ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist
Page 1
Thanks
Quick note…
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
PART TWO
PART THREE
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Epilogue
ROAD TO NOWHERE
Copyright © Steven Suttie 2016
Published by Steven Suttie 2016
Steven Suttie has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design by Steven Suttie
Font type Bodoni MT
P/B 1st Edition – published 18th May 2016
Kindle 1st Edition – published 18th May 2016
Thanks
As I always do, I’d like to thank Kaye Moon, for her brilliant support and advice. I always love receiving your letters Kaye, and reading your gentle words of encouragement.
Also, thanks to Lizzie, for the proof reading. I hope you’ve not missed anything this time!
I would also like to say a huge big massive thank you to all the lovely readers and online friends who continually share my tweets and the facebook adverts for my books. Each time you do that, it’s helping my books get out to new readers, and it is always appreciated, even if I don’t say thanks every time.
Thank you so much for helping this indie, part-time, amateur author reach out to bigger, scarier audiences. You know who you are. And if you don’t, well you should do! Cheers
I hope you enjoy the ride.
#Pray4SgtKnight
Quick note…
This is the third DCI Miller book. If you missed the others, you might enjoy this one a bit more if you read Miller 2: Neighbours From Hell, before this one. But it is your call.
This book is intended to be gritty and exciting. As a result, it contains swearing, and some quite unforgettable violence.
If swearing, and/or violence is upsetting for you, please choose a different book.
#Pray4SgtKnight
Prologue
The call connected straight away.
It seemed so much more real all of a sudden.
Now, it was serious.
Rebecca Knight, a pretty, thirty-something mum of two was sitting on her staircase, shaking violently, her chin was trembling. Her eyes looked red and puffy.
“Manchester Police, how can I help you?”
“Oh, er. Hello. I’m er… I want to report my husband missing.”
“Okay, thank you – what’s your name please?”
“Jason, oh my name, sorry - Rebecca… Knight.”
“Thanks Rebecca, my name is Jan. I just need to take a few details from you, so bear with me. What’s your address Rebecca?”
“One Six Three Blackpool Road, Bolton.”
“And your phone number, is that the number you’re ringing from now? Ending zero two eight?”
“Yes, it’s… I’m at home.”
“Okay Rebecca, what’s wrong?”
“Yes, it’s Jason, my husband – he’s, he’s not come home and I… I think something bad has happened…”
“Okay, well, what makes you think…”
“I’ve phoned the hospitals, I’ve tried to find out…” Rebecca was crying and Jan, the police call handler was struggling to understand what she was saying.
“Listen, love, just calm down. Okay? Take a deep breath, alright? Now just tell me what’s happened.” Jan sounded lovely, very kind and friendly. She had a gentle reassurance in her voice that Rebecca sincerely wanted to trust.
“My husband, he… he’s gone out, out on his bike this morning. He’s not come home.”
“When you say bike, are you talking about a motorbike or…”
“Pushbike, he’s a keen cyclist.”
“Okay, and when would you have expected him home normally?”
“Tea-time – he was going up to the Trough of Bowland, then back home – it’s his favourite ride, about seventy miles. But it’s gone eleven now, and his phone is off, it’s just going straight to answering machine. I’m really worried…”
“And you say you’ve phoned the hospitals?”
“Yes, all of them, between here and there, and even further afield. I’ve phoned Manchester and Lancashire police too, no accidents have been reported involving cyclists.”
“Right, well, listen to me Rebecca – nine times out of ten, there is a perfectly good explanation for these things – so what I want you to do is just to try and calm down for me, okay?”
“No, something’s wrong – I know it. He was supposed to be in work at ten, he’s on nights this week.”
“And where does he work?”
“Bolton police station. He’s a sergeant…”
Chapter One
DCI Andrew Miller had been dreading this meeting. He had done everything that he possibly could do, to prevent it from happening. But, the story had been picked up by the media, and it looked as though it might have legs. As a precaution, Miller’s arm had been forced by his superiors, who were reluctant to face any more damaging publicity about Manchester Police in the current political climate.
“Good morning, good morning, come on in,” said the handsome, brown haired Detective Chief Inspector in as friendly a manner as he could muster, as he ushered the visitors into his glass walled office in the corner of the S
erious Crimes section. “First things first – introductions,” he said. “I’ll go first. I’m sure you both know my name, I’m DCI Miller, who investigated the case.”
