‘Well, of course I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t any. I can’t imagine a school without bullies, to tell you the truth. It’s the way things are, I’m afraid. It’s the nature of things.’
‘You do remember incidents of bullying, then, sir?’
‘I hope that this doesn’t come across as being rather snotty,’ said Hillman, ‘but I tried to rise above such things. There were a few rough types in the school, but if you kept your head down and got your work done … I never had any real problems that I recall. How about yourself? Which school did you go to?’
Mills resisted the diversion. ‘Alan Dale – did he have any problems with any of the other children, that you can recall?’
‘What kind of problems?’
Mills tried to conceal his growing impatience. ‘Can you recall anybody giving Alan Dale a hard time?’
‘Like I say, I tried to stay out of that type of thing.’
‘Do you recall the headmaster of your school, Mr Hillman?’
Again, Hillman appeared to be searching back into the dense mists of time. ‘Actually, I do,’ he said. ‘Can’t bring his name to mind, though. It really was a long time ago. It’s quite frightening when you stop to think—’
‘Does the name Wise ring any bells?’
‘That’s the fellow! Not that I had a great deal to do with him.’
‘Then you don’t recall being sent to his office, along with Steven Jenkins, for picking on Alan Dale?’
Hillman looked shocked to the core. ‘Me? Who told you that?’
‘You were not punished by Mr Wise for—’
‘I was not punished by Mr Wise for anything. I had nothing to do with him. He was there in assembly and other than that I never saw him. Like I say, I kept my head down and got my work done.’
‘Were you friends with Steven Jenkins?’
‘I think ‘friends’ would be pushing it. I kept myself to myself.’
‘You never played football, or talked about football together?’
‘I tried to avoid kicking footballs and talk of kicking footballs. Sometimes you had little choice, but I did my best to keep both activities down to the bare minimum. My mother, likewise not being a fan of the game, as I’ve already explained, or of any sports, for that matter, was rather adept at writing sick notes, bless her. She wanted, I think, to keep me out of the way of the barbarians.’
Mills didn’t say anything, and a thick silence quickly descended.
Hillman erupted again into laughter, but to Mills it rang false and hollow.
‘You must excuse my sense of humour, really you must,’ said Hillman. ‘I don’t really think of all sports enthusiasts as that, of course I don’t. I think my mother knew a lot about the dynamics of the playground, and she supported my individuality admirably, I would say. I told her that I had no time for football or for gruelling cross-country runs, and I imagine that she was nothing but proud of me. And so, rumours of an impending asthmatic condition flaring up and causing problems for the authorities – my mother was a fine solicitor, and she knew how to write a letter that would count. I rarely had to take part.’
‘And you didn’t show any interest in Stoke City Football Club?’
Hillman grinned. ‘I have already established that I had no interest in football, but I wasn’t a fool either. I knew how to play the game of … blending in. I could have named the team and I kept an eye on fixtures and results. It’s what one does to keep ones head below the parapet, but nothing more.’
‘You remember Stoke City winning the cup, sir?’
‘1972,’ said Hillman, not missing a beat, his intellect shining out of those dark eyes again in beams that were unsettling DS Mills. ‘That was the year the boy went missing, wasn’t it?’
‘You’ve not forgotten, then?’
‘The police were at the school, asking questions, naturally; and it was mentioned for weeks on end in assembly, right up to the holidays.’
‘Potters,’ said Mills.
Hillman laughed again. ‘What a fine institution that was: Potters’ holidays.’
‘Alan Dale went missing very close to Potters.’
‘What point are you making, Detective Sergeant?’
He wasn’t. He was floundering, clutching at straws, wondering what it was about Hillman’s earlier comment about late night meetings that jarred so.
Then seeing it: the eureka moment.
Sunday evening, late. When Steven Jenkins was getting his throat cut. A general question about visiting Stoke over the last few days followed immediately by the prompt delivery of an alibi for the night that Jenkins had been murdered.
‘Detective Sergeant?’
Mills tried to remember what he’d been asking. Holidays, yes. ‘The investigation would have started before the Potters break and continued during and after, all the way up to the big school holidays.’
Hillman looked puzzled. ‘So, your point? It was a big thing; the police coming to school, a child missing – I would be hardly likely to forget something like that, now, would I?’
‘But you don’t recall anything about Alan Dale, or anybody giving him a hard time?’
Hillman was checking his watch. A persuasive man, thought Mills.
But Mills hadn’t finished, and pressed on, asking about other members of the class; going through the list of names. Did Hillman remember any of them?
They rang faint bells, some of them, he said. But it was a long time ago.
‘What about your form teacher that year?’
‘Ah,’ said Hillman. ‘Now I do remember him. That would be Mr Wood.’
‘What do you recall of Mr Wood?’
‘The thing that I recall about Mr Wood, he was a little different to the rest of the teachers.’
‘In what way different?’
‘I think that he tried to treat us as adults. He was less formal, less rigid than most of the others. Some would like that, and some not, I suppose.’
‘And you, sir? What did you make of him?’
‘He was alright. I never had a problem with him.’
