ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist

by Steven Suttie

  “Sir.”

  “Yes Sir,”

  “Crystal clear, Sir.”

  “Okay, well, that is my item number one concluded. But item number one leads us straight onto item number two, as the two things are connected. Detective Inspector Saunders will be stepping into the scruffiest office within this entire building, and will be taking over DCI Miller’s responsibilities with immediate effect. Now, I know that you lot have a very relaxed, almost childish affection for one another that ends up with lots of banter and immature comments. While I would have no complaints about this in normal circumstances, I am telling you all to knock it on the head for the time being.”

  The members of the small SCIU team looked around one another, wearing sheepish grins and offering one another mischievous glances.

  “This is a big ask of DI Saunders, particularly in the current climate and I don’t think that you lot filling buckets of cold water and leaving them on top of half opened doors is going to help him step in to this temporary position as acting DCI.”

  There was a mild laugh from a few of the DC’s, mainly at the Beano-esque example of mischief that the DCS had imagined these people to get up to.

  “So, please, we all have a great deal of respect for DI Saunders, so, lets really show that respect by being even more helpful, good natured and co-operative to him as he steers the ship. And no, there won’t be any extra money Keith.”

  There was a big laugh, except from DC Bill Chapman, who still looked extremely stressed and puffed out.

  “Okay, finally from me, we don’t know how long DCI Miller will be away from us for – but we are hoping that it will be a matter of hours and days rather than weeks and months. I’ll hand you over to DI Saunders for the remainder of this team brief and once again, make sure you are all trying doubly hard to support him. Thank you all.” Dixon began to walk to the side, to allow DI Saunders to stand and take over the briefing, but Rudovsky interrupted him, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Sorry Sir, one question, but it seems like the piss is being taken here. How can the Chief Constable justify sending our boss off somewhere else while our own workload is killing us?” Rudovsky was leaning back on her chair, and had a cock-sure look about herself as she brushed her short, spikey black hair forward at the fringe and awaited a response from the DCS.

  Dixon stepped back into the centre of the room. “This is an exceptional situation Jo. I hate being so secretive, but it is a secret what DCI Miller is doing, so I can’t really say any more about it.”

  “Come on Sir, we’re not thick. If its that important, I think the least you can do is organise for some extra staff to come in and help us out. I can’t believe we’re losing the boss, and we’ll be losing DI Saunders as well as he starts drowning under all that paperwork. That leaves the fantastic SCIU team at its weakest strength ever, and with more work than we’ve ever had before. It’s all going tits up.”

  Dixon’s face was getting redder as he considered his response. He managed to sound calm as he replied to DC Jo Rudovsky, but it was a close run thing. Inside, he was furious at such an unprofessional outburst. There was a time and a place for such comment, but not from a Detective Constable. Not ever.

  “Now, I’ll forgive that completely inappropriate outburst Jo, I’ll put it down to your gender. Women can be very illogical, and this is a prime example of that emotional outburst that has had very little strategic thought put into it.”

  “What the…” Jo slapped her fist against her leg.

  “Ah, sorry, was that inappropriate of me? I do apologise.”

  There was an uncomfortable mood in the room. Dixon was glaring at Rudovsky. She was looking back, with a cocky, almost aggressive stare.

  “I recognise that you are facing pressure with this decision but the officers throughout every police force in Great Britain are feeling the same pain Jo. It’s not just here, in Manchester. The same strains, the same lack of resources and manpower is stretched right across every force. Now, if you are trying to make me reveal where Andy is by making me angry, it’s not going to work. And when you do eventually find out what Andy is working on, you’ll regret those remarks. Now don’t speak to me again like that Jo, not in front of colleagues, or in private. Next time you will be in a disciplinary hearing with your union rep.” Even though he was an old man now, Dixon still very much knew how to deliver a harsh, straight to the point bollocking, and now it was Rudovsky who had the red face.

  “Sir.” She said, looking down at her jeans, fidgeting with a fray on the seam.

  “We’re all feeling the strain Jo, like I said. I know that you probably think that us top brass in the Ivory Towers are immune from the cuts that are strangling our police service, but we’re not. Things will get better, in time, so just bite your bottom lip, like the rest of us are having to do, and get on with it. Okay?”

  “Sir.”

  “Okay, as you were Detective Inspector Saunders.” Dixon stepped away once more, this time he kept his eyes trained on Jo Rudovsky. She remained bollocked, staring down at her leg, and feeling just a little stupid for over-stepping the mark in such a spectacularly self-defeating fashion. The patronising phrases that Dixon had used would be recycled again and again by her colleagues for many months to come, she just knew it. She could still hear him saying “you’ll regret those remarks,” and “don’t speak to me like that again, Jo.” She wondered which of her work-friends would be the first to repeat it.

  DC Bill Chapman was still feeling the pressure. He sat, and nodded and listened to the team brief, and made the appropriate comments and contributions where they were required. But he still looked uncharacteristically weary, and worried. Dixon made subtle observations of his demeanour, along with Rudovsky’s, and he was picking up a bad feeling. Normally, any requirement for gee-ing up of the staff was Miller’s forte, he was extremely gifted at motivating staff. But in his absence, Dixon realised that Chapman’s upcoming bollocking would need revising, and very probably down-grading to an arm-around-the-shoulder session.

