Having spotted Detective Sergeant Gary French talking to one of the dog handlers, DI Peterson strode towards his second-in-command, his slight limp more noticeable due to the damp weather’s effect on his war wound (embedded shrapnel – a souvenir from his final tour-of-duty in Afghanistan).
“Morning Gary, how’s it going?” he asked.
“Good, sir. Been talking with PC Brown, here. His dog did the initial area search before I arrived.”
The dog handler said, “Morning, sir. I let Juno have a free track from the door of PC Griffiths’ car. To begin with, he had a solid scent. He followed it forward by about 5 or 6 meters, but then lost it. We did a search, but he couldn’t regain the track anywhere nearby.”
“So what does that mean, in your opinion?” asked the DI.
“Well, the obvious answer is that he got into another vehicle. But it’s not that simple... With the weather like it is, the trail might just as easily have blown away or faded. It was nearly 5 hours after he allegedly disappeared, after all. To get any conclusive results, we really needed to be out here within an hour of him going missing.”
“I see. What about the other dog I saw in the fields?”
“Yeah, he’s conducting a wider search just in case Griff walked across the farmland. There’s no track been found as yet though. Again, if there was one, it’s probably been dispersed with the time gap.”
“OK, let me know if you get anything.”
DS French spoke to his boss as the dog handler walked towards his van, “Guv, I’ve spoken with the SOCO people. They’re still investigating, taking samples and the like, but initial results indicate that there is nothing out of the ordinary. The car’s clean. No footprints ‘cause the ground’s too hard. And there’re no items left in the vicinity of the vehicle.”
“So we’ve got nothing then?” asked the DI.
“Well, pretty much, sir. See those evidence markers in front of the car; numbers 7, 8, and 9?”
“Mmm, yeah.” DI Peterson looked where DS French was pointing.
“SOCO reckon they’ve recovered some rubber tyre samples from there. Looks as if a vehicle sped off. There’re no tracks as it’s icy, but there are indications that something left quickly from the wheel-spin marks.”
“But that could be anything. It could’ve happened at any time. It might not even be related!” replied the DI.
“Yeah, I know. But at this point, that’s all we’ve got. They’re collecting evidence anyway, just in case.”
“OK.” Colin paused. “Have we checked the drainage channel yet?”
“No. Not yet, sir. The diving unit is en-route, should be here any minute.”
“I hate to say it, Gary, but if he hasn’t been located by now, it’s pretty unlikely that he has been taken by someone, which leaves one other option – suicide! He might be down there somewhere.”
“I hope not, sir, but it had crossed my mind. Hopefully, it’s something simple though; he’s had a breakdown or something, gone for a wander, nothing sinister.”
“Let’s hope so, mate. Where are his Shift Sergeant and Inspector?”
“Back at Bradwell Street nick.”
“Right, we’d better get over there and have a chat. Can you get the PSU mobilised? Get them to do a thorough search of the area, including the fields adjacent to this road. I doubt they’ll find anything, but you never know.”
“Yes, sir, it’s all in hand. Sgt Kier already put them on alert if needed.”
“Good effort.” Colin smiled. “Sgt Kier, eh? I know him, he runs a tight shift. Maybe he’ll have some insights into Griffiths’ state of mind before he vanished.”
Chapter 3
Bradwell Street Police Station was not your typical Manchester suburban police station.
It was modern, by 1980’s standards. Externally, it was a bland grey concrete monstrosity, having been constructed out of prefabricated slabs fitted to a steel framework. It was 4 storeys high, five if you included the underground car park in the basement. And it stood out like a sore thumb, sat on a corner plot on the busy High Street amid a terrace of Victorian shops and converted apartments.
DI Peterson strode up the flight of marble-effect steps leading from the street to the police station’s front doors, DS French following closely behind. He left the sound of car horns and fume-emitting traffic behind him as he passed through the two sliding glass doors to the sanctuary within. They shut with a satisfying “swoosh” sound. In the foyer, a silent nod to the Desk Officer behind his protective wall of glass resulted in an almost imperceptible “click” as the two internal doors on the far wall were released remotely from the button secreted beneath his counter. Colin Peterson was known here. Although he worked from a number of police stations dotted around the sector, he was based from the CID Office on the top floor of this building.
Beyond the panelled wooden doors lay a cream-painted corridor running left to right. Its harsh fluorescent strip lighting gave the impression of something clinical; a hospital or a doctor’s surgery. It was a hive of activity. Men and women purposefully walked up and down, some wearing police uniform, others in civilian clothing, some carried armfuls of bulging cardboard folders, while others were deep in discussion on their personal radios. The air was filled with partially heard conversations, telephones ringing, and radios crackling. Directly ahead lay the stairwell, the artery that fed the many sections and departments that filled the floors above. And beneath the first flight of steps sat the vending machine; always a popular meeting point, infusing the air with a heady aroma of cappuccino and latte.
DI Peterson turned left, and followed the corridor until it doglegged at 90 degrees to the right. Part way along this passageway there were two doors: on the left, an open doorway revealed the Parade Room, and to the right, directly opposite, a closed door was emblazoned with the words, “Town Sergeant’s Office.” He knocked twice, waited for the shout, “COME!” then entered to find Sgt Kier sat behind his desk chatting to Insp. James who was standing by the window to his left.
