*****
It seemed fairly obvious that Pete Meyer’s antagonistic tweet was designed to not only provoke a strong reaction, but to create a lot of speculation as well. And it most certainly achieved that objective, the speculating began with earnest, within seconds, in homes, truck-stops and security cabins the length and breadth of Great Britain.
“Fuck in hell! What’s he done, that copper? Must have been bad!”
“That’s a bit harsh. Can’t have been for giving someone a breath test!”
“Shit – he’s messed with the wrong bloke there. Holy mother of shit. I wonder what he’s done to that Peter Meyer!”
“I bet he’s banged that guy up, and he’s just got out of jail now.”
The random, wild speculation was only just getting going. This was open season, people felt that they could suggest any old scenario to explain the vendetta that had developed to such a gruesome climax.
It wasn’t just the public in their homes, watching the TV news and following developments on their phones and tablets and laptops that were jumping to their own conclusions and enthusiastically inventing their own, wild, back-stories. The people behind the television cameras, the news editors and researchers, senior journalists and execs were all looking again at the puzzle, keen to be the first to uncover the facts.
“I thought that Peter Meyer had a clean background?”
“Do we really have everything that we should have on Sergeant Knight?”
“Is that really his cock on his forehead?”
The British people were nosey by nature. They simply weren’t capable of just leaving this extraordinary news story on the shelf until tomorrow. They couldn’t just head off to bed with all of this going on. They were staying put, until something else happened. It had been a remarkable story, one that had only got going at tea-time, and remarkably, it was looking close to concluding soon. Most viewers were putting the kettle on again, instead of turning in for the night.
Every so often, the news was enthralling, and was hard to stop watching as new details kept emerging. Tonight was most certainly one of those occasions. The news channels were seeing the kind of interaction that would only normally be experienced during peak-times, such as breakfast or tea-time. To see the level of hash tag use, and direct interaction via Facebook and e-mail, it was clear to all of the broadcast stations that this story was about as big as they get, and the public all seemed to be scratching their heads. There were far more questions rather than answers at this point.
“Was Sergeant Knight dead, or is he going to be okay?”
“What had Pete Meyer got against him?”
“What was in the photograph that was so bad?”
These were just a tiny handful of the questions that were keeping everybody awake, and discussing it online and with family at home. They were all guessing, and suggesting their own theories. As the clock ticked on, the story showed absolutely no signs of simmering down, and that unrelenting momentum was carried even further by a shock announcement shortly before two am.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It had been announced through a hospital press release, that an official statement was to be made outside the hospital at two-fifteen am. The press release was published, and sent to all major news recipients at one-fifty am, just twenty five minutes before the statement was scheduled. The lack of any further detail, along with the very sombre nature of the memo gave a hint of what lay in store.
At two-fifteen precisely, the senior Trauma Surgeon at Tameside Hospital stepped out of the Accident and Emergency doors and faced the press. Standing before a table that was littered with microphones, and with camera flashes blinding his face, Doctor Khalid began reading out a statement.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Several hours ago, I was called to a location in Ashton Under Lyne, where it was suspected that Police Sergeant Jason Knight was being kept captive. There, myself and my colleagues found Sergeant Knight, in a very poorly condition. He was very swiftly transferred to this hospital, where we have had an excellent team of experts all working very hard to save the Sergeant. I am very sorry therefore to announce,” the doctor’s voice waivered noticeably as he spoke, “that we were not successful in saving him. Despite our very best efforts, I am sorry to say that Sergeant Knight died here at sixteen minutes past one. His wife was by his side at that time. The rest of his family have been informed. The family have asked for privacy, and we have promised to pass that message on to you all right now. Thank you.”
To an eruption of press-pack noise, Dr Khalid nodded sombrely, turned and walked quietly, and gracefully back into the hospital, past a number of sad and tired looking hospital staff. As he walked, hundreds of questions were being shouted at his back, though very few could be made out.
Some of the reporters realised that the story was complete, for now anyway, and headed back towards their cars, vans and trucks that were parked all around the outskirts of the hospital. Others were being instructed to stay put. One journalist from a tabloid paper, received a text practically as soon as Dr Khalid had disappeared back inside the hospital.
“We need photographs of the grieving widow.” Said the text, it had come from the editor.
“I thought the family asked for privacy.” Replied the reporter.
“That starts tomorrow, though. For now, get a good photograph of her face.”
*****
This had been a devastating announcement for the television viewers that had been following this story all evening. For the thousands upon thousands of people who had participated in the search for the white van, and all of the others that had shared the appeal information on the internet, it was a really upsetting announcement.
But the shock factor wasn’t there. There wasn’t a gasp of disbelief. Every person that had seen those distressing images of Sergeant Knight’s arrival at the hospital a couple of hours earlier were quite prepared for the news. He’d looked dead anyway, if the truth be told. But few people said that, they clung onto the hope, stayed positive, and said things like “well, he’s in the best place to get help now, that’s the main thing.”
