Malachi staggered in a circle. He was breathing hard, almost as if he had been sprinting. He paced in front of the prisoner as he built up the courage to stab him. He could feel the energy rising within him, his blood was pumping, and the knife was held in a stabbing grip, at the ready. He lowered his head, his forehead dropping to protect his eyes. He moved forward towards his intended victim, leaning into the strike that he was about to unleash. Then he looked at the police officer – he was awake, watching him, accepting the inevitable. There was a pleading in his eyes, the question, “Why?” staring back at him. For a split-second, Malachi froze. The room seemed to go silent, everybody watching him, the centre of attention. Then from deep within, he felt a primeval roar emanating from the pit of his stomach, rising through his body, and finally screaming from his mouth – “AWWwwwwwwww.”
The “red mist” descended. He lunged forward, forcing the serrated blade deep into the prisoner’s chest. It entered with relatively little resistance, the hilt hitting his body armour at the neck opening, the blade slicing downwards behind his protective layer into the soft flesh beneath. He withdrew the knife, slashing randomly and viciously, its razor-sharp blade creating lines of dripping red wherever it touched skin. Malachi was in a frenzy, unthinking, unstoppable.
Within seconds, the energy had drained from him. He fell to his knees, dropping the knife with a metallic clang as it bounced off the concrete floor. He looked down at the dying man before him. Malachi was drenched in perspiration. He was exhausted. He was ashamed of what he had done. He closed his eyes to block out the vision. The unspoken word, “sorry,” formed on his lips.
BANG!
There was a deafening explosion, the sound of a gunshot at close quarters. The police officer’s head jolted sharply to the rear, then settled, slumped against his manacled wrists. The wall behind him was splattered with red globules of sticky flesh, and mixed in with it, clumps of grey – brain matter. A pool of dark red formed on the dusty floor surrounding the dead man. Its circumference expanded ridiculously slowly, forming a puddle, then a lake of blood, as his life-force drained away.
Malachi looked to his left. Sergei was standing with his gun aimed at the police officer’s head, a tiny wisp of smoke rising from its barrel. His face was emotionless, his eyes cold. “Better to be sure, eh?” he whispered as he turned towards Malachi. “See, I told you you could do it,” he smirked.
Malachi took one final look at the dead man, and then felt a rising in his guts, but this time it was not rage that was building up, it was bile. He had no control over his actions. He projectile vomited onto the floor at the feet of his victim. It mixed with his blood, splashing against the dead man’s legs. He emptied his stomach, but dry retched three of four times more, an involuntary reaction to the horrors before him.
Sergei bent down, picked up his knife from the floor, and wiped its blade on the police officer’s jacket until it was clean. He replaced it in its sheath tucked into the back of his trousers. He put his gun back in his inside pocket, and he looked down at Malachi with disgust.
“Get yourself cleaned up, Malachi. You’re a fucking disgrace.”
Malachi wiped his mouth, spat onto the ground trying to remove the acidic taste, and stood to face his employer. He was crying, sobbing, the enormity of what he had just done beginning to sink in.
“Pull yourself together,” said The Russian. “You’ve gotta dispose of the body tonight, so listen carefully, I’ve got your instructions. Stick to them, don’t fuck up, and everything will turn out fine.” Malachi was still looking at the dead man. “Do you hear me?”
“Y... yes, I... hear you,” he said.
“Good.”
Sergei proceeded to give detailed instructions of how, and where, he wanted the body to be disposed of. While he did so, the Karpov Brothers went upstairs, returning moments later with a roll of transparent blue plastic sheeting. Between them, they cut the cable ties that fastened the dead man to the pipe. They then rolled him in the sheeting before carrying the corpse upstairs and placing it in Malachi’s car boot.
What remained in the basement was a gory reminder of the events that had transpired minutes earlier – a mixture of blood, vomit, and discarded cable ties. The room had a smell of death about it. Malachi could not get out of there fast enough, stumbling on the steps to the upper storeys.
