Red is the Colour

by Mark L. Fowler

  He looked again at the photograph.

  So many stories woven into it. So many possibilities.

  When Martin Hillman made the trip to see Mr Wise that day, was he picking up the tab for what he was doing to Mr Wood? Was Wise delivering a warning that nothing would be tolerated that might threaten the reputation of the school, and bring its captain into disrepute?

  Or was it all a stroke of bad luck? Hillman opening his mouth to abuse Alan Dale as Wise was turning the corner and nothing more to it than that.

  But somebody had to pay.

  Was that somebody Alan Dale?

  23

  Pamela Scott was blonde and vivacious and everything that Tyler tried not to look for in a woman. Her neat and tidy semi-detached property was set back off the main road through Bradeley, and after this visit it would be a short drive back to Hanley to find out what exactly the chief superintendent wanted to speak to him about in person.

  Before Tyler even had chance to make himself comfortable, Pamela Scott said, straight off, that she was a little bit up against the clock as there was a client needing major hair renovation over in Smallthorne.

  She had the knack, he thought, of making that appointment sound infinitely more important than the meeting he himself had to look forward to, with a moustached man who would no doubt not wish to while away the afternoon making small talk about hairstyles and whatever else fired up the middle-aged females of the north.

  ‘You want to talk about my schooldays, then?’ she said, beaming away at the detective as he took his place on the three-seater without a drink.

  ‘I believe that you attended River Trent High, Miss Scott.’

  ‘We used to live over that way,’ she said, as though needing an excuse. ‘Didn’t learn much, to be honest. Not in the academic meaning of the word, anyway.’ She giggled slightly as she said it.

  ‘Do you remember Robert Wild?’

  The giggle was replaced by an eruption of laughter. ‘I remember him alright. Is that why you’re here? I should have known. What’s he been up to now?’

  Tyler tried to focus the woman’s attention on the summer of 1972.

  ‘We had a bit of a thing going, me and Robert – no harm in it, know what I mean?’

  She winked, and Tyler recalled Wild’s own irritable eye.

  ‘We used to hang around that park for a bit, have a laugh, that sort of thing. We never did any harm, though. Robert was a bit of a lad, sort of thing, but he was harmless. What’s he done, anyway?’

  Tyler thought for a moment, and then decided to cut to it.

  ‘Do you recall that a young boy went missing from your school around that time? His name was Alan Dale.’

  ‘It was in the papers recently, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t recall it happening at the time? June, 1972?’

  ‘That’s thirty years ago! Bloody hell, mate, give me a break. Hang on, now you mention it, there might have been something. The police were around the school. That was him? The same thing?’

  ‘That was Alan Dale, yes.’

  ‘You saying Robert Wild had something to do with all of that? He wouldn’t have got involved in anything like that, not Robert, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Involved in what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, you know – don’t they say that boy was, well, killed?’

  Tyler didn’t answer.

  ‘I wasn’t in Robert’s class or anything like that, you understand. Or that boy who went missing – I was a year older than that lot, due to leave school, I was. Nothing to do with me, any of that. I’ve got a kid of my own now, two of them, as a matter of fact. Me and Brian aren’t married but we’re respectable enough and—’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Scott, but I’m not for a moment suggesting that you had anything to do with anybody’s death.’

  He waited for her to settle down. As the agitation subsided, a moment of clarity emerged. ‘There was something going on round about then, now you mention it. One time me and Rob were going along the top path of that park, after school, and there were some lads going down the side.’

  ‘The Stumps, you mean?’

  ‘I think that’s what they called it. Don’t know why, though. Anyway, I remember ’cos I knew one of the lads. He was in my class. Dammers, his name was. Paul Dammers. I had a bit of a thing for him too, you see – not that I was a slapper or anything like that. But I wanted him to see me with Rob. Try and get him going and all that. But they were mucking about. Now I think about it, one of them was crying.’

