Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side (2 page)

Chapter Three

The farmhouse, like a couple of nearby barns, had a sad, neglected air to it. The woodwork needed a coat of paint. A couple of half barrels guarded the front door, but the plants, whatever they were, were long dead. They sat forlornly in waterlogged compost.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Trentham,’ Max reminded her as she stared blankly at him. ‘Harrington CID.’

She nodded, and Jill realized that her expression wasn’t lack of recognition at all. It was panic.

‘Jill Kennedy,’ she introduced herself. ‘May we come in? We’d like to ask a few questions about Martin.’

Mrs Hayden opened the door to allow them entry and they walked down a dingy and chilly hallway, and into a sitting room that was crammed with a lifetime’s collection of bric-a-brac. There were porcelain birds and animals, cheap paperweights, ashtrays, jugs, bottles and vases. It was like walking in on a church jumble sale.

The furniture leather suite, several wooden tables and a dresser was functional rather than attractive, and had seen better days. About thirty years ago.

‘Where is everyone?’ Max asked curiously.

‘George and Andy that’s my other son,’ she added for Jill’s benefit, ‘are out in the fields. George didn’t know what to do but, as he said, life goes on.’‘

And your daughter?’ Max was trying, and failing, to hide his surprise at the family carrying on as normal and leaving her alone.

‘At work,’ she said quietly.

‘She’s a hairdresser, yes?’ Max asked, sitting down.

Jill sat on a leather sofa that had cracked and worn thin through years of use. She patted the space next to her and Mrs Hayden sat beside her.

‘That’s right,’ she answered Max’s question. ‘Thursdays and Fridays are her busiest days. They used to close on Mondays but, because everyone else did the same, they stay open now and close on Wednesdays instead. Besides, there’s nothing she can do here, is there?’

Except worry with her mother.

‘Tell us about Martin,’ Jill suggested. ‘Anything you can think of. His friends, where he spends his spare time, what he’s interested in anything at all.’

Mrs Hayden was so quietly spoken that Jill struggled to hear her. Painfully thin, she was a woman who needed a good meal inside her. Her skin hung off her, and her wrists and ankles looked as if they might snap at any minute. Her hair, dark, shoulder-length and streaked with grey, was equally brittle. Her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. She was wearing a heavy green skirt and a thick brown sweater that had worn thin at the elbows.

‘We’ve phoned everyone he knows,’ she was telling them, ‘and the headmaster is asking the boys and girls if they’ve heard anything.’ She bent forward, and began rocking back and forth, her bony hands running over equally bony knees. ‘It’s not like him to be late,’ she added vaguely. ‘He always phones. He’s a good boy.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Max said, adding, ‘You said you’d try and find us a more recent photo.’

‘Yes.’ She sprang up, clearly glad of the activity, went to the drawer in the well-polished dresser, and took out three snaps.

‘Sarah took these at Christmas,’ she said. ‘They’re not as good as his school photo, but as I said, that’ll be eighteen months old now. I don’t know why they didn’t do one last year. It’s not as if Martin missed it. He didn’t miss a single day last year.’

Max looked at each photo in turn, nodded, and handed them to Jill.

‘Oh!’

Max, picking up on the surprise in her voice, gave her a questioning look.

‘He’s a striking young man,’ she said, gazing at the pictures.

The boy in the photo, wearing a smile that would have done Mona Lisa proud, was far more than merely striking. He was beautiful. In one snap, he was leaning against the front door to the farmhouse wearing figure-hugging jeans and a black sweater, and he had a jacket hooked on his finger to drape decorously over his shoulder.

More than beautiful, he was perfect.

In the other two photos, he was equally posed. Yes, posed. The half-smile, a knowing, secretive smile, was the same.

‘I bet he’s popular with the girls,’ Jill said lightly.

And the boys.

‘He’s very popular with everyone,’ his mother said softly.

Well aware of it, too, Jill guessed.

‘He’s a special boy,’ Mrs Hayden murmured. ‘He knows it, too,’ she added with the ghost of a smile.

Max was right; there was something unusual about this family. She was sure, too, that Mrs Hayden was keeping something to herself.

‘May I look in his room, Mrs Hayden?’ Jill asked, rising to her feet.

‘Call me, Josie,’ she said awkwardly, nodding. ‘Up the stairs first left. He shares with his brother. Andy’s the untidy one,’ she added.

Jill was pleased that Max kept Mrs Hayden Josie downstairs, telling her of everything that was being done to try and find her son.

