Out of the corner of his eye, something glinted in the early morning sun. He looked closer. It was coming from the storm drain on the far bank. There were a lot of overhanging bushes, but it looked as if something bright yellow had been stuffed behind the metal gate, along with rolls of blue plastic sheeting.
Under his breath, Fred mumbled, “Bloody fly-tippers. They’ll block the bleeding drains, then the sewers will flood.” He pulled out his phone and called 101, the non-emergency police number, to report it. “Tyson, come on boy, breakfast.” He headed home to his flat.
...
Fred’s call was a low priority. It was deemed, “not a police matter,” and passed to the local council to deal with.
Sometime later, a nearby council-operated refuge collection vehicle was tasked to investigate the report. Its driver, a large surly man by the name of Cooper, was not impressed. It was bad enough having to remove people’s normal rubbish (despite that being his job), without having to go looking for it in the river. When he saw the steep incline to the water’s edge, the slippery muddy surface, and seemingly impenetrable mass of bushes surrounding the storm drain, he was even less impressed.
Regardless, he tentatively clambered down to the drain. He saw the blue plastic sheeting first, piled up against the metal bars of the gate. How the hell did that get in there? he wondered. He started pulling it through the gaps in the grill, but it was stuck. Tutting to himself, he pulled at the gate. It creaked open. That shouldn’t happen, he thought, it’s meant to be locked. He opened the gate wide enough to fit his bulky frame through, and then attempted to unravel the sheeting. As he pulled at one end of it, PC Griffiths’ head fell to one side, in clear view.
Taken by surprise, he instinctively jumped backwards, slipping on the mud, and landing heavily in the calf-deep water.
“What the fuck..?” he yelled.
His chest felt tight, as if it had a belt strapped around it. His breath came in short laboured gasps, and he was staring at the dead body as if it was about to attack him. He staggered to his feet and bounded up the steep slope to the safety of his truck. Regaining his composure somewhat, he phoned his supervisor.
Speaking overly fast, he said, “George, call the police. I’ve found a body!”
“What? Where? Have you been drinking?”
“No. It’s in that storm drain you sent me to check, the fly-tipping report. It’s a fucking dead body. Looks like a copper too. Get someone over here FAST!”
...
DI Peterson received the phone call whilst he was in a meeting at the police station. He stepped outside the room to take it.
“Sir, it’s the control room. We’ve had a call from the council. They’ve discovered a dead body in a storm drain over by the Drayton Fields Estate. Uniform have been sent to secure the scene, but they’re calling for SOCO, search teams, and undertakers to attend. Their initial report says the body is wearing police uniform. I thought you ought to know...”
Colin immediately knew what that meant – Nick Griffiths had been found – DEAD! He stared at the floor as his heart sank. He had failed his fellow officer; he had been unable to locate him before he had been killed. History was repeating itself. Once again, he had been unable to save the life of one of his own. Part of him blamed his own ineptitude. But the rest of him formed a steely resolve to track down his killer, bring him to justice, and avenge the death of his colleague.
“I’m on my way over there. Can you get DS French to meet me at the scene? And can you give the MIR a call; let the rest of the team know the news?”
“Will do, sir.”
...
By the time that Colin had arrived at the dumping ground, the area had already been cordoned off. Scene guards were in place, and various SOCO personnel were busily marking areas to be searched for evidence, whilst others were photographing the body in-situ.
He stopped to take in everything before him. Groups of police officers wearing black polo shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the word “POLICE” were stood in small huddles, their senior officers giving them briefings of where to search, and what to look for. These were the specialist search-trained teams who would check the wider area for trace evidence.
Beyond the taped barriers, he could see numbered flags indicating evidence that had been discovered on the grassy slope leading down to the brook. From what he could see from this distance, it amounted to slide marks on the wet surface, leading into a bunch of low bushes which had been separately taped off.
As his eyes followed the line of the stream to the right, he saw a hive of activity in, and around, the entrance to the storm drain. Men in white hooded suits, wearing green thigh-length waders, were photographing, and unwrapping plastic from what Colin took to be the hidden corpse. He noticed Gary French approaching from the direction of the footbridge.
“Gary, what we got?” he asked.
“Body was discovered by a council bin man. He had a bit of a panic attack so he’s gone off to hospital for a check-up. Uniform are gonna take a statement in due course.”
“OK.” Colin nodded slowly.
Gary continued, “Body was found wrapped in plastic, stuffed into the overflow pipe, gate pushed shut. I’ve been down there – it’s definitely PC Griffiths. Looks to me like a gunshot wound to the head, but the Doc is down there, he’ll give us more info on that.”
Colin whistled through his teeth. “A fucking gunshot wound – to the head? Sounds like a bloody execution. What the hell was Griff up to?”
“Dunno sir.” They stood in silence contemplating the possibilities. “Anyway, we’ve found tyre marks over by the trees, over there under the hedging.” Gary pointed in the general direction. “Because it was wet and muddy, we might get some tread marks or footprints. It’s on SOCO’s list of things to try and take casts from.”
