by Robert Clark
School was in session. I could hear the excited screams of kids playing in the grounds round the back of the building. I could still remember what that was like, sprinting around playing some random made-up game like it was all that mattered in the whole world. God, I longed for that feeling again. Ignorance is bliss.
I looked at the disappointing building and thought about my plan. What had worked for the restaurant wouldn’t work here. Schools had more understanding of proper procedures. They were on the same level as law enforcement, socially. The upper echelons of society. Not like fast-food restaurants. Someone would have sat down and written out guidelines for communication channels both in and out of the school. Head teachers would have had to learn them like they were practicing for a test. It was a necessity for them.
So walking in and holding up a fake ID wouldn’t get me what I needed. Not definitely, and I needed this to go the right way, because second chances weren’t something I had the luxury of. So I turned away from the school and walked around the streets of Prisches until I found something that would work.
The telephone box sat next to a bus stop with a large advertisement for a taxi service plastered across the door. Smart advertising for anyone slow enough to miss the bus, or impatient enough to not want to wait. I squeezed inside and picked up the heavy directory book on the shelf below the telephone. Some smart arse had gone through and ripped out a chunk of the pages, which I sincerely hoped weren’t the ones I needed.
Lucky for me, the number for Prisches one and only primary school was right there at the top of one of the surviving pages. I pulled out a handful of spare change and fed the machine. I prefaced the schools number with four digits I remembered from one lazy Sunday spent learning random facts on the internet way back before my life became a disaster. Three, six, five, one. Four digits that would block the caller ID from the number I entered afterwards. I didn’t know the protocol in France, but I’d never had a call from the police that I could redial. And I wanted it to look as kosher as possible.
I waited, listening to the hum of an outgoing call.
A chirp female voice answered with a greeting as ingrained into her body as a twenty year tattoo. She said hello, or bonjour, announced the name of the school - which in person sounded nothing like I’d thought it would when reading it on paper - and asked how she could help. She sounded upbeat and welcoming, like a five star receptionist. I pinched my nose slightly to distort my voice and replied in very broken French.
‘Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais?’
‘Oui,’ said the receptionist. ‘Yes, I speak English.’
‘Excellent. Janice, my name is Michael Bilsby, I’m calling from the Metropolitan Police Service in London regarding an important issue we need to discuss with the head teacher.’
‘Monsieur Armand is the head teacher,’ said Janice the receptionist. ‘I can put you through to him if you would like?’
‘Janice, I will be candid with you,’ I said, keeping my voice nice and nasally like I’d snorted a wasp. ‘We have a detective en route to you at this very moment. All I need is to set up a meeting between my man and yours. Do you think that would be possible?’
‘Monsieur Armand is fairly busy today. Perhaps it would be best to arrange for tomorrow?’
‘Ma’am, this is a matter of urgency. I’ve got my detective coming all the way from Scotland Yard to discuss this matter, and it would be a matter of courtesy from your government to ours if Monsieur Armand could speak with him today.’
‘Can I ask what this is about?’ Janice asked, clearly fishing for gossip.
‘We have reason to believe members of a London crime syndicate may be targeting individuals in the area. We need to work with local services such as yourselves to help catch these criminals. My detective is James Callahan. He should be with you shortly. Can you please confirm with Monsieur…?’
‘Julian Armand,’ Janice said, finishing my sentence. ‘He is the headmaster of this school. Yes, I will speak with him immediately. I’m sure he will be happy to cooperate. We’ve never had anyone from Scotland Yard here before.’
Yeah, and you won’t today.
‘Excellent, Janice.’ I barked. ‘I’ll be sure to let D.I. Callahan know how helpful you have been here. He will be with you shortly. Thank you.’
I ended the call and smiled. That went about as well as I could expect. I could talk the talk, all that remains to be seen is if I could walk the walk.
Seven
I spent the next twenty minutes dawdling and wondering why a man on the run from authorities across multiple countries was wasting his time indulging his ludicrous curiosities instead of hightailing it out of the danger zone. The smart side of my brain was screaming at me to run, but the other part was saying it wasn’t that simple. I knew something the police didn’t, and if I didn’t chase it up, I’d spend the rest of my life pondering the possibilities. It was never easy to lose someone you loved, especially if it could have been avoided. And I knew I would be immensely grateful if someone could step in and shed some light on it. It wouldn’t bring back the dead, but it would make the burden easier to bear.
The rain returned as I hiked back up to the primary school. The charity shop umbrella flapped frantically in the wind, but it kept the brunt of the rain off me. As I jogged up the stone stairs to the front door of the school, I shook off what rain I could from the cheap accessory, and heaved open the door.
The reception was right in front of me. The woman I’d spoken to on the phone looked up at me and gave me a knowing smile. I fished out my fake identification all the same.
‘James Callahan,’ I said, holding the ID up to her, and adopting a forcefully London accent. ‘Detective Inspector. I believe my colleague should have called ahead?’
