Howard Wood answered the door in pyjamas and dressing gown, and with a pained expression that suggested the glare of the sun was something his eyes had been unused to for a long time.
The teacher was sipping at a beaker of water as he ushered the detective through to the curtained lounge. He asked if Tyler would like a drink. He declined.
The lounge was a gloomy affair and smelt of stale tobacco tinged with something distinctly sour. Tyler suspected that the sour odour was old alcohol dying on the sick teacher’s breath, and wondered if this was the man’s idea of a cure.
‘I take it that you are aware, Mr Wood, that the body of a schoolboy was recently discovered in this area.’
Wood spoke gingerly, as if the effort came at a high price. ‘I’m aware.’
Tyler asked Wood if he knew that the boy was Alan Dale, an ex-pupil at River Trent High, and taught by Wood himself in the final year of the boy’s life.
‘Yes,’ said Howard Wood. ‘I vaguely recall him.’
But the memories seemed vague indeed, and the teacher remembered almost nothing about the boy, save for the fact that he once existed and had made up the numbers in his class for a while.
Tyler raised the subject of bullying and asked Wood if he had found it much of an issue at the school. Wood said that he hadn’t encountered much of that sort of thing.
‘Are you saying, Mr Wood, that that sort of thing was not an issue back in1972 – or now?’
‘Well, both. Why do you ask?’
‘You don’t recall any incidents?’
‘Working with children, you learn to expect problems. That goes without saying. Most problems sort themselves out. You know kids – friends one day, enemies the next. I find a laissez-faire approach works best on the whole.’
Wood seemed to be forgetting his discomforts, his tone starting to reflect exasperation at the detective’s questions. Tyler had the feeling that the teacher’s sense of security was growing. No doubt he believed, as so many had, over the years, and often to their eventual cost, that had the police come armed with an ace card of some kind, it would have been played at the start of the interview.
Content to let Wood lower his defences further, Tyler maintained his slow probing in the least officious manner that he could muster.
‘Would you say that the school has changed a lot over the years, Mr Wood?’
‘Everything changes.’
‘For better or worse?’
‘Some better, some worse.’ Wood grinned. He thought he was in the presence of an idiot, and an air of superiority was oozing out. Perfect, thought Tyler. But the DCI wanted to see a little more before he was ready to pull the rug out.
‘Mr Wise,’ said Tyler. ‘You remember him?’
‘Of course,’ said Wood, almost incredulously. ‘My memory isn’t quite that bad yet.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Mr Wise seems to be a very different character from the incumbent headteacher.’
‘You’ve met him, then?’
Tyler registered the flicker of interest. ‘More of a disciplinarian, I would imagine.’
‘Fred Wise, you mean? It was different then. You had something to threaten them with.’
‘And did you ever have to threaten any of them, Mr Wood?’
‘What are you getting at? Are you talking about this Alan Dale? Like I say, he was one of many. I don’t recall him being a problem.’
‘Were any of your class, that year, a problem?’
‘Kids know who they can play up, and who to behave for. You have to let them know which side of the fence you’re on. Having said that, I was never big on the discipline thing. Kids respect a person if they think that person understands them; you don’t have to make them afraid of you. Like I say, I didn’t have any problems because the kids basically liked me.’
‘And you don’t recall anyone giving Alan Dale a particularly hard time?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What about Steven Jenkins?’
Tyler, peering through the gloom, watched the self-satisfied grin disappear in a frenzy of blinking. Wood picked up his tumbler of water, taking a few sips and appearing to experience a relapse, falling again into the jaws of whatever condition was afflicting him.
‘You remember Steven Jenkins?’
Howard Wood took on more water, his fingers trembling as he drained the beaker dry. ‘Was he in my class?’
‘You don’t recall?’
Wood recited the name out loud a number of times, as though trying desperately to bring the person to mind.
‘Let me see if I can help,’ said Tyler. ‘Steven Jenkins was known to be a trouble-maker. A bully, according to some.’
‘Maybe this Steven Jenkins grew out of it by the time he came into my class.’
‘His reputation would have gone before him, making you at least aware of him, I would imagine.’
A light seemed to come on inside the stricken teacher, illuminating the room. To Tyler it seemed that Wood was either playing a clever game, or else had in that moment solved a tricky dilemma.
‘Actually, now I think about it I do recall Jenkins. And he could be a handful, you’re right. It’s becoming clearer now.’
‘Good.’
‘Steven Jenkins did have some issues with Alan Dale.’
‘You’re recollecting Alan Dale more clearly now, too?’
Wood was on a roll. ‘I had to punish Jenkins on, I think, at least a couple of occasions for incidents concerning other pupils in the class.’
‘Alan Dale?’
‘Yes, I think it was. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.’
‘I see,’ said Tyler, trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice. ‘But at the time, when Alan Dale went missing, you didn’t dwell on the fact that Jenkins may have been causing problems for the missing boy?’
Wood didn’t say anything to that.
There is something too convenient here, thought Tyler. Jenkins dead and suddenly the teacher remembers punishing him for bullying Dale. Not big on the discipline thing, but putting in a shift where it counted. Howard Wood, practically the hero of the hour, in fact. Yet there’s no-one around to challenge the hero’s testimony.
