Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4)

by Damien Boyd

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I hid down on the playing fields. Cut her throat and left her body in the stream. Then I disposed of the car.’

  ‘Tell me about this car.’

  ‘It was an old Ford Focus with a boot. Not the hatchback. I paid cash for it.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘I dumped it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bristol. Then I caught the train back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few days later. I don’t remember.’

  ‘What about Phelps, then? How’d you kill him?’

  ‘I hit him with my hockey stick. Three times on the back of the head.’

  ‘Where’s the stick now?’

  ‘I left it in the girls’ changing rooms.’

  ‘Describe it for me.’

  ‘It’s a Grays. Pink and white with a black handle.’

  ‘Hidden in plain sight. Very clever,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You believe her?’ asked Jane.

  ‘About the murder of Phelps, yes. The rest is bollocks.’

  ‘So, what about yesterday, then?’ asked Chard.

  ‘I took the gun from the range and followed the minibus. I knew they’d be coming past Crowcombe Park Gate one way or the other so I waited for them.’

  ‘And you were after Gittens and Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you met Nick Dixon before?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You knew he was a police officer?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘That’s enough for now I think, Inspector,’ said Dunn. ‘My client has clarified her statement, as you requested.’

  Chard terminated the interview and Rowena was taken back to the cells. Dixon listened to the voices outside in the corridor.

  ‘Get the superintendent to extend the time we can hold her while we see what else we can find,’ said Chard. ‘First things first, though. Let’s go to the Vivary Arms for a celebratory beer.’

  Dixon shook his head. ‘He’d believe her if she confessed to shooting JFK . . .’

  The door opened and Chard walked in, followed by DI Baldwin.

  ‘A good result all round, I think,’ said Chard.

  ‘If you assume she’s telling the truth,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘And you don’t think she is, I suppose.’

  ‘About the murder of Phelps, yes. She killed him to protect whoever killed Isobel Swan. And there is no way on God’s clean earth that she was shooting at Gittens and Lloyd yesterday. I know. I was on the receiving end of it.’

  ‘Well, you’re in a minority of one,’ said Chard.

  ‘Two.’

  Dixon looked at Jane and smiled. Then he turned to Chard.

  ‘You enjoy your beer, Sir. Jane and I have got a murder to investigate.’

  Dixon left Jane tracking down CCTV coverage of Bristol Temple Meads railway station for the three days after Isobel Swan’s murder. If Rowena was telling the truth about dumping the car then she would appear on camera travelling back to Taunton. It was a good place to dump a car, of course, provided she chose her spot carefully. With the keys left in it, it would pretty soon be taken for a spin and then left burnt out in a field somewhere with entirely unrelated fingerprints all over it. Dixon had to admire her ingenuity. Talk about getting someone else to do your dirty work for you. Dixon nodded. That was exactly what Rowena was doing. Someone else’s dirty work. Cleaning up the mess. Or trying to. And now taking the fall for it.

  He walked around the corner into Vivary Park and let Monty off the lead. Watching him tear off across the grass had never failed to raise a smile from Dixon. Until today. He was remembering walking through Vivary Park on a summer’s evening many years ago, hand in hand with Fran, after a meal in the wine bar at the top of the High Street. La Bonne Vie. And it had been a good life. It was going to be an even better life too.

  Dixon looked across at the bandstand. It was in need of a fresh coat of paint but it was still the same bandstand where they had sheltered from the rain and sat talking for hours without noticing it had stopped. He could picture her face there in front of him even now. It had been that night he had told her he loved her and that he would never let her down.

  He was brought back to the present by a stick dropping onto his shoes. Monty was sitting at his feet looking up at him.

  ‘C’mon you, best get back.’

  Dixon threw the stick in the direction of the exit and followed Monty as he tore off after it. He stopped at the gate to put his lead on and looked back at the bandstand. He knew then that he still loved Fran and, no, he wouldn’t let her down.

  Dixon looked at his watch. It was just after midday.

  ‘I’m off back to the school, otherwise I’ll be late for that bloody lunch. Here are your keys,’ he said, dropping Jane’s car keys onto her desk.

  ‘OK. I’ll pick you up at 2.30 p.m.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘British Transport Police are getting the CCTV for us,’ replied Jane.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And I’ve sent two WPCs to search the girls’ changing rooms for Rowena’s hockey stick.’

  ‘Check whether she’s got any brothers, will you?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They’d have gone to St Dunstan’s too, I expect. Check there first. If they were older they’d have been there before her and . . .’

  ‘I get the idea.’

  ‘And I want Rowena’s birth certificate. Plus anything else you can find on her family. Marriage certificate, decree absolute, anything. See if Louise Willmott can give you a hand.’

  ‘What I still don’t understand is how you can be so sure that Rowena didn’t kill Fran,’ said Jane.

