ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist

by Steven Suttie

  “I know you don’t love. But it’s a bit like picking at a scab. You think its helping, but all you’re actually doing is making it worse.”

  Maureen could hear laughter in the background, then it sounded like Sandra’s hand was covering the mouthpiece. Maureen was pretty sure she heard Sandra shout “you better fuck off seriously” before her hand was released and she continued speaking.

  “What I mean is, Rachel is feeling low, because she knows what you’re going through, she knows what you’re trying to do to help her. She’s full of guilt, full of regret and remorse. But tomorrow, she’ll probably be feeling brighter. I promise you now, when her minds clear, when she is focused on other things, like work, or having a game of table tennis and stuff like that, she’s all smiles and she is doing alright. We just need to try and distract her, you know, keep her mind busy with other pursuits.” Sandra sounded so genuine, so benevolent, that it made Maureen feel weak at the knees. Nobody had given her the time of day when she’d phoned before.

  “Our role here is to support the women. We take these matters very seriously Mrs Birdsworth. I’ll make a note of the concerns you’ve raised, and I’ll put these notes in front of the prison doctor. She will take Rachel to one side, and have a word, check her over. Okay?”

  “And what if she thinks Rachel’s gone a bit suicidal…” Maureen was struggling to say it.

  “Well, we have very good systems in place for that

  kind of thing. But in my professional opinion, Rachel is nowhere near the state that would trigger any concerns. To be quite honest, I’m more worried about you than I am for Rachel, by the sound of you. Are you okay?” Prison Officer Sandra Jones really was a lovely woman, and Maureen was feeling overwhelmed by the stranger’s kindness.

  “Aw God, Sandra, you don’t know what this means to me, you saying that about Rachel. I’ve been making myself sick with worry. I can’t thank you enough, thank you so much.”

  “You need to get onto some of the charities and support groups they have, a good one is Action For Prisoner’s Families. If you get in touch with them, they’ll have loads of people you can talk to, support groups, places where you can share your feelings with people who are experiencing the same things. But Mr Pollard is right, you can’t keep ringing up the prison like this. Nobody else does that, you know?”

  “Do they not?” Maureen sounded surprised.

  “No. Never.” Sandra had a little smile in her voice as she said it. Maureen heard it loud and clear and felt a little silly.

  “Can I meet up with you? I want to thank you properly.” Maureen was still crying. This prison officer had given her the first, tiny glimpse of life beyond that horrible, stinking visiting room. Her strict, authoritative, but kindly voice had brought a flooding wave of peacefulness to Maureen, for the first time since, well, since the night that Britney, her eldest granddaughter had come round and told Maureen what she had seen. Life had felt as though it was flashing past at ten thousand miles an hour since that awful, life changing night.

  “What’s the phone number?”

  “Eh, oh – what do you…”

  “If you give me the phone number, I’ll see that she gets it…”

  Maureen was struggling to understand this strange,

  coded speech at first. But it didn’t take her long to cotton on,

  and she read out her phone number to Sandra, the stern sounding, but compassionate prison officer.

  “Thank you Mrs Birdsworth, now, I hope that what I have said to you has been helpful. You really must try and take your mind off worrying about your daughter. She is going to be fine.”

  “Thank you, honestly, so much. That’s my phone number I gave you. Please phone me when you can, I want to thank you properly.”

  “Absolutely, Mrs Birdsworth. Alright, try not to worry. Good luck with everything.”

  The line went dead. Maureen felt that she was smiling. Smiling. God, what was smiling anyway, she wondered. Her face muscles were aching slightly, she’d not used that set of muscles up in her cheeks for quite a while now. Too long. Sandra the prison officer’s words were dancing around in Maureen’s head.

  “She’s all smiles, she’s doing alright. She’s alright, all smiles, she’s doing alright.”

