Proof of Life

by Steven Suttie

  “I know.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because you’re phoning up. Mum says if dad phones when he should be here, it means he’s going to be a Larry let-down.”

  Miller laughed again. “Right well, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright.”

  “Can you put Molly on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright then mate. Na night. Love you.”

  “Thanks.”

  There was a ruffle and a click, and then Molly spoke.

  “Hello dad.”

  “Hello gorgeous. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see the puppy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Yeah. He licked my face!” Molly laughed down the phone, and Miller felt his cheeks raise up high as he imagined her beautiful little face laughing.

  “I’m sorry Molly, but I’m going to be working late. So, I can’t do your story.”

  “Will you do a bigger one tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “Alright.”

  “Alright. Well I’m sorry. Love you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you. Do you want mum?”

  “Yes please.”

  There was another muffle and a click, and Clare was back on the line. “Hiya,” she said.

  “Hiya. Well, I’ll have to get on. Just wanted to thank you for putting the puppy decision on me!”

  “You’re very welcome. It’s a lot easier than saying no!”

  “Ha! You devious cow. Right, I’m going. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  “I thought you were just going to say thanks, like the kids do.”

  “Ha ha, is that what they were thanking you for?”

  “Yes. They’re funny. See ya.”

  Miller ended the call, delighted that his kids had made him so happy, and that Clare had been so understanding about the late night. He clapped his hands together. “Right, let’s find these two!” he said, still beaming from ear-to-ear from his brief chat with the kids.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Right, what’s happening?” asked Miller of Saunders, who was standing at the end of the desk which was being manned by five police constables who were taking the incident room calls. Saunders was reading the reports as they stacked up. All five lines were busy, and as one call ended, the phone started ringing again. That was a very promising sign.

  “Nowt much. Nothing that has made me jump in the car and race down to speak to the caller.” Saunders checked his watch. “But it’s early doors yet.”

  “Okay, first positive call that comes in, I want to know. The first sighting of Darren, or Mr Pollard outside the school last Thursday morning, I need to speak to them. Cheers.” Miller headed back into his office and opened Google on his laptop. He typed into the search engine “missing teacher schoolboy” and was pleased to see that the first page of results all related to this investigation. The Sun, The Mirror, The Mail Online, The Express and The Metro were all carrying the story as their top news item. Miller looked through them all, and was delighted to see that all of the papers were covering it as a top priority story.

  He then put the Sky News feed on, and began watching the channel’s output on his laptop. They too were making as much of the story as they could, and a reporter who had been outside the school earlier was talking to camera, emphasising the points that Miller had made half an hour earlier in the press conference.

  “Sir!” shouted Saunders, from the main office floor. Miller looked up, out of the window which separated his work-space from the others. Saunders was gesturing him by hand.

  “Here we go,” said Miller triumphantly as he raced through to where the constables were taking calls. “What’s come in?”

  “Darren’s paper-round, he went into the shop at about quarter past ten on Thursday, asking for his wages early.”

  Miller raised his eyebrows as he grabbed the phone from a young PC.

  “Hello, this is DCI Miller,” he said, the enthusiasm in his voice was unmistakable. Miller gestured to Saunders for a pen.

  “Yes, hello, I was just telling your officer, Darren works for us,”

  “Where?”

  “It’s the Raja Brothers Express, on Cheetham Hill Road.”

  “In Stalybridge?”

  “Well, no, it’s Dukinfield, it’s just like, it’s near the sign that says welcome to Stalybridge. The border, that’s the word I’m…”

  “And was it you that spoke to him?”

  “No, no, it was Kelly, the manager. I just heard about it when I came in at dinner-time. She said he was dead upset.”

  “Did she give him his wages?”

  “I don’t know, she didn’t say.”

  “What’s her surname, please?”

  “Fisher.”

  “Mobile number?” Miller felt there wasn’t a second to waste, and was pounding this lady with questions.