  ‘Do you remember the hockey tour I told you about? The one Fran was supposed to have been on when she disappeared.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The one her parents stopped her going on because it was too close to her exams.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well, Rowena went on it,’ said Dixon.

  ‘So she was . . .’

  ‘. . . Playing hockey in Holland when Fran disappeared. That’s right.’

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Phillips. ‘Come and sit over here.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You’ve not missed anything. Don’t worry about it. Father Anthony will be saying grace in a min . . . here we go.’

  Father Anthony was sitting at the next table and had his back to Dixon when he stood up.

  ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  ‘Here, have some wine,’ said Phillips, filling up Dixon’s glass. ‘We’ve dispensed with the silly hats this year but we can still have a glass or two of plonk, can’t we?’

  ‘I suppose we can.’

  ‘I gather you were the hero of the hour yesterday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rowena’s car accident. Silly arse didn’t notice the cattle grid wasn’t there or something. Or so rumour has it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can’t think what she was doing up there, though.’

  ‘I just assumed she was looking out for the girls’ team,’ replied Dixon.

  ‘That might be it. Oh well, chin, chin.’ Phillips took a large swig of wine and then topped up his glass.

  ‘No sign of the headmaster,’ said Dixon, looking around the room.

  ‘He never comes to these things,’ replied Phillips. ‘And he’ll be lunching with the governors today, I should imagine.’

  ‘Or Mr Griffiths?’

  ‘Don’t know where he is. He was invited but then he is just a supply teacher.’

  ‘As opposed to a trainee teacher.’


  ‘Quite,’ said Phillips. ‘You can’t afford to miss out on a free lunch.’

  Dixon smiled. He took a sip of wine and tried to listen to the various conversations going on around him. There were three long dining tables with bench seating on either side, smaller versions of the seating in the main dining room. To his left the conversation seemed to be about the governors’ meeting that afternoon and the possible cancellation of Saturday’s rugby match with Sherborne that might result. On his right, Phillips was involved in an animated discussion about the competence of the local police. Dixon resolved to keep out of that particular conversation and tried to focus on the next table, the third being out of earshot above the general hubbub. Father Anthony was surrounded by ladies and seemed to be fending off suggestions that he should play tennis again. A dodgy knee was his excuse, apparently.

  Dixon marvelled at their ability to ignore the fact that a member of staff and a pupil at the school had been murdered. Still, the show must go on. No doubt that would be their excuse.

  ‘What d’you think of life in a boarding school, then?’ The question came from the teacher sitting opposite Dixon. ‘Clarke. French,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Eventful,’ said Dixon, shaking Clarke’s hand.

  ‘It’s not usually like this. Pretty dull most of the time.’

  ‘You talking shop?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘I was just asking him if he was enjoying it here.’

  ‘Of course he is. Aren’t you, Nick?’

  ‘Very much so,’ replied Dixon, through a mouthful of roast potato.

  Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Sir. The headmaster’s asking to see you.’ It was Gabriel White, the head boy, given away by the badge on the collar of his jacket.

  ‘Better go,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t clear your plate away.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘He’s in his office, Sir,’ said White.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dixon’s phone was ringing in his pocket as he walked along the main corridor.

  ‘We’ve got the hockey stick,’ said Jane when he answered.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On the way to the lab.’

  ‘Ring Roger. Ask him whether a hockey stick caused the injuries to Derek Phelps. Email him a copy of Clive Cooper’s post mortem report and get him to liaise with the pathologist in Cardiff. Ask him if the pattern of injuries is the same or similar. And I want to know if a hockey stick could’ve caused Cooper’s injuries.’

  ‘You think she killed Clive Cooper as well?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Dixon was standing outside the headmaster’s office. ‘Gotta go,’ he said, ringing off. Then he knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Ah, Dixon, sorry to tear you away from your lunch but I’m meeting the governors in half an hour and Chard’s telling me Rowena Weatherly’s been charged?’

  ‘Not yet, no. Not as far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘What the . . . ?’

  ‘There’s a news blackout on it at the moment but she’s confessed to the murders of Isobel Swan and Derek Phelps and the attempted murders of Gittens and Lloyd.’

  ‘So, that’s it, then, surely?’

  Dixon hesitated.

  ‘Come on, off the record. I have to know. More lives might be at stake.’

  ‘That’s not it, no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You and I both know the answer to that question. Fran Sawyer. St Dunstan’s, seventeen years ago. Rowena’s protecting someone and doesn’t want the connection made.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Her father. Brother, possibly.’

  Dixon looked for the slightest flicker of a reaction in the headmaster’s eyes but saw none.

  ‘So we should still go ahead and end the term early?’

  ‘Yes, you should.’

  Dixon watched Hatton sucking his teeth.

  ‘Thank you. This conversation won’t go any further.’

