“Sirens. Can’t you hear them?”
Sergeant Knight’s eyes flicked up, he was staring at a damp old, crumbling wall that was covered in faded mould which in turn was hiding some ancient graffitti. It looked like an abandoned Victorian wall, lots of decorative brick detail was surrounding him. It wasn’t a mill, it was an old, public place. He stared intently, listening hard. The only sound that he could hear was his own laboured, heavy breathing, his banging, racing heart rate, his sobbing, his shaky, terrified voice. “I - can’t – hear – anything.”
“It’s your mates, all the dibble in Manchester will be out looking for you. Not one of them will know what you’ve done though, will they?”
“What I’ve…?”
“Ha ha!” The man took another draw on his cigarette, seemingly in no rush to continue talking. Sergeant Knight knew that this man was completely detached from reality and the thought filled him with even more terror.
“Well… you may as well… tell me what… I’m supposed to have done…”
This question sparked the first emotional response from Sergeant Knight’s captor. He skipped across to the policeman and jumped up into the air, landing two footed onto the hideously damaged, disfigured, shattered leg. His landing was as heavy as he could make it, and then he stayed, as long as he could before losing his balance and stepping away from the howling, screaming, horrifically injured policeman.
The manic, tortured screams reverberated from all four of the walls of the hellish building, his involuntary, unearthly howls did enough to make a family of pigeons flap and fly away in a panic.
Sergeant Knight was pointing up to the roof with his hands. The pain level just went off the radar for him. If he thought that his leg had reached pain level ten in the previous minutes, he had just received an almighty, unforgiving lesson. He continued to howl, to scream and shout obscenities, with his hands raised almost comically above him, pointing at the rafters.
“You cunt! You fucking useless cunt! You’re a loser. Fucking loser.” He was shouting so loudly, the echo was repeating his last furious insult high up in the rafters of the building, as a new one left his lips. “Come on, jump on it again you fucking useless cunt!”
There was nothing else Sergeant Knight could do, but try and get this bastard to hurry up and just kill him. But it was futile. The man just stood there, pulling another cigarette from the pack. The cold, menacing smirk was back.
“Have you quite finished?” he asked as he put the cigarette to his mouth, and once again, illuminated his face with the flame from his lighter.
“FUCK OFF!” shouted Sergeant Knight, louder than ever.
“Moody bugger!” said the man, taking a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “You need to get that temper of yours under control. I’ve never known such disgraceful language!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miller was being driven anti-clockwise around the M60, at speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour, as the police traffic car that he was travelling in headed from Ashton towards Eccles. Throughout the journey, he was receiving information from several police sections, whole teams of whom were trying to build a picture about the man that was now at the centre of this investigation, the man with the white van, and, most significantly, Sergeant Knight’s mobile phone. Peter Meyer was the only suspect in the hunt for Sergeant Knight.
Miller had enlisted his trusted DI back at the office to dig deep and find everything that he possibly could find on Peter Meyer. DI Saunders had also been instructed to discover everything that he possibly could about the man’s wife, and any friends. Miller’s first instincts were yelling that Meyer had some history with Knight, and if that was the case, and it was as a result of Knight’s work, then it shouldn’t be a difficult task to figure it all out. There would be records, and logs of anything unsavoury as part of general procedure.
Proving or dis-proving that theory was at the top of Saunders’ to-do list. If this was going to become a negotiation situation, as these type of incidents usually did – then it would help Sergeant Knight immensely if the colleagues that would be doing any negotiating were ahead of the game. Saunders was an excellent detective, and Miller held him in very high esteem, which was why he was entrusting this crucial work to him and him alone. Miller knew that several divisional CID departments would be raking over the same ground – but if Saunders was working on it, Miller was one hundred per cent confident that what he’d get back would be solid. The DCI often wondered if Saunders ever slept when he was in the middle of a big case. He certainly never gave the impression that he stopped what he was doing for things like eating, or going home, or even sleeping. It was great news for the SCIU team, but less so for Saunders’ personal life, which was non-existent.
“Everything you can get, please Keith. Leave no stone unturned mate.”
“Of course, you’ll be the first to know, Sir.” Said Saunders as he ended the call, after filling a page of his notebook with Miller’s lines of enquiry, instructions and queries, sprinkled with a good few of his own thoughts too.
Miller glanced out of the passenger window and realised that he was getting closer to Eccles, as the police driver switched motorways and gave a deafening blast of the sirens, as he thundered the high performance traffic car onto the M62 at Simister Island. They were nearly there.
*****
It was turning out to be a very weird day in Manchester. Every single policeman seemed to be on duty, and all you could hear was the wailing of police sirens in every part of the city. As far as the rush-hour was concerned, this was destined to be a memorable day. Traffic just wasn’t moving, and all of the main arterial roads in and out of Manchester were grid-locked with cars, vans and trucks. Rather than risk letting the white van slip through, the police had taken the very unpopular decision to road-block every major road. The plan in theory was to hold queues of vehicles, and then once a batch had been checked, the police would let them go on their way.
