Miller stopped talking again and stood with the cup of water, looking around the room. He wanted the reality of what they were all hearing to hit home. The media were fast becoming immune to the horrors that they were there to transmit. Miller wanted them to grasp that this was not a story. It was a major plea for support.
After a long pause, Miller went on to release a photograph of the suspect.
“This man, Peter Meyer, aged thirty eight years, of Renshaw Crescent, Eccles, Greater Manchester is the prime suspect. I would appeal to anybody who knows where this man is, to call nine nine nine, urgently. Do not approach this man, he is armed, and he is extremely dangerous.”
*****
“Jesus Christ, Margaret, come in here. Mar-garet!”
Wilf Tattersall was shouting through to the kitchen, from his armchair.
“What is it? You’re a bloody pain in the arse Wilf. I swear on God’s life.” His wife of almost fifty years appeared in the doorway, she was drying a plate.
“Here, look, on the news. It’s Peter, from number sixteen. The police are after him. He’s taken a police-man hostage they’re saying on here.”
Margaret dropped the plate on the floor. She was staring at the television screen, her face had lost all colour, and she could feel herself going weak. She grabbed onto the wall and shuffled along until she reached the settee, and sat down. Margaret was listening to what they were saying about Peter on the telly. Her eyes were filling with tears, and her hands were shaking violently. Wilf stood up, and stepped across the tiny living room, he could see that he needed to comfort his wife.
“It must be a mistake. It’s a mistake, surely,” he said, leaning over and patting Margaret’s arm.
“Shush Wilf,” she said quietly, trembling as she dabbed a tissue at her moist eyes. “I’m trying to listen.”
Wilf sat down on the settee beside Margaret and the two of them listened, and watched the report about how Peter Meyer, the man who had grown up just a few doors down the street, and who’d had his tea at least twice a week at Wilf and Margaret’s throughout his childhood, had knocked a policeman off his bike in a deliberate act of violence, and had now taken the policeman hostage.
*****
“Hee-yar, what the fuck is this. What’s Pete doing on the telly?”
“You what?”
“There look, un-mute it. Look, it’s Pete. On Sky News. What the fuck’s going on?”
Sharon and John Green were standing in their living room, looking back at one another, open-mouthed.
“Un-mute it,” shouted Sharon.
“I’m looking for the zapper, shut up, help me find it.” John was confused, looking at the screen, which had a picture of his friend, and just beneath the photo, there was a breaking news banner that screamed MAN HUNT in red letters across a white background.
The remote control had fallen between the cushions. It was quickly retrieved, and the volume button was pressed. Seconds later, Sharon and John were listening to the news report, and were repeating to each other, over and over again, that this was a mistake, that there was no way that Pete had done this. That it was a load of total bollocks, this.
John grabbed his phone and looked Pete’s number up in his contacts. He was feeling stressed out, and Pete’s sudden answer machine greeting didn’t help.
“It’s gone straight to answer-phone.”
“I bet everyone’s ringing him. He’ll have switched it off. I would have done.”
“I can’t believe it. I’m not having this, Shaz. I’m going to have to phone someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. These, Sky News. They’re slagging Pete off, accusing him of allsorts. It’s totally the wrong fucking man. Character assassination, or summat, this. I’m telling yoh. He’s got a claim there, y’know. This is so random!”
“It’s funny though, in a way. I mean, they couldn’t be any further from the truth though! How the hell has this happened John?”
“It’s the press, they always get it wrong. It’ll be another Pete Meyer, somewhere else, and these lazy bastards at Sky News have just Googled the first one they could find! That’s Pete’s profile picture on Facebook, innit?”
“I know yeah. I can’t believe this, I’m phoning Mel. Is it April Fools Day or summat, what the fuck is this?”
As Sharon phoned Melanie Meyer to ask her what the hell Sky News were saying all this about Pete for, John was Googling Sky News’ phone number on his tablet.
