“No, Nick handles all the money, bills, anything like that.”
“But you work at a bank; surely you’d have a better idea with financial matters.”
“Yeah, ironic isn’t it?” She smiled.
“Did this bloke, Fox, threaten you?” Colin asked.
“No. He was a bit intimidating, especially turning up on the doorstep like he did, but he didn’t threaten us – well, me, he didn’t threaten me – what he said to Nick might be totally different.”
Just then, DS French’s mobile phone rang. “It’s the office. I’ll take it in the lounge,” he said to Colin.
Colin continued, “You know Donna, it would have been much better if you’d told us all of this earlier. This loan shark has a reason to want to harm your husband; he might be the person we’re looking for. We’ll do some digging around, find out who he is, and pay him a visit. If he calls again, make a note of what’s said. Record it if you can, and make sure you tell us what’s happening.”
“I will. Honest,” Donna replied. It seemed that the gravity of the situation was finally sinking in.
With that, DI Peterson stood, collected DS French from the front room, and walked out of the house towards their parked car in the street.
...
As they drove back towards the police station, Colin said, “Alright Gary, what did you make of all that?”
“Honestly?” Colin nodded. “She’s a right piece of work. No wonder Griff turned to gambling. I’d imagine his home-life was hell. She seems more interested in putting on a facade to everyone, than dealing with the realities of what’s happened to her husband. No wonder there was trouble in paradise!” Colin nodded again.
“Now we know about the gambling issues, I keep thinking about how they can afford to live. That house is expensive; everything in it is brand-spanking-new. It must have cost a bloody fortune - even running the house has got to cost a lot. And did you see her new car on the driveway – a BMW with an 18 plate – what’s that gonna cost? I’ll bet their debts are a hell of a lot bigger than she was saying,” continued the DI.
“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir.”
“I want you to get hold of their bank account details, credit cards, store cards, anything like that; let’s see what they actually owe. Check if there have been any large deposits or withdrawals. We need to get a grip on their financial situation.”
“Will do, Guv.” Gary steered carefully around a roundabout as he answered.
“And let’s get a record of all their phone calls, landline and mobiles. If this loan shark has called their home number, we need to get proof. Talking of which, we need to find the lender. His name was Fox, right?”
“Yeah.”
“OK, talk to the LIO (Local Intelligence Officer), see if they know of him, where he works from, anything that might help. Check if Griff ran across him in the past. Look at his previous jobs; Mrs Griffiths seems to think that he knew him from work. Once we know who we’re dealing with, we can pay him a visit.”
“Yes, Guv. Makes sense. If PC Griffiths did owe lots of money and hadn’t been repaying it, it certainly gives Fox a motive to harm him, kidnap him, even.” Gary slowed the car as he approached some traffic lights.
“True, but if he has got him held hostage, it doesn’t help get his money back. That would only work if he forced Donna to get the money for him.” Colin thought about it for a moment. “When you check their phone records, get their line monitored, just in case Fox blackmails her into paying.”
“Will do, sir.”
“The other thing that’s been niggling me is the wife, herself,” Colin continued.
“How do you mean, sir?”
“She’s lied to us from the off. That’s not normal. We’re on her side, looking for her husband. She’s covered up, and hidden vital information from us. Did you notice that she’d been at work today? How many spouses would go to work the day after their other half had gone missing? It seems strange to me.”
“It certainly does. It’s as if she doesn’t care.”
“Exactly. She knew something was going on between Griff and PC Thompson...”
“Which is more than I did,” added Gary.
“And she was overly quick to accuse them of an affair. I think she might be complaining just a little too much. Could she be diverting the blame, making everybody look at a potential affair between her husband and Jess, when, in fact, it is her who is having the affair?”
“It’s possible. But how does that relate to Griff’s disappearance?” asked Gary.
“Well, it’s a bit of a stretch, but assuming she is seeing someone else, it gives her a motive to get rid of her husband. I can’t see her taking-him-out, can’t even see her arranging for someone else to do it for her, but we don’t know; anything’s possible.”
“I like your style, Guv. Trust nobody, believe nothing they tell us, and think outside the box to find a motive.” Both men smiled.
“Look into Donna Griffiths. Get someone to have a word with her work colleagues...”
“She won’t like that,” Gary said, as he drove into the police station’s underground car park.
“...Find out if there were any suspicions of her having an affair. Get the team to talk to her neighbours, see if there have been any comings and goings, strangers visiting on a regular basis while Griff was away, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll allocate George and Sally to it, once I get back to the office,” said Gary.
“I know it’s a long shot, but it is a possibility that we can’t afford to overlook.” Colin suddenly remembered that Gary had taken a phone call whilst at the Griffiths’ house. “Oh, your call from the office – was it anything important?”
“Just a few updates, Guv,” Gary replied.
“Go on then, what’ve we got?”
“SOCO said that there was nothing useful found at the scene on Brent Lane. The tyre skid marks match the width of a car (as opposed to anything bigger), but the pattern was unrecognisable. They took some rubber samples in case we get anything to match them against later.”
