“I pulled out of the estate, and I was thinking of places to put a body. Absolutely mental, I know, like something off the telly. I’m driving this guy’s car. Absolutely mint car, a Range Rover Evoque, top spec. I’d never driven anything like it in my life. I looked at the dash, it said I was going ninety five miles per hour – honestly, it felt like sixty. Anyway I’m in this weird, half pissed, half buzzing, half terrified frame of mind. I realise I’d driven up to Haslingden, and I started panicking, thinking fuck, what if the police pull me. I’m over the limit, I’ve got the car owners body in the back of the car. I’m like…” Mick put the cup to his mouth, but there was no water in it. His finger was still tapping out a rhythm on the table.
“I’ll get you a drink in a sec, just want to hear this bit first, please,” said Miller, his arms were folded across his chest. He was nodding.
“So next thing, I’m driving along this section of road, over the tops, driving down into Accrington, a place I’d never even been to before. It was just the first place that was signed, and I was getting more urgent about dumping the body. It was the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen that day, that morning, and the view up there, on that road, it made me cry. It was so beautiful.” Mick’s voice broke, and he was filling up. His finger was tapping faster. This was all true, thought Miller. But only from the moment that he went in and saw the body. This guy had been a robot until then. Miller could tell something was up with this story, and he was becoming more and more intrigued by the minute.
Miller could see unequivocally that this bit of the story really happened. Most of what this guy had said about killing Graham Ashworth was total nonsense, thought Miller - but right now, Mick Crossley was talking about something that really happened. It spooked Miller to think that everything he’d just heard in the last hour was a lie, or a fabrication of what had actually happened. He was amazed that this man’s story about murder, saving a beaten up woman, carrying her drunken, beaten body across the road in the dead of night, and loading a dead body in a car, before driving off into the night was all told in a droning, well revised, doubly rehearsed monotone.
But he nodded politely and patiently waited until Mick Crossley had confessed the rest of his bullshit story.
“I know this is hard, but you’re doing really great, honestly Michael, you’re really doing well.” Miller leant across and touched Mick’s hand softly, offering a quick, encouraging tap. Miller looked up at the solicitor and as their eyes locked, Miller could see that the young Asian looking man was hearing the exact same lies and nonsense. He didn’t believe what his client Mick Crossley was saying either.
“Where’s the body, Michael? Where did you put it?”
“It’s in Accrington. I rolled it all up in the carpet, with loads of rocks, and taped it all up with some parcel tape that I…” Mick Crossley’s face went a deathly shade. He stopped talking as he realised that he’d just come very close to making a mistake. Miller noticed it and pounced.
“That you what?” asked Miller.
“That I got from home.”
That’s a cock up, thought Miller. That detail is going to be useful, he thought as he kept his eyes trained on Mick.
“Okay, where is the body? Accrington is a big place. I need to know the exact place that you dumped it?”
“Yeah, I know where, I mean exactly where.” This was the part that Mick was most excited about, this was the part where he would convince Miller that he did do this, that he was responsible. His finger was beating at such a rate, there was a visible blur, and the rhythm was getting faster yet.
“It’s in the cut. I chucked it off the bridge near KFC and the Fire Station.”
“What, you threw the body, wrapped in carpet and loaded with rocks off a bridge into the canal?”
“Yeah.” Mick was tapping furiously now.
“I’m sure I read that Graham Ashworth was described as fourteen, fifteen stone. You must have had your weetabix that day!” said Miller. There was no humour in the comment at all. Miller looked at his watch. It was after eleven o’clock now. This guy had talked for a lot longer than Miller had anticipated, and he was glad that he did. Miller was pretty sure he had a good portion of the truth there. He wanted the rest of it now.
“So, if I go to the canal near the KFC in Accrington, I’m going to find a man’s body wrapped up in carpet and parcel tape, in the water beneath the bridge? With rocks inside there to weigh it down?”
“Yeah, honest.”
