“No, not really. I’m more interested in…”
“Sure, sure. Okay, can we get in and have a look at this CCTV please?”
The local DS and the Manchester DCI walked into the McDonalds. The staff were trying to calm down a man at the drive-thru window who was furious that his double-cheeseburger was taking so long. “It’s the worst MacDee’s ever, this, you know. You’ve never got anything ready!”
Miller followed the DS as she marched behind the counter and into a small office by the side of the serving area. Inside, the store manager was trying to complete some paperwork.
“Hello, my apologies, I’m back again. We just need to look at the video again, if that’s okay?” DS Talbot smiled as the manager stood and left the small office. Within seconds, Miller was staring at the screen, watching the moving images of Sergeant Jason Knight, standing outside the restaurant beside his bike. He looked perfectly relaxed in his yellow and black cycling shorts and jersey, drinking a cup of tea and chatting casually on his phone. Miller watched the footage for a couple of minutes.
“Have you ever met this guy?” asked Miller. DS Talbot looked across at him.
“No. I don’t think so. Have you?”
“I’m not sure to be honest. I meet a lot of coppers, especially sergeants. I’m in and out of nicks all over Manchester, all the time. I can’t remember him from his face though…” Miller was now starting to experience the human angle involved in this case. Now that he could see the missing man, casually enjoying a brew and chatting away and laughing on his phone, he began to feel a greater gust of urgency.
DS Talbot spoke, and snapped Miller out of his thoughts. “Well, he’s got that cycling helmet on. That won’t help you to recognise him.”
“He’s a big lad though, isn’t he? Looks like he can handle himself and he must be fit, going for seventy-odd mile bike rides. It’s uphill all the way from Bolton, you know.”
Miller was staring at the screen. He was intrigued as he watched Sergeant Knight end the call that he was making and then he called somebody else.
“He’s ended that call. He’s phoning somebody else now. Watch.”
DS Talbot was surprised that she’d missed this. Sergeant Knight quite clearly finishes his conversation, looks through his phone, presses a contact and then starts a new conversation. He looked just as happy and carefree with this conversation as he did with the first.
“We need to know who he is talking to. I’m presuming one of them is his wife. Where are his phone details?”
“We’ve sent off for them. You’ll be the first to hear about it when they arrive.”
“No. We need to work faster, find out who is chasing this and get them on the phone to me, please.” Miller wrote down PHONE LIST on his pocket book and added several exclamation marks.
“It’s my DCI who is dealing with it, Sir.” DS Talbot’s hackles were up. Miller realised he’d trapped a nerve with his new colleague.
“Okay, who did you say that was, DCI…?” Miller’s
friendly smile had slipped.
“DCI Broughton, Sir. Nigel Broughton.”
“Right, well I won’t bollock you, I’ll bollock him, but don’t start getting a sulk on. This should have been the first thing you were checking…”
DS Talbot turned and walked out of the small office, saying “Sir,” quietly as she went.
Miller was annoyed that this most basic line of enquiry seemed so low down on the to-do list. He was staring at the monitor screen, scrutinising every aspect of Sergeant Knight’s demeanour, his body language, his facial expressions, his eye movements as he spoke on his phone. DS Talbot came back into the McDonalds office.
“Sir, I have DCI Broughton on the line, as instructed.”
“Oh, right, thanks. Hello,” said Miller as he placed the phone to his ear.
“DCI Miller, welcome to Lancashire…”
“Yes, thanks, right, where are you?”
“I’m at headquarters, Preston.”
“Okay, so you’re working from Lancashire HQ. Fine. I want to go down to the Trough of Bowland, my driver is waiting outside. I’ve not been allowed to bring any of my own officers…”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. We have been instructed DCI Miller. It’s entirely secret, on a need-to-know basis across the network – until further notice.”
“Well, I’m sure that it’ll be leaked soon enough. It never takes long. In the meantime, can I take DS Talbot with me?” Miller stared at the Detective Sergeant keenly, trying to see what she made of his request. He’d picked up on her prickliness already. She didn’t make a move, not a flicker crossed her face. Talbot seemed perfectly at ease with the request, considered Miller.
