Proof of Life Read online

  “Yes, you sort the meat van. We won’t tell him until its here.”

  “Bingo, nice one boss.”

  Miller listened to Jenkins boring story about when the family had moved in, while Rudovsky sent a text to Saunders, telling him to “send a custody van to Jenkins home address as soon as possible, no sirens, nice and discreet. Dad’s coming in. Cheers mate.”

  Downstairs, Miller was asking about Darren’s mum, and although this received a frosty reception at first, Miller somehow managed to get the woman’s number with relative ease.

  “He won’t be there, though. He fucking hates her guts.” Said Jenkins, although his voice lacked conviction. It sounded so phoney, so poorly delivered, that Miller suspected that the opposite was most probably true.

  Upstairs, Rudovsky flushed the toilet and ran the tap at the sink for a few seconds to complete the illusion of her using the toilet. She opened the door and walked slowly down the stairs. She saw that there were two doors on either side of the bathroom door. Both doors had been damaged, one had been punched and the cardboard interior was exposed. The other was off its hinges at the bottom and there was a similar hole where it had been kicked through. Rudovsky paused a second and peered through the hole in the door as her eyes became level. It was Darren’s bedroom, and it looked quite neat and tidy from what she could make out. The fact that it appeared so orderly intrigued her, as the rest of the property was a shit-tip. She was also confused by the bunk-bed, there hadn’t been any mention of siblings. Rudovsky continued down the stairs and went back into the living room.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “No worries. So, are we done then?” asked Jenkins.

  “Not quite,” said Rudovsky. “We need to have a quick look in Darren’s room if that’s okay?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, because we’re looking for your son, who is missing. We might find a clue, or find that he’s taken all his belongings, or that he hasn’t taken anything at all.” Miller was firm, and Rudovsky got the impression that his patience was wearing wafer thin with this one.

  “Yeah, go on then. Seems a bit…”

  “Can you come with us please?” said Miller.

  “Fucks sake, tell you what…”

  “Listen, Mr Jenkins. Your lad has been missing now for six days. I’m getting quite irritated by your blasé attitude towards it all. Now take us up to the lad’s room, like my colleague just asked.”

  “Or what?”

  “What do you mean, or what? Are you a glue-sniffer?”

  “Funny.”

  Miller took his cuffs off his belt and walked the couple of steps around the coffee-table. “I’m not trying to be funny.

  Michael Jenkins, I am arresting you on suspicion of obstructing police officers with their enquiries, you do not…”

  Jenkins held his wrists out, demonstrating to the DCI that he was familiar with the routine. He didn’t say a word. There was no struggle. There was nothing, just a subservient man who looked shocked and a little frightened by this unexpected turn-up.

  “Right mate, I’m sure you’ll start taking things a little more seriously now.” Said Miller. Jenkins’ eyes appeared to be filling up. Rudovsky looked at him, and as she glanced at the tragic, vulnerable figure before her, she wondered what the interaction with Mr Pollard had really been like last Thursday morning. Because she was pretty certain that this vulnerable looking adult hadn’t said anything about knocking the teacher out. He didn’t have it in him. Punching the doors upstairs, and probably Darren was all this balloon amounted to, she considered.

  Jenkins just sat in his chair, his cuffed wrists between his knees. He was shaking, and it seemed quite forced and exaggerated. Jenkins looked like he was trying to play the sympathy card, the same “victim” behaviour that he had displayed at the start of the conversation was back in full view, and it wasn’t working. Miller and Rudovsky had nothing but contempt for the pathetic, snivelling man.

  “We’ll just wait for your lift to the station Mr Jenkins, and then we’ll have a look around Darren’s room.”

  Jenkins started sobbing openly, looking down at the floor as he made no secret of his despair.

  Rudovsky and Miller looked at one another, and searched each-other’s faces. They were desperately trying to read what the other was thinking. Did they both share the same theory about why the man was crying? Was it because he knew exactly where Pollard and Darren were? Was it because he knew he was finished? Or was it because he had absolutely no involvement, and this was just his default victim performance?

