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

by Steven Suttie

  “I don’t… know what you’re on about…”

  The man pulled his rucksack off his back, and began unzipping it.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, since you’re so unbelievably morally broken, I’m going to tell you. You see, I’m not being funny but I think that it’s polite to explain to somebody the

  reason why their penis is about to be removed slowly and painfully with this knife.” The man pulled a huge, shiny hunters knife out of his rucksack and showed it to Sergeant Knight, holding it up, high in the air, letting the tiny chink of light hit the cold, stainless steel blade. “I’m not joking.”

  Sergeant Knight started shrieking. He was trying to wriggle away. Despite the pain he was suffering, despite the fact that he wished he was dead – that huge knife, that threat was terrifying.

  “Come here you mad bugger, what’s up with you?” The man seemed calm, and that was even scarier. “Come off it, stop wriggling about you stupid person!”

  Despite Sergeant Knight’s agonising, one-legged wriggling, the man had managed to pull the policeman’s cycling shorts down far enough to expose his genitals. The pride that Sergeant Knight had been determined to cling onto was gone, forgotten in a split second, as the maniac illuminated the dark, mouldy place with the flash from his camera.

  He laughed as he clicked the camera, and the device made an old fashioned camera sound effect. The photograph was of Knight, lay with his pants pulled down, and his arms strapped together at the wrists, pointing skyward. He looked absolutely ridiculous, and petrified. He didn’t look human, the terror in his eyes, the blue, almost Smurf coloured complexion, and that incredibly disfigured, damaged leg. It was a truly horrific photograph, and the man that had taken it laughed out loud as he looked at it on his phone.

  “Okay, that’s the before picture taken! That reminds me, I must get some chippolatas for tea.”

  Sergeant Knight was staring up at the eaves of the smelly, old, bird-crap covered building, wondering when his shitty, stinking leg would finally bleed out. When this awful end to his life would finally happen.

  “Right then, that picture looks terrific. Do you want to see? You look hilarious!” Once again, the man was talking as though it was all a big joke. He was grinning manically, and he didn’t look remotely concerned for Sergeant Knight. If anything, he looked delighted, if not quite proud, to see this

  man in such a humiliating, painful, desperate situation. He was animated and jokey, talking none stop and making daft comments. He really looked as though he was having a great day out.

  “Please. I need to see a doctor. I’m begging you.” Knight’s words were cold, robotic. There was no emotion in them at all.

  “No deal. Stop all your mardy talk. You’re going to pay the price for ruining my life. I’m not doing half a job you know. If a job’s worth doing – it’s worth doing right. That’s what I’ve always said. No half measures!”

  “You’ve made your point. I’m sorry. I really am. Just let me go. Get me an ambulance man, please.”

  “No deal, sorry. Now then, we might as well get on with the dirty work, and get your horrible little willy chopped off!”

  “Please! PLEASE!” Sergeant Knight was appealing as best that he could, trying to use his eyes, as well as his voice. He just wanted to connect, to make this man see what he was doing.

  But Sergeant Knight stopped pleading, as he watched the man walking slowly towards him. His face had changed. The silly, playful look had gone. It was quite clear from the cold, determined, menacing look of anger on the man’s face, that he meant business. Begging for mercy was completely pointless, and in a way, the injured man was accepting his fate. He refused to plead anymore.

  As soon as Jason Knight saw the psychopathic man kneel down, holding the knife as though he was about to do some butcher work, he screwed his eyes as tightly as he could.

  “Here we go then. This is going to hurt like a bastard! Feel free to scream if you want, Sarge.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Eccles is not the kind of suburb that is unfamiliar with the sounds of police sirens, but today, in this district of Greater Manchester, the sirens were certainly causing a stir in the streets and avenues that nestled between the motorway and the canal. It was all you could hear, from every direction, and it was extremely alarming for the local people who were out in their streets, trying to figure out what the bloody hell was going on.

  The town is probably best known for its celebrated raisin cake, despite the fact that the Eccles cake is made on the opposite side of Manchester, nowadays. And that depressing fact pretty much sums Eccles up, really. Everybody has heard of it, but nobody has really got very much to say about the place. Not even the celebrated Eccles cake has anything to do with the place anymore.