  The tears were running down Maureen’s cheeks. But these tears felt a lot cooler, and less stingy. Maureen’s chest felt lighter, and her breathing seemed to be easier. Maureen felt the unmistakable, cleansing sense of relief washing over her. Sandra Jones could never have known what a lovely thing she had done in those brief few minutes on the phone.

  “God bless you Sandra. And you too Rachel. God bless you both.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Sir, it’s Saunders.”

  “Hiya, what’s up.”

  “Sir, stop what you are doing. You need to contact India-Nine-Nine, you need to be over here ten minutes ago.” DI Saunders wasn’t usually over-dramatic – but from the frantic way in which he was speaking, Miller was sensing that something of significant interest had just cropped up. He wasn’t to be disappointed.

  “Sir, I’m logged into the Strava app. It has just moved Sergeant Knight forty miles, his phone is showing him in Ashton.”

  “Ashton? Under-Lyne?”

  “Yes Sir. It looks like the phone was switched off where you are, and it has just been switched back on, Sir.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly Sir. And the problem we’ve got now…”

  “What?” Miller had been given enough of a heart attack with this news, the last thing he wanted to hear now was a problem.

  “The address that is showing is a block of flats, Grosvenor House. Strava is showing that the app has been turned on in there, but all I know is that it’s in that block of flats. There’s no way of knowing which one of the sixty eight flats it is.”

  “Right, I’m on my way. I’ll organise our response while I’m in the chopper. Where are you?”

  “In the office, Sir.”

  “Okay, so bottom line, you’re telling me that Sergeant Knight is in that block of flats?”

  “Well… if he isn’t, his phone certainly is. It’s been switched off there, where you are, and it’s been switched back on at the address in Ashton. I’ve checked it out – it’s part of Strava’s programme to continue recording after a loss of power.”

  “A loss of power? Battery?”

  “Yes, battery, or being switched off. That constitutes a loss of power Sir.”

  “Right, okay. I’ll be there as soon as. Get onto all divisions in the East of Manchester, I want every available tactical unit from all over Tameside, Oldham, Rochdale – get them all down to this address, out of sight, mind.”

  “Sir, this block of flats, it’s about fifty, sixty yards from Ashton nick. It’s practically facing Tameside’s main police station.”

  “Jesus. That’s pretty curious in itself. Is the phone still on?”

  “No it was switched back off again, within a matter of seconds. Whoever turned it on must have realised that it was doing something, panicked, and turned it straight back off again.”

  “But it was on long enough to tell you where it was?” Miller couldn’t believe how useful this Strava app had been in this investigation. He’d never even known of its existence until today.

  “Well, I’ve looked on Strava’s FAQ page. Once the phone boots up, the Strava message pops up immediately, telling the user that it has recovered from a serious problem. I’m pretty sure that they’ll have been spooked by it…”

  “Right, sod it. Get the building surrounded right now Keith. Tell the Inspector at Ashton to lock the building down – nobody is allowed in, nobody is going out. Tell them to get as many officers on the scene as they can manage. Ring of steel, riot shields and helmets. I’ll make my way over there now.”

  “Do you want me there Sir?”

  Miller went silent. He was thinking about Saunders’ question. After a few seconds, he spoke. “No, you’re better off st
aying there. Keep an eye out for any other activities with that phone.”

  “Okay Sir, understood.”

  “You’ve excelled yourself this time Keith, seriously mate, you’re going to struggle to top this one!”

  “Cheers. Alright, speak to you in a bit.”

  Miller ended the call and put his phone into his pocket. He then lifted his radio to his mouth, looking around the stunning countryside that surrounded him, feeling glad that he was about to go back to Manchester, with a can full of new leads.

  “This is DCI Miller to command post. I need India Nine Nine, or LASU to take me to Manchester urgently, over.”

