Red is the Colour

by Mark L. Fowler

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I—’

  ‘Probably not. Unless you can supply me with the two things I need at this precise moment in time.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘I’ll spell it out: I need a beer and a whisky chaser on repeat prescription – and that’s one thing. And I need a face that I can put a fist through. The clock’s ticking. Let’s see Mr Dammers, shall we?’

  Paul Dammers lived in a quiet cul-de-sac, in a smart semi with a generous stretch of land, front and back. And he was giving DCI Tyler a bad case of déjà vu.

  The tell-tale signs of stress that had been so evident on the face and in the manner of Phillip Swanson, were here too and in equal abundance. This one wasn’t a smoker, though Tyler found himself wishing that the man was. It would have given Dammers something to do with those hands before he ended up hypnotising him and his sergeant.

  Social work and probation were not good for the health, it seemed. Something clearly wasn’t.

  In the catalogue lounge, the detectives strode over familiar ground, revisiting the school, the park, The Stumps, teachers, pupils …

  Tyler decided against remembering Pamela Scott to the man. It was hard work enough without the digressions.

  Dammers went through the usual moves: didn’t recall Alan Dale, vaguely remembered the police coming to the school because someone had gone missing, didn’t have anything to do with kids from other years, occasionally played football in the park but wasn’t that interested, etc., etc. Mrs Everson’s class, old battle-axe, blah blah.

  ‘You were in Howard Wood’s class the previous year?’ asked Mills.

  ‘He was alright, Mr Wood. Bit of a laugh.’

  ‘Was that because you shared an interest in football, Mr Dammers?’ asked Mills. ‘In Stoke City?’

  ‘I suppose we did, yes. I still watch them.’

  Progress, thought Tyler. You don’t get many admitting that much, at least not in the course of the current investigation.

  ‘Do you see Mr Wood at the match?’ asked Mills.

  ‘He still goes, does he?’

  ‘You’ve not seen him recently?’

  ‘No, why should I have done?’

  ‘He lives close to here. Did you know that?’

  Dammers shook his head, but he didn’t look at all convincing. Tyler decided it was time to bring up that old flame after all.

  ‘Pamela Scott? No, I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘She remembers you. She seemed to think that you and a younger lad, Robert Wild, may have been jostling for her attentions.’

  Dammers puffed out his cheeks, as though the effort of memory was proving too much. ‘It was a long time ago, but I don’t know that name.’

  ‘Nor Robert Wild?’

  Another shake of the head, but betrayed by the eyes.

  Tyler thought of something, and asked if he might be excused for a moment. Out in the car he made a call back to the station. He spoke to DC Crawley.

  ‘Everson, yes. Get on to the school and check if they have any current contact information. Do your best on this one, quick as you can. Oh, and while you’re on to them, ask if they can look something up in Mr Wise’s old punishment book.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Tyler heard the suppressed laughter bubbling around the edges of Crawley’s voice.

  ‘I’m looking for any reference to Paul Dammers around the time of Alan Dale’s disappearance, or before.’

  ‘Anything you say, sir. Oh, by the way. DC Brown would like a word.’

  ‘Put him on then. It’ll have to be quick.’

  ‘He’s just popped out of the office. I’ll—’

  Tyler ended the call with a warning to the DC about the dangers of wasting police time.

  In the house, Mills was treading water. Dammers was telling the detective that he hadn’t been off with stress before, but that it was a stressful job and he’d been doing it a long time.

  ‘So,’ said Tyler, re-joining them. ‘What do you recall about Steven Jenkins?’

  At the station, DC Crawley was telling his colleagues about the latest mission.

  ‘Sounds a bit kinky to me,’ said PC Henderson, widening her eyes. ‘You’d better let me handle it.’

  ‘Kinky?’ said Brown, entering the room through a wall of solid laughter. ‘Tell me and tell me immediately. All details are relevant. I want everything.’

  When the merriment had died down sufficiently, Crawley made the call. They put him through to Miss Hayburn. Now the pressure was on.

