“What a day!” said Andy as he loosened his tie and walked across the kitchen to give Clare a kiss.
“Hiya, what do you mean, the Evening News?” Clare hugged him and kissed his neck tenderly.
“Yeah! Have you seen it?”
“Yes. I was buying petrol and I looked up and there was that photo of you on the front page! Where the hell did they get that picture from anyway?”
“I know! It’s from a few years ago. They’ve looked for the sleaziest looking photo they could find of me. I think I was coming out of court on that one.”
“So what’s going on?” Clare began brushing some dandruff off her husband’s collar.
“This bloke came into the office with Rachel Birdsworth’s mum. He had a recording device shoved down his top. He’s gone straight down to the Evening News and they’ve made it out as though it’s all my fault. I’m surprised they’re not saying that I killed Graham fucking Ashworth myself.”
“Language Andy!” said Clare. She looked cross.
“Sorry. It does my head in though. And the papers are all trying to create this big sob story for them.”
“I know. I don’t get it. Do you want a brew, love?”
“Yeah, go on then. Please. You don’t get what?”
“Well, these people have been found guilty – but the paper is trying to make out that they are the victims. I can’t figure out the point of it all Andy.”
Miller stood at the kitchen sink and stared out across the garden, hoping that this wasn’t going to develop into an argument. He knew Clare well enough to know that she’d probably agree with the paper once she heard the full story.
“Andy?”
“Eh? What, sorry?” He’d been daydreaming.
“I say, why are they trying to slag you off, and make these murderers out as saints?”
“Because… they think that I should say that there should be a re-trial. But I don’t agree with that. It’s bullshit.”
As his wife made him a hot drink, Andy began to
explain the circumstances of the “Neighbours From Hell” trial, as the media had dubbed it.
“So, she’s done a “no-comment” all the way through the police investigation – and is now crying herself to sleep in jail because the person she was protecting stitched her up when it came to court.” Said Andy in a bored, empty-sounding monotone.
“But this Rachel, the one who was sent to prison, she’d killed the other woman’s husband?”
“Yes, that’s the whole point. Whether the circumstances are a bit different to how it was presented in court, the point is, she’s not denying killing the guy. She’s not denying disposing of the body in the canal. She’s just revealing the reason why she did it, and it’s playing on a few heart strings. The press are trying to frame it all up as a good Samaritan comes off badly story. It’s a load of old balls love, it really is.”
Clare was staring intently at the front page of the newspaper, re-reading the lead story. She looked quite engaged with it, thought Andy, not sure whether to be pleased or irritated that his work was crossing the agreed boundaries and receiving domestic attention. It was meant to be a work-free zone, the Miller household, but it was becoming harder to avoid discussing work issues, particularly when it is the front page story of the region’s biggest newspaper.
Andy drained his cup as he read through his e-mails on his phone.
“Hey, have you read this? All of it I mean?” asked Clare.
“No, I haven’t. I’m not interested to tell you the truth.” said the DCI, with a less than subtle irritation present in his voice.
“Here – look, this bit.” Clare placed the paper down and began reading a paragraph out loud. “In an exclusive interview, Daniel Parker, who left his job at Bury Council so that he could speak out, has told the Manchester Evening News that Rachel was compensated by the developers because of bullying that she had endured at the hands of the murdered
man. But this compensation settlement was not allowed to be mentioned in court,” look there as well Andy, it says “What happened on Haughton Park was nothing more than a tragic accident, which was then handled really badly by the people involved. That’s what they are guilty of, being stupid and panicking. I’m going to get justice for this family, and DCI Miller really should search his conscience if he is comfortable to allow this couple to remain in prison for this tragic accident.”
“See, it’s a load of cobblers. It’s the victim’s widow they should be turning on – not me!”
“Oh Andy… this is really bad.” Clare looked over at her husband. He looked stressed out and sulky as he messed about with his phone. “They’re making you sound like a right bastard in this report. Is that what you said – that it’s not your problem?”
“I don’t know. Probably. But I didn’t just say that did I? It’s journalists – they focus on the bits they want to make a story about. I was talking for twenty minutes and they’ve printed three seconds worth of the conversation.”
“Well, what’s going to happen now?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably have to answer to some bloody inquiry or summat. I could do without it to be honest. I should have stuck to my guns and told Dixon I wouldn’t meet with them. I felt it in my guts, I knew it was a bad move. We’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings.”
Chapter Three
Miller arrived at work early, and was disappointed to see a small group of journalists waiting outside the Police HQ in the City Centre.
“Oh oh,” he said quietly as he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was 7.40. Miller drove past the entrance, heading in the direction of the car park at the rear of the building. As he cruised past, he spotted a couple of familiar faces among the media personnel. Most surprisingly to Miller, he saw that Granada Reports had sent along their senior crime reporter, Dennis Morris.
“What the flippin’ heck are you doing here Dennis? I thought you had more sense!” Miller was muttering under his breath as he went past the small media-pack, and drove into the car park. As he got out of his unmarked police car and locked it up, he knew that he had two options. He could ignore the press, go into the staff entrance and through into the building without any aggro. Or, he could choose the less straight forward second option, which was to walk a good distance out of his way, to go and speak to them.
