“He’s just upset. Shut up.”
After a long minute of laying out his cue-card prompts in front of himself, and filling his glass with water, the Chief Constable nodded to his Press Officer, who stepped onto the small stage and gave a briefing of what the conference was about, and other formal instructions. The last sentence that the Press Officer delivered was met with loud dissatisfaction. “There will not be an opportunity for any questions at today’s briefing, Ladies and Gentlemen.”
Due to the nature of the conference, the sound of anger and irritation was kept to a minimum, but it was still made perfectly clear to the Chief Constable, and his staff, that denying any questions at a briefing about such a major news story was extremely unpopular. It meant that all the journalists and reporters would have to work with, was a very rigid statement, that had been composed by the police.
“There will be opportunities for questions at later press conferences, but not today,” added the Press Officer in a bid to keep the media on-side, but very noticeably refusing to apologise for the decision. “Ladies and Gentleman, I will hand you over at this point to Sir William Stephenson, Chief Constable for Manchester City Police.”
The Chief Constable stood from his seat on the stage. “Thank you. I would like us all to participate in one minute’s silence in memory of our fallen colleague, Sergeant Jason Knight.” The Chief looked down at his feet, and the media people followed his lead. Sky News and BBC News were left with a rather strange broadcast of the Manchester Chief Constable looking down at his feet for sixty seconds, the presenter whispering a recap that the press conference was starting with a moment of reflection in memory of the dead policeman.
“Thank you.” Said the Chief Constable when the time was up, and he sat down very slowly and quietly. That expression of fear and worry on his face was unmistakable, and even the viewers at home had picked up on it. Something else was going on, it was as clear as day.
*****
All members of the SCIU department were sat around DI Saunders’ computer, watching the press conference. They too had picked up on the Chief’s weird demeanour.
“God! He looks like he’s dropped a quid, and then slipped in dog turd when he was trying to pick it up,” said Jo Rudovsky. It received a luke-warm chuckle from her colleagues.
“Was he related to Sergeant Knight, do you think?” asked Mike Worthington.
“It’s weird isn’t it. He doesn’t seem sad though, it’s not sadness, is it? He looks more like he’s about to be sacked or something!” said DI Saunders, looking across at Miller to gauge his reaction. Miller didn’t comment. He was just thinking about getting his loose ends tied up here, getting in his car, getting home and going in to his bed. He needed to nip this looming depression bullshit in the bud, and that’s all that he could think about. His interest in locating Sergeant Knight’s attacker was none existent. All that mattered to Miller was getting himself home, and putting his brain on standby for a much needed recharge. Miller thought that a good ten hour power snooze would make the world of difference. Then, and only then would he have any interest in this search for Peter Meyer.
However, Detective Chief Superintendent Dixon was about to re-organise Miller’s to-do list. He burst into the office and barked at Miller, and Saunders, requesting that they join him immediately in Miller’s office.
*****
“Good heavens,” said Sky News’ head of output, Jerry Phillips to his colleagues in the office, as he watched and listened to the press conference on the large bank of TV monitors that filled the main wall. “Something absolutely massive is going on. Look at the state of Sir William. Either he’s just been caught with an ounce of cocaine in his jock-strap, or there is another layer to this.”
“He does look like he’s worried about something,” agreed Annette Thomas, the shift director. Her eyes were fixed on the facial expressions of Manchester’s top cop. “I’m starting to feel a little concerned,” she said, looking across at Jerry.
“Yes. Something is wrong. Listen.”
The entire production team of Sky News stopped what they were doing and listened carefully to what the usually calm and collected Chief Constable was saying. Today, he was fluffing his words, muddling up his sentences and basically making a hash of the briefing. It was awkward to watch.
“We need to know what the hell is going on.”
“But how?” asked Annette Thomas.
“We lead on the fact that something’s wrong.”
“You mean…”
“Yes. We need to make Sir William’s strange composure in the press conference our main story now. See if we can prompt a reaction.”
Jerry’s comment was met with silence. Everybody returned their attention to the screens.
“It’s risky,” said Annette after a moment’s reflection. She was looking slightly cautious about Jerry’s proposal.
“Not at all. I’ve seen Sir William in hundreds of press packs, he has never looked so weird. Something’s going on, and the fastest way to find out what that is… is to make it the story.”
“They could say that we are being disrespectful, insensitive.” Annette really wasn’t keen on Jerry’s idea.
“Nonsense! They’re the ones who aren’t allowing any questions. We need to give the public their news. So let’s do that. Tell Paul to mention how twitchy Sir William was on his back-to-the-studio piece, and then get somebody to be outraged about it, and we’ll put them on the air and let them start slagging us off on the quarter to. Try that big, ugly MP who hates us, what’s his name – Boris Clarkson. Ring him up and ask him if he thought that we were being insensitive. Let’s whip up an unforgiving, almighty shit-storm. You don’t say ‘no questions’ to anybody who works for Jerry Phillips!”
*****
“Morning, Sir,” said Saunders as he stepped past Dixon. The DCS was standing outside the door of Miller’s office.