Mills again tried to hide his exasperation.
‘Was Mr Wood a football fan – a Stoke City fan?’
Hillman seemed to hesitate. ‘I don’t really remember,’ he said. ‘He could’ve been. Is it important?’
It was Mills turn to hesitate. ‘Probably not, sir.’ Then, for some reason, the instinct to be mysterious stole over him. ‘But you never know, sir,’ he said. ‘Not at this stage.’
He saw the question mark rising in Hillman’s eye. Both men looked at the other, as though waiting for something to give way. Mills wondered if Hillman was going back over what had been said, trying to fathom if a cause for doubt had been raised. A mistake of some kind made, some giveaway.
Mills watched carefully, even as Hillman started up the small talk and the need to get on. He wouldn’t have relished meeting a man like Martin Hillman across a poker table. Here was a player who gave away only what he wanted to give away.
And yet that hesitation about Howard Wood.
What could it mean? Or was he looking too hard? Wood was a teacher clearly remembered by many as being a football fanatic, and a keen Stoke City supporter. Had Hillman been caught on the hop? Could he genuinely not remember that aspect of Howard Wood, or had Hillman not thought through the ramifications of appearing to clearly remember what might have been a defining characteristic of the teacher?
The air, still stained with the enigmatic remark that Mills had made, crackled until finally Hillman held out a hand, and Mills thanked him for his time.
Councillor Hillman promised again to fax the information about meeting dates and times to the number on the card which the detective had given him, and then it was goodbye.
It was a good drive back and it was getting late. Already Mills was thinking that Douglas Marley would have to wait until morning.
While Mills had been over in Derby, Tyler had enjoyed a drive out to Audley to see Phillip
Swanson. He had enjoyed the drive, anyway. North Staffordshire was proving to be something of a wonderland, and not the dump that at least three country-wide studies had concluded whilst trying, for some reason unknown, to establish where the real armpit of the nation lay.
The time spent with Swanson, however, had been less enjoyable.
Phillip Swanson had separated from his wife and three children, and the ex-Mrs Swanson had taken her clan back to her native Dublin. She had worked as a social worker, and met Swanson whilst cohabiting with another member of the profession. Living close to Swanson in the Stoke area, she had hopped literally from the bed of one social worker and into the other, and Tyler couldn’t help but conclude that they could be an incestuous lot.
Swanson asked if he might smoke, and Tyler told him that he was at liberty to do as he pleased in his own house. The subtext of the remark, that he would much prefer it if Swanson didn’t, appeared to go unobserved, and no amount of theatrical coughing by Tyler made the slightest difference.
The social worker nervously lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, apparently in an attempt to steady himself for the ordeal ahead. Tyler wondered if this was a normal day for Phillip Swanson, and if so, how he managed to get through the weeks and months. The man seemed surprisingly insensitive, thought Tyler, and insensitivity jarred somewhat with his expectations of someone in a so-called caring profession.
Still, he was prepared to give the man the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Swanson was unduly nervous. Perhaps he had something on his mind, something to hide.
He kicked off with some preliminary remarks about the beauty of the area, but all he could seem to draw from Swanson was a look of deep suspicion. Experience suggested that this interview was either going to be hard work, or else an early jackpot was on the cards. He wasn’t hopeful.
Tyler got down to business. ‘You attended River Trent High School during the early 1970s, is that correct?’
The man nodded, puffing vigorously on his cigarette.
‘Is that a yes, Mr Swanson?’
‘Yes.’
What felt like half-a-dozen smokes later, it had been established that the man’s memory of his school days was extraordinarily dim. He did remember an Alan Dale, ‘the boy who went missing, wasn’t he?’ but insisted that he had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He remembered the teacher Mr Wood, who was ‘okay’, and when prompted he recalled Martin Hillman who was bright and got on with his work. One or two others could be a laugh and there were one or two who gave everybody a hard time. In the latter category, he singled out Douglas Marley and Steven Jenkins.
On the subject of Steven Jenkins, the mists appeared to clear, and Swanson, now in a rhythm, was eager to heap the troubles of the world at the door of that particular ex-classmate.
‘Do you recall Jenkins picking on Alan Dale?’ asked Tyler.
‘He picked on everyone,’ said Swanson. ‘He was always in trouble, usually for bullying, fighting, that sort of thing.’
‘You don’t recall him targeting Alan Dale?’
Swanson appeared to think deeply for a minute. ‘Actually, now you mention it, yes, he did. And sometimes he would pick on him after school.’
‘In what way did he pick on him?’
‘Threatening him, hitting him. He used to go the same way home.’
Tyler watched Swanson light up another cigarette. ‘And do you believe that Steven Jenkins might have been responsible for what happened to Alan Dale?’
‘What did happen to Alan Dale?’ asked Swanson.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Tyler.
It occurred to Tyler that Swanson wanted to ask something, but had thought better of it. At last he said, ‘I didn’t think about it at the time; but now that you mention it, I suppose it is possible, yes.’
Tyler leaned forward. ‘Could you explain exactly what you mean by that?’