Miller was smiling politely as he approached the group of six or seven journalists and the Granada cameraman.
“You’re not here about me are you?” asked Miller confidently as he reached them.
“DCI Miller are you expecting to be suspended over your handling of the neighbours from hell case?” asked one frantic looking young lady who was holding a microphone emblazoned with the local radio KEY 103 logo.
“Eh? What?” asked Miller, half laughing.
“DCI Miller – why did you fail to investigate the full circumstances of Graham Ashworth’s murder?” asked the Granada reporter who usually had an excellent relationship with Miller.
“What? Dennis is this a wind-up?” Miller looked completely gob-smacked, as the camera flashes lit his face up.
“DCI Miller, Rachel Birdsworth’s mother has reported you to the IPCC. You could be facing the sack for this!” shouted a scruffy looking hack that Miller knew from
the Manchester Evening News.
“Right. Shut up shouting will you?” said Miller, calmly and politely. The TV camera captured Miller’s look of bemused surprise perfectly. “I don’t know what you guys are playing at but one thing’s for sure, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve already released a statement to the press. But, to re-cap, the neighbours from hell are banged to rights. Michael volunteered himself to the police and confessed to a crime that he didn’t commit and Rachel no commented all the way through the police interview. She obstructed witnesses from standing up and revealing this new, alternative version of events, witnesses including her own mother and daughter. I found evidence that put the pair of them at the crim
e scene on the date of Graham Ashworth’s disappearance. Now the media wants to lay the blame at my feet? Sorry guys but I’m not playing along with this. Good day, and Dennis, your flies are undone.” Miller walked away from the small gang of reporters with his hands in his pockets, whistling as he went. He headed inside the huge glass police headquarters to a loud, indecipherable barrage of questions. The Granada man was checking his zip.
Miller thought that he would be the first in the Serious Crimes Investigation Unit’s office, but he noticed that the lights were already on. As he approached his glass-walled office in the corner of the open-plan space, he realised that his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent David Dixon was inside, waiting for him. He was standing quite straight, reading the various notes and lists that hung on the whiteboard.
“Morning Sir, how’s it going?” asked Miller as he hung his jacket up on the coat-stand and placed his laptop case down on the desk. He looked remarkably calm considering the press pack interrogation.
“Morning Andy.”
Miller looked across at Dixon with an eyebrow raised. He knew from the way that his boss had answered his greeting, from the tone, the pitch, the strain, that something was wrong.
“What?”
“Andy… I…”
“What?”
“I’m afraid that I have to relieve you of your…”
“Are you taking the piss? Has everybody lost their fucking mind in Greater Manchester? What the hell is going on here?” Miller’s face was filled with rage.
“Can you let me finish?” Dixon sounded snappy, and not too keen on hearing his DCI start up on one of his long rants.
“Let you finish what? Let you tell me that you’re suspending me because of misguided public sympathy for a murdering piece of shit who got found out, and has now managed to con everyone into thinking that she is the victim?”
“Andy, what the hell are you talking about? Suspending you?” Dixon’s big bushy white eyebrows were raised high, he really did look most surprised by the DCI’s outburst.
“That’s what all the press dickheads are saying outside!” Miller looked thoroughly confused by Dixon’s expression of surprise. “Shall I go back out and come in again?” asked Miller, as he realised that the two senior detectives were talking at crossed purposes.
“Well, I was about to say that I have to relieve you of your duties here at the SCIU, because you have been personally requested to work on something else, with another force. The Chief Constable has signed it off, you’re going this morning.”
Miller looked relieved that this conversation wasn’t about suspension. He had a look of vague enthusiasm about him. It was always nice to be headhunted by another force.
“Going where?”
“Only over the border, up to Lancashire, but there is a major investigation getting under way as we speak. It’s about as big as it gets Andy, we have no idea what we are dealing with here.”
Miller was staring at the DCS’ mouth as he spoke coldly. Dixon checked over his shoulder to ensure that the pair were still alone.
“A sergeant from Bolton police station has
completely vanished. He went out on a bike ride yesterday morning and never returned home. Basic lines of enquiry are all exhausted and there isn’t a sniff of what’s happened, so we are still in the first twenty four hours…”
“So what’s Lancashire got to do with it?”
“The Trough of Bowland, up between Clitheroe and Lancaster. That’s the sergeant’s usual bike route. He does it once a week at least. He sets off from his home in Bolton and follows the A666 to Darwen and onto Blackburn, then he does a circuit of the Trough of Bowland and then rides back home again, the same way that he went. Luckily, his wife has been extremely helpful and she knows his route, she knows his timings and so on. From the information that she has supplied, Lancashire have managed to find evidence that he made it up to Clitheroe. CCTV has him at McDonalds there at noon, he always stops there for a fifteen minute rest and a cup of tea. He rang his wife, he was talking perfectly normally, he had no worries or concerns, was asking what was for tea, asked her what was in the post. He looks perfectly relaxed on the CCTV footage. After that, we have no idea what happened to him.”
