Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  “I don’t know about everywhere, but we’ve certainly got a track recorded. Here, let me show you...”

  Stone placed the computer on the front desk and began tapping keys. Everybody huddled around the screen for a closer look. Suddenly, an image of a map appeared, and on it, a red line had been superimposed following a route from outside the city to its northern suburbs.

  “Can you zoom in on that at all?” Gary French asked.

  “I sure can.” The map grew before his eyes, the red route following specific named roads. “If I scroll down the page, you’ve got a time/distance chart that’ll show how long it took to go from point A to point B, as well as any periods of time that he was stationary.”

  “How accurate is that?” somebody asked.

  “Within a meter or two - five at the most. Pretty accurate.” Everybody looked at one another in amazement.

  Colin looked sceptical. “So, complete technophobe here, can you say exactly what route he travelled, what speed and time he was at any particular point, and the addresses that he might have been held in?”

  “I certainly can. In fact, I’ve done the hard work for you.” Stone produced a printout from beneath the laptop. “Here, I’ve printed out his route, road by road, the times he was at each point, and the three locations that he stopped at.”

  DI Peterson was stunned. He took the sheet of paper and read through its contents. From what he could ascertain, PC Griffiths had been abducted from Brent Lane. His abductor had stopped for 5 minutes somewhere along the main road into the western suburbs of the city, and had then followed a circular route that ended up near the notorious Havering Estate. Sometime later, he had been moved to an address a few miles away. That had been the end of the tracked route.

  “Why does the route stop at this point?” Colin asked Stone.

  “Could be the battery died. That’d be my guess.”

  “Do you know what is at this first stop point?”

  “Yeah, I looked it up. It’s a petrol station.”

  “And this last point?”

  “It’s a residential street. I looked it up on Satellite Maps Street View. It looked like old rundown Victorian terraces. They were in number 53 or 55.”

  “And this point here, on the Havering Estate?”

  “Yeah, it’s not actually on the estate, it’s in a car park to the rear of Jackson House.”

  “Bloody brilliant. I could fucking kiss you, Jon,” said the DI, enthusiastically.

  “I’d rather you didn’t, if it’s all the same to you, sir.” They both laughed.

  As Stone left the room, the DI returned to the briefing.

  “OK, finally our luck’s changing; we’ve got something positive to work with.” The change in the detectives’ attitude was striking. Whereas before, everyone seemed tired, depressed, going through the routine enquiries with no focus for their investigation. Now, they all had smiles on their faces, they were keen, alert, and bubbling with good humour. Colin was surprised how a change of fortune and a few positive results could alter the ambiance of the room so dramatically.

  “Gary, can you chase up those DNA results? See if we can’t get them expedited?”

  “Will do, Guv,” he said, making a note in his book.

  “The GPS track gives us the route that Griff was taken. We’re assuming he was in the Toyota Avensis at the time. So let’s see if we can cross-reference CCTV from the streets, passing shops, anywhere. We need to get visual images of the car at various points along the route so that it ties in with the GPS data. Same with the ANPR; now that we know the route to look at, we need to link the ANPR data to everything else. Who’s up for a bit of watching TV?” asked the DI.

  There was a flood of hands to choose from, everybody keen to be actively involved in the hunt.

  “OK, you three...” Colin pointed at 3 detectives. “...you can take that job on. Good luck. This petrol station on Scraysbrook Road, the one indicated on the GPS track – we need uniform to pay ‘em a visit, check CCTV, talk to the cashier, see if they recall what the driver was like, how he paid etc.”

  “I’ll sort that one,” said DS French.

  “The rest of you, I want you getting background information on the other two locations on the tracked route. The final destination, 53 or 55 Maygrove Road, wasn’t it?” Gary nodded. “That might possibly be where Griff was imprisoned, maybe even the murder scene. I want to know everything about those locations – who owns them, who lives there, their layout – everything.”

  The detectives took notes.

