It was clear to Gary at that moment that Rebecca was still very much under the influence of whatever concoction of drugs the doctor had prescribed. She just smiled, and asked Gary to put the television on.
“Oh, I might have to ask if that’s okay, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to…”
“Just put it on!” Rebecca said in a snappy, angry tone as she pointed at the television remote.
PC Gary Robson handed her the remote. Leanne decided to keep a low profile in the kitchen. But the news on
the television soon made her come through into the living room, and sit down beside Rebecca Knight.
*****
As the light faded, there was still a great many people out and about in their communities, trying their damned hardest to find that van. If it was in their area, there were plenty of people who were absolutely determined to find it.
Away from the streets, the back alleys, industrial areas and the abandoned, forgotten edges of town, plenty of other concerned members of the public were staying at home, helping as best as they could from their computers. Volunteers were utilising the power of Facebook to organise the searches properly. Towns suddenly saw that their own groups were being set up. “Mossley Search Group – Find Sergeant Knight” was one such example that suddenly appeared, and within an hour had attracted thousands of members from the locality, each Facebook friend inviting their friends from the area, who in turn invited theirs. The Mossley group had one single message on the page;
“Write down the name of the street you’ve searched in Mossley, (OL5 postcode) in the comments below.”
This simple Facebook page was being bombarded with street names, avenues, closes, and roads that had been checked, double checked and then checked again. By ten pm, as the small town on the very edge of Greater Manchester found itself in complete darkness, Mossley’s page admins had announced “The white van is NOT in Mossley. Everywhere checked. Well done everyone.” Beneath the comment was an Ordnance Survey map of the town, and the streets had all been highlighted yellow, strategically coloured in, as the names of streets came flooding in.
In Mossley, as well as in hundreds of other towns up and down the north of England, there was a sense of deep disappointment that the van had not been discovered in that particular area. But alongside that natural sense of defeat, there was an unshakeable sense of community spirit and solidarity.
The very same situation was unfolding all across the north. The public had realised that they had the means to do this, that with people power, they were capable of literally co-ordinating and checking their own town, and reporting back to the authorities.
The people of Mossley, and those from all of the other towns may not have found the white van, but what they did find was a bottomless well of kindness and compassion around their own area. It had been an unforgettable, proud evening for every one of the many thousands of ordinary people that had turned out to help.
And just after nine pm, Miller’s unorthodox request had paid off.
Chapter Thirty
“Emergency Service. Which service do you require?”
“Oh, er, police, please.” The man sounded middle-aged, local to Manchester, slightly excited, but audibly nervous. His adrenaline was definitely going, the 999 switch-board operator knew that sound all too well. This was a genuine call.
“Putting you through.”
“Thank…”
“Police Emergency.”
“Oh, er, hello. It’s, I’m, I’m phoning you about the missing van that’s been on the news.”
“Yes, how can we help?”
“Well, I’ve found it, Myself, and my wife, we’ve just found it.”
“Are you near the vehicle now?”
“No, no, heavens, no. We got out of there as fast as we could. But we can still see the location. Nobody has driven it away.”
“And you are satisfied that this vehicle is the one that we have appealed for help in tracing?”
“Oh yes, it is, definitely my dear.”
“Can you describe the vehicle, did you take note of the registration plate?” This was quite an exciting moment for the call-handler too. She sounded quite energised by this call.
“Oh, yes, it is definitely the one. My wife and I wrote down the registration mark earlier on, when it was on television. And we said, when we go for…”
“Can you tell me the registration mark, please?” The call-handler felt rude barging in like that, but important time was being wasted with the man’s chattering.
“Of course dear, my apologies for getting carried away. We both checked it, twice over. The van’s the same make and model that was broadcast, and the registration plate was Yankee Tango Five Nine Sierra Foxtrot Delta. I must tell you as well, while I’m on. There’s a heck of a lot of blood on the back bumper and on the doors.”
*****
The van had been spotted. Miller was informed as he sat in an unmarked police car, being driven all around the city, waiting, praying for something to turn up. Here it was.
The van that had been reported was definitely the vehicle that police were searching for. It was in the service yard of a small, abandoned mill by the side of the Huddersfield canal in Ashton. About fifteen minutes walk away from the block of flats where Peter Meyer had unwittingly revealed the location of Sergeant Knight’s phone.
The mill was in a forgotten, lonely industrial valley of old factories and abandoned yards, close to where the town of Ashton merges quite unspectacularly into Stalybridge to the east and Dukinfield in the north. The location where the van had been hidden was in a built-up area of old Victorian mills and small units that had never really ceased their industrial use. It wasn’t really the kind of place that found many members of the public strolling through, that was for certain. The endless, ear-piercing sounds of beeps from fork-lift trucks and compression blasts from the brakes of wagons, the relentless clattering of metal against metal in the scrap yards, and the almost endless stream of express trains whizzing back and forth between Manchester and Yorkshire was deafening. This was a very good place to keep somebody captive, that much was clear to the first officer to arrive at the scene.
