watch the rugby.’
‘No, I’m fine. Whatever you’d usually be doing and I’ll tag along.’
‘How did you get on in class?’
‘I haven’t had so much fun since I had my wisdom teeth out,’ replied Dixon.
Phillips roared with laughter.
‘No, it wasn’t too bad,’ continued Dixon. ‘They were quite subdued, really. Hardly surprising, I suppose.’
‘The whole school is.’
‘One boy seemed worse than the rest. Ben Masterson, I think his name is.’
‘Isobel’s boyfriend. Poor lad. Seems a bit lost to me.’
‘He will be.’ Take it from me, he will be .
‘Another?’
‘It must be my round, surely?’ replied Dixon.
‘Good God, no. We can’t have a student teacher putting his hand in his pocket for the beers. Wouldn’t hear of it.’
Dixon watched Phillips go to the bar and could see him telling Small and Griffiths who he was. The inevitable glance across from them both gave it away. They saw him watching and raised their glasses. Dixon smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. He looked for any glimmer of recognition on their faces and saw none. Nor did he recognise them.
He thought about everyone he had met so far. Phillips had been right. He couldn’t put names to all of the faces, despite his best efforts. More importantly, perhaps, he recognised none of them from St Dunstan’s, but then it had been a long time ago. If Isobel’s killer had also killed Fran seventeen years ago then he or she might well have changed their appearance over the years.
He hadn’t yet got a look at the kitchen staff and porters either. He’d need to engineer a tour of the kitchens this afternoon, and perhaps eat in the dining room at some point too. But would he recognise a kitchen porter anyway after all this time? Some of them, possibly, but it would not be easy.
He needed the names of anyone arriving at Brunel in the last seventeen years who had previously worked at St Dunstan’s. That would, at least, narrow it down. Or it should.
‘Here you go,’ said Phillips, placing a pint of bitter on the table in front of Dixon.
‘Thank you.’
‘Why teaching, then?’ asked Phillips.
Dixon had prepared for this one. ‘I qualified as a solicitor then realised it was the academic study of the law that fascinated me rather than the practice of it. So, here I am. I plan on teaching history too . . .’
‘What period?’
‘Early twentieth century. The Great War is my specialist subject .’
‘Fascinating stuff,’ replied Phillips. ‘Any connection?’
‘My great grandfather served in the Somerset Light Infantry.’
‘Never got the hang of history. Still, you’re either scientific or arty farty, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’
Their toasted sandwiches arrived but a mouthful of food did not stop Phillips continuing the conversation.
‘What did you study at A Level, then?’
‘English, history and biology.’
‘An odd combination . . .’
‘They seemed the easiest. The ones I was most likely to pass.’
‘And did you?’
‘Just.’
‘University?’
‘Staffordshire.’
‘Why there?’
‘Chosen mainly for its proximity to the Peak District, I think. I spent most of my time rock climbing and just enough studying.’
‘A climber? You should come on Easter Camp in the Lakes.’
Dixon smiled. He had done that very thing with St Dunstan’s, although it had been Snowdonia that year.
‘I’d love to.’
‘C’mon, let’s get back. We can finish that guided tour and perhaps catch some of the rugby. I’ll just nip to the . . . er . . .’
Dixon took the opportunity to send Jane a text message.
Meet me at the Greyhound Staple Fitzpaine at 6 x
It was just before 2.30 p.m. when Phillips turned right off West Road into the main entrance of the school. Dixon could see three coaches from St Dunstan’s College parked in a line on the other side of the car park, adjacent to the library at the front of the main school building. The visiting teams had arrived and so
‘No, I’m fine. Whatever you’d usually be doing and I’ll tag along.’
‘How did you get on in class?’
‘I haven’t had so much fun since I had my wisdom teeth out,’ replied Dixon.
Phillips roared with laughter.
‘No, it wasn’t too bad,’ continued Dixon. ‘They were quite subdued, really. Hardly surprising, I suppose.’
‘The whole school is.’
‘One boy seemed worse than the rest. Ben Masterson, I think his name is.’
‘Isobel’s boyfriend. Poor lad. Seems a bit lost to me.’
‘He will be.’ Take it from me, he will be .
‘Another?’
‘It must be my round, surely?’ replied Dixon.
‘Good God, no. We can’t have a student teacher putting his hand in his pocket for the beers. Wouldn’t hear of it.’
Dixon watched Phillips go to the bar and could see him telling Small and Griffiths who he was. The inevitable glance across from them both gave it away. They saw him watching and raised their glasses. Dixon smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. He looked for any glimmer of recognition on their faces and saw none. Nor did he recognise them.
He thought about everyone he had met so far. Phillips had been right. He couldn’t put names to all of the faces, despite his best efforts. More importantly, perhaps, he recognised none of them from St Dunstan’s, but then it had been a long time ago. If Isobel’s killer had also killed Fran seventeen years ago then he or she might well have changed their appearance over the years.
He hadn’t yet got a look at the kitchen staff and porters either. He’d need to engineer a tour of the kitchens this afternoon, and perhaps eat in the dining room at some point too. But would he recognise a kitchen porter anyway after all this time? Some of them, possibly, but it would not be easy.
He needed the names of anyone arriving at Brunel in the last seventeen years who had previously worked at St Dunstan’s. That would, at least, narrow it down. Or it should.
‘Here you go,’ said Phillips, placing a pint of bitter on the table in front of Dixon.
‘Thank you.’
‘Why teaching, then?’ asked Phillips.
Dixon had prepared for this one. ‘I qualified as a solicitor then realised it was the academic study of the law that fascinated me rather than the practice of it. So, here I am. I plan on teaching history too . . .’
‘What period?’
‘Early twentieth century. The Great War is my specialist subject .’
‘Fascinating stuff,’ replied Phillips. ‘Any connection?’
‘My great grandfather served in the Somerset Light Infantry.’
‘Never got the hang of history. Still, you’re either scientific or arty farty, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so.’
Their toasted sandwiches arrived but a mouthful of food did not stop Phillips continuing the conversation.
‘What did you study at A Level, then?’
‘English, history and biology.’
‘An odd combination . . .’
‘They seemed the easiest. The ones I was most likely to pass.’
‘And did you?’
‘Just.’
‘University?’
‘Staffordshire.’
‘Why there?’
‘Chosen mainly for its proximity to the Peak District, I think. I spent most of my time rock climbing and just enough studying.’
‘A climber? You should come on Easter Camp in the Lakes.’
Dixon smiled. He had done that very thing with St Dunstan’s, although it had been Snowdonia that year.
‘I’d love to.’
‘C’mon, let’s get back. We can finish that guided tour and perhaps catch some of the rugby. I’ll just nip to the . . . er . . .’
Dixon took the opportunity to send Jane a text message.
Meet me at the Greyhound Staple Fitzpaine at 6 x
It was just before 2.30 p.m. when Phillips turned right off West Road into the main entrance of the school. Dixon could see three coaches from St Dunstan’s College parked in a line on the other side of the car park, adjacent to the library at the front of the main school building. The visiting teams had arrived and so
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