Proof of Life

by Steven Suttie

  “Hello, thank you all for attending this lunchtime. As you will all appreciate, this is a very fast-moving inquiry and I have lots to get on with, so this briefing will be very short. I hope that you have all received the press release, and the information attached, and have begun broadcasting and sharing the information on your networks. I know that Sky News have been quick to put it on the air, so thank you for that, Paul.”

  Miller nodded his appreciation to Sky’s north of England correspondent, who was standing before him.

  “As the press-release states, we have learnt a lot through the night, and I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the members of the public who have supported us. Thanks to you, we have made significant progress already, and continue to do so, as we search for Philip Pollard and Darren Jenkins.”

  Miller paused momentarily to catch his breath. “I can confirm that the person who was helping us with our enquiries yesterday has been extremely helpful and has given us several interesting leads to follow up and is now back home. We have eliminated this individual from our enquiries.”

  This was news. Miller hadn’t said it, but the press all knew that he was talking about the boy’s father.

  “Now, I’m appealing to everybody who Mr Pollard has taught through the years. We really need to speak to you if you have any information about this teacher. It might be information that you are embarrassed to speak about, but we can help you with any of these concerns, we have specially trained officers who are able to support you. If Mr Pollard ever did anything that you were uncomfortable with, anything that you thought was inappropriate, anything at all, I’m urging you to contact us, and get it off your chest. You could have information that might lead us to Mr Pollard, and Darren Jenkins.”

  “What do you mean by inappropriate?” shouted one reporter. Miller was glad that he she did.

  “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Mr Pollard has had lots of unsupervised one-to-one interactions with pupils over many years. Our inquiries have found that he has demonstrated an unusual amount of interest in Darren Jenkins, and I’m trying to ascertain if this is a common behaviour? If you were a student of Astley High School, did you spend a lot of time alone with Mr Pollard, and did he ever do anything, or say anything which you found peculiar? Did he ever buy you gifts, or arrange to meet with you outside the school community? If the answer is yes to any of those questions, I’d really like to hear from you as soon as possible. I know that this is shocking, and very disturbing for many people in the Stalybridge area, and I also acknowledge that Mr Pollard has previously enjoyed a very good reputation among pupils, staff and parents. However, as you are reporting, there does appear to be another side to Mr Pollard’s character, and it is crucial that I hear all of the details of that, at the very earliest opportunity, in order to find a swift and positive outcome from this case. Thank you.”

  With that, Miller turned and walked back towards the police HQ, as lots of different questions were shouted at his back. Miller was happy with that, he’d said just enough, but not too much. He’d painted Pollard as a weirdo creep, which was precisely the angle he’d aimed for. It would be excellent if the phone started ringing, with calls from ex-pupils. But, that wasn’t his number one objective.

  Miller had wanted to get inside Pollard’s head, and he knew that this was the fastest way. Insinuate that he’s a creepy weirdo paedophile teacher with an unhealthy interest in his pupils. Miller didn’t actually believe that, deep down. The evidence just didn’t point to that, so far. But this was going to be the fastest way of changing that, as well as undermining all of Mr Pollard’s excellent achievements through the years.

  Saunders greeted Miller as he walked back into the SCIU department.

  “Ooh, I think that will have really pissed him off, Sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you not think it might push him over the edge though? His mental state seems pretty fragile already.” Saunders looked concerned.

  “I doubt it will push him over the edge mate, he went over the edge last Friday when he hired that motor-home and emptied his savings account.”

  “Yeah, but, I mean, you’ve made him out as a right weirdo in that statement.”

  “I know mate. But, he started it.”

  *****

  “Not being funny, but this copper is barking up the wrong tree! As if Well’ard is a wrong’un!” Said Pete Gregory, commenting on the Manchester Evening News’ Facebook story.

  “I hope Well’ard is going to kick this copper’s arse!” wrote another commentator on the page.

  “This DCI Miller is going to get his phone confiscated until end of term if he doesn’t stop slagging Well’ard off!”

  It just went to show that even under the weight of these dark, mysterious circumstances, the people of Stalybridge still held the well-known teacher in high regard. Those that knew Mr Pollard were quite happy to rubbish any suggestions that he was upto anything untoward. It was quite a powerful message which was coming back from the local community.

  The comments were appearing everywhere on social media, on the local, and national news feeds, and they were all painting Mr Pollard in a very positive light. It was encouraging to see, as the remarks really did suggest that whatever it was that was happening with Darren Jenkins, there was a good chance that the boy wasn’t in any real danger. That was the hope that casual observers took from the comments, anyway.

  But there were plenty of other comments from people who did not know anything about Mr Pollard, and these comments were classic “judge, jury and executioner” type statements made by people who were quite happy to present a version of the story which simply did not exist, in order to try and appear clever.

  “This teacher will have been grooming the lad for years, and now, he’s finally given in to his desires. They should bring back the death penalty.” Said one.

  “This kind of thing happens all the time,” said another. “Blokes shouldn’t be allowed to teach in schools, its unnatural. What the fuck do they want to be around kids for all day anyway? Go on, ask yourselves that!”