The first police patrol car that had been sent along to investigate this sighting arrived at the location just a few minutes after the call had been made, thanks to the officer having just finished a job nearby. The phone calls had been coming in, one after the other, people saying that they’d seen the van, saying that they’d seen Peter Meyer, that Sergeant Knight was on a bus earlier on, or that he’d been spotted at a pub in Middleton. The public sometimes got a bit carried away with investigations such as this one, and tonight was no exception.
In complete contrast to the amazing scenes of community togetherness and solidarity that had taken place throughout the north west, the police were still reminded that Britain still had more than its fair share of complete morons too. Over a hundred prank, hoax calls had been made in relation to Sergeant Knight’s disappearance since DCI Miller’s heart-felt plea for help had hit the media.
But finally, this call was real, and now there was a very genuine dilemma for the officer that was attending. The police operation couldn’t begin yet, not for a long while. The officer just wanted to vault over the crumbling, orange and black brick wall, burst inside the mill and save the Sergeant. But there were procedures, endless procedures that would now need to be put into place and carried through strategically. As a result, it would be painfully, torturously slow going for the foreseeable future.
The policeman got back into his Vauxhall Astra patrol car as quietly as he could, started the engine and set off, heading west, back in the direction of Ashton’s town centre.
“This is Two-One-Six control, over.” There was an unmistakable tremor in the officer’s voice.
“Yes, Two-One-Six, come in, over.”
“Yes, this van I’ve just been to check. It’s definitely the one. I’ve driven away, and I’m just out of sight at the bend beneath the railw
ay arches. I repeat, this is the van that has been circulated as the top priority search. Over."
Chapter Thirty-One
The police driver heard the message at the same time as DCI Miller, and put the Audi A6 Traffic car to work as soon as he heard that the sighting was in Ashton.
“How long from here?” asked Miller, of the driver.
“Ashton’s ten minutes away Sir. We’ll be there in five.” The traffic officer had the beginnings of a smile on his lips. He’d been desperate for an opportunity to do something worthwhile and useful in this case all day. Finally, this was his chance to make a contribution. The police car was very quickly screaming up Ashton New Road, weaving in and out of the way of oncoming cars, over-taking other cars and Metrolink trams and cruising towards Ashton at an unrelenting seventy miles per hour. Miller felt nervous driving at such speeds in a heavily populated area, but was also eager to get to the location in as little time as possible.
As the car reached Droylsden, the driver informed Miller that there were another three miles left to cover.
“As you get near Ashton, I want the sirens off.”
“Sir.”
Miller reached out and grabbed the radio.
“Control, this is DCI Miller, over.”
“Control to DCI Miller, come-in, over.”
“We’re three miles away, ETA five minutes. Which sections are en-route and what are the ETA’s please, over?”
“Two Tactical Aid teams are at the scene Sir, out of sight. The duty negotiator is Sergeant David Gilchrist, he is en-route from Ashton police station, ETA imminent. We have all available officers from Tameside, East Manchester and North Manchester en-route now, Sir.”
“Armed response? Over.”
“One unit on standby at the location Sir, another is en-route from City Centre. ETA ten minutes. Over.”
“What medical provisions are in place, over?”
“We’ve got an ambulance en-route, ETA three minutes. The Paramedic first responder car is on site, and we are expecting Doctor Khalid, senior Trauma Surgeon at Tameside hospital to arrive any moment with his field team. Over.”
“Excellent. That’s good. Okay. Well, I want total silence so tell all attending officers to kill the sirens. Blue lights off near the location too please, that’s an order. We want absolutely no drama taking place anywhere near the location. Over.”
“Understood, Sir. Relaying that message right away. Over.” The radio made a bleep-bloop tone, before the Control Room Officer’s voice came across the radio in Miller’s hand, and the radio on the dashboard. “Control to all units on Channel six – order from DCI Miller – turn off all sirens and blue lights. I repeat, no attending officers are permitted to use lights or sirens. Proceed quietly. Over.”
“Thanks. Over.” Miller felt his insides flip as the driver squeezed a little harder on the accelerator, as the speeding police car made more progress along the busy road that connects Ashton to Manchester City Centre. The adrenaline was finally cursing through Miller’s veins. He checked his watch, it was almost nine pm. It was nearly fourteen hours ago that Dixon had surprised Miller with this job. He smiled humourlessly to himself as he recalled the moment, thinking that Dixon was about to suspend him over that stupid “Neighbours from Hell” trial.
“Right, you can knock the lights off, knock the siren off as soon as we reach Ashton nick.”
“No problem Sir. I’ll have to obey the speed limits without them, though.”
“Okay, well, how far is it after the police station?” Miller recalled that he’d already been here today, just four or five hours ago.
“We’re about a mile on the other side Sir, we’re more towards Stalybridge than Ashton.”
“Okay, well, keep them on until we reach the other side of the town centre.”
