“How do you mean, sir?”
“PC Griffiths’ last recorded job. He did a stop/check on a vehicle on Brent Lane – a dark blue Toyota Avensis, registration: ST18 AFP. Comes back as a hire car from ‘Case Rentals,’ near Liverpool Airport. We’ve had local units pay them a visit, confirmed the customer’s ID, payment details, address, and seized a copy of their CCTV showing him collecting the car.”
DS French started the recording of the CCTV clip on a TV at the front of the room.
“We have a copy of his driving licence, but the facial image is poor quality, and we have a still photo of the driver in the office, but he has his hood partially obscuring his face.” The photo was passed around before being added to the whiteboard. “Gary, over to you...”
“Thank you, sir. The customer’s details were given as Jayden Jones of 56 Crewkerne Street, in Manchester. I checked PNC and Local – nothing known. DVLA confirm the licence is valid. So, I paid him a visit at his H/A. Turns out, he has no idea what I’m talking about. He had the licence and credit card in his possession, so it hadn’t been nicked, but he had no knowledge of renting a car in Liverpool. Even had an alibi for the time that it was hired – he works shifts at a call centre. Looking at him, comparing him to the image on the CCTV, they’re two different people. Both are mixed-race, but that’s as far as the similarities go. Jones (the real one) was skinny, almost weedy in appearance; the one at the rental firm was muscular. Looks like a case of Identity Fraud to me.”
“Which leads us on to the next question – why go to this effort to rent a car with false details?” asked the DI.
“I don’t know the reason why, but it certainly makes this stop/check suspicious. Maybe PC Griffiths stumbled upon something that we don’t know about?” said Gary.
Everybody agreed, nodding.
DS French continued, “Anyway, we’ve put a marker on the car on PNC. CCTV and ANPR are alerted and aware, and we’re hoping to get a record of every camera that it pinged on the night, giving us a route that it took after leaving Brent Lane. If it’s still on the move out there, we ought to get something back pretty soon.”
“Good. Anything else? From anyone?” asked the DI.
When there was no reply, Colin continued, “Just to tidy up loose ends – SOCO took samples at the scene on Brent Lane, but they’re not too hopeful. The radio and phone are being examined for evidence, but again, not hopeful. PC Griffiths was wearing a Garmin GPS running watch when he went missing. We had hoped to use it as a means of tracing his location, but the manufacturers state that it isn’t possible. If it is located, however, it could have recorded everywhere that Griff travelled, so keep an eye open for it during your investigations.” The DI paused. “To summarise, our number one priority is to look into this loan shark, Fox. I’ll go see him now, and then we might be able to eliminate that option, or confirm him as a suspect. Equally, this last stop/check is looking more and more suspicious by the minute, so let’s find that car. I want this image of the driver circulated across the county, and in Liverpool, to see if anyone knows who he is. Gary, can you chase up the ANPR guys? We need some results of where the car travelled to. And can someone get the techies over to Case Rentals to see if they can work their magic and find out where the internet booking for the car was made from?”
One of the DCs waved a hand to indicate that he would take that task on.
“Right guys, I know we haven’t got much to go on, but remember, Griff is one of our own. He’s been missing a while now, which as all of you know only too well, does not bode well. Let’s find him, fast. Let’s find him alive. Follow up any, and every lead, no matter how trivial – it might just be the breakthrough that we need. Good luck everyone. Let’s get to it.”
With that, DI Peterson left the room while the rest of the team went about their business, the noise and chaos returning to the MIR.
Chapter 13
DI Peterson returned to his office and slammed the door behind him with a loud bang. He was not a happy man!
He had just been along the corridor, updating Superintendent Mitchelson on what had been discussed during the team meeting, moments earlier. He had known that it would be a frustrating discussion (it always was with his boss), and he had been correct. All that the Superintendent had seemed bothered about was pushing for his beloved press conference, his 15 minutes of fame before the TV cameras. Colin had managed to defer it, yet again, but only at the expense of a written press release. He looked on the bright side – it kept the Superintendent busy, satiating his immediate desire for publicity, and, once the public knew that a police officer was missing, it might just provide some new leads to follow (he hoped).