  Eccles is the next major conurbation along the road from Salford, and the town had built itself up on the back of the industrial revolution, producing cotton, and mining coal and sending it all off from the docks in Salford. But today, Eccles is just like so many other tired northern towns that have never found a replacement for the industry that slowly died away in the last half of the previous century.

  But, the area is improving, and certain parts of it are very nice. Areas such as Renshaw Crescent, a neat little close on a modern little housing development on the east side of the Bridgewater canal. This pleasant little suburb, made up mainly of young, professional families was becoming the scene of an unbelievable police presence. Police cars, vans, dog units, motorbikes, riot vans, there were sixteen different police vehicles on the cul-de-sac within five minutes of the first vehicle arriving.

  Every single neighbour was out, wondering what in God’s name was going on. The usual theories were all suggested amongst the small, tight-knit community, and then quickly dismissed again as they refused to accept that Pete and Mel would be up to anything dodgy. Terrorism, child abuse, drugs and prostitution were all theories that had been suggested amongst the gossiping and concerned neighbours, before being rejected.

  “I’m not having it. Wrong house, wrong street.”

  “They’re always doing it, Manchester police, they’re the worst ones for it.”

  “Yeah, smash your door off, and ask questions later!”

  “There’s no way Pete or Mel are up to anything illegal. I’m not having it!”

  “It’s all a bit over the top all this though, don’t you reckon?”

  The neighbours were all having a good old yack amongst themselves, while the local children were fascinated by the exciting drama that was taking place on this very ordinary, normally very quiet little cul-de-sac.

  “Go and ask one of them coppers what’s going on!” dared one of the neighbours of another.

  “I’m not, ask Cheryl to, she’s a gobby cow!”

  “No I am not, you cheeky bitch!” shouted Cheryl, across the dividing lawn, laughing at the banter that this full-scale police operation was creating.

  Inside the property, Melanie Meyer was sat in the living room, hearing all about this police investigation for the very first time.

  Melanie was a good looking young mum, early thirties, quite plump, but her weight suited her. She worked in a primary school as a teaching assistant, whilst she was studying and training to become a full-time teacher. Her husband, Peter Meyer, or Pete as he was better known, ran his own joinery and building company, and he was doing very well, building up an excellent reputation for fair prices and quality workmanship. Pete was a little older than Mel, getting a bit closer to the fortieth birthday than he liked to admit.

  The couple’s two children were upstairs, being looked after by a police constable.

  Melanie was understandably concerned by the intense police activity. But she was more confused, frustrated, and shocked by all this, than upset. She just wanted to know what was going on, what they wanted with Pete.

  “I’m sorry, CID are on the way, they can answer all your questions.”

  “Just tell me what’s happened.” She ple
aded, through tears. But none of the officers that were stood in the front room would. They were under strict instructions to keep quiet until the investigating officer, DCI Miller arrived.

  Melanie would soon be made fully aware of the circumstances though, via text message. Her phone was on the glass coffee table, it vibrated loudly, notifying her that a text had been received.

  “Am I allowed to read it?” she asked of the policeman standing by the side of her.

  “Of course.” The policeman nodded, and looked a little too eager to know who the text was from. It was from Pete.

  17:07 “Hello love, soz to be a pain but I’m not going to be back for tea.”

  Melanie showed the message to the police officers.

  “What shall I put?” she asked. She looked scared.

  “Just reply as normal. Don’t mention that we are here. Just reply like you normally would.” A police sergeant was giving the advice. He was the most senior rank in the house and under the circumstances, had decided that it was his call. Melanie did as suggested, and replied to the message.

  17:08 “Hi babe. No probs. Not made nowt yet anyway. What time are you going to be back?”

  17:09 “Probably never to tell you the truth!”

  Melanie’s face fell when she read it. The frightened, scared, nervous look of anxiety gave way to exasperation, as this insane situation somehow managed to get even weirder. Even scarier.

