“Well, my brother-in-law, he uses an app, he was showing it me the other week, it’s called Strava. It’s just an app you put on your phone. It tracks your phone with GPS satellite so basically, when you get home, you look at the app and it tells you exactly where you’ve been, how many miles you’ve done, how many metres you’ve gone up hills… everything. It even draws your route on a map that you can print off. It’s ace. Most of the cyclists are using this, or similar apps. Thing is though,” said Saunders, “It’s free. He was showing it to me last weekend, it’s a bloody impressive piece of kit considering its free!”
Saunders sounded very enthusiastic about this piece
of phone software, and it lifted Miller’s spirits to hear him talking so enthusiastically. But he couldn’t really see what it had to do with anything.
“So, anyway, about Sergeant Knight?”
“Well I was about to say, he’s bound to have this app, if he’s cycling as much as you say. It’s like Facebook for cyclists. It publishes your speeds, notes down your personal bests, it’s a vital bit of kit for a serious cyclist nowadays. If he had Strava recording his ride, then it will tell you exactly where got to.”
The penny finally dropped in Miller’s mind. He finally understood the point of what Saunders was leading to. “Fucking hell!”
“Exactly. Where does he ride from, Bolton?”
“Yes, well, Bromley Cross.”
“And he rides up the A treble-six?”
“Usually, according to his wife.”
“Give me ten minutes.” Saunders hung up. Miller felt a wave of optimism and confidence flow through him. He’d been desperate to have this kind of input. “Top man Keith,” he muttered as he realised that his breathing had returned to normal. Miller stayed put on the bench, admiring the outstanding view of the unspoilt countryside, resisting the urge to punch the air. “You really are a bloody legend, Saunders!” He said to himself, knowing in his gut that his DI had probably just uncovered the first lead in this very tense and scary case.
Chapter Thirteen
The top floor of Manchester police’s HQ was the shiniest, cleanest and quietest place within the building. It was the place where the least amount of work was done too, thought every single police officer in the force. Up here, the elite police officers made the plans and decisions that were to keep the city’s three million people safe and protected. There was a lot of responsibility up here on these corridors. It was also an extremely intimidating place, especially for DC Bill Chapman. He knew that this, his first ever visit up these stairs was not to receive a big thank you for the eighteen years exemplary service, the unpaid late nights, the divorce, the ever-nagging and ever worsening drink problem, and all of the new workload stress too. Oh no, it wasn’t for a thanks, thought Chapman as he tried to keep his pace up with Dixon’s. It was for a bollocking, for forgetting about one stupid fucking pointless meeting.
On the top floor, the most senior police officers in the metropolitan city of Greater Manchester held their office, along with their private secretaries and administrators. Most notably, was the office of Sir William Stephenson, the Chief Constable. Further along the corridor, the Deputy Chief Constable and five Assistant Chief Constables, along with an array of Chief Officers who looked after non-police activity departments such as finance, transport, press relations, human resources, and such like. This floor had more in common with a town hall than it did with any of its sixty-two police stations across the Greater Manchester area. There was never any blood splattered officers wandering around here looking disillusioned and cynical, thought Chapman, as he observed how sterile everything was along these corridors of power.
Detective Chief Superintendent Dixon’s office was just along the corridor, and around the corner. It seemed miles away, but it really wasn’t that far at all. Dixon suddenly stopped marching on ahead, he opened an office door and gestured Chapman through.
This was Dixon’s office sure enough, thought the
Detective Constable as he stepped inside, into the famous musty, dusty smell that his colleagues had described. His previous DI, Karen Ellis used to describe the smell as an old Headmaster’s study. Miller described it as smelling like an old charity shop. Now that Chapman was here, he knew exactly what they had meant. It smelled of old people’s old stuff, he concluded.
“Take a seat.”
“Sir.”
“Right, Chapman, you’re giving me cause for concern.” Dixon didn’t make any eye contact as he spoke, he was looking at a yellow post-it note that had appeared on his desk.