  It took Saunders almost an hour to go through the previous weeks’ developments in the department, to discuss the progress and the couple of successful conclusions, along with the growing list of frustrations, dead-ends and failures. The SCIU department was facing something of a bottle-neck situation at present; lots of “nearly theres” were stacking up, and a sense of “close-but-no-cigar” was the natural, morale sapping outcome. Saunders realised that he had a big job of work here, trying to motivate these jaded detectives. He tried to keep eye contact with his four DC’s throughout the briefing. He could read from their dejected looking faces that Worthington, Chapman, Rudovsky and Kenyon were overwhelmed with work, and underwhelmed with resources.

  “So, I’ll leave it with you, and as we’ve discussed we’ve got the shop closed sign on the door until further notice, so we are dealing exclusively with our live case-loads. There won’t be any additional work taken on by the SCIU until we review this decision again in seven days time. Thanks guys, you know where I am if you need anything.” Saunders began tidying up the files and papers that he’d been using in the briefing. The mood was flat in the SCIU office, due to several factors – but mainly the presence of Dixon, and the way that he’d been with Chapman and Rudovsky. The detectives that hadn’t received a tongue-lashing, Mike Worthington and Peter Kenyon, were both sat with their partners that had been in Dixon’s firing line. They felt just as awkward, because they had been unable to defend their respective colleagues.

  All in all, it had been a challenging team brief, and although Miller had only been missing for one morning, the entire team were feeling his absence greatly.

  “DC Chapman, can you come upstairs please, to my office.” Dixon said it quietly as he walked past Bill Chapman’s chair. Chapman didn’t say anything, he just stood and began following the Detective Chief Super as he marched quickly out of the SCIU incident room, out onto the corridor, and then up two flights of stairs, until the two men reache
d the top floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  DCI Miller was agitated. His nerves were getting fraught. “Right, it’s mid-day. I was hoping that we’d have found at least one clue to explain why Sergeant Knight didn’t make it home last night. There’s nothing. Jack-shit. Have we had any news back from the mobile phone people?”

  DS Talbot was looking extremely tired now, as she glanced wearily at the notes on her lap. Miller had told her to go home several times, but she wasn’t interested, explaining that she wouldn’t sleep anyway. DS Lisa Talbot was working on adrenaline alone now, and Miller was sympathetic. He knew the feeling all too well. He couldn’t force her to leave the enquiry, and anyway, he was impressed by her dedication and drive, especially as she was working under a stranger who had been quite arsey with her a few times already. Miller knew that most detective sergeants would have thought “get stuffed mate,” by now. It was to Talbot’s credit that she was showing such professionalism.

  “The mobile phone mast operators are scanning their systems, they are looking for all mobile phone numbers that commenced two outgoing calls between eleven fifty five and twelve ten. But, as we discussed it’s a needle in a haystack, because we don’t know what the pre-fix number of Sergeant Knight’s second phone is. I mean, if we knew he was on the EE network, we’d be able to search all EE numbers that made two calls. We’re completely blind, and the mobile operators have all said that it’s a lottery.”

  “Yes, but, there may only be a handful of numbers that made two calls between twelve and ten past. It is a rural area, after all.”

  “Sir, it’s a rural area with a population of fifty five thousand people. The majority of whom will have mobile phones. It’s not a bloody village in Midsomer Murders, Sir!” Talbot was trying to make a light-hearted joke, but the delivery was a bit wooden, and neither of them were really in the mood for a gag anyway. Miller ignored it, and Talbot blushed very slightly.

  “So, we have to sit tight and hope that we get a number. Meanwhile India Nine Nine, the Manchester force helicopter has flown back to Bolton via Lancaster, following the route you suggested. Nothing.”

  Talbot looked disappointed. She scored a line through the note on her pad that read “chopper A6?”

  “Good call though!” said Miller, keen to give Talbot the necessary credit. “It means we have got both possible routes back to Bolton covered. Both have been checked, so we can rule out an accident on a quiet section of the road for over two hundred miles.”

  “What do you think is going on, Sir?” Talbot was desperate to hear something that could give her a bit of a boost, a bit of encouragement. Miller read the signs, and decided to share his thoughts now that the most rational, most likely Plan A; crashed into a bush theory seemed to have run its course.

  “From what I can gather, he’s a popular member of staff. He’s a big strong chap, so he can probably stick up for himself. If something violent had happened, I’d expect there to have been a bit of blood or something. But nothing has been reported back, so we don’t even have a crime scene. So, I’m not sure… but he might have topped himself.”

  “What?”

  “It’s my plan B.” Miller looked Talbot straight in the eye. “How often do you hear it? People topping themselves, and then everybody says ‘he was the last person you’d have thought would kill themselves?’ It happens all the time.”

  “I’m not buying that, Sir. No way.”

  “Why not?” Miller looked slightly amused by Talbot’s instantaneous rubbishing of his opinion.

  “God, there’s about ten reasons.” The DS brushed her shiny black hair behind her ear as she sat up straighter on the hard chair.

