Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  Once both cars were stationary, there was a stalemate, both drivers sitting in their respective seats, unmoving. Then Malachi noticed the police officer get out and walk towards his car. His mind raced – What should I do? - Play it cool, he can’t suspect anything – Don’t act nervous, he’ll think you’re up to something. The more he tried to act calmly, the more nervous he became. On speaking to the officer, Malachi’s heart skipped a beat when he said that there was nothing to worry about, he just had a blown light-bulb to the rear. He had overreacted, there was nothing to stress about after all. Stay calm and you’ll soon be on your way, he told himself. But when the officer started asking him about smoking drugs, the nerves returned. How stupid could he have been? He knew that if the cop searched the car, he would find no “weed,” but he also knew that if he was thorough, he would find a whole lot more than a personal supply of cannabis. His mind went blank. He could not think straight. Everything went into slow motion, the policeman searching every little crevice, every hidey-hole, and finding nothing. Then he asked about the car’s boot. Malachi considered the options – If I open the boot, I’m done for – If I don’t open the boot, he’ll nick me anyway, and still find the package – But if I open it, he might not look inside the bag, I might still get away with it. Malachi opened the car’s boot and stood back. He was shaking, his breath was coming in short sharp gasps, and he felt as if his heart was about to burst. He crossed his fingers behind his back. Please don’t look in the bag, please, PLEASE! For that one moment, he was a little kid again, hoping against all odds that he would not be found out.

  The police officer unzipped the bag. Malachi held his breath. He wanted to shut his eyes, for it all to just go away, but his pupils were fixed to the back of the officer’s head. He vaguely remembered hearing the policeman start to say something. He saw his head begin to lift and turn towards him. He was coming for him. He had to act, and he needed to do it NOW!

  Conscious thought left Malachi’s mind. He acted instinctively. Fight or flight? Reverting back to the child that hid within him, he took hold of the car boot lid and drove it down with all his might, trapping the police officer in the jaws that it created. The officer slumped into the boot space. He attempted to push himself up a second time, but Malachi slammed the boot onto his back again. He was committed now, he had chosen his course of action, and now he needed to see it through to the end. Emitting a guttural roar, he slammed the car boot onto the officer time and again, crushing his ribs, his back, and finally his head. The protruding lock tore skin from his scalp and neck. Blood poured onto his fluorescent yellow jacket and into the car’s interior. Finally, there was no more movement from the policeman. Was he unconscious? Was he dead? Malachi could not tell either way.

  Unsure what to do next, and with the policeman half in, half out of the car boot, he lifted the inert body and shoved it fully into the boot space. He was so psyched-up that he barely heard the almost imperceptible “beep” as something on the man’s wrist caught on the car’s interior. With a sudden release of tension, Malachi slammed the boot shut one last time, trapping the police officer within. With him now out of sight, Mal felt a little more relaxed, in control. He paced back and forth like a trapped tiger, thinking - I’d better dump the body, but where? The Russian will know; I’ll take it to him. With that, he climbed into the driver’s seat, his heart still racing, his body drenched in cold sweat. As he turned the car key and the engine roared into life, he thought he heard voices. He listened intently. The fucking pig’s radio, he thought, I’ve left it on him. They’ll be able to trace it. It’s probably got GPS. He leapt out of the car, opened the boot, and ripped the radio handset off his body armour. With some semblance of controlled thought returning to his mind, Malachi considered what else the police might be able to trace. I’ve gotta look for a mobile phone. They trace them on telly all the time, he thought. He looked in the officer’s pockets, found the phone, and threw it (and the radio) into the dark waters of the drainage channel that ran next to the road. Malachi felt relieved. He had covered his tracks well (or so he thought in his confused state of mind). He shut the boot one final time, climbed behind the wheel, and drove slightly faster than he needed to, wheel-spinning as he headed towards the estate and some much needed help from his boss.

  Along the way, he sent a quick text message.

  “Package collected - Had problem on route back - Will explain when I see you.”

  Chapter 2

  Sergeant Mick Kier had been sat behind his desk at the police station for the last three hours, wading through a pile of crime reports that required his signature, and reading through case files submitted to him for checking by the 2 probationer police constables on his shift. He liked his job, but since his promotion, his role had changed. He longed to be back on the streets alongside his colleagues, fighting crime the way it ought to be done. Instead, he was now relegated to office-work, swamped under a daily deluge of administration. The money was good, as was the responsibility, but it was not the job that he had signed-up to do 10 years earlier. He found himself becoming a middleman, filtering the pressure from above, and passing on only the essential jobs to his team.

