by Wes Markin
Rushton ran a hand over his head; it wasn’t particularly warm in here but Yorke noticed yellow sweat marks under his arm. ‘I’d only just got them all through the door and working on an activity when Paul asked to go to the toilet. I refused immediately. It’s school policy that they are not allowed to go for thirty minutes after break. He started to well up, so I asked him what was wrong. He said his stomach was bad and he had diarrhoea. I believed him and I let him go.’
‘What time was that?’
‘A couple of minutes past eleven.’
Yorke made some notes. Rushton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his wrinkled forehead.
‘How long does it take to reach the toilets from your classroom?’
‘Hmmm ... half a minute, maybe. Depends on the student, some like to walk slowly, as you can imagine.’
Yorke could imagine; he’d not been the most enthusiastic student himself.
‘Do you think Paul Ray is the type of student who would walk slowly?’
‘He’s a good boy, works hard. He has a tendency to daydream and not always listen, but I doubt he would waste too much time meandering outside the classroom.’
‘What time did you leave your room to go and look for him?’
‘About quarter past eleven, maybe a bit later.’
Yorke made a note. Everything would have to be checked and verified with witnesses. ‘Did you see anyone on the way?’
‘Paula Moorhouse, the librarian. We have an open-plan library. She asked where I was going, I told her I was looking for Paul Ray. I saw a few students I teach in the library.’
‘I need the names of all the students.’ He turned the notebook to Rushton who wrote them down. As he wrote, his forehead started to glisten with sweat.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Not that I can remember. I went into the bathroom ...’ He stopped to dab his forehead. ‘I saw some stuff in the army, but I never imagined I would see something like that in a school. There was blood everywhere.’ The colour left his face.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I feel quite sick.’
Yorke reached into his pocket for his chewing gum. ‘Will this help?’
‘Maybe,’ Rushton said, taking one. ‘Thanks.’
‘Please continue.’
‘The smell was disgusting. I didn’t want to get too close, so I knelt down to look underneath the cubicle doors. That was when my hand touched the blood and I slipped. I had to use my other hand too, otherwise I would have gone in face first.’
‘Your hands are clean now?’
‘Yes, I washed them just before you got here.’
‘Why didn’t you wash your hands straight away?’
‘I panicked. I wanted to find Paul. It was all I could think of.’
‘There were bloody handprints on one of the sinks, were they yours?’
‘I’m not sure ...’ he paused to think, chewing as he did so. ‘Probably. I steadied myself against it, I felt dizzy for a moment.’
‘Did you get it on your shoes too?’
‘I must have done because I could feel my feet sticking as I ran.’ He lifted his leg and stared at his soles, nodding when he saw the traces of blood.
‘What happened next?’
‘I sprinted back to the room to see if Paul had taken another route. Although, in retrospect, that clearly wouldn’t have happened. The only other direction is quite a distance and he would almost certainly have been picked up by a teacher on patrol.’
‘What happened on your journey back?’
‘I stopped to tell Paula Moorhouse to phone the police.’
‘Anyone else see you?’
‘The students in the library again.’
‘What time did you get back to your room?’
‘I really can’t remember. A couple of minutes after I’d left I guess.’
‘Well, you said it takes about thirty seconds, and you ran on the way back, so that would put you back somewhere between eighteen and twenty minutes past eleven.’
‘That sounds about right, although I didn’t check the clock when I came back.’
‘Of course, you were distressed. I’m going to need a class list. I’m assuming the other classes saw you as you ran past too?’
‘They will have done, yes.’
‘Tell me more about your relationship with Paul.’
Chewing, he leaned forward and ran his hand over his cropped hair again. The smell of blood mingling with sweat intensified. ‘I’ve been teaching him about three months. He’s in a top set for English and Maths, and is on the gifted and talented register. He keeps himself to himself but, as I said before, he works hard. Every child has a performance target for the end of the year, and Paul has already surpassed it. Occasionally, I catch him daydreaming and not listening, but there have never been any incidences of poor behaviour. At least in my class. You’ll have to speak to other teachers regarding his conduct in other lessons.’
