Two female police officers were despatched from Aberdeen’s Queen Street police station, with the instruction of identifying Darren Jenkins, and checking the reports from his mother, that he was indeed, safe and well.
Dawn Jenkins opened the front door of her parent’s home and nodded the two officers into the property. As she closed the door behind them, she noticed a few neighbours standing by their gates across the road, having a good nosey. Police cars always got tongues wagging and it was no secret that it was Dawn’s son who’d been in the news for the past few days.
“Ah, so you must be Darren?” asked the first constable, a young probationer, not a great deal older than Darren herself.
“Yes, hello,” he said, sitting on the settee next to his grandfather.
“Can I have your autograph, please?”
The joke settled the tension, and the police officers asked a few basic questions of Darren, such as where he had been all week, who with, and how he had arrived at his mother’s home.
Darren answered the questions, he seemed very calm, happy, possibly excited. The two officers made their notes and left. The whole encounter had taken less than five minutes. As they left, they advised that CID officers would need to come and interview Darren, and that it will probably be sooner rather than later. Dawn Jenkins agreed that the family would stay in the house and wait.
A couple of hours later, two plain-clothes police arrived, and Dawn led them through to the dining room.
“Hello Darren!” said the older looking detective, seemingly full of beans. “My name is DS Stephen Henry, and this is my colleague DC Michael Baird.”
Darren nodded towards the two detectives and smiled.
“So, quite a week eh?” It was the younger detective who was speaking.
Darren smiled again and nodded.
“We need to ask you a few questions about everything that’s gone on, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah, course. Here do you mean, or in the police station?”
“I think we’ll be fine here, for now.”
“Has he handed himself in now?” asked Darren.
“Yes, yes, a few hours ago. Mr Pollard is in police custody down in Manchester. The detectives down there are going to speak to him in the morning. But before they can do that, we need to find out a few facts from yourself.”
“Yeah, its not a problem. Happy to help.” Darren grabbed the salt and pepper pots from the table-top and began fiddling with them.
“We have to ask you some very personal questions as well, so it might be a bit embarrassing with your old ma sat here!” It was the younger officer, DC Baird who had made the gentle joke, smiling warmly at Dawn. But Darren’s response was quick.
“Well, if you’re going to ask me if Phil touched me, or raped me, or even tried to do anything sexual, the answer is no. He’s not like that.”
“Phil? Is that what you call him?” asked Darren’s mum.
“Yeah. Well, it started getting a bit weird calling him Mr Pollard and Sir. So he said, just call me Phil.”
This detail caught the detective’s imaginations, and Darren sensed the suspicion, so added a bit more detail.
“It felt a bit strange at first. But he’d say something like ‘do you want a brew?’ and I’d say ‘yes please Mr Pollard.’ After a while, he just said ‘look, we’ve both left school now. You might as well call me Phil.’
“Well, you’re correct Darren, that was one of our questions. Usually, in a case like this, the person who has abducted a young person has done it for some kind of sexual motive.”
“Yes, I get that. But it wasn’t about that.”
“So, in your own words, would you like to tell us what it was all about, then?” DS Henry asked the question.
“In my own words?” asked Darren, with a cheeky glint in his eye. His sarcasm was lost on the older detective.
“Aye.”
“Okay well basically, I told Phil that I was running away from home, and he wouldn’t let me. He said I’ll end up in a doorway, being beaten up by drunks, getting a drink problem or getting into drugs. He said that all the homeless in Manchester are addicted to spice. But I told him that there’s no way I’m going home. So, he said he’d look into finding me somewhere to go. Anyway, he couldn’t find anything, he’d rung the Social, Citizen’s Advice, Shelter, loads of places. Basically they told him that there are tens of thousands of teenagers looking for alternative accommodation, because of family problems.”
“And are family problems at the heart of the matter?”
“Yes. Very much so,” said Dawn. “Darren’s father has made numerous threats of violence against us, he said he’ll burn this house down. He’s said he’ll kill himself if I take Darren away from him. He’s a very messed-up person.”
