Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  “What can I do for you fine upstanding members of the law?” Fox asked, sarcastically.

  “We’ve got a few questions for you. Is there somewhere we can go that’s a little more private?”

  Colin and Gary were led through to a backroom office no bigger than a box-room. It smelt of stale cigar smoke and was dark, dingy, and cluttered; perfectly in keeping with the murky weather outside.

  “Take a seat, lads,” Fox said, pointing at two antiquated wooden chairs.

  “We’ll stand if it’s all the same,” Colin replied. Gary removed his pocketbook from his coat and prepared to take notes. “Now, Mr Fox, do you know a Nick Griffiths?”

  Fox thought about it briefly, then said, “Don’t think so. What’s it in relation to?”

  “Just answer the question. Do you know him or not?” persisted Colin.

  “I might have come across the name somewhere.”

  “He’s a police officer, Mr Fox. Does that help you place him?”

  “Ah, yes – PC Nicholas Griffiths – one of your lot from down the local nick, if I’m not mistaken. What about him?” He looked sternly at Colin.

  “What’s the nature of your relationship with him?”

  “Relationship? I don’t have no relationship with him. I’m not that way inclined.” Fox was intentionally trying to wind Colin up.

  “You know what I mean. Stop being a fucking idiot,” Colin snapped.

  “Business, it’s purely business,” he said, after a long pause, staring at the DI.

  “And what kind of business are you referring to?”

  “Well, I run a pawnbroker’s. I lend money to people. That might give you detectives something of a clue,” he replied.

  “Official or off-the-books?” Gary asked.

  “Don’t know what you mean, officer.” Fox assumed a fake expression of innocence.

  “Look, cut the bullshit, did you lend him money officially, or was it a backhander payment?” Colin had had enough; it was time to get serious.

  Fox smiled. The time for playing games was over. Clearly these police officers knew of his unofficial business enterprises as well as those that were legitimate.

  “He’s Old Bill, ain’t he? I can’t exactly lend him dosh and then claim it through the business. Of course it was bloody unofficial,” Fox said.

  “How much was it?”

  “It’s none of your business, but ten grand, if you must know.” That tied in with the money deposited into PC Griffiths’ bank account.

  “And what terms did you put on the repayments? What happens if he doesn’t pay you back?” asked the DI.

  Fox smiled. “Well, that’s between him and me, I’m afraid.” Colin and Gary knew the answer anyway.

  “So, you admit lending money to a serving police officer despite knowing that he isn’t allowed to borrow from you because of his job...” Colin clarified.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Fox said. “He came to me asking for help. I helped him. It’s as simple as that. It was all above board. If he wasn’t supposed to borrow, then he shouldn’t have come asking, should he? That’s his problem.”

  Colin let that slip. “Has he repaid you?”

  “Come on, you know he hasn’t, why else would you be asking?”

  “So what did you do about it?” Gary probed.

  “Not a lot. I tried phoning him, but his bloody wife kept answering. Griffiths had asked that I keep her out of it, so I did. I then went round their house, had a word.”

  “Did you threaten him?”

  “Nah. Who me? I don’t do stuff like that.” Fox was playing innocent again. “Anyway, what’s it all about? It ain’t like he’s the first copper to have debts.”

  “Did he tell you what the money was for?” asked the DI.

  “None of my business. I didn’t ask. Again, what is this all about?”

  “PC Griffiths has gone missing!” The blood drained from Fox’s face, and he sat silently, contemplating the implications. “As it stands, you lent him money which he didn’t repay. You tried to get your money back, and all of a sudden, he disappears. Rather coincidental, don’t you think?” stated Colin.

  Fox looked as if he was facing a firing squad. The fear showed in the worry lines across his forehead, his humourless face, and the sheen of sweat that was emerging on his skin. “Look, you gotta believe me,” he pleaded, “I haven’t got anything to do with that. I might rough someone up a bit, but I ain’t into kidnapping, nothing like that – honest. Look at my record; I’m not that sort of person.” He was desperate to avoid getting any further involved.

  “Did I say that he’d been kidnapped? You might have just had him beaten up.”