  Neither of them could wait to find out.

  “This is DC Rudovsky over,” she said into her radio without pressing the button. “Request for a van to transport a prisoner please, over.”

  Jenkins began sobbing louder. Rudovsky grabbed her dictaphone off the coffee table, stopped the recording, and placed all the rubbish back in its rightful place on the table, forcing Miller to smile widely at the bizarre spectacle.

  Chapter Ten

  Miller and Rudovsky headed back to HQ in their CID cars, as Mike Jenkins’ police van took him to the different part of the building. The custody section.

  “DI Saunders! In my office please!” shouted the DCI as he entered the SCIU floor. Miller headed straight into his office and Saunders quickly followed.

  Just a minute after Saunders had gone in with Miller, Rudovsky came rushing in to see the two most senior detectives in the unit.

  “Shush Sir, she’s here!” said Saunders quietly as she entered. It was an old joke, but Rudovsky paid it no attention. She was revved up about this case and it was plain to see that she wanted to get busy.

  “Have you started?” she asked Miller.

  “No. Waiting for you, Jo.”

  “Great, right, thanks for backing me up on the arrest Sir, I appreciate it.”

  “No worries.”

  “Right, well, you two had better start filling me in on the eventualities…” said Saunders. Miller nodded at Rudovsky, prompting her to explain why she had asked Miller to arrest the boy’s father via text message from the loo.

  “Okay, well, let me set the scene for you,” said Rudovsky to Saunders. “This is a very dysfunctional family unit. Father and son living together in a shit-hole of a terraced house. Mum scarpered off to Scotland about twelve months ago. Darren, the son is always in hot water for something at school or around the local community. His dad hates his guts, he’s quite open about it. Now, it turns out that Darren’s teacher, Mr Pollard, went round to the family home shortly after Darren had stormed out of school. If what Darren’s father is telling us is true, Mr Pollard was also his teacher, and he made Jenkins senior’s life a misery at school as well. So, stick with me, but point one I’m trying to make is that Michael Jenkins has two people that he seems to hate going missing at a very similar time. The link to Jenkins is unmistakable, they have both been at the property that morning.”

  “At separate times,” interjected Miller, keen as ever to insert facts where there might be some confusion.

  “As far as we know at this stage Sir, but none-the-less, the fact is that Michael Jenkins has been in close proximity to the two missing individuals on the morning that they were last seen.”

  “Okay, point one is noted in my jotter.” Said Saunders as he scribbled the details down.

  “Point two, he phoned in the missing person’s report the next day even though Darren has a history of disappearing for two, three, four days at a time whenever there’s been a barney.”

  “Right?” Saunders wasn’t convinced that this was a major issue.

  “But if you check the duty-log, he’s made long, detailed comments about how he’s only ringing it in to get the school off his back about Darren’s truancy, he made it clear that he wasn’t concerned about Darren’s welfare, and that he was simply covering his own back. However, he’s told me and the boss that he ignores all the letters and communications from school. So why the hell wo
uld he say that to the control-room?”

  “Fair point. Very suspicious.”

  “The third point, I’m sure you’ll agree Sir,” Rudovsky looked across the desk at Miller, “is that Jenkins was behaving extremely strangely when we questioned him. He was over-doing it to present a relaxed, laid-back attitude. But bearing in mind that his son is missing, potentially with the teacher that he alleges used to bully him, it just doesn’t ring true. Add on top that Jenkins Senior has been suspended from work… well, there’s not a lot to be relaxed about really, is there?”

  “Anything else?” asked Saunders after a brief silence.

  “Yes, Miller made it sound like he was bringing bad news when we arrived at the address. Jenkins didn’t blink.”

  “Yeah, that got my alarm bells ringing immediately,” said Miller. “Not a normal reaction by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “God, this guy sounds like a psychopath!” Said Saunders.

  “Nah, he’s a shit-talking sociopath. Folded like a deckchair when I arrested him. Collapsed into himself and started sobbing like a small, non-gender specific child.”

  “He’s a proper weirdo.” Said Rudovsky.