The two detectives nodded sombrely. It was a familiar tale, one they’d heard hundreds of times before.
“Phil said that he’ll let me run away if I came up with a proper plan. But he said there’s no way he’s just letting me disappear into thin air.”
The two detectives traded glances. This was all beginning to take on a different angle. They’d come here to ascertain whether sexual penetration had occurred, and if not, what lesser sexual activities had taken place.
“What do you think was in all of this for Mr Pollard?” asked DC Baird.
Darren shrugged, and let out a loud sigh.
“He’s just a really nice man,” said Dawn, filling the uncomfortable silence.
“You know him?”
“Oh yes, I know him quite well. I was in to see him at least once a fortnight because of Darren’s behaviour. Wasn’t I?”
Darren nodded.
“Seriously, he’s a lovely man.” Added Dawn, nodding as though she was reminding herself.
There was another silence, as the detectives thought about the next question. They really hadn’t been prepared for this outcome.
“Basically, I came up with a plan, which was to hitch-hike up here to my mum’s. I was going to knock on the door and just say, ‘I don’t care if he kills himself. I want to be here.’ Phil thought that was a good idea, but he said that it was too risky to hitch-hike, and said he’d bring me up. But he said that he wanted to teach me a lesson that I’ll never forget.”
Part Five
“Right, I’ve got a few errands to run. I’ll be about an hour, an hour and half. Don’t go out of the house, and don’t contact any of your mates on Facebook. If the word gets out that we are together, we won’t get very far. I’ll be arrested on suspicion of being a kiddy fiddler.”
“Yes Sir.”
“And run yourself a bath. You look like a bloody chimney-sweep!”
Two hours later, Mr Pollard arrived back at the flat. He was in a great mood, and his hands were full of bags from JD Sports.
“Hello? Darren? Come in here and have a look at this,” he said, placing the bags down on the kitchen table. Darren wandered through from the living room, still wearing his school uniform from the previous day.
“What’s…”
“I’ve got you some new stuff! You can’t go and see your mum in that tatty old uniform. Look at your shoes, they’re falling to bits.” Mr Pollard was smiling, as Darren walked over to the pile of bags.
“For me?” he said, his eyes were filling with tears.
“Yes. Have a look, I hope I got the right stuff.”
Darren looked slightly dazed, almost embarrassed. It was clear that he didn’t know the etiquette when faced with a load of JD Sports bags which were full of goodies for him.
“Come on, you flipping drongo, don’t just stand there with your gob open.”
“But…”
Mr Pollard recognised that there was an issue. He quickly sussed out that the young lad was uncomfortable accepting charity, he’d demonstrated it the previous day at KFC. “Come on Darren, you can’t wear that school uniform. It’s just some new stuff. You can pay me back for it when you’ve got a job.”
The comment
did the trick. Darren said “thank you,” and stepped forward towards the bags. This was the kind of moment he had dreamt of. This was an unbelievable dream-come-true moment, there was very little that Darren wanted in terms of material goods, apart from the latest clothes. He began feeling each bag and worked out what each one contained. He grabbed the bag which contained the shoe-box first. He opened it very carefully, pulling at the drawstring, and easing the box out of the carrier bag gently.
“No way!” he said, as he read the label on the red Nike box. “Air Max 90’s!” Darren opened the box, and the tears were flowing down his face as he grabbed one of the navy-blue trainers and held it out to look at it. He couldn’t believe it. He’d always wanted a pair of these. He sniffed the shoe, inhaling the fresh Nike smell that he had only ever experienced in the sports shop, looking at the trainers, wishing and hoping for a pair of his own some day.
“Sir, are you sure? They’re a hundred quid these!” His voice was quivering with the excitement and the emotion.