  *****

  Miller arrived at the block of flats in Ashton’s West End at four thirty. The police helicopter had landed in the grounds of St Peter’s church, the enormous gothic style building that had dominated the skyline of Ashton Under Lyne for almost two-hundred years. This stunning place of Worship had been the main focal point of the area, until quite recently, when the IKEA had been built. This stunningly ornate stone-built church had been upstaged by a giant blue and yellow Lego-brick. St Peter’s church was situated on a triangular piece of land directly between Ashton police station and the Magistrates Court, and the block of flats where Sergeant Knight’s phone had been switched on within the past hour, Grosvenor House.

  As the chopper was landing, Miller was taking in the sights all around the flats, and was impressed by the turn-out of officers on the ground. There were probably a hundred police officers situated all around the flats. The main arterial route through the area, Manchester Road - was closed in both directions, and an enormous crowd of onlookers and concerned looking residents were mingling in amongst the police officers, who were staying frustratingly tight-lipped in response to the question that everybody seemed to be asking them.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Oh my God, it looks like summat off James Bond or summat.”

  “Seem’s a bit heavy handed, whatever’s going on.”

  Residents from within the block of flats were equally as perturbed, and a few were also visibly excited. Many of them were stood on their balconies, or leaning out of windows, looking down at the incredible scenes below. It looked more like a political rally, or a football match, with all of the high-

  visibility police jackets, shields and helmets on show. The area all around the twelve story block of flats was completely cut off by a barrier that was hastily constructed out of police vans, parked bumper to bumper. It was perfectly clear to every single person looking down from the block of flats, that it was not going to be easy to get out of this particular part of Ashton, unless the police were one hundred per cent satisfied that they weren’t involved in whatever the hell it was they were here about.

  “It’s a training exercise, they have to do ‘em!” said one on-looker.

  “Nah, this is a drugs bust.”

  “Not at this time mate, they do drugs busts at about seven in the morning when everyone’s in bed.”

  “They wouldn’t have this many people doing a drugs bust.”

  “Don’t know then. Probably terrorists or summat.”

  And then, somebody in the crowd announced the most credible suggestion so far.

  “It might be that missing copper. It was on the news, before…” It was a lady, probably in her early forties, sucking on an e-cig and looking quite alarmed by all of this extraordinary activity. She was standing among the ever-expanding crowd in the middle of the normally congested Manchester Road. Her comment suddenly got everybody’s attention, as she began explaining the story about the missing sergeant that she had heard about on Sky News.

  “Oh I heard summat about that on Key 103 when I was driving home.” Added another voice in the crowd.

  “No way is he here. Why would he be took here?” asked somebody else.

  “Do you reckon that’s what’s going on?” asked another. The rumours began passing up and down the ever expanding line of people, many of whom were adding their own little version, as the nosey onlookers created their very own ring of steel around the estate.

  A gang of youths had gathered by the edge of the crowd, sitting on their bikes, trying their level best to look intimidating, with their hoods up. They were staring at the police, making hand gestures that suggested that their fingers were made out of guns. The group of teenagers was growing all the time, there were around forty of them so far, and they were sneering, outwardly displaying an unmistakably bad attitude towards the army of police officers. It was as though they were somehow trying to pretend that this incredible scene was in some way down to them, and that they were ultimately going to win the inevitable, imaginary confrontation, by shaking wanker signs and pulling wheelies, presumably. The police officers were extremely professional, completely ignoring the relentless invitations to interact with the boisterous mob.

  DCI Andrew Miller was taking it all in, as he walked through the crowds, looking for Inspector Howard Wiseman, who had organised this impressive cordon and the imposing police presence whilst Miller had travelled south from the Trough of Bowland in the Lancashire force’s helicopter, LASU.