  Dixon nodded and then left the room. He stood in the main entrance hall and looked up at the clock above the corridor. There was just enough time to get back to the dining room for his Christmas pudding before Jane arrived at 2.30 p.m. He had done his insulin injection before lunch and needed the sugar.

  Dixon was standing outside the main entrance of the school, with his back to the front door, watching the sleet melt as soon as it hit the ground and listening to his stomach grumbling. Phillips had done as he had promised, although all that was left on Dixon’s plate when he got back to the dining room had been one roast potato and several Brussels sprouts sitting in a puddle of congealed gravy. All of it stone cold. The Christmas pudding had not made up for it either.

  He was thinking about the Ouija board and Rowena’s feeble attempt to have him taken off the case. That was assuming it had been Rowena, of course. The board had disappeared, so dusting for fingerprints was not an option now and the handwriting on the note he had kept was deliberately disguised. Were there prints on it, perhaps? Unlikely. Whoever wrote it would have worn gloves. Particularly if it hadn’t been Rowena. Whoever she was protecting was smart enough to have got away with killing Fran and would be unlikely to make such a simple mistake now. Anyway, he could hardly reveal the connection himself. All in good time, perhaps, but not yet.

  The sleet had turned to rain by the time Jane pulled into the car park. She saw Dixon sheltering in the doorway and parked across the entrance with her passenger door facing him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, getting in.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Jane waited until Dixon had put his seatbelt on before turning out of the car park and heading west out of Taunton towards Wiveliscombe.

  ‘Tell me about Edna Cooper, then.’

  ‘She lives at 91c Stile Road, Wiveliscombe. It’s a small housing association flat. Has an ancient conviction for shoplifting. A widow. Husband died in 1989.’

  ‘Long time to be a widow,’ said Dixon.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What’d she get for the shoplifting?’

  ‘Conditional discharge.’

  ‘Does she have any other children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lost her husband and her son,’ said Dixon, shaking his head.

  Dixon unzipped his jacket, reached in and pulled out Clive Cooper’s inquest file. He took out Mrs Cooper’s witness statement and then threw the file onto the back seat. He had read the statement three times before Jane spoke.

  ‘I didn’t think it was that interesting.’

  ‘It’s interesting for what it doesn’t say more than what it does,’ replied Dixon, without looking up.

  Jane shook her head and carried on driving.

  Stile Road was to the north of Wiveliscombe and they had driven up and down it several times before they spotted number 91. It was a small block of four flats, built of red brick, with a central entrance hall and stairs leading up to a balcony on the first floor. Each flat had its own front door, the ground floor flats at the side and the upstairs flats on the balcony. 91c turned out to be up the stairs.

  ‘No lift,’ said Dixon.

  ‘You don’t need a lift.’

  ‘I don’t but Mrs Cooper might. One day.’

  ‘True,’ replied Jane. ‘They’d move her into a home, I suppose. Or a warden controlled block.’

  ‘There’s a cheerful thought.’

  Dixon knocked on the pane of frosted glass in the door and then began rummaging in his pockets.

  ‘Here,’ said Jane, handing him his warrant card just as a figure appeared behind the door.

  ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘One more.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Mrs Edna
Cooper looked them up and down. ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes. Detective Inspector Dixon and Detective Constable Winter.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  Dixon and Jane followed her into a small living room at the back of the flat. It overlooked the garden, although ‘area of wasteland’ was a more accurate description.

  ‘They keep threatening to come and sort it out but never do. Cuts,’ said Mrs Cooper, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Sit down.’

  Dixon looked at the sofa. It was old, covered in cat hair and turned out to be just as uncomfortable as he had feared. Jane pulled a chair out from under the small table in the window, took out her notebook and sat down.

  ‘I need something to lean on, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to you about your son,’ said Dixon.

  ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me about his relationship with Derek Phelps.’

  ‘They were friends. It wasn’t a relationship in that sense.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of times.’

  ‘How did they meet?’

  ‘At work. They were both kitchen porters at St Dunstan’s. Worked together there for years, they did. Until Clive got the sack.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Drinking. He was supposed to have hit someone as well but it never went any further. It was the finish of him. He was never going to get a job anywhere else.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’d only got that thanks to a local charity. He wasn’t quite . . . well, he couldn’t read or write, you see. Neither of them could.’

  ‘I understand,’ replied Dixon. ‘D’you have a photo of him?’

  Mrs Cooper reached into her handbag on the floor and took out her purse. She opened it and passed it to Dixon, jabbing her finger at a Perspex window on one side.

  ‘That’s him. Taken twenty years ago. The other one’s my husband.’

  Dixon looked at the photograph. He recognised Clive from St Dunstan’s and remembered an intimidating man who often muttered to himself under his breath. He had quite a reputation, did Clive.

  ‘What sort of things did they do together?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clive and Derek.’