“Her phone’s off,” said Sharon.
“You better go round, you need to tell her, tell Pete what’s going on. I’ll stay here and phone these and tell them they’ve fucked up.”
“Right. Good idea. Look at the state of my hair though. I can’t go out like this.”
“Shaz, fuck’s sake. Forget your hair, put a hat on or summat.”
“Where are the car keys?”
“Hung up.”
“Right, see you in a bit love. God, I’m shaking here.” Sharon pulled her Ugg boots on and gave John a peck on the cheek. “Won’t be long.”
“Alright love. See you in a bit. And tell Pete he can lie-low here if he brings a few cans with him!” John smiled. “We’ll be laughing about this in a few days,” he said, smiling, as the front door slammed shut behind his wife.
*****
“Ah, that’s what all that was about on the front before, Daz.”
Julie Simpson was standing in front of the television, holding the remote control.
“You what?” said Daz, he was in the conservatory, trying to fix a puncture on his son’s bike.
“Look, on telly, they’ve said why the police were round at Pete and Mel’s house. They reckon he’s knocked a copper off his bike, and took him somewhere!”
Daz came through from the back of the house wearing a look of scepticism.
“You what?”
“See for yourself.” Julie waved at the screen, which was showing the house opposite theirs, with the senior policeman walking out of the house, looking very concerned. “I always said they were dodgy them two.”
Daz looked across at his partner, and shook his head from side to side. “What. This is the most surreal thing I’ve ever known. You’ve never said that about them across the road. You’ve always said that they’re a lovely family!”
“Yeah, well, things change, don’t they?”
Daz turned the volume up, and sat in disbelief as he watched the TV news report, and the unimaginable, incredible appeals for help in finding Pete Meyer. Daz had been joking with Britain’s most wanted man just that morning, out there on the street.
“This is Beadle’s About. Well I’m not falling for this one Julie, so you can tell them to come out.”
“You what?” asked Julie, lighting a cigarette and staring gormlessly at the television.
“It’s clearly a wind up. Well I wasn’t born yesterday. Someone’s taking the pistachio nuts.” Daz wandered back off in the direction that he came, convinced that he was part of a concealed camera prank show off the TV, and determined that he wouldn’t be caught out.
Julie continued gazing at the screen, watching her neighbours talking about what a “great guy” Peter Meyer is. “He’s the salt of the earth,” and “they’re looking for the wrong man,” were typical vox-pops that were being broadcast on Sky News.
“Come on Daz, you’re missing it. Aw no way, big fat Brenda’s on this bit, look.”
*****
“Hello, yes. Sky News, I need to speak to someone urgent.”
“Of course, that’s no problem. May I ask what your call is concerning?”
“Yeah, sure, what it is, it’s me mate, there’s been a bit of a balls up at your end, and you’re showing a photograph of my mate, but its obviously the wrong guy so I’m just phoning up to let you know, it’s the wrong guy.”
“Okay, well, listen just calm down a minute, I’m struggling to understand what you are saying.”
“Well, it’s simple. On your screen now,
yeah, it’s got a photograph of my mate Pete Meyer.”
“Oh, okay, yes, I think I understand now.” The receptionist’s voice suddenly sounded more confident. “Right, I’ll just pop you on hold for a moment.” Suddenly, John Green heard the famous Sky News music. It was playing for at least a minute before a different voice came onto the line.
“Hello, my name is Jerry Phillips, I’m the Managing Editor.”
“Oh, right, okay… er,”
“What’s your name, please?”
“John, er, John Green.”
“Okay John, well thanks for phoning. So, from what I gather, you believe that we are using the wrong photograph of the suspect in the Sergeant Knight disappearance story?”
“Dead right, mate. Honestly, this would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.”
“Oh God, I’m so glad you’ve phoned. So that picture that’s on screen right now, is that your friend?”