‘Mr Wood?’ prompted Tyler.
‘I really don’t remember what I thought,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago. I don’t feel well.’
Tyler watched the performance, complete with pained expression, a hand nursing the stomach region, then the need to lie down in the dark a while – alone, of course. On a stage, it would have gained respectable reviews, though hardly any statuettes.
‘Just one more question, Mr Wood. Then I will leave you in peace, at least for now. Are you aware that Steven Jenkins was killed during the early hours of this morning?’
Again, Tyler observed the reactions of Wood closely, and saw all he needed to see.
Howard Wood wasn’t aware; Tyler would have put his pension on it. The man was slippery. He might have had a more fulfilling career on a stage than in the classroom, if indeed the two careers were entirely exclusive. But he didn’t know, ninety-nine against one, he didn’t know that Steven Jenkins was dead.
And yet, at the same time, he didn’t seem altogether surprised.
It felt good to be out on the street. The thought of having to share a classroom with a man like Howard Wood was an odious one. Strange, though, that Miss Hayburn would keep such a thing as Wood on her staff. Could it be the man had hidden qualities? Perhaps it was as difficult to get rid of teachers now as it was then.
He wondered how Danny Mills was getting on.
16
Mills had made good progress tracking down the class of 1972. It helped having someone like DC Brown around. Brown could switch on a computer and organise a database in minutes flat. He’s wasted on the force, thought Mills. The likes of Eric Brown could be earning a mint at Microsoft and without the stress.
Steven Jenkins, it seemed, had not been the first to follow Alan Dale to an early death. In the interve
ning years, no less than four from the class of ’72 had succumbed.
Not that there was any suggestion of foul play in the other cases. Cancer, heart disease, a traffic accident and a freak wave on the Greek mainland had done the business.
Brown reckoned there ought to be a survival prize. ‘I could set up a programme, if you like,’ he told Mills. ‘You outlive the rest of your classmates and you’re called back to your old school. Then you go up in assembly and collect your certificate: The Longevity Award.’
‘Nice idea,’ said Mills. ‘Why don’t you get on to it?’
‘But what if your old school no longer exists?’ asked the young DC, teasingly.
‘Don’t be pedantic.’
‘No, sir, right, sir.’
‘Sarky bastard!’
Many of the survivors were still in the area, and Brown thought that worthy of the observation: ‘You can try leaving Stoke, but it gets you in the end.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mills. ‘That’s very astute and helpful.’
‘We do our best, sir.’
‘That’s your last warning.’
Maggie Calleer had already given the names of the ‘troublesome ones’, as she recalled them, most notably Douglas Marley and the now late Steven Jenkins.
‘Looks like leopards really can’t change their spots,’ said Brown.
‘That’s hardly fair,’ said Mills.
‘Isn’t it?’ said Brown. ‘It is in my experience.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe. Looks like Mr Marley has psychological problems, though hardly a textbook monster. I mean to say: two hospital admissions for overdosing and a history of self-harming. Where’s your compassion?’
‘And one occasion of domestic violence – that we know of. His partner, or whatever you want to call her, had significant facial bruising and two broken fingers.’
‘He maintained that she attacked him. That he was defending himself.’
Brown gave Mills a look. ‘That’s certainly what he maintained.’
‘It happens.’
‘I’m sure it does.’
Douglas Marley was living in a hostel in Stoke, not a hundred yards from where the body of Alan Dale was discovered. ‘Significant?’ asked Brown. But Mills was learning the art of not jumping to conclusions, using the recently acquired Tyler method, and said nothing.
Then there was Phillip Swanson. The sly one, according to Calleer. A social worker based in Newcastle-under-Lyme, and living out beyond the town in the village of Audley. ‘Looks like he’s a reformed character,’ said Brown.
‘In what sense? In a lot of people’s books, being a social worker’s a step down the ladder from convicted terrorist.’
Brown smiled. ‘But then we’re more enlightened than some, aren’t we, sir?’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘The place is full of rednecks – take your pick.’
‘Are you referring to the city, or this police station?’
Brown laughed. ‘I couldn’t possibly answer that.’
Martin Hillman was living in Derbyshire and running in the forthcoming local elections there. Maggie Calleer’s dark horse. ‘According to his old form teacher, Hillman was a sneaky one, same as Swanson if a tad harder to nail down.’
‘Well, maybe that’s how she’s funding her retirement.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Successful politician with skeletons in the cupboard. Hillman might be paying her off to keep her mouth shut. Big house she’s living in, is it?’
‘One problem with your theory: what part of keeping her mouth shut involves giving us his name?’
‘Perhaps she wants out. Has she asked about protection yet?’
‘Brown.’
‘Sarge?’
‘Shut up!’
The silence lasted for as long as it took Mills to visit the gents.
‘Here’s one Calleer missed,’ said Brown when the DS returned to his desk. ‘Robert Wild. Currently on probation for theft and minor assault, and undergoing his third period of rehabilitation for drug and alcohol problems. Living in the north of the city. Tunstall. A small army of estranged children scattered far and wide across the landscape.’