Having to deal with Mitchelson always brought back memories of where they had both begun their police careers - “The Metropolitan Police.” They were not always pleasant memories either. He remembered their time serving on the Drug Squad, and that led to memories of his former partner, Matthew Carmine. Matt was no longer a serving officer. He had been invalided out of the police service following their last, disastrous undercover job down in London. Now living on the outskirts of Manchester, he and Colin had an on/off relationship. Colin felt that Matt resented him for coming away from their final “Op” unscathed, whereas he had ended up in hospital for months before being told that he was no longer fit for duty, and sidelined with a generous pension and a permanently damaged spine. Whether there was any truth to this theory was unknown, but it had put a strain on their friendship. At the start, they had gone for months without speaking, gradually meeting and talking more regularly as time had passed by. But things were never like they had been. Maybe Colin felt a bit of guilt that his career had progressed while his friend’s had faded to nothing. Maybe he felt responsible in some way for his partner’s injuries. Or maybe these issues were all in his head, and their friendship had simply diminished because they no longer worked together. It confused and annoyed Colin. All that he wanted was for everything to return to the way it had once been.
He decided to arrange to meet Matt, have a beer or two, talk over old times. He rang his friend’s phone number, but nobody picked up.
As it went to voicemail, he said, “Matt, it’s Colin. Not heard from you in a while. It’s just a welfare check, see how you’re doing, mate. We gotta get together soon, have a beer, yeah? Give me a call when you get a spare minute. See ya.” He hung up.
Colin was relieved that he had made the effort to keep in touch. He felt it was his duty, an obligation, but deep down, he just wanted to see his friend again. Unfortunately, as always happened whenever he thought about Matt, he remembered their last job together. It was like a waking nightmare, vivid, and realistic...
...
Six years earlier, Colin and Matt had both been Detective Sergeants on the Met’s elite Drug Squad. Mitchelson had been there too, but he had been a back-room-boy, someone better suited to police-work operating from behind a computer screen. Colin and Matt had been partners, working undercover operations, infiltrating drug gangs in central London.
For months, Matt had been deep undercover, building the trust of a particularly brutal drug gang. Over time, he had become accepted, part of their team. Colin had been his backup. He too had been undercover, but in a different way – he was Matt’s eyes and ears, and as such, he needed to remain outside the gang’s inner circle. To achieve this (and to become a familiar sight, in, and around, the estate that the gang operated from), Colin had taken on the role of a dishevelled street dweller, one of the unwashed, the homeless, the unseen. He absolutely stank, was unshaven, and looked as if he had spent his entire life living in doorways. Nobody noticed him, which was exactly what Colin wanted, to be able to blend into the background, and yet to see everything that was going on, and to be on hand to support his partner if things went wrong.
Information had filtered through that the gang were to meet a group of drug suppliers on a specific date; Matt was to be part of the group making the transaction. Colin had passed this in
formation back to his department, and wheels had been set in motion to observe and record the rendezvous as evidence in a future prosecution. Armed units had been secreted streets away in readiness to strike if things went badly, and discrete cameras had been installed to capture footage of the meeting. Colin had arrived early on the estate, and had settled into a doorway, surrounded by his cardboard boxes and blankets. To watching eyes, he had appeared fast asleep, but beneath his disguise, he was alert, seeing everything, in contact with his handlers via covert microphones and earpieces. Everything was set. They nervously waited...
At the appointed time, under cover of darkness, the gang members had drifted into the secluded underpass, the fast moving traffic on the bridge above, circling around the outskirts of the estate which appeared to have been built in its shadow. Eight men in dark hooded clothing loitered in a small group, shuffling their feet, looking furtively in all directions, awaiting the arrival of their business contacts. Indistinguishable amongst their number, stood Matt. He too had scanned the surroundings, awaiting their arrival. Colin observed from about 50m away, reporting back the goings-on to his controllers in hushed whispers. Everything was going according to plan.
