He drove to the far end of the lockups, parking behind the left-hand rank of garages, out of sight, hidden beneath the shadows. He switched off the engine and waited. There was no lighting in this area. There had been at some point, but it had been destroyed long ago. Now it was a meeting point for clandestine rendezvous. Nobody ventured into it after darkness had fallen, other than to conduct illicit business.
The wait continued...
Eventually, Malachi noticed movement in his wing mirror – three dark shadows in human form, climbing a 6 foot brick wall and alighting into the muddy compound behind him. It was Sergei and his two trusted minders.
Having climbed out of his car, Malachi tentatively approached the men. He was nervous, yet at the same time, relieved. Hopeful that Sergei would solve the problems that he had brought back with him. Sergei stepped forward. He looked at Malachi with a cold, unblinking stare. His two man-mountains, his minders, The Karpov Brothers, stood slightly to the rear, their eyes constantly on the move, scanning the shadows, watching, listening for unwanted visitors. The “Brothers” were identical twins. Both were well over 6 feet tall, built of solid muscle, with broken disfigured noses and bald heads. As their names suggested, they were Russian. One was called Ivan, the other Roman, and one had a distinctive scar above his right eye. Malachi had known them both for a few years, and even now, he was unable to remember who was who.
“Malachi,” said The Russian. “Have you got something for me? Where’s my package?” A sneer crept across his lips.
“It... it’s... in the... boot,” Malachi stammered. He was not sure if it was fear or the cold weather causing him to speak in short bursts.
Sergei nodded to one of the Karpov Brothers to fetch it from the car. As he walked uncomfortably close to Mal, he leered at him menacingly out of the corner of his eye. Malachi took an involuntary step to the side.
“You had some sort of problem on the way back?” Sergei asked.
Before he could reply, the twin that had opened the car boot said something sounding like, “Ty che blyad?” (What the fuck?)
The car boot was open, and he had spun around gesturing frantically at Sergei to come and look.
Sensing a problem, Sergei strode past Malachi, brushing him aside.
“It’s not what you thi...” Malachi started to say.
“Quiet!” Sergei ordered.
On looking inside, Sergei was faced with the apparent dead body of a police officer. He was lying on his right side, his arms wrapped around his knees in a protective posture. His clothing was drenched in wet sticky blood which was still oozing from a large gash at the back of his neck. The Russian noticed the sports bag propped against the police officer’s back, and leaned forward to remove it from the boot. Having dropped the bag at his feet, he spun towards Malachi. You could see the anger in his eyes.
“Grab him,” he roared at the brothers. They took hold of Malachi’s arms in a vice-like grip, locking his elbows against the joint, and lifting him onto tiptoes. He gave a squeal of pain.
“What the fuck have you done? You dare to bring the fucking law into my backyard? I gave you one simple job, and you repay me like this?” shouted Sergei.
“It... it was an accident,” Malachi tried to explain.
“An accident? A fucking accident? Don’t make me laugh.” Sergei mimicked a deep throaty laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Copper’s don’t get their heads caved in by accident!”
“But... but...” Malachi had no words of explanation. Whatever he said, he was facing a severe beating, or worse.
To his surprise, instead of laying into him, Sergei calmly turned, opened the sports bag, and checked its contents. He removed the handgun, caressed it gently, smiled, and then replaced it in the holdall. At a silent command from their boss, the Karpov Brothers released Malachi, dropping him to his feet as he rubbed his arms in an attempt to regain his circulation.
“You are lucky that the shipment was delivered safely or you would be dead by now,” Sergei hissed at Malachi. He smiled; an evil cold smile. “Walk with me.”
Sergei stood close by Malachi’s side as the two of them walked slowly towards the car. Without warning, Sergei launched a vicious attack. His first power-driver of a punch arced down out of the night sky, landing squarely on Malachi’s right temple, forcing him to drop to the ground as his legs crumpled beneath him. Sergei’s right boot swung up, at speed, catching Malachi just beneath the chin, snapping his neck backwards as his whole body flew through the air. Then there followed a succession of kicks to the ribs and kidneys. Malachi rolled around in the mud, his body twisting with each impact, his arms covering his head in a vain attempt at self-preservation.
As quickly as the assault had begun, it finished. Malachi lay prostrate on the ground, his body recovering from the blows it had received. Sergei stepped towards the car boot, looking at the bloody mess that was the police officer. His mind was working overtime – What should I do with him? How can we get rid of him before he is missed? He noticed a dull red glow from beneath the body. Confused and intrigued, he leaned in, grabbed the blood-covered yellow jacket, and pulled the policeman’s torso so that it was laying face upwards. He still had his bodycam attached to his uniform, and it was active, still recording.
“For fuck’s sake,” he yelled. He snatched the camera, ripping it from the jacket, and threw it on the ground. With a sharp stamp, he crushed it, the outer plastic case splintering into a thousand pieces. The red light was extinguished.
“Get HIM up,” he screamed at the Karpov Brothers.
