Serial Part 2:
Casey And The Lost Boys by Geraldine Ryan
‘If he’s been arrested, even wrongly,
we’ll have a sample of his DNA’
It was next morning, early, and Casey was back at Tony’s.
‘Honestly, Casey,’ Julie said. ‘I’m still shaken up about it. I was on my way to bed for the night when I got his call.’
‘And he definitely said his name was John Roberts and he was the father of Arlan?’
Julie nodded earnestly. ‘Very well-spoken. Sort of commanding, you know.’
Casey’s phone beeped a message. She chose to ignore it. It was bound to be from the Super asking why she wasn’t at the meeting she been called to. To Casey’s mind that meeting was nothing but a PR thing – an opportunity for the
Super to display Brockhaven Constabulary’s social conscience to the town worthies. And to put on record that should any violence break out on the estates further down the line, the Super could never be accused of lack of foresight.
Jess Morgan might wear the navy blue uniform of a Chief Superintendent, but under the shiny buttons she was a politician through and through.
‘Get that if you want,’
Julie said.
‘It’s not important,’ Casey said. ’Go on with your story.’
Julie closed her eyes briefly, putting herself back inside last night’s conversation with the man who insisted he was Arlan Roberts’ father.
‘So, after I apologise for all the messages I’ve left on the number that Arlan gave me, that’s when he tells me Arlan died three years ago. Cancer.’
‘Did he tell you what date?’ Julie pulled a face. ‘I think so. But I can’t remember. I was just so shocked.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Casey reassured her.
‘I do remember he said Arlan had been 28. ‘Does that help?’ ‘Greatly,’ replied Casey. It didn’t, but she hated to see Julie so disappointed.
‘Did Arlan – or the guy who said he was Arlan – give you legal documents to prove he was who he said he was?’
Casey asked.
‘Well, no. Normally I’d get references. But this was just a few hours a week as and when.’ She bit her lip and looked at the floor. ‘Will I get into bother?’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I should have had a police check done on him,’ she said. ’But we were desperate for help.’
She could always muster enough volunteers among the women in the parish, she explained. But young, strong men who could lift boxes full of tins for the food bank and help the buggies up and down the steps were like gold dust. hadn’t turned out to be the person he’d said he was. If only they had any idea about where he lived, they could pay a visit to his place of residence, find something with his DNA on it. Then, if he was on their system, he could be identified.
‘Do you mean he might be a criminal?’ Julie said, suddenly horror-struck at the thought she’d been employing such a man in a position of trust.
‘Not necessarily,’ Casey said. ‘But if he’s ever been arrested – even wrongly – we’ll have a sample of his DNA.’
Julie looked thoughtful. ’Can you wait a minute?’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just remembered, I’ve got one of Arlan’s shirts.’
‘How come?’
‘He’d lost some buttons. I said I’d replace them for him.’ ‘Really?’
Casey didn’t think she’d ever sewn a button on a man’s shirt in her entire life.
‘And you’ve still got the shirt?’ Julie nodded. It was in a plastic bag in her locker.
She kept forgetting to take it home, she said.
‘Let’s go and get it, then,’ Casey said. ‘See if we can’t find out Arlan Roberts’ true identity.’
By the time Casey had driven over to the forensics lab and deposited the shirt, rung the station to arrange for the police in Sussex to pay a call on John Roberts, and driven over to the Super’s meeting at the Guildhall, she discovered she’d missed it by a good 20 minutes.
It probably hadn’t helped that she’d taken a detour. She’d tried to ignore her conscience but in the end she’d felt compelled to drive home to check on their new resident. Giles Renshaw wasn’t her responsibility.
Dom was perfectly capable of looking after the boy – if he even needed looking after, for goodness’ sake. He was 16!
But he was in a strange house, in a strange town, about to be thrown into a strange school. And if that had been her boy, well, wouldn’t she have wished for someone to make him feel as much at home as they could?
When she got home, however, the house was empty apart from Dom, who was enjoying a cup of coffee while reading the morning paper, Oscar, the spaniel, at his feet. Apparently, Giles had been keen to start at St Bede’s immediately so Dom had fed him toast, made a quick call to the boy’s Year Tutor to check that it was OK, then driven him over there.