  “And this other stop point, the car park by Jackson House on the Havering – talk to the LIO for that area. Talk to the PCSOs (Police Community Support Officers), the Community Police Officers (if we still have any), we need to know who’s currently active on the estate, what they’re into, who’s the top dog. Task your informants to find stuff out for us, but do it through the proper channels. If it goes to court, we need to have followed the correct procedures. See if any of the residents have a connection to PC Griffiths. Oh, and check on the estate’s CCTV – sightings of the car, its occupants, people hanging around near it.”

  Colin continued, “Try and keep these enquiries low-key. We don’t want to spook any of the locals. I want our team to know every last detail about both of those locations before we go in all guns blazing, OK? I want everything checked, double-checked, and cross-referenced with other data. We need our case to be watertight so that the killer, once we get him, isn’t gonna find some loophole or technicality to get away on.”

  Everybody nodded their agreement. Colin noticed a steely determination behind his team’s eyes. The tide was beginning to turn. He had confidence that PC Griffiths’ killer would soon be behind bars.

  Chapter 19

  There was a nervous “tap, tap, tap” on the open door to DI Peterson’s office.

  Colin looked up from his paperwork to see a young uniformed police officer loitering in the doorway. He did not recognise him, and he appeared lost, unsure whether he was in the correct place, knocking on the right door.

  “Hello constable. What’s up?” asked the DI.

  “Err...DI Peterson?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Come in. What’s your name?”

  “I’m PC Smith, Paul Smith, from Cannon Street Police Station.”

  “How can I help you, Paul?”

  “Err...my Sergeant gave me a job. I was sent to check some CCTV footage at the ESSO petrol station on Scraysbrook Road, in our sector. Said it was to do with the murdered police officer.”

  “OK. Did you pass what you found onto your Sergeant?”

  “Well, no, actually. I was halfway here anyway. I needed to speak to the cashier at their home address which was in this direction. I thought I’d bring it directly to you,” Smith replied.

  “OK.” The police officer looked and acted very nervous. “Are you still a probationer?” asked the DI.

  “I am, sir. But I’m on independent patrol. I’ve been in nearly two years.” It sounded as if he was justifying his role, justifying his decision to come straight to the SIO. Colin made a mental note to contact this man’s Sergeant – it was not best practice to task a trainee officer with enquiries as vital as those on a murder investigation. On the other hand, he knew that some probationers were far more conscientious than their more experienced, but jaded, colleagues.

  “OK Paul, why don’t you start at the beginning, tell me everything that you’ve discovered?” said the DI.

  “Sir. So, I went to the 24Hr garage and spoke to the Day Manager. I told him the time and date of the CCTV footage that we were interested in viewing. He seemed a bit odd, like he didn’t want to go to the effort of searching through the film. But after some persuading, I got him to run it on a TV monitor.”

  “Good man,” Colin said, encouraging him to continue.

  “There wasn’t much on the footage, it was early morning. But just before 4am, a dark Avensis drove onto the forecourt, stopping at pump #2. I couldn’t ge
t the full VRM, but it ended, AFF or AFP from what I could see. It was dark and partially in shadow.”

  “That sounds like our car,” added the DI.

  “The driver seemed to be the only person in it. He got out, filled the car with fuel, and then walked into the shop to pay.”

  “Could you describe him from the footage?” Colin asked.

  “It was black-and-white so I couldn’t get colours, but he had a dark jacket, jeans, white shoes, and a lighter coloured hoodie. I’d guess he was mid-twenties with short cropped hair. Looked of mixed-race, possibly. Anyway, I took a copy of the footage and got you a still photo of the driver.” Smith handed a CD and a printed photo to Colin. He studied the image. It was better than any that they had found so far, but was still not the best quality. It certainly looked like the same person captured on the Case Rentals footage.

  “I don’t suppose you got any details of how he paid, or spoke to the cashier that served him?”

  “Yes, sir. He paid on a credit card. The name was...” Smith looked in his notebook. “...Jayden Jones. His card number is on this sheet.”

  Colin looked at it. The number matched that which had been used to pay for the rental car. Clearly, the suspect was still using the same cloned card details and false identity.