“Yes, of course, that’s not an issue. What is an issue however,” said DCI Broughton. “Is that the phone that Sergeant Knight is talking on in the McDonalds CCTV footage, is not the phone that his wife uses to speak to him.”
Miller turned and stared hard at the monitor screen once again as he waited to hear the rest of the information.
“The call inventory for his mobile phone number states that he made one phone call yesterday, to his wife’s number and that call was logged at eleven fifty five. That is around about the time that he arrived at the McDonalds restaurant. He leaves McDonalds at twelve-seventeen, and is on the phone for most of the duration of the video.”
“So…”
“The call to his wife was just shy of three minutes. Then he’s gone inside to order his drink…”
“Ah, I see…” said Miller.
“Then he has come back outside, sat on the bench beside his bike, and phoned somebody else, on a different phone, and spent the next ten minutes or so talking to that person.” The Lancashire DCI sounded tense, edgy. The pressure was certainly on, and both DCI’s were fully aware of what a potentially scary situation they were investigating. “We have absolutely no idea what phone he is using, so we have no leads to follow.”
“Except,” interrupted Miller, “he makes two calls while he’s drinking his brew.”
“What…”
“Yes, I’ve watched it back twice. Both calls look very relaxed, very good-natured. But it is two separate calls. Can you do me a favour? Get on to Sergeant Knight’s nick and get a few colleagues to give us his mobile number – and ask them if they think he might have a different number. It might be innocent this, might not be a big deal. Try and ask the wife too, in as subtle a way as possible. Find out if she knows about any other phones he keeps.”
“Okay DCI Miller, right away.”
“Cheers.” Miller ended the call and handed the phone back to the DS. He turned away from the cheerful images of Sergeant Knight and started walking out of the office, gesturing DS Talbot to follow him to the unmarked silver Audi A4 on the car park, where the driver was waiting patiently.
“Right, John, this is DS Lisa Talbot from Lancashire Police. She’s jumping in with us. Lisa, this is John from traffic, he’s been assigned to ferry us about.”
“Alright?”
“Hi,”
“Right, off we go to the Trough of Bowland. Lisa, send John along the exact route that we believe our missing cyclist usually follows.”
“No problem. Take your first left down into Clitheroe…”
As the car pulled out of the car park, Miller looked out of the window and noticed that the angry customer was still waiting for his double-cheeseburger. Miller muttered to himself. “Let’s find out what the bloody hell this Sergeant Knight is playing at.”
Chapter Five
Daniel Parker arrived at Robert Powell House, the tallest block of flats in Salford, and sat in his car for a few moments, psyching himself up for this visit. He was still gutted with the way that the meeting had gone with DCI Miller, and Rachel’s mum at the police headquarters the previous day. But, he was trying to be optimistic. Dan really wanted to get something, just a tiny nugget of information on this visit today. He was beginning to think that his resignation from Bury Counci
l had all been a waste of time. His sense of outrage and morality had all been in vain, it seemed – and the thought depressed him deeply.
Even though he had anticipated the DCI’s response, it still irked him that Miller wasn’t prepared to budge, not even an inch. Dan’s concern now was that he might take out his frustration here, if the man he was here to see was being difficult too. Dan had come to see Kevin Thompson, a man who was bound to know something about what had gone on at Haughton Park. He had been living right in amongst it all.
Dan sat in the car a few minutes longer, telling himself that he wasn’t chickening out, but rather, he was planning his strategy. But deep down he knew that he was still trying to find the courage to just step out of the car and get on with it. This was going to be a difficult appointment, there could be no two-ways about it. His major concern was whether it was likely to get violent. Dan could argue all day, and would usually win. But he was not so good if things got physical. Dan particularly hated being punched in the face, and always fell to the floor really quickly in that kind of situation. It was always embarrassing, but as a social housing officer in the Greater Manchester area - sadly, it was one of the down-sides of the work that quite often, people wanted to punch you in the face.