“Good. I’d better go have a look at the body. You stay here, check on the search teams. Can you arrange for uniform to do some house-to-house on those overlooking the park? Let’s see if they heard or saw anything overnight. If there’s any CCTV on the estate, get that checked too.”
“Will do, Guv.”
DI Peterson carefully climbed down the embankment and stood overlooking the drain entrance. The bulk of the plastic sheeting had been removed, and PC Griffiths’ body was visible in all its glory. Blood smothered most of his clothing and exposed skin, and although Colin could not see it from his vantage point, judging from the small bullet entry hole in his forehead, he knew from experience in Afghanistan, the mess that would be left at the rear of his head.
The Police Force’s Doctor and Senior SOCO both looked up at him. Distinguishing between them was difficult as both wore white paper face masks so as not to contaminate evidence. The doctor said, “I’ll pop up there to talk with you, DI Peterson, I’m done here for now.”
Moments later, Colin asked, “So, what have we got Doc?”
“Well, this is definitely NOT the murder scene – not enough blood. PC Griffiths was shot through the head – close range – handgun by the looks of it. Ballistics will tell us more. But that’s not all...”
“Go on,” urged Colin.
“He has markings on both wrists and ankles indicating that he was restrained forcibly, possibly with ‘quick-cuffs’ or something similar. He’s been beaten badly – a massive gash to the back of the neck, bruising all over, and knife wounds, slashing, to all exposed skin. And there’s a deep knife wound to the chest, entering around the throat and thrusting downwards behind the body armour.”
“Was this post or pre mortem?” asked the DI.
“Pre!”
“So, he’s been held prisoner for some time, tortured, beaten, and then killed?”
“Pretty much, Colin.”
“Fuck!” Colin shook his head.
“We’ll know a lot more once I’ve done a PM (post mortem). Should have an idea of TOD (time of death), weapon types etc,” added the doctor.
“Right, can you expedite this one, Doc; he i
s one of our own?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Colin was joined by the senior SOCO, Doug Johnson, as the doctor walked back to his car. Johnson was in his sixties, stocky, short, and habitually wore a scruffy tweed jacket with scuffed elbow patches beneath his white paper coveralls and gloves. They had worked together many times, they got on well, and he reminded Colin of a mad professor.
“Hi, Doug. It’s not a good day...”
“Nope,” he said, his bushy eyebrows moving in rhythm with his words, “it’s not!”
“What can you tell me?”
“Looking at the slide marks...” He indicated the evidence markers on the slope. “...the perpetrator dragged the body down there before dumping him in the drain. Looks like he was hidden deeper than when we arrived, and he was well wrapped up too, but judging by the marks on his skin and on the plastic, the foxes have had a good go at dragging and unwrapping him.”
“Nice...” Colin scrunched up his face at the thought.
“Not much chance of getting prints off the gate – too wet and rusty – but we’ll give it a go anyway. There are scratch marks on the lock. Looks like a flat-ended metal object was used to lever it off. Flakes of black paint too. Fits with a crowbar, or something like that. If you find one, there’s a fair chance of matching it to the marks.”
“Good,” said Colin.
“The good news is...” Doug was looking pleased with himself. “...those bushes over there...” He pointed at the ones which were cordoned off separately. “...we’ve found some material attached to a broken branch. Some bloody material. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a DNA match, if he’s on the system.”
“Bloody brilliant. Let’s hope so, eh? Can you speed the results on that one?”
“Hopefully. We’ll check the plastic for DNA too, and the body, of course. It might link everything together. At the top of the hill, we’ve got tyre tracks...”
“Yeah, Gary was saying,” interrupted Colin.
“We might get something from them if we’re lucky. We’ll basically collect all the evidence that we can, just in case.”
“Don’t suppose you noticed whether Griff had a watch on?” asked the DI.
“I think he did. I can’t say that I checked all that closely though.”
“Can you take another look? If he is wearing one, can you get it sent to the techies ASAP? It’s a GPS running watch. It might have recorded where he was taken to,” explained Colin.
“Oh, right, I’ll be sure to look into that for you. Anyway, better be off. Lots to do, you know? Speak soon, Colin.”
As Colin walked back towards the top of the embankment, he met Gary again.
“Looks like Griff was dumped overnight. Can you arrange with uniform to get some bods up here tonight, in the small hours, to stop/check anybody on the estate? If they’re shift workers or are regularly up at that hour, they may have seen something.”
“No problems, sir,” replied Gary.
“We’d better go pay Mrs Griffiths another visit. I’m dreading telling her the bad news.”
“I’ll come with you for moral support, if you want, Boss.”
“Thanks, Gary.”
Chapter 17
PC Clifford had just finished dealing with a domestic incident when he received a call from the control room.
“Charlie-Tango-Seven-Nine from control?”
“Go ahead, Seven-Nine receiving.”
“Yeah, I’ve got an anonymous report of a car on fire, wasteland out by Bonnington End. Can you go have a look please?”
“Yes, yes, on my way. Have the Fire Brigade been informed?”
“Confirmed, they’re on site.”