As they struggled to get Malachi to his feet, Sergei looked again at the car boot. The cop’s eyes were open. He was not dead after all. Now what should he do? At least if he had been dead, it would just be a case of disposing of the body. With him still alive, he was a potential witness, he could identify them. But he was their prisoner; they could do what they liked with him. But what should they do? Slowly, the seed of an idea began to grow in his mind, a plan was developing, and Malachi was going to be the one that sorted everything out, whether he liked it or not.
Sergei produced a large hunting knife from the back of his jacket. He walked towards Malachi, menacingly cleaning his fingernails with the needle-like point.
“You realise that pig’s still alive, don’t you?” Malachi shook his head. “You know his body camera recorded you when you attacked him?” Malachi’s face went pale as he began to realise the enormity of what had been said. “You realise he’s also recorded me and Ivan from inside the car boot?” Malachi closed his eyes half expecting the knife to be plunged into his chest as a “thank you” for incriminating his boss. “Luckily, I am a firm believer that people should clean up their own mess. You, Malachi, have one more job to do for me.” He slapped him hard across the face to gain his attention. “You are going to go with the twins, and you are going to secure that fucking piece of shit (the police officer) until I decide what to do with him. If he gets away, you DIE! Is that clear?”
“Yes, yes, thank yo...”
“Shut up, I’m not done,” he interrupted. “You are gonna dispose of that camera. If anything comes back to haunt me, you DIE. Clear? Are you getting the message? Any more fuck ups and I’ll KILL you.” Malachi nodded.
As Sergei picked up his holdall and casually strolled off into the shadows, Malachi scurried around in the mud, frantically collecting the pieces of the camera. He decided to dispose of them in the communal bins near his flat, but for the moment, he had more pressing matters to attend to - he needed a change of clothing, his were covered in mud and blood.
...
Back in the car, with one twin sat in the passenger seat, the other directly behind him, Malachi felt hemmed in. He was directed to drive the five minute journey to a former squat, an unoccupied terraced house where the police officer would be imprisoned, temporarily at least.
Under cover of darkness, Roman Karpov lifted the unconscious police officer over his shoulder, and walked him into the basement
of the building. Before securing him, both brothers kicked and punched the unresponsive prisoner. If he was pretending to play dead, if he was contemplating escape, he would think differently after his beating.
The basement had obviously been used to hold detainees before, possibly rival gang members or others who had crossed their leader. Near the far wall was a low metal pipe running from the ceiling vertically down to ground level, then horizontally across, exiting through the right-hand wall. It was stained with dry blood, as was the concrete beneath it. There were unused black cable ties laid neatly on the floor amid the dust and cobwebs.
The Karpov Brothers dragged the unmoving body of their prisoner towards the pipe. Looping his arms around it, they fastened his wrists together with cable ties, pulling the free end uncomfortable tight as it cut into the man’s flesh. He slumped onto the ground as his legs were secured equally firmly, and a rag was stuffed in his mouth to keep him quiet. With a passing kick to his ribs, the brothers walked towards the exit. Malachi had watched what had happened, but he was unsure what to do next.
“You, sit down. Watch the fucker. If he tries to escape, kill him, yeah? Wait for a message from The Russian. He will give you further instructions,” ordered Ivan.
...
Sometime later, Nick awoke, briefly. In a moment of lucidity, he looked around. His restrained hands were resting near his face, and he noticed that the GPS watch on his wrist was actively tracking. He could not remember triggering it, it must have happened accidentally when he had been attacked hours earlier. How long had he been a prisoner? His mind faltered. His eyes flickered. And he drifted into unconsciousness again.
Chapter 8
Cherry Tree Gardens was less than 5 miles from where PC Griffiths was currently being held captive, and yet it might have been a whole world away.
Located in one of Manchester’s more affluent suburbs, it was an executive new-build housing estate, specifically marketed towards young professional families, those who commuted to work in the city, those with money. As DI Peterson and DS French drove onto the red bricked cul-de-sac with its immaculately kept lawns and neatly arranged wheelie bins (a different colour denoting the variety of recycled refuge within), they wondered how PC Griffiths could afford to live in such an expensive location, especially on a PC’s wage.
The street contained a number of 4 and 5 bedroomed detached houses. Each had an expansive front garden, a driveway large enough to park 2 or 3 BMWs or Saabs, and an integral garage. Many had solar panels attached to their roofs. On parking their unmarked police car, it was noticeable how quiet the street was – no screaming children, no loud music, just utter silence; a secluded haven hidden away from the buzz of city life.
The two detectives walked towards number 22, a 4 bed house at the head of the cul-de-sac. On knocking on the brilliant-white door, they were greeted by Donna Griffiths. She was still wearing her work clothes, having only just arrived home.
“Have you found him yet?” she asked brusquely. There were no pleasantries.
“No, not yet,” replied the DI. “We’ve got some more questions for you, Mrs Griffiths. Can we come in?”
She did not reply. Instead, she turned and walked into the kitchen towards the rear of the house. The detectives looked at one another, an unspoken, “see what she’s like?” passing from Colin to Gary, and they followed her, shutting the front door behind themselves.