‘Apart from behaviour, how would you describe your relationship?’
Rushton creased his brow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did you get on? Or argue perhaps?’
‘Neither really, I just taught him. I don’t remember ever having a personal relationship with him. I’ve not even met his parents.’
‘You said he keeps himself to himself, but surely he has some friends?’
‘He sits next to a boy called Nathan White; another nice child. His parents run a successful veterinarian surgery in Woodford. Whenever I see him around school, he is with that boy. Off the top of my head, I cannot think of any other child he is friends with. His form tutor, Abbey Lingard, might be able to give you further insight into that.’
Yorke wrote the name down. ‘Can you think of anyone he had a problem with?’
Rushton shook his head.
‘Could you think of any reason that he may have run away?’
‘I really don’t know him that well. Maybe, Nathan or Abbey would have a clearer idea. You think he’s run away then?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Rushton, at the moment I just need all the facts.’
‘I just assumed, when I saw that blood, that something really bad must have happened ...’
There was commotion from the corridor. Yorke looked at the classroom door; Willows was blocking somebody from entering the room. He jumped to his feet and went to assist her.
Yorke had never met Paul’s parents, but he recognised them from the trial. Joe Ray, who was invading Willow’s personal space, was a tall, slender man in a pinstripe suit with gelled-back blonde hair and a large black mole under one eye. He looked smarter than his wife Sarah, who stood a metre behind him; she was taller and had broader shoulders. Her shoulder-length jet black hair was badly parted in the middle and needed brushing. Even several metres away, Yorke could tell that her black frock was covered in bits of fluff.
‘Where’s our son?’ Joe said, his eyes were wide and his lips were trembling.
‘I’m DCI Michael Yorke, Mr Ray, and I’m here to find that out.’
‘Where’s my son?’
Yorke saw the flecks of spit hit Willows.
‘At the moment, we don’t know,’ Yorke said, speaking as slowly and quietly as possible without being condescending, ‘but I can assure you, that we will get to the bottom of it.’
Joe pointed a finger over Willow’s shoulder at Simon Rushton. ‘What have you done with him?’
Yorke noticed Sarah squeezing her hands together at her waist; her white knuckles sparkled like broken glass.
Willows said, ‘Last warning, sir, or we will have to restrain you―’
Yorke glanced at Willows and raised his eyebrows. She received the message and bit her lip. The school had failed in its duties to their son; aggression was not the key here.
‘I didn’t do anything with your son,’ Rushton said, standing up. ‘I let him go to the toilet, and when he didn’t come back, I went, but he wasn’t there―’
‘Lia
r,’ Sarah said. It came as a hiss and seemed to propel Joe forward. He barged past Willows, and Yorke moved sideways to block him off.
‘Mr Ray, we can help you if you stay calm.’ Yorke managed the tone of his voice to try and pacify him. ‘Talk to us, help us find your son.’
Joe turned his boiling eyes on Yorke. ‘Get the fuck out of my way!’ Spit bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
He started to advance again, trying to barge Yorke this time.
Shit, Yorke thought, gripping Joe’s arm and turning it behind his back as gently as he could. ‘I can only ask you so many times, Mr Ray. Listen to me. This isn’t what anyone wants, or needs.’
Joe squirmed.
‘We are slowing the search down. Help us find Paul.’
He saw Willows out the corner of his eye coming to assist him and tried one last time. ‘Mr Ray, please.’
Joe took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
‘Thank you,’ Yorke said, nodding at Willows, who turned her attention to easing Sarah into the corridor.
He released Joe’s arm. Joe turned round to face him, gasping for air. His eyes were wide, and a vein was throbbing next to the mole under his eye.
‘How did you find out?’ Yorke said.
