Swansong (The DI Nick Dixon Crime Series Book 4)

by Damien Boyd

  Phillips was sitting at his computer with his back to him. ‘The orienteering exercise is on this afternoon and the head thought you might like to go.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘Yes. DCI Chard said it’d be OK.’

  ‘Did he.’ Dixon took a deep breath, closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘The twerps responsible for your find in the old chapel are going,’ continued Phillips, turning around, ‘and the old man thinks it might be an idea if someone kept an eye on them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Gittens and Lloyd.’

  Dixon smiled.

  ‘D’you know them?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘They turned up at breakfast yesterday morning looking like they’d had a heavy night of it.’

  ‘They probably had. Anyway, you’re young, fit and available.’

  ‘I’ll go, yes, that’s fine with me.’

  ‘I can lend you my golf trousers and a waterproof top. I’m sure we can find a rucksack somewhere too.’

  ‘I’ll need a pair of trainers.’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘We’ll have a rummage in the lost property,’ replied Phillips.

  Chapter Nine

  Dixon was sitting in the front passenger seat of the largest of the four school minibuses as Sarge drove north-west out of Taunton on the A358, past the Royal Marine base at Norton Fitzwarren and on towards Bishops Lydeard. He had been introduced to Regimental Sergeant Major Brian Tuckett, Royal Artillery Retired, to give him his correct title, an hour or so before, and had since been kitted out in a pair of army combat trousers, a Brunel rugby shirt and a green Berghaus jacket with fleece liner that smelt as if it had spent far too long in the bottom of the lost property box. He had also borrowed a pair of trainers, gloves and a small blue rucksack that was on the floor of the minibus between his feet. It contained a fruit cake, a bottle of water, a spare map and a woolly hat. Dixon was travelling light.

  He thought about his last visit to the Quantocks, which had not ended well, and wondered where Westbrook Warrior was now that half the syndicate that had owned him was either dead or in prison. Dixon hoped it was not in a tin of dog food. The Warrior had won his last race in some style and deserved better.

  He checked his pockets for his phone and sent Jane a text message.

  Orienteering exercise on Qtocks babysitting Gittens & Lloyd at least it’s not raining x

  Dixon looked up at the Quantocks on the skyline ahead and could make out a light dusting of snow on the tops. They had not yet been given the route but he hoped it would not take more than a couple of hours. He had better things he could and should be doing and, whilst Sarge had been at pains to impress on him that he shouldn’t interfere with the map reading, Dixon had no intention of walking miles in the wrong direction.

  He looked over his shoulder at the pupils in the seats behind him. There were three teams of six. Twelve boys and six girls, all entered into Ten Tors on Dartmoor the following May. The girls and one team of boys would be doing thirty-five miles and the other team of older boys, including Gittens and Lloyd, would be doing forty-five miles. Dixon hoped that neither Gittens nor Lloyd would be doing the map reading.

  Dixon frowned. He thought it odd that no mention had been made of the Ouija board, either during the staff meeting or afterwards by Phillips. It must have been found this morning by someone, most likely by Father Anthony or possibly the cleaner, and the only conclusion Dixon could draw was that it had been treated as a childish prank and ignored. Either that or Phillips had simply not mentioned it. After all, he still didn’t know that Dixon was a police officer. What remained, of course, was that someone had made an attempt, albeit feeble, to have Dixon taken off the case. Someone close enough to the school to be wandering around at that time in the morning. Dixon hadn’t heard a car. He wondered whether he could rule out the driving instructor and Isobel’s father on that basis.

  The minibus turned right just after Bishops Lydeard and headed north up onto the Quantocks. Dixon could see Great Wood off to his left and ominous rain clouds in the sky behind it away to the west. He checked his phone to find that he only had one bar. Still, a weak signal was better than no signal at all. He listened to the light hearted banter coming from the back of the minibus. Whether the girls liked it or not, they were in a race with the boys and the social standing of an entire gender depended on the outcome.

  Sarge looked at Dixon and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not a race,’ he shouted.

  Dixon spotted a large green sign for Quantock Lodge Leisure as Sarge turned into the entrance. The sign gave the usual information, including address, telephone number, activities, opening hours and such like. Non-members were welcome, apparently. Dixon took out his phone and sent Jane another text message.

  Starting TA5 1HE x

  He watched the screen nervously to check that the message had gone. The mobile signal came and went so he held his phone above his head and moved it left and right until he got the ‘message sent’ confirmation that he was waiting for. Next he opened Google Maps, selected Hybrid view, tapped the ‘3D’ button and then entered the postcode in the search field at the top of the screen. He was now looking at a three dimensional satellite image of the Quantock Hills with white lines marking the main roads. He watched a red pin drop onto his current location. At least he knew where he was. For now.

  Sarge parked in the far corner of the car park, opposite the swimming pool. It looked far more inviting than the cold and dark woods behind it.

  ‘Everybody out.’

  Dixon got out of the minibus and slid open the side door while Sarge opened the double doors at the back. Pupils began climbing out, some more reluctantly than others, and it came as no surprise that Gittens and Lloyd were last out.

