Red is the Colour

by Mark L. Fowler

  ‘I’m sure they never are,’ said Mills. ‘But I do know that once the great industrialists got going, eventually the hill formed a natural barrier between the rich and the poor, workers down in the town, or on the village slopes, the pottery owners up on the hill.’

  ‘You should write guidebooks in your spare time; do you know that. You have a natural gift.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘The Dales lived on the hill. Are you saying that we have a motive here? That all the other children, along with the teachers, had to make their way up the hill every day, and that they made life a misery for the little rich boy at the top?’

  Mills couldn’t help but smile. ‘These days you don’t have to be rich to live on the hill, and not even thirty years ago. Probably even less so then. I don’t think the Dale family were rich. You don’t have to put up with that kind of thing when you’re rich, and neither do your kids.’

  ‘Point taken,’ said Tyler. ‘And I’m inclined to agree. Let’s take a look at Kipling country, shall we? Jungle Book was my favourite read as a child. How about you?’

  ‘More the Shoot football annual. That and old Stoke City programmes.’

  ‘You’re not kidding?’

  ‘I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that, sir.’

  Back on the road out towards Leek, Mills took a narrow turning a few miles short of the moorland town, Tyler waxing lyrical about the stunning countryside, and not letting up until they arrived at Rudyard Lake.

  The lakeside had been one of the Sunday picnic spots that Mills fondly recalled from childhood, eating ice-creams on boat trips across the water and the tricks of memory placing an imprint of blue skies and sunshine into every one of those long-gone days.

  They found the home of Fredrick Wise, retired headmaster, nestling up in the woods above the lake. An impressive wrought iron gate complete with intercom security system suggested to Mills an occupant of wealth and self-importance.

  ‘Looks to me as though running those gulags was profitable even back then,’ said Tyler.

  ‘So you won’t be sending your kids to River Trent High, then?’

  ‘Other people have kids.’

  ‘People like me, you mean?’

  ‘I believe you have children.’

  ‘Jessica and Harry.’

  ‘High school?’

  ‘Juniors. Ten and eight.’

  ‘Doing well?’

  ‘Jessica’s a bright girl.’

  ‘Set to follow in your footsteps, you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon she would make a good teacher. Bossy little madam.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Harry wants to play for Stoke.’

  ‘Is that a possibility?’

  ‘No, frankly. Doesn’t like getting his kit dirty. A bit delicate is Harry.’

  ‘Isn’t he rather young to be written off?’

  ‘You have to really want it.’

  ‘As long as he enjoys playing, that’s the main thing, surely?’

  ‘I suppose it is at that.’

  ‘But you would be proud to see him wearing the colours?’

  ‘What parent wouldn’t? But playing at that level – I don’t think so. It hasn’t dawned on him yet.’

  ‘We can all dream.’

  ‘Harry needs to get his finger out, one way or another. I was the same.’

  ‘And look at you now.’

  Mills was trying to weigh up the remark when Tyler asked him, ‘What do you think of Alan Dale’s old school, then?’

  Mention of the dead boy so soon after discussing his own children, brought a chill to the bright summer air that Mills could have done without. Tyler let the question ride, walking to the gate and pressing the bell on the intercom. ‘The sleek Bentley in that long driveway says daddy’s home.’

  The intercom crackled and Tyler announced himself. A few moments later the gate swung open and the two detectives walked towards the small mansion house.

  Before they arrived at the door, Mills said, ‘River Trent High has greatly improved, according to reports. I heard it had a poor reputation back in the day, though.’

  ‘How poor?’

  ‘I’ve heard people say that they wouldn’t send their dogs there.’

  The front door opened, and a stout, well-dressed man with receding, yet still tenacious, salt and pepper hair, appeared on the step.

  Fredrick Wise had only the vaguest memory of Alan Dale, though an unrequited fondness for the high school that had formed the pinnacle of his formidable career. He had been in post as headmaster at the school from the autumn term of 1969, three years before the boy went missing.

