About half a mile up the road from Giggsy’s former home, a BT engineer was knocking at the door of number 11. His white “Open-Reach” liveried van was parked just outside the small, terraced property. He had to knock a few times before the door was eventually answered.
“Hiya mate, sorry to trouble you. I’m having a bit of a nightmare with the lines to these houses. Just wondered if you’ve been having any problems?”
The man at the door looked puzzled. “What, with the phone?”
“Yeah, phone, internet. I can’t get my head round it, because some houses are alright and others are reporting faults, but all these houses are fed from the same cabinet so it’s not making much sense really. Can’t get my head round it.”
The man thought about it for a few seconds. He was a well-built man, around six feet tall, with close-cropped ginger hair. “Nah, everything’s sweet, in fact, I’ve just been on the internet then, when you knocked on.”
“Alright mate, no worries, thanks a lot, I’ll ask them next door. Cheers mate, sorry for disturbing you.”
“No problem, pal.”
Billy Nolan closed the door on the friendly BT engineer, who turned and started talking quietly into his chest. “Suspect home, positive ID, over to you guys. Stay safe. Over.”
Within seconds of the under-cover policeman’s alert, a huge, dark blue police van pulled up on the kerb outside the address and six officers jumped out, fully suited up in helmets and riot gear, one of them was carrying a bright red battering ram, known amongst officers as “the enforcer.” They began running towards the front door.
Round the back of the address, another team of 6 tactical aid officers were taking their positions in the back-yard, listening to the radio for their next instruction.
“Use the big red key! Go! Go! Go!” came the order from the TA sergeant. As soon as this order was issued, a tactical aid officer swung the huge battering ram and smashed the front door off its hinges.
“POLICE!”
“THIS IS THE POLICE!”
“ARMED POLICE!”
The officers ran into the address. Billy Nolan was standing in the living room with his hands up in the air. The officers were loud and aggressive.
“GET DOWN!”
“GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR!”
Billy Nolan looked like he was going to shit himself as he got down on his knees, his arms still high in the air. His mouth was wide open, it looked as though he couldn’t take in what was happening.
“LIE DOWN! PUT YOUR ARMS BEHIND YOUR BACK.”
Within seconds, the suspect was cuffed and was getting a close-up view of his front-room carpet.
“Okay, all secure, nobody else in the property, suspect detained. Over.”
The SCIU officers were sitting in their cars a little further down the road, outside Joan’s Corner Shop. Rudovsky was in her car, with Chapman in the passenger seat.
“Okay! That was intense! Come on Bill.”
Chapman had to do a bit of a jog to keep up with Rudovsky as the SCIU officers reached the front door. Some of the TA officers were standing outside, taking off their helmets.
“Thanks guys, nice one,” said the DS as she rushed past. She was shocked to see how pathetic Nolan looked, sobbing into his carpet. This was far from the mental image she had built of the man who had unleashed such sickening and sustained violence against another human being.
“Go on, Bill.”
“William David Nolan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything…”
Chapter Twenty
Miller was pleased to see Saunders arriving back at Tameside CID. DCI Katy Green also looked quite pleased to see him, so Miller decided to mention his colleague’s girlfriend at the earliest possible opportunity.
“Ah, nice of you to join us DI Saunders!”
“Hello, alright?”
“This is the trouble with senior officers dating their detective constables! How is Helen, by the way?”
Saunders laughed off his DCI’s remark. “I didn’t even see her!” he said, reading between the lines. DCI Green looked as though she got the message too, as her cheeks suddenly reddened slightly.
“So, anyway, lots of interesting developments to tell you about Keith. DCI Green here runs an excellent operation, her detectives are on it!”
“Oh, brilliant, that sounds positive.” Saunders smiled warmly.
“Where shall we start?” said DCI Green, without reciprocating Saunders’ friendly smile.
Fifteen minutes later, DI Saunders had been brought up to speed with the details about the attackers, their car, and the extraordinary lengths they had gone to, which ironically, looked likely to be their downfall. It would be anyway, if Miller had his way.
“So, DI Saunders, I think we should go and visit the scrap yard where these plates appear to have come from. DCI Green, have your officers found the details on that, yet?”
“Yes, Sir.” DCI Green handed a piece of paper to Miller. “The scrap yard isn’t too far away. Shawcross Street in Oldham. The owner is a 38 year-old Polish man called Piotr Tchorzewski.”
“Oh, that’s great stuff. Well, we’ll head over there and have a chat…”
“I wouldn’t advise that, just yet.” DCI Green had a serious expression on her face.
“Why not?” Miller looked puzzled.
“There’s another side to this Piotr Tchorzewski’s business operation, it appears. He’s currently flagging up on the NCA’s organised crime database as a person-of-interest.”
“Really?” Miller looked gutted.
“Yes, there are no specific details listed, but there is a note on there which instructs any investigating officers to speak to the NCA before engaging with this individual.” DCI Green had a serious expression on her face.