‘Ah, monsieur,’ she said, her voice sounding even friendlier in person. ‘All is arranged with the headmaster. He is eager to provide assistance. He will be with you shortly.’ She spoke English well, doing that thing that so many French people did where they spoke like the letter h at the beginning of a word didn’t exist. I liked it. She pointed for a visitor’s seat by a wall of children’s paintings for me to take. I did, propping the umbrella up against the wall and tapping out the beat to Billie Jean with my heels.
Ten minutes and two wonderful renditions of Michael Jackson hits tapped out on the floor later, a man in a large blue suit appeared. He looked around like he was searching for a lost child in a crowd before he found me, the one person waiting in a small room. He strode over and thrust his hand in my direction.
‘Julian Armand,’ he said. ‘I am the head teacher here, and you are?’
I took his hand.
‘Detective Inspector James Callahan, pleased to meet you.’
‘And you. Please, come this way.’
He let go of me and hustled back the way he had come, into the depths of the school. I followed, striding fast to match his speed. Together we practically ran through a labyrinth of beige and grey corridors. The walls were lined with inspirational posters, prints of vast landscapes, Christian propaganda, and a myriad of children’s artwork. Some of it wasn’t half bad. The school had some serious talent.
Julian Armand swung open a door beside a row of class photographs dating back over two decades and ushered me inside. The room was small, made doubly so by a huge bookcase behind the room’s only other main feature - a cheap desk the same grey colour as the floors outside. Julian took the seat behind it. I took the one in front. It was a battered metal chair, designed to slot on top of its ilk in stacks that rose higher than mountains. It wasn’t comfortable.
‘So, Detective Inspector, how may I be of service?’ said headmaster Armand. He fixed me with cold, unimpressed eyes. A look that had been honed to perfection during his teaching career.
‘I’ll cut to the chase, because you look like a man that has a lot going on,’ I said, eyeing a stack of paperwork that looked dangerously close to toppling like a stack of crappy metal chairs. ‘We have it
on good authority that a group of men with a history of sexual predation have been spotted in the neighbourhood. These men are wanted for numerous charges back in the UK, and all three are currently on the Sexual Offenders list.’
The look on Armand’s face was exactly what I expected. The shepherd facing a pack of wolves. He knew his job. He knew what to do.
‘Now, I’m here both as a warning to you, but because we believe these men may have driven past here yesterday,’ I continued. ‘An employee at the restaurant down the road positively ID’d the men, but he didn’t catch the vehicle they were in, and their surveillance is currently down.’
‘You believe these men may have been spotted on ours?’ asked Armand.
‘Exactly,’ I said in the tone of a man pleased to see everyone was playing ball. Armand was easily twice my age and looked at me like so many do when confronted with the younger generations. Respect was earned, after all.
But I figured I was doing a good enough job. Respect was on the way, perhaps. Armand turned in his chair and fumbled with the computer sat on the only bit of desk not currently covered in documents. Concerned eyes watched the screen, as his hand manoeuvred the mouse. He used the machine like a man pulled kicking and screaming into the digital age.
After a couple of minutes clicking, Armand twisted the screen around to face me.
‘We have the cameras set to record only when movement is detected,’ he said. ‘Oftentimes, they pick up activity in the streets with cars passing by. Do you know what time they were in the area?’
Like the girl at the desk, his English was excellent, and spoken with the sultry accent that turned th’s into z’s and h’s into dust.
‘Sometime between four and seven pm,’ I said.
Armand returned to the computer and tapped away at a button on the screen, narrowing down the variables. Then he turned the screen back to me and thrust the mouse at me, passing the proverbial buck. Looking at the program, I could see the camera had been activated thirty-six times. Approximately twelve times an hour, or once every five minutes. Outside of school hours, that probably made sense, as most people returned home to live out the slim slice of their lives not controlled by their bosses.
‘The witness at the restaurant believes the suspects nearly crashed into a truck,’ I said, hoping that might narrow it down.
Armand sighed. He wanted me to do the heavy lifting. Not gonna happen, pal. The fewer things I touched, the better. DNA has a habit of getting everywhere, and I didn’t need to give the police more evidence. Armand retrieved the mouse and twisted the screen back and started to scan through the thirty six instances of activity. I could hear the rubber of his shoe slapping impatiently on the floor.
‘Here,’ he said after a couple minutes scanning. ‘I think I have found what you are looking for.’
For a third time, he twisted the screen back towards me and hit play. A grainy video filled the screen. The video was not in colour, but used various shades of grey to show that the video we were watching was taken after the sun had set. The quality wasn’t great, but not awful. An average system at best. Streetlights painted the road in whites and lighter greys, with the only other lights coming from the restaurant itself and the passing cars. The carpark outside the restaurant was just visible at the top of the screen, such was the angle of the camera footage.
A large truck had been the cause of the recording. The camera’s sensors picked up the massive vehicle as it drove into shot, heading for the carpark. I switched my focus onto the cars parked there. Namely, the one with its lights on.
