by Damien Boyd
It was a cold and crisp afternoon. Dixon could see spectators gathering along the touch lines of several rugby pitches down on the playing fields. The corner flags were fluttering in the gentle breeze and red and black padding had been put in place around the base of the posts. Both AstroTurf hockey pitches were also already in use, the matches having started earlier to allow for another game on the same pitch before dark.
Dixon looked up at Gardenhurst. It was a modern building, with stone cladding and large windows. A service road ran along the front and around to the far side. Several students were milling around.
‘They’ll be off into town in a few minutes, that lot,’ said Phillips. ‘Two till five on a Saturday, they’re allowed out.’
Dixon nodded. He watched a small group of three girls appear through a gate in the red brick wall that he had thought marked the boundary of the school.
‘What’s through there?’
‘The old convent,’ replied Phillips. ‘We bought it in the seventies and it houses Woodward and Breward. About two hundred pupils in all. C’mon, I’ll show you round.’
Dixon followed Phillips through the gate.
‘That road goes round to the front and there’s an entrance off West Road too.’
A large oak door led into an entrance hall. Off to the left was an old cloister with a tiled floor and stained glass windows. It was being used as a bike store now. Racks had been fitted along the inner wall and Dixon counted at least forty bicycles before he gave up trying.
‘Seems a shame to use it as a bike rack, doesn’t it?’ asked Phillips.
‘Progress,’ replied Dixon.
‘C’mon, let me show you the old chapel.’
Dixon listened to the click of their heels on the tiled floor as they walked along behind the bicycles. Phillips had metal caps on his heels that made a distinctive sound. Anyone up to no good would hear him coming and have plenty of time to make good their escape. Dixon suspected that was the idea. At the end of the cloisters a short flight of stairs led up to a doorway. The corridor continued around to the right.
‘That takes you round to the accommodation block,’ said Phillips. ‘This is the bit I wanted to show you.’
He took a large bundle of keys out his pocket, selected one and then opened the door.
‘The old convent chapel. We use it as a storeroom now, as you can see.’
Dixon ignored the junk and looked instead at the building itself. It was small, by comparison with the school chapel, and had a high vaulted ceiling with ornate carved woodwork, stained glass windows and a large galleried landing at the far end. There was a door at the back of the gallery but no steps leading up to it.
‘Sad, isn’t it?’ asked Phillips.
Dixon treated it as a rhetorical question. He looked around at the piles of old mattresses, desks and chairs, folding tables and wardrobes. It was possible to walk in only a few paces. It would then be necessary to climb over old furniture to make any further progress, such was the extent of the clutter.
‘We know the little buggers are getting in here somehow,’ said Phillips, ‘we just don’t know how.’
‘Is it used much?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘The easy answer is to wait until someone comes in, sneak in and hide, then when they go just creep out and leave the door on the latch. It’s only got a Yale lock on it, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. You crafty devil.’
‘Still young enough to think like a schoolboy,’ said Dixon.
He looked at the entrance. It was a timber framed internal lobby with the door set back to allow the corridor outside to continue around to the right and up to the accommodation area. Dixon thought it a temporary measure, possibly put in when the building had been converted for use by the school in the seventies. He spotted two glass windows in the ceiling outside and above the door.
‘There’ll be another way by the looks of things.’
‘What?’
‘Come out for a minute and lock the door,’ said Dixon.
‘Now what?’
Dixon looked up. The panes of glass above him were just out of reach so he walked down the stairs, round the corner and reappeared a few seconds later carrying a bicycle.
‘Hold this, will you?’
Phillips held the handlebars while Dixon stood on the pedals. He reached up and pushed the glass. It moved.
‘What the f . . . ?’ said Phillips, his voice tailing off.
Dixon pushed the pane up with both hands. It was thick safety glass, heavy and with wire mesh set into it. He lifted it clear and pushed it to one side. Then he stood up on the crossbar of the bicycle with his hands either side of the opening and jumped up. It took only a few seconds then to replace the glass, drop down on the inside and open the door.
‘You missed your vocation,’ said Phillips.
‘Possibly.’
‘Certainly. You should’ve been a policeman.’
Dixon smiled. ‘Good pension, I suppose, but that’s about it.’
He looked at Phillips for any sign of recognition but there was none.
‘Let’s see what we can find, then,’ said Phillips, ‘while we’re here. I’ll get maintenance to nail down that glass on Monday and put another lock on the door.’
‘What about up there?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the gallery at the far end of the disused chapel.
‘No way up. The only access is through that door, which I know is locked.’
Against the far wall beneath the gallery was a chest of drawers next to a wardrobe. On top of the chest of drawers, upside down, was a wooden chair.
‘Really?’
Dixon stepped up onto a pile of mattresses and then onto another before arriving at a line of tables that he was able to use as stepping stones across to the chest of drawers. He stepped up onto the wardrobe, taking the wooden chair with him. He then stood on the chair and was able to reach the balustrade. A short step up and across and he was on the gallery. Those days spent crossing glaciers in the Alps hadn’t been wasted after all.
