The Substitute: Tom Jackson

By Ron Parker

When children go missing, Police Inspector Tom Jackson is forced to take a back step. Is the present case linked to a cold murder case he is investigating?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rolyart
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215934081

Book preview

The Substitute

Chapter 1

In the north-west of England at a police station in the small town of Staffington, Detective Inspector Tom Jackson drummed his fingers on the desk while perusing a dog-eared file.

His sergeant, Harry Abercrombie, entered the office with two polystyrene cups of tea and put one on the boss’s desk.

You still reading up on that cold case? he said, as he strolled to his own desk.

We never close a murder investigation, Harry. You know that.

Yeah, but after all this time? Seven years, isn’t it? It’s not likely anything new will turn up now.

Jackson took a sip of tea. "I’d still like to give it a try. It’s the one case I’ve been on without getting a result. Before I’m pensioned off, I want to see justice for the girl’s parents.

Do you remember the case?"

Jackson was only in his mid-fifties, but it was standard practice for police officers to retire early, so there wasn’t long to go.

Only vaguely, I wasn’t here then. A kidnapping that went bad, wasn’t it? 

Jackson swivelled round in the chair, then spun back towards Abercrombie before responding. That’s right. A fourteen-year-old schoolgirl named Loraine Patterson got kidnapped and held for ransom. We advised the parents not to pay. It was a mistake. They found Loraine in a back alley, strangled. We never caught the culprit.

I wouldn’t say it was a mistake, Abercrombie said. If they’d paid the cash, every scoundrel who learned about it would try the same game. All the kids in town would have been put at risk.

Yeah, but they’d probably be alive, and so would Loraine.

It wasn’t your fault.

I think it was, and so do her parents. Which is why I owe it to them to catch her killer. Jackson closed the file. Not today, though. I promised I’d take Karen to that pop concert.

Yeah, I remember you mentioning you were finishing early today. Enjoy yourself.

It’s a kid’s show, Harry.

* * *

Adam Bradley took a last bow and left the stage, ignoring the pleas from his fans for another encore. It had been a great show in his hometown of Staffington. But the pop idol was tired. He needed to go home, relax and spend time with his wife and son while he had the opportunity. Owen would be asleep by now, but at least he could see the eight-year-old, something he seldom had the chance to do.

Adam passed between two minders to go into his dressing room and got changed as fast as he could. He wanted to escape before the fans blocked the stage door. Those fans were the people who made him wealthy. All they sought in return was an autograph, but tonight he would disappoint them.

As soon as he had changed, the artist allowed the minders to escort him to into the street. He carried his guitar in its case. The instrument always travelled with him personally. He trusted the roadies to deliver all the other apparatus he needed to and from the theatre, but not the guitar. That stayed with him.

Some of the fans were already outside the door waving autograph albums or programmes to be signed. Adam ignored them and got into the waiting limousine, blanking out the shouts of the growing crowd. The bodyguards got in the car and it sped away leaving the angry supporters fuming.

* * *

One of those admirers, younger than most, was twelve-year-old Karen Jackson. She was disappointed but shrugged and walked back to where her father was waiting to drive her home. Tom Jackson wasn’t interested in autographs but had enjoyed the concert along with his daughter even though he would never admit that to her. Tom had a broad taste in music but was too old to be enjoying teenybopper’s shows.

He had left work early today to escort Karen to the show, having promised his wife, Sheila, and himself, he would spend more time with the family. When his daughter had discovered the local hero would be performing in Staffington, she was determined to see him. Tom insisted on accompanying her, feigning resentment, but secretly glad of the opportunity.

Now, Tom drove home with his daughter in the passenger seat. She was unusually quiet. Tom didn’t know whether this was because of fatigue, or disappointment at Bradley’s attitude. The pop star had let down his supporters tonight. Jackson wondered if the man understood how much a simple signature from him meant to them and if he acknowledged he would be nowhere without them.

When they reached home, Karen sauntered into the house and busied herself making a bedtime snack in the kitchen. Jackson went to look at his younger child, Daniel. The redheaded nine-year-old was fast asleep, but he watched the boy for a few minutes before returning downstairs.

Sheila, was waiting with a whisky for him.

She kissed him. How was the show? Karen doesn’t seem too excited about it.