“And, let me clarify something. You arrived at the bridge in the victim’s car, rolled out this piece of blood soaked carpet on the floor, just as the sun was coming up, and then you dragged a fifteen stone body out of the car, then laid the dead man out, grabbed some rocks, rolled it all up in the carpet, then you wrapped parcel tape all around it, lifted this quite considerable parcel up, what, over a hundred kilograms, and then chucked over a wall into the canal?” Miller had one eyebrow raised, quite sarcastically.
“Yep. Well, it was a barrier, like, it’s on a dual carriageway. It was a struggle, I’m not going to lie. But it had to be done, I was shitting myself. ” Mick was completely ignoring the detective’s deliberate expression of disbelief.
“All on your own, without the help of anybody else?”
“I’ve told you everything, now. That’s my confession.” Mick’s shoulders dropped, and Miller realised for the first time that they’d been tensed all the way through this. He was done.
Miller looked down at the table and paused for a while. After a pause that seemed to last minutes, he exhaled loudly.
“Have you ever heard the expression “a crock of shit?” asked Miller. His smile was back, but it didn’t contain any warmth anymore. DCI Miller looked scornful.
“Yes?” said Mick. His eyes had returned to the table-top.
“Do you know what it means?”
“I… well, yeah…”
“Let me explain. It derives from ancient Rome. It goes back about two thousand years, so it’s a proper old fashioned saying. The crock was a big bowl, made out of pot. The Romans used to have a shite in it - it was all they had for a toilet back in the day. When it was full, it was full to the top with everyone’s shit. It was absolutely horrendous, it stunk, and it really was about as bad as things got when the Roman’s had a crock of shit. Nowadays, we say that something or somebody is full of shit. But it all means the same thing, the expression “a crock of shit” dates back to Roman times.”
“That’s extremely fascinating, I must say. And if you could just get to the punch-line now please, Mr Miller?” said the solicitor, looking quite bored with the detective’s comment. Mick Crossley was just looking at the detective with a glazed, confused expression across his face.
“What about “twaddle” have you ever heard of that?” asked Miller.
“No. Well, I don’t know. Might have…” said Mick, wondering why Miller was turning on him, wondering what possible reason he could have to doubt the story.
“What about a load of old codswallop?” asked Miller. His face had changed. The kind, friendly expression was gone completely. There was absolutely no hint that it had ever existed.
“What?” Mick was visibly stunned. His mouth was hanging open.
“You’re fibbing to me. I can just tell.”
“What?” Mick’s face was panic-stricken.
“I’ve come in here on my night off, I’ve tried being alright with you, and you’re just talking a load of shit to me. What’s your game mate? Really, what’s going on with you?”
“What?” Mick was completely blown away, this was unexpected in the extreme, and he was not prepared for it. The next statement from Miller would confound his confusion further.
Miller needed to throw a few curve ball’s. He wanted to see Mick’s reaction, he wanted to see a genuine reaction.
“Graham Ashworth isn’t dead. I know that for a fact. So, I’m thinking, why is this bloke coming in here and admitting to murdering a man who is alive
and well?”
The solicitor who was sitting next to Mick sat up slightly and cleared his throat. He too was thrown by this unexpected announcement from the DCI.
“He is dead. I should know… I killed him!” Mick had a pleading look in his eyes.
Miller held his hand up to his chin, and had adopted his very best pondering look.
“Are you shagging Suzanne Ashworth? Is that what’s going on here?”
“What?” Mick’s face turned pale. He had no idea what was going on here.
“Fucking hell Michael! What? Why do you keep saying what? Have you seen Pulp Fiction Michael, the bit where Samuel L Jackson say’s “say what again! Say what one more time mother fucker!” well, you just remind me of that guy…”
“Can we stop now please. I’m making a formal request for a break.” The solicitor stood up, and in doing so exhibited a great deal of authority in the room.
“Yes, that’s fine, we’re done. I’ll get Michael sent back to his cell. I’m going to see Suzanne Ashworth. She’s in custody you see. I’m going to go and tell her what you’ve just been saying. Maybe then I’ll find out what the hell is going on here, with this absolute crock of shit!”
