Red is the Colour

by Mark L. Fowler

  ‘So, what do you reckon, then?’

  ‘Sounds clear enough to me, sir. But what do I know?’

  ‘I don’t know, so enlighten me, please: what do you know?’

  ‘She thinks that her brother was killed alright and probably by kids from his school, possibly from his class. This Howard Wood’s class. But I get the impression there’s something she’s not telling us.’

  Tyler didn’t say anything, kept looking out the window. It was a good minute later when he said, ‘Well, here comes the cavalry.’

  Chief Superintendent Graham Berkins listened carefully to what Tyler had to say, and

  even put off twiddling at the ends of his moustache until the DCI had finished. Then Berkins, fingers now firmly at the handlebars, was offered the opportunity to view Sheila Dale’s written work, which he declined, bluntly.

  A busy man, he was in the habit of making important decisions with speed and authority. The media had the scent and everything must be done, and done fast, to clear up the ‘unfortunate mystery.’ After all, Stoke-on-Trent was a place that was moving into the future, and dirty secrets from the past were the bread and butter of the media moguls, and a ‘potential banana skin’ to all that regeneration might promise. There was a lot at stake.

  The ends of the moustache were rolling up beautifully as the senior man asked DS Mills to leave the room and get on with the business at hand, before concluding his address.

  ‘You’re a good officer, Jim, and we’re happy, more than happy – I’d have to say delighted – to have you aboard. I personally believe that what happened in London highlights issues for which you simply cannot be held solely responsible. Off the record, I think you punched the wrong man, but I don’t suppose that you would be even out on the streets if you had punched the right one.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say.’

  ‘It has nothing whatsoever to do with kindness.’

  ‘It’s still appreciated.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. In a nutshell: I admire your integrity, and their loss might turn out to be our gain. I’m aware that you have a number of … personal issues.’

  ‘I’m addressing them.’

  ‘Highly commendable. If you need any support, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Thank you again. I’m certainly doing all I can.’

  ‘Good man. You are about to show the world that Staffordshire will employ only the finest when it comes to bringing to justice those who transgress on these shores.’

  Tyler hadn’t remembered the county being coastal, and the thought distracted him to the point of almost missing the one about ‘no span of time or distance hiding from justice those who attempt to defile the soil of our proud city.’

  Tyler, wondering whether he was expected to dab an eye or jump to his feet and salute – perhaps both – listened in disbelief as Berkins promised that any resource required need only be asked for in the name of truth and justice.

  Then a firm handshake, a brief but nonetheless serious eyeballing and a forthright nod, and it was all over.

  God, the man is stressed, thought Tyler. Close to the edge.

  He gave Mills the highlights and was surprised that his colleague seemed almost impressed. ‘Oh, come on, man. He was trying out the speech before delivering it down there. And they won’t believe a word of it any more than I did. The man’s at breaking point.’

  Mills joined Tyler at the window. A throng of people with cameras and microphones had gathered outside. Berkins was angling his neck to provide the right profile, one which did justice to the cultivated masterpiece between nose and top lip.

  ‘Better get yourself a bath and hair wash this evening,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s back to school in the morning.’

  9

  They drove up through Stoke town centre, taking the wide sweeping arc past the still-secured scene, complete with media hopefuls diligently manning the lower barricade. ‘Are you in the mood to be interviewed?’ asked Tyler. ‘Me neither. Drive on.’

  Climbing Hartshill Bank, they turned into Wedgwood Road, and Tyler made the observation that there was not a single sign indicating that they were actually in Penkhull.

  ‘More a state of mind is it, this mythical village?’ he said.

  ‘Sore point with the residents,’ said Mills. ‘The fight goes on.’

  ‘The fight for recognition always does.’

  At the end of Wedgwood Road they came to a T-junction. Mills pointed left. ‘Heart of the village is up there; the school,’ he said, pointing right, ‘is down that way.’

  It was just short of nine o’clock and the roads were still in the thick of the school run. As the car hesitated at the junction, a small queue had formed behind as Mills awaited a decision from the senior detective.

  ‘Left, I think,’ Tyler said at last. ‘A little context might be useful.’

  Mills pulled left into Trent Lane and up the short climb to the centre of the village. Turning right into the square, he pulled the car to a halt as instructed.

  In the middle of the square was a small church, flanked on one side by a village store, antique shop, off-licence, chip-shop, hairdressers and launderette, and on the other by a row of incongruous houses that appeared to have been temporarily placed there.

  ‘Many changes in thirty years?’ asked Tyler, trying to get the measure of the odd mixture of times and places that surrounded him.

  ‘Like I said before, sir. I wasn’t around these parts back then.’

  ‘No, of course. A Longton man. But all the same …’

  ‘All the same, I believe that the church was still here.’

  Tyler eyed him, and Mills caught a glint of steel.

  ‘Alan Dale lived close to here?’

  ‘About two hundred yards off the square.’ Mills pointed back. ‘Around that bend, half a mile on and you’re down to the park and allotments.’