  Fox continued as if Colin had not spoken. “Besides, if I had kidnapped him, how does that help me get my money back? I can’t exactly release him to pop down the cashpoint, can I? If I was gonna use him for ransom, you’d have heard by now. If anything, I’d have been better off using his position as a police officer to my advantage – repay his debts by covering my arse. I’m a bloody businessman, not a gangster.”

  Colin thought that he had a point. Something in the back of his mind told him that what he had said made sense. It did not sound as if he was lying. He looked to be on the verge of panic. He was covering his own back, looking for a means of proving his innocence. He was no longer the cocky show-off who they had first encountered when they entered the shop.

  Colin looked at Gary. The unspoken question, “What do you think?” passed between them, followed straight after by, “It’s not him.”

  “Right, thanks for your help and understanding, Mr Fox. Don’t for one moment think you’re out of the woods just yet, but we’ll consider what you’ve told us. We will almost certainly be in touch with you soon. If you think of anything that might help, or if you hear any whispers, let us know. Clear?” said Colin, handing him a business card.

  “Y...yes...sir. I will do.”

  With that, Colin and Gary left the shop, heading back towards the police station.

  ...

  As they entered the MIR at Bradwell Street Police Station, DC Pierce called to his superior.

  “Sir...sir?”

  “Go ahead Phil, what have you got?” said Colin.

  “Just got off the phone. The techies – they’ve done a check into where the Avensis was booked from online – followed it back to an originating IP address that fits an internet cafe in Chinatown, here in Manchester.”

  “OK. Could they find anything else out?”

  “No, they couldn’t. But I got the local Bobbies to pop round, check it out in person. Seems they have no CCTV in the cafe, and they’ve got over 15 terminals. Could have been absolutely anyone booking the car. None of the staff remembers anything specific either. Looks like a dead end.”

  “I see...” Colin considered the information. “Thanks for that Phil. Can you update the whiteboard to that effect?”

  DC Pierce nodded. Colin walked into his office, removing his phone from his pocket. He checked for updates, and noticed a message from his dad.

  “Wondering if you wanted to come for dinner at the weekend?”

  Colin knew he ought to say yes, but part of him was reluctant to commit. Having to spend a few hours making polite conversation meant that there was little chance of avoiding the issue of his dad’s health. I guess I’ll have to confront it at some point, he thought. He replied by text.

  “Yes – Sounds great – Looking forward to it - Work permitting, of course.”

  He could always use his job as a convenient excuse, a means of escaping the inevitable – if needs be.

  Chapter 15

  Malachi nervously checked his watch for the fifth time – 3am – exactly when Sergei had told him to be at the park.

  He was sat behind the wheel of his rented Avensis, staring through the windscreen at the distant lights of Drayton Fields, a newly-built estate of budget housing. With no moon and an overcast sky, the lights appeared to be miles away, but in
reality, they lay a mere 100m across a slightly uphill expanse of grass, the housing silhouetted against the night sky. He was parked off-road, tucked beneath an overhanging canopy of tangled hedging and trees. Hidden amongst the shadows, his dark car was virtually invisible. To his right, a gravel footpath led down a steep grass-covered embankment to a shallow stream, overgrown with reeds and bushes. It was not a natural phenomenon, it had been man-made. If you followed the track to its conclusion, it would meet a narrow bridge that spanned the water before linking into a network of other footpaths that criss-crossed the parkland on the far bank. And the stream was not a natural waterway; it had been created as run-off from the estate poured from the storm drains strategically placed along its banks.

  He checked his watch again – 03:01 – time to move. He got out of the car and walked towards the boot. As he opened it, the smell of death hit him, catching at the back of his throat, making him gag. The dead body, still wrapped in its blue plastic sheath, was folded into the boot space. Without thinking, he peeled back the plastic where he assumed the head to be. The cold staring eyes of Nick Griffiths looked back at him from a waxy yellow face. Malachi could feel his stomach churn as he fought to keep its contents inside. He pulled a crowbar from beneath the body, and then slammed the boot lid shut, its noise reverberating further than he had thought. He instantly looked towards the lights, hoping that nobody had heard.

