“No, no, wait. You don’t understand. I know what you mean, right, absolutely Sandra – but what has happened is a miscarriage of justice. It’s a proper one, I’m not making it up.”
“I know you’re not making it up! But what I’m trying to say to you, is that every prisoner wants to go back to court and try and get off with their sentence in a retrial. I’m just trying to tell you that Rachel’s situation isn’t unique.”
“It is though. That bitch stood outside the court, talking about what a lovely husband she had robbed off of her, but she hated his guts! He used to beat her, bully her. He kept her locked in the house, she used to live in fear of him. He was a millionaire and she’s gone off into the sunset with it all now, laughing her head off and my daughter’s life is left in absolute tatters. My grand-kids are all in care, they’re in bits. It’s not on.”
“I know. I know. But, what you have to consider is what the trial was about. The CPS don’t care for tittle-tattle – they work on cold, hard facts. The main thing that the trial should have been about, was whether Rachel and her fellah killed the man. And from what you’re saying, they did. The circumstances surrounding it don’t really matter in the eyes of the court. If the court had enough evidence, and the jury thought that they were guilty – the finer details don’t really come into it at all. I’m sorry to say that to you, but it is the truth.”
“But I’ve got someone helping me. Dan. He’s right clued up, he knew what a scandal it all was, but he weren’t allowed to say anything. He’s left his job with the council over this, you know.” Maureen looked as though she was pleading with Sandra.
“I’m not saying that you’ve got anything wrong. I’m just being horribly truthful. It’s what I have to do. My husband doesn’t understand why I’ve still got a face. I have to say horrible things to people every single day.” Sandra placed her hands over the top of Maureen’s. “And now, I’m telling you something, okay?”
Maureen looked down at the coffee cup and the posh little ginger biscuit that was rested on the saucer.
“I’ll tell you this, okay, that you are concentrating all your energy, all your passion on the wrong thing. You’ve made your point, I’ll give you that, I saw that you had the press interested the other day. But my advice, is to just accept your rotten luck. Get on with your life. Sounds hard doesn’t it? Some stranger coming along and talking a load of old bollocks? But believe you me – Rachel and her fellah will be back home in no time. Trust me, she’s a model prisoner. She’ll be out in two years. And then she can bring out a book about what really happened, and then, that’s when your family will have the final word.”
“What, I can’t believe…”
“If you carry on, you’re going to continue to feel so unhappy, so cheated, so depressed. It’s like eating biscuits, ignoring that they’re making you fat. Then, one day, you see how fat you are. And you realise it’s too late to do anything. Look at me, I know all about this!” Sandra Jones flicked her hands down her front as if to animate her point. “The first step to feeling better, is accepting what’s happened.”
Maureen looked lost. This wasn’t what she had imagined Sandra would say. This was not going to plan. Maureen had hoped that she could make a friend, somebody who could tell her about Rachel, keep her in the loop about how she was, what was happening in the prison, what her mood was like. Sandra’s eyes were kind, and sincere, and they were burning into Maureen’s.
“Accept it. Accept that something really horrid has happened, and draw a line under it. Trust me, once you have done that, made that step, you will start feeling a lot better about things. And you’ll stop worrying about Rachel too. Now, I want you to promise me that you’ll think about what I’ve just said.”
Maureen just looked down at the table top. She was sad, and deflated. She felt a little bit angry as well.
“I’ll phone you up in a couple of days. And we can talk about it again. But even if you think I’m a bitch for saying this, you will see that I’m right eventually. You need to stop trying to go backwards. It’s time to go forwards now Maureen, for your sake. Now, I’m going to go and buy myself some new shite from Primark. You’re welcome to tag along?”
Maureen looked up at Sandra. Her eyes were different now, they weren’t as sparkly and excited as they had been when Sandra had first walked in. She looked a tiny bit embarrassed, and a bit confused too.
“I’m going to, I think I’ll just go…”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be pissed off with me. You’ll give me a complex. Look, I heard the pain in your voice on the phone. I wanted to help you. The doctor sticks his hand up your arse to help you, but we don’t fall out with the doctors, do we?”
Maureen smiled. A flicker of that sweet, happy smile which Sandra had been endeared to at the start of this meet-up made a very brief appearance. “Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose!”
Sandra smiled, and squeezed Maureen’s hand. “Like I
say, think it over. You’ve got plenty of time to work it around in your head. Come on, come and walk around town with me for a bit, we can have a laugh, talk about something else. I only came here today because I wanted you to cheer up! Don’t make me go back home thinking that I’ve made you even more pissed off! Come on. Let’s go and look at shoes and handbags and nail varnish. We can forget about real-life for a bit!”
Chapter Forty-One
There was no other story in the news. The sheer audacity of Sergeant Knight’s behaviour really took some believing. It was the only topic for discussion in homes, offices and at bus stops all across the land. News channels, daytime talk shows and radio phone-ins were repeating the same question to their guests and their contributors. “How could something like this possibly happen in this day and age?”