“Sorry, Sir… I…”
Dixon held his hand up, stopping the DC in his tracks. “One moment, please – sorry – it’s something I have to deal with straight away.” Dixon lifted the phone.
“No, I… it’s fine.” Said Chapman. He looked a little embarrassed as Dixon completely ignored him and began talking into his phone.
“Yes, it’s Dixon. What’s all this about?” Dixon walked over to the window, and stood there, looking out across the Manchester skyline, over the church steeples, railway bridges, the apartment blocks and the famous Victorian town hall clock tower.
“No, we need to keep it out of the news. That’s a priority. Well I’ll put a black-out media release together, and I’ll tell the BBC regional director to manage it. Possibly, but that will be a decision that’s taken later today, if not early tomorrow if the situation remains unaltered. Thanks. Okay. I’ll talk to you later Andy. Thanks.”
Dixon put the phone down heavy. It wasn’t a slam, but it was nearly a slam and it made Chapman jump slightly. His nerves were shot, and he felt bloody stupid sat up here, waiting for a bollocking off the big cheese.
“Sorry. Right, where were we?” asked Dixon, as he came around to where Chapman was sitting in front of his desk. He pulled up a chair next to the DC. “Is everything alright?” asked Dixon. He had a kind, concerned look on his
face, his steel blue eyes were searching Chapman’s.
“Sir?” Bill Chapman felt weird. This was a curve ball. The DCS, sat next to him, asking if he’s alright. This was not in the script, thought Chapman as he looked down at his lap, breaking the intense, and downright intrusive staring.
“I have been watching you. You’re struggling with something. I don’t know what it is Bill, but I want to help.”
“I thought you said you had a bone to pick with me?”
“Well, I do. I want to get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s affecting you. Affecting your performance.”
“Sir, who has…”
“Nobody has said anything. Don’t start being paranoid. Now we both know that Miller would have pinned your bollocks to the wall if you’d missed his team brief. Why are you assuming that I’m any different?”
“I’m not, it’s just, it all seems a bit much, coming up here…” Chapman wished that he had the courage to say what he really felt. He really wished he could voice his thoughts about never being invited upstairs for a pat on the back and a vol-au-vant when his work had banged up some of the nastiest bastards that Manchester had ever witnessed. But no, he was far too sensible to say what he really thought.
“Well, I like you Bill. I always have. You just seem, I don’t know. You’re not like the Bill Chapman I have known in the past. The smile’s gone, you’re getting fat. You’ve become weary. Look at the redness in your face. You’ve started slouching. To me, you look like a man who is carrying all of the world’s problems on your shoulders. And I don’t like seeing this. I want to take a few of these problems off you, if I can.”
“Sir, with the best will in the world, I thought it was Tuesday. I was off on Monday, attending a funeral, and it’s ballsed my week up. I forgot it was Wednesday, and I set off to see a witness. It’s hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened.” Chapman looked down at the floor as he said it. It was as though he was remembering the worst thing that had ever happened. In that blink of an eye, with that traumatic, haunted look away to the floor, D
ixon saw the turmoil that the detective was experiencing.
“Is this to do with Karen?”
Dixon had struck the bullseye with his first dart. Chapman couldn’t deny it, as his shoulders gave way and his large torso collapsed forward. Chapman’s head was between his knees, and he was crying silently. Dixon put his hand on Chapman’s shoulder and began rubbing very firmly, very slowly.
“You’re going to be alright now. Trust me Bill, you’ll be alright. Just talking about this will help. You’ll see.” Dixon could feel the pain coming from Chapman’s rigid body. The DCS felt a sudden, instant pang of shame that this hadn’t occurred to him before. He wondered if Miller had picked up on it at all. “Come on, let it out Bill. Let it all out.”