‘The future is assured,’ said Mills, grimly.
The remaining boys from the class were living in the city, doing various jobs and with various sized families to support. The girls appeared to have scattered further afield, two having emigrated, one running a hotel business in Cornwall, a couple living in Scotland and as many in the capital. There were two teachers among them, and a fair few working in the NHS. A small number had clung to the remains of the local pottery industry, and there was even a police officer, who appeared to be having herself a decent career in Northumberland.
One person was still unaccounted for, however. Someone Sheila Dale had mentioned in her notes. Alan Dale’s one friend at school: Anthony Turnock. The fat boy.
Tyler walked in and asked if anybody was thinking of making a brew. Brown obliged while Tyler asked Mills for an update.
As the tea arrived, Tyler announced that there would be a briefing later and asked that the word did the necessary rounds. Perusing the information assembled by his colleagues, he seemed about to impart wisdom.
‘So, what do you think?’ said Mills.
‘Not a bad cup of tea, I have to confess – but then I was spitting feathers.’
‘Howard Wood not forthcoming with the refreshments?’ asked Mills.
‘I wasn’t desperate enough. I tell you, I don’t like that man, not one bit. Not that we leap to conclusions, you understand.’
‘I understand,’ said Mills. ‘I did the two-day course on it. And now I’m learning from the master.’
Tyler gave him a look.
Brown came over. ‘Found him,’ he said. ‘You can run but you can’t hide. I give you … the fat boy.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Tyler. ‘Local?’
‘Fenton,’ said Brown. ‘That’s—’
‘Allow me,’ said Tyler. ‘Fenton lies between Stoke and Longton.’
‘Speaking like a native already,’ said Brown.
‘Does he work, this Turnock?’ asked Mills.
‘Small pot-bank coming into Longton,’ said Brown.
‘Try and speak to him today, before the briefing,’ said Tyler. ‘Thank God for fat boys.’
‘Sir?’
‘He might be the most reliable resource we have. We’ll carve up the rest of the visits later. But make Turnock a priority.’
17
Sheila Dale picked up so quickly that Tyler wondered if she hadn’t been sitting waiting for his call. He asked how she was bearing up.
Her brother had been dead three decades, and, it seemed to DCI Tyler, the woman had long given up hope of any news but the worst kind. Still, the actual discovery of Alan’s body was bound to bring to the psychic foreground all the raw and complex feelings accompanying any traumatic loss. It didn’t take a trained psychiatrist to see that and Dale didn’t need it spelling out.
Even when there’s no glimmer of hope, the mind plays tricks. And without the evidence of an actual body, in dreams and in waking fantasies, a cruel and irrational hope can persist. He knew it, chapter and verse.
Dale wanted to know how the investigation was going, and he told her more or less the truth: that they were making slow progress and looking for as much information as they could get their hands on. When she said that she would do anything she could to help with the investigation, he wondered if she wasn’t intimating that she had more to tell him. He sensed that something had changed. She sounded stronger, he thought.
He asked if he might visit her again, later that day, and she agreed.
Tyler put down the phone and pondered.
Anthony Turnock was at work but agreed to meet Danny Mills. He asked if they could meet at his home in Fenton during his lunch break. It seemed a reasonable enough request. In the interim, Mills set about scaling the foothills of the paperwork mountain.
Dale opened the front door as Tyler approached. Before he’d taken a seat, she offered him a drink, which he accepted gratefully.
Sitting across from her, back in that spartan front room, it seemed to him that little progress had been made since his last visit. And yet a picture was building all the same.
In answer to her question he told her that he had been to see two of Alan’s teachers and his old headmaster, Mr Wise. That there were others that he still needed to speak to.
‘Apart from Anthony Turnock, do you recall the names of any of the children at the school – in Alan’s class? Was there anyone that your brother might have mentioned?’
She took a drink, a polite sip, as though she were the guest in the room. ‘Alan was a shy boy, a very private boy. He never wanted to cause a fuss. He preferred to suffer in silence.’
The pain in that last sentence was grotesque, thought Tyler.
‘Your parents went up to the school to see Fredrick Wise. Do you know if your parents had any names, boys, or girls, for that matter, who were giving Alan a hard time?’
‘My parents knew Alan was being bullied because of the cuts and bruises.’
‘Did your brother sustain a lot of cuts and bruises, Miss Dale?’
‘He always seemed to be coming home with something. And it was becoming more frequent towards … the end.’
‘Any serious injuries?’
She appeared to hesitate. ‘Not particularly serious, like I said – mainly cuts and bruises, you know the sort of thing. But there were a lot of them, and almost every day.’
‘And how did your brother account for his injuries?’
‘That’s the thing. He would always say that he had fallen over in the playground, or that he had injured himself playing football, or something like that. But Alan didn’t like playing sports, unless they made him, of course. But there was no way he was getting all of those injuries by accident.’
‘And did your parents believe what Alan told them?’
‘I think they did, at least to begin with. They probably thought they had the most accident-prone child in the world.’
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