  DC Crawley stuttered out his request, trying to avoid catching the eye of PC Henderson. But the headteacher seemed unwilling to impart information down the phone, and Crawley, his hand covering the mouthpiece, relayed this back to the bank of grinning colleagues.

  ‘I could send one of our PCs down to the school,’ said Brown, winking towards Henderson.

  It wouldn’t be necessary. The information was for DCI Tyler. ‘One key fits all locks,’ said Crawley, his hand once again covering the mouthpiece. ‘Maybe she’s got a thing for Tyler. It takes all kinds to make a world.’

  Crawley suddenly coloured up. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking into the mouthpiece as though he had seen a devil hiding inside it. ‘I was talking about …’

  He let it go, wrote down the information, thanked Miss Hayburn profusely for her trouble, ended the call and said a silent atheist’s prayer.

  The laughter at the spectacle of Crawley’s self-induced humiliation broke all records for that day. ‘Big breakthrough,’ he said at last, addressing DC Brown. ‘Paul Dammers got a pasting on the day after Jenkins and Hillman. Vandalism. No further details.’

  ‘The plot thickens,’ said Henderson. ‘Can’t police work be absolutely fascinating?’

  ‘Look, can you follow up on this Rosemary Everson while I give the vital information to the DCI.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Jenkins?’ asked DC Brown.

  In a short time, Crawley had travelled a long way from laughter.

  Tyler was asking Dammers about Jenkins. At least he had the good sense to admit knowing that a person with that name had recently been found dead in extremely suspicious circumstances. It was a start.

  ‘So, when you heard the news, did it jog anything?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘Did you recall him from school days?’ clarified Mills.

  A little seemed to be ebbing back. Jenkins was in the year below, Dammers believed, again underlining that he’d had little or nothing to do with the younger ones.

  ‘He was in Mr Wood’s class?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘Might have been.’

  ‘Anyone else from that class spring to mind?’ asked Mills.

  ‘No, like I say …’

  Mills rolled off the list: Swanson, Hillman, Marley. Paul Dammers seemed to start at the sound of each name.

  And then a mobile rang.

  Tyler listened to what DC Crawley was telling him, and ended the call. He looked at Mills. The news about Jenkins would have to wait.

  ‘Did you have much to do with Mr Wise?’ Tyler asked Dammers.

  ‘Not really.’ Then Dammers, appearing to recognise that the officer was holding a card, modified the statement. ‘I was in trouble, maybe once or twice. That wasn’t unusual at that school. Wise was a bit of a disciplinarian.’

  Dammers was working hard trying to dampen down the rising atmosphere in the room, but his nervous smile didn’t come close to infecting the company he was keeping.

  ‘What sort of things were you in trouble for, Mr Dammers?’ asked Tyler.

  The dregs of the smile disappeared, but Dammers still clung desperately to a poor imitation of an easy-going attitude, until it packed up altogether and went the way of the smile. The final, unconvincing shrug of the shoulders came as something of an obituary to the death of cool.

  ‘It was—’

  ‘A long time ago?’ suggested Tyler. ‘Do your best. We’ve got all day.’

  But they did not have all day,
and Tyler came like a howling wind at last to the man’s aid before he took his nails all the way to the elbow. ‘Bullying? Fighting? The details in the book kept at the school are a little brief, but we are working on them. Here’s a theory, just a theory. You and Robert Wild were both after the same girl. He made a fool of you, a younger lad stealing your girlfriend. You had to save face, bit of a dust up, Mr Wise gets wind of it and he takes no prisoners.’

  Tyler caught Mills’ quizzical look out of the corner of his eye; but his focus remained squarely on Paul Dammers.

  The stressed probation officer was looking relieved. Had the DCI provided a scenario that he could subscribe to, true or otherwise?

  ‘It was something like that, I think,’ said Dammers. ‘You know how it is, kids.’

  ‘Hang on to that one, then. But maybe you prefer this?’

  Tyler was on a roll. Bluffing could get to be a habit, as long as it came off and didn’t blow up in your face. And anyway, bluffing was one thing; imaginative extrapolation from the facts such as they are … something else entirely.

