The Inspector who had text Miller was waiting by the side of a call-handler’s desk. He quickly gave a pair of headphones to the DCI and pressed a playback button on the computer screen. Miller listened to the call which had come in only minutes earlier.
“Hello, Manchester City Police Incident Room.”
“Hi, yes, hello. I’m… I wanted to report that I know the voice that was on the news.”
“Is your call in relation to the fatal arson attack in Denton last night?”
“Yes, that’s right, just heard about it on North West Tonight.” The caller was an elderly female with a deep, gravelly voice. She sounded as though she’d had a life-time addiction to cigarettes.
“Okay, well if I can just take some details.”
Miller listened as the name and address of the caller were logged down.
“And what did you want to tell us?”
“Well its… I’m not a grass…”
“Okay.”
“Just wanted to make that clear?”
“Yes, that’s fine…”
“If you’re concerned about somebody, you know, about the people they are hanging around, well, that doesn’t make you a grass, does it?”
“No, of course not. Quite the opposite in fact.”
“I know, that’s what I thought. But I’m about a hundred-per-cent certain that the voice on that phone-call is my grandson.”
“Really?”
“Yes, plus, he only lives a five minute walk away from that phone box.”
“And you’re definitely sure that it’s him?”
“Yes. Like I say, I’d bet my life-savings.”
“Can you give me his name and address please?”
“Yes. He’s called Lewis Braithwaite, he lives at number two hundred and eleven, Egerton Street, Denton.”
“And how old is your grandson please?”
“He’s nineteen, no, twenty. It was his birthday a few weeks ago. Twenty.”
“And have you told Lewis that you are contacting us?”
“No. I don’t speak to him. We don’t get on.”
“Okay, well, thank you for calling. I’ll make sure that the investigating officers are aware of this information straight away.”
“Good. He’s been hanging around in the wrong crowd. He needs to get away from them.”
Miller patted the call-handler on the shoulder. “You are a legend young man! Thanks very much.”
The young man smiled widely as Miller turned to the Inspector who was running the call-centre. “That’s absolutely brilliant that. Thanks for getting it to me so quick. I’ll go and fetch this Lewis Braithwaite in right now before his granny tells anyone that she’s grassed him up.”
*****
Saunders was busy working away in Miller’s office, keen to stay away from the rest of his officers. It was inevitable that he’d be badgered constantly about the Hartley case if he was within earshot, and that would dramatically hinder his progress as he kept digging through the threads on the discussion boards. He was frustrated that he couldn’t find a single comment which gave any clues. There were lots of vague remarks about “pay-back” and “vengeance” and “retribution” but no specifics. It was all very ambiguous and nebulous, like the mainstream media’s ongoing suggestion that British Labour voters all hate Jewish people.
The web page contained lots of keyboard-warrior style statements, such as “I’m up for this. If I can’t have my money back, these cunts aren’t having it neither!” That remark by a user called “Atlantean” had received 47 “thumbs up” from other members of the online forum.
After half-an-hour of scrolling through the same, stupid, often childish remarks, Saunders was becoming frustrated.
“Welcome to the world of the brain-deads!” he muttered to himself. He decided that there was nothing but bullshit here, so opted to become proactive. He logged onto Google and searched for a “free e-mail address.” Within a second, the screen was filled with links to websites offering new e-mail addresses. Saunders clicked on the first one, “Outlook” and started thinking of a fake name to use. It didn’t take him long to come up with John Smith, as he started filling out the boxes on screen. His new name was accepted and the e-mail company offered him various versions of it. Saunders wrote the e-mail address in his pad, and then jotted down the password that he had chosen. Password1.
Within seconds, Saunders was back on the forum page, and was signing up as a new member. He decided to go with John5mith, which was accepted. After a few tick boxes were checked, Saunders was now an active member of the page which hosted such inspired comments as “goes around comes around lmfao karma bitches.”
