by Damien Boyd
Dixon followed Phillips to a pew halfway down the aisle and adjacent to the old altar stone. He looked down, half expecting to see a Ouija board.
He sat down in the aisle seat and watched the pews in front of him filling up. He thought about the last time he had attended a chapel service at St Dunstan’s, Fran sitting next to him. He could see, even now, the boy to his left playing a key ring sized Rubik’s cube. Another reading a small war comic. And then there was . . . Dixon shook his head. He couldn’t remember his name. Whoever it was had been listening to the radio through a small earpiece up his sleeve. And he got caught. Faces, voices, memories. More of them came flooding back. Scenes he thought he had blotted out but they were still there, just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest chance to jump out at him.
The layout of the chancel at St Dunstan’s had been different but only marginally. There had been no Lady Chapel and the organ was on the right with the choir sitting opposite. At Brunel both were on the left, opposite the Lady Chapel. It was a familiar scene and it felt like only yesterday since he had last watched it unfold.
The sound of heavy and deliberate footsteps behind him brought Dixon back to the present. He checked his watch. It was exactly 6 p.m. No doubt this would be the headmaster, whose arrival would signal the start of the service. He looked over his shoulder and watched Hatton sit down in the aisle seat of an empty row behind. The organ music stopped and Father Anthony walked out from behind the altar to the top of the three stone steps leading up to the altar.
‘Welcome, everyone, to this the last Holy Communion of the term.’
He raised his arms.
‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’
Dixon listened to the congregation reply.
‘Amen.’
‘It will return to you, one day, my boy. Your faith will return.’
Maybe it would. But Dixon knew then that day still lay ahead of him.
He listened to the greeting and then the congregation singing a hymn he didn’t recognise. He could hear the headmaster singing behind him and Phillips to his left but, whilst he followed the words in the hymn book, he could not bring himself to sing.
Phillips leaned across and whispered in his ear.
‘You don’t sing?’
Dixon gave a pained smile.
‘Long story.’
The look on Dixon’s face convinced Phillips not to press the issue.
Dixon looked along the pew to his left. There were several teachers he recognised: Whitmore, McCulloch and Griffiths, the supply teacher. In the pew behind sat Clarke, Small and the maths teacher, Keith Foster. Dixon looked at him closely. If he was Rowena Weatherly’s father Dixon would find himself eating a large slice of humble pie. On the other side of the aisle were several more teachers, some he knew and, in the row in front of them, Ben Masterson, Emily Setter and Susannah Bower. Dixon smiled. Perhaps Ben would be all right after all. He wondered what it was that Ben had wanted to talk to him about when he left the note and decided to tackle him about it again after the service.
He looked over his shoulder at the headmaster, sitting alone and aloof at the back of the congregation. One thing he could be sure of was that Hatton was not old enough to be Rowena’s father. Her brother, possibly, but not her father.
Dixon was deep in thought when he heard the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Thy will be done.’
Why was it your will that Fran die?
‘As we forgive those who trespass against us.’
Sorry, Lord, no can do.
‘But deliver us from evil.’
That would be good, if you get a minute.
He spoke the last sentence aloud.
‘For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’
He took his wallet out of his pocket and pulled a passport photograph of Fran from the zip compartment at the back. It was the first time he had looked at it for at least five years. Then he looked up at the cross on the back wall of the chapel, behind the altar. He thought about the crucifix that Fran wore on a gold chain around her neck and wondered if he would be seeing it again. And if he would get the chance to return it to her mother.
He noticed the boys and girls at the front of the chapel getting up, walking forward and kneeling on the top step in front of the altar. It was time for Communion. One row at a time. First the Body of Christ then the Blood of Christ, the bread and the wine. Dixon watched the pupils going up in an orderly fashion. As each row returned to their seats, so the next one would get up and walk forward.
Within a few minutes the more senior pupils at the back of the congregation were beginning to get up and file out of their pews. Dixon saw Ben Masterson stand up and join the back of the line walking down the aisle, so he followed him. Ben looked over his shoulder and saw Dixon behind him. He smiled.
As he shuffled along at the back of the line, Dixon asked himself why he had followed Ben. Had he just wanted him to know he was still there or was there more to it than that? He shook his head. He really didn’t know and before he had a chance to think too much about it he found himself kneeling next to Ben on the top step. He waited, trying to remember what he was supposed to do.
Dixon heard footsteps in front of him and looked up. It was Father Anthony. He made the sign of the cross with his right hand and then took a small white Communion wafer off the silver tray he was holding in his left, placing it in the palm of Dixon’s hand.
‘The Body of Christ.’
Father Anthony repeated the process along the line of pupils kneeling in front of him. Then he walked over to the altar, put down the tray and picked up a silver goblet.
‘The Blood of Christ.’
Holding the goblet in both hands, Father Anthony held it to Dixon’s lips. He took a sip and then watched Father Anthony work his way along the line giving each pupil a sip from the goblet. When Father Anthony reached the far end of the line, Ben Masterson nudged Dixon and gestured towards the aisle. Dixon got the message, stood up and walked slowly back to his seat.