BBC Radio Five Live had been covering the story all day. They had been the first broadcasters to break the Sun’s story, as soon as a copy of the “real” version of the paper had arrived at their Salford studios before dawn. Now, almost 12 hours later, the topic had not changed. Throughout the day, talking heads from every conceivable organisation, from Parliament to the British Police Standards Authority, came on the air to say things like, “we completely disassociate the actions of this individual from the rest of the policing population,” and to forcefully explain that “this is a unique case, in a very complex set of circumstances,” whilst maintaining “our police men and women are the very best in the world, and this rogue individual cannot be allowed to cloud that amazing achievement.”
The Chief Constable for Manchester, Sir William Stephenson was the last of the big-hitters to comment on the scandal. Via a press release on the MCP website, it was revealed that Sir William had resigned from his very well-respected position at 5pm. His weird behaviour at the previous day’s press conference now made perfect sense, and with hindsight, was a very difficult, and tragic position for the aging police chief to be placed in. The repeats of the previous day’s conference certainly made uncomfortable viewing now that everybody knew why Sir William looked so frightened and jumpy. It wasn’t grief for his fallen officer. With the benefit of this hindsight, it was quite obvious that Sir William knew that he was in his final few hours of his well-deserved, and brilliantly performed position as Manchester’s Chief Constable.
On the second viewing, perhaps it wasn’t so much that he was scared, but sad. Gutted, and angry and devastated that his excellent career was about to end, amid such an earth-shattering scandal. A scandal that he personally had no involvement in. But, the organisation that he ran was ultimately accountable, and as the boss of that organisation, Sir William had absolutely no alternative but to fall on his sword.
The official Manchester City Police communication read;
“After the revelations that have been made public today, I have made it my first priority to tender my resignation. I believe that there can be no explanation for what we are learning about Sergeant Knight’s activities whilst he was a serving, ranked officer of this polic
e force. As the person responsible for this police force, I cannot see how my position can possibly remain tenable. I wish to thank all of the police officers, civilian staff, and senior leadership teams for their excellent, and unwavering support during my seven years here in Greater Manchester. I’d also like to thank the Manchester people for making me feel so welcome here. Especially, I wish to send my heartfelt gratitude and sincere appreciation out to all of the community leaders, the thousands upon thousands of fantastic youth workers, and the good Samaritans that have made Manchester one of the greatest cities in the world to live, work and play. As we all come to terms with what we are learning about the behaviour of one man, who has abused his position of trust to a horrifying degree, please let us not forget what a truly wonderful place this is. Thank you.”
*****
“And there we have it, following the speculation that we have been hearing throughout the day, it has now been confirmed by official sources at Manchester Police. Sir William Stephenson has resigned with immediate effect.” The BBC News anchorman sounded quite glum about the announcement. It was a well known, and celebrated fact that the Chief Constable had been responsible for reducing crime and improving relations between the public and the police, at a time when resources and funding were at an all time low. Sir William had been recognised as a “miracle worker” in the police service field, and was regularly in the news for his achievements, and was often tipped to end his long and distinguished career as a government advisor on crime reduction.
But for today, in very unfortunate and embarrassing circumstances, it was the end of the road for his glittering forty-two year police career. There was a great sense of injustice about the resignation. How was it fair that Sir William should resign, just because of one sick bastard? The question was being asked by many people as they heard the news, and felt genuinely sorry for the departing police boss.
“It’s simple. Somebody has got to take the blame for everything. It’s the way the system works,” said one correspondent to BBC Radio Manchester. “In our culture, no matter what has happened, there has to be an accountable figure. Now it might well be the case that Sir William has never even met Sergeant Knight. But none the less, as the Chief Constable, he is ultimately the man responsible for what Knight has allegedly been doing. And, there can never be a satisfactory explanation for how a police officer could behave with such a fragrant disregard for the law. A law that he was employed, and trusted, to uphold. Whether we like it or not, there is simply no way that Sir William can continue, when such an epic scandal has been taking place on his watch.”
*****
The news regarding the resignation was felt the hardest amongst the officers of Manchester City Police. The officers and staff right across the city were shell-shocked. This had been one of the most extraordinary weeks in the history of the force. First they had all been searching relentlessly for Sergeant Knight, with an enormous sense of camaraderie and brotherhood, officers coming in on their day off to help, working on adrenaline and putting in their very best shifts,
only to be victorious in finding him and, then crushed by the news of his death just hours later.
Then, just a day later, the news had emerged that Sergeant Knight was a prolific sex offender, a black-mailing bully who had used his unique power and freedom in the police service to carry out his offences, making every single officer involved in the search feel cheated, followed by a range of emotions, from feeling enraged and quite numb by the awful accusations that were flying around, to embarrassment and shame.
And now, to top the week-from-hell off, the Chief Constable that practically every single one of the eleven thousand employees respected and admired, had quit under a cloud. It had been an emotional rollercoaster, and the vast majority of those affected were wondering what the hell was going to happen next.