The DI went back to the thread that he had shown to his boss half-an-hour earlier and checked to see if it had any new comments. It hadn’t. Nobody had made a single comment today, despite the issue of betting shop attacks being the number one news story in the UK. This detail didn’t stack up.
“Well that was a fuck up idea, did they not know there was a family inside. Kids. RIP to the Ozols family is all I can say.” Saunders pressed return on the keyboard and sat back in his seat as the comment by “John5mith” appeared on the virtual “wall” of the forum.
*****
The three remaining SCIU detectives in the office, Chapman, Grant and Rudovsky were getting on with their tasks in silence while the clock wound itself on. Time seemed to move very quickly when rewinding, reviewing and logging CCTV clips.
“Bloody hell! Look at the time,” said Rudovsky, sounding stunned to see that it was almost eight pm. “Are we going to call it a night soon, or what?”
“Sweet baby Jesus! How did that happen?” Asked Grant.
“I know! I’m going to be getting my ears chewed off from Abbi,” said Rudovsky. “Right, well, I’m off,” she said as she made some final notes of where she was up to.
“Yes, I’m packing up too,” added Grant. “My eyes are starting to get pissed off with me.”
“I’m going to stay, if that’s okay?” said Chapman, without looking around. Rudovsky and Grant glanced at one another and almost laughed at the bewildered expressions that each was exaggerating for comic effect.
“Are you sure Bill? You’ll get square eyes staring at that screen all night.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I think I might have something here.”
“What about your tea?”
“Oh, I’ll ring summat. Don’t worry about me. You guys get off and I’ll see you in the morning. Hopefully I’ll have something for us…”
“Really? What have you got?”
“Well, nowt concrete yet. But I’m working on it.” Chapman seemed a bit defensive and Rudovsky read the situation well.
“Okay, well, I hope it follows through Bill. See you in the morning.”
“Night.” Said Chapman, without altering his eyes from the flickering black and white CCTV footage of a quiet terraced street. The footage he was examining had been captured by a camera on the corner of an Italian restaurant on Monton Road. The camera’s primary objective was surveillance around the side of the property, where the kitchen door offered a vulnerable spot for burglars. But the periphery of the camera’s lens also took in the entire length of Francis street and was providing Chapman with some extremely valuable footage of the dead man’s street.
Once Chapman’s colleagues had left, he walked across to the kitchen area and had a look at the various takeaway delivery menus which were pinned up on the noticeboard. It didn’t take him long to decide on a twelve-inch spicy meat-feast pizza and a portion of cheesy chips with a carton of chilli sauce. As soon as he’d phoned it through and made a cup of coffee, he headed back to his PC monitor, determined to come up with something solid for the following morning’s team briefing.
*****
Miller was parked outside Lewis Braithwaite’s address, waiting for a custody van to join him. He’d phoned Tameside, the nearest police station and asked for a van on the hurry-up as he’d made his way to the address. H
e’d anticipated that it would be nearby by now, but it wasn’t.
The house was a typical post-war Manchester council-house, built from the hardest Accrington NORI bricks, so they could last forever. The property was situated close to the junction with Corporation Street, a main road through Denton and Audenshaw. The lad’s granny had been correct, the phone box where Lewis had allegedly made his 999 call was about five minutes away from this house on foot.
All of the lights were on inside, including the upstairs. Miller was pretty sure that he had seen a young bloke in the smaller upstairs window when he’d pulled up, but the silhouette figure hadn’t returned while he’d been sitting in his car, waiting for the meat van.
A few tense minutes passed, before Miller finally saw a police van enter Egerton Street at the far end. He flashed his lights numerous times in the oncoming vehicle’s direction to alert them to his location, as well as to tell them to kill the blue lights and siren. They got the message and Miller got out of his car as the van parked up.
“Hiya, alright? Just a routine one this.” Said Miller to the two police officers as they stepped out of the vehicle and closed the doors. “Person of interest is twenty-year-old Lewis Braithwaite, I think he’s in the address. One of you cover the back-door, the other stay with me in case he starts kicking off.”