Chapter 36
“Right, up we get!” bellowed a female officer through the hatch before clanging up the shutter. Suzanne’s eyes blinked open and she stared at the mouldy, dirty ceiling. It didn’t take her long to focus and remember where she was. There was another loud, intimidating noise as the heavy metal bolts on the door were released at great volume and the police officer swung open the heavy cell door.
“You’re being interviewed soon. Do you wish to have a solicitor present?”
“No. Not at this stage.”
“Okay, here’s some coffee and some toast. You can have five minutes in the exercise yard if you wish?” The officer looked the same age, maybe a tiny bit older than Suzanne. She talked like an android. Her work had clearly drained her soul of any humanity, thought Suzanne.
“Thanks.” She said. “What time is it?”
“It’s six fifteen.” Said the officer.
“Jesus. I came in here in the afternoon, what, about four o’clock. Time flies when you’re having fun.” Suzanne didn’t want a laugh, but a smile would have done. It might have just confirmed that the woman who stood before her with the drink and the small plastic plate of toast was real. But there was no smile.
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” The door slammed shut, causing another prisoner to start kicking off in the next cell along.
“Can you fuck off banging the doors you inconsiderate bastards?” screamed one furious resident further down the block.
“Cheers,” said Suzanne as she stood and walked the couple of steps to the tray that had been left on the floor.
“Excuse me,” she shouted, “I asked for a tall skinny mocka frappuchino. This simply won’t do!” The tone of the remark didn’t contain any hint of humour. Suzanne took a swig of the lukewarm milky coffee in the plastic cup. “Eeurgh.”
“Shut up you stupid cow!” shouted another prisoner, and a wave of noise started up once again.
“Ha ha ha! Get me a fuckin’ skinny mockachino!” shouted another inmate whilst banging her hand against the door. “I want one! Wooo hoooo!”
Suzanne nibbled at the toast, but it was so cold and dry that she wondered if it had been left over from the previous day’s breakfast shift. She drank the rest of the coffee in one, head-back motion and made a loud rasping noise after she swallowed it. She went over to the toilet in the corner of the cell and had a wee, holding her fingers up in a V formation at the CCTV camera that was observing silently above her head.
The five minutes passed quickly, and Suzanne’s cell door was opened again and she was allowed to put her shoes on, which had been left outside the cell overnight. She was led out into the small, high walled exercise yard, which she walked around continuously for a little over ten minutes.
Soon afterwards, she was back inside the police station, walking through the maze of brightly lit corridors with her uniformed companion. The cold, arms-length way that she was being treated by this darlek officer made her feel that the police knew something. But her mind wasn’t set just yet, she would need to see how the land was laid in the interview room first. Suzanne was shown through into a well lit room where the policeman that had arrested her the previous day was sat, reading his paperwork.
“Good morning!” said DCI Miller, very cheerfully. He looked worn-out. He’s been working on this since they’d last met, thought the detainee.
“Morning,” said Suzanne, fluttering her eyelashes in a very exaggerated fashion. She stood with the female officer at the table.
“So you don’t want any legal representation?” asked Miller.
“Not at this stage, thank you.” Suzanne sat down and looked flirtatiously at Miller. “Please excuse my breath. I haven’t had the opportunity to brush my teeth.” Suzanne smiled widely, allowing Miller a great look at the detainee’s teeth, should he wish to inspect them.
“Don’t worry about that. Okay, I’ll hit the record button on here then, and we’ll get going.” Miller touched the red button on the device on the trolley that was parked beside the table.
‘‘Okay the time is six thirty five on the morning of Saturday the ninth of July. My name is DCI Andrew Miller of Manchester central police station. I am interviewing Mrs Suzanne Ashworth aged twenty eight years in relation to the disappearance of her husband. During this interview I will talk to you about the disappearance of your husband, Mr Graham Ashworth of last known address nine Fir Tress Grove, Bury, Lancashire.”