Miller closed his eyes and thought about Sergeant Knight. That awful expression on his face in that chilling photo was going to live long in his memory. But he wanted more than anything for Sergeant Knight to be inside the location, and to be alive. His guts somersaulted again as the adrenaline reached a new level. He kept his eyes closed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He wanted to focus on the situation, trying to figure out whether they should just drive straight through the door and take Pete Meyer out with gunshots to the knees, or whether it was going to be a long, drawn out night of talking to negotiators before they could get their hands on Sergeant Knight, and rush him to Tameside Accident and Emergency department.
Just a couple more minutes passed by before Miller heard the hand brake being applied. He opened his eyes and was impressed by what greeted him. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, straight into a major police incident that looked as though it was in full flow. This was a very impressive response, considering that the call was only ten minutes old.
“Right, where’s that van?” said Miller quietly, as he greeted the first ranking officer at the scene.
Chapter Thirty Two
“Okay, sorry to interrupt this report, but we’re getting an update from our correspondent who is keeping an eye on developments in the missing Sergeant case. Let’s cross live to Manchester, and Paul Mitchell. What’s happening Paul?” The evening presenter of Sky News’ output, Carole Keenan looked extremely serious as she spoke directly to the camera and awaited the reporter to provide the public with the latest developments.
“Yes, thanks Carole. These images are just coming in to us right now, they’re coming to us live from the Sky Copter. Now what we are seeing is an intense police activity in this quiet, forgotten part of Ashton. Look at the images, we can see, what ten, fifteen police cars down there, I’ve counted nine tactical aid unit vans, there are armed response vehicles, paramedic staff. Whatever the police are doing there, it’s about as serious as it gets.”
“Do you think that this tells us they’ve found Sergeant Knight?” The hopeful, almost pleading tone in Carole Keenan’s voice was unmistakable. The TV screen was filled with the dark, grainy images of yellow street lights and a very dimly-lit street that backed onto a pitch black area where the canal meandered through this major crime scene. It was difficult to figure out what was happening from the shakey, distorted pictures, but the police presence was phenomenal, that much was crystal clear.
“We don’t know what is happening there, Carole. All the facts that we have at this stage came from a phone-call to our news-desk from a dog-walker, who stumbled across this extraordinary scene. We have no confirmation that this has anything to do with Sergeant Knight, but judging by the sheer numbers of officers and units in attendance, it certainly looks to be connected.”
“It’s hard to imagine that this is not connected Paul, but until we have official confirmation from Manchester City Police, we are simply guessing.”
“That’s right Carole. Now, keep an eye on the line of police officers. That line is growing all the time, as another vehicle arrives and the officers get out, they are all joining this ever expanding line. Can you see that, Carole?”
The helicopter cameraman was zooming in, but the more he tried to enlarge the central section of the images, the more the picture became fuzzy, due to the height that the chopper was circling the scene at, and the lack of suitable lighting. The viewers at home could just about make out the enormous police presence, but the pictures were certainly of a poorer quality than would normally be expected.
“We’re really struggling to make out the detail from your pictures, Paul, can we ask the pilot to get a little bit closer to the location at all?”
“We can certainly ask, but there are lots of aviation rules that have to be taken into consideration. I would imagine that the Sky-Copter is currently at its closest.”
The message was quickly relayed to the pilot who flew the famous red helicopter closer to the scene. The pictures improved dramatically and suddenly the sheer enormity of what was unfolding on this crumbling old street, came into focus.
“Ah, well, these pictures are much clearer now Paul
. We can now make out this line of police officers that you described. That’s quite an incredible sight, there must be fifty, maybe sixty officers all stood chest by chest around the front of the building. It looks like a mill, or an old factory. Do you have any information about this place Paul?”
“Well, we only know what we can gather from the internet, and a quick search of Companies House records. What we have managed to discover is that this address doesn’t currently have any inhabitants, and hasn’t had for some time now. The last company that was registered there was called Segnalibro Sign Writing Co, but they went out of business almost ten years ago.”
“In essence Paul, you are saying that the police are currently surrounding a derelict building?”
“That’s what we can gather so far, and now, just as we are watching these live pictures, we can see the lead detective getting out of the police car. It’s that Audi that just pulled up at the front of the building, yes, here is DCI Miller.”
The camera zoomed straight in, and focused on the famous detective that had given the press their conference a few hours earlier. He was staring straight up at the helicopter, waving his arm furiously.
“Yes, that is DCI Miller… and I think that he is trying to tell us to stand down from this location.”
*****
“What the fuck is that?” DCI Miller was staring up at the news helicopter, cursing under his breath. “Fuck off,” he was mouthing, waving his arm above his head. Miller was furious. This advance on the building where Peter Meyer’s van had been spotted was supposed to be silent, and totally incognito. Dozens upon dozens of police vehicles were on the street with their doors left wide open to keep any noise to a minimum. And here was a helicopter booming directly overhead. Miller was raging, and was even more frustrated that he couldn’t shout or raise his voice, for whatever good that would have done anyway.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 18