‘It was his choice, Casey,’ Dom said defensively, when Casey questioned his decision to fall in so easily with Giles’ wishes. ’What was I supposed to do? Lock him in his room?’
She hadn’t had time for an argument so she’d left it there and got back in the car. But she couldn’t help feeling they’d failed the boy at the first hurdle. Dom could have offered him an alternative to school today – a walk with Oscar, a trip to point out the area’s places of interest, for example.
That’s what she’d have done. That way she’d have got him to open up a bit more about himself than he’d done already. Found out how he was really feeling. It was all right Dom insisting that Giles was really keen to start school today. But maybe he was just being brave and inside he was terrified.
She sighed deeply as she arrived at the police station and parked in the one remaining parking space. Hadn’t she said having a teenager in the house would be a bad idea?
He stood with his back to the railings, affecting a nonchalant stance. Mid-morning break. How long was it? Fifteen minutes? He just had to endure it for another 10 then he could go back inside and hide at his desk till lunchtime, when he’d have to go through the humiliation of not knowing where to go or what to do once more, but this time for an hour.
At least this school was mixed, unlike his last one. A couple of the girls had said hello already; one had even told him if there was anything he wanted to know, he should just ask her. Not that he had any intention of doing that. He didn’t have the nerve. But perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t be standing here now, like
Billy No-Mates.
They were over there, those girls, heads together, deep in conversation. Were they talking about him? Discussing what a loser he was? Giles got out his phone and pretended to read his messages. Of course, he didn’t have any. Mum and
Dad were probably still on a plane. Even if they’d finally arrived at their destination there wouldn’t be any Wi-Fi. They only ever went to places where amenities were dodgy, if they even existed at all.
His eye was drawn to two boys up near the bike shed,
Whatever this was, he wasn’t going to stand there and watch it happen
half hidden by all the bikes. He got a sense that there was something going on between them. Something bad he couldn’t put his finger on. One of the boys was bigger than the other. He towered over the smaller one, occasionally prodding him with a finger. Every time he did so the smaller, skinnier boy shrank back. But because of all the bikes, there was nowhere else to go. He was cornered.
He put his phone away and started to walk in their direction. Quietly, so as not to alert them. It was none of his business but Giles couldn’t help himself. Whatever this was, he wasn’t going to stand there and watch it happen without trying to do something about it.
He couldn’t have been watching where he was going because his shin collided sharply with the edge of the back mudguard, causing him to cry out in pain. The boys’ heads turned towards him simultaneously. The bigger boy
dropped his grip on the smaller boy’s jumper, giving him the chance to wriggle out of his corner and compose himself.
‘What do you want?’ the bigger boy demanded.
His accent was rough and he looked hard. Boys like that were good at fighting because they didn’t care if they got hurt. They were too stupid. This was both an advantage and a disadvantage to boys like Giles.
‘Are you OK?’ he said to the smaller one, ignoring the other one’s question.
The boy sniffed, rubbed his nose, and glanced up warily at his bully. But he said nothing.
‘Just do one, will you!’ the bigger boy said. ‘This is a private conversation.’
Giles continued to ignore him. ‘Is he bothering you?’ he asked again.
With another cursory glance at his captor, the smaller boy replied that no, he wasn’t.
‘You heard him,’ the bigger boy said. ‘And you heard me. Now get lost.’
He had no idea what to do, now that his offer of rescue had been spurned not once but twice. But Giles stood his ground. Fortunately for him, just when he didn’t think he could keep it up any longer, the bell rang.
He felt almost triumphant when the bigger of the two boys moved first. He edged his way out of the bike shed and began to walk in the direction of the school entrance. Giles kept his eyes fastened on the smaller boy. He prayed he was doing the right thing, not moving. He had his back towards the bigger boy, which made him vulnerable. But to show fear might made him a victim too. ‘Remember what I said.’
The bully’s words as he walked away were directed at his target, Giles assumed.
