Miller was considering all of these thoughts as he sat down and touched Melanie’s knee gently. She pulled her legs back, telling the DCI in a split-second that her loyalties were not with Jason Knight, but with her husband. He had an instinct for these things, and his mind began racing, gutted that she wasn’t going to play ball and help in the way that he had hoped. The way he had planned. He needed to change tact. Immediately.
“Has he done anything like this before?”
Melanie Meyer looked up and stared at Miller. Her gaze spoke for her. Her gaze said “that is a fucking stupid question, you prick.”
“Have you had affairs before? Does Peter know about them?”
Once again, the gaze was laser guided and full of hatred. It was all aimed straight at Miller. Brilliant, he thought. Now it’s all my fault.
“No.” Melanie looked down again, back down at her knees, her dark blue jeans were soaked all around the knees, dripping wet with tears and make-up and snot.
“No, you haven’t had affairs? Or no, he doesn’t know?”
“I’ve not… I’ve not had affairs.” Melanie was talking into her knees. It was muffled, and hard to hear, but Miller didn’t care about the acoustics. The fact that she was talking at all was all that he was interested in.
“He’s taken Jason somewhere. It’s dark, dirty, really dusty. Do you know where that might be?”
“No.”
“No idea? You can’t think of a place he knows, a dirty, mucky place – somewhere quiet, deserted. Somewhere he could go and torture your boyfriend?”
Melanie looked up, her glare set on him again, her vivid, blood-shot blue eyes were pleading with Miller. Please don’t make this my fault, they were begging. She shook her head, and looked down again, back at the knees of her jeans. “No.” she said, coldly, wiping her nose on her black cardigan sleeve. “I can’t think of anywhere like that.”
“Does Peter have any connections to Ashton?” asked Miller.
Melanie looked back up at the DCI. A glimmer of something washed over her face. Miller wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but Melanie was certainly interacting with the question. Her face demonstrated that her mind was whirring, trying to compute the facts.
“Melanie?”
“Eh?” she asked, her mind very clearly thrown.
“Ashton. Ashton Under Lyne.”
“Yeah, yeah. He has got… his, he’s from Ashton. His dad still lives there.”
“Do you remember anywhere that Peter has spoken about in Ashton that is derelict?”
“No… why would…”
“He’s not mentioned a building job he’s doing, or he’s been to look at, anything like that over Tameside way?”
“No.”
“He’s been over to his dad’s today. That’s how we found out that it was him. Have you any idea why he would take your lover to Ashton, to torture him?”
“No.”
“Come on Melanie. Think. For God’s sake. There’s a reason.”
“I don’t know… honestly…”
“Did Jason Knight phone you, yesterday?”
“Yes, he did…”
“What time?”
“I don’t… about five past twelve. It was dinner-time at school.”
“How long did you talk for?”
“Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”
“Because we’ve been trying to suss out who he was on the phone to. He was knocked off his bike about an hour after talking to you. It was your husband, Peter. He’s the man who did it. We need to find where he is Melanie, or Jason is going to die. Very soon.”
“I… don’t… know!” Melanie vomited into her hands. Everything had suddenly become too much.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
6.15PM
Miller was standing on the pavement outside the Meyer family house, surveying the street whilst frantically sucking on a cigarette. There was a police officer standing guard at the door, and Miller had his back to the house, trying his best to avoid eye-contact, and a pointless conversation with the PC about bugger all. His mind was racing with the things that he needed to do as soon as possible. The first priority that he needed to focus on was getting himself back to HQ, and sorting out the press conference, but that couldn’t be done until a car came and picked him up. The over-all priority was finding Sergeant Knight, and getting him the urgent medical care that he needed. If he still needed it. The thought sent a shiver down Miller’s spine.
The more that he’d heard about this Pete Meyer character, the less he wanted to believe that the man was capable of such a wicked, cold-blooded crime. Miller had plenty of years of experience in murder investigations, and in that time he had seen hundreds of hot-headed killings, carried out under the fog of alcohol and the red-mist of anger. Rarely was a case so well planned, and thought out, especially considering the patience and self-control that must have been utilised to follow Sergeant Knight’s bike ride out into Lancashire, and wait for the chance to pounce. In cold-blood as well. The thought chilled the DCI, and one thing was for certain in Miller’s mind as he sucked the last little bit of his cigarette. Jason Knight had most definitely crossed the wrong man.
Melanie Meyer had been taken away to her sister’s house in nearby Irlam, along with the children. A family liason officer was supporting her. The police presence was slowly trickling away as other jobs came in and officers were re-despatched. A nasty crash on the East Lancashire Road in Worsley had taken quite a few of the police cars away in one swoop.
There was still a few panda cars, and the odd police van, along with two CID motors, but other than those last few straggling police vehicles, Renshaw Crescent was beginning to return to normal. Most of the neighbours had gone inside now, and one or two of them had begun linking this incredible scene on the bottom of their cul-de-sac to the reports on television, about the missing police man.
