Lost Boys

by Stewart Giles

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LOST BOYS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday 11 September 2006

  “Has anybody seen Miss Braithwaite?” Duncan Carter bellowed so loudly that the Monday morning calm in the staff room of Cotton Comprehensive was instantly gone.

  Carter was the newly appointed deputy head at the school; a position he had earned not through any particular merit on his part but, simply because nobody else on the staff wanted the post. A small, thin man, Carter intended to use his new found power to help boost his stature.

  “She wasn’t waiting for me this morning,” Susan Dawkins, the religious education teacher said, “She normally waits for me outside her house. I give her a lift every morning. She nearly made me late.”

  “Did you try the house?” Carter said, “Did you check to see if she was home?”

  “Of course I did,” Dawkins said, “I may be an RE teacher but I’m not an imbecile. There was nobody home. I even tried phoning her but there was no answer.”

  “This is most inconvenient,” Carter said, “I’m going to have to reschedule your free periods. Somebody will have to cover Miss Braithwaite’s lessons.”

  A collective sigh was heard in the staff room.

  “Why don’t you cover for her,” Jacob Welburn, the head of physical education said, “or have you forgotten how to teach already?”

  Carter glared at him.

  “Mr Welburn,” he said, “I’ll have you know that my day is already chock a block. I have a stack of admin to sort out and then I have no fewer than three meetings to attend. I see that your morning is free. There are only so many medicine balls that you can pack away. You can cover Miss Braithwaite’s lessons this morning.”

  “What do I know about Geography?” Welburn said, “My subject is History, and PE of course.”

  “Just get the little hooligans to go through their textbooks,” Carter said, “All you have to do is sit there and make sure there are no disruptions.”

  He rifled through a pile of papers and smiled.

  “First period is Ten G,” he said, “I wish you the best of luck.”

  Welburn sighed. Ten G was considered the worst class in the school. Every delinquent in the entire school seemed to be in Ten G.

  “Maybe she’ll turn up,” Mrs Dawkins suggested. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  “Whether she turns up or not,” Carter said, “the school must carry on. Now go out there and change some lives.”

  Jacob Welburn had Carter’s words in his ears as he walked down the corridor to Miss Braithwaite’s classroom. ‘Go out there and change some lives’ was Carter’s mantra.

  Change some lives, Welburn thought, what a load of bollocks.

  The noise inside the Geography class was deafening. Ten G were already inside when Welburn walked in. The twenty odd teenagers were making such a noise that they did not realize he had come in. A tall gangly boy with stubble on his chin was holding a much smaller boy by the neck. He smiled when he spotted Welburn standing at the front of the room.

  “Briggs,” Welburn had to shout over the noise, “kindly put Dunn down and return to your seat.”

  The room went quiet and everybody stared at Charlie Briggs to see what would happen. Briggs was a known troublemaker and he had the ability to wind up even the most seasoned teacher. He removed his hand from the smaller boy’s neck and sat down. Welburn sighed. He had crossed swords with Briggs before and it was never pleasant.

  “Right,” Welburn said, “Miss Braithwaite will not be in today so you’ll have the pleasure of my company for the next hour or so.”

  “Where is she?” A blond girl asked from the back of the room.

  She was chewing a piece of gum with her mouth wide open.

  “I don’t know,” Welburn said, “that’s not important.”

  “She probably got pissed last night,” Briggs shouted.

  A few of the other school children began to laugh.

  “She’s probably sleeping off a hangover,” Briggs added.

  “Briggs,” Welburn said, “do you want to sit in the detention room for a while?”

  “Suits me,” Briggs stood up, “it’s better than doing Geography anyway.”

  “Sit down,” Welburn said, “or I’ll make sure you do detention this afternoon during PE. It’s football today.”

  Welburn knew he had won. Football was the only thing Briggs seemed to apply himself to. Briggs sat down and did not say anything else for the rest of the lesson.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “That lot are a bunch of animals,” Welburn said three hours later in the staff room. He munched away on a chicken sandwich.

  “What are they even doing at school?” He added, “They should be doing work experience or something like that. None of them have a chance in hell of passing any kind of exam.”

  “They’re fifteen years old Mr Welburn,” Mrs Dawkins said, “Unfortunately, it’s the law. They have to stay at school until they’re sixteen. Anyway, they’re not too bad when you start to get through to them. Except Charlie Briggs; that one’s a lost cause I’m afraid.”

  “Well,” Welburn wiped a crumb from his shirt, “Miss Braithwaite had better come back soon. I’ve got those bastards for PE after lunch too.”

  Duncan Carter, the deputy head entered the room. He had a grave expression on his face.

  “Miss Braithwaite has disappeared off the radar,” he said, “I’ve tried phoning her but her phone seems to be permanently switched off. This is most unlike her.”

  “Do you think we should get the police involved?” Mrs Dawkins said, “She could have had an accident or something even worse.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun here Mrs Dawkins,” Carter said, “there has to be a perfectly rational explanation for her absence. You said you knocked on her door when she wasn’t outside her house this morning?”

