Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wish I’d had the chance when I was training.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’d never have become a bloody teacher if I’d known what it was like.’ Phillips laughed loudly, revealing yellow teeth. ‘Let me finish this, then I’ll show you around.’ He was pushing a small amount of tobacco into a pipe, which explained the teeth. Dixon looked around the room. All but two of the chairs were empty, classes for the day having started.

  ‘How rude of me. Let me introduce you,’ said Phillips. ‘That’s Keith Foster, maths, and that’s Janet Parkin, art and drama.’

  Neither stirred from their chairs but they did at least acknowledge Dixon’s presence.

  ‘C’mon, let’s leave these miserable buggers to it. We’ll start outside seeing as it’s not raining.’

  Dixon followed Phillips out of the masters’ common room.

  ‘How long’ve we got?’

  ‘I’ve got a class with the headmaster at 10 a.m.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ replied Phillips. ‘This way.’

  They went out of the door at the end of the corridor and down a flight of stone steps. Once outside, Phillips paused to light his pipe.

  ‘That’s Geldard over there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a detached building off to the left. ‘Day pupils only.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘And that’s the old gym. Rather surplus to requirements now we’ve got the sports hall. Plan is to knock it down and replace it with new classrooms. The gym and those prefabs you can see. They’re getting a bit tired now. The rifle range is down that alleyway too.’

  Dixon looked across at two blocks of single storey prefabricated buildings that had clearly seen better days. The gap between them was presumably the alleyway that Phillips had been referring to.

  ‘Rifle range?’

  ‘Small bore target stuff. We do quite well in the competitions. Miss Weatherly’s our crack shot.’

  ‘What are the main disciplinary issues you have, then?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘You mean apart from murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry. My little joke. Bloody mess it is, really. And the fucking police are useless. Haven’t got a bloody thing to go on, by all accounts.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Phillips, sucking hard on his pipe, which he was struggling to light in the wind.

  ‘You were going to tell me about the other . . .’

  ‘Yes, sorry. We’ve got the usual, really. Nothing too dramatic. A bit of pot smoking. Sometimes something harder gets in. We know who it is but can never catch the little shits. What irks is that it’s getting to the younger pupils these days and that’s the worry. There’s some home brewing going on and occasionally a bit of petty pilfering.’

  Nothing much had changed since Dixon’s school days if that were the case. Except the casual attitude to hard drugs, perhaps.

  ‘Do you try and catch them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about smoking?’

  ‘Sixth formers are allowed to but few do. Catching the younger ones at it is good sport.’

  Dixon could see lessons going on in the classrooms to his right.

  ‘Classics,’ said Phillips. ‘That’s Small in there. Latin. And in the next one is Griffiths. Ancient history. He’s filling in for Haskill, who’s buggered off to the Far East on holiday.’

  ‘A supply teacher?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yes.’

  Dixon followed Phillips around the side of the chapel. He could see lessons going on in the prefabs across the lawn.

  ‘French and German in there. Mr Clarke and Miss Heath.’ Phillips stopped. ‘We’re round the back of the dining room now. Those are the kitchens.’

  Dixon looked across to see a van unloading boxes of frozen food. Several porters wearing blue overalls were standing in a small group, all smoking.

  ‘Where does that alleyway go?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the back of the dining room.

  ‘It leads to the Memorial Quadrangle. Always a good spot for catching smokers. We’ll have a go later.’

  They continued along a path until it met a service road at the back of the school. Dixon recognised the cricket pavilion and the squash courts off to the left. The old cricket nets had gone and been replaced with new buildings all along the boundary of the cricket pitch.

  ‘Two new houses over there. Havens and Hardwicke,’ said Phillips.

  They turned right along the road and Dixon could see that they were now walking towards the Underwood Building, which was directly in front of them. He looked down across the playing fields and could just about make out an area cordoned off with police tape on the far hedge line. That was where Isobel Swan had been found.

  Phillips stopped to light his pipe again.

  ‘That’s the Underwood Building there. Biology labs at the far end. History above them. Bishop Knox and Markham are in there too. The sports hall’s behind it.’

  ‘What do you teach?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Chemistry.’

  ‘How long’ve you been here?’

  ‘Twenty years. Ever since I came out of the army. And that’s the Bishop Sutton Hall,’ continued Phillips, ‘school plays, assemblies, that sort of thing.’

  Phillips stared into the bowl of his pipe.

  ‘Bloody thing’s gone out again. C’mon, let’s go and get a cup of tea.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’ asked Dixon, once they were back in the staff room.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl who was murdered?’

  ‘I taught her chemistry,’ replied Phillips, handing Dixon a mug of tea. ‘She was very bright.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got the call before breakfast on the Sunday. She’d been found in the ditch at the bottom of the playing fields and the police were on their way. We put the school on total lockdown. Everyone confined to barracks on pain of . . . well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘They were here for two days taking statements from everyone and anyone who knew her. Looking at the CCTV too. We’ve got some but not much and probably not as much as we should. No doubt the governors will stump up the cash for that now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to have been the one to tell her parents,’ said Dixon.