Those people that had turned to Twitter to try and discover what was so bad and shocking about the photograph were the ones that were the least shocked by this breaking news surrounding Sergeant Knight’s death. They were still shocked by the image though, and almost every single person that had ventured online for a nosey at it felt sickened, and sad, and violated by the terror and the horror that was contained in that image.
*****
The Twitter account that Pete Meyer had used to publish the incredibly explicit and de-humanising image had gained an extraordinary amount of followers in the past few hours. The @PeteMelMey account which he’d shared with his wife, and never really saw the point of, had leapt up from fifty one followers, to almost forty eight thousand. The people who were following him weren’t doing so out of any admiration or respect for the man. It was sheer nosiness. Each and every one of the new followers simply wanted to see what he did next.
@PeteMelMey hadn’t sent a tweet since the photograph had been sent, a couple of hours earlier. But people continued to follow the account, and were constantly reloading the Twitter page, desperate to read the next message from the murdering fugitive, if ever there was to be one.
*****
Away from the heightened excitement and drama of the television and online coverage of this tragic case, voices of concern were beginning to be heard. The fact that Twitter had allowed, and were continuing to allow such a repulsive image to stay online, especially now that Sergeant Knight had died, was creating a great deal of discussion in the absence of anything else to say.
The MP for Bolton, Sean Crossley was on the phone to BBC News. The sadness, and shock in his voice was unmistakable, and completely genuine. He’d spoken for a few minutes about Sergeant Knight, and his contribution to the police, and community life in and around Bolton, before turning his attention to Twitter. His voice changed gear, an
d there’s was no mistaking the raw anger that came from the MP’s heart.
“This is probably not the time, or the place. But I can’t tell you how appalled I am by the behaviour of Twitter this evening.” He stopped for breath, the sudden anger and hatred in his voice was quite surprising. “I mean, is there not a single human-being working in there tonight? Has not a single human-being stopped to think about this photo, and what an absolutely devastating effect it will have on Sergeant Knight’s family and friends? Not only are they in mourning,
but they are also subjected to that image, helped on its disgraceful, evil journey by Twitter staff who simply walked on by and did nothing. As I say, this is a terrible, awful night, and my thoughts are with Sergeant Knight’s family, friends, colleagues and the people of Bolton. But tomorrow morning, my first priority will be to put an end to this evilness that we are allowing to happen on these social media sites. I’ll gather my MP colleagues around me, and we will fight these demonic, faceless organisations which allow such disgusting communications to take place without regulation. I will ensure that this kind of thing can never happen again.”
“Yes, well, that has certainly been a major discussion point, this evening,” said Siobhan Clark, the news presenter, as she tried to keep the discussion going.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve said my piece now. I’m really too upset to go on. Sorry.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“And the sad news that we are waking up to this morning,” said the solemn sounding breakfast presenter on BBC Radio Manchester, “is that the search for Sergeant Jason Knight ended in tragedy last night…”
Miller switched the radio off. He was surprised by how close he was to the office already, and he realised with a bit of a start that he was feeling depressed. It wasn’t just the sadness of the previous day’s activities, and the weirdness of Pete Meyer still being at large, and the fact that he had sent out that photo on Twitter. No, it wasn’t that. It was much more, a hollow sense of hopelessness that made him want to just pull over at the side of the road and stay there. He didn’t want to go home, or go to work. He just wanted everything to stop. It was disconcerting for the DCI, he thought that the ghosts of his depression had been exorcised, yet here they were, back with a bang, and they hadn’t even given a hint that they were planning a visit.
Miller put it down to tiredness. He’d only managed a couple of hours sleep. And yesterday’s shift had been physically exhausting and mentally draining. He put this totally unexpected sense of despair down to that. He began taking charge over it, once he recognised that it was coming, that it was knocking on the door with a menacing grin, Miller began making plans for how to stop it from getting in through the door. As the lights changed, and he moved the car forward to the next set of lights, he decided that he would take care of this morning’s business, and then finish early. He’d get a box of sleeping tablets from the chemists, and go home, take a couple of the tablets, get in bed and not wake up until his body and his mind were ready. Just making that decision seemed to lift the cloud slightly. Miller had been fighting this for a while now, privately. He couldn’t discuss it with another soul. If his bosses heard that the DCI of Manchester’s celebrated SCIU department was having mental problems, it would very probably mean that he would be removed, and probably never returned. DCI’s were not allowed to have anything wrong in their heads, it was strictly forbidden.
It really seemed quiet on the roads today, thought Miller, and he wondered whether the effect of so many people staying up watching Sky News all night was a factor in that. He reached work in a much quicker time than usual anyway, and that was a rare bonus in the overly congested Manchester city centre.