  Tyler saw the scene coming to life as Pamela Scott’s face became animated with the memory.

  ‘Rob was shouting over to them to pick on someone their own size. He was trying to impress me, and show them he’d got a girl, I reckon. We didn’t hang around, but I can picture it now, them knocking this kid around and him crying. But we had other things on our mind, know what I mean.’

  ‘You say they were knocking him around?’

  ‘You know, a punch and a kick. He was telling them to stop and that was just making them worse. That’s how it goes, I reckon. You know what lads are like.’

  ‘And they were going down The Stumps, down the path adjacent – by the side of the park?’

  ‘I know what adjacent means, I’m not that thick. I did go to school some of the time, you know – for all the good it did me.’

  Tyler took from his pocket a small photograph of Alan Dale.

  ‘Was this the boy you saw crying, Miss Scott?’

  She looked briefly at the photo. ‘Could have been, but like I say, it was a long time ago and I had other things – actually, I have seen that picture before.’

  ‘This is the photograph issued to the press. You’ve possibly seen it in the papers or on the television.’

  She looked at the photograph more carefully. ‘This is the boy who went missing back then?’

  Tyler nodded. ‘Is that the boy you saw being taken down by the park?’

  The gravity of the situation appeared to be dawning.

  ‘You mean – you think they killed him – that day?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, Miss Scott.’

  She looked once again at the photograph. ‘I think it probably was him, yes. Good God.’

  ‘Can you remember who any of the other boys were that day? How many of them were there? You’ve already mentioned a Paul Dammers.’

  ‘Paul was there, definitely.’

  He took out the school photograph.

  ‘Fuck me, look at that!’

  ‘Any one you recognise, Miss Scott?’

  ‘I’ll say. Look – that’s me – there! Look at that haircut! Hey, if you ever get tired of the police, you could blackmail me with that. I’d never work as a hairdresser again after that got out. Fucking hell! And that’s Robert – ahh, he wasn’t a bad one. We had some times, though, I’ll say that.’

  Tyler asked if she recognised any of the others in the photograph. Pamela Scott looked carefully, spotting Alan Dale again, and pointing him out. ‘Some of the others look a bit familiar,’ she said. ‘There’s Paul – Paul Dammers. He could be a laugh, know what I mean?’ Then, placing her finger below the image of Steven Jenkins, she said, ‘I’ve seen his face recently, I’ll swear it.’

  Tyler gave her the news.

  ‘That’s it, that’s where I’ve seen him. Good God, half the class have been murdered! Wasn’t the teacher, was it, getting his own back on the little shits?’

  Tyler pointed to Maggie Calleer.

  ‘I remember her. She was nice. Best of the bunch, I’d say. You don’t think it was her, do you?’

  He placed a finger beneath the image of Howard Wood.

  ‘God, yes, him too. Bit of a wanker – sorry. Bit of a weasel. None of the girls liked him, at least I didn’t. Always going on about football and Stoke City. Don’t think he wanted to be there any more than we did.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Tyler.

  She couldn’t recall it.
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  Tyler reminded her.

  ‘That’s it, yes: Wood. I think some of the boys thought he could be a bit of a laugh; a bit laid back, know what I mean. But I think he was one of them who had favourites. If he liked you, you were alright. Never had anything to do with him myself.’

  ‘Did you witness any bullying at school, Miss Scott?’

  ‘There’s always plenty of that, isn’t there. With kids, I mean. I never got picked on, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Was Howard Wood a bully, would you say?’

  ‘Not with me.’

  ‘Did you ever see him bullying any of the other kids?’

  ‘I think he would take the piss a bit, that sort of thing. Try and humiliate the boys that he didn’t like. Probably the ones who didn’t get off on football, most likely.’

  Tyler drew his finger beneath the line of children from Alan Dale’s class, but Pamela Scott was already shaking her head. ‘No, don’t know them. Robert might. Have you tried asking him?’

  Tyler tactfully suggested that he would bear that in mind.

