how.’
‘Is it used much?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘The easy answer is to wait until someone comes in, sneak in and hide, then when they go just creep out and leave the door on the latch. It’s only got a Yale lock on it, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. You crafty devil.’
‘Still young enough to think like a schoolboy,’ said Dixon.
He looked at the entrance. It was a timber framed internal lobby with the door set back to allow the corridor outside to continue around to the right and up to the accommodation area. Dixon thought it a temporary measure, possibly put in when the building had been converted for use by the school in the seventies. He spotted two glass windows in the ceiling outside and above the door.
‘There’ll be another way by the looks of things.’
‘What?’
‘Come out for a minute and lock the door,’ said Dixon.
‘Now what?’
Dixon looked up. The panes of glass above him were just out of reach so he walked down the stairs, round the corner and reappeared a few seconds later carrying a bicycle.
‘Hold this, will you?’
Phillips held the handlebars while Dixon stood on the pedals. He reached up and pushed the glass. It moved.
‘What the f . . . ?’ said Phillips, his voice tailing off.
Dixon pushed the pane up with both hands. It was thick safety glass, heavy and with wire mesh set into it. He lifted it clear and pushed it to one side. Then he stood up on the crossbar of the bicycle with his hands either side of the opening and jumped up. It took only a few seconds then to replace the glass, drop down on the inside and open the door.
‘You missed your vocation,’ said Phillips.
‘Possibly.’
‘Certainly. You should’ve been a policeman.’
Dixon smiled. ‘Good pension, I suppose, but that’s about it.’
He looked at Phillips for any sign of recognition but there was none .
‘Let’s see what we can find, then,’ said Phillips, ‘while we’re here. I’ll get maintenance to nail down that glass on Monday and put another lock on the door.’
‘What about up there?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the gallery at the far end of the disused chapel.
‘No way up. The only access is through that door, which I know is locked.’
Against the far wall beneath the gallery was a chest of drawers next to a wardrobe. On top of the chest of drawers, upside down, was a wooden chair.
‘Really?’
Dixon stepped up onto a pile of mattresses and then onto another before arriving at a line of tables that he was able to use as stepping stones across to the chest of drawers. He stepped up onto the wardrobe, taking the wooden chair with him. He then stood on th e chair and was able to reach the balustrade. A short step up and across and he was on the gallery. Those days spent crossing glaciers in the Alps hadn’t been wasted after all.
Dixon was not impressed by what he saw. It reminded him of certain alleyways he’d walked down, never alone, whilst in the Met. He counted ten syringes, a pile of discarded silver foil and at least three blackened dessert spoons. Cigarette butts and empty bottles of vodka completed the picture.
Try not to act like a policeman.
‘Can you get up here?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ll give it a go.’
Phillips was clearly not as agile as he had once been but, after a good deal of huffing and puffing, he made it as far as the wooden chair. He lost his nerve at the step across to the gallery but got a clear view of the scene through the balustrade.
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Quite,’ said Dixon.
‘The headmaster’ll do his nut.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
‘A webcam, then. Set up over there . . .’
‘What about the police? Shouldn’t we tell them?’ asked Phillips.
‘Was Isobel . . . er . . .’
‘Swan.’
‘That’s it. Was she involved in it?’
‘God, no. Squeaky clean, that one.’
‘Needn’t trouble the police, then. It’s hardly relevant. An internal matter for the
‘Is it used much?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘The easy answer is to wait until someone comes in, sneak in and hide, then when they go just creep out and leave the door on the latch. It’s only got a Yale lock on it, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. You crafty devil.’
‘Still young enough to think like a schoolboy,’ said Dixon.
He looked at the entrance. It was a timber framed internal lobby with the door set back to allow the corridor outside to continue around to the right and up to the accommodation area. Dixon thought it a temporary measure, possibly put in when the building had been converted for use by the school in the seventies. He spotted two glass windows in the ceiling outside and above the door.
‘There’ll be another way by the looks of things.’
‘What?’
‘Come out for a minute and lock the door,’ said Dixon.
‘Now what?’
Dixon looked up. The panes of glass above him were just out of reach so he walked down the stairs, round the corner and reappeared a few seconds later carrying a bicycle.
‘Hold this, will you?’
Phillips held the handlebars while Dixon stood on the pedals. He reached up and pushed the glass. It moved.
‘What the f . . . ?’ said Phillips, his voice tailing off.
Dixon pushed the pane up with both hands. It was thick safety glass, heavy and with wire mesh set into it. He lifted it clear and pushed it to one side. Then he stood up on the crossbar of the bicycle with his hands either side of the opening and jumped up. It took only a few seconds then to replace the glass, drop down on the inside and open the door.
‘You missed your vocation,’ said Phillips.
‘Possibly.’
‘Certainly. You should’ve been a policeman.’
Dixon smiled. ‘Good pension, I suppose, but that’s about it.’
He looked at Phillips for any sign of recognition but there was none .
‘Let’s see what we can find, then,’ said Phillips, ‘while we’re here. I’ll get maintenance to nail down that glass on Monday and put another lock on the door.’
‘What about up there?’ asked Dixon, pointing to the gallery at the far end of the disused chapel.
‘No way up. The only access is through that door, which I know is locked.’
Against the far wall beneath the gallery was a chest of drawers next to a wardrobe. On top of the chest of drawers, upside down, was a wooden chair.
‘Really?’
Dixon stepped up onto a pile of mattresses and then onto another before arriving at a line of tables that he was able to use as stepping stones across to the chest of drawers. He stepped up onto the wardrobe, taking the wooden chair with him. He then stood on th e chair and was able to reach the balustrade. A short step up and across and he was on the gallery. Those days spent crossing glaciers in the Alps hadn’t been wasted after all.
Dixon was not impressed by what he saw. It reminded him of certain alleyways he’d walked down, never alone, whilst in the Met. He counted ten syringes, a pile of discarded silver foil and at least three blackened dessert spoons. Cigarette butts and empty bottles of vodka completed the picture.
Try not to act like a policeman.
‘Can you get up here?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ll give it a go.’
Phillips was clearly not as agile as he had once been but, after a good deal of huffing and puffing, he made it as far as the wooden chair. He lost his nerve at the step across to the gallery but got a clear view of the scene through the balustrade.
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘Quite,’ said Dixon.
‘The headmaster’ll do his nut.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’
‘A webcam, then. Set up over there . . .’
‘What about the police? Shouldn’t we tell them?’ asked Phillips.
‘Was Isobel . . . er . . .’
‘Swan.’
‘That’s it. Was she involved in it?’
‘God, no. Squeaky clean, that one.’
‘Needn’t trouble the police, then. It’s hardly relevant. An internal matter for the
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