“No, actually, I’ve changed my mind!” Mr Pollard was touched by how thrilled the lad was. “No, I’m kidding. Of course I’m sure. Come on, have a look at the other stuff.” The teacher was smiling widely as Darren placed the trainer back in its box, ever-so carefully. He took another bag from the table-top. It contained a big item, as the carrier was swollen. Once again, Darren opened it very carefully, and recognised what it was immediately. It was a North Face coat, another item that he had dreamed of owning. The tears were streaming down his face now, and he looked extremely innocent and vulnerable, a far cry from the cocky, boisterous kid that Mr Pollard knew from the school.
Darren tried the coat on, his hands shaking as he tried to do up the zip.
Next, he opened the bag with the tracksuit, then a bag with some t-shirts, and underwear and socks. He opened the last bag very slowly, savouring the moment, as though he never wanted this amazing experience to end. Once all the items were piled up on the table, Darren turned to Mr Pollard, and looked him squarely in the eye. “Thank you so much, Sir. I will pay you back. Honest.”
Mr Pollard felt a stinging sensation in his own eyes, he was shocked by how much this meant to the youngster. He decided to quickly move the conversation on.
“Right, well, I think you should go and get changed, let’s have a proper look at your new clobber. Go in the bathroom and get changed. We need to be out of here in five minutes flat.”
A couple of minutes later, Darren Jenkins stepped out of the tiny bathroom, walking around as though he was a foot taller as he paraded his new outfit. Mr Pollard was in his bedroom, throwing socks and underwear into a suitcase. He glanced across and saw Darren as he walked towards the bedroom door.
“Wow, look at you! You look exactly the same as every other teenage scrote in Tameside now!”
“Aw, Sir, these are sick! Honestly. I’ve wanted these clothes for years!”
“They suit you.” Mr Pollard was smiling. He’d missed these moments as his own kids had got older, and the magic of giving them new stuff was lost. “Do you like them, then?”
“Aw, God. I can’t even…”
“Well the worst thing is that you’re not going to be able to walk through town in them, showing them off. We need to leave right now.” Mr Pollard threw some more of his clothes into the suitcase, and zipped it shut.
“Right, listen to me. I’ve got another surprise for you. I need you to go and stand in the phone box at the end of the street and wait for me to pick you up. I’ll beep you when I’m there.”
“What’s the surprise?” asked Darren, looking at the reflection of his new clothes in the mirror.
“You’ll see when I beep you. Right, go on, I’ll be about ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, true to his word, Mr Pollard sounded the horn of the motor-home. Darren looked confused at first, but stepped out of the phone box and walked over to the vehicle. As he opened the door, he saw Mr Pollard sitting in the driver’s seat. He had a massive smile on his face.
“Welcome aboard!” he said, as Darren jumped into the cab. “Stick your seatbelt on mate.”
Darren did as he was told, as Mr Pollard began driving
the vehicle up Mottram Road, and out of Stalybridge.
“Now before we get into any arguments, that big double-bed at the back of the van is mine!” said Mr Pollard, with a playfully serious look on his face. “The settee behind you turns into a bed. That’s yours!”
Darren was stunned by the vehicle. Everything in it was posh and new. He was straining his neck, looking over his shoulder to stare at the kitchen, the dining area, the settee that was going to be his bed.
“Next to your seat is a button, just at the side. Press it.” Said Mr Pollard, as they continued up the hill, towards the house that he had spent the past twenty-odd years living in.
Darren pressed the button, and his seat started rotating slowly, turning away from the road ahead, to face the interior of the motor-home. Darren shouted “whoaa!” and laughed loudly.
“Now you know what it’s like to be a judge on The Voice!” said Mr Pollard, laughing at his cheesy joke, as Darren’s chair continued to rotate.
“It’s got central heating, a bathroom, full kitchen, thirty-two inch plasma with freeview, DAB radio and a bedroom at the back. This is what they call the dogs bollocks of mobile homes!”
“What, so this is what we’re going to my mums in?” Darren was grinning from ear-to-ear.
“Yes, but remember yesterday, when you told me that you’ve never had a holiday? Well, I’ve hired this for a week. So we can go straight up to Aberdeen now, and we’ll be there for eight o’clock tonight…”
“Yeah?”
