“Oh, right.” Mrs Houghton didn’t sound particularly happy, making Mr Pollard feel, as she always did, somewhat inadequate.
“Thing is, I’m supposed to be teaching in a few minutes. I was wondering if you could organise some cover? I want to keep searching for Darren. I’m quite concerned.”
“Well, we don’t really…”
“Seriously Mrs Houghton, I’m informing you that I have concerns about Darren’s well-being. Can you arrange cover for my class, please?” Mr Pollard was uncharacteristically assertive. Mrs Houghton side-stepped his question.
“What was the father’s response?” she asked.
“I’ll come to that, but can you organise the cover? Class starts in two minutes.”
“Yes. Hold on.” Mrs Houghton sounded pretty pissed off with Mr Pollard as she placed him on hold again, reintroducing him to that annoying music. A couple of minutes passed before she recommenced the conversation.
“Okay, Mr Hampson’s taking it.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you were going to tell me what happened with the father?”
“Well, that was a very strange experience. I used to teach Darren’s father. I didn’t realise at first, but Michael Jenkins was the worst behaved kid we’ve ever had at this school, certainly in my time.”
Mrs Houghton sounded intrigued. “Ah, like father like son, eh?” she said it in quite a relaxed and friendly way, which sounded unusual. “So, what was his response?” she asked, her formal tone brushing away any friendliness that could have been found a few seconds earlier.
“He said that I was a mean old bastard with him when he was a pupil here, so he assumes that I’m being mean on Darren as well.”
“And do you think he has a point?” she asked the question in a very matter-of-fact way.
“No. As I say, Jenkins’ dad was a different kettle of fish, he was the biggest nightmare we’ve ever had. He was evil. He was completely different from Darren. I maintain my view that Darren is a nice kid, there’s lots to like about him. But his father was genuinely impossible. Not just at school, but in the town as well, he was a one boy crime-wave. He was a bully, a thief, a compulsive liar. Truthfully, he was out of control. In the end, when he was starting the fifth year he started creeping around one of our teacher’s houses. Miss Carter she was called.”
“What, really?” Mrs Houghton suddenly sounded interested in what Mr Pollard was saying.
“Oh yes. He’d become quite infatuated with her, started hiding in her back yard, spying on her when she was at home. Eventually, he somehow started getting into the house. One night as she was getting changed, she saw him hiding down the side of her bed, lying down on the floor. God knows how she managed to stay calm, but she did and pretended she hadn’t seen him. She went downstairs and phoned the police, whispering that there was an intruder upstairs. They grabbed him, and he was sent off to a young offender’s unit.”
“Good God!” Mrs Houghton was clearly disturbed by what she was hearing.
“Oh, like I say, he was a real piece-of-work. Still is as well, by the looks of things.”
“That’s turned my blood cold.”
“Yes, it was a very difficult time for Miss Carter. Really shook her up, took her a while to fully recover.”
“Okay, well I think I’ve heard enough. If he is aware that Darren has run off from school, the responsibility for the boy’s well-being is now back with Mr Jenkins.”
The school bell rang out for its familiar five seconds, interrupting the call. Both teachers waited for it to stop before continuing with the conversation.
“Is that it, then?” asked Mr Pollard.
“Until he comes back into school, he’s not our problem.”
“Can I please request some more time to look for him? I’ve got a bad feeling about all this, especially after what happened with Johnny.”
“Well, we can’t really justify…”
“No, no, totally agree. Okay perfect, thanks very much. I’ll soon find him and bring him back. Thanks again.”
Mr Pollard hung up. He knew that Mrs Houghton had been about to refuse him the extra time that he was requesting. But she could jump in the sea, as far as Mr Pollard was concerned. He didn’t care about her, or her ridiculous power-trips. His priority was finding Darren Jenkins and having a good chat with the lad and somehow trying to work out a way to get him one last chance.
And then he just appeared, from around the corner, looking thoroughly miserable and carrying a loaf of bread by his side.
