“All clear!” shouted the first policeman, as he and a few of his colleagues ran up the stairs. There was a lot of banging and shouting coming from up the stairs, the police officers sounded like they were turning the place upside down. Doors opening and shutting, items being thrown around. Two officers were climbing extending ladders up into the attic.
“The loft is all clear. There’s nobody upstairs Sarge.”
“Oh, I get it. I bet this is about our Peter, isn’t it? Well he’s not here. He’s not been here since my birthday, last August.”
“Alright, just calm down, you’ll be taken down to the station in a minute, and questioned there.”
“Calm down? What about my front door? What was the need for that? You could have just pressed the door bell you miserable bastards!”
Susan Hampson was Peter’s aunty. She was Peter’s mum’s sister. She was as saddened and shocked and upset as the rest of the family and friends about what had happened in the past thirty-six hours. It had come as a complete surprise to learn that Peter was involved, that Peter was even capable of such a thing. For everybody connected to Peter Meyer, it was so unbelievable that it was almost like a sudden death. That “I can’t believe it” factor was playing heavily on the minds and in the hearts of all those that knew Peter Meyer well.
Susan Hampson, the lady who was sat, trembling in her nighty, had been through hell in the past thirty six hours, and now this. This was completely unexpected, a police dawn raid, smashing the front door off, making all this noise on the street. It was like something off the telly, off one of those documentary programmes. The whole house was being trashed by the sounds of it, and the police seemed to be forcing their volume to full blast, making it all feel a bit phoney and over-the-top. It certainly wasn’t a very normal start to the day on this quiet little street in Dukinfield, a forgotten little Pennine town where nothing ever happens.
“Alright, it’s all clear, there’s nobody in here.” The officer who was talking looked at Susan as though she was dirt. “She needs to go down to Ashton to answer questions. Somebody organise her some clothes, she can’t go like that. Is her transport ready?”
“Yes, van’s outside. Tell CSI it’s all clear. They can come in.”
The same thing was happening across Greater Manchester, at seventeen separate addresses. Doors were being smashed in, gangs of officers were running amok inside ordinary, quiet little homes on uneventful little streets. Friends, family, associates, even a timber supplier of Peter Meyer’s was on the list of seventeen addresses that were all strategically targeted at precisely 06.15 hours.
This was “Operation Lock and Key.” It was a joint operation across all of Manchester’s police divisions. The operation had been organised by all of the CID departments which made up the ten boroughs of Greater Manchester. This was a massive operation, delivered in conjunction with almost all of the regions tactical aid trained officers and units, many of whom had been loaned from Cheshire, Merseyside and Lancashire Constabularies. The target addresses had been discussed, agreed-on and planned throughout the night. The primary objective was to catch Peter Meyer inside one of the addresses. The secondary goal was to find some intelligence from the raids that would help to lead to the wanted man. The wanted man who had killed Sergeant Knight. Police anger and disgust at the crime was still at the raw, early stages, and every single one of the officers involved in Operation Lock and Key was absolutely pumped and bursting with adrenaline. Every single one of them wanted to be the officer who turned Meyer in.
But it wasn’t to be. Not this morning anyway. Despite seventeen addresses, and over forty people who were closely associated to Peter Meyer being questioned, it was becoming abundantly clear to all of the hundreds of officers involved in Operation Lock and Key, that it had been a huge disappointment. Peter Meyer hadn’t been anywhere near any of the addresses. He hadn’t been in touch with any of the people. The police were no nearer to arresting Meyer, than they had been before they’d wrecked seventeen perfectly good front doors. If that wasn’t disappointing enough for the officers who had a very personal reason to want Meyer found, the front page of The Sun newspaper was about to really spoil the police’s day.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Sun had a world exclusive story that was about as “dynamite” and “earth-shattering” as it was possible to print. The story was so big, so explosive, that the editorial team had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep their story under wraps. They had even sent out fake front covers to the TV and radio stations for their “tomorrow’s papers” broadcasts on the late night discussion shows. It was all in a bid to ensure that their story remained totally exclusive, for the whole day. And it worked, as nobody really batted an eyelid at the fake front cover, which claimed that a star from a well known soap opera had spilt a kebab all down his top.
The real newspaper cover wasn’t revealed until after 5am, when the bundled newspapers had begun arriving at their points of sale. When the editors from the other tabloids saw it, they all knew that they had been well and truly bamboozled. And just a glance at the headline explained everything.
“RIP Sergeant Nightmare”
The sub headline revealed more, “Serial Rapist, Abuser of Women.”
Beside the shocking headline, was the photograph that had gone straight to the hearts of the British public just thirty six hours earlier. The gentle, smiling photo of the Sergeant laughing with a colleague. That innocent looking picture had been circulated hundreds of thousands of times during the search for Jason Knight. The nice, cheerful picture that had spurred people on, that had given the enquiry a real, human angle, and had inspired people to go out and walk the streets looking for the white van. That picture now told a very different story. What had become the most viewed picture in Britain just a day earlier, was now being used to tell everybody that the dead policeman was a rapist.