Once alone, Sergei pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. As his thumb worked at lightning speed, he sent a text message.
“Dealt with problem – Need to dispose of dead cop – Will be in touch soon.”
Without waiting for a reply, he replaced the phone and followed his two minders to their car which was parked in the street outside.
Chapter 12
The sun had barely risen above the stormy cloud-filled horizon as DI Peterson strode purposefully through the front doors of Bradwell Street Police Station.
Passing through the deserted foyer, he climbed the internal stairs two at a time. Reaching the top floor, he turned left and followed the drab corridor to its end. His pace slowed as he planned in his mind what he intended to say to his detectives in the forthcoming team briefing. He paused at the door marked “CID,” took a deep breath, and then stepped into the room.
He was instantly bombarded by a wall of white noise. Phones were ringing, people were clustered in small groups trying to talk in ever increasing volumes so as to be heard, and printers were spewing out reams of paper. The place was buzzing with activity. The vast room was filled with workstations, desks placed in back-to-back pairs, arranged so as to form regimented ranks. Each had a keyboard, mouse, and computer screen sat atop it, and most were cluttered with papers, pens, and discarded coffee cups. To the left, under the panoramic windows that looked out over the city’s rooftops, sat the work-file storage; multicoloured plastic trays bulging with cardboard folders and paperwork. At the far end of the room, adjacent to his private office, stood a pristine whiteboard, an array of coloured marker pens awaiting the opportunity to cover its surface in details, facts, and notes of importance, once the briefing had commenced. The CID Office had now become The Major Incident Room (MIR).
DI Peterson casually walked through the room nodding a “Good Morning” to team members as he did so. Having had next to no sleep the previous night, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and with an overpowering urge to go directly to his office, shut the door behind him, and rest; the smell of freshly brewed coffee from the dispenser to his right, came as a welcome distraction. He grabbed a mug of the dark liquid, hoping that a shot of neat caffeine might wake him up before the meeting began. He entered his office, called over his shoulder, “Briefing in five...” then closed the door behind him. Silence. The noisy chaos was safely secured on the opposite side of the barrier. He sighed deeply and relaxed.
...
Colin Peterson stood at the front of the room, leaning against a desk.
DS French was sat on the front row of chairs, his legs crossed, a bundle of computer printouts piled upon his lap. The remainder of the detectives slowly took their seats, some behind their workstations, others moving their chairs to the front of the room, forming a semicircle around the whiteboard. Insp. Jenny James entered the room quietly, and discretely took a seat at the rear. The hubbub decreased until there was silence, the eager faces looking to their DI to hear the latest updates on the search for PC Griffiths.
“Morning everyone,” the DI began. “PC Griffiths is still missing!” He let this comment sink in for a moment. “As it stands, ALL options are still on the table. I know that each of you have been tasked with investigating different aspects of this case, and I want this meeting to update us all on what we’ve found out, and what we still need to look into.”
There were nods of agreement. Some detectives shuffled their papers, readying themselves to give their reports. Others opened their pocketbooks, picked up a pen, and prepared to take notes.
“PC Griffiths is still a MISPER. I know that some of you have been looking int
o more sinister possibilities, but until we know otherwise, he is, and will remain, a missing person,” said the DI.
There were a few mutterings of, “Guv” and “Boss.”
“Option one: PC Griffiths disappeared of his own accord.” Colin paused. “DS French and I have been talking to his workmates and to his wife, and very illuminating it has been. To all intents and purposes, he has a happy, settled life. But beneath the surface, things are not as idyllic as they appear. His wife was initially reluctant to assist us with our enquiries.”
“Putting it mildly,” DS French mumbled to himself.
“We’ve been told that there were marital issues, arguments about starting a family, dating back over the past 6 months or so. Mrs Griffiths stated that they were resolved, but we’re not so convinced.”
Gary French nodded in agreement.