“Was that all?”
“Not quite, sir. Garmin got back to us. That idea about the GPS running watch being used to track Griff is a non-starter.”
“Oh! Why’s that?”
“It’s all very technical, but the gist was that it is a passive system. For them to send a signal via a satellite to his current location, the watch would need to be equipped with added circuitry in order to respond.”
“And I’m guessing it’s not...”
“No, no such luck, I’m afraid. They did say that if it is found, and if it has been triggered into tracking mode, then they’d be able to see whereabouts it (and Griff) had been. So long as the battery lasts, of course.”
“There’re a lot of ifs there! And the battery life is...?”
“Anywhere from 4 to 6 hours, depending on its charge at the start.”
“So, not much hope on that front then? It was worth a shot, though. I’ll update Jess when we get back.”
“So, what is going on with her? Were they having an affair?” asked Gary.
“No, I don’t think so. She says not. They were just friends. Knowing what we know now, I’d have thought Griff would’ve needed someone to confide in about his home-life. I guess she was the one.”
Chapter 9
Malachi was not the most educated of people. In fact, school was where his current problems had originated.
Born of an Afro-Caribbean mother and a wayward father, his early years were devoted to a strict Christian upbringing, however, it was not of his own choosing. His mother was the driving force behind his faith, ensuring that he adhered to Christian beliefs, attended church routinely, and enrolled into Sunday school. Even his name, Malachi, had been a throwback to the Old Testament, a reference to one of the twelve Minor Prophets.
As he began to attend his local inner-city school, mixing with other deprived children from his locale, so he had realised that no
t everyone was like him. Most had never seen the inside of a church – EVER! He had rebelled, rejecting his religion, avoiding it at all costs, doing anything, and everything, that he could to oppose the will of his mother. He broke her heart, but she never gave up hope that he might someday see the error of his ways, and repent.
Mixing with like-minded kids from the Havering Estate, it had not been long before truancy had taken a hold of his life. School became a meeting place to see his friends, education merely an afterthought. With his problems at home, his rebellious attitude to life, and his ongoing issues at school, it was perhaps not surprising that within a very short space of time, he had been recruited by the local gang as a new member.
At first, the offer of substantial amounts of cash to simply deliver tiny packages around the estate on his pushbike had seemed too good to be true. Little had he known, in his naivety, that he was being groomed by those more experienced. Moving small amounts of cash had escalated into moving small amounts of drugs, and small amounts of drugs had become larger consignments over time. Drugs had then been replaced by knives and other gang weapons. Never would a senior gang member be caught in possession of an offensive weapon. It would be surreptitiously hidden by the younger members of the crew. If they got caught, most had no police record and were underage so could not be prosecuted. Malachi had become firmly ingrained in gang culture.
As he aged, he was used in a more active role, enticing fellow schoolmates to try free samples of drugs. Of course, what appeared to be a giveaway was not free at all. Once hooked, these innocent young school children had became Malachi’s customers as he sold them heroin, cocaine, and any other hard drugs that his employers could get their hands on. He had become a trusted gang member. He now felt like he had a family; his brothers and sisters were there for him, they supported him, they protected him. Everything that he could not find in his own home-life, he had found within the gang. He spent ever increasing amounts of time with them, and less time at school and home. He had found respect, trust, and money. He felt important; he finally had self-esteem and felt good about himself.
But all of this had come at a cost. He now found himself with a criminal record: drug supply, assault, and offensive weapons. He had connections to protection rackets, prostitution, intimidation, violence, and of course drugs. (He supplied them, but he had never dared use them; something in his moral upbringing had told him not to.) Although proud to call himself a gang member, to him, it was really a matter of survival. To live on his estate you needed to be a part of the gang, a team member. If not, you were a target, distrusted, a potential victim, a potential threat, and someone who would not survive very long in that type of hostile environment.
Years later, the gang’s leader had been removed from office, killed in a battle for the top, by “The Russian.” Who he was, and where he had come from, nobody knew. What they did know was that he was ruthless and was never to be crossed. The gang had flourished under his command. It had taken on all rivals, and defeated everyone. He had developed its drug empire, expanding across county lines, forging alliances with those in other cities. It had grown in size and reputation.
For some reason, Malachi had been liked by the new leader. His skills had been developed, nurtured by the Russian. Malachi was becoming one of the gang’s elite, one of the high command. That was, up until this last job had gone horribly wrong. He had been earmarked for the top, but now that he had brought the police to Sergei’s doorstep, he was no longer trusted, he had become a liability. He had made one mistake, but compounded it as things had spiralled out of control. He needed to prove his worth, make amends for his error. But how could he do that? What should he do? He scoured his brain for a solution.
...
Malachi sat on a wooden stool surveying his surroundings: the dank musty basement of the squat, the mouldy flaking plaster, and the semiconscious police officer shackled to a rusty metal pipe against the far wall.