As front pages go, this edition was destined to go down in history as one of the most shocking, and unforgettable front covers, ever. Everywhere you looked, people were visibly stunned, totally rocked by the front page. They would recoil suddenly, make a look of astonishment and then stand on the spot as they took in the mind-blowing revelation. It was the same scene everywhere. As people walked past the news stands in the supermarkets, at garage forecourts, at train stations. The Sun had all but sold out its regular print-run of 5,000,000 copies across the UK by 9am, and a second run of 300,000 copies was being printed to meet demand. That figure was being debated by the editorial teams at The Sun HQ in London, who felt that another million copies would sell, easily.
This newspaper story suddenly changed everything, and nobody was ready for it. The news story, in brief, claimed that the reason Sergeant Knight was dead, and the reason that he had been killed in such an inhumane, sickening manner, was because the man was a serial rapist. To make sure that everybody knew that this was a genuine story – the newspaper revealed information that had been given to them by victims of Sergeant Knight. One victim had been tape-recorded at the newspaper offices, as she made her telephone complaint to police. Officers had told her that there were “a number” of women coming forward, with similar stories, and that a special incident room was being set up to deal with the situation. The woman was advised that specially trained officers would call her back, once the incident room had been organised.
This really was about as sensational as news could be. The wonderful, ordinary, kind-hearted, father-of-two policeman in yesterday’s papers was in actual fact a serial rapist, who for the past decade at least, had used his power and influence as a police sergeant to sexually abuse women. Never before had a hero been turned into a villain with such speed, and in such breath-taking circumstances. Just the tone of The Sun’s front page told the public that this was case closed. Sergeant Knight was a wrong ‘un of the very highest order, and the topic was not up for debate. They were the Judge, Jury and Executioner in their story, and they were clearly very confident that they knew what Sergeant Kn
ight’s awful death was all about. The Sun stopped short of telling the British public that the wanted man, Peter Meyer had some justification for his actions. But only just.
The story was told through interviews with three separate women who had never met. They lived in different parts of the division that Knight worked in, across the west of Greater Manchester. Most strikingly, they had all contacted the police, and the press, during the search for Sergeant Knight, to explain their theories of what might have happened to him, and why they thought it. The similarities between the three women’s stories were so alike, there could be no doubt that Manchester Police had a very, very big problem to deal with. There could be very little doubt that they were telling the truth, and as the call handler had said, unwittingly on tape, “they were dealing with a lot of these kind of complaints at present. It’s not really something we’ve been prepared for to be honest.”
Woman One was named in the paper as “Linda” and she appeared as a black silhouette figure. Linda described how she had come into contact with Sergeant Knight. It was a late night, around midnight, and she was driving home from Kearsley to Farnworth on a very wet, rainy evening after visiting a friend. Knight had flashed his blue lights and stopped her car. There, by the roadside he began the procedures to breathalyse her, including a PNC check on her, and a DVLA check on the vehicle. Knight had commented to her that she smelled strongly of alcohol – and that he didn’t even need to breathalyse her, she was so drunk that he could smell it on her breath, guessing that she was at least twice over the limit. Linda then got the shock of her life, when Knight suggested that he could blow the breathalyser for her, and she’d get a zero reading on the device. But if she wanted him to do that, she’d have to blow something for him in return. Linda explained that she was drunk, and, well, with regret, she took up the policeman’s offer. Soon afterwards, Linda was driven home and advised not to return for the vehicle until the next day.
And from there, Sergeant Knight began a three year campaign of blackmail, rape, indecent assault and violence against Linda, abuse that had never stopped. Until now. The shocking, sensational newspaper report claimed that Linda might not hear from him the sex-mad sergeant for two, three, even four months at a time, and then a text would suddenly appear, or he would. Linda said that in the beginning, she had foolishly sent very personal pictures to Knight, and he had made some extremely embarrassing, degrading videos of her. With the videos, he really stepped up his abuse, using the existence of them as a blackmailing tool. He’d threatened to send them to her parents, to her boss at work. She went on to explain that Knight even knew the name and address of her parents. He’d shown her a video that he’d made on his phone. It showed Linda’s boss leaving work, and getting into his car. Knight videoed himself following the man’s vehicle, giving a commentary about the videos that he would show to him. The campaign of abuse was relentless, said Linda. Knight even knew who Linda was going out with at the time, and threatened to set him up in a well known murder enquiry that urgently needed a result, if she didn’t do exactly what he demanded of her.
It made compelling reading, and the newspapers were being shared around works canteens, building sites and trucker’s cafes up and down Great Britain.
Woman Two, “Hayley” had a story that was so similar, it was almost like reading a repeat of Linda’s ordeal. It was absolutely unbelievable what this policeman had been getting up to.
