‘This city has a proud heritage, but, I believe, an even greater future. In a nutshell: we need people of talent and integrity to be a part of that great future.’
Tyler wondered if a band would strike up now, and whether protocol demanded he clamber to his feet and salute with a tear in his eye. Berkins’ chest was puffed out like plumage and his moustache magnificent. If he was looking to kiss and make up, why didn’t he just get on with it – if it came minus the kiss.
Then the second handshake and a closing smile cut directly from a Hollywood out-take and it was all done.
Tyler kept a straight face until he was out of the room.
With the tell-tale signs of the press lurking around the school, Tyler drove the unmarked car as close up to reception as he could, entering the building swiftly and without his jacket and tie. The receptionist showed him through to where he was going, though he knew the way well enough.
In the moments before she arrived, he thought back over the past days and wondered what revelation could still be waiting. Tyler’s mind was on Howard Wood when Miss Hayburn entered her office.
‘Oh, good of you to drop by,’ she said, taking her seat opposite the already seated DCI.
‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘I hear that Mr Wood is still off. I believe that whatever is afflicting him may be terminal?’
‘It better be,’ she said. ‘A guilty conscience often is. I read about the blackmail in the papers. Not going to do much for the image of this school, is it, pupils blackmailing teachers. And before you say, I appreciate that it was thirty years ago. But if that man were to walk back in here …’ she appeared to shudder, ‘let’s just say that a lot of good work has been undone.’
‘There’s no question of that, surely?’
‘You would think not. But stranger things happen, believe me.’
There was a pause, and as Miss Hayburn looked at him, Tyler felt the need to keep the conversation going. ‘I want to thank you for all of your assistance,’ he said.
‘Don’t mention it. I’m glad it came to something – your passion and persistence. I don’t suppose a case like this can have a happy ending.’
‘I think they should terminate Wise’s pension,’ said Tyler. ‘That would be a start.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘For doing more harm than good to the thousands who walked through this door. For setting everything in motion.’
She looked unconvinced. ‘I think the likes of Martin Hillman were set in motion a long time before Wise entered the frame. I think that’s how it works. But first causes are notoriously hard to prove.’
‘I think Wise became the catalyst for what happened to one young child at least.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I believe there was a question you left unanswered,’ said Tyler.
‘Indeed there was. You asked about my name. You asked what “A” stands for and I didn’t answer.’
‘I see,’ said Tyler, clearing his throat awkwardly.
‘Well, it stands for Alison.’
She stood up. ‘And now I have to get back to running this school. So, if you have any further questions, you’re going to have to ask them over dinner.’
Later, Tyler asked a favour of Mills, and the DS happily agreed. They had both finished for the day and drove together to a quiet street a few hundred yards from the village square in Penkhull. Standing outside a small property that even the estate agents suggested had ‘potential’, Tyler said, ‘So what do you think?’
‘Needs some work, by the look of it.’
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, Danny.’
‘True enough.’
‘Time I made a start, though.’
‘It’s as good a place as any.’
‘By the way, I meant to ask: did you get chance to visit Jenkins’ neighbour?’
‘I did, but she’s sworn to secrecy. Five hundred words a minute and not one about Scotland.’
‘Some things we are not meant to know.’
‘I never doubted it. What do you reckon will happen with Hillman?’
‘I think it’s safe to say that he’s blown this election.’
Mills smiled. ‘He’ll have all the angles weighed up and take the best route through. I’m not convinced that he won’t sneak out of it. He won’t be making MP though.’
‘Not this year. But I wouldn’t count anything out. When I first saw the state of Steven Jenkins’ corpse I thought the job had been bungled. Too obviously a hit, and at the same time too bizarre, almost ritualistic the way the head was almost taken off. But that wasn’t the point. It was a warning. I doubt Paul Dammers will have the bottle to disregard it. He’ll be back one day, whatever happens, and that warning’s transferable.’
Tyler nodded back towards the property.
‘I’m going to put in an offer.’
Sheila Dale’s house in Leek was up for sale and she was moving back to Penkhull. For her the exile was over. Building had started on the site where Alan had died, his remains finally laid to rest in the cemetery on the Hartshill/Penkhull border where his parents had been buried and where Sheila would one day join them. It happened to be the cemetery that housed the remains of Martin Hillman’s mother, and barely fifty yards of gravestones separated them.
Tyler had set up a fund in Alan’s name, for children who had been the victims of bullying, and asked Sheila Dale to manage it. He kicked the thing off with a charity run, and even Chief Superintendent Berkins had dug a hand into his pocket.
A separate fund was also in place, to erect a small monument at the bottom of The Stumps. Dale was keeping silent on the final wording of the inscription that would be chiselled into the base of the statue, and the local craftsman tasked with completing it was similarly giving nothing away.
Mills had approached Stoke City FC to organise a charity match to raise funds, and Tyler invited Dale to come along.
‘I’m not a football fan, either,’ he told her. ‘But as I’m paying.’
The game was lousy, by all accounts, and it rained all day for good measure. Jim Tyler felt bad about subjecting Sheila Dale and Alison Hayburn to the torture, though Danny Mills and his family seemed to be enjoying themselves, pumping the air with raised fists as Stoke scored the last-minute winner against an all-star opposition.
On the day of the unveiling Jim Tyler wondered what the inscription would read. The nervous city fathers had been given a prior peek, had insisted on it, in case anything scandalous was in the air that might reflect badly on the city.
He stood next to Danny Mills as Sheila Dale held the string that would release the veil. There was a fair turn-out, he thought. Some ghouls present, naturally.
Mills spotted a familiar face in the crowd and a few moments later was introducing Tyler to Josh Smith. ‘So this must be Stan,’ said Tyler, patting the head of the black retriever. ‘Unusual name for a dog?’
Mills winked at the boy. ‘Don’t worry about him; he’s not from these parts. Where he comes from they’ve never even heard of Sir Stanley Matthews.’
When the veil dropped, the likeness of the statue to the dead boy caused a collective gasp.
But there was no inscription.
As the applause started up, Tyler caught the eye of Sheila Dale, and understood.
The local sculptor had captured what words never could: A boy with a light in his eye, looking with innocent defiance across the city. At peace, at rest, demanding that this never happen again.
The End
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Acknowledgments
I would like to thank everyone who read earlier drafts of Red is the Colour. I’m so grateful for your time, effort and generous feedback.
I would particularly like to thank: Fiona, your enthusiasm for this book gave me the encouragement I needed; Kath Middleton, your suggestions, as usual, were good ones; and Nicola Findler, casting a police officer’s eye over proceedings, and providing useful insights into police work. Thank you to Clare Law, my editor. And thank you to my publishers, Bloodhound Books.
This book is very much a work of fiction, and I have taken a few liberties with the history and geography of the setting, in service to the story that I wanted to tell.
Red is the Colour is the first in a series of novels featuring DCI Tyler and DS Mills.
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