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

by Steven Suttie

  “Main thing is, we need to hear from any other cyclists who were on that route, and will have seen Sergeant Knight, but more importantly, the van that has knocked him off. Did any cyclists, walkers, other road users notice a van acting suspiciously? Driving recklessly? Parking up, waiting, slowing down, following them, looking dodgy? Did anyone see somebody who was drunk getting in a van at a nearby pub? That’s the number one priority. All we need is one cyclist to say there was a van and the driver looked at him with crazy eyes. Once we have that van in our sights, we’ve got everything we need.”

  “And how many vans do you suppose there will be that use the Trough of Bowland on an average day Andy?”

  “Probably a lot. Probably twenty or more. But I’ll bet the people in the pubs, the shops and farms that they are delivering to will know exactly who they are. Trust me Sir, it’s going to be a piece of piss to eliminate all the vans that were in the Trough of Bowland yesterday.”

  “Except one?”

  “Except one. Precisely. But we’ll soon get that part of the puzzle straightened out. Okay Sir, I’ll leave that with you. If it’s going public, I’ll borrow Saunders now, then?”

  “Well, er, he is exceptionally busy…”

  “Not trying to find a policeman that is missing, in extraordinarily suspicious circumstances though, is he Sir?”

  “Okay, Andy. Speak to Saunders about it, if you wish.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  3.30PM

  “Yet, despite the sheepish smiles and embarrassed grins, the question still remains – how is it physically possible for the British Prime Minister to go home, and leave one of his children, unattended in the pub? Many here are asking the same question; if the Prime Minister can’t even manage to get his own family home from a pub lunch, is he really a man who should be trusted with running the whole country? Back to you in the studio.”

  “Okay, thank you Mike, and some breaking news that’s just reaching us now from Manchester Police,” said the afternoon presenter on Sky News, Sue Bentley, as a whooshing sound effect was heard and a bright yellow banner flashed across the screen. “This is a press release that has just been released in the last few minutes. It says…”

  Sue Bentley’s face disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by a photograph of the missing policeman, Sergeant Jason Knight, looking happy and relaxed, enjoying a laugh.

  “Police Sergeant Jason Knight, based at Bolton Police Station has been reported missing. He was out on a bike ride yesterday, and never returned home. Manchester Police say that their officers are extremely concerned about him. Our north of England reporter Paul Mitchell joins us on the line. Paul.”

  “Yes, good afternoon Sue.”

  “Pretty unusual press release from Manchester?”

  “Absolutely right Sue, this is a highly unusual situation. A serving police officer, a sergeant in fact, becoming the centre of a missing-person inquiry. It is an extremely unusual set of circumstances.”

  “So what are the police saying Paul? They have released a very vague press release which says that he went off on his bike yesterday, and travelled north from his home in Bolton…” A map illustration of Lancashire appeared on the screen, superimposed over the top of the photograph of Jason Knight. Sue Bentley explained the route to viewers, and to Paul Mitchell, concluding that the policeman should have arrived home at roughly four pm the previous afternoon. “It’s almost twenty four hours since he was due home, and this is being described by Manchester and Lancashire police forces as an unprecedented case.”

  “Yes, well, we are hoping for more news soon, and the police have said that there will be a press conference sometime within the next few hours.” Paul Mitchell was speaking down the phone, and viewers could tell that he, and Sue Bentley were feeling the sense of adrenaline, the excitement and raw nervousness that a big, breaking story brought the journalists. The sound of anticipation was edging into both of their voices as they began to realise that this was the beginning of a major news story. One that would take over the channel’s output for the next few hours, if not the next day. Possibly even longer.

  “In the meantime,” continued Paul, “Manchester Police are asking us to show this video. It was recorded yesterday, roughly around about noon at McDonalds, on the A59 near Clitheroe, an idyllic, small, isolated rural town halfway between Preston and Skipton. These pictures are the last known sighting of Sergeant Knight. After these pictures were recorded, nobody knows what happened to the missing policeman.”