“Yes, it’s Pete Meyer. But obviously, it’s not the same Pete Meyer that the police are going on about?”
“And you know this for a fact?”
“Of course I do, he’s my best mate. Pete Meyer is just normal, just an ordinary bloke. He runs his own business, handy man stuff, joinery and building stuff, total workaholic, he’s married with two little kids. Everyone knows him, he’s a gentleman, total gentleman. He’s not the sort of person who would get involved with kidnapping police officers. I swear down, you couldn’t have got it more wrong mate, honestly.”
“My word, this sounds like a monumental cock-up. So, tell me a little bit more about this Pete Meyer, so I can be one hundred per cent sure that we have got a mix-up on our hands.”
“I’ve just told you. For f… right, listen. Pete Meyer, the one in your photo is a nice, settled down family man, he’s thirty eight, he lives in Eccles, works all over Manchester, he comes from Ashton originally, his wife Mel is from round here, from Eccles, and he’s lived over here for about fifteen years now. Like I say, he’s just a normal bloke, you won’t find anyone with a bad word for him. We’re in total shock here, all of us, friends, family. We just can’t believe it. Of all the people that could get wrongly confused! It’s got to be on TV’s biggest bloopers, this, I’m telling you now!”
“And have you seen Pete today, have you spoken to him since the news story broke?”
“No, well I mean, I’ve tried ringing him and that. But his phone’s off. The wife’s just gone round to the house though, to tell Mel, Pete’s wife. Honestly, we can’t believe this. It’s unbelievable.”
“Oh, okay, well that sounds like a good idea. What’s that address, just for our records?”
“It’s Renshaw Crescent, Eccles. That’s the address you’ve been giving out on telly. Where the hell have you got that from?”
“I don’t know, I’ve not been working on this story. Look, give me your number and I’ll look into all this.”
“Cheers mate, I knew we’d soon get it sorted out,” said John, before reeling off his mobile number.
*****
Jerry Phillips pressed STOP on the recording button on his computer screen.
“Brilliant!” he said, as he began editing the contents of John Green’s phone call. “Sky One, Beeb Nil.” He muttered as he scrolled through the computer graphics of the conversation that he had just recorded with one of the prime suspect’s friends. Jerry edited his own questions out, re-jigged a few parts of the conversation, and had his broadcast-ready monologue completely edited and ready to go on-air within two minutes flat.
Within another minute, the Sky News evening presenter Carole Keenan, was announcing the world-exclusive interview with John Green.
“Well, Sky Sources have just spoken to the closest friend of the prime suspect in that dramatic man–hunt, which is taking place in Manchester. This is the voice of John Green, speaking to us exclusively, just a few moments ago.”
The telephone-call played out over the airwaves, with the photograph of Pete Meyer still on the screen. Now that it had been edited, it sounded quite different to how John Green remembered the conversation.
“Honestly, we can’t believe this. It’s unbelievable. Pete Meyer is just a normal, ordinary bloke. He runs his own business, handy man stuff, joinery and building stuff, total workaholic, he’s married with two little kids. Everyone knows him, he’s a gentleman, total gentleman. He’s not the sort of person who would get involved with kidnapping police officers. We’re in total shock here, all of us, friends, family. We just can’t believe it. The wife’s gone round to the house. Honestly, we can’t believe this. It’s unbelievable, this would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Britain had never seen a man-hunt like this before. It was more of a white-van hunt, than a man hunt, but the principle was the same. The emotional request that DCI Miller had made on live television was unprecedented, and even as the broadcast was still taking place, live on the air, the conversation began - in every corner of the UK. People had stopped listening and were discussing the extraordinary appeal for help amongst themselves.
To any normal, miserable, cynical British person, this was beyond belief. Miller had put out a very naïve, very optimistic request that the public in the north-west of England should all stop what they were doing, go outside and start looking for a white tranny van.