  The idiotic, stupid comments attracted plenty of replies, especially from the very people they were aimed at. Teachers. And it was a very large target audience, since the UK has almost half a million teachers, employed to teach the nation’s eight-million plus kids.

  “That is the single-most stupid comment I have ever read in my entire life!” said one of the half a million teachers, 43 year-old Daniel Ganitski. “I have been a teacher for twenty-one years, and I joined the profession because I love it. I love taking kids in at eleven, guiding them through the most important years of their lives, and then watching them open their exam results five years later, seeing the grades they earned, knowing that I played an integral part of their future success in life. How dare you suggest that there is some sinister reason for wanting to work in the greatest profession that there is. My advice for you is to explore the darkness of your own mind, which is capable of conjuring up such a disturbing thought and seek help.”

  There was no reply to Mr Ganitski’s comment, but there were over 2000 likes. It was obviously an internet troll who’d left the statement, hoping to cause offence and gain a reaction. It wasn’t quite the reaction that the troll had aimed for.

  This story was now at the awkward phase where everybody’s imagination was running away with them, and some of the less-bright people were making comments that made them appear stupid. They were all there, cracking the case as they sat on the bus, or waited for their drying at the launderette.

  “It seems pretty obvious to me that this teacher has snapped. He’s done the kid in, and now he’s done himself in. Good luck finding the bodies is all I can say.”

  The amateur comedians were there too, in amongst the comments from people who were genuinely concerned about both parties in this unusual case.

  “I feel sorry for the lad, imagine how much extra maths he’s having to do!”

  “I’ve just
heard that a teacher has run off with one of his pupils, and I am totally disgusted. The kid’s a little chav with a lazy eye, apparently.”

  It wasn’t all rash opinions and jokes though. Hundreds, if not thousands of simple, to-the-point comments filled up the comment sections underneath each news story.

  “Praying for a happy ending.”

  “Sending positive thoughts to Mr Pollard. #ItsOkayToNotBeOkay”

  “Hoping all ends well.”

  One thing was abundantly clear, though. This story was massive, and there was an enormous appetite to hear the next detail, and hopefully, to learn that Mr Pollard, and Darren Jenkins had been found safe and well.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  22 year-old Kieron Davis was watching the news report, lay on his bed. He’d been locked in his cell for most of the day, as usual, and his daily routine of TV watching had been unaltered. He was now filling in the time between Doctors, and A Place in the Sun, with his regular catch-up of Sky News.

  He was shocked by the story that the news channel was reporting. He’d never seen anybody that he knew on the news before. But here it was, his old teacher, Well’ard on the screen. The channel was showing CCTV footage of him withdrawing five thousand pounds in cash at the bank in Ashton. Kieron was shocked at how little Well’ard had changed over the six years since he had left Astley High School.

  The news report was unbelievable, and Kieron really couldn’t believe that Mr Pollard was being accused of the crime that they were talking about on the news. The thing that the copper had said, asking if any former pupils had ever been approached in an inappropriate way by Mr Pollard was bang out of order.

  Kieron sat up and moved his face closer to the tiny TV screen as the picture changed from Mr Pollard, to a shot of the school. It brought back a lot of great memories, seeing his old school again. Despite the fact that he’d felt that he hated every moment there, while he was a pupil. But as time had gone on, like every other kid in the world, Kieron knew that the old saying was true. School days really are the best days of your life.

  After leaving school, in 2011, with no qualifications, Kieron had learnt very quickly that the little bubble he’d been contained in, with all of its safety nets, simply didn’t exist in the real world. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise that when you’ve got no qualifications, the world can be a very cold, very hard place.

  He’d tried to get on training courses and apprenticeships but had no luck. He tried a different path and signed up at college to try again with his GCSEs. But after just a few weeks at the sixth form, his old behaviour traits had returned. His bad attitude, his disruptive behaviour, his non-attendance to certain lessons had all caught up with him again.

  He soon found that at college, there wasn’t a teacher like Well’ard, who’s office you could sit and doss in all day, having a laugh and talking about random things instead of doing boring lessons. At college, it soon became apparent, nobody gives a shit, not like they do at school. If you can’t be arsed, they can’t. One college teacher told Kieron that he has two choices; “Fit in, or fuck off.”

  Kieron did the latter. But he had the last word and told his teacher that the college was bollocks. The teacher didn’t look remotely interested in the 16 year-old’s observation. Kieron stepped out of there, into a biting wind, and for the first time in his young life, he had no idea what to do now.

  He couldn’t go home. He’d caused so much shit at home that his mum had told him that if he doesn’t make a go of things at college, she would kick him out. She wasn’t joking either. The amount of stress, worry and anger that Kieron had created during his short life had brought his mum to the edge of her sanity, and to the end of her patience.

  Two days after Kieron had given the college tutor his opinion of the place, his mother received a letter from the college, advising that her son had left, and if she tries to apply for tax credits in respect to his further-education, she would be liable to prosecution.