Chapter Thirteen
Miller had been sitting on the bench at the top of the hill for ten minutes, and had finally managed to get his breathing back to normal following that steep climb while talking none-stop into the phone. The bench was at the very spot that DS Talbot had been chattering about on the way here, the place that she said was the Queen’s favourite view. It was a stunning seat, right at the very end of Hall Lane, where the road politely took a sharp right, opening up a stunning panoramic view that offered miles upon miles of unspoilt, breath-taking lush, green countryside for as far as the eye could see. Miller sat there, lost in the view, thinking about bringing his wife Clare up here. It really was a special spot.
It wasn’t exactly tranquil today though. Miller could imagine this place being much more peaceful on a normal day, without the police motorbikes droning by, helicopters flying overhead, dog vans and panda cars whizzing around the corner and zooming past the bench every ten seconds or so.
The DCI had hoped to clear his head, to get his mind working a bit sharper while he was alone. But something wasn’t firing for him today. He couldn’t get a foothold, couldn’t find a grip on this investigation into this mysterious disappearance. The lack of progress was making him feel an even greater sense of suffocating pressure, and it was now becoming a distraction. He was starting to feel like his presence here was pointless, that he was bringing nothing to the table, and that kind of negative thinking was bringing with it an even greater sense of doom and despondency.
Miller was about to stand, to walk back down the hill to the Inn at Whitewell when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
It was Saunders. The sight of his colleague’s name on the phone screen lifted the DCI’s spirits immediately. The last call had been from Dixon a few minutes earlier, and that had worsened his sense of hopelessness. It was a relief to see Saunders name on the screen.
“Hi Keith, alright?”
“Right Sir, here we go.” Saunders was buzzing, Miller
could tell from his voice. “Have you got a pen?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At the top of a hill near the Inn at Whitewell.”
“Okay. Got it. I can see Whitewell on this map. Right, Sergeant Knight’s bike ride ended yesterday afternoon Sir, I can see where, what time, everything. It’s about two, possibly three miles away from Whitewell, headed west.”
“Seriously?”
“If you have an internet connection…”
“It’s not the best here, to be honest. Middle of nowhere.”
“Well, jot down his user name, you can see all of his activities on there when you’re back online, all his rides, all his friends, all his personal bests. It’s all recorded. The website you need is called Strava dot com.”
“What are you telling me Keith? Have you got me a result?” The hope in Miller’s voice was clear.
“I don’t know if it’s a result, but it’s definitely a game changer.” Saunders had his confident, enthusiastic voice on, which filled Miller with confidence too.
“Honestly?”
“Oh yeah, you’re going to be kissing my arse for a while after this!”
“Go on,” said Miller, now beginning to feel an overwhelming sense of progress, just fifteen minutes after breaking the secrecy rule and talking to DI Saunders, who was in the SCIU office, over in Manchester.
“Right, the username is quite predictable to be honest - it’s KnightRider74 – how old is Sergeant Knight?”
“Er, forty-one I think.”
“Born in seventy four. That’s him. Knight Rider Seventy Four. He set off from his house on Blackpool Road, Bolton at nine thirty six yesterday morning, I can see the exact route that he took, getting onto Blackburn Road and then all the way along to Clitheroe, he then rode around a circuit of villages, the last one being Chipping. Then, half way along the road to Clitheroe, near a little village called
Chaigley, at thirteen fifty three hours. He has turned his Strava off. It just stops in the middle of the road, slap bang in the middle of nowhere.”
This was absolutely incredible.
Miller realised that he was standing with his mouth wide-open as a police motorcyclist drove past, staring at the DCI in a peculiar way. Miller couldn’t care less – his prayers had been answered, it really sounded like he finally had something to go on.
“Flipping heck Keith. You got all that from this Strava app?”
“Yep. Thing is though Sir, anyone can. It’s public. This information I’m giving you is in the public domain, you don’t need to know Knight Rider to see what he’s up to.”
“It’s all public?”
“Well, it’s not exactly public, you need the app. But if you have the app, you can see what everybody is doing. For example, if this was on Facebook, you’d need to be friends with him to see what he posted. On Strava, you don’t need to know the person.”