“It’s Greater Manchester.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Miller, looking up from his notes.
“Bury. It’s in Greater Manchester. Has been all my life time.” Suzanne smiled.
“Okay, for the benefit of the tape, Bury is in Greater Manchester. It ceased being in Lancashire when the county boundaries were revised in nineteen seventy-four. Okay?” Miller winked, and smiled.
Suzanne grinned. “That’s better!” she said.
“Okay, great. I will also ask you about anything else which may become relevant during the interview, in order to properly establish the facts and issues surrounding this enquiry. Do you understand why you are here?” Miller sounded quite monotone as he read out the formal introductions.
Suzanne nodded.
“Can you please say yes or no, for the benefit of the recording? Do you understand why you are here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to have a legal representative present with you during the interview?”
“No. I’ll be out of here by the time they arrive!” Suzanne smiled seductively and looked down at her chest, then back at Miller.
“Okay. You have been arrested in connection with the disappearance of Graham Ashworth. Where is he?”
“You mean you don’t know?” asked Suzanne, smiling flirtatiously again.
“Okay, I think you’re in a rather silly mood this morning. Please just answer my questions.” Miller didn’t look at her, he just kept his eyes down on his paperwork.
“Sorry, am I annoying you?” Suzanne touched her breast gently, and pretended to brush something off the figure hugging t-shirt.
Miller blushed ever so slightly and looked up at the female detention officer who was stood by the door. He coughed quietly. Suzanne hadn’t stopped staring at him once.
“Did you say your name was DCI Miller?”
Miller ignored the question. He just kept his attention on the list of notes on the desk.
“I thought I recognised you. You’re the famous copper off the telly, the one who was looking for Pop, weren’t you?” Suzanne looked excited, and animated. Miller accepted that she was in a playful mood, so he decided that it would be wise to change tact. This wasn’t going to be as straight-forward as he’d hoped.
&nb
sp; “I have been on telly loads of times, but nobody ever remembers my appearance on The Krypton Factor. I won the Grand Final of that, in nineteen-ninety-eight.” Miller looked extremely pleased with himself.
“What did you win?” Suzanne didn’t seem too impressed.
“Nothing, just a paperweight thing with a green letter K inside it. The prize is the kudos, but nobody really cares after two weeks.”
“Nah, I can’t remember you on that. I never watched it though. It was boring.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t boring was it? You could say it was cheesey, or a bit naff. But it wasn’t boring at all.”
“I thought it was. I was only a little girl then though. I loved Gladiators. That was miles better than the Krypton Factor. In fact, my brother used to call it the crap ton factor!” Suzanne giggled and held her hand up to her mouth.
“So, here we are, I’ve got you in to talk about your missing husband, and you’re trivialising matters, and deliberately devaluing my proudest moment. That makes my special police instincts worry that you’re guilty.” Miller nodded sombrely at Suzanne, who was still grinning.
“Guilty of what?”
“Not answering my question.”
“Sorry. I’m just excited. What was your question?”
“Where’s Graham?”
“You know where he is.”
“I don’t.”
“I know you don’t! That’s why you’ve banged me up all night, and got me up at the crack of dawn to try and scare the life out of me! Well too bad Mr detective! You see, I know that you don’t know where he is, and that you want to try and trick me into all kinds of amazing confessions. Well too bad.” Suzanne smiled, and Miller did too. He let his smile hang a few seconds longer than was necessary as he searched Suzanne’s face.
“So, are you refusing to tell me where Graham is?”
“No. I feel that I’ve been extremely open about it. He’s in Thailand.”
“Ah, so he’s in Thailand. This is where we get into difficulties. You see Suzanne, there is no way that Graham is in Thailand. He’s not there and we both know it. So I’m sat here wondering why you’re telling people that.” Miller had a sarcastic grin on his face.
Neighbours From Hell : DCI Miller 2: The gripping Manchester thriller with a killer twist Page 28