  ‘So, the walk home from school, what, ten minutes?’

  ‘Walking briskly, possibly. The lane up from the school is deceptive. I’d say fifteen minutes, unless you were striding out.’

  ‘And as far again to where the body was found?’

  ‘A bit less as it’s downhill, once you get around that bend. A slow decline into Stoke.’

  ‘In more ways than one?’

  Mills didn’t answer, and Tyler switched on the radio and tuned into the local station. The air waves were full of news and speculation following the statement from Berkins. ‘Seems like there may have been a murder in these parts after all, by the sound of things,’ said Tyler. ‘Come on. Let’s go and meet the headteacher.’

  The ride down Trent Lane from the village square brought them to the school, the name of which had been left out of the press release. Tyler was glad of that. Fighting through a mob of cameras and microphones was far more fun on television than in the flesh. It would be a diplomatic triumph for the Head to get the information first-hand and in person. Grease the wheels a little, it all helped.

  In the reception office, a secretary informed the officers that the headteacher, Miss Hayburn, was preparing to go into assembly and could not possibly be disturbed. Tyler sighed and flashed his card under the secretary’s long and thoroughly powdered nose, and suggested that perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for once if a deputy were to handle the formalities, and could somebody organise a pot of tea and perhaps a plate of biscuits for the nice policemen.

  Mills thought for a moment and then went for it. ‘You seem tense, sir,’ he said, as the two of them were led towards the Head’s office. ‘I mean, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘I do mind you saying it, as a matter of fact. But anyway, these places make me nervous and I suspect that they always will.’

  ‘Rough time at school, was it?’

  ‘A concentration camp. But I survived. There, I’ve said it. In fact, on reflection, I’ve said too much and so now you must swear an oath of secrecy.’

  Tyler and Mills were making
a start on the hospitality when the door opened and a woman in her forties entered without knocking.

  Busy, forthright, professional, thought Tyler. Miss Hayburn, headteacher at River Trent High, was making a favourable first impression.

  Tyler liked her, and was even willing to admit, at least in his private thoughts, that some things had changed for the better. Here was a woman who you might just be able to bring your problems to. But then again, that might depend on what those problems were.

  Miss Hayburn had heard on the news about the local discovery, and that ‘foul play’ was not being ruled out, far from it. But she had no idea that the dead boy was an ex-pupil of the school.

  She appeared deeply shocked by the information and Tyler attempted to reassure her. ‘Of course, you have nothing to worry about. After all, it didn’t happen on your watch.’

  He saw her shock mutate into an expression of firm resolve, and instantly recognised that it would be a mistake to ever get on the wrong side of this woman.

  ‘Let me assure you,’ she said, ‘that you will have our full co-operation here at River Trent High. Anything that we can do to assist with your enquiries, you only have to ask.’

  Tyler didn’t need a second invitation, immediately requesting lists of ex-pupils and staff, along with full contact information where available. And Miss Hayburn was as good as her word, leaving the detectives to the refreshments, while she went to set in motion the process of information gathering.

  Tyler, nibbling carefully on a single ginger biscuit, watched Mills demolish the remainder of the generous platter. The sergeant was a big man, he thought, and with his crew cut and sideburns would have looked the part of a formidable old-time copper in a uniform. But he had to watch his figure or else in a couple of years he’d be liable to start making noises getting out of a chair.

  Mills, realising that he was being observed, stopped, mid-munch, the remains of a chocolate bourbon clutched guiltily in his fist.

  ‘Very helpful,’ said Tyler.

  DS Mills discreetly swallowed the biscuit already in his mouth, while the remainder waved uncertainly until he lowered it to his lap. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Miss Hayburn. Very helpful.’

  Tyler smiled, and Mills, taking this as an all-clear, demolished the last of the bourbon without further concern for the ethics of the situation.

  ‘Did you enjoy your time at school, Sergeant?’

  ‘It was okay. Not great. But not terrible either.’

  ‘Were you ever bullied?’

  ‘I can’t say that I was, not really. I could look after myself pretty well. I was lucky, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed you were.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all. It’s a common problem, I understand.’

  ‘You mean bullying in schools?’

  ‘I mean bullying in life. Is there any more tea left in that pot?’

  The detectives were furnished with lists of personnel coinciding with the attendance of Alan Dale, and with particular reference to 1972. Mills, perusing the information while Tyler entertained Miss Hayburn with a diatribe on the ‘current sad state of education in the country’, interrupted. ‘Howard Wood,’ he said, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were scrutinising him.

  Howard Wood, Alan Dale’s last form teacher. Howard Wood, condemned by Sheila Dale in her notes. Still there, teaching at River Trent High.

  ‘Would you like to speak to Mr Wood?’ asked Miss Hayburn.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tyler. ‘Most certainly. But first you might like to paint us a portrait of the man.’

  ‘Might I? To what purpose?’