Another hymn that Dixon did not recognise and service was over. He looked at his watch. It was just after 7 p.m. and he was due to be meeting Jane in half an hour at the Greyhound. He waited in the cloisters, hoping to catch Ben Masterson leaving the chapel, but felt a hand on his shoulder before he got the chance.
‘Enjoy that?’ asked Phillips.
‘Bit of a trip down memory lane.’
‘I bet.’
They walked side by side back along the cloisters, occasionally being jostled by the lines of younger pupils pushing past them on either side.
‘Where are they off to in such a hurry?’ asked Dixon.
‘Supper.’
‘That explains it.’
‘I gather we’re all going to be DNA tested on Friday morning?’
Dixon nodded.
‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, I suppose,’ said Phillips.
‘Is that the time?’ replied Dixon, looking at his watch. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Dixon drove out towards the Greyhound Inn at Staple Fitzpaine with the heater and fans on full blast. It was a clear night, crisp and cold, and it had taken the last of his de-icer to clear the windscreen.
He thought about the DNA test that he now knew would be taking place on Friday morning. It occurred to him that if Phillips knew then so did Rowena’s father and only he would know or suspect the real reason for it. The rest would think it was purely standard procedure. Still, at least they would know who they were looking for if he did a bunk. Dixon shook his head. That would not do at all. Watching him being interviewed on a TV screen or looking through the slit in a cell door was not enough. Not by a long way. Dixon wanted to look him in the eye when he arrested him, assuming he decided not to kill him, of course. Try
as he might, Dixon still had no real idea how he would react when he came face to face with Fran’s killer. What concerned him more was that it was still an ‘if’ rather than a ‘when’ he came face to face with him.
He parked next to Jane’s car and checked for any sign of Monty. Shame. She must have left him at home. Then he thrust his hands as deep as they would go into his pockets and walked across the car park listening to the ice crunching beneath his feet. Each crunch was followed by a splash as he broke through the thin layer of ice that had formed on the puddles.
Monty spotted Dixon first when he walked into the public bar and almost pulled Jane off her chair trying to get to him before she let him go. He ran over to Dixon and began jumping up at him while he was waiting at the bar.
‘You got a drink?’
Jane held up what looked like a Diet Coke.
Dixon picked up a menu, walked over and sat down opposite Jane.
‘We’re gonna be all right, aren’t we?’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jane.
‘You and me. When this is all over.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It must be difficult for you . . .’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course we’ll be all right.’ Jane smiled at him. Then she stood up, leaned across the table and kissed him. ‘And I’m with you every step of the way.’
‘Thank you.’
Jane looked down at Monty curled up on the floor at Dixon’s feet. ‘I gave him a run on the beach and he’s been fed.’
‘Thanks. Tell me about the DNA test.’
‘It’s fixed for Friday morning.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘The headmaster’s. Tomorrow is the last day of term now and they’ll all be too busy, apparently.’
‘There’s a rumour going round that he was having an affair with Isobel and he killed her,’ said Dixon.
‘Hatton?’
‘It’s just schoolboy mischief.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I was one once, don’t forget.’
‘Shouldn’t we look into it?’
‘No time left. Chard can follow it up later if needs be.’
Jane nodded.
‘What about the driving instructor?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’ve got a sample from him.’
Dixon took the business card out of the top pocket of his jacket.
‘I had a rummage in Phelps’ room and found this in a cigar box in his bedside table,’ he said, handing it to Jane.
‘Why would . . . ?’
‘Exactly. Ask him, will you? First thing in the morning.’
Jane took her notebook out of her handbag and began making notes.
‘Maybe he wanted to learn to drive?’
‘Quite possibly,’ replied Dixon. ‘And it’s reasonable to assume he’d ask an instructor he saw coming to the school regularly.’
‘I’ll speak to him in the morning.’
‘And don’t go alone.’
‘OK, OK.’
‘Take someone from Bridgwater, if you’re stuck. Louise Willmott.’
‘I get it.’
‘Have you found anything else on Rowena’s father?’ asked Dixon.
‘No. There’s no record of a Gordon Patrick Lee appearing anywhere after Rowena’s date of birth, but then we knew that. And that’s assuming it really is her date of birth.’
‘She was Rowena Abbot at St Dunstan’s.’
‘I checked for a Gordon Patrick Abbot. Nothing.’
‘So, he kills Rowena’s mother,’ said Dixon, ‘takes her to Kenya for five years and then comes back with a new identity.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘And it’s all hunky dory until he meets Fran . . .’
‘Possibly not.’
‘What’d you mean?’
Jane opened the file on the table in front of her and handed Dixon a photograph.
‘Lynnette Margaret Peters. Aged eighteen. Reported missing in 1983.’
‘She’s the spitting image of Fran,’ said Dixon, staring at the photograph.