  “Yeah, hang about…”

  Miller felt his heartbeat quicken as he realised that he had his first sighting of Darren outside the school. His mind was racing, filled with possibilities now that he had a trail to start from.

  “07783…”

  “Yeah,”

  “871607”

  “And its Kelly Fisher?”

  “Yes.”

  Miller finished taking notes from the shop worker, and thanked her for her call, making sure she knew how significant it was to the enquiry. As soon as he ended the call, he handed the phone back to the constable who’d been made temporarily redundant for the past few minutes. He took his mobile out of his pocket and started pressing the numbers. It connected and a ring tone was heard as Miller put it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is that Kelly Fisher?”

  “Yeah. Who’s that?” She sounded nice, friendly, but a little unnerved by this unfamiliar voice. Miller introduced himself and gave a brief overview of the call he’d just had with Kelly’s member of staff.

  “So, I was just wondering what happened on Thursday morning?”

  “Well, he came in, he looked right upset so I asked him what was up. He seemed really worked up. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, he just said he’s in trouble again at school.”

  “And he asked for his wages?”

  “Yeah, he promised to do Sunday if I paid him early.”

  “And you did?”

  “Well, yeah. I didn’t want to, but he looked so sad, and, well I do need someone for the Sunday papers. No-one ever wants to do it because the bags are dead heavy.”

  “How do you find him, generally I mean?”

  “Darren? He’s a great lad, one of my best. He’ll never say no to a double-round. He even looked after the shop once when my mum was taken ill, stayed until another member of staff could get down.”

  “Are you surprised to hear that he’s gone missing?”

  “Honestly, yes, after he said he’d work Sunday. It’s not like him to let me down. But apart from that, I know he’s not a happy lad really, his dad and him don’t see eye-to-eye. He’s been in more than once with a black eye and a swollen cheek.”

  “You think his dad did that to him?”

  “Yeah, without a doubt. He’d just look embarrassed if I asked him what had happened. Having kids of my own, I know that usually, there’s a story to be told, a big drama about a fight or whatever. So yeah, I’d bet money on it.”

  “Is there any CCTV in the shop, which might have recorded Darren’s visit last Thursday morning?”

  “Yes, there’s loads of cameras, they will have it all.”

  “Brilliant. Where are you now?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Is it near the shop?”

  “Yeah, well, about five minutes drive.”

  “Any chance you could meet me at the shop in the next thirty minutes?”

  “Yeah, if you think
it’s going to help?”

  “Yes, it really is. Your shop is now the start of the search for him, it’s really, really useful.”

  *****

  DCs Jo Rudovsky and Peter Kenyon were in interview room 5 with Michael Jenkins. He’d dropped the victim routine again now. He was more annoyed than consumed with self-pity.

  “Listen, I know it might have come across that I was being a dick before, but I just can’t be doing with dibble at my door.”

  “Is that an apology?” asked Rudovsky.

  “Well, yeah, suppose so. All I’m saying is, I’ve got fuck all to do with this, I swear on my mum’s life.”

  “And is your mum still alive?”

  “Yes, course she is… what…”

  “Hi Mr Jenkins, I’m Peter Kenyon, we haven’t met before.” Pete was warming up his good-cop patter, ready to counter his partner’s bad-cop.

  “Alright?”

  “Yes, so, as you’ll be aware, all this is new to me. What exactly is it that you’ve been brought in for this afternoon?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Our Darren’s gone missing, yeah, and I don’t know if these have got some stupid ideas that I’ve done summat to him.”

  Kenyon was nodding sympathetically, as Rudovsky smiled inwardly at his silky skills of befriending the missing boy’s father.

  Kenyon turned to Rudovsky. “What have you got to go on?” he asked, his tone was quite harsh. The only person who didn’t know that this was a play-act was Jenkins.

  “What? We haven’t… we were trying to talk to him and he was just messing us about…” Rudovsky looked angry at her colleague. Kenyon looked at Rudovsky as though she was a pain in the arse.

  “Alright mate, sorry about this. I wish this had been sorted out at your house to be honest. We won’t keep you long.”

