will, thanks.’
Dixon waited until Phillips had gone into the masters’ common room and then went up to his rooms. Once inside he rang Roger Poland.
‘Hello, Nick.’
‘Where are you, Roger?’
‘Still on site.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘No struggle. I’m guessing he knew his killer, perhaps followed him around the back of the sports hall and then wallop.’
‘I saw blood on the back of his head,’ said Dixon.
‘Yes, there’s plenty of it. At least three separate blows. Blunt object of some sort.’
‘Jane said he’d written the letters “K” and “F” in the mud next to him.’
‘Yes, they’re legible. Just. There’s mud on the end of his right index finger too.’
‘Is it just a “K” and an “F” or had he made any other mark?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘A partially formed third letter?’
‘SOCO have taken plenty of photos so you’ll be able to see for yourself .’
‘What time . . . ?’
‘Early hours. Can’t say any more than that at this stage.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘How’s teaching?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Dixon rang off. He looked out of the small window and across the playing fields. A line of uniformed police officers was shuffling across the rugby pitch, all of them staring at the ground in front of them, and several police dogs were weaving in and out of the leylandii at the bottom of the playing fields. Dixon could not see the sports hall, which was off to the right, hidden behind the Underwood Building.
He thought about the killer of Derek Phelps. Someone Phelps knew, according to Roger. But was it someone Phelps trusted? Keith Foster was the obvious suspect for no other reason than he had the right initials, but that assumed that Phelps had been trying to identify his killer. Surely then he would have written ‘K’ and ‘E’ or ‘F’ and ‘O’ before he died, his message incomplete? Dixon still liked his hunch that Phelps had been writing ‘KFC’. He needed to see the photographs of the scene. He also needed to see the CCTV footage from the restaurant. If they’d had it seventeen years ago, he’d have bee n on it most Saturday nights and he knew boys from Brunel went there too.
Dixon’s phone rang.
‘Nick, it’s Jane. I’m with the headmaster. Can you come to his office ?’
‘Come in, Nick,’ said Hatton, standing to one side to allow Dixon into his office. Jane was standing with her back to a gas fire and smiled at him. He got a frostier reception from DCI Chard and DI Baldwin, who were sitting on the leather sofa opposite Jane. Hatton walked around and sat behind his desk.
‘You know we’ve got Keith Foster in custody?’ asked Chard.
‘I do,’ replied Dixon.
‘And?’
‘It’s the obvious conclusion. Pick him up, interview him, tick the box, then let him go . . .’
‘He’s got nothing to do with it?’ asked Hatton.
‘No.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Chard.
‘I can’t be sure. So check. But look at it logically. Phelps is well over six feet tall and well built. Does manual work so is likely to be fit and strong too. Foster wouldn’t stand a chance . . .’
‘Unless he took him by surprise,’ said Baldwin.
‘And if Phelps was blackmailing Foster and they’d arranged to meet, they’d have done it miles away, surely? Not right in the middle of the bloody school.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Chard. ‘It was late enough.’
‘Constable Winter tells us you have another theory about the writing in the mud,’ said Hatton.
‘We know that it was a Saturday night when Isobel was murdered . We think she was being carried to a car and that the killer was disturbed and took refuge down on the playing fields where he killed her and dumped her body in the stream. Then, three weeks later, we have another murder on a Saturday night at almost exactly the same time and very close to the scene of Isobel’s murder.’
‘So far you haven’t told us anything we don’t know,’ said
Dixon waited until Phillips had gone into the masters’ common room and then went up to his rooms. Once inside he rang Roger Poland.
‘Hello, Nick.’
‘Where are you, Roger?’
‘Still on site.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘No struggle. I’m guessing he knew his killer, perhaps followed him around the back of the sports hall and then wallop.’
‘I saw blood on the back of his head,’ said Dixon.
‘Yes, there’s plenty of it. At least three separate blows. Blunt object of some sort.’
‘Jane said he’d written the letters “K” and “F” in the mud next to him.’
‘Yes, they’re legible. Just. There’s mud on the end of his right index finger too.’
‘Is it just a “K” and an “F” or had he made any other mark?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘A partially formed third letter?’
‘SOCO have taken plenty of photos so you’ll be able to see for yourself .’
‘What time . . . ?’
‘Early hours. Can’t say any more than that at this stage.’
‘OK, thanks.’
‘How’s teaching?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Dixon rang off. He looked out of the small window and across the playing fields. A line of uniformed police officers was shuffling across the rugby pitch, all of them staring at the ground in front of them, and several police dogs were weaving in and out of the leylandii at the bottom of the playing fields. Dixon could not see the sports hall, which was off to the right, hidden behind the Underwood Building.
He thought about the killer of Derek Phelps. Someone Phelps knew, according to Roger. But was it someone Phelps trusted? Keith Foster was the obvious suspect for no other reason than he had the right initials, but that assumed that Phelps had been trying to identify his killer. Surely then he would have written ‘K’ and ‘E’ or ‘F’ and ‘O’ before he died, his message incomplete? Dixon still liked his hunch that Phelps had been writing ‘KFC’. He needed to see the photographs of the scene. He also needed to see the CCTV footage from the restaurant. If they’d had it seventeen years ago, he’d have bee n on it most Saturday nights and he knew boys from Brunel went there too.
Dixon’s phone rang.
‘Nick, it’s Jane. I’m with the headmaster. Can you come to his office ?’
‘Come in, Nick,’ said Hatton, standing to one side to allow Dixon into his office. Jane was standing with her back to a gas fire and smiled at him. He got a frostier reception from DCI Chard and DI Baldwin, who were sitting on the leather sofa opposite Jane. Hatton walked around and sat behind his desk.
‘You know we’ve got Keith Foster in custody?’ asked Chard.
‘I do,’ replied Dixon.
‘And?’
‘It’s the obvious conclusion. Pick him up, interview him, tick the box, then let him go . . .’
‘He’s got nothing to do with it?’ asked Hatton.
‘No.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Chard.
‘I can’t be sure. So check. But look at it logically. Phelps is well over six feet tall and well built. Does manual work so is likely to be fit and strong too. Foster wouldn’t stand a chance . . .’
‘Unless he took him by surprise,’ said Baldwin.
‘And if Phelps was blackmailing Foster and they’d arranged to meet, they’d have done it miles away, surely? Not right in the middle of the bloody school.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Chard. ‘It was late enough.’
‘Constable Winter tells us you have another theory about the writing in the mud,’ said Hatton.
‘We know that it was a Saturday night when Isobel was murdered . We think she was being carried to a car and that the killer was disturbed and took refuge down on the playing fields where he killed her and dumped her body in the stream. Then, three weeks later, we have another murder on a Saturday night at almost exactly the same time and very close to the scene of Isobel’s murder.’
‘So far you haven’t told us anything we don’t know,’ said
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