by Damien Boyd
The door at the back of Hatton’s office led to a small corridor that connected directly to the main corridor inside the school building. Dixon followed Hatton along it, past the main entrance hall towards the library. He looked at the green felt notice boards that lined both sides of the corridor above the dado rail, each with any number of different bits of paper pinned to it, and tried to read them as he went past. Various drama groups, the canoe club, team sheets for all sorts of different sports, martial arts he had not even heard of, the debating society, computer club. He gave up halfway along.
‘Everyone’s studying now until 9 p.m., so it should be pretty quiet. There’s the odd thing going on. Father Anthony has a confirmation class in the Lady Chapel and there’s a rehearsal for the school play in the Bishop Sutton Hall. That’s it, I think.’
Hatton stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs.
‘That’s the library,’ he said, looking at two large doors opposite. ‘And that’s the MCR over there,’ pointing to a smaller door further along the corridor. There were more notice boards in between the two. A door at the end of the corridor led outside and a flight of steps opposite the MCR led down to a corridor running at right angles to the main corridor. ‘That takes you down to the dining room. Turn left along the cloisters for the chapel.’
Hatton then turned and went up the stairs. He paused at the top.
‘Those are the physics labs over there,’ he said, pointing to three doors on the far side of the large landing. ‘Locked at this time of night, as you might imagine. And those are Mr Small’s rooms. Classics and ancient history.’ He began rummaging in his trouser pocket and produced a Yale key. ‘Haskill’s.’
Dixon followed Hatton through a door that led into a dark corridor, with wood panelling that made it gloomy even after Hatton switched the lights on. There was a small kitchen on the right as Dixon went in, then a shower room with no window and, at the end of the small corridor, a larger room with a small lounge area in front of the door and a single bed at the far end. The whole of the wall to his left was covered in bookshelves and the furniture consisted of a coffee table, a two seater sofa and a small armchair.
‘I asked Matron to change the bed, so you should be all right. Here’s the key and I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’
Dixon heard the door slam. He looked around the room but could not see a television so he looked at the books on the shelves. He decided that he wasn’t in the mood for Homer or Plato so he took out his phone and sent Jane a text message.
No effing telly x
Dixon waited five minutes to give the headmaster time to get back to his house and then walked down the stairs and across to the library. The left of the two large oak doors creaked as he opened it. He could see rows of bookshelves either side and desks at the far end, some of them occupied. Presumably working in the library rather than your own study was allowed. It had been at St Dunstan’s. Just inside the door was a sloping newspaper table, with various newspapers laid out on it, each secured in place by brass clips. All of them were open at the sports pages and all of the crosswords had been done.
He went back out to the main corridor, which was eerily quiet, and then down the steps leading to the cloisters. He stopped halfway along and looked out of the window at the school war memorial in the centre of a manicured and immaculate lawn. Gravel paths led from each corner to the memorial itself in the centre and it was completely enclosed by the school buildings. Several wreaths were still lying on the plinth at the base, no doubt placed there on Remembrance Sunday only a few weeks before. It had been the tradition at St Dunstan’s for the school to gather at the war memorial and for the headmaster to call the roll of those who had not come back. It looked as though Brunel held the same tradition.
Dixon shook his head. He was looking back on a part of his life that he had shut out for years and the memories were flooding back. Not all of them good. He remembered the one thing he had done in his life of which he was truly ashamed. He had been presented with a petition calling for the abolition of the Remembrance Sunday service and he had signed it. It was the one and only time he had bowed to peer pressure, the first and last time, and he had been haunted and embarrassed by the memory. It didn’t matter that the headmaster had ignored it. What mattered to Dixon was that he had signed it. He had been to see the headmaster to withdraw his name from the petition and he winced at his words, which hit home again.
‘I was surprised and disappointed to see your name on it, Dixon.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘But at least you’ve had the courage to put it right now. Well done.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘An important lesson learnt? ’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon heard a door bang at the end of the corridor and looked to his left to see a crowd of younger pupils streaming out of the chapel and along the cloisters towards him. He stepped back and allowed them to pass, which they did at speed and noisily, none of them appearing to notice that he was there.
The door at the end of the cloisters had been left standing open, so Dixon walked into the chapel and stood at the back. Huge banners were hanging either side, each depicting a scene from the Bible. At the far end was the altar and behind that a large and ornate stained glass window. Dixon could see a smaller chapel off to the side, adjacent to the altar, presumably the Lady Chapel. He gave up trying to count the pews but there must have been enough to fit everyone in.
He was about to leave when he realised he had been spotted by the chaplain, who was striding towards him along the aisle. He was dressed in black robes with a dog collar and had thinning white hair, a grey beard and thick horn rimmed glasses.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I was just looking around, Father. Getting to know the lie of the land.’