  ‘You’ve already spoken to him, haven’t you?’ She smiled, and the smile became a devilish grin. ‘He remembered me!’

  The detective tried to maintain a poker face.

  ‘He fucking well remembers me! He gave you my name, didn’t he? He should remember me, what we got up to.’

  Then she turned and glanced at the photograph that stood on top of the television set. Brian and the two kids, by the look of it. Putting a hand to her lips, she said, ‘But enough said about that, eh? Know what I mean?’

  As Tyler stood up to leave, Pamela Scott made a last attempt at being helpful. ‘You should try talking to Paul Dammers, I reckon. He was there that day, no question about that. He’ll remember me, too – you can bet your life on it. Now he was football stupid the same as Wood. Got done once for vandalising school property with red paint. Must have been early that morning, or done it the night before. We came in and it said RED IS THE COLOUR across the front entrance. Bit handy, too.’

  ‘Handy?’

  ‘With his fists. Mind you, Rob could handle himself a bit. He didn’t care. Paul was all mouth really. Stand up to him and he backed off. Preferred picking on the easy ones. We were both in Mrs Thing’s class. Everson. Right old cow, she was.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know where we might find Paul Dammers?’

  ‘It was a long time ago last time I saw Paul. But if you catch up with him, tell him – no, on second thoughts, better not. Don’t think Brian would appreciate it.’ She stood up to show DCI Tyler out.

  ‘Say, keeps you lot fit being in the police these days by the look of it,’ she said, giving him a once-over.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, I see. One tries.’

  The laughter roared out of her. ‘You’d better keep going, babe. Brian’s back later and he’s bigger than you.’

  More laughter followed Tyler out through the storm door.

  Getting into his car he glanced back and caught a look on Pamela Scott’s face. A look, he thought, of trepidation. As though for her the penny had finally dropped.

  Had the realisation taken shape, wilting the lewd smile? Tyler wondered. The realisation that she may have given the police the name of the person who had killed Alan Dale? The person she had thought only of being remembered to … and by.

  24

  At the City General in Hartshill, Mills was having trouble getting to see Douglas Marley. The man had been rushed from the hostel to the intensive care unit and it was looking every bit like a cardiac job.

  Marley was in and out of consciousness, touch and go. Mills got the okay to remain at the hospital and Tyler made his way back to Hanley.

  Entering the station, he was met by DC Brown. Another result: they had found Paul Dammers alive and well and living practically under their noses. He earned his living as a probation officer these days and was based just around the corner.

  ‘Off sick at present, sir,’ said Brown. ‘Lives in Hartshill.’

  ‘How long’s he been off?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘Now that is interesting.’

  As Tyler entered Berkins’ office he wondered if he might not pop up to Hartshill afterwards. A case of two birds and one stone: he could visit Dammers and see how DS Mills was finding hospital hospitality.

  The moustache was looking formidable and Chief Superintendent Berkins had both hands on it as Tyler took a seat.

  It was like this.

  It was all well and good touring North Staffordshire and chatting to all and sundry about schooldays and so on and so forth, but there didn’t appear to be any progress whatsoever being made on the Steven Jenkins murder investigation.

  Tyler pointed out that so far there had been no substantial leads at all on the case, and that increasingly it was looking to be a professional job. The key, he said, might indeed lie in the Alan Dale case.

  ‘And indeed it might not,’ barked Berkins.

  Tyler indicated that as progress was being made on the Alan Dale case, progress suggesting that Steven Jenkins may have been at least partly responsible for Alan Dale’s death, it would be illogical not to pursue some connection, given the timing of the Jenkins murder.

  ‘It’s not logic I’m looking for, it’s results. Look, I’m going to have to come up with another statement and, frankly, the blandness is starting to wear a bit thin. You’re a good officer, Jim, and I can see that you’re thorough enough.