Malachi had done everything that Sergei had instructed. Before leaving to come here, he had jogged to his nearby flat in Jackson House. He had not seen, nor spoken to his mother, but she was probably there somewhere; she rarely left home after dark. He had gone directly to his bedroom, removed his blood-spattered and mud-stained clothing, and replaced them with some relatively clean alternatives. He had put the smashed components of the cop’s body camera into the kitchen bin, tied the handles of the white plastic bag together, and then dumped them in the communal dustbins at the foot of the stairwell on his way back to the car where the Karpov Brothers were waiting with his prisoner.
Now, sat in the basement, his head cradled in his hands, the fresh clothing did nothing to alleviate the pain that he felt and the bruising that he had received at the hands of Sergei. He was suffering, but he knew that it was no more than he deserved for being so stupid.
He watched his prisoner. The police officer was drifting in and out of consciousness. Part of the time he lay there, staring at him, locking eyes with him. What thoughts were running through his head? You could almost see the hatred within him. Malachi looked away, pondering the dusty footprints between his feet. Without his mistake staring back at him, he was alone with his thoughts, able to contemplate what he had done, and to devise a way of salvaging the situation. He was engrossed in his own little world.
Suddenly, he was brought sharply back to reality. The prisoner was coughing, choking, the gag blocking the air that he so desperately sought. Malachi was not an inherently evil person (unlike his boss). He saw the prisoner was in desperate need of his assistance. He might choke to death; suffocate, if he did nothing. He rushed across the room, pulled the man’s head backwards by the hair, and removed the rag that was stuffed down his throat. The police officer gulped air into his body, his complexion changing from the pale blue tinge that it had previously acquired, to a vibrant pinkness.
“Thank...you,” he croaked.
Malachi did not reply. He looked at his prisoner with disgust. He was the cause of all of his problems. I should’ve just let him choke to death, it would have been simpler, he thought. At the same time, he stepped toward the basement’s door, picked up a clear plastic water bottle, removed the lid, and pressed it against the man’s lips. He sipped a little, clearing his throat. Malachi replaced the lid, and then returned to his perch on the stool. He stared at the policeman, not saying a word.
Nick stared back, watching him, trying to gauge him. He had nearly been killed at Brent Lane, and yet here, when he had the opportunity to let him die, his kidnapper had chosen to help, to save him. Maybe the tough guy was not so tough after all? Maybe he did not have that killer instinct?
After what felt like minutes of silence, Nick whispered, “What are you going to do with me?” There was no reply.
“You know the police will be coming for you? They’ll find you, lock you away forever.” Still no reply.
“Why? Why did you kidnap me?” he persisted.
Malachi exploded. “Shut the fuck up!” There was silence as Nick debated whether to keep talking or not. Clearly, his words were having an effect, niggling his captor. Should he keep annoying him, or would he end up regretting it? He chose to continue.
“You know you’ll have to kill me?” No reply. Malachi looked at the floor trying not to acknowledge his prisoner. He could feel the anger rising again. Everything was his fault. He would silence him for good if he kept annoying him like this, he thought.
“Do you think you can kill me? Have you got the guts?” No reply.
“If you get locked up for killing a cop, what will that make you? A hero? A big man amongst your mates? Think about it... You go down for murder; you’ll be locked up for life. Your mates will forget all about you. It’ll have been for nothing.”
Malachi was trying his hardest to block out the sound of his words, but they filtered through, seeping into his thoughts, spreading doubt, adding confusion. Was he doing it on purpose? he wondered. Was he playing games with his mind?
“I told
you to shut up!” he roared. Nick was quiet for a while. Then he started again.
“If you help me contact the police, I’ll put a good word in for you.”
A few minutes later, Nick continued, “Time is running out...” He was piling on the pressure, verbally poking Malachi in the ribs time after time just to see what response he might get. He soon found out.
Malachi erupted. He threw the water bottle across the room with such force that it split in two as it collided with the wall just above Nick’s head. Being fastened to the pipe, he had nowhere to go, so he ducked to avoid the contact. In a split-second, Malachi was across the room, and he gave his prisoner an almighty kick in the ribs. Again, Nick could go nowhere, so he took the full force of the impact, the air being driven out of his lungs and through his mouth with an audible whoosh sound. Now winded, Nick struggled to catch his breath, gulping and straining in a vain attempt to re-inflate his chest. His head went woozy, the room appeared to spin, and he lost consciousness yet again.
Malachi screamed at him, “I told you to fucking shut up. Now look what you made me do.” But Nick heard none of his rant.
He shoved the rag back into Nick’s mouth (but not as deeply as it had been before), then returned to his stool, holding his head, the blood pulsing in his temples again. Violence was not natural to him, but when pushed to the limits, it was all that he had left.
Chapter 10
It was late evening by the time that Colin Peterson managed to get back home to his one-bedroomed flat above the newsagent’s shop.
It was dark, and having walked through the archway to the rear of the shops, climbed the metal grid steps leading to the first-floor landing, and worked the numerous locks on his heavily fortified front door, he stepped into his apartment, his sanctuary away from the stresses of real life. Of course, being a detective, real life was never far away. With a missing police officer, he could not just switch off; details of the case were constantly circulating in his mind.
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