Woman Three had a slightly different tale of how Knight had launched his campaign of abuse. She was a young, single woman from across the Pennines, who had recently moved to Manchester with work. After just a few days of living in the city, she had arrived home from work to discover that she had been burgled. Sergeant Knight had been the attending police officer, sent to the property to issue the crime number, and check if there were any obvious signs of evidence that CSI should attend and gather. This lady was named as “Patsy” in the report, and she explained that she was contacted again later that evening, by Sergeant Knight. The quote that was printed underneath the headline “Patsy’s Story” said;
“He phoned me a few hours after he’d left, he’d taken down my number for the paperwork. He said that he felt really sorry for me. He said that he couldn’t forget how upset I was about the burglary, and that he couldn’t get my burglary out of his mind. I thought, wow – this is nice. This is beyond the call-of-duty. He offered to come back around, and check the place over again. He told me that burglars usually come back, so he’d make sure that everything was locked down, tightened and secure. I was so stupid. So naïve. But he was a policeman, a sergeant! If I couldn’t trust him, then who could I trust? He seemed really nice at first. We went out on a few dates, and before long, I thought we were going out, like an ordinary couple. But then he changed. He started showing me pictures he’d taken of me getting changed, when I thought he’d been looking at his phone, he’d actually been taking indecent pictures of me. He got more and more abusive and he said that if I didn’t do exactly what I was told, he’d kill me, and put me in one of the graves that the police use at the cemetery. It all sounds ridiculous, but this was so scary, so terrifying. I honestly don’t feel bad at all for saying this, but I’m so glad he’s dead. So glad the nightmare is over.”
*****
The newspaper revelations put a very sudden end to the public display of grief outside the Knight family home. The carpet of floral tributes, and quirky, novelty items had been growing steadily throughout the previous day. News reporters had made a bee-line for the property, as the endless stream of sad, bewildered, devastated looking people provided a back-drop that really demonstrated the public’s sense of loss.
Today, the house was isolated, but for the PCSO who was standing, head bowed outside the address. As the broadcast companies began to change their editorial stance regarding Sergeant Knight, the reporters and TV camera crews were quickly instructed to cover the story from an alternative location. MCP HQ was the first choice for most to decamp to, but some of the crews opted for alternative locations from where to cover the “new-look” story. A handful of them headed south from Bolton, to Eccles, as they set up camp outside the Meyer family home.
By eleven am, once all of the media people had departed, Manchester City Police officers turned up in a large Tactical Aid Unit van, and quickly began collecting the tributes from outside the address. They were fast, and the small team had scooped up the carpet of tributes within a matter of minutes. The media may not have been on hand to capture footage of this damning spectacle, but neighbours certainly were. A man living across the road, @JackTayl0r tweeted a photo of the officers carrying armfuls of flowers to their van. His caption was short and to the point. “Looks like #SgtKnight rumours might have substance, judging by this reaction.”
The photo would be re-tweeted over seventeen thousand times, and featured on every news network. @JackTayl0r gained sixty four new followers as well.
Chapter Forty
Maureen was nervous. It was ridiculous, but she really felt like she was going on a date. She’d not done anything like this for years and she was feeling quite giddy, and sort of scared too, as she sat at her table and looked around the posh café in Manchester.
“Hiya, you must be Rachel’s mum!” The lady looked really kind. She had a big, round face and her eyes were full of happiness. Maureen was shocked, she hadn’t expected the prison officer to look like this. The mental image that Maureen had built was very different to the lady that stood by the table. Sandra had a look of Dawn French about her, and a similar shaped body frame. She certainly didn’t look as though she locked prisoners up, all day long.
“Oh, gosh – sorry! I was miles away!” Maureen was blushing. She put her hand out and shook Sandra Jones’ hand.
“I hope you won’t tell anybody about this you know – especially Rachel. It’s more…”
“Than your job’s worth!” Maureen laughed as she finished Sandra’s sentence.
The two middle-aged women had enjoyed a go
od conversation the previous evening, not long after Dan had phoned up. Maureen had been looking forward to this meet-up, since the moment it had been arranged.
A couple of awkward minutes passed by, while Maureen ordered Sandra’s drink, and Sandra put her bag down, and took off her coat and got herself settled. The two ladies talked a bit of weather and parking, before they found themselves laughing and joking again, as they had done on the phone. After the horrible prison officer Mr Pollard had been joked about, and Maureen had thanked Sandra for the umpteenth time, the conversation got around to Maureen and Dan’s plan to try and get an appeal together.
“And what is the appeal actually against?” asked Sandra. She had very little knowledge of the case, which surprised Maureen.
“Well, it’s a long story. But basically, my daughter, Rachel, she accidentally killed a man who was in the middle of beating his wife unconscious. The wife woke up, realised what had happened, and then helped to dispose of the body. And, well she is now laughing at Rachel, she’s got something like a million quid inheritance in the bank, a half a million pound house up for sale, and she’s apparently got a book coming out about it all! All Rachel has got is a prison sentence, her fellah is in jail, and the kids are in care.”
Sandra looked genuinely shocked, and saddened by Maureen’s story. She had been patting Maureen’s hand over the table-top when the emotion had been getting a little too much.
“No offence, Maureen – please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say…”
“Go on.”
“Well, in my job, I hear these kind of hard luck stories every single day. Now, I’m not saying that anybody is lying, but every single prisoner, in every single jail has their own version of events. Doing a job like mine, you really do understand the saying that there are two sides to every story.” Sandra was wearing a sympathetic half-smile. Maureen started to feel a little bit panicky.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 26
