by Damien Boyd
It was going to be another long night.
Chapter Sixteen
Dixon was shivering violently when he woke up just after 5 a.m., slumped on the sofa with Isobel Swan’s post mortem report lying on his chest. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and began fumbling for the plug on the wall next to him, eventually finding the switch. Then he sat in the dark listening to the oil fired electric radiator clicking and cracking as it warmed up.
He thought about the day ahead. It would be the day the full extent of his personal involvement in the case would be laid bare for all to see. And it could well turn out to be the day his police career came to an abrupt halt. Shit happens, he knew that only too well, but it would be a price worth paying.
He waited until he could feel the warmth from the radiator and then got up to make a cup of tea. If he had been at home, he would have taken Monty for a walk around the lanes, but today he would have to make do with tea. Shame. He did his best thinking when he was out with his dog. He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the mug of tea in both hands and with his feet resting on the radiator.
He was hunting a man who had killed four women. The mother of his own child and then three girls he encountered who looked like her. Dixon shook his head. He knew exactly who he was looking for and where to find him but he was missing one last piece of information to complete the puzzle. A name. He thought about having another go at Rowena in interview but he couldn’t risk a visit to Taunton Police Station and another run in with Chard. Not when Chard would have Fran’s file on his desk. No, the longer he could stay out of his way, the better. He would have to leave Rowena to Chard or Baldwin now.
It would end today, one way or the other. Dixon just had to hope that Rowena’s father made one mistake to give himself away. That’s all it would take, just one mistake. Unless he had made it already and Dixon had missed it. Fuck it. That feeling hit him again. The missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Dixon gritted his teeth and nodded. The mistake had been made. He knew that. And he had seen it, whatever it was. He just had to hope the true significance of it hit home in time.
The smell of burning socks got the better of him before the pain and he took his feet off the radiator. Time for a shower. A quick glance in the mirror told him that a shave was out of the question, but at least his stubble was starting to cover the cuts and scratches he had picked up on the Quantocks. A shower would have to do, then down to breakfast nice and early.
Dixon was listening to the excited chatter in the dining room while he checked his email on his phone. The most recent was from Jane and attached a photograph of the letters in the mud next to the body of Derek Phelps. Dixon opened it and stared at the picture for several minutes. There was a clear mark adjacent to the second letter that looked to be the beginnings of a third, but Phelps had died before he could complete it. Dixon was frowning as he tapped out a reply.
which bloody idiot thought that was KF?
He was surprised that so many pupils were there at that time in the morning but no doubt the excitement of the last day of term would account for that. A morning of lessons to endure, an afternoon spent packing and then the carol service at 5 p.m., followed by Christmas dinner.
Dixon was sitting alone at the top table, watching all the comings and goings and picking at a bowl of lumpy porridge. A food fight started on a table in the far corner but stopped before he felt the need to intervene. Anybody would think he was a real teacher but then it might have looked a bit odd if he hadn’t stepped in.
‘Nobody warned you about the porridge, then?’
Dixon looked up. It was Ben Masterson.
‘No, sadly not.’
Ben smiled and moved to walk away.
‘Sit down, join me. I’d like to have a word with you, if you’ve got a minute.’
Ben looked nervously around the dining room and then sat down opposite Dixon.
‘You all right?’ asked Dixon.
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’
‘Less of the “Sir”. In any other setting I’d be calling you Sir, don’t forget.’
Ben smiled.
‘I wanted to ask you about that note . . .’
‘That was nothing, really. But I did just want a chat about . . . well . . . there’s a rumour . . .’ His voice tailed off.
‘About what?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Mr Hatton?’
‘You’ve heard it?’
‘Yes,’ said Dixon, nodding.
‘Is it true?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, at least you know about it.’
‘I do.’
Dixon watched Ben prodding his cornflakes with his spoon.
‘Did they offer you counselling?’ he asked.
‘Matron mentioned it but I said no.’
‘Me too. The British stiff upper lip and all that.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Did Isobel have an unusual relationship with any of the other teachers?’ Dixon asked.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’m not sure I know, to be honest, Ben. I’m just looking for anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Was she worried about anything in particular?’
‘Not really. Her driving test, perhaps.’
‘When was that?’
‘It would have been on the Wednesday afternoon.’
‘What did she say about it?’
‘Just that she didn’t feel ready. She was getting stressed out about it.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her to take it anyway. What was the worst that could happen?’
‘Was she going to?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you . . .’
‘Tell me about your girlfriend,’ said Ben. He was looking down, still pushing cornflakes around his plate with his spoon.