  “He looks quite happy, he looks very relaxed?” said Sue, in her unique “chatty” style, which made the statement sound more like a question.

  “Yes, again Sue, this is what is really concerning Sergeant Knight’s colleagues. By all accounts, this is a very happily married, father of two young children. He went out on his bike yesterday, to do this familiar ride, which he does at least once per week. Apparently he is a man who has no troubles, and is described by colleagues as a lovely, kind hearted gentleman.”

  “So do we know what the police are assuming has happened to Sergeant Knight?” asked Sue.

  This kind of rhetorical, hypothetical waffle was to continue on Sky News, as well as on the BBC News channel for the next hour or so. Big breaking news stories, particularly at the very beginning, required lots of air-time filling, looped questions and answers that were essentially asking and saying the same things over and over again, but phrased slightly differently to try and keep the viewers at home intrigued.

  Sky News were the first to break from their loop of speculative waffle, when they broadcast live pictures from above the Trough of Bowland. The Sky-copter crew could see, and transmit the activities that were taking place. It was these first pictures that really managed to hammer home what a massive police operation was taking place on the ground. The TV channel was showing images of hundreds of police officers, dozens upon dozens of white roofed police vans, an ambulance, a police helicopter that was circling the scene, along with a convoy of around fifty, possibly sixty police motorbikes being driven around, or parked in long queues. The images kept coming into the Sky News centre, aerial views above the Inn at Whitewell, with the police command unit in the form of the mobile incident room bus. The sheer size of the operation gave viewers goose-bumps, as the magnitude of the situation really started to hit home.

  With these explicit images of an intense police investigation, viewers were left under no illusion that the police forces in Manchester, and at the location in Lancashire were taking the situation extremely seriously. They were also being treated to some breathtaking views of the countryside, as the helicopter roamed around the vast area looking for the central hub of police activity.

  Eventually, the Sky-copter stumbled across the scene of most interest, and within seconds, they were beaming back overhead shots of the white boiler-suited officers and the familiar white and yellow pop-up tents which had been erected to conceal crime-scenes and areas of significant interest. It was these grainy images that finally gave the Sky News presenters and reporters the food they needed. The shakey, slow-motion, zoomed-in images of SOCO tents and several white-suited officers would be the catalyst for the next hour’s speculation, discussion and hypothetical reporting. The story was finally waking up and coming alive for the news reporters, and most importantly, for the viewers at home.

  But, as the clock reached four o’clock, and still with

  no news of Sergeant Knight’s whereabouts, down on the ground, DCI Miller knew that time was very rapidly running out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Hello, It’s Maureen Birdsworth.” Maureen was at home with a cup of tea. A little plate with two mint viscount biscuits sat beside the brew, on the little “phone” table in the tiny entrance hall to her two-bedroom flat on the Gameshawe Estate. Maureen was on the phone to the local social services office in Bury. She phoned every day at 10am and 4pm. The staff there could set their watches by her.

  “Hi Mrs Birdsworth. It’s Darren, we s
poke yesterday…”

  “Hello Darren. Any news?”

  “Any news on what Mrs Birdsworth?”

  “Aw, for goodness sake. Do you insist that we both pretend that you don’t know what I’m phoning up about, and then I have to say the whole thing all over again? Can we just act like grown ups please Darren?” Maureen was being polite, but it was heavy going with the amount of patronising “professionalism” that she had to encounter and endure on a daily basis.

  “Mrs Birdsworth, with the greatest respect…”

  “Would it make matters easier if I said that I’m phoning about the same thing I spoke to you about yesterday?”

  “I was about to say…”

  “Because every day you are asking me how you can help me, as though you are trying to give me the impression that you don’t know what I’m phoning about. It’s really starting to get on my pip now Darren. It’s starting to make me think, that you think that this is a bloody joke or summat?”