Darren walked straight past the vehicle. He was lost in his own world and hadn’t noticed his teacher sat there in the car. Mr Pollard considered beeping the horn at him but thought better of it. Now that he finally had sight of the lad, it would be a bad decision to scare him off. Mr Pollard looked in his rear-view mirror as Darren slowed his pace as he reached the corner of his street. He peeped around the edge of the end-house and quickly pulled his head back. He looked as though he was swearing to himself. Mr Pollard assumed that Darren had seen his dad’s car parked outside the house and realised that his plans of watching TV and eating his loaf of bread were in ruins.
Mr Pollard decided to get out of the car. Darren was standing at the corner, leaning against the wall, possibly waiting for his dad to go out, assumed the teacher. He walked up slowly and quietly towards the lad. Darren hadn’t sensed his presence, he was, as he so often tended to be, lost in his own thoughts.
“I read your letter.” He said, softly to the back of the teenager.
Darren’s shoulders stiffened. Then dropped again. He didn’t turn around, he just stayed, leant against the wall, with his back to the teacher.
“It made me feel very proud of you. I can’t ever remember reading such an honest letter. Its very well written as well, and very mature. It displays a wisdom way beyond your young years, Darren.” Mr Pollard was talking quietly, and softly.
Darren turned to face him. He had tears in his eyes.
“Really Sir?” he asked, half-smiling, half-emotionally confused.
“Yes, seriously Darren. It was really, really good. The hand-writing was a bit shitty though.”
Darren laughed suddenly, and it forced a big snotter out of his nose, which he wiped away quickly with his sleeve.
“We need to talk.”
Darren looked down at the floor. “We’re always talking, it’s all we ever do, Sir.”
“I know, I know, I get that. But this letter changes everything.”
Darren looked up at his teacher again and another tear appeared.
Mr Pollard was fibbing, it wasn’t so much the letter that changed everything. It was the knowledge of this poor lad’s domestic circumstances that had changed everything. Certainly in Mr Pollard’s mind, anyway.
“Come on, get in the car and we’ll go and get a McDonalds or something. Whatever you want. Don’t forget your loaf.”
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
Miller’s phone rang. It was Rudovsky.
“Hi Jo.”
“Sir, do you love me?”
“What, yes, course I do.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“More than that, please.”
“Okay, I love you like an incontinent old Aunty.”
“More.”
“Okay, I love you like a moody sister.”
“No, come on Sir, for fuck’s sake…”
“Alright Jo, I love you as much as I love rum n’ raisin ice-cream at the seaside on a hot summer’s day, and England just won the World Cup.”
“Good, that’s better, and well, you’re going to love me even more than that, now that I’ve got you Philip Pollard’s new mobile phone number.”
“You what?”
“Seriously.”
There was a silence that lasted way too long. Eventually Miller spoke again. “Well, dip me in dog-shit.”
Rudovsky explained the outcome of her interview with Daniel Pollard. Mill
er was listening with a huge smile on his face. This was a remarkable result and even though Rudovsky seemed keen to take the credit, it had all stemmed from the work of the North Yorks force and before that, Saunders’ suspicions of Daniel’s sister, Jess.
“This is amazing Jo. What do we know about the phone?”
“I’ve been onto EE, the network provider. They’re running a report now. If it’s switched on, they’ll be able to identify the nearest mast that it’s connected to. If the phone’s GPS is switched on, we’ll have a location of his exact spot. Just waiting for a call back, so if I hang up on you…”
“Yeah, no worries Jo. Brilliant work mate.”
“Well, you know…”
“So, Daniel isn’t concerned about Darren’s welfare?”
“Nah Sir, not in the slightest. He’s more worried about how much trouble he’s in!”
“Good. Well, let’s prepare for him to be transported over here, get all the paperwork signed off and what have you while you’re waiting for EE to get back to you. Is he alright to travel with you and Pete?”
“Yeah, can’t see why not. He’s not violent and he doesn’t smell. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that he thinks he’s Johnny Marr, though.”
“Brill. Okay, well get back to me as soon as you’ve got the details of the phone.”