  ‘The fat kid gets the shit kicked out of him for some reason as yet unclear. Except that there doesn’t have to be a reason. Maybe you were feeling a bit off that day. Maybe it really was girl trouble and somebody had to suffer. Either way, the fat kid gets the treatment, and somebody stands up for him. But who would do that? In a hell-hole like River Trent High in 1972, who would risk it for the sake of a fat kid?

  ‘Alan Dale, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s bullshit. I never touched any fat kid.’

  ‘One more try. How about vandalism? A can of red paint? Red is the colour.’

  Dammers was trembling. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You had nothing to do with the younger kids, except picking on them. Bullying wasn’t an issue high on the agenda of Fredrick Wise, so it was the fox in the chicken coop syndrome. You knew Jenkins from watching Stoke City. You’d stand with Howard Wood, and he’d supply the booze and the cigarettes.’

  Tyler paused for a moment, but Dammers wasn’t saying anything.

  ‘You didn’t like people who didn’t support your team, and you didn’t like creeps who stole your girlfriends. You couldn’t do much about the latter, but there was a nice little scapegoat in Mr Wood’s class. A kid having the nerve to admit to not being a Stoke City fan, even though he hadn’t the first clue about football and couldn’t have cared less for anything but the colour.

  ‘And you heard about what happened to Jenkins and Hillman and you wanted to make a stand. And somebody grassed you up and so now all three of you had something in common – courtesy of Mr Wise. The need to pass something on.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Tyler signalled to Mills. It was time to read out some rights and take a trip down to the station together.

  Yet Tyler was under no illusions. Bringing in Paul Dammers for the murder of Alan Dale would not keep the powers off his back for long.

  25

  At Hanley Police Station Paul Dammers was demanding to see a solicitor.

  ‘Probation officer,’ Mills told DC Brown. ‘Taking his own advice. He’ll want everything by the book, no doubt. Make sure there’s an interview room set up.’

  ‘Will do. By the way, Rosemary Everson died of a major stroke about two years ago. Don’t know if Tyler had anyone lined up for that?’

  Tyler rounded the corner. ‘Sorry to break up the party, but have we got anything from the lists of people present at Hillman’s “meetings”?’

  ‘We have most of it back,’ said Mills. ‘I’ll show you when you’re ready, sir.’

  ‘Show me now.’

  Tyler strode off and Mills turned to Brown.

  ‘Is he all right?’ whispered Brown.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mills, hurrying off after Tyler.

  Handing over the folder containing the feedback, Mills mentioned the death of Dammers’ old teacher, Rosemary Everson.

  ‘I doubt she would have told us much,’ said Tyler. ‘But you never know. Anyone else made mention of Dammers?’

  ‘Not really. We could widen the focus.’

  ‘Not sure we have the time. What have we got here, then?’

  Hillman’s information regarding meetings around the time of Steven Jenkins’ death, and particularly the late and lengthy meeting that served as his alibi, was meticulous and thorough. Mills remarked that it was the kind of work that might be expected of such an ambitious man.

  ‘Or somebody with something to hide,’ said Tyler. ‘Has anybody spoken with any of these people yet?’

  Mills nodded. ‘And everything appears to be legit in the cross referencing. Unless we’re talking about a conspiracy involving half the population of two counties.’

  ‘I get the point, Sergeant.’

  Mills looked at Tyler long enough for the DCI to sense the scrutiny.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know you’re under pressure at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Yes. I am. And?’

  Mills hadn’t been sure about Tyler to begin with. The DCI had arrived under a cloud of rumour and suspicion, and it was easy to be mistrustful of a new face. Tyler didn’t seem the type who went out of his way to make friends, but all the same Danny Mills had sensed a beating heart beneath the sharpness.

  Jim Tyler wasn’t like others he came across, ambitious types from bigger cities, full of procedure and little else. The man was a maverick, but he had integrity and a passion to nail those guilty of the gravest deeds, irrespective of all other concerns. Tyler, he thought, was a fresh wind blowing, and no bureaucratic machine bent on glory, as some had suggested prior to his arrival.