Dixon was not impressed by what he saw. It reminded him of certain alleyways he’d walked down, never alone, whilst in the Met. He counted ten syringes, a pile of discarded silver foil and at least three blackened dessert spoons. Cigarette butts and empty bottles of vodka completed the picture.
Try not to act like a policeman.
‘Can you get up here?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ll give it a go.’
Phillips was clearly not as agile as he had once been but, after a good deal of huffing and puffing, he made it as far as the wooden chair. He lost his nerve at the step across to the gallery but got a clear view of the scene through the balustrade.
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Quite,’ said Dixon.
‘The headmaster’ll do his nut.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
‘A webcam, then. Set up over there . . .’
‘What about the police? Shouldn’t we tell them?’ asked Phillips.
‘Was Isobel . . . er . . .’
‘Swan.’
‘That’s it. Was she involved in it?’
‘God, no. Squeaky clean, that one.’
‘Needn’t trouble the police, then. It’s hardly relevant. An internal matter for the school.’
‘Perfect,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ll get our computer studies boffin to sort out the webcam next week.’
Dixon was last out of the old chapel and closed the door behind him.
‘Let’s go and watch the rugger,’ said Phillips.
Dixon scanned the touchlines of the four rugby pitches he could see for anyone from St Dunstan’s who might recognise him, and saw only one teacher he’d need to steer clear of watching a team of young
er boys, probably the junior colts. He’d also need to give the AstroTurf hockey pitches a wide berth. His old housemaster was watching one game and his biology teacher, Miss Macpherson, was watching the other.
‘Let’s give the thirds a bit of support,’ said Phillips. ‘Everybody and their dog watches the firsts.’
‘OK.’
Dixon looked across the car park in front of Gardenhurst to the far corner where the mysterious small car had been parked. The four minibuses that were usually parked there had gone, taking students to the away matches at St Dunstan’s and Roedean, no doubt.
According to the various witness statements, the car had been reversed into the corner space, adjacent to the wall, with its boot facing the playing fields. The wall that ran along the far side of the car park dropped away in the corner down the slope and then along the outer perimeter of the sports field. Just inside the wall was a line of mature and very large leylandii that would have provided more than enough cover for the killer to disappear into had he been disturbed. The leylandii ended at a hedge that then continued the outer boundary at right angles. According to the file the whole area, including the gap between the wall and the trees, had been the subject of a fingertip search, but nothing had been found except cigarette butts and empty bottles. Dixon would have a look for himself later.
In the meantime, he followed Phillips around the back of the sports hall and down through a line of trees to the 3rd XV rugby pitch. A small crowd was assembled along the near touchline at the halfway line. Phillips looked at his watch. It was just after 3.30 p.m.
‘Second half must be under way.’
He spoke to a boy standing at the end of the crowd.
‘What’s the score, Thompson?’
‘15–9, Sir.’
‘Who to?’
‘Them.’
‘What about over there?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the 1st XV pitch.
‘We’re winning, 21–0,’ came the reply.
‘That’s better,’ said Phillips. ‘Want to watch that game instead?’
‘Sounds like this lot need our support more,’ replied Dixon.
‘You’ll go far,’ replied Phillips, smiling and lighting his pipe at the same time.
‘Not watching the firsts, Robin?’ The voice came from behind them.
‘Ah, Rowena, how did your girls get on?’ asked Phillips, turning around.
‘We won, 3–0.’
‘Well done.’ Phillips pointed at Dixon with his pipe. ‘This is our trainee teacher. You got the email?’
‘I did,’ replied Rowena.
‘Nick, this is the Miss Weatherly I was telling you about.’
They shook hands.
‘All good, I hope,’ said Rowena.
‘Yes,’ replied Dixon.
Rowena Weatherly was tall and slim with short hair, dyed jet black. She looked every inch the hockey coach in a red and black Brunel tracksuit with a Grays hockey stick bag slung over her shoulder.
‘How long are you here for?’ she asked.
‘Till the end of term.’
‘Having fun?’
‘He’s sitting in on His Lordship’s law classes,’ said Phillips, rolling his eyes.
‘Oh. Still, it could be worse. It could be chemistry . . .’
‘Yes, thank you, Rowena.’
‘It’s not that bad, really,’ said Dixon.
‘Well, a change is as good as a rest. I must dash. Got another match starting in ten minutes.’
Dixon turned back to the rugby match. He felt odd cheering for a team he had always thought of as the opposition but did his best to sound enthusiastic, even remembering to limit his reaction to a St Dunstan’s try under the posts to polite applause. At one point he thought he had been spotted by his old housemaster, who had come across from the hockey pitches and was walking along the far touchline, but he turned away just in time and his housemaster continued over to the 1st XV pitch.