“No problem Sir.”
Miller hung up, dialled his number two and recounted the conversation to Saunders.
“Fucking hell!” said the DI.
“You’ve got that right Keith! Looks like we’ll have a location just as soon as the phone operator has got back to Jo.”
“That is really cool, Sir. Can I get Jess back in, and let her know?”
“Yes, I think you should. But be careful, we can’t charge her just for deleting a few phone records out of her device. So give her the news that Daniel has coughed and try and insinuate that he’s dobbed her in as well. Nothing too heavy, her brief will be onto you, just enough to bring out a bit of self-preservation. Judging by the level of phone interaction between them before all this started, I don’t think they are particularly close. She might reveal something in a bid to save her arse. I’d like to see her charged, if we can.”
“No problem Sir. I’ll buzz you back in a bit. Oh, and if you speak to her, tell Jo she’d better fuck off if she’s after my job.”
Miller laughed loudly. “You mean, tell her you send your congratulations?”
“Yes. Great result that. Speak soon.”
*****
“Hello again, Jess.” Saunders was smirking, whilst Grant stared down at her paperwork. Jess Pollard’s solicitor was glaring at Saunders, but he couldn’t care less.
Jess said “Hello.” But the greeting lacked warmth and contained a hint of sarcasm.
“Well, have I got news for you?” said Saunders, once the interview was officially reconvened.
Jess Pollard just stared dispassionately ahead.
Saunders continued. “Your brother, the one who’s phone calls and text messages you’ve deleted, has also deleted his phone logs!”
Jess shrugged and stared at the wall behind Saunders’ head.
“But it wasn’t just your number he was deleting. He’s deleted your dad’s new number, too.”
Still no reaction.
“But the cool thing is, he’s had the sense to confess to what he knows, once he realised that the cat was out of the bag.”
“Really?” said Jess Pollard, attracting a severe look from her solicitor.
“Yes, really. He’s in a lot of trouble you see, assisting an offender, perverting the course of justice, aiding and abetting. So, he’s seen the light, and told us everything he knows.”
Jess just stared ahead, she had the apathetic expression of a teenager being nagged for not tidying up.
“Everything, Jess, including the content of your communications over the past week. So, you might want to keep that in mind.”
“Right, fuck’s sake!”
“Now, I must advise you…” The duty solicitor suddenly looked stressed, but Saunders interrupted.
“Your brief is trying to get you to wipe your arse with a broken bottle here, just saying.”
Jess shot her solicitor a dirty look. And started talking, it looked as though the scare-mongering tactic was about to pay off.
“This has got nothing to do with me, okay? I didn’t ask to be dragged into it. I told Daniel to leave me out of it. But he kept phoning, telling me what dad was involved with.”
“And would you like to tell us what he said that your dad was involved with?”
Jess took a deep breath and started rubbing her eyes. Her solicitor nudged her firmly. She looked at the solicitor, and read the expression. She averted her gaze to Saunders.
“No comment.”
*****
“Go on, Jo.”
“Hi, okay, just had EE on. The phone has not been picked up on their network since yesterday, at seven minutes past two, fourteen oh seven hours, Sir.”
“Switched off?”
“Yes possibly, switched off and battery out, or...”
“Or?”
“The phone is in an area with zero coverage.”
“Well that’s interesting, there aren’t many places that aren’t covered these days. Have you got the last known location?”
“Yes, we’ve got it, Sir. The signal was picked up near Forfar, Scotland.”
“Forfar?”
“Sir, it’s about fifteen miles north of Dundee.”
“Yes, I know where it is Jo. The football team were famous for having the most ridiculous football result ever. What was it, Forfar four, East Fife five!”
Rudovsky didn’t appreciate the joke. She was too concerned with the case that she was working on. She completely blanked Miller’s sporting anecdote.
“Sir, the phone pinged a mast in Dundee, then another in Forfar, and it lost contact near Northmuir, heading in the direction of Glen Clova.”
“Heading north?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What’s north of Dundee, Jo?”