  Sergei’s instructions had been detailed and thorough. He was to find a specific storm drain located close to where he had been instructed to park his car, and he was to hide the body within it. Once done, he was to drive to another remote, but specified, location, and he was to torch the car, along with everything that was inside it.

  Malachi glanced furtively from side to side as he crept slowly down the footpath. The silence was deafening, only broken by the intermittent croak of a frog by the water’s edge. Part way along, he left the track, cutting across the steep incline of the embankment. It had rained heavily earlier on and he lost his footing, sliding on his backside, legs to the front, plummeting through a thicket of spiny bushes. He heard the ripping sound before he felt the pain, as a broken branch tore through his trouser leg, gashing the flesh beneath. Without even looking, he could feel the warm blood seeping from the cut. He wanted to shout, but common sense took control, stifling his screams, keeping his actions hidden.

  Not daring to look back, he followed the stream to the right, carefully stepping between the dense vegetation, crouching so as to minimize his profile. Then he saw it, 20m ahead – the storm drain. Its circular gated entrance must have been at least 1.5m in diameter, set into a red brick wall with dark overgrown plant-life obscuring it. Peering through the vertical steel bars, Malachi thought that he was looking through the Gates of Hell, the underworld stretching off into the blackness of the drain beyond.

  He gave the gate a shake. It was firmly secured, a padlock attached to the heavy sliding latch on its right. Carefully, he placed the crowbar into the arch of the padlock’s link and pulled with all his might. It gave with an almost imperceptible click, but it took him by surprise, and he slipped, dropping the crowbar against the metal grill with a deafening, “CLANG!” He looked over his shoulder quickly, half expecting to have given himself away. He slid the latch across and pulled the gate open. It moved slowly, its hinges corroded and seized, squealing in a high-pitched tone. Malachi crawled inside. The overpowering stench of something rotten within, caused him to hold his breath. The base of the tunnel was littered with rubbish, unrecognisable objects washed along the pipe from the estate’s drains, and plastic blown in through the gated opening. He was sure that he heard the scurrying of tiny little feet, the squeaking of a rat.

  Turning sharply, Malachi retraced his steps back to the car. He dumped the crowbar in the boot, and then lifted the plastic shrouded body over his shoulder before carrying its dead weight back down the muddy slope to the drain. He lost count of the number of times that he slipped, the dull thud as the corpse hit the ground, the rustling of the plastic sheeting as he scooped it back over his shoulder. Finally, he managed to get it into the storm drain. He considered dragging it deep within the bowels of the earth, but breathing heavily from his exertions, and with the combined smell of rotting flesh mingling with other rotting material from within the tunnel, he chose to dump it about 2m from the gate. Gently closing the grill behind him, he took one last look at the entrance; everything appeared much as it had done when he had first arrived. However, it was dark – would it still seem as if nobody had been there in the harsh light of day?

  Once back in the car, he switched on the internal light to survey his muddy bloody sopping-wet clothing, and to check on his cut lower leg. Thank God it was dark, he thought, or I’d be sure to attract unwanted attention! He started the engine, driving carefully back onto the estate’s outer ring road, then, following his instructions, he covered the 4 or 5 miles to where he had been told to dump the Toyota.

  Malachi drove along a narrow winding farm track, barely wider than the car itself. Above him, the Milky Way broke through the cloud cover momentarily. To his rear, the lights of the city glowed in the far distance. He was heading away from civilisation, into open countryside, where no prying eyes could see him set fire to the vehicle. He stopped, opened the rear door, and took out a red plastic fuel can. He could hear the sloshing sound of its contents; he could smell the pungent aroma of petrol. He opened the boot, glanced inside, and then began pouring the fuel. He opened the other rear door, sloshing it everywhere. He opened the bonnet, soaking the engine. And he drenched the driver’s seat in accelerant (the area most likely to hide incriminating DNA evidence against him). Stepping back, he lit a match, watching its flame flicker in the night air. He tossed it onto the driver’s seat. He lit another one, throwing it onto the rear seats. And he watched as the flames slowly took hold, the heat building, the noxious fumes rising into the sky. Suddenly, there was a whoosh, and the entire car became a mass of orange crackling flames. Malachi was forced back by the sudden intensity. He smiled to himself, his one connection to the murder of a police officer going up in flames before him. Satisfied, he turned away and walked back along the track, back towards the city.