“Ah, DI Peterson, DS French, come in. Grab a seat. You might need to borrow one from the Parade Room,” Sgt Kier said.
“Thanks Sergeant. Mick isn’t it?” replied the DI.
“Yes, sir.”
The DI looked towards Insp. James and said, “Hello Jen, how are you? Haven’t seen you in yonks.” They smiled. Colin had worked with Insp. James when he had first transferred up to Manchester from London. Back then, she had been a DS, destined for higher things.
“I could be better, Colin. This thing with PC Griffiths is becoming somewhat stressful, to say the least.”
“Well, that’s what we’re here about. We’ve just got back from the scene at Brent Lane and we need an insight into PC Griffiths’ state of mind, what he’s like, whether he has any problems that we need to know about, that sort of thing.”
“We’ll do what we can to help, but at the minute it’s as much a mystery to us as it is to you,” she replied.
Just at that moment, the telephone rang on the Sergeant’s cluttered desk.
“Hello – Town Sergeant’s Office.”
“Sgt Kier, it’s the control room. You asked if we could check the hospitals for PC Griffiths. Well, we’ve contacted all of them. He hasn’t been admitted, but they’ve all got his description and will call us if he turns up.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Oh, and the CCTV offices in Hawksworth and Sandleton were contacted. Their civvie operators did a review of the tapes for the past few hours – nothing seen, he wasn’t spotted on foot in either area.”
“OK, that’s much appreciated. I’ll pass on the information to the DI; he’s here with me now.”
He put the phone down and updated DI Peterson with the results.
“So, the way I see it, there are three possibilities,” Colin said. “PC Griffiths could have had an accident, but that is pretty much ruled out as his car is undamaged, he’s nowhere nearby, and he hasn’t been admitted to any hospi
tals.”
“But it might still be possible,” Gary French added. “It’s just on the back-burner.”
The DI nodded and continued, “Another option is that he disappeared of his own accord, he chose to go, or had some sort of breakdown. And the final option, one I’d rather not have to consider at this stage, is that someone took him!”
Everybody nodded in agreement. They had considered the same possibilities and reached the same conclusion.
“So, let’s try and eliminate some of those theories, shall we?” said the DI. “Mick, you probably know him best. Has he had any work-related problems? Was he happy, stressed, anything out of the ordinary?”
“Is any police officer ever happy in their work?” he mumbled. “He’s good at his job, one of my senior PCs. He has a full workload, so that’s gonna bring a little stress, but he was in his usual chirpy mood the last time that I saw him at the start of shift.”
“So there were no signs of depression? His attitude hadn’t changed recently?” Colin probed.
“Not really. I mean, he had started to be a bit more distant over the last few months, distracted you might say, but it only ever lasted a day or so, then he was back to his usual self. It never affected his work in any way.”
“I see.” Colin thought for a moment. “Could he have been hiding problems with his home-life, putting on a brave face?”
“I guess it’s possible, but he never mentioned anything to me.” Sgt Kier paused. “His colleagues might know more. There was nothing obvious though.”
“So you would definitely say that he was NOT suicidal?” Colin clarified.
“Nah, I can’t see that. Even if he was covering it up, there would have been telltale signs, surely?”
“How about medical problems? Had he had time off work, seen a doctor, anything like that?” DS French asked.
“Again, not that I know about. He certainly hadn’t gone via the force’s doctor.”
Insp. James added, “But that doesn’t rule out the possibility that he could still have had some sort of breakdown, wandered off, or collapsed somewhere.”
“True. If that is the case, he’ll show up soon, somebody’s bound to spot him,” said Colin. “We should get a report from the Underwater Search Unit soon. That ought to eliminate the option of suicide at least.”
“Or confirm it!” DS French added. Colin looked at him disapprovingly.
“How about his work? What were his recent cases involving? Was he required for court? Could he have been intimidated by any of the defendants? Had he upset anyone?”
“They were all the usual sort of things – burglaries, assaults, thefts – nothing big, nothing high-profile. I can’t see that having a bearing on his disappearance,” said Mick.
“That leaves us with the option that he left in another vehicle, either willingly, or not. But who would take him? And why?” asked Colin.
Everybody sat silently for a moment considering the possibility.
“Are we talking kidnap here?” asked Insp. James.
“Maybe... On the other hand, if he chose to disappear of his own volition (for whatever reason); he might have arranged transport away from the scene. That would suggest some amount of pre-planning.”
“I can’t see that. Why would he want to vanish? We’d have seen some sort of signs. People don’t just choose to disappear for no reason,” added Sgt Kier.
“True.”
“What if it was related to the last job that he called in? It’s certainly in the right location. What if that’s connected?” asked Gary French.
“Good point,” said the DI. “What was his last job, does anybody know?”
“Control said it was a vehicle stop/check. He checked the VRM (vehicle registration mark) on PNC,” Mick said.
“Good. In that case, the details will have been recorded.”
