen years too.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘It’ll be easy to get the Brunel stuff. Chard should’ve done full background checks on all of them anyway. Just look for the dates they arrived.’

  ‘What about St Dunstan’s?’

  ‘That won’t be so easy.’

  ‘What reason can I give without giving away the connection?’

  ‘I know. For now, just focus on the Brunel staff and where they were before. We can worry about the rest later if we come up with nothing.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Jane. ‘If someone was at St Dunstan’s and killed Fran and is now at Brunel and killed Isobel then they might recognise you, surely?’

  ‘I doubt it. Anyway, it’s a chance I’ve got to take.’

  ‘You’d have been at St Dunstan’s at the same time.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘I was only there for two years and it was seventeen years ago. I’ll be using a different name as well, don’t forget.’

  ‘It’s too risky,’ said Jane, shaking her head.

  ‘I’ll be fine, really. I’m the hunter, not the hunted.’

  ‘You’d better be.’

  ‘The driving instructor,’ said Dixon, changing the subject. ‘I haven’t got a copy of his statement.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Fran passed her test the day she disappeared.’

  ‘What about her file?’

  ‘My name’ll be all over it so we’d best leave it in store for the time being.’

  Jane followed Dixon down the stairs. Monty was curled up on the sofa so Dixon sat next to him and scratched him behind the ears. ‘Keep an eye on her, matey. I’m relying on you.’

  Jane rolled her eyes.

  ‘Routine stuff on the usual number, OK? They’ll expect that. Get a pay as you go SIM card for anything else, just in case,’ said Dixon.

  ‘OK.’

  Dixon opened the back door of his cottage. It was still raining. He turned back to Jane and kissed her.

  ‘Don’t do anything stu . . .’

  He reached up and put his fingers over Jane’s lips, stopping her mid-sentence.

  ‘Once upon a time, maybe, but I’ve got too much to lose now,’ he said.

  Chapter Three

  The rain had been replaced by sleet, which danced in the headlights of Dixon’s Land Rover as he drove south on a quiet M5. He had stopped at the supermarket just off the motorway roundabout and paid cash for a pay as you go SIM card with twenty pounds of credit, which was safely tucked into his inside jacket pocket.

  He turned off West Road into the main entrance of Brunel School, and parked on the far side of the car park, opposite the main school building, to take in the scene. To the left of the car park was a large single storey building that looked as if it had once been the school chapel. Stained glass windows revealed rows of bookshelves inside, telling Dixon that it was now the library. The main building itself was set over three floors with leaded windows and old weathered brickwork. The top floor had dormer windows and there was a large tower in the centre above the entrance. Two large carved oak doors were set side by side in an ornate stone porch.

  Dixon could not see a single room that was unoccupied. Either that or someone had left the lights on. He winced at the thought of the electricity bill. The view was familiar to him from visits with hockey and rugby teams from St Dunstan’s and it hadn’t changed. He knew that the playing fields and sports hall were behind the main school and he remembered the long corridor with the tiled floor that ran the full length of the building. The only other thing he knew was where the dining room was.

  To the right of the school, as he looked up at it, was a smaller two storey building with a private garden enclosed by a high box hedge. This was the headmaster’s house. Dixon drove across the car park and parked in the corner close to the front door. He stepped out of the Land Rover and pulled up the collar of his coat before walking over and ringing the front doorbell.

  The door was opened by a woman in a tweed suit. Dixon smiled. At least he wouldn’t look out of place in his tweed jacket.

  ‘I’m looking for the headmaster. I believe he’s expecting me.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Won’t you come in? I’m Miranda Hatton, the headmaster’s wife.’

  Dixon stepped into the hall. As he did so a man, presumably the headmaster, appeared from behind the door opposite. A small springer spaniel ran out from behind him and began jumping up at Dixon. Mrs Hatton took hold of it by the collar.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll be Dixon,’ the man snapped.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I had to be here at a specific time. Just as soon as I could.’

  ‘And this is as soon as you could, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’ll have to do. Follow me.’

  Dixon followed the man along the corridor and into a room at the far end.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Dixon sat down on a leather sofa. The man poured himself a drink from a decanter on the sideboard. At the far end of the room was a desk.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘My name’s Hatton. I’m the headmaster,’ said the man, sitting down in a leather armchair opposite Dixon. ‘Charlesworth tells me you’re St Dunstan’s?’

  ‘A long time ago, Sir.’

  ‘They’re not a bad lot.’

  ‘We used to say the same about Brunel.’

  ‘I bet you did,’ said Hatton, smiling. ‘I’m sorry about . . . well, anyway, this is all incredibly difficult for me. There’s nothing in the manual about dealing with a murder and the school governors are getting very jumpy. The idea that there’s someone running around out there who’s killed one of our pupils . . .’

  ‘Out there?’

  ‘Yes, of course. They’re not going to be in here, are they?’

  Dixon did not reply.

  ‘It stands to reason. You’re not seriously suggesting someone in the school did it?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Sir.’

  ‘Is that why Charlesworth sent you in here?’

  ‘I don’t t
hink he knows either.’

  ‘Inspires confidence, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s my job to find out . . .’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, be discreet about it. Whatever you find, we don’t want to see it ending up in the papers. It could be devastating for the school.’

  ‘A girl is dead . . .’

  ‘I know that,’ said Hatton. ‘We just need to be careful how it’s handled, that’s all.’

  Dixon nodded. He could hear his mother’s voice ringing in his ears, ‘If you haven’t got anything useful to say, say nothing at all.’

  ‘Now, I’ve arranged for you to work with Mr Phillips. He teaches chemistry but is also in charge of school discipline, so it’ll give you a good insight into what’s going on,’ continued Hatton. ‘He doesn’t know who you are, of course.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I did send an email to all staff letting them know you’d be here until the end of term.’

  ‘What name did you use?’

  ‘Dickson, but I spelt it with a “cks” instead of an “x” just in case anyone saw the news the other day. That was quite a show you put on at Taunton Racecourse.’

  Dixon rolled his eyes. ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘I was there,’ replied Hatton.

  ‘Not much of a false ID, is it?’

  ‘Sorry, Charlesworth never . . .’

  ‘It’ll have to do. Did you mention which school I went to?’

  ‘No, why? Is that a problem?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want anyone knowing I’d gone to a school in Taunton. If anyone asks, we can say I went to King Alfred’s in Burnham-on-Sea.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a couple of lessons tomorrow morning that you can sit in on. The first one’s at 10 a.m. so be here just before that. Robin Phillips is expecting you in the masters’ common room at 9 a.m. and he’ll give you a tour of the school. You’ll be with him for the rest of the weekend after lunch.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This is a letter I’ve written confirming who you are and what you’re doing here,’ said Hatton, handing an envelope to Dixon. ‘Just in case anyone asks.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come along, then, and I’ll show you to your rooms. They’re Haskill’s, actually, but he’s on sabbatical. He won’t mind. Laos or Cambodia, somewhere like that, I think. We go past the MCR on the way too.’