‘You’ll be Dickson, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did we manage before email?’ asked the chaplain, shaking Dixon’s hand. ‘Welcome. I’m Father Anthony. I’m afraid you’ve arrived at a very bad time for the school.’
‘So I gather.’
‘It’s been terrible. Knocked everyone for six.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Dreadful. God bless her. She was a lovely girl.’ Father Anthony shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder why these things happen sometimes, doesn’t it?’
‘It does.’
‘I even found myself doubting my faith . . .’ Father Anthony’s voice tailed off. ‘Will you be joining us for worship?’
‘Er, yes,’ replied Dixon. ‘If I can.’
‘Jolly good. There’s evening prayers tomorrow at six and then Sunday morning at ten for Communion.’
‘Can you get everyone in?’
‘Just about. There’s always a few stragglers. It’s a sport for some of them, missing chapel,’ replied Father Anthony. ‘And it’s been extended over the years. There’s a stone in the floor halfway along the aisle marking where the altar used to be in the old days.’
‘I assumed that the library . . .’
‘No, that was the assembly hall until the Bishop Sutton Hall was built.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Anyway, I must lock up. Nice talking to you,’ continued Father Anthony. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
Suddenly, they heard footsteps running along the cloisters behind them and Dixon turned to see three girls rushing into the chapel, tears streaming down their faces.
‘Can we talk to you about Isobel, Father?’ spluttered one.
‘Of course, of course. Let’s sit over here,’ replied Father Anthony, gesturing to the pews at the back of the chapel.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Dixon.
Father Anthony smiled and nodded.
Dixon walked back along the cloisters and had reached the steps at the en
d before he could no longer hear the girls crying. He opened the door to the masters’ common room and looked in. It was pretty much as he imagined it would be. Old armchairs and sofas with a small kitchen area against the back wall. There was no one at home so he looked at the notice boards to the left of the door, which displayed the team sheets for the various rugby matches the following day. The 1st XV were playing St Dunstan’s at home so Dixon made a mental note to keep away from the rugby pitches, just in case.
He fetched his overnight bag from his Land Rover and then went back up to his rooms on the first floor, in amongst the physics labs. He smiled when he remembered sitting a physics multiple choice paper and scoring four out of fifty. Physics had never been one of his better subjects and he could hear the teacher’s voice even now.
‘Dixon, a monkey could’ve got more than that.’
Needless to say, physics hadn’t been his first choice at A Level.
There was a small jug of milk in the fridge so he made himself a cup of tea. Then he threw his overnight bag on the bed and unzipped a pocket in the bottom. He pulled out the file on Isobel Swan, which he had wrapped in a towel, and began flicking through the witness statements. There were twenty-one in all, from her parents, the headmaster, her housemaster, teachers and various friends who had seen her at some point that evening. She had her own study/bedroom in Gardenhurst and no one had seen her arrive back, her disappearance only coming to light when her body had been found the following morning by one of the ground staff. Dixon thought it odd there was no statement from the groundsman who had found her. He made a mental note to ask Jane about that.
Isobel had been studying maths, physics and chemistry and had been expected to sail through her exams on her way to medical school. She was one of those lucky students for whom studying and passing exams came easily. Dixon had been one of them too, until Fran had disappeared.
He turned to the statements of Emily Setter and Susannah Bower and read them again. After Isobel’s driving lesson they had gone to the cinema and then called in at Pizza Hut for a bite to eat. Susannah had driven and they had got back just after 10 p.m., leaving her car in Conway Road, a small residential cul-de-sac opposite the school. They had last seen Isobel in the hall at the main entrance when they had gone in different directions along the main corridor, Emily and Susannah turning left and Isobel turning right. Nothing that Isobel had said had given either of them any cause for concern or reason to believe that she might run away. Dixon thought about his last night with Fran and it all sounded a little bit too familiar.
The officer who had taken Susannah’s statement had been more thorough, having asked her to describe Isobel’s route to Gardenhurst from the main entrance. Dixon read Susannah’s statement several times before putting all of them back in the file and hiding them under the mattress. Then he walked back down to the main entrance and followed Isobel’s route back to Gardenhurst.
Once past the headmaster’s house the corridor narrowed and at the far end double doors led into the boys’ toilets. There were also doors either side of the corridor: a pair of large double doors to the left, leading to the back of the school, opposite a smaller door leading to the front. Dixon looked out of the window in the smaller door. It was almost dark this way, illuminated only by the glow from the lights at the back of the headmaster’s house.
Once through the door Dixon found himself in a small car park, which he took to be the headmaster’s private parking area. There were flowerbeds on three sides with large bushes that gave it an intimidating feel. If Isobel had been anything like Fran there was no way she would have come this way, even if it was a shortcut.
Dixon walked back to the side door, into the main corridor and then out of the swing doors opposite. The area behind the school was well lit with several outside lights and there were a number of students milling around, two throwing an American football to each other on a lawn to the left. Dixon walked around the side of the toilet block and into the bright lights coming from a large building set at right angles to the main school. The sign above the door told him it was the Underwood Building, and it was a hive of activity. Every light was on and all of the rooms were occupied.