By the time that PC Clifford had arrived, the fire had been extinguished, but the blackened shell of the car’s chassis was still glowing hot, steam and smoke rising into the morning sky. The car was positioned on a remote concrete farm track surrounded by mile-upon-mile of ploughed fields. There was nothing anywhere nearby.
“Not much left of it, is there?” he said to the senior fire officer. “Do you know what it was, its colour or make, or anything?”
“Hmm, hard to say really. I’d guess it’s a Toyota of some sort. No idea of colour, all the paint’s burnt off. But look here...” The firefighter led PC Clifford to the open engine space. “Look down there...” He pointed to a blackened metal plate fitted to the bodywork. He gave it a rub with his heat-resistant gloves. “That’s its VIN (Vehicle Identification Number).”
PC Clifford made a note of the details and then called the control room to check the numbers on their database.
“PC Clifford, the VIN relates to a Toyota Avensis, index: ST18 AFP. It’s a hire car from Liverpool. It has a marker on PNC to inform DI Peterson immediately it is discovered. I’ve given him a call and he says can you secure the scene for him? He’s sending SOCO to see if there’s any evidence that they can lift from it.”
“That’s all received, control,” replied the police officer.
After a short wait, a SOCO technician arrived, donned his coveralls and gloves, and began examining the remains of the vehicle.
“What case is this connected to?” asked PC Clifford. “We don’t normally get SOCO attending a burnt-out car.”
“It’s to do with the missing police officer from Bradwell Street nick,” he replied.
“Oh, I see...”
“Just between us, it’s just been confirmed as a murder enquiry! Poor sod was shot through the head.”
“Fucking hell!” PC Clifford was shocked. Things like that did not happen in the rural sector.
As the SOCO technician worked slowly and methodically, he removed a crowbar from the boot space, bagging and sealing it for forensic examination in the lab. He took samples and measurements from what remained of the tyres, and he checked every conceivable place that evidence might be secreted. By the time that he had finished, his collection of evidence samples was minimal.
“The heat of the fire, added to the water used to extinguish it, has pretty much destroyed everything,” he said to the police officer. “But I’ll get this lot over to the lab immediately; they’ve prioritised everything connected to the murder. Can you update control and the SIO with what we’ve found here?”
“Yeah, will do,” replied PC Clifford.
...
DI Peterson wearily knocked on the red front door of 134 London Road. It was dark in the street, his digital watch showing just after 9.30pm on its lit display.
The door was opened by Matt Carmine, a puzzled and concerned expression on his face.
“Hello, Colin. What you doing here? Bloody hell, man, you look awful! Come in.”
Colin looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His face was pale and gaunt. He had red-rimmed eyes with dark bags beneath them. He clearly had not been sleeping properly. And his shoulders appeared hunched forward, tensed from the worries he was struggling with inside.
They walked through to the quaint living room, more of a snug really, with its moody lighting, comfortable sofas and TV in the corner.
“Take a seat, mate. Beer? You look like you could use one,” Matt asked.
“Cheers, Matt. That’d be great. I’ve had a shit day.”
Since leaving the location where PC Griffiths’ body had been discovered, Colin’s day had gone from bad to worse. First stop had been to visit Donna Griffiths at home. Delivering a “death message” was never easy, no matter how many times you had done it before. Colin had delivered lots over the years, and he could never predict what sort of reaction he might receive. Some people took the news calmly, others were distraught. He had expected Donna to take it in her stride, especially considering their marriage was on the rocks, and she had shown next to no emotion thus far. He had been wrong. She had sobbed continuously, clearly demonstrating that she still loved her husband despite them having grown apart. He had needed to broach the subject of identifying Nick’s body (officially), once the PM had been completed. Once again,
this had not been an easy subject to discuss. All of this emotional outpouring had taken its toll on Colin. He had felt drained.
This had then been further compounded when he had returned to the police station just in time to meet the remainder of PC Griffiths’ colleagues. Their briefing had been just about to start, and he felt it his duty to inform them, personally, that Griff’s body had been discovered. However, knowing how close PC Thompson had been to him, he had taken her to one side beforehand, breaking the bad news whilst in the Sergeant’s Office, with Insp. James watching on. This time, he had expected Jess to breakdown in fits of tears, and he had not been disappointed. Insp. James had offered her compassionate leave, but she was adamant that she wanted to stay on shift. In some small way, she took comfort from the fact that by continuing to work, she was helping to bring his killer to justice. Colin had asked her supervisors to keep a close eye on her.
And finally, Colin had the unenviable task of telling Superintendent Mitchelson that PC Griffiths had been discovered, and that it was now officially a murder enquiry. Whilst outwardly showing the expected levels of concern for a fallen colleague, Colin had the distinct impression that inside, he was quietly pleased. Again, he brought up the subject of a press conference, and this time, Colin had nothing to argue against it with – it was a necessary evil that needed to be completed. Needless to say, Mitchelson took it upon himself to arrange the live broadcast on national TV for later that evening, the Superintendent taking centre stage. Colin was just grateful that he had not been asked to sit at his side to field awkward questions from the watching press corps.
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