The ditch where Isobel had been found was still cordoned off with blue tape and attracted a good deal of attention from students, teachers and parents walking to and from the hockey pitches in the far field. It seemed that no one was capable of crossing the footbridge over the ditch without stopping to look in.
The game ended in a resounding victory for St Dunstan’s, 33–15. Dixon watched the Brunel players shake hands with their opposite numbers and then trudge back to the changing rooms in the sports hall.
‘Tea?’ asked Phillips.
‘Yes, please,’ replied Dixon
They walked back up through the treeline and then along a path that led to the dining room. It was starting to get dark now and Dixon could see lights on in various rooms in the main school and in the Underwood Building.
‘That’s the sanatorium up there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a door off to the right, ‘and behind that is where the kitchen staff live. Those who live in, anyway.’
‘Right,’ said Dixon.
Once through the double doors, a short passageway led to the main corridor. Dixon turned left and headed towards the masters’ common room.
‘No, this way, old chap,’ said Phillips, ‘tea’s in the dining room.’
Dixon smiled. This was his chance to get a look at the kitchen staff, or at least some of them. At best, he could remember perhaps three or four from St Dunstan’s, so the chances were likely to be very slim that he would recognise any now, and that was assuming that the ones he could remember had moved to Brunel. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be a pointless exercise. If progress was to be made in this section of the school then he would need the names of any kitchen staff working at Brunel who had previously been at St Dunstan’s. He checked his watch. It was just after 4.30 p.m. Plenty of time for tea, then he would make his excuses and get over to the Greyhound to meet Jane.
Phillips handed Dixon a tray as they approached the front of the queue.
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘What, no cake?’
‘Diabetic. Just a mug of tea for me.’
‘You poor sod.’
Phillips helped himself to some bread and jam, two jam tarts and a piece of fruit cake. ‘I’ll have yours then.’
‘You carry on,’ replied Dixon.
He recognised none of the kitchen porters on duty behind the counter but there were only three, one serving the tea and the others topping up the supply of bread and cakes.
At the end of the counter, two steps up led into the dining room. It was larger than St Dunstan’s with long tables, bench seating and walls covered with small shields, each listing in gold lettering the names of the first team members for the relevant year. Green for cricket, red for hockey and black for rugby. Dixon found the rugby shield for the team he had played against seventeen years ago. He recognised none of the names now but could still remember the score.
At the far end of the dining room, near the exit, was a counter where trays were collected by a kitchen porter, any rubbish tipped into large bins and the dirty crockery stacked for washing. Dixon stared at the man standing behind the counter. He was immediately familiar to him; older, of course, and with grey hair and moustache rather than black, but he definitely recognised him. It had been a standing joke at St Dunstan’s: two kitchen porters who always worked together called Derek and Clive. Dixon did not know whether this was Derek or Clive. In fact he could not recall ever having known who was who, but he did remember that the man standing at the counter in the Brunel dining room had been a big Beatles fan. He used to say he had even seen them live in the Cavern Club and everyone had believed him.
Dixon watched Phillips eating his cake. At the same time, he was watching the kitchen porter on the far side of the dining room. There was no chance that Dixon would be recognised, he was sure of that, but he now had positive identification of at least one person who had been
at St Dunstan’s when Fran disappeared and at Brunel when Isobel had been murdered. He wondered how many more there might be. Taunton was a small place, after all.
As soon as Phillips finished his cake, Dixon picked up the tray.
‘I’ll take that.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
He joined the back of the small queue and waited. When he got closer to the counter, he began whistling ‘Norwegian Wood’, a suitably obscure song that would only be recognised by a real Beatles fan. He waited for a reaction and the man did not disappoint, turning sharply to look at Dixon.
‘You a Beatles fan?’
‘Is there anyone else?’ replied Dixon.
‘John or Paul?’
‘John.’
The man smiled. ‘Good taste.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’ve had this conversation before.’
‘Have we?’ replied Dixon.
‘I never forget a face.’
Fuck it.
Dixon handed the man his tray and walked out of the dining room. Phillips was just getting up, giving him a few seconds. He tapped the student in front of him on the shoulder.
‘What’s that man’s name?’
‘Derek.’
‘Thanks.’
Dixon stepped out of the line filing out of the dining room and waited for Phillips to catch him up.
‘Right, that’s me off duty. I’m going home,’ said Phillips. ‘What are you up to this evening?’
‘I said I’d meet my girlfriend for a bite to eat in town.’
‘Fine. See you in the morning for chapel patrol?’
‘What time?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘See you then.’
Chapter Five
Jane arrived at the Greyhound Inn at Staple Fitzpaine to find Dixon’s Land Rover already in the car park behind the pub. She parked next to it and ran across the gravel car park to the back door, sheltering under her handbag. The last few red leaves still clinging to a large Virginia creeper were visible in the light streaming from the windows. The rest were on the ground or being blown around by the wind.