“Or we can take our time and make a holiday of going up.”
“Holiday, Sir!” said Darren, as he pressed the button on the seat and began revolving around again, back towards the front of the cab.
“You don’t have to. If you want to go straight there, it’s absolutely fine.”
“No, honestly Sir. I want to have a holiday. It’ll be sick!”
Mr Pollard went quiet, as the vehicle passed his marital home. A huge sadness welled up inside him, a numbing cocktail of regret, loss and a tinge of bitterness. This building, those bricks and mortar had meant everything to him at one time. And now, he was driving away from it, saddened that the marriage he had hoped to save was now finished. The words and the anger that Sandra had spat at him two nights earlier when he’d let her open the letter had hurt him deeply. He’d not even wanted to apply for early retirement, he had been excited a few years earlier to hear that he’d be able to work an extra two years, up to the age of sixty-seven when the retirement age had been extended. It had been Sandra who had made him apply for redundancy. Her vile insults were still ringing in his ears. Mr Pollard felt tears well up, and they stung him.
“Well, if you’re coming with me, I’m putting you in charge,” said Mr Pollard.
“What?”
“I’m going to leave the planning of the holiday up to you. I’m just your driver. But, there’s one condition…”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Saturday
“Welcome to the BBC News Channel, I’m Simon Shields and our top story this hour. Philip Pollard, the disgraced school-teacher of Grey Street, Stalybridge has this morning appeared before Tameside Magistrates Court in Manchester, charged with the abduction of 15 year-old Darren Jenkins. The case has been committed to Preston Crown Court. The 56 year-old school teacher has been remanded in custody pending a date for his trial. In court, Mr Pollard only spoke to confirm his name and address. He was dressed in police-issue grey track-suit and looked quite relaxed and happy as he was led away. We have this exclusive footage of Philip Pollard being led into the prison van at the rear of the court building in Ashton-Under-Lyne just moments ago and once again, in this footage, he does not look upset or ashamed. In fact, the best word to describe his demeanour is relaxed.”
The screen switched f
rom Simon Shield’s head and shoulder shot and showed Philip Pollard walking towards the white G4S van wearing handcuffs. He was talking to a prison officer and the footage suggested that the two men were sharing a joke.
“The search for Philip Pollard came to a dramatic conclusion yesterday as we have been reporting over-night. Today, the attention has switched from the search for the teacher, and onto the welfare of the pupil who had been caught up in all of this for the past nine days. Our reporter Vici Scott is in Aberdeen where 15 year-old Darren Jenkins turned up quite unexpectedly yesterday afternoon. Vici, what’s the latest where you are?”
The image on the screen switched again, this time to a young and happy-looking reporter who was standing on a very ordinary road in the middle of a housing estate. She was surrounded by many other reporters and journalists, all of whom were being held back by a police cordon-line which was being manned by two solemn looking police officers.
“Yes, good morning Simon. I’m here on Ash-Hill Drive in Aberdeen, and as you can see, there is a massive media presence here today as reporters from all over the UK wait to hear more details from the youth who had been abducted for eight days at the hands of his school teacher, Philip Pollard.”
“Yes, there is certainly a great deal of activity there Vici. Any news on Darren?”
“Not as much as we would like to be honest. The only news that we have received so far is that Darren is okay, and that he is staying here in Aberdeen with his mother and grandparents for the foreseeable time.”
“Have you had any information about the events of the past eight days Vici?”
“No we haven’t Simon, and police here are remaining extremely tight-lipped about the situation. We are being told that the family wish for the press to respect their privacy at this difficult time, but with so many questions about this case, it is proving very difficult to find out exactly what has been happening, and of course, that important question of how Darren is coping.”
“The Magistrates court case has concluded Vici, as I’m sure you will have heard. Philip Pollard has been remanded in custody until the case reaches Crown court. There has been no new information released from the court, or from police officers in Manchester. So although it is good news regarding the safe return of Darren Jenkins, there are still plenty of question marks hanging over this case.”
Proof of Life Page 26