Swanson pulled heavily on his cigarette, his eyes darting nervously to and from the detective’s solid gaze.
‘I – if something happened to Alan Dale,’ he said. ‘If, I mean, someone did something to him … I think Jenkins was the sort.’
‘Are you saying, Mr Swanson, that you believe that Steven Jenkins might have been responsible for the death of Alan Dale?’
Swanson lit another smoke off the dying embers of the last one.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘But you believe it might be a possibility that Steven Jenkins was, in some way, responsible for the boy’s death?’
Swanson didn’t answer.
‘You said that Jenkins was ‘the sort’.’
Swanson took in another huge lungful of smoke, and blurted it out. ‘I don’t know what happened and I didn’t see anything and I didn’t hear anything – but if anyone killed that kid, I think that someone like Steven Jenkins might have been responsible, yes.’
‘Bit convenient, though, wouldn’t you say?’ said Tyler.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Swanson. ‘What is?’
‘Why, the person responsible for the death of Alan Dale, getting killed himself so early in our investigation?’
Unease gathered like a storm. ‘Convenient? I don’t know what you mean.’ The man looked like he needed to light another cigarette, the trouble being that he still had one going. Tyler kept the pressure on.
‘I don’t know,’ said Swanson. ‘I mean, Jenkins did pick on Alan Dale.’
‘And?’
‘Going home the same way …’
‘You mean, down The Stumps?’
Swanson was nodding vigorously. ‘Steven Jenkins lived down in Stoke.’
‘And where did you live?’
‘Penkhull.’
‘Near to the park?’
Swanson nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So, you would walk that way home too?’
‘Not with him.’
‘Who with, then?’
He had to say something, but the clouds appeared to be closing in around him, and not only the ones filled with nicotine. Whatever he said now he had to stick with and both of the men in the room knew it.
‘Usually I would go the other way.’
‘Other way?’
Close to where Alan Dale had lived, a fork in the road provided two options for those living in the park area of the village. The right fork sloped down Honeydew Bank into Stoke, with the option of cutting through the streets towards the park. The left fork swept over in the direction Hartshill, with a choice of zig-zagging down through the maze of streets, also to the park.
Steven Jenkins favoured the long slope down Honeydew Bank, continuing into Stoke, where he lived; unless a game of football had been arranged, in which case he would head over to the park. Swanson was admitting to sometimes going that way, yet at the same time detaching himself from that option.
Trying to keep his choices open, thought Tyler. He asked if Douglas Marley and Robert Wild sometimes went that way, and Swanson said that he thought they did. They lived in Stoke, he thought, and played football in the park.
‘But you were not so keen on playing in the park after school?’
‘Not really. Sometimes.’
‘And so what was the other route – the one you say that you favoured?’
Swanson spelt it out. At the fork in the road beyond Dale’s home, the alternative to the Honeydew Bank descent was to turn left by the infant school and walk towards the hospital complex. Then, a couple of hundred yards short of Hartshill, take another right and drop down through the streets, coming out by the park though not at the entrance adjacent to The Stumps.
‘Did anybody else walk that way?’ asked Tyler.
‘A few.’
‘Nobody in particular?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Tyler remembered that Martin Hillman had lived in Hartshill. That route would certainly be the most direct for him. Thinking like a native, he thought. ‘Did Hillman walk that way?’
he asked Swanson.
‘He might have done. I think he lived over that way.’
‘He wouldn’t have taken the other route?’
‘I don’t imagine so.’
‘But you didn’t tend to walk that way with him, even though he was a classmate?’
Swanson paused, as though deliberating on which path lay the lesser of two evils.
In the end, hedging his bets, he appeared to find resolution by taking the middle ground. ‘I might have done a few times, but we weren’t really big mates.’
What a surprise, thought Tyler.
‘You didn’t have any ‘big mates’ at school?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t kept in touch with anybody from your class?’
Swanson eyed the detective. ‘No.’
‘And you haven’t recently come across anybody from your class?’
The question seemed to fall like a bombshell into the room, and Tyler half expected Swanson to run for the door. Instead, fumbling for another cigarette, he shook his head.
‘Is that a ‘no’, Mr Swanson?’
‘No, yes, I mean, yes, it’s a ‘no’.’
Tyler watched the man ignite another smoke.
‘You have trouble with your nerves?’
‘Yes, sometimes. I’m off work at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. How long have you been off?’
A few days, it turned out. And Tyler couldn’t help thinking about Howard Wood’s recent period of sick leave, and doubted the coincidence.
‘Your old class teacher, Mr Wood, still teaches at the school.’
‘Does he?’ said Swanson, with as much disinterest as he could muster.
‘You didn’t know that?’
‘Why should I? It was a long time ago.’
‘Big Stoke City fan, apparently.’
‘Who?’
‘Your teacher. Mr Howard Wood.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Not a fan yourself?’
‘Of Wood or City?’
‘Both.’
‘Wood was alright, I suppose. I used to go to the match, but you move on, don’t you? Find other things.’
‘How old were you when you moved on?’
Red is the Colour Page 12