The media crews were up early, and were camped outside the Manchester City Police HQ’s main doors, as expected. It was here, at the very same spot, just the previous morning, that several of them were waiting to quiz Miller about his handling of the so-called “Neighbours From Hell” case. Miller had to question whether that was only yesterday morning. Such a lot had happened since then. It all seemed so long ago, when the press were trying to force Miller’s resignation. The memory made Miller scoff humourlessly to himself. God, that was such a trivial affair yesterday. What a difference a day makes, he thought as he parked his car up and grabbed his belongings from the back seat. Miller had decided that he would go in the back doors today. The talking head work could be done by someone else, somebody from the top floor who was earning ten times Miller’s salary, he decided.
Today, quite understandably, there were a lot more of the media people. It was a significant crowd, all of them waiting to grab video or photographs, or even a brief statement from the Chief Constable or any other senior officers who could offer content to the media outlets.
The death of a serving police officer is a major news story in itself, but under the circumstances that Sergeant Jason Knight had died, and under such public scrutiny, it was quite another thing. If this had been just a normal civilian, it would have made a distressing, shocking, major news story in itself. But because it was a policeman, it was even more of a story. Police officers are the heroic people who keep Great Britain running. They are the people that everybody turns to when they are in trouble. They are under-paid, over-worked and treated quite appallingly on a day-to-day basis, mainly by the scummy people that they are forced to encounter. But when a tragedy like this occurs, the British public stand united in grief, and under the leadership of the media, they send the message to each and every serving police officer in the land. The message is heartfelt and simple - that they are respected, and that they are valued, and that nobody knows where they’d be without them.
The sombre mood inside HQ hit Miller as he walked in. It was quiet, and surreal, lots of people around with neutral expressions on their faces, unsure of what was the appropriate thing to say or do. It reminded Miller of the atmosphere when Ellis had died, and that unexpected prompt made him feel extremely emotional. His eyes were filling up with moisture, and his chin was wavering a little as he nodded at the young officer on reception desk, and headed towards the staircases of the huge, glass structured building.
“Morning Sir.” Said Saunders as Miller entered the SCIU office.
“Oh, hiya Keith. Hey listen mate – you did an absolutely brilliant job yesterday – you played a blinder mate, you really did.”
“Well, cheers Sir. It weren’t really enough though, was it?”
“No. But that’s not your fault. We’d never have found him to try and work on him if it wasn’t for you. So keep that in mind, right?”
“Sir.”
“Do you want a brew?” asked Miller, wishing to change the topic.
“Nah, got one. Cheers.”
“Hey, it’s quiet out there you know. Took me fifteen minutes to get in this morning! It’s normally forty. The roads are empty, it’s like a Sunday morning!” Miller walked away from Saunders’ desk and headed off towards the small kitchen area. He turned the kettle on and walked across to his own office and dumped his bags by the door.
“Did you find it quiet? Coming in?” asked Miller, noticing that Saunders hadn’t replied.
“I’ve not been outside, Sir. Been here, trying to suss out where this Pete Meyer has gone to.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Chief Constable looked genuinely saddened, but it was obvious that there was another emotion present as well. The usually strong, confident stride looked a little awkward this morning, and his self-belief didn’t seem to be with him at all. The big cheese of Manchester City Police almost looked scared, as he entered the police headquarters media centre.
It was part of his mandate to oversee and deliver these types of press engagements, and normally, he brought with him a reassuring presence and gave a strong sense of ownership to the official communications. In today’s fast-moving media-world, it was common procedure that political figureheads from organisations as big as the police service would be the spokesperson when a tragedy in
volving a member of their staff occurred. As such, only the Chief Constable would do for today’s briefing, despite the fact that he looked terrified to be there. Despite doing these types of tragic incident press conferences on previous occasions, both here with Manchester’s police, and with previous employers, Lancashire Police, and North Wales Police, the Chief Constable Sir William Stephenson really did look extremely troubled as he entered the press and media communications hall at HQ.
There was a low mood in the media room, which was completely packed out with representatives of every conceivable press and broadcast organisation. Reporters were so crammed into the place, there had been barely enough room to allow the Chief Constable and his escorting office staff through the tiny gap that remained around the edge of the crowded room.
The Chief Constable, a kindly looking man, known as a no-nonsense boss and famed for his straight-speaking attitude, looked as though he might actually be in shock. His general demeanour had been noticed by the press. There was something going on, it was obvious to all of the press members in that hot, packed-out media hall. The Chief Constable wasn’t just tired and upset, he looked quite frightened. The realisation brought a whole new angle to this press briefing,
which was due to go out live on several networks within the next few minutes. Every journalist in the room was keen to try and find out why he had this extra layer of concern about him.
“I think another copper has been kidnapped. Look at the state of him!” said one reporter to her cameraman.
“Reckon?” asked another reporter who’d overheard.
“Something’s up. Look at him. He looks like he’s got a bomb strapped to his balls.”
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 24