  ‘Right, into your teams, everyone,’ shouted Sarge. ‘A simple exercise today, so don’t get lost.’ He handed a map and compass to each team leader. The maps were folded open at the correct location and sealed in waterproof wallets. ‘We’re at grid reference ST 18638 37602.’ Sarge sighed loudly. ‘You’re not writing this down, are you?’

  Most of the pupils took a pencil and paper out of their pockets. Gittens and Lloyd took out their phones.

  ‘Phones in an emergency only. Idiots. This is about learning to use a map and compass, not sat nav. What happens if you can’t get a signal?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘I’ll be enjoying the hospitality in the Windmill Inn at West Quantoxhead. Grid reference ST 11223 41809. And don’t take too long about it or Mr Dickson here will have to drive us home.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Mr Dickson will be going with your team, Martin. He fancied an afternoon stroll.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘My mobile number is in the top right corner of each map. Right, then, off you go, and I’ll give you a clue,’ said Sarge, pointing to a wooden five bar gate to his right. ‘It’s that way.’

  Dixon watched the team of younger boys dash off towards the gate and was relieved that his own team began by studying the map, as did the girls. He knew that the Windmill was on the A39 to the north-west of his current location and, on that basis, the exercise was quite straightforward. Up through Great Wood and then along the top to West Quantoxhead. Monty would be upset if he knew what he was missing.

  ‘Are you ready, Sir?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Yes, don’t mind me, I’ll just tag along,’ replied Dixon.

  He followed the group through the gate and along the forest track. The trees either side gave way to fields, telling Dixon that they were not yet into Great Wood itself, but the trail became very much darker up ahead, the team of younger boys having already disappeared into the gloom. Dixon hoped he would not need a torch. It was the one thing he had forgotten, but he could always use the light from his phone if he had to.

&nb
sp; He watched the team of boys walking ahead of him. They looked very much like he and his teammates had done when they had done Ten Tors. Dressed head to toe in waterproofs, it was difficult to tell them apart, although Gittens and Lloyd were the only ones wearing blue. All carried small rucksacks but Dixon thought it best not to ask what was in them. Ten Tors would be a very different proposition, of course; forty-five miles across the open moor carrying a tent, sleeping bag, a cooker and food.

  The forest trail consisted of a dirt track, wide enough for one vehicle, with deep drainage ditches either side. It was hard underfoot but occasional softer patches revealed heavy tyre tracks and hoof prints. The path soon began climbing steeply up into the woods and Dixon could feel his breathing becoming more laboured. He was not as fit as he should be, but then a week of eating and drinking in Cyprus was probably to blame for that. The trees either side were becoming thicker too and the path darker. Dixon recognised chestnut trees to the left of the path and on the right, above the path on a steep bank, were pine trees. Various deer tracks wound their way up the bank and through the trees, although any deer had long since been scared off by the noise of the younger boys ahead.

  Dixon felt his jacket for a hood and was relieved to find one folded away inside the collar. He ripped open the Velcro and pulled the hood over his head. Then he took off his rucksack, retrieved his gloves and put them on as he walked along. A cold walk in the woods was fine. A cold and wet one was not.

  He watched Gittens and Lloyd shuffling along at the back of the group and wondered what on earth had made them volunteer for Ten Tors. Perhaps they saw it as an opportunity to get out of school for a while, or even as a chance to have a smoke or two. If so, Dixon had well and truly ruined that.

  The group stopped at a fork in the track and Dixon listened to them discussing the options. Clearly, Martin was a democratic team leader.

  ‘If we drop down here, we can cut across Quantock Combe, follow this path here, and then come out on the top at Crowcombe Park Gate. It cuts off miles.’

  The words ‘drop down’ didn’t inspire much confidence in Dixon. Having gained height it seemed a shame to lose it but he resisted the temptation to intervene. He took out his phone to check Google Maps and was disappointed to see that he had no signal. The map still opened though, despite the warning ‘Cannot Determine Location’, and he was able to see the fork in the path. Martin was right about the path to Crowcombe Park Gate. It was just the loss of height and then having to gain it again that concerned Dixon. Still, they had to learn. Oddly enough, it was Gittens who sounded a note of caution, but he was overruled and the group took the right fork, heading down into Quantock Combe.

  It was impossible to tell whether the younger boys had come this way. They were now well out of sight and the only thing Dixon could say for sure was that the girls’ team behind them did not follow. He looked back to see them pause at the fork in the path and then continue straight on. Very wise.

  The path down into the combe descended diagonally across the side of the hill and then took a sharp right turn almost back on itself at the bottom. Pine trees had been planted on both sides, above the path on the left and below it on the right. The path below was visible down through the trees. It was muddier than the path they had been following and, judging by the tyre tracks and large piles of logs, a number of lorries or tractors had been going up and down it in recent days. Dixon checked his phone. Still no signal, and it was becoming less likely that he could get one now that they were descending into the combe.

