My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (10 page)

"Dad, what if they drive me away?" asked Michael, nervously.

"They may do but I doubt they'd go far. Tell them you don't have much time to spare. There's nowhere else really for them to go, so they might just park up somewhere else. Like I said, I've got you. I've always got you, Mikey, and I'll always find you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," replied Michael softly, as he neared the Volkswagen.

The headlights flared up, flashing twice as Michael approached. His father saw it, turned and headed back inside the store. Michael opened the rear passenger door and clambered inside.

Michael's father paced back the way he came, through the food section of Marks and Spencer and then past the shoes and then the cosmetics. The exit was in sight.

Inside the Volkswagen Passat, Michael sat on the backseat. The driver turned around, greeting him with a smile. He was a dark-haired, white man, around forty. Handsome, and on that day he was casually dressed in lightweight, Chino-like trousers and a dark polo t-shirt. His name was Detective Sergeant James "Jim" Cole.

He extended his hand to Michael. "All right? I'm James Cole. Detective Sergeant."

"Michael. Michael Thompson."

They shook hands.

Michael's father passed the lingerie section of Marks and Spencer, darted out of the store and into the carpark. He hot-footed it several car lengths to his silver Daewoo Matiz. He liked that car. He said it didn't have a tracker built into it, whatever that meant.

In the back of the Volkswagen Passat, Michael turned to see the front passenger door open. A man clambered inside before closing the door. It was the dark green baseball cap guy. He was DC Malcolm Crowe, the softly spoken Scottish man who'd telephoned Michael. He turned and smiled pleasantly, extending his hand towards Michael. They shook hands.

"Michael is it? I'm DC Malcolm Crowe. This is DS James Cole or Jim, as we like to call him. Well, to his face anyway. I won't say in front of him what his name is at the station as he might get annoyed." He beamed a smile, reassuring Michael. "So, how you doing?"

"Good thanks. A long day, but, well, you know," Michael replied, nervously.

"Cool. Well, what we're gonna do, Michael, is take a wee drive and park up elsewhere," replied DC Crowe.

"Where you'll what, pop me in the back of the head?" Michael said, masking his nervousness with a joke.

"Ha, yeah, double tap," replied DS Cole, as he started up the vehicle and reversed.

Michael remembered how his father always told him to reverse into a parking space and not drive straight in, even though it might be easier to do so. It made for an easy getaway.

These guys didn't do that, but Michael's father did.

Michael's father was old school. He was retired from the City of London Police Force and had represented both force and country overseas. He was also a 'retired' secret intelligence officer, who had served Queen and country. A cadet at just sixteen years of age, he was recruited into the City of London Police Force and later discovered he was part of a parallel division of the police force run by MI-5 and MI-6. He had protected Royalty, shot bad guys, tracked down terrorists, been blown up by the IRA, arrested pop stars, delivered gold to South Africa on the quiet, received commendations and awards for bravery, but above all, he had always been there for the family. Michael's father, Edward, was his absolute hero.

Edward was behind the wheel of his vehicle. He could see every exit and entrance to the car park. His car also had tinted windows. He saw the VW Passat leave Marks and Spencer's car park and enter an underground section.

"Too fast and a complete giveaway," he said to himself, sighing as he saw the Passat drive up a ramp with a slight screech of the tyres as it ascended to a higher level. He removed his flat cap and tossed it to the back seat. "To the top, no doubt," he muttered as he struggled to pull off his jacket to reveal a shirt and jumper.

He exited his car and walked briskly to a stairwell that led to the other levels of the car park. The second level saw the Volkswagen Passat drive speedily upward and head up to the third level.

Edward paced up the stairs. His breath was heavy as he reached the roof section. Discreetly hidden by many cars, he had a clear view of the entire car park and saw the Volkswagen Passat roll up the ramp and pull into a space.

"And here's Hot Fuzz once again." He exhaled a deep breath as he watched the car from a safe distance. 

Inside the parked Volkswagen, DS Cole switched the engine off. Both he and DC Crowe turned around to Michael.

"All right?"

"Fine," replied Michael.

"It'll just be a quick chat really, Michael. Is it Michael? Or do you prefer Mike or what?" asked DC Crowe.

"Whichever you feel comfortable in saying," shrugged Michael.

DC Crowe smiled and glanced to DS Cole.

"Ah, you can tell you work in a school, eh Jim?"

"Yeah, very polite and making you feel at ease," DS Cole responded.

"Isn't making people feel at ease your job?" asked Michael. He felt comfortable with these guys. 

"I guess it is our job, but some aspect of it is to make people feel uncomfortable. Maybe the types of people you come into contact with from day to day. I don't know. Would you like to tell us what kind of kids you deal with? We only got a brief overview from the top boss. Your parents' neighbour," said DC Crowe.

"Ah, the man who walks many dogs," commented Michael.

Crowe and Cole laughed. "Yeah, we heard he's got a lot of dogs. Cats too, apparently," replied Crowe.

"I've not seen him walk any of those," smiled Michael.

"But I can imagine him being made to do that," mocked DS Cole.

"I think the wife would make him do anything," chuckled Crowe.

"I've only ever heard her shout and swear in the garden," noted Michael, already fitting in with the cop twosome.  

"Oh yeah, she's a whip cracker," replied Cole.

"She's in the job, too, isn't she?" asked Michael.

"Yeah, she is. A higher rank than he is. Isn't your old man in this line of work?" asked Crowe. 

"Dad worked in the City and also for the security services," Michael confirmed.

"By security I take it you don't mean by the counter in WH Smith?" said Crowe.

Michael just responded with a smile.

Michael's father was on his mobile to his wife as he watched the Volkswagen Passat from near the stairwell.