“Thank you. I’m Maureen Birdsworth, I’m the mum of Rachel.” The lady looked stressed, possibly even scared, but carried herself in a very indignant manner none-the-less, thought Miller.
“Yes, and my name is Daniel Parker, I’m… I was a housing officer at Bury council.”
“Okay, well listen, let’s be perfectly frank – I know who you both are, I’ve seen you both on the news, I’ve read the reports in the Evening News. But what I really need to know from you guys is, what you want from me?” Miller was smiling, he was trying his best to be charming – but the truth was, he just wanted this matter off his to-do list.
“Well,”
“I’m…”
Both visitors had tried to speak at the same time. The young man, Daniel waved his hand to allow Maureen to speak.
“DCI Miller, I’m here because I want you to support us. Please, just hear me out. I know that you have already given a statement to the press. But, if we could just get an official statement from you, saying that you think the case still has a lot of unanswered questions – it could, I mean, it might be enough to help us to get a re-trial.” Maureen looked sad, and desperate.
Miller exhaled loudly and opened his mouth as though he was about to speak. Daniel got in first. “As you might have heard already DCI Miller, I worked for the council – and we were actively discouraged from voicing our thoughts about the case. The council felt that it was inappropriate to shine any additional light onto the council’s handling of the Haughton Park affair. But, I’ve left that job Sir, because I want to talk about it. I want to help the couple who have found themselves at the heart of a massive miscarriage of justice.” Daniel looked like the kind of young bloke that lived for his music and his weekends, his hairstyle and clothes made Miller think that he probably liked Oasis, Paul Weller and probably a bit of the Inspiral Carpets too. He probably played in a band himself, thought the DCI. He certainly didn’t look like the average do-gooder that would leave a well paid, secure job to stand up for a miscarriage of justice. Miller smiled, and realised that he had warmed to Daniel instantly.
“I get that. Okay, let’s push the elephant out of the room right now, okay? Let’s get a few facts straight.”
Both visitors nodded.
“Now then,” continued the DCI. “I’m not going to bore you with the details and ins and outs of my work, and the role of the Crown Prosecution Service when there has been a murder. But, what I will say – right, is that I have done my job on this case. I swear to God, and I swear on my Grandad’s grave that I’m totally, one hundred per cent confident that my investigation has exposed the truth. I’ve interviewed your daughter,” Miller had his eyes focused on Maureen. He looked sincere, and kind, and almost apologetic for the harsh reality of what he was saying. “And I also interviewed your son-in-law as well. Nice people. But, there is absolutely no question that my investigation was at fault. I mean, come on – they did it. I had enough evidence to prove that, and that was what the jury agreed with. I appreciate that you’re upset about it, and yes – it does sound as though there are circumstances that should have been made clear at the trial. But those circumstances have been kept in the dark until now. I’m really, truthfully at a loss as to what you think speaking
to me will achieve.”
“I just want…” Maureen started speaking, but Miller cut her up by holding his hand in the air.
“Imagine, if you will, that this isn’t a police station, but it’s a bakery. Now, what has happened here is a loaf of bread has been baked, by me. But it is now in the van, on the way to the supermarket – and I’m busy baking more bread.”
Maureen and Daniel glanced at each other, both looking embarrassed, and a little bewildered and confused by Miller’s bizarre illustration.
“The loaf is now in the hands of Tesco, and if you want to buy it – I can’t help you. I have absolutely nothing to do with that loaf anymore.”
“With respect DCI Miller, that is a ridiculous remark.” Dan looked quite angry.
“I’m simply trying to tell you in an easy way, that it’s not my department. It’s got nothing at all to do with me. Nothing at all.”
“But Maureen has already said – we are trying to gather together high-profile people who will go on the record to say that this looks like the miscarriage of justice that it is.” Dan’s voice was getting angrier as he spoke.
“Wayne Rooney has gone on record saying that it’s a scandal.” Maureen spoke with an assured confidence, as though she had just placed her ace on the table. Miller seemed slightly embarrassed, as he shifted in his seat.