But, regardless of what was happening on the top floor of HQ, the MCP officers still had a job to do, and the force’s number one priority was to bring Peter Meyer in. However, there just wasn’t the same amount of gusto about the job now. Officers weren’t feeling motivated, and the urgency to bring Meyer in had all but disappeared. Knowing what they now did about Knight, and facing a mounting wall of negative comments from the public – the general mood amongst the front-line officers was extremely low. They simply didn’t understand why they should potentially put their own lives in danger to arrest Meyer, and besides, there wasn’t even a boss in place telling them to do that anyway.
Chapter Forty-Two
Dan arrived at the prison with a spring in his step. The sign outside the car park said “Building Hope, Changing Lives” and Dan took this as a good omen. This was going to be a memorable day, he told himself as he locked up his car, and walked across the car park, joining the quiet, hushed queue of people that were waiting at the main gate. The line of people was a real eye-opener to Dan. Here, waiting to visit inmates stood every conceivable type of person. There were teenagers, grandparents, professional looking types like teachers and businessmen, and there was also the type of “down-on-their-luck” people that Dan would encounter regularly at homeless hostels. There really was every different type of person standing in the queue. Rich, poor, educated and the less so.
The red-bricked building didn’t look much like a prison. The main building looked quite nice, almost stately. The actual prison was hidden away, somewhere behind this ornate, welcoming façade. Styal Women’s Prison had started out as an orphanage for destitute children at the end of the 1800’s. In the 1960’s, it was transformed into a women’s prison, housing the female population that were transferred from Strangeways Jail in Manchester when it became a male-only establishment. Dan was Googling the place on his phone to pass time, as he stood patiently in line.
After a while, it was Dan’s turn to enter through the main gate, and show his paperwork before being waved on towards the weirdly charming looking structure. Once inside the old Victorian building, the charm was very quickly forgotten. Dan was ushered across to the desk. It looked a bit like a post office counter.
“Are you here for a social visit?” asked a miserable looking woman in an off-white shirt from behind the thick glass window.
“Yes, Rachel Birdsworth. Is she in?” Dan smiled, as he handed his visitor pass through the small gap at the bottom of the window. The woman ignored his joke as she checked the paperwork.
“You need to put all the contents of your pockets, plus any loose items such as watches, jewellery, cash etcetera into this basket.” She lifted a handle and it made a loud, clanking, clattering noise which made Dan jump. A small black tray, no bigger than an office’s “in tray” was pushed through the gap. Dan pulled out his wallet, his car keys and mobile phone. “You need to put it in the locker behind you, and your jacket as well.”
After waiting almost ten minutes outside, it took another fifteen minutes to go through the various security checks and metal detectors, before Dan finally reached the visiting room. It was full of people, many of whom he’d made eye contact with outside in the queue. Each table was occupied, except for a couple of available tables over in the corner. Dan headed over quickly and took a seat. They were all waiting to see their family and loved ones, and there was a strange energy flowing through the place. Excitement, high expectations, and a sense of well-being. Dan felt intoxicated by the good, positive vibes and now, he was bursting to see Rachel and fill her in on the campaign. A few more minutes passed before the prisoners were released into the visiting room.
Suddenly, a great noise erupted, as the visitors greeted their loved ones. The babble of good-will and welcomes created a deafening noise, as the room was filled with the sounds of laughter, and sobbing, and a few loud-mouth prisoners who wanted to be the centre of attention shouted inappropriate comments. The place smelled funny, thought Dan. It was a weird mixture of disinfectant, Lynx and school dinners. Rachel suddenly appeared through the rabble of prisoners. She spotted Dan immediately and headed across to him, smiling but lo
oking a bit nervous too. Dan was a bit embarrassed, as he realised a bit too late who it was that was smiling. Dan hadn’t recognised her.
“Oi! Remember me?” she said it in a way that solved the problem.
“Hiya, how you doing? Shit. I’d forgotten what you looked like!” Dan looked quite chipper, and excited to see Rachel, as she sat down in front of him. He hid his shock at the way she looked. He hadn’t been prepared for how much she’d aged and how much weight she’d lost in the past nine months since he’d last seen her.
Rachel smiled politely, and looked down at the table top, as though she was allowing him a few seconds to take in her new look. A depressed looking prison officer was stood by the side of the table that Dan had chosen, and Rachel nodded across at another table across the walkway.
“Shall we sit over there?” she asked, nodding at the empty table. “It’s a bit more private.”
“Sure, yeah, no worries,” said Dan, getting to his feet.
“Cheers.” Rachel stood too, and they both walked across the tiny distance to the table and sat back down. “I feel a bit weird when they’re stood right over you, listening to everything you say.”
“Yeah, yeah I bet. I brought you a cake, with a file in it. But I tasted a bit on the way here, and it was delicious, so I’ve left it in the car so I can finish it on the way home!” Dan had been planning that joke since yesterday. Rachel just smirked at it, politely.
“So, anyway, how’s it going? Oh, and thanks for the visit pass.”
“It’s alright, its nice to see a different face! I’m sick of my mum coming in here looking sad and gutted all the time. I keep telling her to leave it a few weeks between visits, but she doesn’t listen.” Rachel was finger drawing a star shape on the table, over and over. She hadn’t really made eye contact with Dan. She looked as though she felt ashamed, or embarrassed. Dan found it a little awkward, but pressed on regardless.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 27