The officers followed Miller through the gap where a garden gate had once stood. The first officer continued around the side of the house as Miller knocked on the front door.
A woman in her forties answered, she was dressed smartly in a Barclays Bank uniform.
“Yes?”
“Hello. I’m DCI Miller from MCP. I need a word with Lewis. Is he in?”
“Yeah, why, what’s…”
“Can you get him for me, please?”
“Lewis!” she shouted up the stairs.
“Whaa-aat?” came the moody reply. Lewis sounded like Kevin the teenager from the Harry Enfield sketches.
“Come down here, now. There’s a policeman here to talk to you.”
Suddenly, there was some noise upstairs, banging and feet moving around quickly. Miller rushed past the mother and ran up the stairs. The police officer stayed at the door.
“What’s…what the fuck man?” said Lewis as he saw Miller bounding into the little bedroom towards him.
“What are you doing?” asked Miller, noticing that he was pushing something into a cupboard.
“Nowt. Get off me. I haven’t done fuck all!”
Miller looked into the cupboard and pulled out a ruck-sack. That was the item that Lewis had been trying to conceal. He placed it on the floor by his feet.
“Have you got an evidence bag in the van?” shouted Miller down the stairs.
“This is fucking bollocks man. Persecution and shit!”
“Yes Sir,” shouted the policeman downstairs.
“Go and grab it for us, cheers.”
“Fucking total bollocks!” said Lewis.
Miller stared at him, doing his scariest, most intimidating glare. He held his finger up to his lip to shush the young lad. It worked. Whatever this Lewis was, he wasn’t a fighter, he was a soft-arse. He looked down at the floor.
The police officer came rushing up the stairs.
“Bag that please.” Said Miller as he took his cuffs off his belt. “Lewis Braithwaite, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, you do not…”
“Murder? What the actual fuck?” pleaded Lewis as Miller read him his rights. He looked completely stunned.
“Will be taken down and…”
“Fucking murder? Mum, come and tell this dibble, he says I’ve murdered someone! Mum!”
Miller fastened the hand-cuffs behind Lewis’ back and began walking him onto the landing, towards the top of the stairs.
“What the hell is going on?” asked the lady who had opened the door a couple of minutes earlier. She was trembling as Lewis and Miller walked slowly down the stairs towards her.
“Tell ‘em mum! He’s arresting me for fucking murder!”
Lewis’ mum fell to her knees by the front door, holding her hands to her face.
*****
Fifteen minutes after Saunders had left his comment on the gambling addicts chat-room page, a reply appeared. It was written by one of the earlier correspondents who had last posted on the page several days ago.
“Well it obvs wasn’t supposed to kill a family was it you numpty.”
Saunders was staring at the comment, trying hard to think of a response that wouldn’t blow his cover. As he was trying to come up with something, another comment appeared.
“Not seen you on here b4 m8. Who r u?” The comment had come from a familiar name on the group, FrogEyes1981.
Saunders began typing. “Hi, I’m just pretty gutted about that fire. It fucks everything up now.”
Several minutes passed, though it felt even longer. Finally, Frog Eyes replied. “Doesn’t mean its over. But it will probably die down for a few weeks, maybe months BUT ITS NOT OVER!!!”
Saunders smiled. In his heart of hearts, he hadn’t thought that he’d actually get anywhere with this. But Frog Eyes’ comment was invaluable in suggesting that people knew what this was all about. And if they knew that, they probably had a good idea of who was behind it, too.
The DI was getting ready for going home, but decided to roll this dice one last time. He shook his fingers above his keyboard for a few seconds before starting to type, “Its over. Total fucking failure.”
As soon as it appeared on the screen, he shut the PC down and knocked Miller’s office light off. It was twenty past nine and Saunders was starting to feel tired for the first time today, despite his day beginning at 2am after just a couple of hours sleep. As he stepped out of Miller’s office, he was shocked to see DC Bill Chapman still at his desk on the opposite side of the office-floor.