“Sounds dodgy…”
“No, it’s not. It’s about cycling, and running – so it’s all left open for you to see what times other cyclists have managed to do certain sections in, you can try and beat their times and stuff. From a cycling, or running point of view, it’s brilliant. And if you’re a stalker, it’s absolutely amazing!”
Miller laughed, and felt a giddy wave of excitement flowing through himself.
“God, you’re not wrong. So, just let me get this straight in my head, this Strava works like a car tracker device, and potentially anyone with a computer and an internet connection could see where I am, where it’s parked right now?”
“Exactly the same thing Sir. Except you don’t need a computer, a smart phone is all you need.”
“Shit. That’s mental.”
“It’s got all of his past rides logged as well. Now, if I scroll back to his last activity, that was on Sunday, he did thirty miles around Rivington and Chorley and back home. Let’s see, last Thursday, ah here we go, last Thursday – he’s done the Trough of Bowland trip. There it is, from start to finish. He averaged twenty four kilometers per hour. You really need to see this Sir.”
Miller was trying to imagine what Saunders was seeing on his screen. It sounded as though this Strava software could have made Sergeant Knight a very easy target. If somebody wanted to follow him, to abduct him, then this software that Saunders was describing sounded like the perfect tool to assist a would-be kidnapper.
“Write this down,” said Saunders. “Here is the OS grid reference for where Sergeant Knight’s Strava session stopped.”
“Yes.”
“SD 68781 41677. It’s on the road from Chipping towards Chaigley, heading south in the direction of Clitheroe. That’s your crime scene.”
“Have I ever told you that you’re the best Keith? Fucking hell mate, you are the dog’s balls.”
“Once or twice Sir, once or twice.”
*****
“John, come on.” Miller was out of breath, he’d jogged down the hill, back down to the luxurious country hotel that had become the hub of police activity. The hill was quite steep, and had forced Miller’s jog to become a sprint in places. Once or twice he thought that he was going to tumble.
“Sir?” said John, looking surprised by Miller’s sudden and urgent appearance. John was
holding a cup of coffee, and had been deep in conversation with a few Lancashire police constables in the car park.
“We need to go, on the hurry up please.”
John, the traffic officer on loan from Manchester said a brief farewell to his new contacts as he handed his cup to one of them and walked quickly across the pebbles and gravel stones. Miller had completely forgotten about DS Talbot having forty winks in the car. He was reminded as he attempted to jump in the front passenger seat and almost sat
on top of her.
“Oh, shit sorry.” He said, as he tried to close the door quietly. He opened the rear door and clambered onto the back seat. John was in the driver’s seat and belted up by the time that Miller had closed his door.
“What… oh…” Talbot sat forward, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Right, here we go, John, head west please, we are going to Chaigley – just follow the road. I’ll give you the exact grid reference for where we need to be in a minute. I need a chopper on the scene.”
The police driver reversed the car out of its space with an urgency that was dramatised and amplified by the crunching grit beneath the tyres. The Manchester car gave a short “boo-woop” hoot on the siren to alert anybody behind, or at the side of the vehicle that it was about to head off, at speed.
“Right, DS Talbot, wake up.”
“I’m awake. I don’t think I’ve had a sleep. I was just in that half asleep sort of feeling…”
“Oh, I love that, can’t beat that feeling,” said John as he pressed a little harder on the accelerator. The police car was heading through a dense, heavily wooded area and the road was snaking and bending. Talbot felt alarmed by the speed of the driving, and not in any mood for making small talk to the driver.
“Delta X-Ray Command call. Message for air support - which unit is in the Trough right now, over?” Miller had an edge to his voice, it was the first time that Talbot had heard him speak with any real sense of purpose. This new sense of energy instantly lifted the DS too.
ROAD TO NOWHERE : DCI MILLER 3: Another Manchester Crime Thriller With A Killer Twist Page 8