‘She was my fiancée, technically,’ replied Dixon. ‘We were at St Dunstan’s, seventeen years ago.’
‘You were engaged?’
‘We were. We hadn’t told anyone, but we were.’
‘D’you think it’s the same killer?’
‘I do,’ replied Dixon. ‘But that’s between you and me.’
‘You’ll get him, won’t you?’
Dixon got up to leave.
‘We’ll get him, Ben, don’t you worry.’
Dixon walked back along the corridor, past the cloisters towards the masters’ common room and up the flight of steps at the end. He stood looking along the main corridor. There were several groups of pupils walking towards him, no doubt heading for the dining room and breakfast. He felt a blast of cold air as another group came in through the door behind him.
The door of the masters’ common room was open, so he went in and spent the next five minutes looking at the notice board. There was a large notice about the DNA testing the following morning and a sealed envelope in each of the male teachers’ pigeonholes, no doubt a personal memo from the headmaster on the same subject.
He was distracted by a commotion in the corridor outside and looked at his watch. It was just before 8.15 a.m. so it was probably the late rush for breakfast. He went outside and watched the last of the pupils sprinting down the corridor towards the dining room and was surprised that he could still hear running and shouting even now that the corridor was empty. He spun round when he heard a loud crash followed by raucous laughter. It was coming from the library.
He pushed open the right hand door in time to watch the baton changing hands in what appeared to be a relay race over the bookshelves. A line of girls was waiting in front of the shelves on the left and a group of boys were on the right. Dixon shook his head in disbe
lief as he watched a boy climb the shelves in front of him, drop down on the other side and then reappear on top of the next set of shelves, each book that hit the floor in the process being greeted by a loud cheer. A girl was doing the same over the left hand set of shelves and it was impossible to tell which team was winning.
Both groups were so intent on cheering on their teammates that they failed to notice Dixon’s arrival, so he let go of the door and waited for it to slam behind him. The effect was immediate.
‘Who’s winning?’
His question was greeted with stunned silence by both groups. The girl racing over the shelves on the left saw him and stopped but the boy on the right seemed oblivious to Dixon’s arrival and kept going, much to the amusement of the girls. His moment of triumph was shattered only when he arrived on top of the last shelf and spotted Dixon. He tried to stop himself, lost his balance, and fell from the top shelf, landing in a heap on a pile of books lying on the floor.
Dixon watched him get to his feet, mercifully none the worse for his fall.
‘And you are?’
‘Bromfield, Sir.’
‘Take a tip from me, Bromfield.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Don’t take up mountaineering.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ He was blinking furiously and rubbing his eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Dixon.
Bromfield stopped blinking and looked up at Dixon.
‘I’ve lost a contact lens, Sir.’
‘Well, you’d better look for it, then.’
Dixon stood back and watched Bromfield and the other boys searching for the contact lens. He turned to the group of girls.
‘And you lot can make a start getting those books back on the shelves.’
‘Here it is,’ said Bromfield, holding up a copy of The Battlefields of England by Alfred Burne. Dixon could see the lens stuck to the cover of the book and watched Bromfield peel it off. He held it up to the light on the end of his index finger and then put it back in his eye.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, blinking again.
‘Good. That means you can see to put these books back on the shelves.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And make an effort to get them in the right order. I’ll be back to check in twenty minutes.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon looked over his shoulder to check that the boys and girls were putting the books back on the shelves before he opened the door. Suddenly, the image of Bromfield’s contact lens stuck to the cover of The Battlefields of England flashed across his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘That’s it,’ he muttered.
Then he left the door to slam behind him and sprinted up the stairs opposite. Leaving the key in the door of his rooms, he ran in and pulled the copy of Isobel Swan’s file from under the mattress. He took out her post mortem report and flicked through the pages until he found the passage he was looking for.
‘Left eye missing contact lens, soft, possibly disposable. Right lens retained for comparison.’
Dixon sat in his Land Rover and rang Jane. It was several rings before she answered and he grimaced when he heard the sound of a car engine in the background.
‘Where are you?’
‘On my way to see the driving instructor. Why?’
‘I needed you to see if we had Isobel’s contact lens prescription on file.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘No. Louise is here.’
‘Good. Let me know how you get on.’
‘Will do. You sound . . .’
Dixon had already rung off. It took him less than five minutes to get to Musgrove Park Hospital, stopping at the only set of traffic lights that had a camera installed on them. The others he ignored.
It was not quite 9 a.m. and the pathology lab was still closed, but he could see Roger Poland’s car in the car park, so he started banging on the window nearest his office. The laboratory assistant inside turned around and shouted through the window at Dixon.