“Morning,” he said, quite coldly.
Miller just nodded at his superior as he walked into the glass walled office and sat down behind his own desk. Dixon followed, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Just to let you chaps know, the shit is about to hit the fan in a big way.” Dixon sat down and had a look of exasperation, and vague excitement about him. It was a difficult expression to pin down. Saunders and Miller were wondering if the DCS was gutted, or elated.
“Now then, this is strictly between us, but there is a memo going out to all officers and staff members involved in yesterday’s search for Sergeant Knight. We are all banned from discussing the search, or talking about it in any context, until further notice. Failure to comply with this instruction will result in dismissal, gross misconduct. You will both be given a contract to sign later. Signing is agreeing that you’ll be sacked with no pension if you speak to the press, or anybody, about the investigation, or about Sergeant Knight himself.”
“I’m not following…” said Saunders. He’d never heard of anything like this before. Not even when Ellis was killed.
“Me neither, this all sounds a bit heavy handed, Sir!”
Miller was visibly rocked by the announcement, and was desperate to know more. “What’s going on?”
“Well, don’t say anything about this to these lot,” Dixon pointed at Rudovsky, Worthington and Chapman who were still watching the press conference on Saunders’ computer screen on the other side of the glass. “But, it turns out, our fallen comrade, Sergeant Jason Knight, was a wrong ‘un.”
Saunders laughed out loud, covering his inappropriate outburst with his hand. It was just the way that Dixon had said “wrong ‘un.” It had sounded so forced and out-of-character. He felt embarrassed and apologised, with his hand covering his mouth.
“More details, Sir!” said Miller.
“Okay, since the press began reporting that he had gone missing yesterday, there were a few strange phone calls to the incident room, suggesting that, well, that he’d had it coming for a long time, and that it had only been a matte
r of time. After further investigation, it transpired that Knight had been blackmailing a woman, and he had some nude pictures of her. It all came as a bit of a shock yesterday, but we kept an open mind. However, since the announcement of Knight’s death – the phone hasn’t stopped ringing with women coming forward, saying that they had been victims. We’re going back fifteen years with some of them.”
“Fuck!” said Saunders, open mouthed. “That’s insane!”
“Quite,” said Dixon. “It’s so insane, that we are going to be setting up an incident room, just to deal with the victims of Knight. We have received eight formal complaints so far, and several that are still informal. However, once this is in the news, we are expecting that figure to rise dramatically.”
“Is that what’s wrong with the Chief?” asked Miller, referring to the look of fear on Sir William’s face.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he looks like he’s shitting himself in that press conference.”
“Well, yes, I imagine that it is. It’s a very delicate situation – we have to be seen to show respect to our colleague in death, but we also need to be mindful that we are all about to learn about a major scandal that he was involved in. It’s a very awkward position for the police to be in.”
“Jesus Christ! You can say that again, Sir!” said Saunders, who now understood the full picture, and felt relieved that the whole story was beginning to make sense. He’d been up all night, working on this enquiry. He suddenly felt that his interest in finding Pete Meyer had dropped quite significantly.
“I can’t believe this!”
*****
“So as we were hearing there in the press conference, Manchester Police’s over-riding concern now is to capture the man that they believe is responsible for the kidnapping, torture and murder of Sergeant Knight. It has certainly been a very dramatic, and tragic twenty four hours in the north of England. Let’s cross now to our north of England reporter Paul Mitchell who is outside Manchester police’s HQ in the city centre.” The Sky News presenter Sue Bentley was staring straight into the camera, waiting for Paul to appear on the screen, so she could scratch her nose.
“Yes, thanks Sue,” he said as his face filled the television screen. “That was quite an incredible news conference. To recap, the priority for Manchester police now, is to apprehend Peter Meyer, the thirty eight year old man who has been named as the prime suspect in this harrowing case.”
“Was there any clue about Peter Meyer’s whereabouts revealed in that press conference, Paul?”
“No, Sue, none at all. In fact, we learnt nothing new from this morning’s conference. Everything that was spoken about has already been in the public domain since late last night.”
“So there was no new information released?” asked Sue Bentley, adding a tone of astonishment to her question.
“Absolutely nothing, Sue – which is remarkable for an enquiry of this scale. Here we have an entire city, with a population of three million people, and a massive man hunt involving all of the city’s police force – and not one single new detail was revealed today, to a room that was filled with the entire British media, the very people who can get the message out there to the public.”
“Is it the case that maybe the police have certain intelligence, and are trying to protect any leads that they are already working on?” asked Sue, very professionally playing devil’s advocate.
“No, I don’t think that’s the case at all, Sue. If it was, then surely Sir William Stephenson would have mentioned this. And, even if that was the case Sue, he would not be appealing for the public’s assistance in locating Peter Meyer.”
“So what do you think is happening, Paul?”