For some reason, that Dan had never been able to understand, he had never been able to hit anybody back, not even in the school yard, when the school bully was giving him Chinese-burns on an almost daily basis. He just couldn’t hit back. He didn’t want to be responsible for hurting somebody.
And now, here he was, about to visit one of the biggest bullies he’d encountered in his adult life. He didn’t even have the backing of the council now, for whatever protection that was worth.
Kevin Thompson, was one of the residents that Dan had re-housed on the Haughton Park development the previous year, and he had a reputation for being difficult. Now that Dan needed to talk to the man without the backing of his employers, and the omnipresent threat of ‘being kicked out of his house’ being used as protection, Dan decided that it might be best to just go and see the man as though it was normal council business.
“Fuck it. He who dares, Rodney, he who dares,” he said as he forced himself out of the car. He locked the door and looked up into the grey, threatening skies and the red bricked, twenty-four story block of flats that seemed to go up just as high as the menacing dark clouds. Dan usually had a great amount of respect for his gut instincts, which were telling him to cancel this unannounced visit, to save it for another day. But Dan wasn’t listening to his gut today. That business with DCI Miller the previous day had made him determined to find something positive to focus on. He wanted Rachel and Mick out of prison as soon as was physically possible. This visit was part of that process, and no matter how much Dan was dreading it, it had to be done.
Dan walked into the doorway area and was instantly hit by the smell. It was the unmistakable stench of pine disinfectant, several hundred poor people and piss. Stale, dried, stinking piss. He felt about in his pocket to find the piece of paper with Kev’s flat number written on. Dan pressed the corresponding numbers into the dull, stainless steel intercom device. After a few clicks and indecipherable noises, a voice could be heard down the wires, barking out through the distorted little speaker.
“Yell-o?”
“Oh, er, hi, it’s Dan Parker. I’m from the council.”
“What do you want?” Kev asked, sounding pretty rough.
By the way that he had said “you,” Dan didn’t think
that Kev realised that it was the same Dan that had bent over backwards and sorted this big fat fucking moron out with a brilliant new house on the Haughton Park development, which he and his rabid family had inexplicably trashed, and which had cost over twenty grand to put right. Short memory, thought Dan. Now Salford council were the lucky ones to have the responsibility of housing this big knob-head, he considered as he replied back politely.
“Oh, I just need a quick word with yourself and Tania. If that’s alright?”
“No it’s not alright you fucking balloon. Anyway, what you on about Tania for? Tania’s not here. We’re separated.”
“Yes, well, I mean, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” That was news to Dan. He thought that Kev and Tania would be together forever, or at least until one of them killed the other.
“Well you can fuck off mate. I’m not seeing no-one today, it’s me day off.” Kev sounded quite pleased with himself, having all this power.
Dan blushed slightly as two young men came wandering out of the flats.
“Hee-yar, go in.” said the second lad, holding the door. Dan looked up and realised that they were allowing him access to the block. Strictly against their tenancy agreement, thought Dan. “Cheers,” he said quietly, as he grabbed the door and the two young men brushed past, wafting a fresher smell behind them as they went. Dan never thought he’d be glad to smell Lynx Africa.
“I’m on my way up, I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.” Dan couldn’t care less if Kev wanted to see him or not. There were things that he desperately needed to know, things that he could find out from this Kev, and Tania, if he had any chance of building up enough evidence to get an appeal trial for Rachel and Mick.
“Hee-yar, I said I’m not fuckin’ seeing no-one.” Barked Kev, down the inter-com. But it was too late, Dan was inside, he’d pressed for the lift and now he was waiting for
it to arrive to the ground floor. All Kev heard was the
deafening bang of the main door closing. It took a minute or so, and it sounded very old and creaky, but eventually, with a thud, the lift shaft made a groaning, creaking noise, followed by a heavy clunk, before the metal door began grinding open.