  ‘The police offered to do it but the head did it in the end. Admired him for that. Couldn’t have been easy.’

  ‘Are they local?’

  ‘Yes. Yeovil, I think. He’s a bus driver.’

  ‘How . . .’

  ‘She was here on a scholarship, if that’s what you’re wondering. Bright girl. She’d have gone far.’

  So would Fran.

  Dixon took a swig of tea. Just as he did so the door flew open and three teachers rushed into the common room. They each threw a pile of books onto a chair and then headed for the kettle at the back of the room.

  ‘That’s McCulloch. Scottish but he teaches English lit. The others are Whitmore and Rowena Weatherly, both history.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘You’ll never remember everyone’s name so I wouldn’t even bother to try,’ said Phillips.

  ‘Who’s this, then?’ asked McCulloch. He was small with a closely cropped grey beard and smelt strongly of cigarettes, which Dixon noticed even over Phillips’ stale pipe tobacco.

  ‘Dickson,’ replied Phillips. ‘Two weeks’ work experience.’

  ‘Bugger me. I wish I’d had the chance. I’d never have . . .’

  ‘I’ve already used that line, William,’ said Phillips.

  ‘Git.’

  Phillips smiled. ‘You’d have thought a teacher of English literature would have a better vocabulary, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Knob.’

&nbs
p; ‘Ignore him, he’s like this with everyone.’

  Dixon was ignoring him. He was watching Rowena Weatherly. She was sitting on a window seat on the other side of the room sipping from a mug of coffee. He knew from the statements that she was in charge of girls’ hockey and that Isobel played in the team. So did Emily Setter and Susannah Bower.

  ‘You’d better go,’ said Phillips. ‘Don’t want to keep His Lordship waiting.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ replied Dixon, getting up from his chair.

  ‘Back here oneish and we’ll go off and get some lunch.’

  Dixon stopped outside the masters’ common room and looked again at the rugby team sheets. He still needed to track down Ben Masterson, Isobel’s boyfriend, or perhaps he wasn’t? Chard hadn’t known and neither Emily nor Susannah had confirmed it in their statements. Dixon spotted Ben’s name on the 2nd XV sheet, playing away at St Dunstan’s. Next he checked the girls’ hockey notices to find that both Emily and Susannah were playing in a home match against Roedean. He frowned. It was going to be a long day catching smokers with Robin Phillips.

  Dixon was no stranger to difficult and stressful situations. He had found himself in a few in his time and had even gone undercover before, although he hadn’t mentioned it. It had been several years ago when he was in the Met, but there seemed a world of difference between a trainee teacher in a murder investigation and a shop assistant in a newsagent trying to catch shoplifters. It was hardly relevant experience. But now he faced, more than anything else, the part of his current situation that he dreaded the most. Even more than coming face to face with Fran’s killer.

  He had been introduced to the class by the headmaster and was sitting by the window trying to look as though he knew what Hatton was talking about. He had not let on that he was a qualified solicitor, not least because it had been years ago and he had neither studied nor practised law since, except perhaps criminal law. Today, however, the class were learning about the law of tort.

  Dixon could remember that it had something to do with negligence and he could even recall a case involving a snail in a bottle. But that was the extent of his knowledge. Jane would wet herself laughing if she knew.

  He looked at the pupils, most of whom appeared to be looking out of the window. Dixon counted nineteen, none of them studying law A Level, but the headmaster had decreed that all students in the sixth form would have one law class each week, presumably to broaden their general knowledge. Dixon thought it might be useful if they ever appeared on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? but that was about it. The next class was for the A Level students and there were only eight of them.

  ‘So, which part of the law of tort do we think is most commonly encountered in daily life?’

  Dixon knew the answer to that one but managed to resist the urge to put his hand up.

  ‘Anyone?’

  A hand went up at the back of the class.

  ‘Yes, Jenkins.’

  Dixon looked at the boy with his hand up. He had dark curly hair and was tall, judging by his height when sitting. Probably played in the second row, he thought, recognising the boy’s name from the 1st XV team sheet.

  ‘Accident compo, Sir,’ he said, in a strong Welsh accent.

  ‘That’s right, Darren.’

  ‘Where there’s blame, there’s a claim, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, I think we’ve got the idea, Darren, thank you,’ said the headmaster. ‘Accident compensation. So, what three elements do we have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages?’

  Dixon knew this one too. It was all coming flooding back.

  ‘Masterson, what about you?’

  Dixon watched the pupils at the front of the class turn as one and look at the boy sitting next to Jenkins. He had ginger hair and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked up, slowly.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You weren’t listening were you, Ben?’

  ‘No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘All right, don’t worry about it. We were talking about negligence and what you have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages,’ said the headmaster. ‘Mr Dickson, what about you? You’re a solicitor, I’m told.’

  Oh, shit.