Sure enough, as the truck got close, the car pulled out into the street, swerving quickly around the oncoming vehicle before heading back towards the school. With no sound to accompany the tape, I couldn’t be sure, but I guessed the truck had hammered the horn in the process, which had in turn caught the attention of the clerk inside.
The truck didn’t stop. Nor did the car. As it approached the school, it slowed just enough to allow a car to pull onto the street, right in the camera’s viewpoint.
That was it. That was the car I’d seen the night before. With the headlights of the other car lighting it up, I couldn’t have asked for a better shot. Behind the wheel, I could see one of the younger men, with his partner sat in the passenger seat alongside him. The American was out of shot. Probably sat in the back. But it was definitely them. Definitely the car I’d seen.
Armand stopped the video and pressed a button on the screen that started up the printer. After a couple of seconds, he reached over and retrieved the print off, and handed it over to me.
‘Is that the men?’ he asked.
I nodded.
I could see the faces of two of the men. I could make out the car make, model and registration. I had everything. Except for a shot of the American.
‘This is brilliant,’ I said, eyeing every detail of the still image. ‘I’ll send for someone to contact you for a follow up, and to retrieve a digital copy of the file.’
I looked up at Armand. His face had turned yellow.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
He told me.
Eight
They say to never judge a book by its cover. A solid life lesson. Don’t judge that homeless man down on his luck living on the streets. Don’t judge that stressed single mother pushing around her litter of children. Don’t judge that charming young man on the run from the police. You don’t know what they’re going through. You don’t know their struggles. If you were in their shoes, you wouldn’t want the world looking down their nose at you, right?
The same principle applies to those in seats of power. You have no idea just how seedy their lives actually are.
Take Julian Armand. Respectable head teacher, and by all means a pillar of his community, guiding those who would mould the minds of France’s future. A wise and wealthy man, putting his talents to good use, and not flaunting his ego in the process. An upstanding citizen.
By day.
But by night, Julian Armand was a naughty boy.
The headmaster shifted in his chair.
‘It is… complicated,’ Armand muttered.
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me,’ I replied forcing back the smirk desperate to break across my face. ‘Your business is your own. All I need to know is where you saw this car.’
He looked down at the image of the car and the men inside it.
‘I saw them from the window,’ Armand said. ‘They pulled up in the parking lot shortly before we left and when I went out to smoke, I saw them again.’
‘Where was this?’ I asked.
‘There is a budget hotel, about a kilometre away, near the intersection. I remember seeing their faces while I waited for… my guest to arrive.’
‘Your guest?’
Armand closed his eyes. His expression was pained.
‘A former student,’ he said eventually. ‘We have an ongoing… relationship.’ He looked at me, then added. ‘She is eighteen, and she is no longer a student at my school.’
I said nothing.
‘I wasn’t sure what car she drove, which is why I paid so much attention to this vehicle,’ he said, dabbing his hand on the print out. ‘But when I saw who was inside, I realised my mistake, so I went back inside to wait.’
‘Did you see them get out of the car?’ I asked.
Armand shook his head.
‘No, they were there maybe ten minutes. They were gone by the time my guest arrived.’
‘Okay then,’ I said. ‘Could you give me the address of this hotel?’
He did so, returning to his computer to conjure the exact address. A bead of sweat trickled down his face.
‘My wife cannot know,’ he said, not looking at me. ‘She would ruin me in a divorce. I cannot allow that.’
‘Like I said, your business is your own. But I will need the name and contact details for your guest. She might have seen something useful.’
His eyes darted from the screen to me. His mouth
opened like a fish out of water.
‘This is a police investigation, after all,’ I said.
He printed off the hotel address, and with a pen, scribbled down the details of his salubrious paramour. I fought the urge to smile as he handed it over.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Armand.’ I said, taking it and the printed image of the car. ‘You have been enormously helpful. My colleague will be in touch regarding the video file, and with further advice regarding these criminals.’ I stood and held out my hand. He took it, clamping his moist palm against mine. ‘Until then, I would advise added caution. Make sure no child is unsupervised.’ I caught his panicked eyes. ‘You never know what might happen.’
The walk to the hotel took the better part of an hour, chiefly because Armand’s printed details weren’t in fact as helpful as I’d have liked, and I walked for twenty minutes in the wrong direction. The rain had picked up something fierce, and by the time that I arrived, my stomach was growling. The umbrella only protected me so far, but as the wind increased, my clothes grew damper and damper, and with it, my mood.
I ran the final stretch and yanked open the door to the reception like a man possessed. A middle aged woman sat behind the counter looked up at me in shock.
‘Bonjour monsieur,’ she said, albeit rather taken-aback. ‘How may I help you today?’
For the third time in one day, I flashed my fake ID.
‘Ma’am, my name is Detective Inspector James Callahan, and I need to see a record of everyone renting a room here over the past two nights.’
She clammed up. Her eyes darted between the ID and my face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Let me just call the manager.’
‘No need for that,’ I said. ‘I just need to check to see who has stayed here over the past two nights.’