  “Just reply, as you normally would,” suggested the sergeant once again in a kind, reassuring voice. Melanie thought for a few seconds before typing her message quickly with her thumbs. She held it up to the sergeant. He nodded. “That’s fine,” he said, softly.

  17:10 “LOL! Pete, WTF are you on about?”

  If Melanie Meyer had been feeling confused, frustrated and scared up until this point, all that was about to be swept clear. Melanie Meyer was to have absolutely no

  doubt what all this was about, as the next message pinged to the phone.

  17:11 “I know about you and Jason Knight. I’ve known for weeks. Can’t believe you’ve done this to me Mel. I’m gutted.”

  “Aw no. Oh fuck.” Mel’s face changed. She transformed from a vulnerable, lost soul, to a guilty-as-sin, super-bitch within seconds. “Aw fucking hell.” She repeated. The penny had dropped. Pete had done something. That’s why the police were here. Pete had done something really fucking serious. Mel made an involuntary sound, as the gravity of the situation caught up with her. The consequences of her actions were about to be revealed, and she had a horrible, terrible feeling about all this.

  17:15 “Pete you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Jay is just a mate.”

  Mel knew as she sent it, that her message wasn’t going to cut it. She had a feeling that Pete knew, she had done for a week or so now. He’d been acting weird. Cold. Well that was why, she couldn’t deny it to herself any longer.

  17:17 “Don’t start Mel. I saw that picture of his dick on your phone. I’ve read the messages you’ve sent him. I’ve SEEN the fucking pictures you’ve sent to him Mel. That’s my life finished now. It’s all over. No wife. Nowhere to live. Won’t even see my kids. Everything is fucking ruined. Anyway, fuck it. I’m not going to mope about. I’ve got him here, I’ve just chopped his cock off. Now I’m just going to sit here and watch him bleed to death. He’s making a horrible gurgling noise. I hope he thinks it was worth it. I hope you do too, you fucking horrible cunt. Pete.”

  17:18 “ATTACHMENT. Click to open.”

  “LOADING.” “DOWNLOAD COMPLETE”

  “You two trying to make me look a dick head. Well what about this? Who looks a fucking dick head now? LOLOLOL!!!”

  *****

  Half an hour had passed between the moment that the suspect had been identified by the Janitor of Grosvenor House flats in Ashton, and DCI Miller bursting into the Meyer household in Eccles. The place was surrounded by police, vans and cars. The vehicles had been abandoned all along the road, and most of the neighbours were out at their front door steps, having a right good nosey and a gossip.

  The house was tidy looking. It was just another inconspicuous, modern semi-detached and it blended in with all of the others. The garden was well kept. There was a nice motor on the drive, a VW Beetle, metallic silver. Obviously the wife’s, the plastic flowers on the dash gave it away. The husband drove a van, anyway, that’s what Miller had learnt as he’d made his way over from Ashton, along with lots of basic facts about the family, provided quickly and effectively by DI Saunders.

  Miller had found out quite a lot, in particular; that the couple had been married eight years, and had two young children, both of whom were upstairs in the property, being cared for by a police constable. Neither parent had any previous history with the law. Both were in work and by all accounts they were fine, upstanding members of the local community. Absolutely no links could be made between the Meyer’s and any organised criminals in Greater Manchester.

  All in all, Miller’s first assessments told him that the house was in good shape, that these people weren’t from the usual type of dysfunctional family that would typically be involved in a kidnap stroke abduction scenario. There was plenty of evidence of young kids all around the house, toys and children’s general bric-a-brac was scattered everywhere. A new packet of nappies was parked on the stairs. Aged 12 months plus.

  Miller strode through into the living room. There were police officers, and CID officers loitering in the hall, and more of them had congregated in the front room. It was eerily quiet, the mood was extremely low. He stepped into the living room, and that’s when Miller spotted the woman.

  The woman who’d been sleeping with Sergeant Knight.

  The woman whose husband had taken Sergeant Knight prisoner.