“Look, Maureen, Daniel. With the best will in the world, Rachel and Michael have sleep walked into this themselves. I honestly don’t call it a miscarriage of justice. It’s more of a worst case scenario, for them. Now, I will accept that the story has changed quite significantly now that the trial has ended – but that is not unusual. It happens every single week.” Miller really did want the two visitors to understand that he couldn’t help, but he wanted to do it in as friendly, and gentle a manner as possible.
“We’re not saying…”
“Listen to me. My personal opinions on whether or not Rachel and Mick got a fair trial are public. I personally think that they did, based on the false confession, Rachel’s
refusal to comment. We can only work off the facts that are in front of us, and the lack of any additional information from your daughter has caused this situation. When we interview suspects, we say things like ‘please mention anything which you may later rely on in court’ for this precise reason.”
“He’s not going to help us,” said Dan out of the corner of his mouth.
“How can you be so cold?” asked Maureen, staring straight at the DCI. Her voice cracked with emotion.
“Listen.” Miller sat back in his chair and pressed his fingers together. “You two are doing your thinking with your hearts. Just give your heads a chance to understand the situation. Michael and Rachel are both in a lot of trouble as a direct result of their behaviour. I know that isn’t what you want to hear. But come on, let’s be mature and honest here. You both know that they are guilty. Whichever way you dress it up – they did the crime, and now they are doing the time. It’s pretty embarrassing that their story has now changed, and they want to have a re-trial based on what really happened. It’s not Coronation Street you know, or Broadchurch - this is what it’s like in real life.”
Dan stood. “Come on Maureen. He’s not worth wasting any more breath on.”
“I’m sorry Daniel, but I’m only trying to help you to see the facts, and with all due respect, it’s not my problem.” Miller had his hands open, he really wanted to get his message across.
“He’s wasting our time Maureen. Come on,” said Dan.
“You don’t need to be rude and unpleasant.” Miller was getting slightly irritated by Dan’s attitude. The warmth that he’d felt towards him earlier was definitely cooling.
“Thank you, anyway Mr Miller,” said Maureen, as she followed Dan to the door. The DCI didn’t say anything – there wasn’t really anything that he felt he could say. Maureen turned as she reached the open doorway. She stared at Miller, and it became obvious that she was intent on having the last word. “For the record – Rachel believed that she was protecting somebody who was having a really bad time of it.
That’s why she didn’t say nothing. And it’s turned out that the woman she was trying to protect was taking the piss out of everybody all along. It’s evil, what’s happened to my girl. And I’m going to get justice about it! You mark my words Mr Miller!”
Chapter Two
“NOT MY PROBLEM!” screamed the headline on the front page of the Manchester Evening News, alongside a photograph of Clare Miller’s husband, grinning.
“What the…” she muttered, strugg
ling to cope with the unexpected shock of seeing her husband on the front of the newspaper as she queued to pay for her petrol. She lifted up the paper from the stand and scanned the story.
“Yes please?” asked the man behind the counter, but Clare couldn’t hear him. Her mind was racing, her head was spinning. This newspaper article was completely rubbishing her husband and she couldn’t take it in. The man behind her tapped her on the shoulder.
“Whaaa…” She turned and realised. “Oh, right – thanks.” Clare shuffled up to the counter, placed the newspaper in front of the attendant and looked out of the window, looking to see which number pump she had parked at.
“Number… four, please. And this paper.”
“No problem, that’s forty pounds and seventy pence please.”
Clare’s hand was trembling as she placed her card into the slot and pushed in the pin number, her mind was still fuzzy, struggling to understand why the press were turning on Andy. As soon as she was back in the car, she read the article from start to finish, oblivious of the fact that there was a car patiently waiting behind her.
“That’s not fair!” she said eventually. She turned the key and started the car, pulling out of the garage forecourt and onto the busy East Lancs road in Swinton. “Bastards!” she muttered as she realised that her adrenaline was racing.
Clare collected the twins, Leo and Molly from nursery and headed home, listening to her excited children’s amazing tales of fun and adventure from their pre-school session. By the time that she’d arrived home, played with the twins and had begun cooking the tea, she’d forgotten all about the shock of seeing Andy on the front of the Evening News.
As soon as her husband arrived home, and she saw
that he was in an angry mood, she quickly remembered the newspaper article again.