‘And Isobel.’
Dixon shook his head. ‘Where?’
‘Wells. She went to a local school.’
‘The Cathedral School?’
‘No. Chard’s getting the files out now.’
Jane watched Dixon’s eyes glazing over the more he stared at the photograph and could see he was no longer focussing on it. She waited. Suddenly, he slammed the picture down on the table with his left hand. Monty woke up and started growling.
‘What’s he doing about it?’
‘Who?’
‘Chard.’
‘Tracking down all the staff at her school and interviewing them, I think.’
Dixon picked up the menu and passed it to Jane. ‘Hungry?’
‘Er, yes,’ replied Jane, frowning. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s right in front of me, Jane. Right in front of me. So close I could reach out and touch it.’ Dixon grimaced. ‘But I can’t see it. I just can’t see it.’
‘What?’
‘If I knew that, we’d be home and dry.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘It’s like doing a huge jigsaw puzzle and finding the last bit’s missing.’
‘Jigsaw puzzle?’
‘Only you’ve seen it, lying around somewhere, you just can’t remember where . . .’
‘You know who it is?’ asked Jane.
‘No,’ said Dixon, shaking his head. ‘But it’s there. The last piece of the jigsaw puzzle is right there.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘We eat.’
‘You can eat at a time like this?’
‘I have to. I’m diabetic, don’t forget. And what do we do when we can’t remember an actor’s name?’
‘Google it.’
‘If you can’t google it,’ said Dixon, rolling his eyes.
‘Think about something else . . .’
‘Exactly. Now what d’you want to eat?’
They both ordered the curry and then sat in silence watching Monty lying fast asleep in front of the fire. It was at least ten minutes before Dixon spoke again.
‘What about Haskill?’
‘He left Malaysia on a flight to Shanghai this morning. Chard’s onto the Home Office and the request’s gone in to see if the Chinese will pick him up.’
‘And Griffiths?’
‘Squeaky clean. Here’s a copy of what we’ve got,’ said Jane, handing a plastic document wallet to Dixon.
‘Is he a Jehovah’s Witness?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll read it later,’ he said, putting the file to one side. ‘What happened after I left this morning?’
‘You mean apart from all the cursing and swearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was a lot of shouting and yelling, barking of orders, that sort of thing. Lewis managed to calm him down, though, I think.’
‘What worries me most of all is that it’ll be Chard making the arrest and not me.’
‘He’ll have you off the case when Fran’s file comes out tomorrow. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
The smell of curry distracted them both and several minutes passed before Jane spoke again. Dixon had cleared his plate before she was even halfway through her own meal.
‘You were hungry,’ she said.
‘School food.’
Dixon reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the photograph. He handed it to Jane.
‘I found this in a suitcase in Phelps’ room. Where is it, d’you know?’
‘It’s Clive Cooper.’
‘I know that, but where is it?’
‘Looks like the King’s Sedgemoor Drain to me. Too wide to be anything else and the banks are that steep, I think. D’you want me to check?’
‘No, don’t bother.’ Dixon slid the photograph back in his pocket.
‘I thought Derek Phelps’ room had been searched?’ asked Jane.
‘It had but they didn’t know what they were looking for, did they?’
‘I suppose not.’
Dixon was staring at his empty glass.
‘Another drink?’ asked Jane.
No reply. Jane waited.
‘Wasn’t Phelps illiterate?’
‘He was,’ replied Jane. ‘Couldn’t read or write.’
‘Yet he managed to write the letters ‘KF’ in the mud . . .’ Dixon frowned. ‘Email me the photo of his murder scene, will you. The letters in the mud. Zoom in so I can see them. Nice and clear.’
‘Will do.’
Jane added it to her list of things to do. ‘So, what happens now?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. But it’s shit or bust tomorrow, one way or the other.’
It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time Dixon parked in front of the school. He had spent the last ten minutes sitting in the car park at the Greyhound waiting for his windscreen to clear and Jane was well on her way home by then. The heated windscreen in her red VW Golf had done the trick for her in less than thirty seconds and it was yet another reminder that Dixon had bought the wrong car.
He walked along the main corridor, the silence broken only by the slow and deliberate click of his heels on the tiled floor. The notice boards on either side were emptier now, evidence of cancelled meetings and activities now that the term was ending a week early. Good news for some, bad news for others. Dixon could certainly have done with a few more days. He was still no nearer to finding the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle, although it would be found by a process of elimination on Friday morning. And by someone else. That was the bit that hurt the most. The prospect of being thrown off the case and languishing at home while Chard arrested the man who had killed Fran. Or, worse still, let him get away.
He made a cup of tea and then sat down on the small sofa in his rooms to read the file that he had pulled out from under the mattress. It was the only place the missing piece could be or, at least, it was the only place he had left to look. Either way, it felt better than doing nothing and he was unlikely to sleep. He read the witness statements again and then Isobel Swan’s post mortem report, before taking a sip of tea that was by then stone cold.