As though it was some kind of a cliché, the lift door opened to reveal a semi-dried puddle of urine, the acidic stink of which pinched Dan’s nostrils. He hesitated as he was about to step inside, and decided that he’d take the stairs. He knew from past experience that the smell of stale piss would cling to him for the rest of the day. He’d prefer to walk up the nine flights of stairs, he thought, as he turned his back on the stinking lift and headed towards the entrance to the stairs.
The smell of the residents was intense on the stairway. It was the central area of the structure, and the place where all of the ventilation pipes revealed the various odours of each flat in one, nose confusing explosion of aromatic diffusion. As he began his ascent, Dan tried his best to place his nostrils on standby, as each new floor presented a new range of smells. The most consistent smell was stale tobacco. The first rule of being poor was get yourself a very expensive addiction to cigarettes. Dan knew this all too well, which explained his clapped-out old Fiesta. The second rule, considered Dan, was to mark out your territory by pissing in the lift. An Englishman’s home is his castle, after all.
There was an art to climbing stairs in blocks of flats. The golden rule, taught to you at Housing Dept School was to imagine that you were walking up an enchanted tower. When you reach your destination, the King would present you with the entire kingdom that was lay out, sparkling before your eyes. But as this was Salford precinct, Dan was struggling with that particular motivational distraction. The only prize on offer today was the vague hope of getting out of here with all of his bones intact.
Dan had visited all of the blocks of flats during his career. If the lift wasn’t broken, it was usually soiled. And Dan always tried to find the positive in every negative situation. So he would consider the fact that he had to walk up the stairs as a “healthy option” or “there are many people who would love to be able to walk up one flight of stairs, let alone nine,” or “this is still better than standing in a puddle of
jellified piss.”
Eventually, Dan arrived at the ninth floor. It didn’t smell too bad up here, he thought. It was a blend of Oust air freshener, toast cooking and cat piss. Quite nice, really. As he closed the door to the staircase, and walked around a small corridor that led to the doorways of the n
inth floor flats, he noticed that Kev was standing on the landing, fists clenched, awaiting his guest. He looked really annoyed, and revved up, ready to deliver a monologue that had been planned in his head for the past ninety seconds. But his face changed to surprise when he saw Dan.
“Oh, it’s you.” Said Kev, a little wrong-footed now, and his rehearsed, pre-planned rant was on the skids.
“Yeah, alright, how’s it going?”
“Oh, er… not too shabby mate, not too shabby. So, er, what are you doing up here?”
“Right, well. Can I come in? I’m knackered from them stairs.” Dan held onto the wall and began gasping and smiling. Kev laughed.
“Ha ha, fucking hell you nugget. You should have got the lift you mug! Yeah, come in, I’ll get a brew on. There’s no milk, though…”
It seemed that Kev considered Dan as some sort of long lost mate. It amused Dan that he was receiving this friendly reception, but more than anything else, the ex-housing officer felt relieved.
“Brilliant! I’m done in.”
“I know yeah, I think my fucking lung would pop if I tried that. Come in, I’ll try and find the kettle.”
Dan followed Kev into the flat. There’d clearly been a fart done recently, by the door, but other than that, the smell wasn’t too testing. The mezzanine floor gave away the fact that Kev hadn’t managed to carpet the place yet. Dan’s first, instinctive reaction was to work out whether or not Kev could qualify for a grant for carpets. He wouldn’t, Dan quickly established.
“So, I thought you was from Bury Council. What’s the score with you working over here as well?”
“Oh right, yeah, well. Thing is, I’ve sort of left Bury.” Dan realised he’d been stuttering, and had made a pig’s ear of that. Sort of left, you bell-end, he thought to himself. “Well, what I mean is, I’ve left there.”
“Fucking hell, small world innit?” Kev burst out laughing, clearly mesmerised by the sheer wonder of Dan and himself being reunited here, in the next metropolitan district along on the map. Luckily for Dan, that was where the questioning stopped. Kev seemed distracted from the whys and wherefores of Dan’s employment status.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 3
