Swansong by Damien Boyd

and a shop assistant in a newsagent trying to catch shoplifters. It was hardly relevant experience. But now he faced, more than anything else, the part of his current situation that he dreaded the most. Even more than coming face to face with Fran’s killer.
    He had been introduced to the class by the headmaster and was sitting by the window trying to look as though he knew what Hatton was talking about. He had not let on that he was a qualified solicitor, not least because it had been years ago and he had neither studied nor practised law since, except perhaps criminal law. Today, however, the class were learning about the law of tort.
    Dixon could remember that it had something to do with negligence and he could even recall a case involving a snail in a bottle. But that was the extent of his knowledge. Jane would wet herself laughing if she knew.
    He looked at the pupils, most of whom appeared to be looking out of the window. Dixon counted nineteen, none of them studying law A Level, but the headmaster had decreed that all students in the sixth form would have one law class each week, presumably to broaden their general knowledge. Dixon thought it might be useful if they ever appeared on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? but that was about it. The next class was for the A Level students and there were only eight of them.
    ‘So, which part of the law of tort do we think is most commonly encountered in daily life?’
    Dixon knew the answer to that one but managed to resist the urge to put his hand up.
    ‘Anyone?’
    A hand went up at the back of the class.
    ‘Yes, Jenkins.’
    Dixon looked at the boy with his hand up. He had dark curly hair and was tall, judging by his height when sitting. Probably played in the second row, he thought, recognising the boy’s name from the 1st XV team sheet.
    ‘Accident compo, Sir,’ he said, in a strong Welsh accent.
    ‘That’s right, Darren.’
    ‘Where there’s blame, there’s a claim, Sir.’
    ‘Yes, I think we’ve got the idea, Darren, thank you,’ said the headmaster. ‘Accident compensation. So, what three elements do we have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages?’
    Dixon knew this one too. It was all coming flooding back.
    ‘Masterson, what about you?’
    Dixon watched the pupils at the front of the class turn as one and look at the boy sitting next to Jenkins. He had ginger hair and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked up, slowly.
    ‘I . . .’
    ‘You weren’t listening were you, Ben?’
    ‘No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’
    ‘All right, don’t worry about it. We were talking about negligence and what you have to prove to succeed in a claim for damages,’ said the headmaster. ‘Mr Dickson, what about you? You’re a solicitor, I’m told.’
    Oh, shit .
    ‘Liability, causation and quantum,’ he replied, dredging up the knowledge just in time. ‘That it was someone else’s fault, their negligence caused the injury and then the extent of the injury itself so the damages can be quantified.’
    ‘Perfect.’
    Dixon nodded. He knew that he had just been tested. And that he had passed. He looked across at Ben Masterson, sitting at the back with his head bowed, once again. He was still hurting, mourning even, which told Dixon that he and Isobel had been more than just friends, at least as far as Ben was concerned. Maybe his feelings for Isobel had not been reciprocated? Dixon had seen the effect of unrequited love before and knew it could be toxic. He would need to have a talk with Ben but, in the meantime, there was one thing of which he could be sure. Ben Masterson would have been a babe in arms when Fran disappeared.

    Dixon hadn’t appreciated that Phillips meant a liquid lunch but the Winchester Arms at Trull was clearly a popular spot with the teachers at Brunel. Dixon could see McCulloch, Small and the supply teacher, Griffiths, at the bar.
    ‘A few beers and a toastie’ll set us up for the afternoon,’ said Phillips, ‘unless you’d rather