She pushed open the bedroom door and was surprised at the size of the room. Even allowing for the sloping ceiling, there was plenty of room for two beds, wardrobes and chests of drawers. Each boy had taken one side of the room, and on Martin’s side there was a desk. A few cables, still plugged in at the wall, showed that a computer had sat on it. No doubt the police had taken that away for examination.

Jill sat at the desk and opened the drawers. They were filled with notebooks, all used for schoolwork, some sheet music, pens and pencils, and a recorder. There was nothing of interest, and nothing personal.

She gazed around her, shuddering at wallpaper dotted with white roses that must have been clinging doggedly to the walls before the boys were even born.

CDs on the shelves told her nothing. His music of choice was the same as that of most seventeen-year-olds, the sort of stuff that had indecipherable lyrics and needed to be played at ear-splitting volume.

The small bookcase held a few surprises. Why, for instance, would a seventeen-year-old boy be reading Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
?
Mansfield Park
was there, too, right next to
The Catcher in the Rye
. Perhaps they were part of his schoolwork. One by one, she took them from the shelf and flicked through the pages. Inside the copy of
Mansfield Park
was a handwritten inscription that said simply:
Enjoy.
It was signed:
DL
.

There was nothing personal in the room, but that didn’t surprise Jill. Max had said they were a private family, and Martin looked as far as you could tell from three photos a secretive boy. Besides, he shared the room with his older brother. Posters of bands, girls, and especially boys, would prompt ridicule.

He’s a special boy
, his mother had said . . .

A vehicle drove up to the house and Jill went to the window to look out. Two men, father and son she guessed, jumped out of an ageing Land Rover. Martin’s father and brother?

The older man was stocky with thick grey hair that needed a good cut. The young one was slimmer, but fit and strong-looking, with thick dark hair. Definitely father and son. The resemblance was strong. They had the same stubborn chin, and held themselves in the same manner as they walked.

In this house, among these people, Martin must be like an exotic bird of paradise.

Having gained little from looking at Martin’s bedroom, Jill went downstairs.

‘You’ll not find him here, will you?’ Mr Hayden was telling Max, but he stopped when he saw Jill, his eyes widening in astonishment. ‘And what the devil do you think you’re doing?’

‘George!’

‘I asked what you were doing?’ he repeated, ignoring his wife’s embarrassed plea.

Trying to find your son. Which is more than you seem to be doing.

‘We need to find out as much as we can about Martin, Mr Hayden,’ Jill said. ‘It’s a fact that seventeen-year-olds keep secrets from their parents. I did and I’m sure you did. He may have a girlfriend, for instance, or other friends you don’t know about.’

‘Are you suggesting he’d go off without telling his parents?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything.’

‘They’re trying to help, Dad.’ This was the first time Andy had spoken.

‘Listen ’ his father rounded on him ‘if you had the brains of your brother, you’d know to speak when you’re spoken to and not before.’

So Andy wasn’t special. He must be sick to death of living in his brother’s shadow. Sick enough to do something about it?

‘Andy’s right, Mr Hayden,’ Max cut in. ‘We’re doing all we can to find Martin. But we’ll leave you now and go to the school to talk to his friends. If you need me, you have my number, and it goes without saying that we’ll be in touch.’

He looked at Josie Hayden and his voice softened. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a female officer to stay?’

‘We’re all right on our own,’ her husband snapped on her behalf.

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Just find him,’ he added for good measure.

‘Oh, we’ll find him,’ Max promised.

Josie, looking embarrassed, showed them out.

Despite the fine drizzle, it was a relief to step outside. They both stood for a moment, gazing at those steep hills, before getting in the car.

‘I shall deck that bloke before long,’ Max muttered, as he knocked the car into gear.

‘Obnoxious, isn’t he?’ Jill was still taken aback by his rudeness.

They bumped back along the track and she got out of the car to open and close the gate behind them.

‘What do you think then?’ Max asked when she was sitting beside him fastening her seatbelt.

‘I like Josie, but I think she’s hiding something. I also think she’s grateful to her husband for some reason. That’s why he feels he can push her around. His behaviour embarrasses and irritates her, but she’s too beholden to him to say anything. I agree with you; something’s not right. They’re keeping something quiet. A family row perhaps. I think Andy is searching for praise from his father. He’s the one working alongside him, but it’s clear he can’t compare to Martin. I suspect there’s animosity between the two brothers.’

‘And Martin?’

‘Martin is exceptionally attractive,’ she said carefully. ‘He knows it, too. Probably milks it for all he’s worth. He’s the golden boy, and he loves it. He’s very confident. He’s special and he knows it.’