  Tyler thought for a moment, before returning to his diatribe on the nation’s educational well-being, while Mills went through the remainder of the lists of old pupils and teachers, checking against the details given by Sheila Dale. At last Tyler came in again on the subject of Howard Wood, but still the headteacher was adhering to a strict code of confidentiality, protecting her staff with a subtle professionalism that the DCI couldn’t help but admire.

  ‘Did you ever meet Mr Wise, the headmaster here during Alan Dale’s time?’ Tyler asked her.

  She hadn’t. And neither did she wish to speculate on the grounds of gossip and reputation.

  ‘Well, I have to say,’ said Tyler, after the headteacher had again popped out of the office to burden administration with further requests for information, ‘Miss Hayburn plays it with a straight bat. I can hardly blame her for that, though. Putting myself in her situation, I would likely do the same, at least until I knew exactly what I was dealing with. Uncovered anything else interesting from your studies, apart from Howard Wood?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Mills. ‘I wonder if Miss Dale knew the names – remembers any of the names – of the kids in her brother’s class, apart from his friend Anthony Turnock.’

  ‘I would imagine that she would have added them, if she’d thought they were significant.’

  ‘So would I.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Could be that she doesn’t remember. Maybe we should ask her.’

  ‘I’m sure we will.’

  ‘We could do with an address for Mr Wise, too.’

  ‘Yes, I was thinking of paying a visit. Any questions you would particularly like to ask him?’

  ‘Be interesting to see if he remembers Alan Dale’s parents visiting the school. And his thoughts on Mr Wood might be pertinent.’

  ‘Lives on the shores of Rudyard Lake, then, our retired headmaster?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Close to Leek?’

  ‘Too close for Sheila Dale, apparently. It’s a nice drive.’

  ‘Does the area have any connection to Rudyard Kipling? I’m fond of a bit of Kipling.’

  ‘Did him at school,’ said Mills, explaining how the writer was named after the area by parents who had fallen in love with the lake and its environs.

  ‘This is a visit that I’m very much looking forward to. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  They stood up as Miss Hayburn returned. ‘At ease, Sergeant,’ said Tyler, winking at the headteacher. ‘He thinks he’s here for detention.’

  10

  Penkhull, it seemed to Tyler, as they drove away from the school, was an island stranded up above the city. To get to it you either came by helicopter or else had to drive through pockets of traffic-congested ugliness, dead industry and urban squalor.

  Many, according to Mills, really did make the journey by helicopter: the village bordered on one of the country’s finest trauma units. Few days passed without some poor soul being airlifted into the domain of its expertise.

  Mills had made the point that the trauma unit, complete with helipad, had come along too late to help the likes of Alan Dale, and Tyler had countered, suggesting that perhaps it would be a few years still before the unit would be capable of raising the dead.

  At the top of Trent Lane, with the church and village square to the right, Mills turned left, as instructed, along the curving road to where Alan Dale had lived with his family. A row of terraces quickly came into sight, on the right-hand side. Mills pulled up at the side of the road.

  Some other family is living there now, thought Tyler, looking out on the property. He pictured the comings and goings of ordinary people doing ordinary things in the magical ordinariness of real life. Love, laughter, excitement, disappointment, sadness and sorrow had existed here, as in all places and times, he reflected. But then something else had come along; something that wasn’t in the natural order of things.

  At last he gave the signal to move on, to the crest of the hill, Honeydew Bank, before beginning the descent towards Stoke town. Before reaching the town, close to the bottom of the hill, Mills turned along the street that led to the top of The Stumps.

  Getting out of the car Tyler was again struck by the view over the city: its skyline of ancient churches, pot-banks, oases of green in the shape of parks and
nature trails, and the quilt of patchwork emerald stretching beyond, towards the surrounding hills and the open country. He turned to Mills, who was standing at his side.

  ‘On Friday 16 June, 1972, Alan Dale attended River Trent High School and, as far as we know, left for the last time after the bell rang at four in the afternoon. He may have returned home or he may have headed directly to this place, possibly taking the same route that we have just taken – on foot, of course, alone or accompanied. From his injuries, the ones to his face, at least, it’s likely an altercation took place, close to the time of death. But Alan Dale’s death, which almost certainly resulted from a backward fall, might still have been an accident.’

  Tyler shook his head. ‘Why don’t I think it was an accident?’

  Mills didn’t answer, staring out on the view, wondering why he had never seen this side of the city before. When Tyler next spoke, it startled Mills out of a deep, nostalgic reverie.

  ‘So, this city, scarred as it is by the fallen remnants of a once-great industrial past, failed to make an impression on the village in which we stand?’

  ‘I don’t think there were many pot-banks in Penkhull, if that’s what you mean,’ said Mills. ‘I believe that the village was once mostly forest, but we are talking a while ago.’

  ‘So I believe. Then a few thousand years later, some bright spark thinks the river would make a great place on which to build the world’s greatest pottery town, and Stoke was born.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been doing your homework, sir.’

  ‘Do you think Miss Hayburn would be impressed with me?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her that yourself.’

  ‘I doubt things were quite that straightforward – historically, I’m talking about.’