  Life changed very quickly for Kieron. His mother was as good as her word and kicked him out that day.

  “How many fucking times can I say this shit?” She asked, as she slammed the door behind him. He waltzed down the street as though the victory was his. He was homeless, he was unemployable, he’d screwed up his second chance at the college, all before he was seventeen-years-old. And he walked down the street like he owned the place.

  After a spell of crashing at mates’ houses, their mums and dads were becoming a little irritated that the cocky kid that they didn’t even approve of their child hanging around with, seemed to have moved in. Kieron spent a couple of weeks of this chaotic existence, before one of his friend’s mums rang Social Services, and explained the situation.

  A car arrived, and Kieron was led out to it by two youth team social workers and driven away. Kieron had a shock, as he realised that his new-found freedom was not all that it seemed. He was taken to a house which looked like a cross between a children’s home, and a prison.

  “We’ve spoken to your mum, and she says that she doesn’t want you back at home. She says that you cause too much trouble, she says you’re lazy, that you’re cheeky, that you won’t do anything you’re asked. She’s reached the end of her tether with you Kieron.” The Social worker guy was alright, he‘d seemed pretty sound as he explained what was happening. “But this presents you with a problem. Because you’re still a child in the eyes of the law, you have to be looked after by us, until you’re eighteen.”

  Kieron shrugged, as if to say he wasn’t bothered.

  But he soon discovered that he was bothered. He was sharing the house with seven other lads, all of whom had similar problems to Kieron’s. A few of them were alright, but, most of them were not. Kieron had entered a strange, scary new world, where just looking at one of the other lads in the wrong way earned him a punch in the face at best, a severe beating at worst. The tiny amount of belongings that he’d been allowed in his dorm were stolen, and the staff, well, they didn’t want to get involved.

  Within days, Kieron was starting to realise that life was nothing like he’d imagined it to be. Life was turning out to be pretty shit. He ran away from the home a few times, but never got too far. And when he was returned, usually by police officers, he had the few “liberties” that he’d been afforded, removed. This meant that he had no free-time and had to spend all of his time in the house, watching TV, trying not to piss anybody off. It was miserable, and Kieron longed for home.

  In his regular meetings with the social workers, Kieron would tell them that he wanted out.

  “Okay, so let’s say that I phone your mum now, and tell her that you’re sorry. Do you think that’s enough?”

  “Yes,” said Kieron, shrugging.

  “The problem we have here Kieron, is that you just

  don’t understand how much unhappiness your behaviour causes

  other people. Your mum has tried everything with you, and she can’t cope. And your answer is to just say sorry and carry on.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll tell her I’ll stop being a dick.”

  “But will you stop being a dick?”

  “Yeah, course.”

  “But you had the chance to stop being a dick when you were at college. And you…”

  “That was different.”

  “It wasn’t Kieron. This is the problem, you don’t seem to have any kind of awareness of your own actions, and how they result badly for you. Until you start to make that connection, I’m afraid there’s no way I can ring your mum.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re on her side aren’t you? This is fucking bullshit. I want to go to my room.”

  “But we need to discuss this. We need to work out a strategy, agree trigger points.”

  Kieron would get stressed and angry when it wasn’t going his way. “The only trigger I can think of is going to be pulled in your wobbly face IF YOU DON’T FUCK OFF NOW!”

  At the heart of Kieron’s problems was a lack of self-awareness. The way that Kieron wa
s, seemed perfectly natural to him. This was just how he was, and he didn’t see what the big fuss was about. It wasn’t as though he was a child-killer, or an arsonist or anything. He just wanted a laugh, he just wanted to do the things that he wanted to do. He really didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, and to be fair, he didn’t spend too much time thinking about it. He didn’t see the point. Everyone had it in for him, and that was it.

  Kieron managed to do just enough to stay out of trouble in the home, he’d learnt how to get through each day without getting his face punched, or his things nicked. He attended the daft lessons and courses that the home put on for the residents but it was just like school, and none of the information seemed to make sense. It was as though he was watching TV with the sound down, with a road drill banging away outside. He simply couldn’t get his head into it whenever he tried to concentrate and learn whatever it was that the

  person was saying.

  Admittedly, Kieron didn’t feel the need to be so disruptive in this setting, though. The main reason was his peer group. In Kieron’s view, they were knob-heads, and he just couldn’t be bothered trying to compete. Besides, he’d get a kicking off the other lads for being a bell-end if he did say anything.

  Things changed dramatically once Kieron reached his 18th birthday. Practically overnight, he was moved from the care of social services, and placed in a one-bedroom flat on a rough estate near Manchester. At first, Kieron was delighted, he was so happy to be out of that shitty home, buzzing to be away from the arsehole lads in there. Most of all, he was happy because he felt that finally, he was a man now. He didn’t have any stupid social services people doing his head in every five minutes. He didn’t have to go to bed at half-ten anymore or get up at eight o’clock in the morning. Best of all, the omnipresent threat of a kicking was gone.