Miller took his phone out of his pocket. He wondered whether DS Talbot would still be working on the crime scene in the Trough of Bowland, and considered that if she was, she’d have put a twenty four shift in, or as near as damn it. He decided to call her. If she was asleep, her phone would be switched off, he reasoned, as he pressed her number on the call log. It connected straight away.
“Hi, it’s Miller. How are you doing?”
“Oh, hi, yes. Not bad. We’ve managed to find some blood and skin from the road, its just being tested now, the results should be back within the hour. It’s surprising that it’s survived the night though.”
“Jesus. How much skin are you talking?”
“Oh, only a scrape. There was quite a bit of blood though, there was an attempt to wash it away, using some sugary drink, Iron Brew we think. There’s been a very serious injury sustained, no two ways about it.”
“Shit. So he’s loaded Sergeant Knight into the van, and the bike… and then he’s started swilling the blood away, and kicking the fragments of the broken light away.”
“Yes, it certainly seems that way. But, what do you mean by ‘he’?” asked DS Talbot, who was still standing by the SOCO tents on the idyllic country lane forty or so miles north-east of Miller.
“Oh, long story. We’ve got a name, we’ve even got a motive. I can’t say anything now, too sensitive where I am. But, I just wanted to phone and see if you were alright. And to thank you for a great job you’ve done. I bet you’re absolutely shattered, aren’t you?” Miller was just trying to be nice, he just wanted to let Talbot know that her efforts had been appreciated. Miller had to hold the phone away from his ear as the Lancashire DS replied.
“Are you taking the fucking piss? You arrogant bastard! You don’t think I deserve to know what’s going on with an investigation that I’ve been working on all bastard night and day? Fuck’s sake Sir!”
“Alright, sorry. I don’t mean it like that. I’m in a difficult position, can’t really talk now. There are journalists here, and the public are hovering about. I’m sorry…”
Miller’s lie did the trick, and ma
de DS Talbot feel annoyed with herself for losing her temper.
“Oh, right… well, I see. I thought…”
“I just wanted to see if you were alright, and to thank you…”
“Yep, thanks. I got the message, loud and clear. I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to call me.”
“Can I call you later? And fill you in properly?”
“Sure.”
“Alright, well, cheers.” Miller hung up. He hated cringey, toe-curling phone calls at the best of times, but that was a particularly memorable one. He liked Talbot though. He liked her straight-talking, couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude. “I’ll make it up to you some time,” he said as he scrolled through his call logs again, this time selecting Saunders’ number. He put the phone back to his ear and sparked another cigarette up, wondering where this flipping car that was supposed to be picking him up had got to.
“Alright Sir. Any news?” Saunders sounded alert, focused, fully charged, as always.
“Nah, afraid not.” Miller took an angry draw on his cigarette. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything for me?” He sounded desperate for Saunders to chuck him something.
“Actually, yeah, I’ve had the mobile phone logs back for Melanie Meyer’s incoming and outgoing calls. This phone call she had with Sergeant Knight yesterday, it’s the phone call from McDonalds, so I’ve managed to identify Sergeant Knight’s second phone.”
“And?”
“It only ever phoned or texted three numbers. One being Melanie Meyer’s number, obviously. The other phone call that he made from McDonalds yesterday is still a mystery. I’ve got the number he rang, but it’s just going straight to voicemail. The number isn’t registered so I think it’ll be a pay-as-you-go-phone.”
“Okay. Well, keep at it. Regarding Melanie’s phone number though, that’s good evidence…”
“Yes, it’ll all be valuable at court, one way or another.”
“But?” Miller could always tell when Saunders was leading up to a but, and had developed an annoying habit of ruining the surprise.
“Well, you really need to see this for yourself Sir. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.” Saunders’ voice had developed a cold, hard edge.
“What?”
“I’ve reviewed that CCTV footage again from McDonalds…”
“Right?”
“Well, something was bugging me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But, well like I say, you need to see it…”
“Come on Keith, stop pissing about, I’m not in the mood. What have you seen?”
“Well, there’s a man stood by the metal railings close to where Sergeant Knight has rested his bike. I wasn’t sure at first… but, the thing is, it’s Peter Meyer.”
The line went quiet. Saunders knew that he had winded his boss with the info.
“Fuck off.”
“Seriously. He’s just stood there, listening to every word that Sergeant Knight is saying, to his wife. He’s just standing there, drinking a milkshake.”
“Jesus. And, fucking hell, what. Did he not say anything, do anything?” Miller was totally thunderstruck by this announcement, and Saunders could hear the alarm in his boss’ voice. It was unmistakable.
“No. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just sort of grins, and nods while he’s staring at Sergeant Knight. It’s very, very creepy.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was just after half-past seven when Miller had finally satisfied the media crews, and stepped into the vast media centre at Manchester City Police HQ. This huge room was a familiar sight to millions of TV viewers, who would often see the appeals for help that came directly from the Chief Constable. In recent years, the room had seen several high profile media appeals, and announcements. None more memorable than the shocking announcement regarding the murder of Acting DCI Karen Ellis, less than two years previously.