  “There was nobody there,” Dawkins said, “I know Steph, if she was home she would have answered the door.”

  “Is she married?” Welburn said

  “Not as far as I know,” Carter said.

  “She’s not,” Dawkins said, “she lives by herself.

  “I think we should wait for a while longer,” Carter said, “If she doesn’t turn up tomorrow then we can involve the police.”

  “I’m going to check on her,” Dawkins said, “I’ll go after work. Something’s happened to her. I can feel it.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Carter said, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Welburn offered, “but I’m sure Carter is right.”

  Four hours later, Welburn and Dawkins stood outside Stephanie Braithwaite’s small terraced house on Scarcroft Road.

  “Phone her again,” Welburn said, “just to make sure. We don’t want to make complete fools of ourselves.”

  Dawkins took out her phone and dialed Braithwaite’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

  “No reply again,” she ended the call and put the phone back in her pocket.

  “Let’s see if she’s at home then,” Welburn said.

  He knocked on the red front door and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Welburn knocked again.

  “She’s not here,” Dawkins said, “I told you.”

  “Wait,” Welburn tried the door handle.

  The
door was unlocked.

  “We can’t just go inside,” Dawkins said.

  “Yes we can,” Welburn said, “We’re worried about a colleague. I’ll go in first.”

  Inside, the house was silent apart from a strange buzzing noise.

  “Stephanie,” Dawkins called out, “It’s Susan.”

  Only the buzzing sound could be heard. The buzzing seemed to get louder as Dawkins and Welburn entered the living room. Two wasps were racing up and down the front window. They were taking the race very seriously. The smaller of the two appeared to be winning. The wasps raced to the top of the window, fell down and repeated the procedure. Very soon they would die from sheer exhaustion.

  “Try upstairs,” Welburn said, “I’ll have a look around down here.”

  “She’s not here,” Dawkins said, “Maybe she went away for a while.”

  “And left her front door open?” Welburn said, “This is not like her. She’s never missed a day at school. Something strange is going on here.”

  Dawkins crept slowly up the stairs. Welburn could hear the creaking of the wood as she went. He checked the kitchen. On the table there were two empty glasses of wine. There were red rings at the bottom of each of them.

  Miss Braithwaite had company last night, Welburn thought.

  He looked through the back door into the small yard behind. There was nothing in the yard except for a rusty old bicycle that had obviously not been used in years. He walked back to the living room. One of the wasps was lying on its back and turning in circles on the window sill.

  It’ll soon be autumn, Welburn thought, then the wasps will all disappear.

  Mrs Dawkins screamed. It was the most disturbing sound Welburn had ever heard. He ran up the stairs two steps at a time. He found her in the bedroom. She had collapsed on the floor by the foot of the bed. Stephanie Braithwaite was lying on the bed. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at the light fitting on the ceiling. Welburn took a closer look. Braithwaite’s blond hair was spread out around her face. It was matted with dried blood. A large rock had been carefully placed on her stomach. Welburn ran to the bathroom and was sick in the sink. He splashed some water on his face and returned to the bedroom. He made sure not to look at the dead woman on the bed.

  “Come on,” he said to Dawkins, “let’s go back downstairs.”

  The police arrived at the house twenty minutes later. A tall blond man and a woman got out of an old red Ford Sierra. Two uniformed officers sat in a police car. Welburn and Dawkins were sitting on the wall next to the house. The blond man walked over to them.

  “Afternoon,” he said, “DC Smith.”

  He took out his ID.

  “And this is DC Whitton,” He said, “what happened here?”

  “She’s dead,” Dawkins said.

  Her eyes were vacant. She continued to stare at something in the distance.

  “Stephanie Braithwaite,” Welburn stood up.

  He realized that his legs were shaking. He sat back down on the wall again.

  “Stephanie Braithwaite,” he said again, “she’s a Geography teacher at Cotton Comprehensive. I teach PE and History there. She didn’t show up for work this morning. Stephanie never misses work without letting someone know. Mrs Dawkins and myself decided to see if she was alright.”

  “She’s dead,” Dawkins said again.

  “Let’s have a look inside Whitton,” Smith said to the woman standing next to him.

  Whitton stared at the woman on the bed. Her bleached blond hair was spread out on either side of her face like a pair of wings. The roots were showing and dark red blood had stained the ends. Whitton felt sick. She had seen dead bodies before but she knew she would never get used to it.

  “What have we got?” A tall, balding man entered the room.

  “Dead teacher,” Smith said, “looks like she was killed with that.”

  He pointed to the rock on Stephanie Braithwaite’s stomach.

  “Who found her?” DS Bob Chalmers asked.

  “Two of her co workers,” Smith said, “She’s a Geography teacher at Cotton Comp.”

  “A teacher?” Chalmers said, “Who the hell would want to kill a teacher?”

  “Maybe she flunked a kid in a test and he got revenge,” Smith said and instantly regretted it.

  Chalmers glared at him.