“Well, under the circumstances, Katy, I’m going to pretend that I never heard that.”
The Tameside DCI was visibly shocked by Miller’s reply. “What’s… how do you mean?”
“Thing is, the National Crime Agency stick those flags on a lot of people. In my experience, it never ends well. Not for me, anyway.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” DCI Green folded her arms across her chest and maintained eye-contact with Miller. It was becoming increasingly clear that she preferred to play by the rules.
Saunders picked up on the body-language and came to his superior’s rescue, aware that she wouldn’t approve of Miller’s response, she just wasn’t from that school-of-thought. He decided to play the part of the diplomat.
“Well, DCI Green, in our experience, the NCA tend to block any requests that you make to them, keen to protect their own investigations. It always seems like a conflict of interest when a CID department ask to get involved with anything linking back to an NCA inquiry. The very best case scenario, certainly in my experience, is that they’ll take at least forty-eight hours to get back to us, and even then it could be just to say that they would prefer us to stand down. Unless of course the information we had was likely to assist their own enquiry.”
“Understood. But I am not prepared for me, or any of my officers to have any part in a deliberate attempt to ignore a written directive from the NCA. Absolutely not.”
This was an impressive stand to make, and both Saunders and Miller respected DCI Katy Green’s assertiveness.
“Under the circumstances,” said Miller. “I feel we have come to a bit of a cross-roads here. I’m sure we’re all agreed that we want to arrest the people who started that fire, and killed Juris and Inga, and their dad, Andris?”
Both Saunders and Green nodded. Miller noted that DCI Green’s arms were still folded firmly across her chest, he interpreted that this unconscious stance implied that she was feeling very defensive judging by her body-language.
“But the thing is, the NCA won’t give a Tinker’s cuss about any of that. It’s perfectly natural, I suppose. Their default position is to try and protect whatever it is they are investigating. All we want
to know is, who bought those registration plates? It’s not going to affect the NCA in any way, shape or form. Is it?”
DCI Green still looked unhappy with the suggestion.
“Listen, boss. I’m with DCI Green on this. We could end up getting into some serious paperwork, or even worse if we ignore the flag.” Saunders looked hard at Miller, almost staring him out. “And let’s face it, when did a scrap-yard owner ever give any useful information away? I’ve never known it to happen.” Saunders relaxed the steely-stare. Miller had understood what it meant, and he was confident that DCI Green hadn’t even noticed it.
“Ah, you’re right. I’m just so keen to arrest these bastards, I’m getting way ahead of myself.” Miller looked frustrated.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve started to see some sense. I don’t like to get into treacherous waters, it never sits well with me.” The Tameside DCI relaxed her arms and rested them by her sides. “Okay, well, I’ll go and speak to my team, see what’s developing out there, I’ll leave you to work on a plan B.” DCI Green turned and left the two SCIU officers in her office. The paperwork with Piotr Tchorzewski’s details was still on her desk. Saunders took his phone out of his pocket and clicked the camera icon, before taking a photo of the document.
“I thought you were starting with me, then.” Said Miller with a smile.
“Nah, just wanted you to back off. You weren’t going to get anywhere with her. She’s a goody-two-shoes.”
“So, what’s the plan?” asked Miller.
“There’s a way we can do this without the NCA being approached.”
“Go on.” Miller loved it when Saunders was taking charge.
“We send somebody unconnected with the enquiry down to this scrap-yard, looking for a gear-knob for an X-Type Jaguar.”
“Why?”
“Because my dad needs one, the numbers have all rubbed off on his.”
“And what are they going to be looking for?”
“The Vauxhall Zafira with no number-plates. If we know that much, we’ll have a stronger case to take to the NCA and we can insist on an immediate arrest warrant for Piotr Tchorzewski.”
“Who’s going to do it?”
“What about that PC you ring up for favours from time to time?”
“Nah. Could drop him in the shit. It’d be a bit dirty that. We need somebody who isn’t involved with the police in any capacity.” Miller looked as though he was deep in thought.
“What about a grass?”
“Like who?” Miller suddenly looked interested.
“Well, I don’t know. What about Big Fat Kev?”
Miller smiled. He loved the nickname that Saunders had given Kevin Howarth, a small-time wheeler-dealer who bought and sold dubious goods. He had become an excellent informant after his lock-up had been raided and an impressive amount of stolen goods were discovered. His excuse was that he just rented the space out, providing a storage facility for some very unsavoury characters who had items which were far too hot to move. To save his own bacon, he had “sung like a canary” and supplied the police with a great deal of information. The excellent intelligence that Big Fat Kev had provided regarding a number of Manchester’s scummiest villains had resulted in him facing no charges, but had in turn left him extremely vulnerable to any police officers who needed a favour by way of black-mail.