“She says he was not depressed or suicidal, which tallies with what we’re hearing from his shift and his senior officers. Anything to add, Jen?” asked Colin.
Insp. James shook her head. “No, not really. All of his colleagues were surprised to hear about his family problems, he hadn’t mentioned them to anyone other than PC Thompson. She confirmed that there were issues and that she acted as his friend and confident. Other than that, he’s a good worker, experienced, and showed no signs of suffering from stress or depression.”
“Thanks for that, Inspector,” said the DI. “His wife also dropped the bombshell that she suspected he might be having an affair at work, but I’m happy to discount that as I’ve spoken to those concerned, and there’s no truth to the matter.”
Some of the detectives looked at one another, wondering who Griff might have been seeing. No smoke without fire, they thought.
Colin continued, “Mrs Griffiths stated that her husband had a bit of a gambling habit – again, nothing that his colleagues were aware of. She said that they had debts as a result, but that she didn’t know to what extent.”
Some of the detectives made notes of anything that they had not already been aware of. Another DC transcribed the important points onto the whiteboard as the DI continued.
“OK, assuming the possibility that these debts were bigger than we thought, and assuming that PC Griffiths chose to disappear in order to avoid them, I want an alert put out to ports and airports. DC Sanford, can you arrange that, please?”
“Guv.”
“DC Carlyle, I believe you’ve been checking on the Griffiths’ financial situation?”
She stood up and addressed the group. “Well, sir, it makes for some sorry reading. All of their bank accounts are overdrawn.”
“Not surprising when you look at their house and furnishings,” DS French added.
“PC Griffiths’ credit cards are both max’d out, and there appears to be a hell of a lot more money going out than coming in - with one exception... He had a £10,000 deposit of cash three weeks ago.”
“Any idea where from?” asked Colin.
“No, sir, it’s just recorded as a cash deposit,” replied DC Carlyle.
“OK, thanks for that Carrie, I think we might have an idea where it came from. The other snippet of information that Mrs Griffiths passed to us, was that her husband had borrowed a significant amount of money, as she put it, from a loan shark by the name of Fox. That bank deposit would tie in with the timeframe. Gary, did you find anything out about him?”
DS French shuffled through his printouts. “Well, sir, his full name is Anthony (Tony) Fox – 55 years old – 5ft8 tall – barrel-chested – goes by the nickname, ‘Sly.’ He has a long record including violence, fraud, and harassment. He runs a number of legitimate businesses including a pawnbroker’s shop on our patch. Information from the LIO suggests that this is something of a front. Behind the scenes, he lends cash at extortionate rates of interest, and should his clients not repay in full, and on time, he is not averse to applying a bit of pressure, a few threats, or violence.”
“Really? He sounds like somebody we need to look into a little deeper. Anything else on him?” Colin asked.
“Uniform officers who’ve dealt with him describe him as...” Gary checked his papers. “...to quote them, a right jack-the-lad, and a self-styled Del Boy.”
There were a few giggles amongst the group.
“But don’t underestimate him, sir. Everyone says he’s clever. ‘Sly by name, sly by nature.’ He’ll try and pull the wool over your eyes. Or so they say.”
“OK, best you and I pay him a visit straight after this meeting, Gary.”
“Sir.” He nodded.
“It seems that PC Griffiths had fallen behind on his repayments as Mr Fox had been making phone calls to the house, and at least one visit that we know about. If that is the case, then he certainly has a motive to harm Griff, and the means to accomplish it. He sounds like our number one suspect at the moment,” continued the DI. There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. “Talking of which...phone records? Who was looking into them?”
A DC at the back of the group raised his hand. “I was, sir. I got a preliminary report back. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary, just lots of calls and texts from family and friends. There was one number stuck out, though – a few calls to the home address from the pawnbroker’s shop that we now know is run by Fox. Other than that, we ran a check on the Griffiths’ mobiles. Again - nothing strange, just family, friends, and work. At least we can link Fox to the address, though.”