  ‘Are you making a point,’ said Tyler, ‘or shall we get on?’

  Mills lost the heart to say anything. The moment was not conducive, and, he thought, likely never would be.

  ‘In that case, perhaps we can get back to Martin Hillman, and what exactly you meant when you said that we have something.’

  ‘It’s not much.’

  ‘Do you have anything, or don’t you?’

  ‘We think Hillman was here a few days ago.’

  ‘I thought you said his alibi was solid.’

  ‘It is. He was in Derby for a business meeting on Sunday night, when Jenkins died. But he was here, in Stoke-on-Trent, earlier that weekend.’

  ‘How do we know that?’

  ‘A couple of things, sir. DC Brown spoke to one of the alibi folk – a phone conversation an hour ago. An ex-pat.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A woman by the name of Julie Hammond. She’s living and working in Derbyshire, apparently, but she was born and raised in Longton.’ Mills smiled. ‘She joked about asking Hillman where her oatcakes were.’

  ‘Are you deliberately talking in riddles, or have I over-worked you?’

  ‘Oatcakes. The local delicacy. You must try one.’

  ‘Yes, I will, no doubt. What’s your point?’

  ‘Julie Hammond hadn’t met Hillman before. She heard he was from Stoke originally and so broke the ice with a remark about him bringing oatcakes back from their mutual homeland, as it were.’

  ‘And no doubt Hillman broke his cover by announcing that he’d brought a dozen!’

  ‘Not quite. But she reckons he let slip about returning from Stoke but forgetting the oatcakes, and then tried to back-track.’

  ‘What’s she do, this Julie Hammond?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘I don’t think she actually said.’

  Tyler thought for a minute. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We checked out his mother’s grave in Newcastle-under-Lyme cemetery. There were fresh flowers, sir.’

  ‘Could be another relative. A friend.’

  ‘Could be, of course, but doubtful, as far as we can tell. No relatives, certainly. We made some enquiries. One or two in the Hartshill area remember the family.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One of the neighbours recalls tha
t Hillman went a bit ‘off-the-rails’, as they put it. They knew about his dad leaving, the upheaval, and allowances were made.’

  ‘And this was when?’

  ‘It was before he moved up to River Trent High. By all accounts, he settled down and his old neighbours were proud that he’s doing well for himself.’

  ‘Local lad makes good,’ said Tyler. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Tell Brown and the rest of the team that I appreciate their efforts. It’s good work, really, it is.’ He paused for a moment, letting the words ring in the air. Then, ‘I think we need to speak to Mr Hillman.’

  ‘That’s not all, sir. I rang the hospital. Marley’s stable at the moment and he’s been asking to see me again. And we might have some CCTV footage from the churchyard. I’m having that checked out.’

  Tyler looked at his watch. ‘Get yourself up to the hospital. You need to see Marley. I’ll deal with Dammers when the solicitor gets here.’

  ‘What about Hillman?’

  ‘Ring me from the hospital. We may be bringing him in, but that depends on what we get. He could make us look stupid. We’re walking a fine line. Anything from that GP yet? Did Jenkins know he was dying?’

  ‘Brown’s onto it.’

  ‘One more thing: this Julie Hammond. Anything strike you as odd?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Not a business rival, is she? Or from the opposite political party?’

  ‘We could check.’

  ‘This oatcake story – it’s like something out of Miss Marple. Look, I’d like you to contact her yourself and find out a bit more. Go and see her if you need to.’

  Mills turned to go.

  ‘Again, sorry about earlier. There’s a good team here.’

  ‘I know that. And, sir …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Take it easy.’

  At the hospital Mills was allowed to go straight through. ‘Be careful, though,’ said one of the staff as Mills was about to enter the side ward where Marley lay. ‘He may be off critical, but he’s convinced he’s dying. You’ll probably get the death bed speech.’

  Marley appeared lifeless, thought Mills. As pale as the vegetarian meal that his wife had rustled up and left in the fridge for his supper the previous evening. A rack of ribs would have been more of a welcome home, but minus the beer, what was the point. She was on a diet and so was he.