Swansong by Damien Boyd Page B

had some visiting schoolteachers who might recognise him, thought Dixon. Unlikely out of context, of course, but he’d need to be careful all the same.
    Phillips followed the drive around to the right rather than forking left into the main car park and parked in the smaller car park in front of Gardenhurst, where the suspicious car had been left for several days, according to the witness statements. No one had been able to identify the make or model. Dixon thought it an odd place to hide a car, if indeed it had been hidden. Although there was no CCTV coverage, the car park was in full view of just about everyone in the school. Either it was a red herring or the killer would have no further use for it after the murder. Dixon suspected the latter. No doubt it would turn up in a remote field somewhere, burnt out.
    It was a cold and crisp afternoon. Dixon could see spectators gathering along the touch lines of several rugby pitches down on the play ing fields. The corner flags were fluttering in the gentle breeze and red and black padding had been put in place around the base of the posts. Both AstroTurf hockey pitches were also already in use, the matches having started earlier to allow for another game on the same pitch before dark.
    Dixon looked up at Gardenhurst. It was a modern building , with stone cladding and large windows. A service road ran along the front and around to the far side. Several students were mil ling around.
    ‘They’ll be off into town in a few minutes, that lot,’ said Phillips . ‘Two till five on a Saturday, they’re allowed out.’
    Dixon nodded. He watched a small group of three girls appear through a gate in the red brick wall that he had thought marked the boundary of the school.
    ‘What’s through there?’
    ‘The old convent,’ replied Phillips. ‘We bought it in the seventies and it houses Woodward and Breward. About two hundred pupils in all. C’mon, I’ll show you round.’
    Dixon followed Phillips through the gate.
    ‘That road goes round to the front and there’s an entrance off West Road too.’
    A large oak door led into an entrance hall. Off to the left was an old cloister with a tiled floor and stained glass windows. It was being used as a bike store now. Racks had been fitted along the inner wall and Dixon counted at least forty bicycles before he gave up trying.
    ‘Seems a shame to use it as a bike rack, doesn’t it?’ asked Phillips .
    ‘Progress,’ replied Dixon.
    ‘C’mon, let me show you the old chapel.’
    Dixon listened to the click of their heels on the tiled floor as they walked along behind the bicycles. Phillips had metal caps on his heels that made a distinctive sound. Anyone up to no good wou ld hear him coming and have plenty of time to make go od their escape. Dixon suspected that was the idea. At the end of the cloisters a short flight of stairs led up to a doorway. The corridor continued around to the right.
    ‘That takes you round to the accommodation block,’ said Phillips . ‘This is the bit I wanted to show you.’
    He took a large bundle of keys out his pocket, selected one and then opened the door.
    ‘The old convent chapel. We use it as a storeroom now, as you can see.’
    Dixon ignored the junk and looked instead at the building itself. It was small, by comparison with the school chapel, and had a high vaulted ceiling with ornate carved woodwork, stained glass windows and a large galleried landing at the far end. There was a door at the back of the gallery but no steps leading up to it.
    ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ asked Phillips.
    Dixon treated it as a rhetorical question. He looked around at the piles of old mattresses, desks and chairs, folding tables and wardrobes . It was possible to walk in only a few paces. It would then be necessary to climb over old furniture to make any further progress , such was the extent of the clutter.
    ‘We know the little buggers are getting in here somehow,’ said Phillips, ‘we just don’t know