“Good luck with that, mate.” Scoffed more than a few of the nation’s cynics, as they sat on their armchairs, mocking Miller’s bizarre, heartfelt, desperate request for help. But today, things seemed different. The Sergeant Knight story had touched the public, and here, a great many of them saw a rare and productive way of making a contribution, a way of helping. And that’s precisely what people did. Not all of them - but a lot of them, an unbelievable amount of them, did. They stopped what it was that they were doing, and they went outside and checked their local neighbourhoods, looking for the white van that was shown in the photograph.
The streets were filled with people, mums and dads with their kids, old couples walking slowly, gangs of teens rushing by, single men and single women, dog walkers, cyclists and general nosey-parkers. They were all out on the streets, taking part in this unique, exciting, life-saving opportunity.
It was something else. From Wigan to Widnes, Blackburn to Barnoldswick, the streets were filled with hundreds of people who just wanted to find that white Transit van.
“It’s not down here, mate.”
“Nah, looked down there, there’s nowt down that street, or in the ginnel at the side.”
“Has anyone checked in that yard?”
It became an unforgettable, community-binding event. It was probably only an hour before the light began fading, and the operation was forced to scale-back, but what DCI Miller had asked of the telly viewers and radio listeners at that poignant, emotional press conference was a very simple, very easy to follow plea for help, and they delivered. They came together, got their sleeves rolled up and got stuck in. It was a wonderful night to be British.
Events such as Sergeant Knight’s disappearance were so rare, and so memorable, that people made a connection with this kind of a news story. A decade earlier, a story like this would grab the headlines in exactly the same way, but would lose momentum and fizzle out as soon as it was broadcast. But today, communication was so much better, and easier, and faster. Through the internet, phone apps and social media, the message about Sergeant Knight could get out so much quicker, and more importantly, stay right at the top of the agenda.
And that was exactly what had happened. The press conference that was broadcast on live TV via Sky News and the BBC News channel, over radio on BBC Radio Manchester and Five Live, would have attracted an audience of roughly three quarters of a million people. Within half an hour, more than ten million people would be aware of the story, due to the sharing and re-sharing of the message over Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. The hash-tags #FindTheWhiteVan and #PrayForSgtKnight were trending too, but most importantly, the message was workin
g.
*****
PC’s Robson and Walker, the family liason officers looked across the living room at each other. They’d heard a creak upstairs, then footsteps. Rebecca must have woken up. PC Leanne Walker held her finger to her lip, and looked up at the ceiling. Deep down, she was hoping that Rebecca was just getting up for a wee, and would get herself back in bed. But it quickly became apparent that Leanne was kidding herself, and her mood dropped as she heard the slow thud of feet making their way down the stairs. Rebecca’s melt-down had really had an effect on the less-experienced officer, and now she was dreading a further confrontation. She felt her insides flip over as Gary leant forward and took the TV remote off the coffee table, zapped the screen off, and quickly replaced the handset.
Within seconds, Rebecca appeared. She looked drunk. “Anything?” she asked, her face was full of hope, absolutely filled with optimism. It was Gary who took the lead.
“I’m afraid not, Rebecca. Not yet, but we are getting close. There’s lots happening, and lots to tell you about.”
“Sit down, come on, take a seat here, next to me.”
“I will, but seriously, it’s time to knock that patronising voice off, or I’ll lose my temper, I really will. Alright?”
Leanne nodded, and got up to make a drink. Rebecca faced Gary.
“I’m sorry if I was a handful earlier. I think I must have snapped or something. I feel a lot better now though. It’s out of my system.”
Gary began filling her in with all of the activities and developments that had been taking place while she’d been asleep, off her head on the drugs from the doctor.
“Well, it’s all starting to sound positive, isn’t it? Do you think we’re close to a conclusion?” asked Rebecca. Her eyes were staring, and looked a little bit glazed over.
“Yes, Rebecca. I do, love. I think we’re really starting to get somewhere now.”
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 17