“Bill?”
Chapman span around on his chair.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, alright. Just doing a bit of CCTV work on the Hartley case.”
“Fucking hell!”
“What?”
“Oh nowt. I thought you’d died or summat, still sat in here after five o’clock!”
“Very good!” said Chapman, turning back towards his PC screen. Saunders walked across to him.
“So, what have you got?”
“Oh, I’m just trawling through the footage on Hartley’s street. I think I might be on to something actually.”
“Well, listen, don’t let me start distracting you. I need my bed.”
“Night Sir.”
“Yeah night Bill.”
Saunders walked out of the SCIU offices and onto the stairs. “Never thought I’d leave the office before Chapman!” He said to himself as he descended.
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday. 9am.
“Okay guys, I think we need a team briefing to catch up with everything that’s happened over the past twenty-four hours.” DS Jo Rudovsky looked excited as she spoke to her team, gesturing them enthusiastically to join her by the incident room wall, which contained much of the story so far in the search for Graham Hartley’s killer.
The SCIU detectives stayed seated and pushed their chairs along the floor using their feet as they formed a semi-circle around their DS.
“Right… things are moving at an excellent pace, and things are really starting to fall into place.”
“If you could make your next sentence rhyme, that would be fucking ace!” Kenyon grinned widely as his colleagues laughed at his wise-crack.
“Very good Pete! One-nil to you. Right, on a serious note, Bill has unlocked a treasure trove of leads with his suggestion about the jogging route. We’re now looking at the potential for an arrest in the next couple of hours so I think that it is vital that we all have a good understanding of what’s come to light.”
Rudovsky stepped across to a black and white photograph on the wall. It was a CCTV still of a car pulling into Francis Street, the road that
Hartley had lived on, in the centre of Monton village.
“Okay. This car, a dark grey Vauxhall Vectra has been coming and going during the week prior to the attack, roughly around the time that Graham Hartley arrived home from work. It has stayed in the street until Hartley set off jogging and has subsequently left shortly afterwards, following the direction that Hartley was jogging. The vehicle is not registered to an address in the Monton area, and our CCTV footage confirms that the driver does not leave the vehicle at any time, on any of the visits. The vehicle enters the street, turns around at the bottom, then parks and waits.”
“That’s a bit weird.” Said DC Helen Grant.
“It gets weirder, believe me. This vehicle parked in or around Francis Street on three occasions in the week leading up to the attack on Graham Hartley. So, as we had almost a month of CCTV footage from the security cameras on the Italian restaurant at the top of Francis Street, we decided to do a scroll through each day, looking for this vehicle.”
“Sounds like a ball-acher, that!” said Chapman, the DC who had stayed until the early hours working on this brain-numbing task.
“It was worth it though Bill, as you well know!”
“True.”
“What Bill discovered was that this car initially started appearing in the street soon after another vehicle had.” Rudovsky pointed to another black and white camera shot, this time of a smaller car.
“This vehicle, bizarrely, was registered to the same address as the suspect vehicle. Anybody want to guess the rest?”
DC Grant put her arm up first.
“Go on Helen.”
“Well, my first instinct is that the smaller car, what is it, a Corsa?”
“Yes.”
“Well I’d guess that the Corsa driver is up to something they shouldn’t be, and the Vectra driver is doing a bit of amateur detective work.”
“Ten out of ten Helen. Spot on. The Corsa driver is being driven by the wife of the Vectra driver. We have the names of both from DVLA records. The Corsa driver recently changed addresses. So, what we are actually witnessing here is a marriage break-down, where the newly estranged wife has been embarking on a new relationship with this man.” Rudovsky patted the photograph of Graham Hartley as her team made comments and noises which conveyed their surprise, as well as their excitement that this case looked close to being cracked.
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