“We have no idea. All of us who work in the media came out of that press conference scratching our heads, and trying to work out what it was all about. The only significant detail that has come to light, is surrounding the way that the Chief Constable seemed to be performing throughout the ten minute conference. For a man who is usually very professional and in-control, it has been said by many people that he looked very unwell.”
“How do you mean, Paul?” asked Sue, setting her colleague up to make the sensational announcement that Jerry Phillips had orchestrated.
“Well, Sir William’s handling of the briefing has brought about more questions than answers, and several media correspondents who were at the briefing have now started working on their own theories about why the Chief Constable looked so scared in front of the press. Rumours have started circling that the full truth is not being revealed, and that the Chief Constable is hiding details.”
“Well, this kind of discussion is creating a lot of negativity, I’m joined on the line by the MP for Walthamstow, Boris Clarkson. Mr Clarkson, I understand that you’re not happy with what Paul Mitchell is saying?”
“No, I am bloody not! I am absolutely outraged!”
The MP sounded genuinely furious, and the volume of his voice was distorting on the air.
“Please, tell us what you are concerned about, Mr Clarkson.”
“Well it’s absolutely scandalous, that once again, you incomprehensible buffoons at Sky News are launching an attack against a Chief Constable who is dealing with the unimaginable horror of losing one of his officers, in the most horrific of circumstances! You people really are the most extraordinary creatures. I have nothing but contempt for you all, and I believe you should all be deeply ashamed of yourselves.”
“With respect Mr…”
“With respect? Don’t make me laugh! You people don’t know the meaning of the word! You wouldn’t know respect if it came up beside you and politely asked for the time.”
Jerry Phillips winked at his colleague Annette Thomas, who still looked slightly uncomfortable with this trivial distraction from the lead story. Jerry was visibly delighted that the MP was happy to use this air-time to criticise the very network that he was appearing on. He knew that the public at home would also be wondering what was wrong with the Chief Constable, whilst also reinforcing their opinions that the MP was an absolute twat. It was a win-win and it was certainly filling what would otherwise be a very thin ten minutes of output.
The rest of the day was to play out like that as far as the broadcasters were concerned. The high drama of the previous day just wasn’t going to be matched, and the press would have to create their own little sub-stories if they wanted to keep this high on their news agenda. The shock and drama and sadness had become old news now, and the public needed the next BREAKING NEWS whoosh to whizz across the screen. The search for Meyer was all they had to focus on now, and Manchester City Police were remaining extremely tight-lipped about this aspect of the enquiry for obvious reasons. It did seem as though the most sensational UK news story in several years was winding down to its natural, slow conclusion.
Fortunately for Jerry, and all of his colleagues in the newsrooms throughout the UK, the story was about to get a brand new angle. Sir William’s extraordinary conduct in the media hall was about to make a great deal of sense to everybody that had wondered what on earth was wrong with him. It may not have seemed like it today, while the news peddlers had been treading water, trying desperately to keep the story going, and trying to keep it fresh and exciting, desperately battling to thrust it high on the agenda.
Little did the broadcasters know, but it was a lot of wasted effort. Within just a matter of hours, this story was about to become the biggest news item in Europe, Australia and across the USA. The story of Sergeant Knight was soon to reveal a rather discombobulating twist that would leave everybody, from the police to the press, as well as the general public, feeling extremely angry and a little bit foolish, too.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“POLICE!”
“POLICE!”
“Police!”
The white UPVC front door gave defiant resistance for the first two attempts, but crumbled on the third impact, as it was loudly smashed off its hinges by a police officer swinging
an enormous, heavy looking battering ram.
While the officer’s colleagues stood in the street shouting “POLICE!” at the top of their voices, the front door of this ordinary little house was being smashed right in. It took three deafening, powerful swings to break open the door of the small, red brick terraced house in Dukinfield, the old railway wagon manufacturing town that was just across the canal from where Peter Meyer had grown up in Ashton. There wasn’t a single resident of Church Street that hadn’t been woken by the drama.
“POLICE!”
The door fell to the floor with a loud clattering noise, and there followed a couple of seconds of silence, before the police stormed into the ordinary looking house.
“Police. Warrant!” shouted the first couple of officers that burst in through the door.
“What in God’s name….” A lady came running down the stairs, she was in her late forties and was wearing just a pink nighty. Her voice sounded like she was in shock, but she was losing her temper, and was upset as well. She looked scared and sad, but absolutely fuming, all at the same time. The sight of a dozen police officers in tactical aid uniform standing in her hallway soon settled her rage. The woman’s front door was in several pieces on the floor, with a couple of officers stood on top of it. “Seriously. What the hell is this for?” The look of total disorientation on her half-asleep face was unmistakable.
“We’ve got a warrant.” Said one officer.
“Someone get her off the stairs.” Shouted another.
“Is anybody else in here love?”
“Come on, into the front room. We’ve got a warrant.”
It was all too much to take in, after just a couple of seconds of being awake. The woman looked as though she was about to collapse on the stairs, but two police officers grabbed her arms and led her into the living room.
“What the hell is going on? I’m being serious?” she said as she was practically dragged through to the living room.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 25