“Not sure, the Highlands?”
“Aberdeen.”
There was a silence, followed by a heavy sigh. Rudovsky had sussed it. “He’s taking Darren home, to his mum.”
“Yep. That’s my new favourite theory mate! When was this, yesterday afternoon?”
“That’s right, Sir.”
“Okay, this is sterling work. I’m guessing that they will be in, or around the city of Aberdeen, probably planning to speak to mum.”
“EE are going to alert us the moment that number registers back on their network.”
“So presumably, in that case, they’ve not hit Aberdeen yet. Maybe they’re still out of network range. Tell you what, Jo, give EE another call and see if they can generate a map of the areas that they don’t supply coverage to. It might help.”
“No worries, Sir. What are you planning?”
“I don’t know, mate. But I think I’d better go and speak to the big cheese.”
*****
Miller had taken a map of the Aberdeen area with him to DCS Dixon’s office. He wanted to demonstrate the vast expanses of rural landscape in this part of the world.
“As you can see, Sir, this part of Scotland is wild, it’s what, ninety-per-cent rural?”
Dixon nodded. The point was easy to understand. Trying to find a specific motorhome here, over many hundreds of square miles of wilderness and rural, one-track roads was going to be a mammoth task, especially when it was the middle of May, and the region was likely to be overwhelmed with holiday-makers in white motor-homes.
“Let’s take a deep breath, Andy.”
Miller didn’t like the sound of this. It was the prerequisite of Dixon throwing a spanner in the works.
“What?”
“If Pollard was in Forfar yesterday morning, then in reality, he could be anywhere now.”
“But, Sir…”
Dixon held his hand up in front
of Miller’s face, silencing him immediately.
“Let me finish Andy, please.” He said.
Miller nodded.
“Now, let’s look at this objectively, with a cool head, and we’ll arrive at a better conclusion. Agreed?”
Miller nodded. Dixon was right. Miller had learnt this lesson many times. A well planned, fully considered approach always won over an all-guns-blazing, knee-jerk reaction. It was the difference between Neil Young’s profound lyrics in his song “Old Man” versus the utter mystery of Donald Trump’s late-night “Covfefe…” Tweet.
“Make a brew, Andy. I’ll have a coffee, no milk, one sugar.”
Miller stood and silently walked out of Dixon’s top-floor office and headed for the “hospitality” room a little further along the shiny corridor. He entered the room where the posh filter coffee was already made and waiting to be poured beside fruit bowls and mountains of individually wrapped biscuits and health-food cereal bars. All this was for the bosses and the visiting dignitaries. It certainly wasn’t meant for ordinary coppers from the lower-floors.
Miller poured two cups of coffee and put several of the cereal bars in his pocket. There weren’t many perks in this job but nicking free snacks off the top-floor was definitely one.
“Here we go,” said Miller as he shuffled back into Dixon’s office and placed the cups on the desk.
“Very good.” Said Dixon, as though it was 1952. “Pass me the map that I’ve just printed, please.” The Detective Chief Superintendent pointed at the printer which Miller was standing next to. The print-out was a map of the UK on A3 paper.
“Just pop it down a minute, let the ink dry. It’s a bugger to wash off once you get it on your hands.”
Miller looked at his finger-tips. They were green and blue. He smiled at Dixon sarcastically, but the DCS wasn’t looking at his DCI. He was reading something on his computer screen. Eventually, he looked up and gestured for the map.
“Thanks. Okay. Friday last, Pollard went from Manchester to Scarborough, then on Sunday, he was in Llandudno, travelling via York, Skipton and Chester.”
Dixon drew two lines onto the map in thick, black marker. The first mark was a straight line, as neither Dixon, nor Miller knew the precise route that Pollard had taken on the first day. The second line was a little more precise. Once he’d finished, he showed Miller the randomness of the first three days of the motorhome’s activity. The map suddenly had a large S shape which went from the welsh coast in the west, to the north Yorkshire coast in the east.
Proof of Life Page 22