  And, apparently, according to the disturbing, unforgettable picture that only a very small circle of police officers inside this room had seen, this was the woman whose husband had chopped Sergeant Knight’s manhood off, and displayed it as a gruesome, shocking trophy, balanced on the victim’s forehead.

  “Let me see that,” said Miller, taking the phone off the PC who was holding it. “Jesus Christ,” he said quietly, almost silently, looking away and fighting a very sudden, overwhelming urge to vomit. He couldn’t look at it again. He wanted to, he needed to, for genuinely important, professional reasons. But he had never seen anything so grotesque, so utterly disgusting and upsetting in his entire life. Miller realised that he was in shock. He had to steady himself against the door frame.

  It was the look of pain, horror, sadness, helplessness. It was the raw humiliation on Sergeant Knight’s pleading, desperate face that disturbed Miller more than anything else. Knight was still alive, at least he had been, when the picture had been taken. You could tell by the unforgettable, heart-rendering expression of agony, despair and embarrassment in his eyes. He was alive, but you could see that he wished that he wasn’t.

  DCI Miller had to take a series of long, well thought-out deep breaths. He knew that he needed to look again at that grotesque, physically repulsive photograph. He needed to try and see something, anything, that might give an indication, some clue as to where Sergeant Knight was being kept. Being tortured.

  But Miller needed to calm his nerves first. That was absolutely imperative. He looked across the room at another detective who had also seen the photo and Miller saw that his colleague was also physically affected by the macabre photo, which had been accompanied by a wishy-washy text, as though this was some kind of a daft joke.

  The photograph was even worse on the second viewing. It was too dark to see anything of the location, but Miller could very clearly see that there was dirt, dust and

  rubble on the floor. There was also a piece of rubbish nearby,

  a newspaper or magazine. That was covered in dust too. The photograph had been taken using a flash. It was broad daylight outside still, so this was an indoor location, one that looked derelict. In the top left hand corner there was a reflection, an illumination. The
camera flash was reflecting off something. Miller used his fingers on the screen, to zoom into the light, bringing that part of the photograph into focus. He could see that it was a window, it was broken. It was a very tiny window which was smashed, letting in a very minute amount of daylight. There was something else there as well – outside, out in the daylight but it was too small, too grainy for Miller to see clearly enough. He knew that I.T. Tech Support back at HQ would be able to clear it up on their computer software, but he didn’t have several hours to waste waiting around for that.

  Miller turned to the woman. Melanie Meyer, the wife of Peter Meyer. Melanie was on the settee, her feet were curled under her bum, her knees were tucked under her chin. She was hugging both legs tightly, clutching them as though she was overboard at sea, clinging onto a life-buoy that was being thrown around in the middle of an Atlantic storm.

  “Are you alright?” asked Miller. He knew that it was a stupid question, but he had to ask. She was trembling so violently that she almost looked blurry. Her face was red raw, particularly around her eyes and her nose. She needed sedating, such was the heightened state of shock and distress that she was in. But all that had to wait. Miller needed to get Sergeant Knight found, right now. This woman was the only person who could give the vital information that was needed as a matter of the most extreme urgency. Sergeant Knight was dying on that photograph, there was absolutely no question about it.

  “Melanie, I need you to help me find your husband.”

  “I know. I know….” She muttered, half crying, half screeching. She began rocking.

  “I know you’re upset… I know that what’s happened is distressing. But we need to find your husband. Well, more importantly, we need to find Jason.”

  “I know,” She squeeled, her mouth was left hanging open. Melanie Meyer was absolutely distraught. Miller didn’t know why yet. He did know why, collectively of course – but he needed to try and understand the running order of it all, for it to make sense to him. He needed to know what aspect of this scenario was most upsetting for Melanie Meyer at this moment. What exactly was it that was distressing her the most? Was it the shock of learning that her husband knew about her affair? The fact that she’d hurt him so badly that he’d set out to kill the man involved? Or was it the fact that her husband had done something so life-changingly bad? Or was it pity, self-pity that her daft little affair had been the trigger for all of this? Or was it simply because of that horrifyingly sadistic, unforgettable photograph of her lover looking so vulnerable, and so utterly, disturbingly ridiculous?