The room was noisy, hot and stuffy, full with journalists, television reporters, radio news staffers along with their entourage of apprentices, technical staff, assistants, producers and directors.
Most of the pieces for the puzzle had now been found. Considering that the one and only piece that Miller had in his possession eleven hours ago was the CCTV at McDonalds in Clitheroe, the DCI was quietly satisfied with the speed, and the level of progress that had been made during this unforgettable day. As was often the case, DI Saunders was responsible for a great deal of that progress and he deserved a damn good pat on the back for his contribution today. But that would have to wait.
Miller’s professional satisfaction didn’t mean a single thing while Sergeant Knight was still unaccounted for. There was a hell of lot to say to the press, and Miller didn’t have time to waste. The media staff, from newspapers, websites, local, national and international television and radio stations, had all been waiting a very long time for this press conference – many of them had been stuck in this room for over four hours. They were all glad to see him appear, as it meant that their confinement in this muggy, suffocating room was very probably coming to an end, for now at least.
As he strode quickly and confidently through the media-centre, DCI Miller had begun speaking before he had even stepped onto the small stage area, with the giant silver, red and blue City Police insignia emblazoned in the background. He caught most of the media people off-guard and they hastily began recording, focusing lenses, holding out microphones, trying their best to recover from the lost footage that Miller’s instantaneous start had robbed them of. He had taken every single one of them by surprise, and he had done it deliberately, to heighten the sense of urgency around this case. He really wanted to hit this one home. This wasn’t just another press conference.
To most of the media staff stood before him, this was indeed, just another news story.
To Miller, it was a hell of a lot more than a story, it was a real thing, about a man, a father who was in grave danger, right now. It was about a colleague who needed finding, rescuing, saving, urgently. It was personal, and Miller really did want to get his message across.
“Thanks guys, for waiting, I know they’ve probably been telling you all sorts all afternoon, but I’m here now, finally.” Miller was referring to the police’s press office, who he assumed would have been saying that this press conference was “imminent” for the entire afternoon, with no further clues as to how long, or short a time scale “imminent” actually meant.
DCI Miller was stressed, and sweaty. He wasn’t his normal, chilled-out, chatty self today, and the media staff could tell straight away that he was under a great amount of strain. He usually looked smarter, and although he’d always seem nervous, he usually had a certain amount of charm and panache about himself. Not today though, this was raw and uncut.
Miller recognised that the media crews were also under the cosh, sitting on a major news story that had seen no developments in the last three hours or so. Miller was pleased that he had plenty to share, and was hoping that the media’s influence would play a significant part, and become a huge help in finally calling this wretched search off, and locating the missing, critically injured policeman. Alive, God willing.
“Okay, this has been a very, very fast moving investigation.” Miller was stood, ignoring the chair and the glass of water that was placed there waiting for him. The
media staff noticed that he was talking without notes. This was coming straight from the hip. “I know that you have been reporting all afternoon, and your viewers, listeners, readers will know all about Sergeant Knight’s disappearance. So let’s track forward, past what you all know already, and I’ll fill you in on what has been discovered since around about four pm this afternoon, in Lancashire.”
There was the unmistakable sound of journalist’s pens scribbling short-hand notes onto their jotter books, accompanied by the clicks and pops of the camera flashes that were illuminating Miller’s sweaty, weary looking face, making him look much paler in their lenses than he actually was.
“We ha
ve discovered what we believe to be the location of a very serious collision between a white transit van, and a cyclist.” Miller stopped, turned and grabbed his drink of water. He wanted the audience to take that in a moment, to really get a sense of the horror. He paused, and waited. After about ten seconds had elapsed, he spoke again. “The registration mark of the vehicle is on the screen behind me. There it is.”
The background displayed a yellow, rear registration plate, with its marking YT59 SFD.
“We believe this collision was at high speed, that it came from behind, without warning. We believe that it was deliberate, and it involved the van that we can see on these photos, yes, here we are, and a bicycle, being ridden by our colleague, Sergeant Jason Knight.”
Miller stared straight down the lenses of the TV cameras before him, as several gasps were heard in the press pack.
“If anybody sees this van, I am urging you, no, listen. I am begging you to report it. Nine nine nine it, please, if you see this van. I am begging the public, everybody in the north west of England, go outside, go down your street, look down your road, look down your back alley. This van is somewhere in the area, and it has got Sergeant Knight inside it, or nearby. I really cannot say this any more clearly – I want you all to turn detective and find this van. If you find it, you will probably save the life of Sergeant Jason Knight, a lovely, kind, forty-one-year old bloke, just an ordinary Bolton Wanderers fan, who has two young kids, and a wife, and who set off out on his bike yesterday, training to do a fund-raising bike ride for charity.”
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