  The night shift was drawing to an end. He had glanced at his wristwatch moments earlier, noting that it read 06:10 hours. The sun outside his claustrophobic office would be rising soon. He held his head in his hands, and then covered his eyes, rubbing them vigorously in an attempt to wake himself up. He had found his mind wandering as tiredness had slowly overcome him. His personal radio had been sat on the desk amid the chaos of paperwork, its volume reduced, its chatter mere background noise, but subconsciously, he had been monitoring everything that had been broadcast, it had become second-nature to him. His attention was suddenly drawn to a message being transmitted from the control room.

  “Alpha-Romeo-Seven-Two from control?”

  There was no reply.

  “Alpha-Romeo-Seven-Two from control – Welfare Check – Over.” This was repeated a couple of times, each with increased urgency, and each followed by silence.

  Something was wrong. It was very unlike PC Griffiths to not answer his radio. Sgt Kier was intrigued as to what was going on, but in the back of his mind he feared something bad had happened. It could just be that Nick had fallen asleep during the night shift, nodded-off while it was quiet in the rural sector. But if that was the case, then surely the repeated radio calls would have woken him up, he would have replied by now. Maybe he was in a “black-spot” with no radio coverage? There were enough of them out in the sticks. But at this time of night he would have been making his way back towards the station anyway, he should have arrived by now.

  The only other alternative that sprang to mind was that Nick had been involved in a POLAC – a police accident. He remembered from his own time as a rural IRV driver, on night shifts, as reaction times slowed through tiredness, it was not uncommon for drivers to misjudge the country lanes, crash into a drainage channel, or get stuck in a muddy field. Maybe he had done something like that, hit his head, was unconscious, and could not answer the radio. Sgt Kier was worried, more than worried, he feared the worst. He telephoned the duty Inspector to keep her up to date with developments, and then called the control room on its direct line.

  “Morning, it’s Sgt Kier at Bradwell Street Police Station. What’s the situation with PC Griffiths?”

  “Morning Sergeant. We’ve been trying to contact him for a while, but we’re getting no reply,” they stated.

  “How long has he been off-air?”

  “Hard to say for sure. Our system flags it up if we don’t hear anything after 4 hours. His last job was just after 2am. He checked a vehicle registration number.”

  “I take it you’ve tried contacting him on his mobile?”

  “Yes, yes. Rung it a few times, left messages, voicemail, and called him on the radio. He’s not answering anything.”

  “Where was his last job?” asked Sgt Kier.

  “The stop/check came fro
m Brent Lane.”

  “I don’t know that; where is it?”

  “It’s up the northern end of the sector, between Hawksworth and Sandleton.”

  “OK, I’ll see if I can get some mobile units to scour that zone, see if we can’t find him. You keep trying the radio and mobile; let me know if you get anything, yeah?”

  “Will do, Sarge.”

  By this point, Mick Kier was quite concerned. He knew that there might be a logical explanation, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he doubted it. He had a bad feeling about the situation.

  Picking up his radio, he broadcast, “Any units in the vicinity of Brent Lane respond please, Sierra-Nine-One.”

  Seconds later, “Go ahead, Tango-Three-Five. We’re a few miles away, but we can detour if you want, Sarge.”

  “Yeah, Alpha-Romeo-Seven-Two is not responding to the radio. Last known location was Brent Lane four hours ago. If you could have a drive around the area, see if you could find him, it’d be greatly appreciated lads.”

  “No probs, Sarge, on our way. Control, did you receive the last?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  A few seconds later, the radio was alive with messages.

  “Sarge, from Alpha-Romeo-Two-Two, we’re turning out from the station re: your last message.”

  “From Bravo-Romeo-One-Seven, we’re doing the same, double-crewed.”

  “Bravo-Romeo-Two-Three and Six-Seven doing likewise.”

  The entire shift, realising the urgency of a missing colleague had all decided to stay on duty beyond the end of their allocated shift period in order to help search for PC Griffiths.

  Inspector Jenny James, the duty shift senior officer, walked into Sgt Kier’s office just as he stood up to strap on his utility belt.

  “I’m just gonna grab a car and go join the search, Ma’am,” he said.

  “OK, but I’m coming with you Mick. I want every available unit looking for him.”

  “Control from Sierra-Nine-One?” Sgt Kier radioed.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Myself and the Inspector, Sierra-Foxtrot-Three-One, are joining the search. If you could coordinate all units from your end, it’d be a great help.”

  “Sierra-Nine-One received, already on it Sarge.”

  ...

  Forty minutes later, Sgt Kier received a radio message from the Traffic Policing mobile unit.