  “Go on,” said Miller, impressed by Talbot’s couldn’t-give-a-shit, straight-to-the-point attitude.

  “He asked his wife what was for tea, for one. He phoned his wife up for a chat, for two. He phoned two other people up, and was laughing and joking, is three. The fact that he’s gone on a seventy-odd mile bike ride is four. Who

  can be arsed doing all that if it’s to top yourself?”

  “Five?” asked Miller, with an eyebrow raised. DS Talbot thought about it for a few seconds.

  “He was due in work at ten pm.”

  Miller smiled cautiously. Talbot looked annoyed.

  “So, you’ve got four reasons why he’s not behind a rock somewhere full of tablets, not ten. And they are all based on his behaviour at McDonalds.” Miller looked down at the desk, and the various pieces of paper that were typed and hand-written. “We haven’t got a clue – literally. But in my experience, that doesn’t remain the case for long. It’s bloody frustrating, I know. But it’ll all come to light. It always does. Now, why don’t you go and jump in John’s car, and rest your eyelids? Tell John to come in here and have a brew.”

  “No, honestly…”

  “That’s an order, DS Talbot. Don’t sulk, you’ll thank me for it. Go on. Half an hour power-nap.”

  DS Talbot stood, and said “Sir,” very quietly. She looked shattered and Miller wondered if a nap was the answer. Sometimes, they can be counter-productive. But in any case, thought the DCI, she looked like shit and she wasn’t really helping to find Sergeant Knight while she was trying to discount suggestions about the missing policeman’s whereabouts without any proof or reason.

  A few minutes later, John, the traffic officer wandered into the Mobile Incident Room.

  “Oh, DCI Miller, there you are. Did you want me?” John was leaning into the bus, having a nosey at the unit. He’d not seen this one before.

  “Hi, yes, DS Talbot needs a nap. Are you alright to give her half an hour? They are doing teas and coffees in the hotel there. Just pop in there and get comfy. I’ll come and find you if we need to move.”

  “Yes, absolutely, no problem. Unless, you have anything I could be doing?”

  “I’m afraid not. That’s just the problem. We’re at a bit of a stalemate. But it’ll be right. Go and get a brew John.”

  “Sir.”

  Miller was tapping his pen against the desk. He was re-reading the reports that he’d been given. He couldn’t remember feeling so frustrated by a case. How can a police sergeant just vanish? It was such an unusual situation, and if, as HQ had suspected – that it was somehow a terrorist activity, then surely the terrorists would have made contact by now? The same could be said if it was a kidnap. Miller had no plausible reason to suspect any particular theory. The fact was, there was absolutely nothing to go on.

  Miller began doodling, and as soon as he realised what he was doing, a frustration washed over him, as the seriousness of the situation came flooding back. This was about as serious as it got in his role, investigating a crime that was live, rather than investigating an old crime that had already happened, one that had already been investigated once by divisional CID. This was absolutely massive, as big as it got, and a colleague’s life was very probably at stake. This was not the appropriate time for doodling on a scrap of paper.

  Miller realised that he needed some inspiration from somewhere, he desperately needed his fuse lighting. He stood, walked down the steps and out of the incident room vehicle and stepped onto the crunching gravel of the car park.

  “Just going for five minutes fresh air,” he said to nobody in-particular. There were a couple of “yes-Sir” and “Thank you Sir,” comments from the officers that were standing around the vehicle, trying and failing to look engaged in the investigation. As he set off walking up the steep hill opposite the Inn at Whitewell, Miller took his phone from his pocket, looked up SAUNDERS in the address book, and pressed the call icon.

  Despite strict instructions to keep this case a secret, Miller knew that he needed a spark, and that the best person to give it to him was his right hand man at the SCIU, DI Keith Saunders. The call connected.

  “Sir, alright?” Saunders seemed pleased to be receiving the call, his voice sounded full of warmth.

  “Hi Keith, how’s it going?”

  “Shit. But how ab
out you, what the hell is going

  on?”

  Miller talked Saunders through the situation. He was

  near the top of the steep hill when he’d finally gone through Sergeant Knight’s disappearance.

  “Sir, are you alright?”

  “What… what do you mean?”

  “You sound awful, you sound like an old man!”

  “Oh, its nowt, I’m just walking up a big massive hill.”

  “Bloody hell, you sound like you’re going to die! Do you want me to ring an ambulance?”

  “Shut it. Right, so what I’ve just told you is strictly confidential. One hundred per cent private, between me and you – if anyone else hears about it I’ll be on a gross misconduct.” Miller was pleased to find a bench at the very top of the hill. He sat down and took a deep breath, admiring the view across the Trough of Bowland. “All I’m saying is, don’t breath a word about this to anyone.”

  “Come off it Sir, it’s me you’re talking to.” Saunders sounded slightly offended.

  “I know, I know. But I even said to Dixon that I wanted you involved and he said no way. So, I’m being double naughty.”

  “Alright, understood. But listen, my sister’s bloke is really into his cycling, it’s becoming a big sport here you know, Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish and all these big stars are really putting it on the map.”

  “Yeah, I know. But what’s that got to do with it?”