As Colin watched, the gang members began to get fidgety, agitated. Each person produced a weapon. Some had metal bars, others chunky chains. A couple held knives. Colin surmised that the meeting was imminent and that this was a show of strength for their visitors.
Colin had surmised wrongly!
Without any warning, without any words having been spoken, the gang turned inwards, surrounding Matt. From his body language, Colin could tell that his partner had no idea what was happening. Matt stepped backwards, raising both hands in a passive sign of submission. His mouth was moving, pleading with the men around him, but Colin could hear no words. He did not need to; he could tell that things had gone drastically wrong.
Before Colin had a chance to react, the first blow hit Matt from behind – an iron bar, part of a scaffold pipe, driven into his back. He fell forward to his knees. As he attempted to stand, the next blow forced him to the ground again. Lying on his front, the surrounding group laid into him, kicking him ferociously, swinging long chains such that they arced through the air before smashing into his body. People lunged with knives, where they struck, Colin could not see. Matt curled into a ball, his arms protecting his head, his knees forced to his chest in an attempt to minimize damage to his body. He rolled side to side with each impact until, finally, he moved no more.
The attack had been over in seconds.
Colin was in shock, but recovering quickly, he radioed his superiors, “BREAK, BREAK - Urgent assistance required – Officer down!”
The controller replied, “Backup on way – ETA 2 minutes – Do NOT engage – Wait for support.”
Colin was on his feet, sprinting towards his partner. Unarmed, save for his extendable baton, his disguise having been discarded to the floor, he charged towards the gang, screaming at the top of his voice, “POLICE – STAND STILL – YOU’RE SURROUNDED.” Yes, it had been a bluff, he had no support, but it was all that he could think of to say.
Seeing the gang still pounding Matt on the ground, he propelled himself into their midst, swinging wildly with his baton, attempting to hit any critical areas – heads, necks, crotches, all were valid targets. One or two of the men crumpled to the ground, screaming in pain, but there had been too many of them. Colin took a beating, large red welts appearing all over his body and face as he received a barrage of blows from metal objects. Blood ran freely, stinging his eyes, obscuring his vision. The attack had been too brutal, too vicious; Colin awaited the inevitable – death!
To his surprise, death had not come. Instead, the beating stopped. He was dragged to his knees, his arms held behind him, locked such that his shoulders forced his head forward. As he looked up, a man in a dark hoodie stood before him. Colin assumed him to be the leader, although he had not seen his face before. He held a gun in his right hand, and it was pointed directly at Colin’s forehead, about 50cm away.
The man’s eyes were evil. They were cold, emotionless, dead inside. He stared at Colin, angling his head slightly to the left as he looked at him quizzically, a puzzled expression upon his face. He said nothing. By his very actions, simply by doing nothing other than pointing the weapon, Colin felt intimidated, scared for his life. He had mentally accepted whatever was coming his way. He thought to himself, I’m done for, but where’s that fucking backup? They can still take down this gang.
He waited for the shot to be fired...
“BANG!” the gunman screamed at Colin. He flinched, shutting his eyes so as not to look at the bullet headed his way.
When he opened them again, the sudden realisation that he was still alive and that the gun had not actually been fired, hit him as hard as if he had been shot. The psychopath had been playing with him! The man’s face had a grin from ear to ear. He had been messing with Colin’s mind.
Colin could hear the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, gradually getting nearer. The gunman leaned closer to him, his breath smelling of garlic. He whispered in a slow sinister voice, “Old Bill, eh? I thought I’d got rid of you all when I dealt with your mate, here. I’ll be seeing you again...” He forced the gun barrel into Colin’s head until it hurt, then laughed an evil humourless laugh as he rounded up his gang and walked casually into the shadows.