“Good,” the DI said. “Gary and I were chatting after our visit to Mrs Griffiths’. Now, call me old-fashioned...” Some of the detectives smiled. “...but I felt there was something odd going on there. She lied to us from the start, was economic, shall we say, with the truth, and was extremely quick to jump to the conclusion that her husband was having an affair. I fear that she might have been covering up her own transgression. Maybe it was her that was having the affair?”
There were a few nods.
“Have uniform spoken to her neighbours and work colleagues?” he asked to nobody in particular.
Insp. James replied, “Yes, we’ve been busy asking questions. Her work colleagues were pretty close-knit, nobody was talking, but the impression was that nobody knew anything about an affair at work.”
“OK, so that eliminates that possibility – at work, at least,” said Colin.
“We’ve conducted door-to-door enquiries in her street under the pretence of looking for PC Griffiths, but a few questions were also asked about strangers coming and going from the address, anyone they thought looked suspicious, or anyone visiting on a regular basis while PC Griffiths was away,” continued Insp. James. “Nothing! The only one person who was mentioned fits the description of Fox. So, again, we can tie him to the address, but as for Mrs Griffiths having an affair, it looks pretty unlikely.”
“Great. Thanks for that, Jen. At least it helps eliminate one possible option. But we’ll keep an open mind on it just in case any further information materialises.”
“Expect a bit of comeback from Mrs Griffiths once she hears that we’ve been enquiring about her. She won’t like the idea of us interfering at work.” Insp. James added.
“Noted. Cheers for that,” the DI said, smiling.
Turning back to address the group, Colin continued, “Right, other options: It’s possible that PC Griffiths had some sort of breakdown, or was somehow injured at Brent Lane. He might have wandered off, disorientated. Now, we know from the scene that there were no tracks. Dogs couldn’t find anything other than in the immediate vicinity of his car.”
“Could he have got in another vehicle?” someone asked.
“It’s possible. If injured, or ill, somebody might have picked him up, taken him to hospital. But we’ve checked them all, there’s no sign of him having been admitted. They’re aware, and will contact us if anything changes. We’ve checked CCTV in both towns at either end of Brent Lane, just in case he was seen wandering nearby, but there was no trace.”
“What if he got into another vehicle under dur
ess?” somebody else asked.
“Another possibility,” replied the DI. “To be fair, it could be any vehicle during a 4 or 5 hour window. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack without further information. But it is certainly something we’re considering. I’ll come onto that in a moment.” The DI looked around the room at the faces watching him. “Just to ease your minds, the option of suicide has been considered. The divers have searched the waterway, but there was no body, just Griff’s radio and mobile. He definitely hasn’t topped himself at the scene. Whether he wandered off someplace else to do it remains an unknown. Suicide is still on the table.”
“But, doesn’t the fact that his radio and phone were in the water suggest foul play?” asked one of the detectives.
“Maybe... He might have dumped them himself if he didn’t want to be traced, but equally, if he was taken, the offender may have dumped them for the same reason. It doesn’t rule out either possibility.”
DI Peterson was quiet for a second, deep in thought. “Jen, if he was ill or suffering with mental health issues, do we have any details of extended family that he might contact?”
“I’m not sure, Colin, but I’ll look into it,” she replied.
“Thanks. Other options: It could be work-related. We’ve checked his workload, past cases, stuff like that. There isn’t anything that looks likely – no high-profile cases, no outstanding court appearances; even the complaints against him are pretty routine. There’s nothing that might warrant him being abducted. Not that I can see.”
“So, it could just be some random kidnapper or attacker, unconnected to anything that he’d dealt with in the past, in an unknown vehicle, who’s taken him to an unknown location for an unknown reason?” asked one of the more senior detectives.
“Unfortunately, that is also a possibility. It gives us no clues as to why, how, or where. We’ve got nothing. Because of that, we need to focus on what we do have.”
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