  ‘You remember the original enquiry?’ asked Tyler, sipping at the tea provided by the diminutive Mrs Wise.

  ‘Of course I remember. In those days, it was unusual to have the police visiting one’s school. These days I believe it can be a daily occurrence.’

  His wife shook her head in good old state-of-the-nation style. Wise went on. ‘But a missing child was something out of the ordinary, and naturally we were concerned.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Wise looked bemused, and his wife reflected his bemusement like a mirror fashioned from the master’s hand. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Wise.

  ‘How long were you concerned?’ repeated Tyler.

  Wise continued to appear baffled by the question, and Mrs Wise tried to help out. ‘I think that the disappearance of a child is something that one never quite gets over,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have any children, Mrs Wise?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘I hardly see the relevance.’

  Tyler pressed the point anyway. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I haven’t any children either. And I wonder if, with the best will in the world, our powers of empathy can stretch to understanding the nightmare that families like the Dales must have gone through, in the circumstances.’

  Mills, wondering quite what the DCI was playing at, was nevertheless intrigued by the awkwardness that he had so deftly created in that lavish sitting room. Mrs Wise was colouring up a treat, clearing her throat like there was a family of frogs living inside, and flapping her arms around, all but spilling her tea. But for the noble intervention of her husband, there might have been damage done to the impressively sumptuous carpet on which everybody present rested their feet with the utmost respect.

  ‘Look, Inspector, I don’t mind you coming here to gain some background on this whole business,’ said Wise. ‘But I don’t see what the Dickens our personal lives have to do with anything.’

  Tyler took a calm sip of tea. ‘My curiosity gets the better of me sometimes.’

  ‘What exactly is it that you want?’ asked Wise.

  Tyler finished off his drink, complimented Mrs Wise on the quality of it, before carefully resting his cup and saucer on the coaster that had been placed strategically on the adjacent mahogany coffee table.

  ‘What do I want?’ asked Tyler. ‘I want to know what happened to a boy who failed to return home from school one day in June, 1972. I want to know if he was happy at school, and if not, then why not, and because of who. I want to know what kind of child he was, this Alan Dale, and about his final days. And most of all, I want to know about the last hours and minutes of his short life.’

  The speech resonated around the room. Then Wise said, ‘We have no children. We wanted them and my wife was once pregnant. She lost the baby and I nearly lost her. Now, does that answer that particular question, Inspector?’

  Mills couldn’t help himself. He was thinking of Jessica and Harry. He looked at Mrs Wise and thought: What has she got, really? Living with this pompous, inflated oaf?

  With a nod from Tyler he explained that the purpose of their visit was not to upset anybody; that they were trying to build a picture of relevant events and people. As the boy had been last seen on his way home from school, anybody and any event connected with the school was potentially relevant to the enquiry.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tyler, when Mills h
ad finished. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  Mrs Wise smiled awkwardly and offered to make more tea, while Mr Wise took the opportunity of expounding on testaments to the successes of his headmastership.

  ‘… I called it a day in, oh let’s see, 1992. Twenty-three years.’

  The second-round of refreshments was arriving. ‘About five years overdue, I would say.’

  ‘Dear!’

  ‘Well, what kind of a job is it now? They’re nothing but bureaucrats. No teeth in their heads. They need the army calling in these days.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Quite.’

  ‘Discipline’s quite a challenge these days,’ said Mills.

  Tyler took a sip of fresh tea and looked ready to put the gloves back on. ‘Was Alan Dale much of a discipline problem?’

  Mrs Wise seemed to wince at the unpleasant reminder of why these two men were there.

  ‘I had no direct contact with the boy, as I recall, which suggests that he was not much of a problem,’ said Wise.

  ‘Only the baddies tend to get noticed,’ said Tyler, and he could see that Wise hesitated, unsure whether he should agree or not.