  ‘Liability, causation and quantum,’ he replied, dredging up the knowledge just in time. ‘That it was someone else’s fault, their negligence caused the injury and then the extent of the injury itself so the damages can be quantified.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Dixon nodded. He knew that he had just been tested. And that he had passed. He looked across at Ben Masterson, sitting at the back with his head bowed, once again. He was still hurting, mourning even, which told Dixon that he and Isobel had been more than just friends, at least as far as Ben was concerned. Maybe his feelings for Isobel had not been reciprocated? Dixon had seen the effect of unrequited love before and knew it could be toxic. He would need to have a talk with Ben but, in the meantime, there was one thing of which he could be sure. Ben Masterson would have been a babe in arms when Fran disappeared.

  Dixon hadn’t appreciated that Phillips meant a liquid lunch but the Winchester Arms at Trull was clearly a popular spot with the teachers at Brunel. Dixon could see McCulloch, Small and the supply teacher, Griffiths, at the bar.

  ‘A few beers and a toastie’ll set us up for the afternoon,’ said Phillips, ‘unless you’d rather watch the rugby.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Whatever you’d usually be doing and I’ll tag along.’

  ‘How did you get on in class?’

  ‘I haven’t had so much fun since I had my wisdom teeth out,’ replied Dixon.

  Phillips roared with laughter.

  ‘No, it wasn’t too bad,’ continued Dixon. ‘They were quite subdued, really. Hardly surprising, I suppose.’

  ‘The whole school is.’

  ‘One boy seemed worse than the rest. Ben Masterson, I think his name is.’

  ‘Isobel’s boyfriend. Poor lad. Seems a bit lost to me.’

  ‘He will be.’ Take it from me, he will be.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘It must be my round, surely?’ replied Dixon.

  ‘Good God, no. We can’t have a student teacher putting his hand in his pocket for the beers. Wouldn’t hear of it.’

  Dixon watched Phillips go to the bar and could see him telling Small and Griffiths who he was. The inevitable glance across from them both gave it away. They saw him watching and raised their glasses. Dixon smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. He looked for any glimmer of recognition on their faces and saw none. Nor did he recognise them.

  He thought about everyone he had met so far. Phillips had been right. He couldn’t put names to all of the faces, despite his best efforts. More importantly, perhaps, he recognised none of them from St Dunstan’s, but then it had been a long time ago. If Isobel’s killer had also killed Fran seventeen years ago then he or she might well have changed their appearance over the years.

  He hadn’t yet got a look at the kitchen staff and porters either. He’d need to engineer a tour of the kitchens this afternoon, and perhaps eat in the dining room at some point too. But would he recognise a kitchen porter anyway after all this time? Some of them, possibly, but it would not be easy.

  He needed the names of anyone arriving at Brunel in the last seventeen years who had previously worked at St Dunstan’s. That would, at least, narrow it down. Or it should.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Phillips, placing a pint of bitter on the table in front of Dixon.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why teaching, then?’ asked Phillips.

  Dixon had prepared for this one. ‘I qualified as a solicitor then realised it was the academic study of the law that fascinated me rather than the practice of it. So, here I am. I plan on teaching history too . . .’

  ‘What period?’

  ‘Early twentieth century. The Great
War is my specialist subject.’

  ‘Fascinating stuff,’ replied Phillips. ‘Any connection?’

  ‘My great grandfather served in the Somerset Light Infantry.’

  ‘Never got the hang of history. Still, you’re either scientific or arty farty, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Their toasted sandwiches arrived but a mouthful of food did not stop Phillips continuing the conversation.

  ‘What did you study at A Level, then?’

  ‘English, history and biology.’

  ‘An odd combination . . .’

  ‘They seemed the easiest. The ones I was most likely to pass.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Just.’

  ‘University?’

  ‘Staffordshire.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Chosen mainly for its proximity to the Peak District, I think. I spent most of my time rock climbing and just enough studying.’

  ‘A climber? You should come on Easter Camp in the Lakes.’

  Dixon smiled. He had done that very thing with St Dunstan’s, although it had been Snowdonia that year.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s get back. We can finish that guided tour and perhaps catch some of the rugby. I’ll just nip to the . . . er . . .’

  Dixon took the opportunity to send Jane a text message.

  Meet me at the Greyhound Staple Fitzpaine at 6 x

  It was just before 2.30 p.m. when Phillips turned right off West Road into the main entrance of the school. Dixon could see three coaches from St Dunstan’s College parked in a line on the other side of the car park, adjacent to the library at the front of the main school building. The visiting teams had arrived and so had some visiting schoolteachers who might recognise him, thought Dixon. Unlikely out of context, of course, but he’d need to be careful all the same.

  Phillips followed the drive around to the right rather than forking left into the main car park and parked in the smaller car park in front of Gardenhurst, where the suspicious car had been left for several days, according to the witness statements. No one had been able to identify the make or model. Dixon thought it an odd place to hide a car, if indeed it had been hidden. Although there was no CCTV coverage, the car park was in full view of just about everyone in the school. Either it was a red herring or the killer would have no further use for it after the murder. Dixon suspected the latter. No doubt it would turn up in a remote field somewhere, burnt out.