  “No, Mrs Birdsworth, of course I don’t think…”

  “Next time I phone Darren,” interjected Maureen, “please don’t pretend that you don’t know why I’m ringing. Now please will you put the supervisor on, who is it today, Morris?”

  “Yes, it’s Morris, and I’m sorry, honestly I am…”

  “Well, I’ll let you off this time. Now put Morris on, and remember what my family are going through. Have some bloody manners next time I ring... pretending you don’t know what it’s about. Jesus Christ tonight.”

  “Okay, putting you through now Mrs Birdsworth.”

  The phone rang quite a few times, and Maureen could almost hear Darren saying “it’s that mad old cow Mrs Birdsworth again,” across the office floor. She hoped his ear was bright red after the tongue lashing she’d just given him. The smarmy little bastard.

  There was a click. “Mrs Birdsworth, hello, it’s Morris. Darren said he’s sorry, he wasn’t trying…”

  “It’s alright, he’s been told. Now, what have you got for me?”

  There was a silence. Maureen was listening intently, trying to read the tone of Morris’ breathing. Was it a sigh? Was it a nervous intake of breath? Was he breathing out in exasperation?

  “I’m afraid nothing has changed since this morning…”

  “Have you personally checked? Your department I mean?”

  “Yes, yes of course. I can’t tell you how important this matter is to us.”

  “I’ve told you, any other area is fine. We’ll move to bloody Leeds if you can find us a house that’s big enough to satisfy the adoption committee’s requirements.”

  “I know this, honestly, Mrs Birdsworth, you are preaching to the converted here. Nobody understands your plight better than I do.”

  “Well it doesn’t feel like it, and I’ve got the media on my side now as well, so I only have to mention this to them, and life is going to become even worse for you as far as my family is concerned.”

  “As I have said, almost every day for the past six weeks Mrs Birdsworth, we are doing everything that we possibly can do. We want to reunite your family as quickly as is humanly possible.”

  “So if I ring round all the housing places in the north west of England, they are going to say that your department has been in touch today, and has asked if any three bedroom houses have become available?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “What’s that, what’s a manner of speaking?”

  “Well, they will confirm that we are bidding for all three bedroom properties that come onto the waiting list. We’ve extended out now as far as we can possibly reach.”

  “And still nothing? Still not a single three bed-roomed has come up in the whole north of England?”

  “Well, as we have advised you, we would be keen to keep the children in their own schools, so we are concentrating our efforts more locally. It stands us all in greater strength for the adoption committee.”

  “But they are being bloody bullied stupid – they want a different school. For God’s sake you people are supposed to be having their best interests at heart. They’ve all told you they want out, life’s a living bloody hell for them, bullied at school, living with strangers, not allowed out with their mates. They’re only allowed to see me three hours a bloody week. It’s a scandal this. A scandal!” Maureen took a sip of her brew. She knew that this twice daily rant was doing her adversary’s heads in, and that it was also scoring her maximum points on all counts. As suggested by her case worker, Maureen was unequivocally demonstrating that she was one hundred per cent committed to the process of adopting her grandchildren, whilst hopefully zooming the present re-housing obstacle through the system.

  “We are all trying our best, Mrs Birdsworth.”

  Maureen wanted desperately to believe that. Morris’ soft talking voice, and his quiet, subtle, thoughtful ‘mmm’s’ and ‘absolutely’s’ helped to reinforce the image that Morris really was a good bloke, who genuinely was on Maureen’s side.

  “I know Morris, and you know that I really appreciate it. But you know yourself - the system is a load of crap when it can leave those kids in a caravan for eighteen months, but it won’t let them live with me because my flat is too small.”

  “I know, I get it. I totally agree with what you are saying. We all do. There is nobody in this department who isn’t totally committed to getting the children in your

  permanent foster care.” The social worker was doing a great job in trying to sound concerned and compassionate about the Birdsworth family’s issues. Maureen thought that Morris was the best they had in the department. She was qualified to make the assessment too, as she’d met with them all, and spoken at length with them all dozens of times. Morris was definitely her favourite one.