‘What do you want?’
‘Where’s Roger Poland?’
‘In a meeting.’
‘Get him, will you? Tell him it’s Nick Dixon.’
He waited under the canopy by the front door and listened to the rain hammering on the roof. Then he heard the sound of the door being unlocked behind him.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Poland.
‘Isobel’s contact lens. Have you still got it?’
‘Yes. It’s in the store.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Er, yes. Come in.’
Dixon followed Poland through to his office and sat down on a chair in front of his desk.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Poland.
He reappeared a few minutes later carrying a small vial of clear fluid. One side was covered by a label but Dixon could see a small blue tinted contact lens suspended in the liquid. He held it up to the light and flicked it, watching the lens turn over and over in front of him.
‘Makes you wonder what the last thing she saw through this was, doesn’t it?’
‘It does,’ replied Poland. ‘What’s your interest in the contact lens, then?’
‘I know where the other one is.’
‘The other one?’
‘I’ve seen it, or at least I think I have. Can I borrow this?’
‘What for?’
‘I need to get it identified by an optician and get some exactly the same.’
‘You’ll bring it back?’
‘In half an hour. Then we’ll see if I’m right.’
Dixon parked on the pavement outside Richard Firth Optometrists in East Reach, switched his hazard lights on and then ran in.
‘Is there an optician available, please?’ he asked, showing his warrant card to the receptionist. ‘It is rather urgent.’
‘I’ll just check.’
He watched her get up and walk through to the back of the shop, then he turned to look for traffic wardens out of the window.
‘Can I help?’
Dixon spun round to see a man in his early fifties with a pair of spectacles resting on top of his head and another pair hanging round his neck on a cord.
‘I’m Richard Firth.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Dixon. He took the vial out of his jacket pocket. ‘I need you to identify this lens for me, if you can.’
‘Can I take it out?’
‘No.’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Firth held the vial up to the light and began turning it. ‘It’s an Acuvue, I think. Possibly their Trueye daily disposable. No telling the strength, of course. Hang on a sec.’
He handed the vial back to Dixon and then disappeared to a room at the back of the shop before returning a minute or so later with another lens in a clear plastic pot. He held them up to the light side by side.
‘Yes. They look pretty much identical to me. Here, see what you think,’ he said, handing them to Dixon.
‘They’re both stamped “UV”. Does any other manufacturer do that?’
‘No. Bausch & Lomb stamp theirs “B&L”, from memory.’
‘Have you got a sample I can take?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Dixon raced back to Musgrove Park Hospital with a strip of five contact lenses in his jacket pocket. He parked behind Poland’s car, blocking him in, and then ran into the pathology lab.
‘Dr Poland’s expec . . .’
Dixon was already through the swing doors before the receptionist had finished her sentence.
‘Any luck?’ asked Poland.
‘Yes. According to Richard Firth they’re Acuvue Trueye daily disposables,’ replied Dixon, handing Poland both vials. ‘See what you think.’
Poland walked into
his office holding both vials up to the light. Dixon followed.
‘They certainly look the same.’
‘They do.’
‘Now what?’ asked Poland, sitting behind his desk.
Dixon shut the door behind him and then sat down opposite Poland. ‘The acid test,’ he said, taking off his left shoe.
He placed it on the desk in front of him and then took out the strip of new lenses. He tore the seal off one and took it out, balancing it on the end of his index finger. Then he gently placed it on the outside of the shoe, just above the heel.
‘Now we wait.’
‘Is there a coffee machine in this place?’ asked Dixon.
‘We’ve got a kettle and a jar of instant.’
‘That’d be lovely, thanks, Roger. No sugar in mine.’
Poland sighed loudly and then left the room. Dixon sat watching the contact lens on the side of his shoe.
‘So let me make sure I’ve got this right. You’re saying that Isobel’s other lens, the missing lens, is stuck to her killer’s shoe?’
Dixon turned round to see Poland standing behind him with a mug in each hand. He passed one to Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘But it would have come off, surely?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Roger.
‘No one heard a scream so we can assume she went willingly with her killer. She knew him and trusted him. Right?’
Poland nodded.
‘He would’ve been dressed as usual so as not to arouse her suspicions.’
‘He would.’
‘So, let’s assume you’ve drugged her and cut off her ring finger. Now you’ve got to dispose of her body. Or maybe before you cut off her finger, even? What’s the first thing you’re gonna do?’
‘Get changed,’ replied Poland.
‘Exactly. You take your shoes off. And it’s not likely to be until the following day that you put them on again, which is plenty of time for a soft contact lens to dry out.’