Free Swansong by Damien Boyd Page B

with his wife, Derek Phelps was in the Dolphin. The barman remembers him, or rather the barman would remember if he hadn’t been there because he always is. Haskill’s abroad, but I’ll check that, and Rowena Weatherly was home alone. Well, in her rooms in Gardenhurst.’
    ‘And the driving instructor?’
    ‘Arnold Davies. He was at Bible study earlier in the evening then at home with his wife.’
    ‘Have you come across anything on a supply teacher called Griffiths?’ asked Dixon.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Chard is a useless tosser. Well, there is one. Filling in for Haskill. Better get his records.’
    ‘Will do,’ replied Jane, scribbling in her notebook.
    ‘It’s quite possible he’s been to St Dunstan’s in the past and he’s certainly old enough to have been teaching seventeen years ago.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘What about Isobel’s father? Has he been checked?’
    ‘Not by me.’
    ‘Do so. See if he’s ever had anything to do with St Dunstan’s.’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘And the groundsman who found Isobel. I’ve not seen his statement. Better check it for anything unusual.’
    ‘Listen, I was thinking. Isobel had her ring finger cut off,’ said Jane.
    ‘She did.’
    ‘So, perhaps the killer has an issue with marriage?’
    Dixon nodded.
    ‘Why else cut off that particular finger?’
    ‘And keep it,’ added Dixon.
    ‘Quite.’
    ‘Good thinking. Look for anyone who’s been divorced. Let’s have a look at the school governors too. Full background checks on the current lot. Look for any who were at St Dunstan’s seventeen years ago.’
    ‘All of them?’
    ‘It’ll keep you out of trouble,’ said Dixon, smiling.
    ‘And what’s gonna keep you out of trouble?’
    The answer to that one was ‘nothing’. Dixon fully expected to get into trouble but he thought it best not to worry Jane with that now .

    They left the Greyhound just before 8 p.m. A lone figure was standing under the smokers’ gazebo, sheltering from the rain. Neither Dixon nor Jane noticed him step back into the shadows. Nor did they notice that he wasn’t smoking.

    Dixon followed Jane back towards Taunton and flashed his lights at her when she turned off towards the M5. Then he pulled into the front entrance of the convent and parked behind a line of garages.
    He tried the door of the old chapel. It was still on the latch, just as he had left it. He opened the door a crack and listened. Nothing, so he crept inside, dropped the latch, holding it with both hands to ensure there was no sound, and then closed the door behind him. He stopped to put on his shoes, which he had carried along the cloisters, and then looked around. Just enough light was coming in through the stained glass windows that he could make out the gallery at the far end and the outline of the junk that had to be negotiated to get there. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He fumbled for the light switches on the wall just inside the door but did not turn them on. He just needed to know where they were. Then he looked for a suitable place to hide.
    Three large piles of mattresses where the altar had once been offered the perfect spot, not far from the lights and ensuring that Dixon would be between the gallery and the door. He moved two of them to form a screen of sorts, switched his phone to ‘silent’ mode and then lay back with his hands behind his head. He did not expect to have to wait long.
    He allowed his mind to wander back to days at St Dunstan’s, some of them sad, others not so. When he tried to picture Fran’s face he couldn’t see her. Just her outline and a blank face. It had been that way for a long time but it was not unusual, or so people said. ‘Think about doing something together and it’ll come to you.’ He thought about their first kiss and could see her right in front of him, just as she had been all those years ago. He could see her now, giggling. He had thought it had been nerves until months later when she told him he’d