  “Yeah, well, blame her. It’s her!”

  “Don’t worry, We’ll be having words later. But for now, can we just go through some questions with you, and I’ll organise a police car to take you back home.”

  Bingo. The deal was done. DC Kenyon had a new best mate, and Rudovsky sat there sulking, letting Jenkins believe that she was genuinely humiliated by that harsh rebuff from her colleague. But the joke was on Jenkins, little did he know.

  “Right, I’m so sorry that you have to go over this again, but please just tell me what’s gone on.” Kenyon kept his eyes on Darren’s father, laying it on thick about how much he cared, and how annoyed he was that Mr Jenkins had been brought down here in the first place.

  Jenkins told the story, all of it, from the beginning, starting with Darren’s strange behaviour the night before he disappeared, and ending with his phone call to report his child missing. He’d covered Mr Pollard’s visit too, and had kept his story, about threatening the teacher, as it was.

  Once he was done, Kenyon looked sympathetic. “God, this must be an awful time for you, mate. Last thing you need is being dragged down here. We’ll get you on your way in a few minutes,” said Kenyon in a soft, friendly voice.

  “Can you tell me why Darren has a bunk-bed in his room, please?” said Rudovsky. Her voice sounded cold.

  Jenkins looked at her, and then at his new mate, DC Kenyon. His eyes seemed to be filling up. And it didn’t look like a play-act this time. Rudovsky sat up slightly in her chair.

  “That… that was Johnny’s bed.” A tear broke free from Michael Jenkins eye, and created a tiny puddle on the table-top as it landed. It was quickly followed by another.

  “Johnny?” asked Kenyon, softly.

  “My other son. He died last year.”

  *****

  Miller arrived in Dukinfield, at the Raja Bros shop within twenty minutes of ending the call to Kelly. She was standing outside the busy convenience store, waiting for him.

  “Hiya, are you Kelly?” he asked of the black-haired lady with thick-rimmed designer glasses.

  “Yes, hiya, alright?” she said, extending her hand for a shake.

  “Yeah, well, I will be when I’ve got this lot sorted out. Shall we go in?”

  The pair walked into the store and Kelly led Miller past the alcohol aisle and through to the office. The CCTV was impressive, twelve cameras covered the small store. She started messing with the computer and found last Thursday’s recordings. She selected 10am and started fast forwarding through the footage. Within a minute, she presented Miller with his first visual footage of the missing child.

  “Wow! These are in HD!” He usually encountered really grainy images from CCTV, most of the time they were useless, as though margarine had been smeared all over the lens. The images that Kelly was providing looked as though they were TV broadcast quality.

  Miller spent a couple of minutes watching the footage of Darren Jenkins pleading for his pay. Once Kelly had been in the till and given him his money, he walked around the shop and bought several items, before returning to the till to pay for them.

  “What’s he buying?”

  “He got a loaf, a couple of tubs of salmon paste, and four Double Deckers, the tiny ones that are a quid.”

  Miller looked troubled. “I don’t mind Double Deckers, but what’s with the salmon paste?”

  “What’s wrong with Salmon paste?” asked Kelly.

  Darren made to leave the shop. Miller was moved to see that Kelly came around from the counter and gave him a hug as he went. They clearly got on well.

  “What are you saying to him there?” asked the DCI.

  “Oh, I just said cheer up, school isn’t everything.”

  “How much did you give him?”

  “Seventeen pounds, fifty.”

  “And what did he spend?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Nowt. I rung it through as spoiled stock.” Kelly put her wrists out for the hand-cuffs. Miller laughed at the joke, but was touched by the gesture. He was starting to think that Darren wasn’t quite the arse-hole that contemporary opinion held him in. He certainly wasn’t behaving like an arse-hole on the CCTV footage. He looked very sad, and vulnerable.

  “Did he say anything, you know, about plans to run away or anything like that?” asked Miller as he watched Darren leave the store, turning right onto Cheetham Hill Road.