Max nodded. ‘Josie hinted that he was her husband’s favourite. She excused his rudeness by saying he was a lot more distressed than we knew.’

‘Who was on the phone while I was upstairs?’ She’d heard the phone ring three times.

‘Sarah, the daughter, was the first caller. The other two were the local rag.’

The hills and fields receded and they were soon caught up in Harrington’s devious one-way system.

‘I take it I’m coming to the school with you,’ Jill said. She was happy enough to go with him, but it would have been nice to be asked.

Max took his gaze from the road briefly. ‘You don’t have anything better to do, do you?’

‘Only a book to write, a deadline to meet, Christmas shopping to do ’

‘Eh? It’s the twenty-ninth of November!’

He was right; her Christmas shopping wasn’t urgent. Her book was, though. However, they were almost at the school.

Chapter Four

It was just before two o’clock when Max pulled into the school’s car park. As it was raining heavily now, he parked as close to the entrance as possible, in a bay with a large Reserved sign on it. Perhaps it was reserved for visiting coppers.

There were twelve hundred pupils at Harrington High School and it looked as if every one of them was suddenly storming the building. Originally the school had been a much smaller stone-built affair, but over the last thirty years brick extensions had been added. It wasn’t the most attractive building in the town.

‘Right,’ he said, unfastening his seatbelt, ‘we’d better have a chat with the headmaster first, then work down. OK with you?’

‘Fine,’ Jill replied, ‘although I’ll lay odds of a hundred to one that Martin Hayden is the model pupil.’

Max knew what she meant. In all the years he’d been a copper, nothing had ever happened to the young hooligans. It was the model pupils with their sparkling futures ahead of them that went missing or were abducted. Or worse.

‘Better that,’ he murmured, ‘than hearing what a pair of no-hopers my two are.’

‘True,’ she agreed with a laugh.

Max’s sons, Ben and Harry, attended Harrington High School, but as Max rarely, despite trying his damnedest, made it to parents’ evenings, he didn’t know the building or the staff well.

They dashed in and found themselves amid a crush of pupils. Fortunately, those pupils were giving the main office a wide berth.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Trentham and Jill Kennedy, Harrington CID,’ Max introduced them to the secretary, flashing his ID. ‘Mr McKay, please. He is expecting us.’

‘Of course.’ She got to her feet, crossed to a door on her left, knocked and said, ‘The police are here to see you, Philip.’

Turning back to Max, she said, ‘Come this way, please.’

They followed her into Philip McKay’s office and, after shaking hands and going through the preliminaries, which included a reference to Harry’s excellence on the sports field but for some reason omitted mention of his academic achievements, were soon seated on chairs that were about six inches too low. Philip McKay, on the other hand, had a comfortable black leather reclining chair in which to relax.

He’d been headmaster at Harrington High for seven years now. A Scot who had lived in England for most of his life, he’d never bothered to lose his accent. In his mid-forties, he was a short, dapper chap. His grey suit and black shoes were of the best quality. Max knew he was married to a music teacher and that they had three children, all at Harrington High. He seemed to have the perfect life.

‘This is a very worrying to-do,’ he said, frowning earnestly, ‘although,’ he added, ‘I’m sure you’re doing everything you can.’

‘We are,’ Max assured him. ‘What can you tell us about Martin Hayden, Mr McKay? Do you know of anything that might have been bothering him? Any trouble with bullying, that kind of thing?’

‘There’s no bullying at Harrington High, Inspector, I can assure you. We don’t allow it.’

‘I’m sure other schools will be eager to know how you stop it,’ Jill put in. ‘Kids will be kids. There’s always going to be some trouble, surely?’

‘Not here,’ he said firmly.

‘What happens when a child doesn’t turn up for school?’ Max asked. ‘When either of my boys have been off sick, I’ve well, my mother-in-law has phoned the school. What if they simply didn’t turn up?’

‘We have twelve hundred pupils here,’ Mr McKay reminded him. ‘If the child is a known truant –’

‘Is there a lot of truancy?’ Jill asked.

‘We’re well below the national average.’

‘Which is?’ Jill persisted.

‘That average, I believe, is around the one point one per cent mark. We’re around the zero point nine per cent mark.’

‘Ten point eight children. That’s not bad,’ she allowed.

Philip McKay hadn’t welcomed the interruption but that faint praise helped.

It was her maths that impressed Max. A lifetime spent working out profits from yankees, doubles and each-way bets must have paid off.