Miller exhaled a massive gust of air as Dixon’s announcement became more and more worrying. “Go on,” he said, realising that he’d made his boss pause momentarily.
“He looked calm, normal, happy, if a little tired from his ride – it’s uphill all the way there from Bolton. So, we have no alternative but to assume that something sinister has occurred. Sometime between noon yesterday, and eleven pm when his wife rang it in.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“The Chief Constable doesn’t want Lancashire police running it. He wants Manchester running it.”
“Why?”
“He used to police in Lancashire. He used to be the Deputy CC there, so he knows the force, understands the geography. Quite frankly, he knows that Manchester are more experienced and better at these jobs. He wants you working on this right away.”
Miller took his coat off the hook, and grabbed his
laptop bag off the desk.
“It all sounds high drama. There might be a very straight-forward explanation. Are we ruling out the chance that he’s crashed his bike and he’s lay with a broken ankle, stuck in a bush or summat?”
“His phone has been switched off. His wife was ringing it from tea-time until midnight. But Lancashire’s, Cumbria’s and Manchester’s police helicopters are retracing the route right now. Heat seeking cameras are combing every road and track between his home and the Trough.”
“Gets on well with the wife, etcetera?”
“It seems so, very close. As I say, Lancashire have exhausted all the usual lines of enquiry. It leads to the conclusion that we’re talking about foul-play.”
“Jesus. This sounds like it could be pretty bad actually.” Miller had a look of grave concern on his face.
Dixon nodded sombrely. “It’s been upgraded to a VIP Missing Persons alert. Counter terrorism are aware, and are watching every move we make. There’s a chance…”
“Terrorism? Shit…”
“Precisely. As such, there’s a complete press black-out. We are not reporting the case at this stage, so no mention to anybody.” Once again, Dixon checked over his shoulder, before looking back at Miller.
“Colleagues?”
“No Andy, nobody. It’s not on radio. All comms are strictly through myself and the Chief Constable.”
“Can I take anyone along?”
“No.”
“Not even Saunders?”
“No.”
Miller exhaled loudly. He would have at least expected to be able to take his right-hand man, Detective Inspector Keith Saunders. Miller couldn’t hide his disappointment as he looked at Dixon, scanning his face for any clues as to what he thought might have happened to the missing sergeant.
“Andy, there’s a car and driver waiting for you, the intention is to take you up to the Trough of Bowland and
Lancashire’s officers will give you a full briefing on the way. Both of our forces have agreed that they want you leading this enquiry, so from the minute you arrive, you’re calling the shots. Everybody wants to see Sergeant Jason Knight back home safely. That’s your primary objective Andy.”
Chapter Four
The fifty mile journey to where Sergeant Jason Knight was last seen took forty minutes. The drive was from Police HQ in Manchester city centre to the very centre of Great Britain, and the Trough of Bowland - one of the country’s best known areas of outstanding natural beauty. Forty minutes through the rush hour traffic was remarkably fast thanks exclusively to the police driver’s heightened sense of urgency, helped along by the screaming siren and revolving blue lights.
Miller spent the entire journey talking on his phone and taking notes, speaking to the DS who had been dealing with the case since the previous night when the sergeant’s w
ife had phoned it in.
Now that Miller had arrived at McDonalds in Clitheroe, he could disconnect the phone and talk in person.
“Thanks a lot John,” said Miller, to the driver.
“No worries, I’m staying with you by the way. I’m your driver for the duration.”
“Oh, right. Good to know. I thought you were headed back to HQ?”
“No, I’m your transport manager Sir!”
Miller smiled as he opened the passenger door.
DS Lisa Talbot was stood at the roadside and extended her hand to welcome Miller as he wriggled out of the car.
“DCI Miller, how do you do?” She looked slightly awkward saying hello to a man that that she’d just spent thirty minutes talking with on the phone.
“Hiya Lisa, thanks for all your help, you’ve done a very thorough job. I really do appreciate it.” Miller had imagined the DS to be late thirties and to have blonde, or even red hair, from the tone of her voice on the phone. He was surprised to see that her hair was as black as a Spaniard’s, but she had a very pale complexion. She looked younger than he’d
imagined too, probably in her late twenties or very early thirties. She looked as though she was of Irish descent, thought Miller. Talbot wasn’t a very Celtic surname though,
he surmised as he extended his hand.
The two detectives shook hands and smiled at one another politely. DS Talbot was a tall woman, and stood a few inches taller than Miller at six feet. She was dressed in casual wear, jeans, trainers and an Adidas tracksuit jacket. Miller’s face must have given away his surprise at what she was wearing. As though she had read his mind, DS Talbot began to explain.
“Excuse the clobber, we were on observation at a warehouse in Accrington last night – when I was told to get back to the office.” The DS had a strange, almost cold manner of talking. She was very straight to the point, thought Miller, and he thought that she looked completely differently to how she had sounded on the phone.
“I bet you’re knackered,” said Miller, trying to move things on.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 2