The inside of the house was like a “Show Home.” Everything was brand new, arranged precisely, and spotlessly clean. It was as if nobody actually lived there, everything being for display purposes only. Through the bi-fold doors at the back of the open-plan kitchen, the garden seemed equally impressive. Not a blade of grass on the newly laid turf seemed to be out of place. The hot tub on the rear patio was a nice touch, but how much use it would get with the British weather was debatable – yet another sign that things were bought for show, not to actually use. Colin instantly attributed these luxuries to Donna - he could not see Griff being interested in these sorts of frivolous expenses – he was just the one working all hours to pay for them. His first impression of Donna, when he had met her at the bank, was one of a social climber, somebody who aimed to be better than their upbringing suggested, a snob. So far, everything he had seen of Donna’s home-life had confirmed that image.
Sitting on a high stool at the breakfast counter, DI Peterson spoke to Donna as she fussed about in the minimalistic surroundings, brewing coffee in a glass cafetiere.
“So... Since I last spoke to you, all of our searches have been completed, and we’ve checked the hospitals, but all to no avail, your husband hasn’t been found so far.” Colin looked at Donna. She was emotionless, almost as if he had been discussing last night’s TV programs. “All options are still open. Last time, you seemed pretty convinced that it was his work that had caused him to disappear, right?”
“Well, yeah. He’s in the police, he deals with criminals all the time, it’s bound to have some connection to that, surely,” she said.
“You seem pretty convinced, like that’s the only option you’re considering.”
“Why not? What else could it be related to?”
Colin let that question slide. “We’re looking into work-related possibilities – his caseload, people he might have upset, people with a grudge – but we’re also looking into the last job that he dealt with, and whether there is a connection to that.”
“Good. I’d hoped you would be looking at all that sort of thing.” She handed a mug of coffee to each of the detectives.
“When we last spoke,” Colin continued, “you said that things were fine at home, that Nick was not depressed, upset, or had anything on his mind.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Donna replied, a hesitant tone to her voice. “Why are you asking again?”
“We’ve heard otherwise.”
“From who? Who’s been mouthing off? It was that copper at the station, wasn’t it? The one Nick was tutoring a while ago?” She had turned defensive.
“Why do you say that, Donna?” asked Colin, innocently.
“It was, wasn’t it? I knew there was something going on between ‘em. Is he having an affair with her?”
“You tell me. As far as I’m aware there’s no affair, nothing’s going on. But when I asked you specifically if you had marriage problems, you said no. Clearly you’ve had doubts. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It’s none of your God-damned business!” Donna looked down at her feet, her eyes filling with tears. It was the first sign of emotion that she had shown so far.
“Look, all we’ve been told is that things aren’t as happy here as you first intimated. Is that right or wrong?” Colin persisted.
There was a long silence as Donna fought with her inner demons, debating whether to tell the truth or not.
With a big sigh, she said, “OK, things aren’t perfect. Nick wanted a baby, a family. I didn’t. I’ve got a good job. I’m in line for promotion. Now’s not a good time.”
“So you argued?”
“Yes, for the last 6 months, off and on. He wasn’t happy about it, but we reached an understanding. He was alright with it. He certainly wasn’t depressed or suicidal. Don’t make out it’s all my fault – it’s NOT!”
“We’re not, but it would’ve been nice if you’d told us about all of this when I asked you the first time,” said the DI.
“It’s embarrassing. It’s personal. Sorry.”
“OK, is there anything else that you omitted to tell me before?” Colin asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure? There are no financial problems, nothing like that?” Colin dropped a heavy hint. His eyes bore into her.
“Your source is bloody good,” she sniggered. “Yeah, there are financial problems, as you put it.”
“What sort of problems? How serious are they?”
“Nick had started to gamble. He played online mostly,” she explained.
“That’s what we’d heard,” said the D
I.
“He also visits a casino in the city, now and then. He uses the betting shops too.”
“Would you say he’s addicted?”
“No, it isn’t like he can’t live without it. He hardly ever gambles whilst I’m there, in the room with him. He only does it when he’s alone. I put it down to a way of relieving the stresses of his job.”
Colin thought to himself that maybe it was also a way of relieving the stresses of his marriage.
“I didn’t think much of it until a few weeks ago,” Donna continued.
“Go on,” urged Colin.
“We started getting strange phone calls, silent ones, not heavy breathing or anything, just silence. Then we had a visit...”
“From who?” asked Gary.
“Someone who said he had leant Nick some money, and he wanted repaying.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Said his name was Fox. Said he’d leant a substantial amount of cash to Nick, but that he was late with his repayments. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.”
“What did Nick have to say about it?” asked the DI.
“Said he’d borrowed a bit from a loan shark, someone he’d met through his job. Said it was all OK, he’d sort it out. I asked him how deep he was in debt. He said it wasn’t much, a few hundred at the most, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Have you checked your bank accounts? Do you know how much he really owed?” asked Colin.
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