  “So, anything else of interest?” asked Saunders as he made more notes in his pad.

  “Yes, well, I’ve got quite a bit to tell you both about my visit to the school.” Said Miller. “Firstly, Darren is a major headache there, constantly in trouble, generally daft, stupid things. But we know about that, I just wanted to add that the school secretary and the head teacher have both told me that he is extremely bright, very articulate. He’s funny, kind-hearted and can be very charming. But when he’s got an audience, he turns into a pain in the arse. He was supposed to be checked for ADHD, but he missed the appointments. The other factor that has become extremely clear today is that he has a very stormy relationship with his father. I’m sure we’ll hear plenty more about Darren in the forthcoming hours. But if we put his behaviour into our usual criminal perspective, my conclusion is that he is mad, rather than bad. Apart from a minor bullying issue last term centred around name-calling, he’s never been in trouble for anything nasty. He’s just a wally.”

  “A wally! Is that a psychological diagnosis?” asked Rudovsky, beaming at the old-fashioned word for a dickhead.

  “A wally with a big heart, apparently – not sure what the clinical name for that is. As for Mr Pollard, well, what can I say? He’s the model teacher. Kids love him, staff love him, the kid’s parents all love him as he taught most of them as well. He’s got all sorts of accolades for his work through the years, including winning the Tameside Teacher of the Year trophy back in the nineties.”

  “Sounds like a great teacher. We only remember the good ones, don’t we?” said Rudovsky.

  “And the useless ones, and the nasty ones!” countered Saunders.

  “Oh God, how awful must it be to be a mediocre teacher. Nobody would ever talk about you!” Rudovsky was laughing.

  “Anyway,” said Miller with a tone that immediately closed-down the waffle. “He’s got a nickname. Well’ard, and apparently, it’s because he’s the strictest teacher in the school. Everybody knows that he’s the one teacher that you don’t want to cross. Looking at recent photographs of him on his Facebook, he looks like he’s a pretty strong chap, he’s into his running and manages the school football team. So, I’m not having it that this Michael Jenkins threatened him. I think that he’s just trying to sound a bit macho.”

  “Macho? God Sir, have you been watching eighties films or summat?”

  “What’s this?” asked Saunders, interrupting the banter. Miller nodded to Rudovsky, inviting her to recap Jenkins’ “hard-man” story of Mr Pollard visiting the day they were last seen. Saunders listened intently and took lots of notes.

  “Okay, so what do we think is going on here, gut feelings please.” Miller noticed that Rudovsky had opened her mouth already, and waved to her to go first.

  “Well, to summarise, here is my opinion on what has happened. Michael Jenkins has done something to Darren for coming home from school, then the teacher has come round and intervened, split a fight up or something, and Jenkins Senior has done something to him, I dunno, whacked him with a cricket bat or summat. Imagine it, Jenkins is battering Darren, and Mr Pollard comes round, hears all the commotion, breaks it all up, and things get out of hand. Reasons for such an over-reaction are already covered, he’s worried about problems at work, his wife’s walked out on him, his son is constantly stressing him out, and then a teacher who used to harass him suddenly comes around. There was plenty of evidence of alcohol consumption in the address. If this one doesn’t scream ‘drunken, anxious mad-man snaps’ to you, I fucking resign on principal.”

  Miller and Saunders laughed loudly at Rudovsky’s typically hysterical conclusion.

  “Interesting thoughts Jo,” said Miller.

  “What’s happening at the address?”

  “Forensics are doing a deep search throughout the house. Not expecting anything for a good few hours from that.” Miller had organised this whilst waiting for a PCSO to come and guard the property, before heading back to base.

  Rudovsky continued, as another thought popped into her mind. “Oh, yes, the bunk-bed. Darren has a bunk-bed in his room. Both the beds were made, both had matching Man United duvet covers. We need to know more about that, it doesn’t strike me as the kind of house you’d invite your mates to sleep over, and even if it was, Michael Jenkins doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would buy an extra bed for Darren’s mates to stay over. We need to find out who the other bed belongs to and speak to them.”