  “Ah, Inspector Wiseman. I’m DCI Miller,” he said, as he found the man he’d been looking for, identifying him by his cap and the pips on his shoulders. Inspector Wiseman was a tall, strongly built man with blonde hair and blonde eyebrows and an impressive ginger moustache. Miller extended his hand and the two men shook firmly. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sir. I’ve done everything as instructed. We’re currently waiting for the Janitor. It’s his day off. He’s in Manchester, he was out having a few drinks, he was quite reluctant to come back at first.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just said, “Na mate, na. But we’ve talked him round, and he’s agreed to come back and assist us. A police car is bringing him back as we speak. ETA five minutes.”

  “Sounds useful. He’s happy to help, you say?” Miller raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, he is now we’ve made it clear that a man’s life depends on him. He says he’s confident that he can identify everybody on CCTV.”

  “Ah, that’s brilliant news.”

  “Indeed. He lives by himself in the ground floor flat,

  he’s been here since the eighties. We’ve spoken to him by phone. He sounds quite excited by it all now, he says that he will be able to name every person who has left the building after four pm – and he says he knows most of the visitors who come into the building as well.”

  “Sounds too good to be true. We are of course assuming that whoever turned Sergeant Knight’s phone on has realised that it has alerted us, panicked and left the building. If nobody has left here between four pm, and your officers arriving and locking the place down, then we are probably going to have to search every flat, one by one. It’s going to be a very long, drawn out process to do it properly.”

  “Well, my officers are all ready. When it’s one of our own…”

  “I know. I know…” Miller nodded, acknowledging the point that Inspector Wiseman was making. “The only problem is, Inspector – the longer this goes on, the less chance we have of getting Sergeant Knight home safely.” DCI Miller had a very severe, very troubled look on his face, and the Inspector read it loud and clear that Miller was extremely worried about the Sergeant’s welfare.

  Inspector Wiseman changed the topic, deliberately raising his voice a notch, trying to infuse some positivity or even optimism into the conversation.

  “We have scanned through all of the CCTV of people entering the building since two pm yesterday afternoon, as instructed. There are a total of seventy six individuals seen entering the building between two pm yesterday and our retrieval of the CCTV recordings about forty five minutes ago. We have all of the time locations logged, so when our janitor arrives, we’ll have a lot of work for him to do, naming all those people.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed, your officers have been working quickly.”


  “Like I say, it’s one of our own.”

  “Sure. Well, well done to everybody Inspector Wiseman. Let’s just hope the Janitor’s not had too much beer, then.” Miller smiled. Inspector Wiseman didn’t.

  “He sounded compos mentis. My over-riding concern

  is the prospect of people entering the building through

  alternative entrances.”

  Miller looked as though the wind had been blown out of his sails. “Eh? How do you mean?” He looked up at the grey, concrete building that towered high above the two men.

  “These blocks of flats at this end of town are a real head ache. Always have been, since they were put up in the sixties. The council have done what they can to keep them secure, they’ve erected all these tall fences, mechanical gates and heavy doors at the entrances, but the residents are usually the reason for problems. They find ways of getting around the security procedures.”

  “Such as…”

  “Oh, you name it, they’ve done it. People who want to avoid being seen on CCTV will do almost anything to evade the cameras. The most obvious one is the hoods up technique, but there are hundreds of ways that they come in and out of these blocks without being noticed. They climb up the outside of the building, monkeying up the balconies. They’ll be pushed in a shopping trolley, or a bin.”

  “A bin?”

  “Absolutely. A wheely bin is a great tool to transport people past surveillance equipment.”

  “Wow.” Said Miller, clearly impressed at the level of ingenuity that petty criminals could rise to. “You have to hand it to them I suppose. It’s a pretty cunning way of getting around the system.”

  “It’s a rather unhygienic mode of transport though. I bet they stink.”

  Miller nodded his agreement as he checked his watch, it was almost quarter to five.

  “Can you get an update on where this Caretaker is please?”

  “Of course DCI Miller.” Inspector Wiseman pressed a button on his chest and spoke into his radio that was attached to the breast of his jacket. “Gold Command, this is Inspector Wiseman to November Uniform Six Four. What is your ETA over?”