  “No. Honest to God. Nothing like that. I’d have sorted his head out if he had. I just assumed that he was going home. I’m really sorry if my actions have had any effect on the situation.”

  “No, no, bloody hell. Don’t start thinking like that. It’s nowt to do with you.”

  “Well, it is. We’re a strong community round here. We stick together.”

  “I know, I know. But listen, there’s a lot more to this. It’s nowt to do with you.” Miller pulled his USB memory stick out of his pocket. “Are you any good at saving these things to USBs?”

  “Yeah, God, we have police officers in here every week asking for it. Hang about.” Kelly took the USB, inserted it into the machine and began doing something with the mouse. A minute later, she handed the tiny memory stick back to Miller.

  “Cheers, so, he turned right when he left here. That’s the direction of his house, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s about two-hundred and fifty yards down the road, on the right.”

  “Brilliant, okay, thank you Kelly, you’ve been a massive help.”

  Miller left, got into his car and followed the road down towards Sand street, the little terraced street where Darren and his father lived. He was looking for CCTV cameras as he drove, but was disappointed that there were none.

  The fact that Darren had left the shop at twenty past ten, and Mr Pollard had visited the family home, just five minutes walk away, at half-past, troubled the DCI. He felt that the answer to the mystery lay here, somewhere between that shop, and the old Victorian cobbles of Sand street.

  Miller pulled his car over and reached for his notebook. He wrote “door-to-doors, Cheetham Hill Road to Sand Street and surrounding.”

  Miller threw the note-pad and pen onto his pas
senger seat, pulled his phone out of his pocket, then rang Saunders.

  “Sir?”

  “Hiya Keith. I’ve got Darren at the shop, twenty past ten, CCTV footage is brilliant. I’m guessing he’s run away from home from the clues. At least, that seems to have been his intention.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, a couple of things, I’ll tell you in detail when I get back. I just want to do a recce of Mr Pollard’s house while I’m over here. What’s the address Keith?”

  Saunders was lightning fast in his reply. “We’ve had a call in from a neighbour of Pollard’s. Apparently, he’s renting a flat at the minute, but we’ve got his address as the family home. It is listed as 563 Mottram Road, Stalybridge, Sir. Hang on a sec, and I’ll find the flat address.” A moment later, Saunders continued. “He’s renting a flat at 17b Grey Street, Stalybridge.”

  “Great, okay, I’ll go and have a nosey around. Back in about an hour.”

  *****

  In interview room 5 back at HQ, Rudovsky and Kenyon were learning all about Johnny Jenkins.

  Darren’s elder brother had committed suicide the previous year, during his second-year at a young-offenders institution up in Carlisle.

  Johnny had been sentenced to three years for repeated TWOC offences, better known as nicking cars. He’d been doing it

  for years, and the last time he’d been caught, the Judge had decided to teach him a lesson. It was a lesson that Johnny Jenkins couldn’t handle, and his parents had been informed by phone call, that their son had hanged himself in his room.

  Johnny Jenkins was laid to rest at Dukinfield Cemetry, with hundreds of mourners there to pay their last respects. He had been a well-known character in the area, a lovable rogue, always up-to-no-good, but funny with it. He was only 19 years old when he died.

  Rudovsky felt remarkably sad, as she heard Michael Jenkins’ story about his eldest son. Her sadness came from that neat, tidy bunk-bed in that awful house which just screamed of bad-vibes and depression.

  This was a very interesting development as far as Rudovsky was concerned, and she felt that Johnny’s death was beginning to explain why Jenkins seemed so cold towards Darren. It was a natural coping mechanism, to reject your surviving children whilst grieving, a trick your brain plays on you, in an attempt to try and shield you from ever feeling that pain, that sorrow, that complete and utter heart-breaking loss, ever again. Rudovsky had seen this before, a form of PTSD, crucially, a mental-health problem brought on by extreme emotional trauma. It explained the strange attitude that Jenkins had been displaying regarding his son’s disappearance. A behaviour which had earlier seemed completely inexplicable.