by Damien Boyd
‘Baldwin rang. Rowena’s staying in hospital overnight. Chard will interview her in the morning. They’re going into her rooms here in ten minutes.’
‘Let’s get over there, then.’
‘She’s got a flat down by the river too, one of the new ones at Firepool Lock.’
The headmaster was letting DI Baldwin and a team of scientific services officers into Rowena’s rooms on the first floor of Gardenhurst when Dixon and Jane arrived. Hatton stepped back to allow the others past and then held out his hand to Dixon. They shook hands.
‘I gather I have you to thank that I’m not explaining to more parents that their child is dead.’
‘They were never the target.’
‘Who was?’
‘Me.’
‘Why?’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Well, at least you’re all right. I’ve explained to DI Baldwin that we’ve got a rifle missing from the range. Miss Weatherly had a key.’
Dixon nodded. The information came as no surprise.
‘Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Hatton. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than stand around chatting.’
‘We do,’ replied Dixon.
He followed Jane into Rowena’s room. It was a large bedsit, with the kitchen along the wall to the left of the door, a small dining table, a lounge area and then the bed along the far wall. A door led into a small en suite shower room.
‘There’s similar teachers’ accommodation on each floor so they can keep an eye on the students, apparently,’ said Baldwin. She turned to the scientific services team. ‘Right, get to it.’
Dixon noticed a hockey stick bag hanging over the back of a dining chair.
‘Bag up that hockey stick, will you?’
‘Why?’ asked Baldwin.
‘Possible murder weapon,’ replied Dixon. ‘Derek Phelps.’
An officer wearing disposable paper overalls picked it up.
‘It’s empty, Sir.’
‘Bloody thing could be anywhere,’ said Baldwin.
Dixon looked at the piles of exercise books on the dining table, before putting on a pair of disposable rubber gloves and flicking through them. Essays on Mussolini, the rise of Adolf Hitler and the causes of World War One. Someone’s homework wasn’t going to get marked for a while.
‘Jane, check the bedside table, will you?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Dunno. But you’ll know it when you see it.’
Jane shrugged her shoulders and began opening the drawers. Dixon turned his attention to a bookshelf, flicking through each book in turn.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Jane.
‘Nothing in the bathroom either,’ said Baldwin, squeezing past a scientific services officer in the doorway.
‘No jewellery even?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s try her flat, then,’ said Dixon.
A scientific services team was already at work in Rowena’s ground floor flat at Firepool Lock by the time Dixon and Jane arrived. Overlooking Firepool Weir on the River Tone, it was a new purpose built block of flats rendered and painted white with wood cladding and large windows. The flat itself was immaculate. Polished oak flooring throughout the open plan living area, white leather furniture and glass tables with matching dining suite and kitchen units gave Dixon the distinct impression that Rowena had bought the show flat. He picked up a copy of House Beautiful magazine from the coffee table and looked at the date.
‘This is last May’s.’
‘D’you think she’s ever stayed here?’ asked Jane.
‘SOCO will soon tell us,’ said Dixon. ‘You check the wardrobes, I’ll start in the kitchen.’
The kitchen cupboards contained tins of beans, chopped tomatoes and a bag of spaghetti. Otherwise nothing. The fridge was empty, switched off and the door ajar. Not surprising of itself perhaps, given that she would be living in the school during term time.
‘There are some clothes in the wardrobe,’ shouted Jane.
Dixon walked through into the bedroom to find Jane sliding clothes along on their hangers in a large built in wardrobe. He noticed a suitcase on the top shelf.
‘All women’s,’ said Jane. ‘The bedside tables are empty too.’
Dixon looked at the bed. The duvet hardly had a crease in it and he wondered if it had ever been slept in. It was a divan bed, with a large drawer in the base, so he knelt down and opened it. He reached in underneath the piles of clean bedding and felt around, more in hope than expectation. Then he pulled the clean bedding to the front of the drawer and felt around at the back. He stopped when his fingers closed around a small box, black leather with a large gold lock.
‘It’s a jewellery box,’ said Jane, looking over his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing in the bathroom either except a few towels and a bottle of shampoo.’
Dixon flicked the clasp with his finger and it opened to reveal a gold locket and chain with small diamonds set into the front in the shape of a star. He held it up by the chain and could see that the back was blank, possibly to accommodate an inscription.
‘Open it,’ said Jane.
Dixon tried to pull it open but found it impossible wearing disposable rubber gloves.
‘You got a pen?’
Jane fumbled in her handbag and produced a black BIC biro.
‘Perfect.’ Dixon took the top off and then pushed the sharp end of the lid gently into the small indentation along the leading edge of the locket. It was designed for a fingernail, but he could not risk leaving prints and so the pen would have to do. It opened. Just a crack but that was enough and he was then able to prise it apart. Inside he found a lock of blonde hair and a tiny black and white photograph of a woman holding a baby. The picture was faded and had been cut to fit into the locket. He froze.
‘What is it?’ asked Jane.
Dixon handed her the locket.