However, at major junctions, the system was quickly breaking down and turning into a farce. Hundreds of thousands of vehicles used the roads in and out of Manchester everyday. It was way too big an operation to suggest, and the officers on the ground were seeing first hand that the holding and checking vehicles idea was counter-productive. The police were ordered to abandon the batch system, and just hold all vehicles under further notice. Further notice seemed to be a long time in coming, and frustrations were rising, amongst the police, who really thought that they could be using their time more productively than creating pointless traffic jams.
“It’s that old ‘got to be seen to be doing something,’ routine” suggested one PC to another as they stood at the junction outside Manchester City’s stadium, facing hundreds
of cars that were beeping and tooting at them, appealing to the officers to just let them get on their way.
The police divisions that covered each section of Greater Manchester were all being instructed by their Inspectors, who in turn were being instructed by their Chief Inspectors, who were instructed by the Chief Constable, and to be fair, it was complete and utter chaos.
Nobody knew what to do, and the chaos that was developing outside on the roads of the city were just one aspect of a police force that was genuinely struggling to manage such a complex and unplanned procedure. This force was all prepped for a terrorist attack, they were fully trained for a plane crash, and riot control was part of regular training. But trying to find one particular white transit van was proving to be a major headache.
The public seemed to have mixed reactions. Some were being extremely co-operative, and stayed quietly in their cars, waiting patiently. Some of them had given up, and dumped their cars by the side of the road, deciding to set off walking. After all, it was a pleasant day, and they could come back later, or tomorrow and collect their cars. One person had left a hand written note in their windscreen. “Traffic Warden, road blocked , had to pick kids up from babysitter. If you put a ticket on this mate, put it ne
ar this sign please so it shows up on your photos when I appeal. Nice One.”
Not everybody was taking the traffic and travel chaos in the best of humour, though. Some people were being a right pain in the arse. Each road-block had a few of the stereotypical Mancunian gob-shites who thought that they had an obligation to put their two-penneth worth in, standing in front of police officers and giving them hassle.
“Hee-yar! All us lot have got to suffer just because one of your lot is in bother? I don’t see yous shutting off the roads when one of us lot goes missing! Double standards, mate, telling yoh!” Was one typical rant, delivered in the cocky, chip-on-your-shoulder Manchester drawl. Liam Gallagher had a lot to answer for on these kinds of occasions, as the majority of gob-shites seemed to adopt his stance when talking to officers of the law.
The police officers were professional and tried to diffuse the situation, and in most cases, it came to nothing more than a rant from people who just wanted to sound off. However, one or two frustrated car-owners had let their tempers get the better of them and had continued to be aggressive, even after several warnings from the officers. The consequence was that they were put in the back of police vans and left to simmer down. But it was only a few. The vast majority of people understood the seriousness of what was going on, and sat quietly in their cars listening to the radio and gossiping on their phones about the traffic standstills across Manchester, making light of it all with their friends on Facebook and Twitter.
*****
Key 103 radio’s traffic helicopter was filming the scene from above, and posting the images onto their website. Other news agencies were quickly picking them up, and re-distributing the incredible footage. It didn’t look like Manchester at all. First of all, it was sunny. But it really did look like another city – all of the major roads in and out of the city centre were completely grid-locked with traffic, and people stood in pockets all around the vehicles. Some were sunbathing, there was even an impromptu game of football taking place by the side of the road in Stretford, the car owners making use of the time.
The roads led out in every direction, Bolton Road, Rochdale Road, Oldham Road, Ashton New Road, Ashton Old Road, Stockport Road, there were dozens of main arterial routes that fed in and out of Manchester’s inner hub. The pictures and videos from the radio station’s helicopter were causing lots of amusement for everybody on the ground, and those people stuck in the cars especially.
On Bury New Road, one car was blasting out the latest dance tunes at full volume, and a small gathering of young people had got out of their own cars and had started throwing a few shapes around the car, dancing and laughing. Other car drivers were laughing at the mini-rave and saying things like “only in Manchester!”
Considering the circumstances, the mood was quite cheerful. There wasn’t any hint of terror, or panic. In the main, people seemed to be accepting that something pretty serious was going on, and that everything will be sorted eventually. People just sat, and waited, and updated their facebook statuses to pass the time.
“Stuck in my car on Hyde Road, it’s a very, very serious situation, only 3% of battery left. Someone bring me my charger!!!!”
“Brilliant! I wasted a tenner’s petrol sat in the traffic. Just realised everyone else turned their engines off ages ago. FML!!!!!”
“Trapped in all this traffic bullshit. I hope someone tapes Corrie for me.”
The officers that were stood at all of the major junctions, holding the traffic were feeling an enormous sense of relief that the public seemed to be taking this extraordinary situation in good humour. If this had been a cold, drizzly, windy afternoon, things might not have been so good-natured. The officers all knew that it would only take one or two cars to drive through, and the rest would follow and then things could really become chaotic.
“Any updates on this traffic situation at Stockport Road and Dickenson Road, Longsight, please? Over?” It was a sergeant at a major junction a couple of miles south of Manchester.