You know I only took her to make sure she was safe, but she enjoyed it.

Stop pretending, Tom. You know you like Adam Bradley.

He’s okay, I suppose. Ignorant, though.

Why d’you say that?

Hasn’t Karen told you? He wouldn’t sign any autographs.

No. She took her supper to her room. Perhaps Bradley was busy. Another show, maybe.

I don’t think so, not at this hour of the night. He’s in his hometown. Why would he do another gig somewhere else?

* * *

Bradley’s limousine pulled up at the front door of the old mansion house he now called home. The automatic gates had closed behind the car, leaving them in a secure garden. Even though the area was well protected, one minder got out to check around. Getting the 'all clear' signal, the second guard left the vehicle and opened the door for Bradley.  After escorting him to the building where another member of staff was waiting, the minders left, their duties for the day completed.

Inside, George Simpson, Bradley’s personal assistant and friend, took over the pop star’s welfare, providing a bedtime drink and something to eat.

Everything all right with Susan and Owen, George? Bradley asked his employee.

They’re both fine, Adam. What could happen to them with all the security you hire for ‘em? The PA was several inches taller than his diminutive employer, and even if Adam hadn’t been sitting down, he would have needed to look up to meet the other man’s eyes.

George Simpson was more than just an employee, having known the family before Bradley achieved success. In fact, George had been one of Bradley’s first roadies and had been a pal for some time before that. He was at Adam’s wedding to Susan and was around a year later to celebrate the birth of Owen, the Bradleys' only child.

* * *

Located in the outskirts of Staffington, the location of Dootson House wasn’t a secret. Though well-guarded, the family home of Adam Bradley was known to most people of the town and the surrounding area. It would have been difficult for someone with Adam’s profile to go unnoticed, and it wasn’t often he could move through the gates of the mansion without a small audience. Despite the lateness of the hour, tonight had been no exception. His real fans had all been at the show, but there were invariably people watching at the gate for his return, hoping to get a glimpse of the celebrity. Most of them had gone home by now, long since having given up seeing any more of Adam tonight. Two guys, however, remained, sitting in a car parked some way down the road so as not to rouse the guards’ suspicions. These men were not there to glorify the pop star but to make money out of him.

Dale Eaton wound down the driver’s window and threw out the butt of a cigarette, before turning to his comrade in the passenger seat. Well? Well, what? Calvin Disley queried.

How are we goin’ to get ‘old of ‘im?

The kid goes to school, doesn’t he?

Eaton coughed. Yeah, with a bodyguard. You’ve seen ‘em. When is the boy ever by himself?

He has to be on his own sometime. We wait for our chance.

I don’t like it. This job ain’t goin’ to be as easy as you said.

You’ve got no patience, Disley retorted. All we have to do is grab an eight-yearold kid. What could be easier? And think of the cash daddy will pay us not to hurt him, let alone what he’ll hand over to get the boy back.    

Chapter 2

Owen Bradley squirmed as Uncle George finished pulling a comb through his tousled, golden hair.

I can do it myself, the eight-year-old protested.

Of course you can, but as you well know, your mother wants me to get you ready on schooldays. George wasn’t Owen’s uncle, but he had called him that ever since he could remember.

Uncle George was correct, but Owen was sure his mother didn’t understand how much it embarrassed him to be dressed as if he was still a baby. Almost as embarrassing as having bodyguards with him all the time at school. His mother didn’t like him going to school at all and would have much preferred a private tutor. Mum and Dad sometimes argued about it. Owen didn’t understand why his dad wanted him to go to school with other kids whose families didn’t have as much money as they did.

He had heard Dad telling Mum that he wanted Owen to grow up normal. It didn’t make any sense as Owen thought he was already normal.

Ablutions and dressing done, Uncle George ushered Owen into the large dining room where the boy’s mother waited. The smell of freshly made coffee told Owen breakfast had already been started. As usual after a gig, Dad had stayed in bed.

Alison, their cook, appeared as soon as Owen sat at the table. Owen didn’t like Alison much even though she acted more like a grandmother than a servant, except she wasn’t old enough to be a grandmother. 

What would you like this morning, Sir? she asked the boy, chirpily.

Beans - with chips. Owen glanced at his mother for approval but already knew