  As he did so, he sent a text message to Sergei.

  “Job done.”

  Within seconds, he received a reply.

  “Keep a low profile – Do NOT contact me – Do NOT go home until everything dies down.”

  What Sergei did not say in his message, but which he had emphasised fully before Malachi had set off to dump the body, was that should he fuck up this time, not only would he die a slow and painful death, but so would his mother.

  ...

  Colin Peterson opened the glass front door of the coffee shop, scanning the array of tables until he spotted Matt sat in an alcove by the far wall. He walked towards him, smiling as both men made eye contact.

  As he pulled up a chair, he said, “Hi, Matt. How’re you doing? How’s the back?”

  “Colin. Oh, you know, so-so. It plays up in damp weather like this.”

  Matthew Carmine was about the same age as Colin. He was a tad over 6ft tall, well built, with slightly receding chestnut-brown hair and a trendy close-cropped beard. He did not look as if he was handicapped, but looks could be deceiving. Following their fateful operation in London, Matt had received two broken vertebrae as a result of his beating. His other injuries and scars had healed, but these remained an ongoing issue, restricting his mobility and causing severe pain, intermittently.

  As Colin waited for his Macchiato to arrive, the two men chatted about last night’s television, former colleagues, and football. Colin’s phone rang. He looked at the screen.

  “Sorry mate, I’d better take this,” he said. “DI Peterson, go ahead.”

  “Hi Guv,” said Gary French. “I’ve just had the ANPR guys on the phone. They’ve had some preliminary results on that hire car.”

  “Good. Do we know where it travelled to?”

 
“Well, it was first picked up entering Sandleton at about 02:30 hours on the day that Griff went missing. After that, we’ve got it travelling on Carrington Road, eastbound, and again on Piper’s Drove shortly afterwards. Looking at the map, it seems as if it was heading back towards the city.”

  “Cool. Anything after that?”

  “Not so far, Guv. I’ve given them the go ahead to expand the search into the BUA (built up area), and I’ve tasked the team to cross-reference known sightings with any CCTV footage.”

  “Good work, Gary. Keep me informed.” Colin hung up.

  “Got a big job on?” asked Matt.

  “Yeah, you might say that,” Colin smiled, “a missing PC!”

  “Oh, you’re on that one. I read about it in the newspapers. Mitchelson made a point of getting himself named as the person in charge again, I see.” Matt tutted, and then sipped his coffee. There was no love lost there.

  “As always,” Colin agreed. “Nothing much changes, eh?”

  He continued, telling Matt how the investigation was progressing, the possible leads they had, and where they were focusing their efforts. As he watched Matt, he noticed a tiny spark ignite in his eyes. He was regaining some of the interest, some of the energy that he once had. It was what had made him such a brilliant detective, back in the day. It was what had been missing in his life since it had been so cruelly torn away from him after he had been discharged from the force. He decided then, that he would endeavour to keep Matt updated as the case progressed. He hoped that in some small way, it might give him something to live for, something to drag him out of his depression, and something to focus his mind on – a small taster of what his former life had once been like.

  Chapter 16

  “Tyson...Tyson...Come here boy,” Fred Leigh called.

  Out of the undergrowth, a minute long-haired Chihuahua came scurrying towards him, its tongue hanging from its mouth as it panted excitedly. “What you been chasing, you hairy rat?” he added, chirpily.

  Fred Leigh lived on Drayton Fields. Now that he had retired, he made a point of taking Tyson for an early morning walk each day. Today was no exception, today was enjoyable as it was the first bit of sunny weather they had experienced in over a week. For the past 30 minutes, he and Tyson had been wandering around the parkland on the far bank of the brook. Now, feeling a little peckish, he had turned towards home and was just about to cross the footbridge over the water. As was his custom, he stopped on the bridge, looking up and down stream. In the past, he had seen Water Voles, Kingfishers, even a Grey Heron. Today, all that he could see was a semi-submerged shopping trolley.