‘Don’t let me down,’ he added, tossing the words over his shoulder as he strolled away.
It was just the two of them now. And a few other stragglers making their way slowly inside. ‘Look,’ Giles said.
He was about to offer the boy his support. Tell him that if he felt he was being bullied he should report it. But he didn’t get a chance.
‘Stay away from me,’ the boy said, almost spitting out his words. ‘I can look after myself.’
And with that he ran off towards his bully, catching him up at the school entrance. Had he got it wrong? Giles wondered. Was this just a bit of banter? A friendly argument between two good mates? Somehow he didn’t think it was.
Julie watched Casey’s car pull away. She hadn’t stayed that long in the end because she had to get to some meeting or other. It was clear she hadn’t really wanted to go to it, though, and Julie was sorry she had to leave. More than ever she needed someone to talk to. Casey had been a great listener in the past, when she’d had her problems with Rose. Now she thought it was happening all over again – but this time with Johnny.
She’d had her suspicions for a while. He’d always been so open with her. But now he was – well, there was no other word for it – furtive. He’d let himself in after school and not even bother to call out hello before disappearing into his room.
The other evening, she’d gone up there to tell him his tea was ready and when she knocked on the door there was no reply. Twice more she’d knocked and still got no answer. So she’d let herself into his room, only to find it empty. He must have slipped out the front way while she’d been in the kitchen.
Some instinct from the past sent her over to his chest of drawers. When Rose lived here, she’d hide her drugs inside her balled-up socks. Julie would find other things there, too. Stuff she’d stolen – make-up, jewellery, money from Julie’s purse. Once a pregnancy test.
All the time she was looking, she held her breath, praying she wouldn’t find anything that might incriminate Johnny. How could she ever bear going through all that again? When all she found were the folded T-shirts, socks and underpants you’d expect to find in a young boy’s chest of drawers, she felt almost delirious with relief. This was good, kind, straightforward little Johnny, not Rose with all of her complications.
But then she’d gone to pick up a jumper he’d left lying on the floor. She took it over to the wardrobe to hang it up. That’s when she saw the white shoe box. Don’t look inside, she’d told herself. Don’t. Because if you do you might see something that will change everything.
But, inevitably, she’d reached down, picked up the box and opened the lid. Inside was a brand new pair of trainers.
And inside one of those was a bundle of £10 notes.
She stared at it for a long time, growing gradually more numb with shock. It was as if her present life had been lifted up then dropped right back inside the same room, 15 years earlier. Back then, when she’d first realised what Rose was getting into, she’d reacted the only way she knew how. Furiously.
She’d thrown the book at her, grounding her, watching her like a hawk, even going so far as accompanying her to school and collecting her at the end of every school day. If she’d imagined that her methods would work, she quickly learned her lesson. It was inevitable that Rose would rebel in the face of such a harsh regime.
With Johnny, she would do things differently. When she got home this evening, she’d talk to him. Quietly. Calmly. She’d choose her words carefully. She’d get him back before he’d even properly pulled away. She wasn’t going to lose this one.
During her phone call with Sergeant Mike Charnley, Casey had learned a lot about Arlan Roberts. According to the local bobby, who’d just got back from interviewing the deceased man’s father, he’d been the perfect son – the apple of his parents’ eye.
Understandably, his father, John, was still upset from Julie’s phone call. Never a day went by without him and his wife grieving over their loss. To think that someone had been impersonating Arlan all this time – longer, for all they knew – was beyond distressing.
Mike – Casey and the Sergeant had very quickly got on to first name terms – summed up the real Arlan Roberts very quickly. He’d been a bright, privately educated boy with the kind of conventional path that had been laid out before him by a long line of previous generations. Namely, university and then a career in banking or the law. But Arlan had had other ideas. He’d wanted to paint and had gone to art school. It was no use his parents trying to persuade him otherwise. Arlan was Arlan and he’d made up his mind.
They’d wanted to buy him a flat, apparently, once he’d finished his degree, and it became quite clear that he was never going to be able to make much of a living from his art. But he’d refused and had taken up squatting instead.
‘Just do one, will you! This is
a private conversation’