‘Jane, Nathan’s mother rang us.’
Nathan White, Paul’s best friend.
‘How did you get through reception? Someone should have stopped you.’
‘We came through the fire exit. We knew where his class was. What has he done with our son?’
‘Mr Ray, I can understand how you feel, but I need you to join your wife and then I need to interview both of you. We have very limited knowledge of what has happened so far―’
‘There’s blood, apparently. A lot of it. Is our son dead?’
Yorke thought for a moment. ‘We’re not going to jump to any conclusions. Please, Mr Ray, I need you back out in the corridor with Detective Willows.’
Joe glared at Rushton one last time.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rushton said, ‘I had nothing to do with this.’
Joe turned around and stomped out of the room. Seconds later, a white suited SOCO appeared at the door holding a plastic bag; beside him was Andrew Waites, the Exhibits Officer, also suited up.
‘We are here to collect his clothes,’ Andrew said, glancing at Rushton before writing onto his clipboard.
‘That was quick,’ Yorke said, ‘I only phoned fifteen minutes ago.’
‘We were working a case nearby. This took precedence.’ Andrew did not look up from the clipboard.
‘Have you got something to change into?’ Yorke said, turning to Rushton.
‘I have my sports gear, I was going to play squash after school.’
‘Either myself, or one of my officers will be back shortly to continue the interview.’
‘Okay.’
He said ‘thanks’ as he passed Andrew; he didn’t respond.
Outside the classroom, Willows was talking to Joe and Sarah Ray by a window overlooking the snowy playground. He started to approach them when someone coughed behind him. He turned to see a man with a similar build to DS Jake Pettman leaning over him. Despite being smartly dressed in a designer suit, he was unshaven and he had shaggy shoulder-length black hair, which looked damp.
‘Are you the police?’ the man said.
‘DCI Michael Yorke, and you?’
‘Phil Holmes, IT technician here. I was wondering how long we have to wait?’
‘At least until someone has spoken to you. Why? Where do you have to go?’
‘Hospital appointment.’
Phil struggled with eye-contact. Hiding something or just socially awkward? Yorke thought. ‘Do you not know what’s happened here today?’
‘A kid went missing. I was told to wait in my room.’
‘Do you know the missing boy, Paul Ray?’
‘No. There’re a lot of children. I only speak to them when they forget their passwords to the VLE.’
‘VLE?’
‘Virtual Learning Environment.’ Phil’s eyes settled on Yorke’s, momentarily, but then darted away. ‘An online domain, where they can do their homework and chat.’
‘Very twenty-first century.’
Phil stripped off a blood red tie and undid his top two buttons, freeing a tangle of chest hair. He looked hot and bothered, and far too concerned with rearranging a hospital visit.
‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to cancel your appointment. Someone should be along to interview you soon, okay?’
‘Fine. As I said, I don’t really know anything ... but whatever you want.’
Yorke turned away, pulled his mobile out and contacted DI Emma Gardner. ‘Are you near?’
‘Five minutes,’ she said. ‘Iain and Mark are with me.’
‘As soon as you get here, get someone to bring you down to the Maths department; I want you to assist with interviewing the parents. They’re very emotional as you can imagine. Also have Iain speak to Nathan White, Paul’s best friend and Mark to Abbey Lingard, Paul’s form tutor.’
‘Okay.’
He then phoned Jake. ‘Paul’s parents are already here, you can phone Hanna and bring her back to help with other parents as they arrive. What’s the news on the school camera footage?’
‘Not good. Some of their cameras were working, but not the one covering the exits nearest this toilet. They’re getting the available footage together for me, while Neil has already started checking with local businesses around the cathedral for any CCTV.’
‘I want you to come down to the Maths department and continue interviewing Rushton while I interview Paul’s parents with Emma. I’ll brief you before you go in.’
He hung up and went back over to Joe and Sarah. ‘I would like to talk to you in one of these classrooms.’