Sgt Kier tapped on his computer keyboard for a few minutes, and then said, “Here we go. It was a dark blue Toyota Avensis, index number ST18 AFP. Came back as a rental car from a Liverpool firm – ‘Case Rentals’ – not far from the airport. Not wanted, and no markers on PNC or local.”
“OK, I want details of who rented it, when they collected it, and when it was due back. And we’ll need payment details too. I’ll contact Merseyside Police and get one of their local units to pop by to get the information. They might be able to see who collected it if they’ve got CCTV in the office – fingers crossed,” DI Peterson said to nobody in particular. “Gary, can you check the ANPR (automatic number plate recognition) cameras? See if we can get an idea of this car’s movements. Cross-reference it with any CCTV footage that might be available along its route.”
“I’ll get the team working on it now, sir.”
“Look, it might not be connected to Griff’s disappearance, but at the moment, it’s all we’ve got to go on. Let’s find that car and driver. Mick, can you get control to put a marker on its registration number on PNC? If it’s still on the move, hopefully a patrol car will realise it’s wanted and give it a pull.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m gonna have a quick word with the rest of your shift members before they start heading home for some shut-eye, then I’d better visit PC Griffiths’ wife, tell her the bad news, not that there’s a lot that we actually know at this stage.”
“Keep us updated, won’t you, sir?” Mick added.
“Of course.” Colin turned to leave, then asked, “Mick, do you know his wife? What’s she like? Does she work?”
“I’ve met her a few times, but she doesn’t really mix with the shift much. She goes to the odd social event, Christmas and the like, but doesn’t really join in with the rest of us. Seems alright though – friendly, polite, you know? I think she works at the bank on the High Street from what Griff was telling me.”
“OK, I’ll head over there after I’ve seen the shift. Let’s get moving. PC Griffiths is one of us. I want maximum effort on this one. Let’s find him soon.”
At that, DI Peterson crossed the corridor, entering the Parade Room, whilst DS French headed upstairs to the CID office to conduct further enquiries.
Chapter 4
PC Griffiths awoke slowly, but not for the first time.
He had been falling in and out of consciousness for a while. He was shrouded in darkness, dazed, confused, and buffeted by the sides of his prison as it bounced and rolled along the road. Every bone and muscle in his body was screaming out in agony, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His mind was a mess. He had trouble recalling events leading up to his incarceration, and yet his longer-term memory was sending him snapshots of his past life, disjointed images, snippets of conversations, all mixed together in no apparent order.
Suddenly, an image of his wife, Donna, came into focus; a memory of the last time that he had seen her. It felt like a lifetime ago, but in reality, it had only been a matter of hours before. It was clear and sharp, almost as if it were happening in the present...
...
In his vision it was early evening, and Nick was cooking dinner at home before heading off for his night shift. He heard the key in the lock of the front door, the dull thud as it was pushed shut.
“Hello love. How was your day?” he called to his wife.
“Alright I suppose. My manager was being her usual self though. She stresses me out,” Donna replied.
“Never mind. Dinner’s nearly ready.”
“Sorry, not tonight, I’m off out with the guys. It’s a work thing; I can’t get out of it.”
Nick felt disappointed. “Oh!” he said. Dinner for one, again, he thought to himself.
Nick’s memory recall faded. He might have fallen unconscious momentarily. Then it returned to the same scene, only a little later in the evening.
“See ya later. Don’t wait up, it’s gonna be a late one,” Donna said cheerfully as she kissed him on the top of his head.
“I’m on nights...” he started to say, but it had fallen on deaf ears, Donna had al
ready left, shutting the door behind her.
Where was the, ‘How was YOUR day? Thanks for cooking dinner,’ Nick thought. He felt totally neglected, taken for granted. Her job was her world. The social aspect of it came before everything, even her husband! Here he was doing a dangerous and stressful job, and for what? To keep her living in the lap of luxury, her simplest wish or desire catered for, paid for by him - the Muppet.
In his dream, Nick could sense a rage building, but confined within his car-boot-prison, it felt real. In his dream, he had calmed down, de-stressed by playing at the “Casino DuPont” (an online gambling site), something he had been doing more often recently. But in the darkness, he was trapped with his memories. His mind was wandering. His marriage was falling apart. His job was the only thing keeping him sane. Now, even that was no comfort to him. He was severely injured and being taken God knows where. Plus he had no idea why, or by whom. To his relief, Nick drifted back into unconsciousness. At least he would not have to dwell on such unpleasant thoughts any longer.
...
Malachi could feel the blood pulsing in his temples. He was breathing heavily in short, sharp gasps, and he was hyper-aware of his surroundings. His eyes darted from the road ahead, to the internal mirror, to the back seat of the hire car; the barrier that prevented him from seeing the police officer who he had unceremoniously bundled into the boot. His mind started talking to him. “What have you done?” it said. He had acted without thinking. Blind panic had set in. “You’ve made a big mistake,” the voices continued in his head. “How are you going to get out of this one?” Every vehicle on the road appeared to be an unmarked police car. Every person on the pavement seemed to be staring at him. Was he becoming paranoid? Was it that obvious that he had a kidnapped and possibly dead police officer in his car?
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