“All units are standing by for updates, over.” Came the familiar response from the control room.
“What does that even mean, Sarge?” asked another officer.
“It means, we know you are waiting. Now shut up, and leave us alone.” The Sergeant smiled at his colleague. But behind the smile was a deep frustration. This wasn’t helping
to find Sergeant Knight, and all of the police officers knew it.
*****
Rebecca Knight was in her bed. The doctor had given her a sedative, and she’d been asleep for a few hours now. The two family liason officers, Gary and Leanne were feeling redundant, but also frustrated, and slightly worried that they would get a serious bollocking for that awful situation earlier. They were sitting in Sergeant Knight’s living room, listening to the police radio updates. It sounded as though all hell was breaking loose out on the streets of Manchester because of this, and they were both sat here, with absolutely nothing to do. It was a punishing situation to be in.
“How long did the doctor say she’d be out for?” asked Gary.
“I think he said about five or six hours, it was hard to listen when she was kicking off like that. I’ve never seen anyone in such a state before,” said Leanne. Gary could tell by her voice that she was still a little shaken.
“Don’t worry about it. What’s that old saying, if it goes well act like it was easy, if it goes difficult, act like it was easy.”
“Have you just made that up?” asked Leanne, pretty sure that her colleague was talking shit. She had a wide grin on her face, and was staring at Gary.
“No, they teach it you at liason school. It means, if it’s a fucking nightmare situation, act totally cool, and if it’s a really easy job, act totally cool.”
“Right, well, when we’ve finished on this job, I want you to find out what the actual wording was, because that sounds like utter bollocks to me.”
“Do you want a brew?”
“No. No thanks. I’ll be up all night. I wouldn’t mind some biscuits though. Have they got any in?”
“You cheeky get! I’ll just go and have a look.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So, you don’t know why you’re here?”
“Just… shush. You’re a… fucking loser.” Sergeant Knight was staring up, way high above him, up into the rafters and the crumbling roof. This was an enormous building. It must have been derelict for years, decades. The pain that Sergeant Knight was enduring was coming in waves. He was using breathing exercises, just to cope. Panting, fast, hard, deep breaths when the pain was at its worst, and then alternating to slower, more controlled, shallower breaths as the pain lessened. It only lessened slightly, just for a moment, every so often, but it was something to focus on, something to work towards. He’d learnt this breathing technique from his wife, Rebecca, when she was giving birth. She’d gone for the no-pain relief option with Jacob, their second. She’d read that the birthing experience is much more intense without any pain relief. It certainly had been intense, and Rebecca Knight had wished to God she’d never read that stupid article that had given her the idea. Sergeant Knight had supported Rebecca through the birth, and had got involved with the breathing exercises too. It felt quite ridiculous at the time, panting and fast-breathing with his wife. But he was certainly glad of that experience now. It was helping.
“Do you want a paracetamol?” asked the man.
“Nah, I’m fine.” Sergeant Knight was still gazing up at the roof, trying to keep his brain off the overwhelming stab, crush and throb that was coming up from his waist. It felt like a car was reversing, back and forth over his leg. From his knee, right up to his groin. Then stop. And reverse back. And stop. And forward. Repeating over and over, it even paused, as though somebody was changing gear.
“See, that’s what I like about Manchester people. We’ve got this absolutely insane sense of humour. Sarcasm, that’s what’s at the heart of it, innit? I mean, no-one from say Devon, or Birmingham would say nah I’m fine,
when their leg looks like a dirty Tampax, would they?”
Sergeant Knight was starting to pant again, his breathing was getting quicker, sharper, louder. It was helping
with the pain, no two ways about it. It was also helping to block the crazy man’s pointless, idiotic talking out as well.
“So, you don’t know why you’re here? Don’t even have a tiny clue?” The man walked across, and stood over Sergeant Knight. “What do you look like?” he said, smiling in a mocking, deliberate way.
“I have… no idea.”
“Do you want me to tell you?”
“I’m not… fussed. Tell me, don’t tell me. I couldn’t… give a fuck.” Each word that came from Sergeant Knight’s lips was laboured, and took great strength and effort. But he wanted his pride to be intact, even if his leg was hanging off him.
“You’re a right drama queen. I bet you’re dying to know! Get it? Dying?”
“You obviously… want me to know… more than I give a fuck about it. So get on… with it. Or … shut up.” Sergeant Knight wanted this maniac to jump on him again, hopefully his head this time. He knew that he wasn’t long for this world, and any help he could get, any assistance with fast forwarding to that final breath would be worth any amount of pain. He was feeling drunk now, he was definitely slipping away. He could feel the life fading from him. He was becoming delirious.
“You ruined my life. Totally fucked it up.”
“Really? What did I do…?” Sergeant Knight might have felt like he was in the final seconds of life, in the most extraordinary amount of pain and misery. But he wasn’t going to die being pleasant to this freak.
“What saddens me,” said the man, inhaling his cigarette, “is that you can fuck somebody’s life up that bad, totally break an entire family up – and you don’t even know about it. You don’t know, you don’t care. That’s not right.”
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 14