  Tyler squeezed a little harder. ‘Were there many problems at your school, Mr Wise?’

  ‘I’m not sure what point you’re trying to—’

  ‘Bullying,’ said Tyler. ‘As old as civilisation itself, we’re told. A problem in any institution, I would imagine. Anywhere that has so many people under one roof, whatever the ages – you read about it now, it was certainly going strong when I was at school. And I’m the same age as Alan Dale. So why should River Trent High have been any different? What was so special about your school, Mr Wise?’

  ‘I’m not saying there was anything special! But I would never have tolerated bullying. I would have dealt with it, and dealt with it severely.’

  ‘Are you talking about pupils, or teachers?’

  The old headmaster was on his feet, his fierce expression suggestive of the iron with which he had commanded his charges all those years ago. ‘Just what are you trying to imply?’

  Tyler sipped at his tea, and waited for Wise to sit down. As he did so, Mrs Wise moved closer to her husband, and rested a hand on his arm. Then she gave Tyler a scolding stare.

  As the frosty silence settled over the room, Tyler finished his drink before once again placing the cup and saucer of finest bone china back on to the highly polished coffee table.

  ‘Do you recall Alan Dale’s parents visiting the school, Mr Wise?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting? How do you mean, parent–teachers evenings?’

  ‘I mean visiting to speak to you. Expressing their concerns about the bullying that their son was suffering.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘You don’t recall the visit?’

  ‘We’re talking thirty years.’

  ‘And you are saying that you don’t remember Mr and Mrs Dale coming to see you about their son?’

  The eyes answered.

  ‘I see,’ said Tyler.

  ‘See what exactly?’

  Wise exploded, his wife grabbing at his arm and pleading for calm. She looked to be on the verge of tears. But the old headmaster was back on his feet, and the purpling rage must have been a formidable sight, thought Tyler, if you happened to be fifteen years old or thereabouts and found yourself the object of it.

  Wise stood trembling with indignant anger, demanding an explanation. His wife joined him. Together they waited for the officer, this intruder into their home, to explain himself. But Tyler looked instead at Mills, and then nodded towards his wrist to indicate the time.

  The two detectives stood up like choreographed dancers.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ said Tyler. ‘The tea was lovely. The china – local, I take it?’

  He held out a hand, and the pressure of politeness forced the couple to take it in turn. Then Tyler made a remark about the uncertainty of the British summer, and turned toward the door, Mills following.

  On the doorstep, Tyler said, ‘I believe that Howard Wood was Alan Dale’s form teacher.’

  Wise appeared to flinch at the name.

  ‘He still teaches at the school, apparently. I wonder if Mr Wood has any particular recollection of bullies in his class.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Mr Wood?’ barked Wise.

  ‘We will certainly do that. But nobody springs to mind?’

  ‘With regard to what?’

  Tyler frowned. ‘With regard to the death of a frightened little boy, what else?’

  Mrs Wise was standing behind her husband, muttering something about a solicitor.

  ‘Save your money,’ said Tyler. ‘Only the kind with things to hide need bother those busy people.’

  To the retired headmaster he handed a card. ‘Should you happen to recall Mr and Mrs Dale’s visit, Mr Wise. Shortly before Alan Dale’s death.’

  11

  At River Trent High the bell was summoning pupils back for the afternoon session when Tyler and Mills arrived on the car park. In the unmarked vehicle, they waited for the surge of movement to ease before stepping out.

  ‘Make you nervous?’ asked Mills.

  ‘What, kids? Don’t they make everybody? I mean to say, with this weight of numbers, something tribal’s bound to take over.’

  ‘Are you winding me up, sir?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘I’m sure that I don’t know.’

  ‘Your two – enjoy school, do they?’

  ‘Mostly, yes, I think. I hope so,’ said Mills, looking far from convinced.

  ‘Parents look at the world differently, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘How could you know that, not being a parent yourself?’