  “Noted. So, what are your gut feelings Keith?”

  Saunders looked down at the notes on his lap. “Haven’t got a clue,” he said without a hint of humour. “But it won’t take long this one, I’ve a feeling there’s another dimension that we don’t know about yet.”

  “Okay, well, let’s organise ourselves then, and discover what this other dimension is as soon as possible.” Miller stood and ripped a page off his giant A1 Flipboard. He started writing “lines of enquiry” at the top.

  “Okay, hit me…” he said, with his marker pen pointed towards Saunders and Rudovsky.

  “We need to interview Jenkins under caution.” Suggested Rudovsky.

  “We need to talk to Darren’s mother,” added Saunders.

  “And Pollard’s estranged wife, and his two kids.” Said Miller as he scribbled illegible words on the giant pad. Well, they were legible to him, and that was his main concern.

  “We need a door-to-door on Sand Street, around the Jenkins’ home. See if any neighbours can back-up Jenkins account of Pollard arriving and leaving, and if he was alone, and did anyone see Darren?” Suggested Rudovsky.

  “Good shout Jo,” said Saunders. “And what about CCTV in the area, run Pollard’s registration plate through the system, see if there’s any record of his car after 10.30am.”

  “I think it might be useful to get a better picture on Michael Jenkins,” said Saunders.

  “We could ask some of his colleagues about him, and some of the neighbours on his street.” Said Rudovsky.

  “Yes, and perhaps we should appeal for any former pupils who have been on the wrong side of Pollard, try and find out if there is a dark side to his character which is not as well known as it should be?”

  Miller continued scribbling. Once he’d caught-up writing down the points, he turned to his colleagues.

  “So, are we pulling the others off their cases? Or can we cope?” The DCI was talking about the rest of the SCIU team, DCs Bill Chapman, Mike Worthington, Helen Grant and Peter Kenyon, all of whom were maxed out on their own cases already.

  “Are you joking Sir? We can’t manage all that lot on our own. We need the others with us. It’s not rocket surgery.”

  “Yeah. I think Jo’s right, Sir. I think our priority needs to be this one, and the rest can wait. They’re all cold-cases, so we can’t justify focusing on those wh
en these two might be alive somewhere.”

  Miller didn’t look pleased. The department was busier than ever as the increase in violent crime clashed against the harsh reality of the police force being cut by one third in the face of the government cuts. After a few seconds thought, Miller realised that he had no choice.

  “Okay. Keith, you tell the others they’re working on this. Give them a briefing.”

  “Sir.”

  “Jo, you can give Mr Jenkins a good going over with Pete, but give it a while, the longer he’s got to think stuff over, the better.” Miller was talking about Rudovsky’s regular partner in investigations, DC Peter Kenyon.

  “Sir, I’ll work out my interview questions straight away.”

  “Good. I’ll go and brief Dixon, and I’ll ask him for some constables to answer the phones after the press conference.”

  “You’re doing a press conference, before we’ve grilled Jenkins?” asked Rudovsky, looking surprised that the boss seemed to be putting the cart before the horse.

  “Yes, the local community in Stalybridge will be desperate for answers. And there’s not a lot to lose, we might even get some decent intelligence out of it. This decision might paint the missing boy’s father in a poor light when I mention that he’s in custody and he is helping us with our enquires, but quite frankly, that is at the top of the list of things I couldn’t give a shit about.”

  Saunders and Rudovsky smiled. So what if Mike Jenkins was going to become the most talked about shit dad in Tameside? Hardies, as the locals might say.

  Miller finished up. “Good work guys, lots of positive stuff to go on there.” Miller stepped closer to the flip-chart and drew a circle around a few words. “What the hell does that say? Can’t read my own writing!”

  Chapter Eleven

  DC Jo Rudovsky had gone down to her car. She was dreading this phone call, and the last thing she needed was the noise and banter of the office in the background. She couldn’t put it off a second longer, and she dialled the number that Michael Jenkins had given them, the number for Darren Jenkins’ mother, Dawn.