‘If a child is ill or unable to attend for some other reason,’ McKay went on, ‘it’s the duty of the parent to contact us. We will then authorize that absence. Now, if a child has been absent for two days with no parental contact, we’ll send a letter or phone the parents.’

‘So in Martin Hayden’s case,’ Max said, ‘no action would have been taken?’

‘No.’

They talked of Martin’s academic accomplishments. The reports were glowing.

‘He’ll make head boy,’ Philip McKay declared.

Max only wished he could share the headmaster’s optimism.

‘We’ll need to talk to members of staff and pupils,’ he said, getting to his feet.

‘Of course. I briefed the staff this morning. You’ll find everyone more than willing to co-operate.’

‘Thank you.’

The teachers were co-operative, but they all said the same things. Martin was hard-working, pleasant and happy. In short, he was the model pupil. They confirmed that there was no bullying at the school, and they passed on the names of Martin’s friends, but nothing useful was forthcoming.

The last names on the list were Ms Donna Lord, Martin’s English teacher, and Geoff Morrison, the PE teacher. As Ms Lord, who also taught drama, was in the middle of a rehearsal for the Christmas concert, they left her till last and were in the process of tracking down Geoff Morrison when Max’s phone rang.

‘We’re drawing a blank on Martin Hayden, guv,’ Grace’s distinct tones informed him. ‘No one’s seen him since he left the farm. But I’ve found out something interesting about one of his teachers, a Geoffrey Morrison. All charges were dropped, so it could be nothing . . .’

‘Go on,’ Max urged. ‘We’re about to have a chat with him.’

‘Seven years ago, at a different school, a lad accused him of indecent behaviour.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, and I’ve done some checking. Morrison lives with a bloke so he must be gay.’

‘Must be,’ Max agreed drily. ‘OK, Grace, thanks for that.’

He snapped his phone shut and gave Jill the details.

‘If he likes young boys,’ she said grimly, ‘he’ll think Martin Hayden represents all his Christmases rolled into one.’

Geoff Morrison was striding, oblivious to the rain, from the football field to the swimming pool, wearing a red T-shirt and dark blue jogging trousers. Around the thirty mark, with very short dark hair and big muscles, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on an army assault course.

Max and Jill waited under cover until he reached them, then Max introduced them and showed his ID again.

‘Can you give me five minutes?’ Morrison asked. ‘I’ve got boys waiting for their swimming lesson. I’ll get them in the pool and well, we can talk there, can’t we?’‘

Can someone supervise them for a few minutes?’ Max didn’t want to get on to the subject of Morrison’s sexuality with thirty boys listening in. He didn’t want to get on to the subject of Morrison’s sexuality full stop. ‘I’d rather talk in private,’ he explained.

‘No probs. Jim will be along in a minute. He’ll be OK with them.’

He strode off, flexing impressive shoulder muscles as he went.

‘I hate that expression,’ Max muttered.

‘What expression?’

‘No probs. There’s no need for it.’

They waited for him and he was soon trotting back to them. He was one of those who would have to jog round Asda.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, flashing strong white teeth at them. ‘How can I help?’

‘We’re trying to build a picture of Martin Hayden his friends, interests, that sort of thing,’ Max explained.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know him well. He’s not keen on sport, you see. He would far rather read a book than kick a football around.’

‘Who does he mix with?’ Jill asked, adding, ‘You must know that. He’s a striking boy. Handsome. You can’t help but notice him.’

Max saw how he flushed slightly at that comment.

‘He’s often with Jason Keane so a word with him could be useful. Your best bet is to talk to his classmates.’

‘Seven years ago,’ Max began, ‘I gather a young boy accused you of what was it? Indecent behaviour?’

‘Oh, that. Yes, a pupil. I’d dropped him from the first eleven football team and he didn’t take it well. It warranted a paragraph in the local paper, but he knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on.’

‘A good-looking boy, was he?’ Jill asked.

‘Nothing special.’

‘What would you call special? Someone like Martin Hayden? Tall and slim, graceful, blond hair?’

He laughed at that. ‘I’m not interested in seventeen-year-olds, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Got a boyfriend, have you?’ Jill asked.

His face turned the same shade of red as his T-shirt. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. He’s thirty-eight years old and works in the music industry. He’s what I’d call special,’ he added for good measure.

‘Doing what in the music industry?’ she asked.

‘He sings in a band, produces records, writes songs –’

‘The boy who made those accusations seven years ago,’ Jill said, with a swift change of subject. ‘What did he look like? Tall? Short?’

‘Average, I seem to recall.’