“That’s a very good shout Keith. Big Fat Kev won’t look out of place wandering around a scrap yard, will he? Tell you what, go down to your car and phone him, it’d be a shame for DCI Green to overhear you.”
“Sir.” Saunders smiled and stepped past Miller, and out of the office.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Good afternoon, this is BBC Radio Manchester, and some breaking news which is just reaching us from Manchester City Police.” The presenter sounded quite excited about this, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the content she was about to deliver, or if it was because this was a brilliant opportunity to get rid of 91-year-old Wilma from Gorton, who was on the line describing all the cats she’d ever had during her life. It was suicide inducing radio, and this breaking story was the perfect excuse to terminate Wilma’s sweet, but painful call.
“It relates to the major police investigation into the horrific murder of Graham Hartley in Monton, a story that we have been covering extensively here on BBC Radio Manchester for the past three weeks. Our crime reporter Kelvin MacDonald joins us from the crime-desk, Kelvin, please update us.”
“Yes, thank you. This is a major development this hour, and one which will no doubt bring a huge sense of relief to many people in the Greater Manchester area. In the last half-an-hour, police have detained a man in relation to the extremely brutal attack against Graham Hartley, the 40-year-old man who was beaten to death as he went jogging near his home on the first of November. It would appear from the language used in this press-release, that the detectives involved in this arrest are extremely confident that they have detained the man responsible for this crime.”
“It is quite unusual for the police to reveal information like this, before any charges have been brought, Kelvin.”
“Yes, that’s absolutely right. And I think that detail alone demonstrates that the police are keen to quash these rumours about a random attacker on the streets. That theory is backed up by one line in the press release, which states, “our investigation into this horrific attack has identified several links between the attacker and the victim which gives us enormous confidence that this was not a random attack. We hope that this news will be of reassurance to the general public of the city and that they will regain the confidence to go about their daily business without the sense of fear which has been hanging over the city all month.”
*****
With Billy Nolan booked into police custody at Swinton police station and the SOCO team currently carrying out a deep search of Nolan’s home, the SCIU team had another task to fulfil. They needed to question Lindsey Nolan, the estranged wife of Billy. As things stood, she was currently facing a charge of assisting an offender as an accessory after the fact. This was because she had failed to report her relationship with the murder victim. In plain English, her failure to inform the police of her relationship with the dead man had effectively concealed the crime that her estranged husband was suspected to have carried out. This is a serious crime in normal circumstances. But in these circumstances, where the murder had made national news, and had been the number one news story in the local area for several weeks – there was literally no defence for her decision to stay silent.
As soon as Billy’s cell door was slammed shut, Rudovsky instructed Chapman and Worthington to start working on their interview plan. She then went back to her car with Kenyon and Grant and the three headed to Lindsey’s new address, four miles away in Boothstown.
Fifteen minutes later, the unmarked police car parked up outside the flat, which was situated above the Spar shop in the neat little village between Worsley and Astley, a bonny little place best known for its canal marina at the start of the Bridgewater canal. This unique waterway looks like tomato soup, famed for its bright orange appearance which is due to particles of iron ore which are found deep in the coal mines all around the area and which the Bridgewater canal was built to serve.
“Okay, listen up. As we discussed, we’ll be playing the soft-touch, showing lots of sympathy as we talk to Lindsey, nice and gentle, telling her about Billy’s arrest and asking her if she knows about a violent side to him. Most importantly, as far as she’s to know, we don’t have any clue about her connection with Graham Hartley. I think this is the best way to start proceedings, see what kind of a hole she starts digging for herself. Understood?”
“Sarge!”
“Crystal clear boss.”
“Okay, let’s get this ticked off the to-do list. We’ll let her say stuff that will be hard to reverse out of later and then charge her for accessory and perverting the course of justice.”
The DS got out of her vehicle, followed
by her detectives and the three of them headed around the back of the convenience store. There they found the door to the flat. Rudovsky knocked loudly, but there was no response. The place was silent. The DS looked at her watch, it was almost half-past five.
“She might not be back from work yet.” Said Rudovsky, annoyed by this halt in proceedings. “Pete, do us a favour, go in the shop and ask them if they know what time she normally gets home from work.”
“No worries.” Kenyon walked back around to the front of the property.
“Her car’s there.” Said DC Grant, pointing at the Vauxhall Corsa which they’d seen several times on Chapman’s CCTV stills.
“Yeah, I noticed that.” She hadn’t.
Rudovsky knocked again, louder this time. Nothing.
“She’s not in.”
“Unless she’s heard about it already?”
DC Kenyon came back. “They don’t know her, said she keeps herself to herself. But the woman behind the counter said that her car hasn’t moved for ages and it’s taking up two spaces. She said she’d put a polite note through her door asking her if she wouldn’t mind trying to park a bit more sociably!”
Rudovsky smiled. “That’s not polite, that’s passive-aggressive!”
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