  “We need forensics here now,” Smith said to change the subject.

  “Webber’s on his way,” Chalmers said, “I’ve got uniform talking to the neighbours. Maybe somebody saw something. In the mean time, you and Whitton have a word with the two teachers that found her. You know the drill by now. Nobody is to touch anything until Webber has finished.”

  “Yes boss,” Smith said.

  “When did you last see Miss Braithwaite?” Smith asked Mrs Dawkins.

  They were sitting in an ambulance outside the house.

  “Friday afternoon,” Dawkins said, “I dropped her off at home at about four.”

  “You dropped her at home?”

  “Stephanie doesn’t have a car,” Dawkins said, “I don’t even think she knows how to drive. I give her a lift every day. I only live around the corner.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about her?” Smith said.

  “Strange?” Dawkins said, “What do you mean?”

  “Was she acting unusually?” Smith said, “Did she seem agitated about anything?”

  “No,” Dawkins said, “she was the same as she always is.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” Dawkins looked like she was going to cry.

  “Ok Mrs Dawkins,” Smith said, “I know this is hard. How well did you know Miss Braithwaite? Was she married? Boyfriend?”

  “No,” Dawkins said, “she was single. She never mentioned anything about a boyfriend. We didn’t really socialize out of school hours. I’ve worked with her for over three years and I know basically nothing about her.”

  “What do you teach?” Smith said.

  “RE,” Dawkins said.

  “I’m afraid I could never see the point of religion,” Smith smiled at her, “I’ve never believed in it.”

  “Me neither,” Dawkins seemed more relaxed, “but you don’t need to believe in it to find it interesting. You have a nice voice. Where’s that accent from?”

  “Australia,” Smith said, “we’re going to have to ask you to come down to the station to make a statement. We’ll also need your fingerprints. If you think of anything else in the meantime give me a call.”

  He handed her one of his cards.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Australia,” Dawkins said, “The beaches there look so beautiful.”

  “Beaches are overrated,” Smith stood up and stepped out of the ambulance.

  “Find anything,” Smith asked Whitton.

  She had just finished talking to Mr Welburn.

  “Nothing,” Whitton said, “Welburn only knew Stephanie Braithwaite from school. They never socialized after hours.”

  “That’s what Mrs Dawkins said,” Smith said.

  “What is it about PE teachers?” Whitton said, “They think they’re God’s gift to women. Can you believe that creep asked me out on a date?”

  “You’re not a bad looking woman,” Smith said, “in a funny kind of way.”

  “Thanks,” Whitton said.

  Grant Webber, the head of York’s forensics department parked his car behind Smith’s and got out. He nodded to Smith in acknowledgement and walked inside Stephanie Braithwaite’s house.

  “What’s the story with you two?” Whitton said.

  “Webber and me don’t exactly see eye to eye,” Smith said, “let’s leave it at that.”

  Chalmers approached them.

  “Anything?” He said.

  Chalmers was a man of very few words.

  “Nothing yet,” Smith said, “the two teachers who found her seem to know nothing about her other than what they see at school.”

  “What about a husband?” Cha
lmers said, “Or a boyfriend. She must have some family somewhere.”

  “No husband,” Smith said, “and nobody knows anything about a boyfriend.”

  “The PE teacher said something,” Whitton said, “he said there were two empty wine glasses in the kitchen. Looks like she had company over the weekend.”

  “Look into it,” Chalmers said, “somebody must know something about what happened. Do what you’re paid to do.”

  He walked back to his car.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Whitton watched as Chalmers’ car drove off down the road.

  “I think he’s stopped smoking again,” Smith said, “he’s always irritable when he tries to quit. I don’t know why he bothers.”

  “What now?” Whitton said.

  “We do what they pay us to do,” Smith said, “let’s see what there is to know about our Geography teacher.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Talk to me,” Chalmers said, “what have we got?”

  Chalmers had called an informal meeting in the small conference room at the station. Smith, Whitton, DS Alan Thompson and Grant Webber were in attendance.

  “Not much so far,” Smith said, “dead Geography teacher. Stephanie Braithwaite. Looks like she was killed with a rock to the back of the head. So far nobody has come forward. Nobody saw a thing.”

  “Webber,” Chalmers said, “what have you got for us?”

  Webber took out a notebook and placed it on the table in front of him. Everybody who knew Webber knew he did not need it; it was more of a peculiar ritual of his.

  “Smith’s right,” Webber said, “the rock that was placed on the dead woman’s stomach was almost certainly what killed her. We’ll know a lot more when the path guys have finished with her but it looks like she was killed by a blow to the back of the head. The matted blood on her hair would suggest this anyway. The odd thing is, we didn’t find any prints on the rock.”

  “Do we have a time of death?” Smith said.

  “Not yet,” Webber said, “like I said, the path guys are busy with her now.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Don’t quote me on this,” Webber said, “but from the look of the blood on the hair on the bed, I’d say she hadn’t been dead longer than twenty four hours when she was found.”