‘Dark? Blond?’

‘I think he had fair hair, but I really can’t see what this has –’

‘Your boyfriend, what does he look like?’

‘Now, listen,’ he spat out. ‘I have no idea where young Hayden has wandered off to. None at all. And I fail to see what my private life has to do with it.’

‘You think he’s wandered off?’ Max asked. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s not the type to miss school or not let his parents know where he is.’

‘I can’t tell you where he is,’ Morrison said curtly. ‘Now, is there anything else?’

‘No, that’ll be all for now. Thank you for your time, Mr Morrison.’

With a muttered ‘You’re welcome,’ he strode off, rubbing tense neck muscles as he went.

‘He’s not your biggest fan, kiddo,’ Max said as they watched him.

‘I’m not his, either. I’d like to know about the boy who made those accusations. I’d like to see a photo, too.’

‘I’m sure Grace is on to it.’

‘I know Jason Keane,’ she remarked. ‘The family lives at Kelton Bridge in a huge stone house by the church. Stacks of money, I imagine, but a nice family. Jason’s always seemed a pretty down-to-earth type. He’s another good- looking boy. Gets on well with other kids in the village. He organized a charity car wash when Kelton was raising funds for Emma Bolton, a toddler with cancer.’

They headed back to the main entrance, looked at a plan of the school, and then set off for Room E4 where Max guessed Ms Lord taught kids how to punctuate such classics as CU2nite and CUl8er.

The door had a glass panel and Max peered through.

‘Blimey, they didn’t make teachers like that when I was a kid.’

Jill took a look. ‘Just as well, Max. If they had, you’d still be struggling with the cat sat on the mat.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Are we going to talk to her or would you prefer to stand here and drool all afternoon?’

Ms Donna Lord was in her late twenties or early thirties with long, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. It kept falling across her face and every time she tossed it back, pupils were treated to a glimpse of cleavage. She was sitting on the edge of a desk at the front of the class, wearing a tight blue skirt, blue blouse and high heels. Stockings, too, probably. Yes, Max would bet she was wearing stockings. If they stood there for a few more minutes, they’d probably find out because she kept crossing and uncrossing incredibly long legs. Max wouldn’t be surprised if the lucky lad in the front row could already answer that question.

‘We’ll talk to her,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to nudge me if I start drooling.’

Just as he lifted his hand to knock on the door, she spotted them, smiled an acknowledgement and slid off the desk. She said something to her pupils that made them laugh and walked over to the door, opened it and closed it behind her.

‘You’ll be the police,’ she said, in a slightly husky voice. ‘I’m sorry I missed you earlier but the Christmas concert is looming and, believe me, they need all the rehearsals they can get.’

Her voice was even better than he’d expected. Throaty, and very sexy. He wondered if she’d been born with it, or if she was a heavy smoker.

A discreet elbow in the ribs, presumably a drool alert nudge, prompted Max to respond.

‘Just a couple of questions,’ he told her.

When she’d told them about Martin, her star pupil, Jill had a question of her own.

‘Is Jane Austen on the curriculum?
Pride and Prejudice
?
Mansfield Park
?’

‘Sadly not,’ Donna Lord said, ‘but Martin’s read those and enjoyed them.’

‘Did you give him a copy of
Mansfield Park
?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought he’d enjoy it.’

‘Do you give all your pupils books?’ Jill asked.

‘Not all of them, no.’

‘So if we ask your pupils if you’ve given them a book, what sort of percentage would say yes?’

Ms Lord shrugged.

‘It’s possible that Martin Hayden might be the only one?’ Jill suggested.

‘It’s possible. I can’t remember. Oh, I did give Alison Summers a couple of poetry books.’

‘Why Alison? Why Martin Hayden? What makes them special?’

‘Alison’s keen on poetry. She entered a competition organized by the local library and her poem came second. As for Martin, I told you, he’s my star pupil. He enjoys English language and literature. It’s rare in a boy. I had a spare copy of the book and gave it to him knowing it would have a good home. It is my job to encourage my pupils, you know.’

‘Did you put an inscription in Martin’s book?’

She laughed at that, and Max pulled himself together. He could do without another elbow in the ribs.

‘I honestly can’t remember,’ she replied with amusement. ‘Probably.’

‘Does he have a crush on you?’ Jill asked curiously.

‘Probably. Young boys often have crushes, as you call them, on their teachers. They grow out of it.’

‘Does he have a girlfriend, do you know?’ Max put in.

‘Not that I know of, but you need to speak to his friends. Jason Keane would know.’