Relieved to still be alive, the man’s last words had been instantly forgotten, any thoughts of pursuing the gang, dismissed. Colin had crawled to his partner’s side, checked for a pulse, and then started CPR. “You are NOT going to die on me,” he shouted. Over his microphone, he called, “Where’s that fucking backup? Ambulance required NOW – Officer down!”
...
Matt had survived his ordeal. He had received major injuries as a result, not least a broken spine, and spent months in intensive care, recovering. Colin was beside his bed for most of it. When he came round, they discussed what had gone wrong. How had the gang found out about Matt? Had he inadvertently blown his cover? Matt could not think how – surely he would have known if he had said or done something to give it away. Had Colin let the side down? Had they spotted him? Had he blown the operation? He could not see how it was possible.
Over the following months, rumours were rife in their police unit. It was suspected that there had been a leak in the Drug Squad, but despite a thorough enquiry, nobody had ever been found. It remained a mystery.
The gang had gone into hiding, dispersed, and were never connected to any further gang-related incidents in the Met’s area. How had they disappeared off the face of the earth? Yet another mystery.
With Colin’s face now known amongst the London underworld, his days of working undercover operations were over. Within months, he transferred up north, joining the CID in Manchester. They had been crying out for someone with his wealth of experience. He looked on it as a new start, an opportunity to put this failed operation behind him. And for a while, he did, but the memory was always there, waiting to remind him.
Matt had been assessed and given an invalidity pension. Purely by coincidence, he had moved to the Manchester area too, although he only saw his ex-partner infrequently as their friendship, their bond of brotherhood, fell apart over time. Did he feel deserted by the police? Did he blame himself for the failure of the operation? With no other answers forthcoming, there was only one solution, it must have been something that he had done that had given them away. His injuries, and him losing his career, must have been a direct result of his own actions, his own mistakes.
Chapter 14
It was raining.
It had been raining for most of the morning - a heavy drizzle, soaking everything that it touched, darkening the skies, and smothering everybody in a gloomy depressing atmosphere.
As DI Peterson and DS French walked along Springer Road, their coat collars raised against the damp air, their hands stuffed deep within their pockets; cars splashed past them, their win
dows steamed up, hurriedly taking their occupants someplace warmer and drier. As a red single-decked bus noisily chugged past, they looked across the busy street. There it was; the pawnbroker’s. They waited for the traffic to clear before stepping across the road at a steady jog. As they did so, they noticed a man pause outside the pawnbroker’s front door before entering. A smile crept across Colin’s face.
“Is that Fox?” he asked Gary. Gary nodded. “You weren’t kidding when you described him as a self-styled Del Boy in the briefing, were you?” Both men took another look just as he closed the shop door behind himself. “He’s a cross between Del Boy and fuckin’ Arthur Daley!” Colin was referring to Del Boy from the hit TV comedy series, “Only Fools and Horses,” and Arthur Daley from the equally famous TV drama, “Minder.” They both smiled. “Look, he’s even got the fawn sheepskin overcoat, the flat cap, and he’s smoking an enormous cigar. He’s their spitting image.” He chuckled to himself.
The two detectives entered the pawnbroker’s shop, the front door tinkling as a bell rang to announce their presence. Fox stood before the counter, talking to the shop assistant. At the sound of the bell, he turned.
“Alright, Del Boy?” Colin said, a huge smirk spread across his face. Fox had no doubt heard that quip a hundred times before. A flash of anger shot across his eyes as he looked both men up and down.
“I take it you two gentlemen are from the local constabulary? You wouldn’t dare say that to me if you weren’t!” There was a hardness about him, hidden beneath his comical exterior. To Colin’s surprise, Fox had a Manchester accent, not a cockney one, his Del Boy persona blown away.
Colin’s smile faded as he slipped back into work mode. “DI Peterson and DS French – GMP,” he said, showing his warrant card.
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