My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (9 page)

Her head wobbled at him.

Michael wondered whether if it was actually a medical condition or a habit that had formed into a nervous twitch. Whatever it was, it bloody annoyed the hell out of him and he wasn't the type of person who got annoyed at anything.

Something a child whom Michael dealt with would say, "She gets my goat," summed her up quite nicely.

Catherine placed her hands on her hips like a gunslinger.

Michael rolled his tongue around inside his mouth, filling out his cheeks and gums. He slowly pulled his car keys from his back pocket as he stopped a couple of feet away from her, ready to draw.

"You're a rebel," she said to him, with a slight smirk.

"With a cause," he quipped.

Her smirk disappeared fast.

"Tomorrow I'm going to give you some mentees," she said.

"But I'm not ill."

"I don't understand your humour, Michael, and this isn't the place for laughs anyway," Catherine replied.

"Oh, I think it is, and should carry on to be, Catherine. Humour works very well in this place. It's an important ingredient of why we're so successful."

"I disagree."

"You would, Catherine. You see, these children arrive angry and leave happy or at least happier than when they walked through the door. They have the crappiest of lives. For the majority, there has never been a laugh or a smile in any of their lives from the moment they were born," Michael said, passionately.

"You don't know that," interrupted Catherine.

"Well, it's pretty evident from their files, their behaviour, their attitude and their ever-present scornful faces, so please, grant me those pretty important facts."

"As your Line Manager, I'm-"

"We've been through this, you're not my Line Manager," he cut in.

"As your Line Manager, I'm going to-"

"You're not my Line Manager, Catherine."

"I am your Line Manager!" She raised her voice.

"No, you're not."

"I am!" she practically yelled and became more and more flushed. Her neck instantly reddened.

"Catherine, I dislike this phrase, but with all due respect, you are not my Line Manager. You are not in charge of me."

"I control you!" she said, huffing, like a child having a tantrum and not getting its own way.

"No, don't be silly, you don't control me and you're not my Line Manager."

"Who controls you? Who? Who is it?" she demanded.

"Nobody controls me. My Line Manager is Helen. My role is pretty much a self-defined one," Michael said calmly.

"No. I strongly disagree. As the Centre Manager, I control you. You're under my command. You're the mentor and I send you a list of mentees," Catherine stated, almost out of breath and nodding simultaneously.

"Catherine, it's no big deal, really, but please understand: Helen is my line manager. I can have students recommended to me from you, Patricia or other teachers, or the students can choose to come to me for themselves. I can enter classrooms and observe certain pupils and I can assist the teachers."

"So you have free will to do as you please?"

"Like I said, my role is self-defined. If Helen had a problem with me and the work I do here, she'd say so. She hasn't so far in the five years that I've worked with her, so I must be doing OK in her eyes."

"Go on. Go on."

"Go on what, Catherine?"

"Go on and tell me what else you do. You breeze in and out of classrooms at will, play the occasional game of basketball and then go home."

"If that's what you think I do, then fine, but I'd suggest you look a little closer, without making it so obvious to everyone that you're trying your damnedest to inspect me."

"You just want to be their friend," she said to him.

"I'm a friendly face, but I'm by no means their friend. There's always a boundary, Catherine. I take what a child says and does very seriously and professionally and I always note it down. I'm a reliable member of the team and that's what Helen, above all else, can trust. It's about that, Catherine. Trust." Michael gripped his car key and inserted it into the lock.

She looked at the car door and sidestepped. At least she got that right.

"You're just a bit of a clown really, aren't you?" she said, giving it one last attempt at pushing a button.

"I'm not a clown and this isn't a circus." Michael opened his car door and clambered into the driving seat. He quickly inserted his key into the ignition and brought the vehicle to life. He shoved it into gear and drove out of the car park, pulling on his seatbelt.

Catherine watched the car become more distant, nodding her head.

"What a nutcase," sighed Michael.

He was first at a set of roadwork traffic lights as he slowed to a halt.

There were so many roadwork signs, dug up holes and traffic lights in Greenwich. If Greenwich was a heart and the road a major artery, then the roadworks were clogging up that artery. Huge stress was being placed on the heart. Worse still, more often than not workmen were hardly ever visible. The lights took a lifetime to change from red to green. Michael's mobile phone rang. He retrieved it and noticed an unfamiliar number. He glanced up at the traffic lights. Still red. He took the call.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end was Scottish. Soft. Maybe Edinburgh.

"Hello, is that Michael?"

"Who's calling?" replied Michael, glancing up at the red light.

"This is Detective Constable Malcolm Crowe. My boss, Simon, is a neighbour of your parents."

"Oh, right," said Michael, looking up at the red traffic light and sighing.

"I was wondering if you have time to meet today. Just on the off chance. Today would be ideal though. Is it possible that would fit into your schedule?" replied the now identified DC Malcolm Crowe.

"Erm, when and where did you have in mind?" asked Michael.

"Well, we're near Blue Water. Would that be all right for you?"

Michael knew that if the lights changed and he drove beyond them, he would now have to head back on himself and be on the opposite side to where he currently was. Back at a set of annoying traffic lights. "And you'd like to meet today?" he asked.

"Would that be OK for yer?"

"No problem."

"Good stuff. When you arrive, just give us a call."

The lights changed to amber. 

"OK. See you then," Michael quickly said, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat and shoving the vehicle into first gear, turning the wheel as far as it would go to the right.

Green light.