In front of Dixon was the Bishop Sutton Hall. He could hear the school play rehearsal going on inside and, judging by the noise, it was a musical. He followed the path around to the left. It was wide, well lit by lamps along the side of the hall and overlooked by all of the windows along the side of the Underwood Building. Isobel would’ve come this way.
‘Can I help you, Sir?’
‘And you are?’
‘Chamberlain, Sir. I’m a prefect.’
‘My name’s Dickson. I’m a trainee teacher here for two weeks’ work experience before the end of term.’
‘Do you have any identification, please, Sir?’
‘A letter from the headmaster.’ Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed the letter to the boy. He read it and handed it back.
‘Thank you, Sir. I’m sorry . . .’
‘Don’t be,’ replied Dixon, ‘and well done.’
At the far end of the hall was a door with a sign on it. ‘Sixth Form Bar.’ Dixon shook his head. At that time of night on a Saturday there would have been students everywhere, surely? He could see Gardenhurst a short distance away and the car park off to the left, down a slope. She would have been in plain view of any number of different people if she had come this way just after 10 p.m. on a Saturday night. Dixon felt sure that she would have done, which left only one alternative. She was intercepted before she got here.
He walked back to the end of the corridor and stood outside the toilets, in between the two exit doors. It was possible that Isobel had been snatched by an assailant waiting in the darkness behind the smaller door. Possible but unlikely. The noise would have alerted anyone in the toilets to her abduction, and certainly if she had screamed. She would also have been taken to a waiting car and, in all probability, have simply disappeared. Like Fran.
The exercise had confirmed what Dixon already knew. Isobel had been taken by someone familiar to her and who presented no obvious threat. Someone she trusted. There would have been no sound, no scream, and it would explain the red wine in her system.
Dixon looked back down the corridor towards the entrance hall. There were several doors on either side, one leading to the headmaster’s house, and two flights of stairs, one leading up to Reynell House and the other to Neales. Dixon checked the time. It was almost 11 p.m. and no time to be creeping about a boarding school, unless he wanted to get himself arrested.
Dixon sat down on the end of his bed and rang Jane.
‘You still awake?’
‘I am now,’ replied Jane. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Pretty much as I expected, really. I’ve had a look at the route she’d have taken back to Gardenhurst. It’s well lit and would’ve been buzzing with students at that time on a Saturday night so it’s unlikely she was snatched. I reckon she went with somebody she knew.’
‘One of the teachers?’
‘Don’t know yet. I’ve only met the headmaster and the chaplain so far. And one prefect who wanted to know who I was. He asked me for ID and I nearly gave him my warrant card.’
‘That would’ve been a great start.’
‘I remembered in the nick of time.’
‘Did he fall for it?’
‘What?’
‘The trainee teacher bit.’
‘Seemed to.’
‘He’ll go far.’
‘I’ve got a letter from the headmaster. My get out of jail free card.’
‘I’ve got to be in Taunton at 8 a.m. so I may see you tomorrow.’
‘Watch out for Chard. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. The DI seems all right, though. Baldwin’s her name.’
‘I know her. We worked together on a fraud case a couple of
years ago.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll get a copy of the driving instructor’s statement and see about the other stuff.’
‘OK. I’ll catch up with you over the weekend, if I get the chance,’ said Dixon.
‘And be careful,’ replied Jane. ‘Remember . . .’
‘I know.’
Dixon rang off. He picked up the wooden wedge propping open the living room door and pushed it under the front door from the inside. Then he dropped the catch on the Yale lock. The previous night spent travelling home from Cyprus, despite seeming like a lifetime ago, was beginning to catch up with him so he lay back on the bed, set the alarm on his iPhone for 7.30 a.m. and was asleep before its backlight went out.
Chapter Four
Dixon found a box of stale cornflakes in the cupboard and used the last of the milk in the jug. Skipping breakfast hadn’t been an option since he had been told that he was diabetic. He had thought about going down to the dining room but decided it would be best to avoid answering awkward questions, if he could. After all, it was his job to ask them and he didn’t want to risk his cover before he had to.
He managed to negotiate the crowd of pupils waiting on the landing for the physics lab to be unlocked and dropped down to the masters’ common room for 9 a.m., as instructed. A small crowd had gathered around the notice board to look at the various team sheets for the day’s rugby matches but it soon dispersed when a loud bell rang. He knocked on the door and went in.
‘Are you Dickson?’
‘Yes.’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t knock. Come in. I’m Phillips. Robin Phillips.’ He was tall and wore a blazer, which seemed to be the acceptable alternative to tweed, a white shirt and a tie Dixon didn’t recognise.
‘You’re looking at my tie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Royal Artillery.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Work experience, is it?’