  “It’s not going away, this problem Morris, so please, keep trying. I’ll speak to you tomorrow, ten o’ clock sharp.”

  “I know you will Mrs Birdsworth, and I hope I have more encouraging news for you in the morning.”

  “Okay, well, thanks Morris. Speak to you in the morning.”

  Maureen put the phone down and felt the hot, stinging tears well up once again in her eyes. She had never before felt the suffocating, overwhelming helplessness that she was presently trying to cope with. Right now, after seeing her daughter in such a state, and knowing that her grandkids were so unhappy, and struggling with everything, their foster homes, with school, the bullies, Maureen Birdsworth felt completely helpless.

  But feeling helpless wasn’t an excuse to give up, she told herself, as she dialled the prison’s phone number.

  “Hello, HM Prison Styal, D Wing, how can I help?” The man on the phone sounded like he was watching television, and that this phone call was distracting him.

  “Hello, I’m just phoning up about my daughter, she’s an inmate.”

  “Is it Mrs Birdsworth?” asked the man. He sounded as though his car had just failed its M.O.T.

  “It is, that’s right…” Maureen’s voice lifted a little, she took great encouragement that the Prison Officer recognised her over the phone.

  “Your daughter is fine, Mrs Birdsworth. You don’t need to keep ringing and checking up on her…” There was a cocky hint of humour in his voice now, as though he was trying to entertain somebody else who was in the room with him.

  “Excuse me Sir, do you mind? Don’t be so flipping

  patronising.” Maureen sounded like she’d had a personality change. The pleasant, quiet voice was replaced by a snappy, snarling response.

  “I’m just saying…”

  “Don’t take the mick out of me, you smarmy get! Now, I need to talk to someone about my daughter and you obviously think its funny what’s going on – but I’m scared, and I need to talk to somebody.”

  “What about? Your daughter is perfectly fine, I’ve told you Mrs Birdsworth, and so have all the other staff that you’ve rung. We haven’t got the resources to do you a running commentary you know.” The man was obviously trying to amuse colleague
s in the office, he was showing off and Maureen knew it.

  “What’s your name, eh?”

  “Pollard.”

  “Right, well you put me on to somebody who actually takes an interest in the inmates Mr Pollard, because I can tell from your attitude that you couldn’t care less.”

  “What do you mean, my attitude? Honestly Mrs Birdsworth, you’re not supposed to ring up every day, this is a prison madam, not a nursery school.”

  “Put me on to somebody else I said.”

  “I’m sorry love, I can’t.”

  “The governer, put me on to the governer then please, Mr Pollard.”

  “I’m sorry, but no. You’ve wasted enough of everybody’s…” The phone made a rattling noise, and Maureen thought she heard Pollard say “what?” A second or two later, a lady spoke into the phone. She must have taken it off Pollard, thought Maureen, who was relieved and grateful to hear a different voice.

  “Hello Mrs Birdsworth, my name is Sandra Jones, I’m a Prison Officer on your daughter’s wing.” The lady sounded quite strict, but nice, thought Maureen.

  “Hiya… thanks…”

  “What can I do for you love?” asked Sandra, Maureen thought she could hear that awful Pollard character mumbling something in the background.

  “It’s just my daughter, Rachel. She’s not well,

  honestly, I’ve been in today, to see her. She’s ill, I think she’s gone mental.” Maureen was obviously struggling to say this, the emotion in her voice was forcing her to stop and start as she spoke. She was stuttering.

  “Well, the thing is, Mrs Birdsworth, I see Rachel every day, well, most days, and she has her good days, and she does have her bad days. I’ll be honest with you now, she is having a bad day today, and I can tell you’re upset love, but if I mention to her that you’ve rung up again, worrying about her, its going to make her feel bad. Now, she doesn’t need that stress as well.”

  “Yes, I know, I don’t mean to worry her.” Maureen was crying now, and they were real, shoulder shuddering sobs.