  He followed the group to the bottom of the path and then around to the right. He could see several deer watching them from above, their heads silhouetted against the sky that was visible behind them through the pine trees. There was a large turning area for the lorries at the bottom of the combe and yet more piles of logs waiting to be removed.

  A small wooden footbridge took the group over a stream and then they began the climb up the far side on a narrower and altogether more unpleasant path that was certainly not suitable for vehicles. Dixon followed a line of deer prints in the soft mud and soon found himself negotiating muddy puddles, fallen trees and bushes that encroached on either side.

  He listened to the complaints that were becoming more and more vocal from the team ahead of him. Several swear words were directed at Martin and Dixon had to admit that he had a good deal of sympathy with the complainants.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’

  The shout came from Martin, whose instinctive reaction had been to duck.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounded like a bee or a wasp.’

  ‘At this time of year?’

  Dixon knew what it was. He ran forward.

  ‘There’s another one!’ said Lloyd, ducking and turning away.

  ‘Get down!’ shouted Dixon. He dived on Gittens and Lloyd, knocking them off the path and into the undergrowth on the slope below. Then he reached up, took hold of Martin by the coat and pulled him over. ‘Get down, all of you.’ The others in the team all threw themselves on the ground.

  ‘Which direction did it come from?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Above us,’ said Martin. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bullets.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  Dixon was lying flat on his back so he turned his head to survey the immediate vicinity. There were several large pine trees within reach as well as a tree trunk lying on the ground.

  ‘Get off the path. Behind a tree, if you can, but stay down. Crawl.’

  The boys began crawling towards the tree nearest to them. Gittens was too frightened to move and stayed where he was, lying face down in the mud. Dixon rolled onto his front and crawled towards the tree trunk on the ground.

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Above left or right?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You heard something fly past you, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it going left to right or right to left?’

  ‘Right to left, I think.’

  Above us and to the right, thought Dixon. He craned his neck to peer over the tree trunk that he was hiding behind but dived down when a bullet hit the tree behind him. He looked at the hole it had made, which was smaller than he had expected. He took his rucksack off and held it up, just above the tree trunk. A bullet slammed into it.

  Dixon examined the small hole the bullet had made in the top pocket of his rucksack.

  I know who you are.

  He took out his phone. Still no signal. Google Maps told him that there was a road above them, leading up to Crowcombe Park Gate and then down to Crowcombe itself. It was a dead end in the other direction. He could see two lay-bys on the satellite picture that would accommodate a car. Then he zoomed in on the gate itself, looked at the picture and nodded. If he could get up to the gate ahead of the car, he might have a chance.

  ‘Anyone got a signal?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ replied Martin.

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Simon had one, Sir. Not sure if he’s still got it,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I need your phone, Simon.’

  No response.

  ‘Can you get off the path?’

  Dixon crawled over to him. Gittens was still lying face down in the mud, shaking and crying. Dixon whispered in his ear.

  ‘Simon, I need your phone.’

  No response.

  ‘Now is not the time, old son. Where’s your phone?’

  Gittens reached under his chest into his inside jacket pocket and then handed Dixon his phone.

  ‘Good lad. Now, stay where you are and don’t move.’

  Gittens nodded.

  Dixon crawled back to his tree trunk and tapped the screen on Gittens’ brand new Samsung Galaxy S5.

  ‘What’s your passcode, Simon?’ asked Di
xon.

  ‘It’s his birthday, Sir. 0206, I think,’ said Lloyd.

  Dixon tried it and the home screen appeared. He rang Jane, dialling her number from memory.

  ‘Detective Constable Winter.’

  ‘Jane, it’s me. Listen very carefully. We’re in the woods south east of Crowcombe Park Gate. Someone’s shooting at us . . .’

  ‘Shooting at you?’

  ‘Yes. We need armed response and the helicopter. I’ve got six boys with me and we can’t move.’

  ‘Is everyone OK?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘They’re after Gittens and Lloyd?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Oh, shit. D’you know who it is?’

  ‘Rowena Weatherly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. She qualified for Bisley at the age of sixteen. She left the Ouija board and she and Fran were not friends at all, let alone good friends.’

  ‘What’s Bisley?’

  ‘The Imperial Meeting. Rifle shooting.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘Do you mind if we worry about that later. We need some help. And call an ambulance too, just in case.’

  ‘OK. You be caref . . .’

  Dixon had already rung off.

  ‘What do we do now, Sir?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ replied Dixon.

  He crawled along the tree trunk, holding the rucksack above his head, and had gone no more than a yard when another bullet slammed into it, puncturing the water bottle inside. He continued crawling and counted to twelve before another bullet hit it. He lay back in the mud, breathing heavily and feeling the first signs of dizziness that signalled his blood sugar was getting dangerously low. He reached into the rucksack for the fruit cake. It had been a strenuous business, but it had confirmed what he needed to know. Firstly, he was the target and, secondly, Rowena was using a single shot .22 calibre target shooting rifle, either her own or taken from the range at the school. No doubt she had a key.

  Dixon spoke through a mouthful of cake.