‘What about him?’ Joe said, pointing at Simon Rushton, who was peeling off his shirt for the SOCOs. Yorke noticed a nicotine patch on his upper left arm.
‘He’s not going anywhere, don’t worry.’
Yorke waited for Gardner at the door to the classroom; he’d not seen her in a while due to her maternity leave. She greeted him with a large smile and Yorke was glad to see the perky DI back.
She threw a tic-tac into her mouth.
Yorke grinned. ‘Still addicted then?’
She smiled back. ‘Always. Want one?’
‘Thanks,’ he said and then quickly briefed her. ‘You ready?’
‘Yes.’
They turned into the room. Paul’s parents were sitting quite far apart. Joe was leaning forward, looking down, while Sarah was staring at her phone. There was no physical contact between them.
‘This is DI Emma Gardner,’ Yorke said as they approached.
‘I’m so sorry for the shock you’ve had,’ Gardner said. ‘Everybody is being very helpful, and we’re doing everything we can right now.’
‘The blood,’ Sarah said, fiddling with her phone. ‘Is it his?’
Yorke pulled over a chair for Gardner. ‘We don’t know.’ They both sat down opposite the parents. Sarah didn’t look up and continued playing with her phone.
‘Does Paul have a mobile?’ Gardner said.
‘Yes, we’ve tried it, it’s switched off, I’ve left messages. He’s always very good about phoning us. It’s unusual.’
‘Can we take the number?’
Joe gave him the number and Yorke wrote it down.
‘What happened exactly?’ Joe said, lifting his eyes from the floor to Yorke. He’d been crying too.
‘All we know is that Paul complained of feeling sick, asked to go to the toilet and didn’t return ...’ Yorke paused to consider how best to deliver the next part. ‘Simon Rushton went to investigate. He discovered the blood and nothing else―’
‘I saw the blood on his shirt,’ Joe said, his raw eyes widening again.
‘He says he got blood on his hands looking under the cubicle doors, and this was transferred to his shirt when running back to the classroom.’
&n
bsp; ‘And you believe that?’
Yorke paused. ‘We are still in the stages of establishing what happened.’
Joe crossed his arms. Sarah reached into her pocket and handed Gardner a passport sized photo; her hand was trembling. ‘I had this in my purse.’
Gardner looked at the picture and then passed it to Yorke. A blonde twelve-year old boy with a side-parting, wearing a school blazer, smiled up at him.
‘This will help, thank you,’ Yorke said. ‘I know it’s tough, but we’ll have to ask you a few questions.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sarah said, slipping the phone into her pocket.
Joe uncrossed his arms.
‘Has he been ill, reported feeling sick to either of you over the last few days?’
‘No. He was out on his bike yesterday, and he made quick work of his dinner,’ Sarah said. ‘I asked him to be careful about indigestion, but gone are the days when he does what I ask.’
‘Was he upset about anything?’ Gardner said.
Sarah and Joe exchanged a glance before she spoke. ‘He complained about having a lot of homework to do in the evening, but he always moans about that.’
‘Anything else regarding his state of mind this week?’ Yorke said.
Again, Joe caught Sarah’s eyes. She looked down.
‘No,’ Joe said. ‘He’s a happy boy, always has been.’
‘If there is anything else at all, no matter how insignificant, or private, it is important you tell us,’ Yorke said.
‘He was fine,’ Joe said.
‘Has he ever run away before?’
‘My son has not run away,’ Joe said.
‘So, he’s never run away before?’
‘Never.’
‘Ever threatened to?’
‘He’s a happy boy, I’ve told you,’ Joe said as a vein next to his mole flickered. ‘Nothing like that ever happens in our house. Besides, I’m taking him to Stamford Bridge to see Chelsea this weekend; he wouldn’t miss that for the world.’
‘So, he likes football?’
‘Football and reading sci-fi,’ Joe said. ‘Can’t get him away from either.’