"He's all right. I'm watching him. Do you want me to pick up a couple of French sticks from Marks while I'm here?"

Crowe brought out an A4 notebook and opened it. "OK, I'm just going to take some notes, if you don't mind. Maybe you can tell me about the place you work at and the types of children you work with. In your own time. Just for us to get an image, you know?"

"Sure. Well, erm. All types really. Anyone new to the borough of Greenwich child-wise. Be they from another school in a different borough and they require a new school. Be they excluded and need a new school. They might have moved house or they may even be from another country. Any child, aged eleven to sixteen, new to this borough comes through us and we assess them academically and socially and determine what the next step is for them. So, they may end up at the PRU, if they're excluded."

"What's 'excluded'?" asked Cole.

"It's the new term for expelled," replied Crowe.

"Right," continued Michael.

"And the PRU is what?" asked Cole.

"Pupil Referral Unit," replied Crowe.

"Right," continued Michael.

"So the ones that go to the PRU? The expelled excluded ones? What do they go there for?" inquired Crowe.

"All kinds of reasons. Persistent disruptive behaviour in their previous school or schools or centres. Violence. Drug use in schools. They might have hit a teacher, or thrown a chair at a teacher, or brought a gun or a knife into school, or something like that," Michael answered, intelligently and confidently.

"Wow. So they're all excluded in the PRU?" asked Cole.

"Not always, but pretty much. Sometimes they call it a 'Managed Move'. It's so political and some teachers say it's like chess with kids. It's like a game. Seriously. You're playing with lives. I don't have time to say much, but it's crazy. Each child is worth a certain amount of cash to a school, and more if they're... say... special. Anyway, some children may not be able to handle school life and feel more comfortable in a smaller class, so end up at the PRU," Michael told them.

"So, what, they choose to go to the Referral Unit?" asked Crowe, curiously.

"No, they won't choose. It's often chosen for them. A head of a school will speak with a head of a PRU and tell them that they'll accept a certain child if the PRU will take a different one back. Sale or return. That kind of thing."

"That's crazy!" blurted Crowe.

"What's sale or return?" asked Cole.

"It's like if a child from the unit is given a chance to return to a mainstream school again and they screw up, the school they're sent to can return them back to the PRU, no problem. Is that right?" said Crowe.

"Something like that," replied Michael.

"And what do you mean by 'special'?" asked Cole.

"In foster care or they get a free school lunch. Statemented. That kind of thing," responded Michael. 

"So, tell us about the types of kid you have there," Crowe asked.

"Well, we have boys and girls. They're aged eleven to sixteen. We have the stereotypical Chavy type. Hoodie-wearing, cannabis-dealing, smoking, scowling, cheap-tracksuit-wearing insecure white kid. We have children from abroad who are new to the UK. They could be from absolutely anywhere: China, Nepal, West Africa, Afghanistan, Iran, Italy, India, Pakistan, Philippines, Nigeria, Jordan, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Somalia. To name just a few. Oh and Canada, but from my experience, they've been surprisingly OK," Michael smirked, as did Cole and Crowe.

"Any gang kids?" asked Cole.

"Lots," replied Michael, in a firm tone.

"Do you know any of the gangs in Greenwich?" asked Crowe.

"All of them," Michael said, positively. "You could have gang members from T-Block, Cherry, the Ferrier and The Woolwich Boys in one class, not to mention ones from maybe Peckham or Lewisham."

"Do they ever fight in class?" asked Cole.

"I wouldn't say never," replied Michael. "It's happened, but it's rare. They're wary of one another, sure, but we hardly ever have a fight. There's the occasional spat at the main PRU, our other site, but we haven't really had an incident at our one. No."

"OK, so what about the other countries? How does that work?" asked Crowe, as he scribbled a few notes down on the A4 pad.

"This one's a little odd, or rather, more confusing at times. The overseas students - I don't think half of them are actually children. They're far too old-looking to be children. These are men."

"You have men in the same class as the kids?" asked Cole.

"Not officially. But it's plain to see they are men. Grown men. Predominantly from Afghanistan or Iran. These guys are big, unshaven and arrive not knowing their age or date of birth, so the Foreign Office gives them a date of birth, which is usually the first of the first," Michael reeled off, confidently.

"First of the first? What do you mean by that?" asked Crowe, with a frown. 

That was all new to the detectives. They were in the dark on all of this, but they were learning fast.

"If they don't know their date of birth and if we don't, then our people will guess and say something like 'Hmm, they look like they could be what? Fourteen? OK, fourteen it is.' And they'll give them the birthday of the first of January two thousand and whatever it is. You see, it stands out like crazy when the limited amount of paperwork arrives. Usually it is just one sheet of paper telling you where they live and who their foster parent is," Michael explained.

"They're all fostered?" Cole muttered.

"Pretty much. The foster parents are another story altogether," answered Michael.

"So, the kids from abroad. What are they like? Are they gang members?" asked Crowe, with his pen poised, readying himself to make yet more notes.

"Not really, but give it time. They're often troubling, let alone troubled. They could be children of Taliban members. They could have had their families killed by the Taliban. They could have had their families killed by us. They could be boy soldiers from Somalia or Angola. They could be children of revolutionaries in Iran. They could be autistic children from Nigeria whose parents are in denial that their child has anything wrong with them, medically, so have literally beaten the devil out of them or scarred them in some way that they become incredibly messed up. They could be a child of the working classes, white and incredibly strange, with a fascination for mermaids and believe everyone they come into contact with is actually a character from

Doctor Who, and when you meet each of their parents, you then realise why they are like they are," Michael informed them.

"Which is usually fucked up. Pardon my French," commented Crowe.