  ‘Isn’t it possible that looking in from the outside fosters objectivity? Perhaps keeping my eyes and ears open teaches me all that I need to know about the world, and about life. But then I may well be talking bullshit. I concede the point: it is still not the same. On the other hand, I still have an ace card.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Mills.

  ‘Well, I was a child once, myself, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I suppose you must have been.’

  Tyler glanced at the younger man. ‘And I once had to spend time in such a place.’

  ‘Didn’t we all?’

  ‘I had a headmaster not unlike our Mr Wise. We didn’t get on.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Reckon he’ll call you?’

  ‘What do you see?’ Tyler asked again.

  ‘You obviously don’t have much time for Mr Wise, sir.’

  ‘Are you questioning my work?’

  Mills looked uncertain.

  ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  ‘Are you saying that Wise had anything to do with what happened to Alan Dale?’

  ‘I think that he played his part, yes. And no, I don’t expect a call back.’

  Tyler looked out of the car window, watching a boy tearing a sports bag out of another pupil’s hands, before kicking it up the path as the other boy yelled after him.

  ‘So, it’s like this: a boy walks home from school, except he never arrives home. Or, to be precise, we don’t think that he arrived home. His parents both worked and his sister was also at school, the same school but in the year above her brother.

  ‘It’s possible that he called at the house and went out again, though unlikely, at least according to his sister. According to Miss Dale, Alan was a home bird. The two of them ran errands, but mainly on Saturday mornings. After school Alan would go home and stay there.’

  Mills stated the obvious. ‘So why didn’t he go straight home and stay there on that Friday?’

  ‘What are the options?’

  Mills thought for a moment.

  Tyler cut in. ‘I’m reading your mind. We’re all trained to think about sexual predators lurking behind every bush. The local paedophile – that sort of thing has never gone out of fas
hion and I doubt it ever will.’

  Mills almost winced at the dark statement, uttered as unchallengeable fact.

  ‘He could have struggled with his attacker, sir. He had a broken cheek bone unrelated to the fall that likely killed him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that Alan Dale was the struggling type. It’s possible that he overshot home, went down to the building site, was playing, fell and hurt himself, and then toppled over into the pit and was killed in the fall. A tragic accident, case closed.’

  Tyler shook his head, unconvinced by his own scenario.

  ‘Maybe he was on his own, nobody else to blame, and no witnesses. It’s possible, like a lot of things are possible. But is it likely? I listened to Sheila Dale, I read what she wrote, and I saw something I didn’t like in the eyes of Mr Wise.’

  ‘You don’t actually think—’

  ‘I don’t think Wise actually killed him, of course I don’t. I stopped reading books like those a long time ago.’

  Mills watched the last of the children disappearing inside the vast concrete structure. ‘Looks like the coast’s clear, if you want to chance it,’ he said. But the sarcasm didn’t draw so much as a flicker, and Tyler calmly opened the car door and walked towards the main foyer. ‘They make a good cup of tea in schools nowadays,’ he said. ‘I’ll give them that much.’

  Miss Hayburn seemed surprised to see the two police officers back so soon, and greeted them with some news.

  The administrative staff had been working hard on the chronology of Alan Dale’s teachers and classmates. And furthermore, Maggie Calleer, who had been Dale’s teacher prior to Howard Wood, had plenty to say to the detectives any time they were ready.

  Tyler recalled reference to Calleer in Dale’s notes. ‘Kind’ was the word that sprang to mind.

  Miss Hayburn told the officers that Miss Calleer had recently retired, and that she had been an extremely popular teacher at the school. She kept in touch, and even attended concerts occasionally, supporting the school at fund-raising events. Tyler had the feeling that the two women were good friends.

  A wave of optimism overtook him as he briefly imagined Maggie Calleer with an axe to grind with a certain ex-headmaster.

  ‘While we’re here,’ said Tyler, ‘I thought that we might have a word with Mr Wood.’