‘It looks like Isobel Swan,’ she said, staring at the photograph.
‘Or Fran.’
‘Yes, it could be Fran.’
‘It’s neither of them, though, is it?’
‘Who is it, then?’ asked Jane, closing the locket. She dropped it into an evidence bag and then put it in her handbag.
‘Rowena’s mother,’ said Dixon. ‘And the baby is Rowena.’
‘How d’you . . . ?’
‘A hunch. Think about it. The photo is the right age and who else is the lock of hair going to belong to?’
‘It could . . .’
‘Of course it could. But a DNA test will soon tell us, won’t it?’
‘It will.’
‘And what colour do you think Rowena’s hair is underneath all that black dye?’
‘You still haven’t told me why Rowena tried to kill you,’ said Jane.
They had arrived at the Greyhound at Staple Fitzpaine with seconds to spare before the pub stopped serving food and were now sitting by the fire waiting for their fish and chips to arrive.
‘I’m the only one making the connection with Fran’s disappearance. At least that’s what she thinks.’
‘It’ll be interesting to see what she says tomorrow.’
‘It will,’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘I’m glad you left Monty with your parents. Poor bugger’d be starving by now.’
‘I’m picking him up in the morning. They’re off to my aunt’s for the week.’
‘Bring him with you.’
‘OK.’
Dixon took a large swig of beer.
‘What’s it like being shot at, then?’ asked Jane.
‘Didn’t really have to time to think about it. One of the boys heard a bee buzz past him and then we were into it.’
‘A bee?’
‘That’s what it sounds like if you’re on the receiving end. The bullet whizzes past you, then you hear the shot. Speed of sound and all that.’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Haven’t you ever seen Saving Private Ryan?’ asked Dixon.
‘No.’
‘You have got a treat in store.’
‘You and your bloody films,’ said Jane, shaking her head.
Jane dropped Dixon outside the front entrance of the school just before 11 p.m. He leaned across and kissed her.
‘Can I . . . ?’
‘Better not. You’ll get me expelled. Text me when you get home.’
‘OK. And be careful.’
He got out of her car, ran across to the shelter of the doorway and turned just in time to watch her tail lights disappear down the drive. He hoped Jane understood. It was Fran’s time now. Find her killer and then he could move on. Perhaps.
He tried the front door. It was locked, so he walked around the headmaster’s house and in through the back door of the school. He tiptoed along the main corridor, keeping his heels off the tiled floor, and up the stairs to his rooms. He opened the front door to find a folded piece of paper that had been pushed under the door.
‘Masters’ Christmas lunch. Small dining room (opposite big one). 12.30 for 1 p.m. Robin.’
He made himself a coffee and sat on the small sofa to read Clive Cooper’s inquest file. The cause of death was given as 1(a) drowning, although the pathologist was unable to confirm whether his head injury occurred before or after he entered the water. Nor was there any evidence of where or how he entered the water, hence the open verdict. Dixon noticed that the coroner had released the body for cremation after the inquest, so exhumation for further examination by Roger was not an option. He wondered whether it would be worth Roger looking at the pathologist’s notes and photographs to see if there was any similarity with the injuries to Derek Phelps. Dixon would be speaking to him in the morning about his hockey stick theory anyway.
Of the witness statements, the only one of interest came from Clive Cooper’s elderly mother, Edna. She lived in Wiveliscombe and gave a detailed and tragic account of her son’s descent into alcoholism, which had begun fifteen years ago. Dixon frowned. No mention was made at all of her son’s longstanding friendship with Derek Phelps, nor was any reason given for his drinking.
She had last seen her son the Christmas before he died, when he was living in a hostel in Cardiff. She had sent him a train ticket home but he had stayed only a few days before he disappeared, along with the contents of her purse. She heard nothing further from or about him until a knock on the door from the police three months later.
Her closing remarks dealt with what she understood to be her son’s state of mind the last time she saw him. He had been brought up a strict Catholic and was, as far as she was aware, not the type to commit suicide, nor had he ever demonstrated any suicidal tendencies. It was an odd phrase for an elderly woman to use about her son and Dixon suspected she had been led in this evidence by the officer taking the statement. Nevertheless, her statement was clear as far as it went. He closed the file and hid it under the mattress with Isobel’s file.
It had been a long and interesting day. He had been involved in firearms incidents before but had never experienced anyone shooting at him with intent to kill. Best not to dwell on it. There would be plenty of time for that later.
He set the alarm on his phone for 7 a.m. and went to sleep with the bedside light on.
Chapter Eleven
Rowena Weatherly had been rearrested on arrival at Taunton Police Station the following morning on suspicion of the murders of Isobel Swan and Derek Phelps and was now in a private conference with her lawyer, Stephen Dunn. DCI Chard was pacing up and down in the CID Room waiting for Dixon to finish with the coffee machine.
‘I’ve got a good feeling about this, Dixon,’ said Chard.
‘I shall watch the interview with interest, Sir,’ replied Dixon, turning around with a plastic cup in each hand. He walked over to Jane’s desk in the far corner of the CID Room and handed her one of the cups.