  Smith continued, “I asked to speak with the cashier, but the manager told me she was working nights, wouldn’t be back until 22:00 hours. I figured you’d need to know sooner than that, seeing as it was a murdered police officer, and all, so I got their H/A (home address) and dropped in on her on the way here.”

  “Good initiative, Paul,” said Colin. “Carry on.”

  “She told me that she remembered the man, but that he didn’t say much, just grunted a bit and looked nervous. She didn’t see anyone else in the car. I asked her to describe the bloke, which she did. It was pretty much what I told you, sir, but she did say that he had a scar through his right eyebrow, like a knife wound or one of those trendy razor cuts, you know?”

  “Hmm, that’s an important detail. Well done, Paul. Did you get it in writing?”

  “Yes, sir. I took a quick statement, and it’s in my notebook too.”

  “Right, I’ll need a photocopy of your notes before you leave. You’ve done really well constable. I’ll send a note of good work to your supervisor. It’ll be added to your probationer record. Well done, Paul.”

  “Thank you, sir.” With that, PC Smith headed off in search of a photocopier machine, leaving the photo, statement, and footage with DI Peterson.

  ...

  “Ring, ring – ring, ring.”

  DI Peterson’s desk phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “M.I.R. – DI Peterson speaking.”

  “Me-rr-y Christ-mas!” bellowed a voice at the other end, a throaty laugh following on afterwards.

  “I’m sorry? Who is this?” Colin was confused, and a little annoyed. He had far better things to be doing than dealing with childish pranks.

  “Sorry, Colin, I couldn’t resist it... It’s Doug Johnson.”

  “Hi Doug. No, I still don’t get it.” Colin was still confused.

  The senior SOCO man laughed to himself. “When you hear what I’ve got to tell you, you’ll think all your Christmases have come at once.”

  Colin thought for a moment. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’ve got some results?”

  “Yep. We’ve got a DNA match off that blood on the material found at Drayton Fields. Your man is in the system.”

  “You’re joking! Who is he?” asked Colin, unable to hide his excitement.

  “Wait, there’s more... We also got a DNA match from the vomit splashed onto PC Griffiths’ clothing, and they both match to the same person.”

  “Go on...” Colin urged.

  “Meet your number one suspect, Malachi Maclean,” said Doug, theatrically.

  “Who? Never heard of him.” Colin had expected the name to be familiar; he was somewhat disappointed.

  “I’ve emailed you his PNC number. Check him out. He’s your man. We’ve got him positively linked to the body and to the scene it was dumped at. If he was sick at the murder scene, he’s linked to the act itself.”

  “Are you sure, Doug? - 100% sure?”

  “Positive!”

  DI Peterson replaced the receiver and sat in silence for a second, catching his breath. He checked his emails, noted the PNC number, and looked up his suspect’s police record on the computer.

  ...

  Malachi Zach Maclean.

  DOB: 13th June 1992.

  Born: Manchester, UK.

  Last known address: 74 Jackson House, Havering Estate, Manchester.

  NOK: Mary Maclean (mother).

  Ethnicity: M1 (Mixed: white and black Caribbean).

  Description: 6ft, 15 stone, muscular build, tattoos to arms/back/neck/legs, scar (3cm) through right eyebrow.

  Previous convictions: Class A drugs (supply) - Possession of an offensive weapon - Class B drugs (supply) - Public order Sec 2, 3, 4 (violent disorder, affray, use of threatening/abusive behaviour/words) - Assault Sec 39, 47 (common assault, ABH).

  ...

  “Gary, GARY!” shouted the DI. DS French stuck his head around the side of the door.

  “Guv? Everything alright?”

  “Round up the troops, Gary, we’ve got a DNA match. Our suspect has a name, Malachi Maclean. Hell, he even lives at Jackson House, one of the stop points on the GPS trace. I want everything we can find on him – associates, other addresses, everything.”

  “Have we got a mug shot of him?” asked the DS.