A car from the opposite direction had obviously gone over their own red light and narrowly missed Michael as he conducted an excellent U-turn, with his front wheel nearly touching the curb on the other side.

Second gear.

He accelerated and sighed as he was on the move once again.

Third gear.

He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his right hand.

Fourth gear.

He pressed a button and scrolled his driver's side window down.

Fifth gear.

He exhaled and drove a steady pace behind a car. His eyes fixed on something on the car in front. It was a nodding, plastic dog. Michael sneered and then his eyes diverted to something else. Dangling inside the car was none other than a yellow "Child On Board" sign.

Upon the A2, Michael drove, heading past the Crayford turn-off. He called his father, Edward, who was tidying some boxes in his garage.

"Hello Mike. Everything all right?"

"Hey Dad. I just got a call from a detective wanting to meet me in Bluewater."

"When?"

"Now. Well, I'm on my way. He said for me to call him when I arrive." Michael steadied the wheel as he drove in the middle lane.

"Would you like me to meet you there?" his father asked.

"Yes please. If you don't mind." Michael formed a relieved expression.

"Of course not! I'll see you there," his father said, comfortingly.

"I'll park near Marks and Spencer," said Michael.

"OK. I'll call you when I get there."

Bluewater was a shopping centre that opened in 1999. It was in Greenhithe, in the county of Kent, and was the rival to and, to many, a more upmarket version of Lakeside Shopping Centre in West Thurrock in Essex. Way before the days of Westfield. It had a code of conduct. A policy that had banned certain types of clothing that obscured the face. Hoodies mainly, and baseball caps. Swearing was also a no-no, as were large groups of people who had no intention to shop. This came at a time when gangs were fast on the rise and Bluewater's policies were warmly welcomed. Mostly by the middle class and not by the hood-wearing youths lacking direction or any kind of purpose other than to intimidate, steal, cause trouble, walk around aimlessly or linger and swear at the true shoppers who visited there.

The high profile shops suited the tone and the place was hailed as a design revelation. It was a place Michael knew well as he had spent many an hour there over the years. It was also just a ten minute drive away from his parents' home.

Michael drove into the covered section of the car park near Marks and Spencer. It was quiet and although there were plenty of spaces available, he parked between two vehicles and switched off his engine. His phone rang and 'Mum and Dad' flashed up on his iPhone screen. Michael sat in the dark and answered his phone.

"Hello Dad."

"Hello Mike. I can see you, so don't worry about anything."

"Thanks Dad. I'll give the bloke a call. See you soon."

Michael scrolled through his phone to the recent calls section. He called the number of Malcolm Crowe. It rang a couple of times. Michael's heart was beating fast. He felt a little nervous, even more so when the phone was answered by DC Malcolm Crowe.

"Hello." His voice was chirpy and upbeat.

"Hi, it's Michael. I've arrived."

"Hey. OK. Great stuff. We've just parked up too, so maybe if you'd like to make your way to the Marks and Spencer entrance where the flower section is, that'd be great. Would that be OK for yer?" said DC Crowe.

"I'm on the other side, so I'll see you in a few minutes," Michael replied.

"Sure. No problem. See you."

At the Marks and Spencer entrance Michael glanced around, but there was nobody to see nearby. However, in the shadows, fifty feet away, was his father in a tweed flat cap and a dark green wax jacket.

Edward followed his son at a safe enough distance not to be seen.

A handful of people were milling around the lingerie section of Marks and Spencer as Michael passed through. His eyes were everywhere and he wondered if he was being watched by the people who'd called him, but he felt comfortable that his own father was also present.

Michael's father, Edward, held a hand-basket as he followed twenty feet behind, looking at various goods on shelves. He looked up to see his Michael enter the food section.

Michael walked past the fruit and vegetable aisle and weaved around several people as he made through a checkout, heading for the entrance near the fresh flower counter.

His father slowed his pace and put his basket on the floor. He noticed Michael had exited the store. Outside the other entrance of Marks and Spencer, Michael surveyed his surroundings. He saw a bald man in his late forties lingering beside a Range Rover and smoking a cigarette. He turned to see two young men with a trolley of bagged groceries.

A woman in her late twenties, in tight jeans and a loose fitting top, caught his eye thirty feet or so away as she put shopping into her car.

Michael waited patiently and scanned the car park some more. He squinted to look further, seeing a man in a dark green baseball cap, discreetly hidden by the cover of a couple of cars. Michael's phone rang.

"Hello," answered Michael.

"Hi, I'm wearing a white t-shirt. If you just make your way to the start of the pathway in the carpark and follow me from about fifteen feet behind, that'd be great," instructed DC Malcolm Crowe, before hanging up the phone.

Michael crossed over, exaggerating a scratching of the head as he stepped onto the pathway. He noticed a man turn around and then start to walk.

He was in his early forties. On that day, he wore a dark green baseball cap, light blue jeans, Timberland boots and a white t-shirt.

Michael smirked, knowing full well that he saw him.

His father was a short distance away and saw the man in the white t-shirt near a new silver Volkswagen Passat. The rear windows were heavily tinted.

Edward looked at the registration plate. He then clocked the exits to the carpark. There was one close by, but it led back to the underground section. He watched his son retrieve his phone as his own phone rang.

"Michael, what's up?"

"They've just called me to say make for a silver Volkswagen with tinted windows," Michael said hurriedly.

"OK. Don't worry. I've got you. They'll probably flash their lights to you," his father said.