‘What’d he say?’
‘He says he’s got a touch of wind this morning.’
Jane coughed and spluttered, spraying coffee across her keyboard. Tears of suppressed laughter began streaming down her cheeks.
‘Come now, Constable, get a grip,’ said Dixon, patting her on the back.
Jane began mopping up the coffee on her desk with a tissue.
‘Did you see Monty?’ she asked.
‘He was asleep on the parcel shelf when I got here so I didn’t wake him up.’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Do me a favour, will you?’ asked Dixon.
‘What?’
‘Ring Clive Cooper’s mother in Wiveliscombe and make us an appointment to go and see her this afternoon. Threeish. I’ve got the masters’ Christmas lunch so you could pick me up at 2.30 p.m.?’
‘Fine. Leave it with me.’ Jane knew better than to ask why.
‘Was there anything interesting in Derek Phelps’ stuff?’
‘There’s a box down in the store. Nothing that springs to mind though.’
‘How long till the interview starts?’
‘Half an hour or so. Her lawyer’s only been in with her twenty minutes.’
‘Let’s have a look in this box, then,’ replied Dixon.
‘I’ll go and get it.’
While Jane went down to the store Dixon logged in to her computer, and had just about finished deleting all his emails when she dumped the box on the corner of the desk next to him.
‘It’s the personal items from his room at the school.’
‘Did he live anywhere else?’
‘No. Not that we’ve been able to find, anyway.’
‘So, this is it?’
‘Apart from a CD player, clothes and books, that sort of stuff. The school are waiting for the nod from us before they dispose of it.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Still in his room.’
‘Gloves?’
‘There are some in the drawer,’ replied Jane.
Dixon put on a pair of disposable rubber gloves and began rummaging in the box. He pulled out a brown leather wallet in a small clear plastic bag and held it up in front of Jane.
‘Nothing of interest,’ she said.
‘Bank cards?’
‘There’s a Barclays current account. We’re waiting for the statements to arrive.’
‘How far back?’
‘Twelve months.’
‘Get onto the bank and ask for statements going back as far as they can.’
‘As far as they can?’
‘At least ten years. Twelve would be better if they can do it.’
Dixon put the wallet on the desk and then turned his attention back to the contents of the box. He placed an iPod, no doubt loaded with Beatles songs, several pairs of spectacles and a small leather bound pocket Bible on the desk before pulling out a set of keys.
‘Door keys, a bike lock and his locker in the staff room.’
Next came various boxes of prescription medication, all bagged up.
‘They all check out. We’ve spoken to his doctor.’
Dixon nodded. ‘You were right, then,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing of interest.’
The interview with Rowena Weatherly began just before 10 a.m. DCI Chard introduced those present for the tape and then reminded Rowena that she was under caution. Dixon and Jane were watching on a television screen in an adjacent room. They could see both DI Baldwin and Rowena’s lawyer, Stephen Dunn, making notes. Rowena herself sat impassively, staring at the table in front of her.
‘Right, then, Rowena, let’s talk about yesterday. What was that all about?’
asked Chard.
‘No comment,’ said Dixon. Jane rolled her eyes.
To everyone’s surprise, Stephen Dunn spoke first.
‘My client wishes to read a prepared statement for the tape, after which she will answer ‘no comment’ to each and every question asked of her.’
DCI Chard looked at DI Baldwin and then back to Rowena. ‘Go ahead.’
Rowena took a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and, without looking up, began reading aloud.
‘I was in love with Isobel.’
Dixon sat back and folded his arms.
‘I asked her to marry me but she said that she hated me and threatened to expose me to the school,’ continued Rowena. Tears were streaming down her face. ‘I couldn’t allow that. So I killed her. I cut off her ring finger so that no one else could have her. Derek Phelps was blackmailing me so I agreed to meet him behind the sports hall and killed him. I was not trying to kill Nick Dixon. I believed that Gittens and Lloyd could identify me and I was trying to kill them. Tell Nick I’m sorry he got in the way.’
Rowena folded the piece of paper and passed it to Dunn.
‘Is that it?’ asked Chard.
‘No comment.’
‘You’re gonna have to do better than that, Rowena. We need to verify . . .’
‘No comment.’
‘From where I’m sitting it looks like a pack of lies. If you want us to believe you then we need more details. Proof.’
‘No comment.’
DCI Chard turned to Dunn. ‘I suggest you explain to your client that we need her to prove what she’s said. Otherwise she’s just wasting everyone’s time.’
Dunn leaned across and whispered in Rowena’s right ear. She listened and then nodded.
‘Go ahead,’ said Dunn.
‘This is gonna be good,’ said Dixon.
‘How did you kill Isobel?’ asked Chard.
‘She came to my room for a glass of wine. I told her I wanted to apologise for my behaviour. I drugged her with ketamine, cut off her ring finger and then tried to get her in the car. That’s when Gittens and Lloyd saw me. Or at least I thought they saw me.’
‘Where did you get the ketamine?’
‘No comment.’