  ‘In a nutshell: I’m glad to have you aboard, but either we have something or we haven’t. And if I’m to keep up any expectations of a result, then I need something to back that up or else we’re all in for a visit from the Almighty. You know what I’m talking about.’

  I’m new around these parts but I’m not stupid, thought Tyler. He was aware of the reputation of Charles Bollocks-for-Breakfast Dawkins – though even a high-flying dick-in-the-air like him couldn’t reasonably expect results out of thin air, regardless of whose dangly bits were on the line.

  ‘Forty-eight hours,’ said Tyler, somewhat hopefully.

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Berkins. ‘And that’s both off the record and non-negotiable. So I wouldn’t waste another minute of your valuable time arguing over lost causes.’

  DC Brown finished the call from the coroner’s office and missed Tyler by seconds. The post-mortem had revealed Jenkins to have been a very sick man indeed. Liver cancer.

  Did Jenkins know?

  Brown looked up the contact number for the dead man’s GP.

  At the City General Tyler could find no sign of Mills in the waiting areas for intensive care, and the sergeant’s mobile appeared to be switched off. Tyler considered a visit to Dammers, to save some time, but thought better of it. He checked with reception. There were no messages.

  Banging a fist on the steel edge of the reception desk earned him a cautionary look from the bespectacled dragon behind the desk, and the promise of a bruise later. The side of his hand was aching already as he made his way to the coffee machine, but he was damned if he was going to ask the desk-monster for an ice-pack.

  The change in his pocket was a coin short of whatever putrid solace might have been on offer. The receptionist, eyeing him carefully now, would no doubt have change for a fiver. But was it worth it? Any anyway, the more he thought about it the more he was convinced that there was nothing less than a twenty left in his wallet.

  His aching hand was taking his mind off his thirst. He tried his sergeant’s mobile again, and this time Mills answered.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘About ten yards behind you, sir.’

  Mills emerged from the prohibited area. ‘Fancy a coffee? Looks like you could do with something.’

  ‘Let’s not go there.’

  The coffee was every bit as bad as Tyler had anticipated, but the burn on his tongue was taking his attention away from the pain in his hand and the anger fermenting steadily in the parts of his brain not preoccupied with physical pa
in.

  There was nothing happening, no reason for Mills to remain at the hospital. The two officers headed for the exit and out towards the car park.

  ‘So how is Marley?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘Things are getting interesting.’

  ‘They need to get more than interesting, and fast.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You were saying …’

  ‘After I left Marley at the hostel, he went into a panic attack quickly followed by cardiac failure. Then he started shouting for me. At the hospital—’

  ‘Could you skip to it,’ said Tyler. ‘Interesting though your account is.’

  ‘His breathing’s bad,’ said Mills, keeping the slight out of his voice as best he could. ‘But he was able to indicate that somebody had been to see him down in Stoke the other night, near to the church.’

  ‘Did he say who?’

  ‘Like I say, he’s having difficulty breathing, and they have to keep giving him oxygen. They only let me see him at all because he kept asking.’

  ‘Did he say who?’

  The ferocity startled Mills. ‘No, sir. He did not.’

  ‘You obviously made a big impression.’

  ‘He’s terrified. Whoever came to see him has put the fear of God in the man. I think he’s convinced they’ll come back for him.’

  They were out on the car park. ‘I want you to come with me. Let’s go in yours,’ said Tyler.

  They got into the car. ‘I thought Marley hadn’t been seen in any of his usual haunts that evening?’

  ‘That’s the thing, sir. Whoever visited Marley in his usual spot, asked him to walk with him. They went over to the other graveyard, across the road. You don’t get many over there. Bit of a muggers’ paradise. Whoever was with Marley either wasn’t aware of that, or else wasn’t fazed by it.’

  ‘But who, dammit?’

  Tyler smacked at the dashboard, spilling the dregs of the flavourless coffee onto his jacket and earning a fresh wave of pain. He lay back in his seat and draped his other hand across his forehead.

  ‘You alright, sir?’