  “Yeah, he’s on the system, with lots of previous. His face fits the CCTV images we have, as does his description, even down to a scar above his right eye - we owe PC Smith a debt of gratitude for that one. Get his name, photo, and details circulated. Nobody is to stop him until we’ve been informed, OK? He’s to be regarded as armed and dangerous. And get images circulated to the Havering Estate’s CCTV control room. Get them searching for him.”

  “I’m on it Boss,” Gary replied.

  Chapter 20

  “Steve, have you got a minute?” asked DI Peterson.

  He was slightly out of breath, having run down the many flights of stairs to the basement of Bradwell Street Police Station. Hidden deep within its bowels, in a former storeroom, now converted into a dingy claustrophobic office, lived the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). They were not a part of the police service, but they worked alongside them (some of the more disheartened officers tended to think that they worked against them). Their role was to scrutinise every police file before it was submitted to court to ensure that it was legally sound, and thus more likely to result in a conviction. Historically, they had operated out of their own offices and had not seen the case files until the last moment, but in recent years, it had become standard practice for them to work from satellite offices housed within the police stations, and for everything to pass through their hands before heading into the judicial system. They were also regarded as the oracle when it came to more complex cases, and were often interrupted by police officers seeking wise and insightful advice.

  “For you, DI Peterson, I’ve always got time,” replied Stephen Ackroyd, smiling. “We don’t often see you down here in the dungeon! How can I help?”

  “I was wondering if you could check through something for me; give me your expert opinion?”

  “Wait, let me guess...the Griffiths case?” he asked.

  “Yep.” Colin nodded and held out a bulging folder of paperwork towards the CPS man.

  “Even rumour control filters this far down, to the basement,” Steve added.

  “We’ve got a suspect and I’m keen to get him nicked, but being so important, I thought I’d run it past you, see how the evidence stacks up so far.”

  “OK, let’s have a look.”

  Colin handed over the file. “I’ve summarised the key points on the facing sheet to save you some time.”

  Steve Ackroyd o
pened the folder, put on his wire-rimmed spectacles, and began reading in silence. Colin hovered by the doorway, anxious to hear what he thought, but sure in his own mind that he had more than enough evidence. However, he did not want to make any schoolboy errors, so it was better that CPS had a hand in the case from the beginning.

  Ten minutes later, having flicked through the wad of paperwork, Steve looked up and removed his glasses.

  “So, tell me if I’m wrong, but it looks like the only actual solid evidence that you have is the DNA match from the vomit, and the blood DNA on the scrap of clothing?” he said.

  “Yeah, and the GPS track, footage on CCTV from the rental firm and the petrol station, and the fact that he used false...” Colin was keen to list every piece of evidence.

  Steve interrupted, “OK, but all of that is circumstantial. It might prove that somebody hired a car using false ID and bank details. It might prove that they filled up with fuel. But it doesn’t link them to the body, or the murder.”

  “But what about the GPS trace? It proves PC Griffiths was in the car at the petrol station, and at various other points along the route that we have cross-matched through ANPR and CCTV.” Colin was sounding frustrated, annoyed with the CPS man. No wonder some officers hated them for being so negative.

  “It proves that the GPS watch was in the car, not the body. It’s still circumstantial.”

  “But...” Colin began. Steve smiled, raising his hands in submission.

  “Calm down, Colin, I’m just playing devil’s advocate, it’s my job. These are the sort of questions any good defence lawyer will put to you. You need to have all bases covered.”

  Colin breathed deeply, calming himself. “Alright, if none of this is any use, what have we got?”

  “I didn’t say that it was no use, I said it was circumstantial. But when you take it as a whole, then add it to the solid DNA evidence, you start to have a compelling case,” Steve corrected him.

  “So we can still use it then?”

  “Yes.” Steve paused in thought. “Let me ask you a question. What if, in interview, the suspect claims that he was just passing the stream at Drayton Fields, that he saw something in the storm drain, went to have a look? What if he claims he found the body, was sick on it, and in a mad scramble to get away, he slipped, ripped his clothing and cut his leg? That covers both bits of DNA evidence.”