  “Sierra-Nine-One from Tango-Three-Five?”

  “Go ahead Tango-Three-Five,” he replied.

  “We’ve located Alpha-Romeo-Seven-Two’s car. It’s still on Brent Lane, near the junction with Ward Drove. Sergeant, there’s no sign of Griff! His car is unlocked, and he’s missing.”

  In his mind, the word, “shit!” screamed at Sgt Kier. Outwardly, he said over the radio, “Thanks for that. Can you secure the scene? We’ll be there shortly – ETA 5 minutes.”

  There followed a cacophony of radio chatter as every mobile unit made its way towards the scene.

  On arrival, Sgt Kier parked his patrol car at an angle blocking the road from the west. In front of him sat PC Griffiths’ car cordoned off with blue-and-white plastic crime scene tape which twisted and turned in the gentle breeze. The traffic officers had parked their car on the far side of the scene and wandered towards him, a grave look on their faces.

  “Sarge, Ma’am. We’ve secured the car, keys are in the ignition. We came from the west; didn’t spot anyone on foot from that direction. We’ve had a quick look around. There doesn’t appear to be any tracks heading off into the fields from what we can see. It’s hard to tell though; most of the earth is frozen solid. There’s nothing obvious in the drainage channel either, although it looks pretty deep so we can’t be sure, if you know what I mean?”

  “Good. Can you two do a search along the road to the east, see if he wandered in that direction?” said Sgt Kier. He stared out across the farmland.

  The sun had just risen, but the sky was filled with ominous black clouds creating shadows everywhere. It was cold. He could see clouds of white condensation every time he breathed, and his fingers were already beginning to go numb despite the black leather gloves that he wore. The land all around was flat, you could see for miles. He slowly scanned the horizon in all directions, hoping that he might spot PC Griffiths somewhere, but there was no sign of him. He radioed the other shift members, some of which had just arrived at the scene, and organised them into conducting an area search; every lane, farm track, and driveway. Then he called the control room.

  “Control, we’ve located the car, but there’s no sign of PC Griffiths. We’ve got a lot of farmland around here. If he’s wandered off, our best option would be to track him using a dog. Could you arrange that please? We’ve also got a pretty deep drainage channel running parallel to the road. It’s too murky to see below the surface, so we’re gonna need the Underwater Search Unit to attend as well – just in case.”

  “That’s all received. I’ll give them a call and get back to you, Sarge.”

  “Thanks control. If he doesn’t show up soon, you’d better give the PSU (police support unit) a heads-up too. We may need them to do a fingertip search of the area. Oh, and can you do a ring-round of all the local hospitals. I don’t suppose he’ll have been picked up by ambulance, but if he is injured, some kind-hearted member of Joe Public might have taken him to one.”

  “All received,” replied the control room operator.

  Sgt Kier turned towards Inspector James. He could see the worry etched into the lines on her forehead. She was relatively young, certainly younger than her rank would have suggested, and yet at that moment she looked much older than her age, the stress of the situation taking its toll. “Have I missed anything, Ma’am?”

  “SOCO (Scenes of Crime Officers). I guess we’ll need them to check the scene. We need to treat this like a major incident. When PC Griffiths is discovered, if something serious has happened to him, we’ll need to cover every eventuality, Mick.”

  “True, Ma’am. I notice you said when he’s discovered, not if...”

  “We have to remain positive, Sergeant. At the moment, we’re dealing with a missing person (albeit a police officer) – this is the Golden Hour – time is critical.”

  “Right, I’ll get Scenes of Crime moving.”

  “And I’ll give the duty Detective Inspector a shout; they’ll be taking over the incident from now on,” added Insp. James.

  “Just between us, Ma’am, what do you think has happened? There has to be a reasonable explanation. Police officers don’t just disappear for no reason.”

  “I don’t know. We shouldn’t speculate until we know more. He could have wandered off though, got injured, and disorientated, maybe. Was he overly stressed or anything?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Ma’am.”

  “Or, worst case scenario, somebody might have taken him. No idea why, but it’s an option, one I’d rather not consider at this stage. Anyway, for now, let’s get moving. Let’s find him, and then we’ll be a little more clued-up. Can you get someone to check the town CCTV in Hawksworth and Sandleton? We might spot him on one of the cameras if he’s on foot.”

  “Will do, Ma’am.”

  Inspector James returned to the patrol car, her mobile phone in her hand, deep in conversation with the duty DI. Sgt Kier walked towards PC Griffiths’ car, peeking inside in a vain attempt at looking for evidence. Both awaited the imminent arrival of the specialist units and the Senior Investigating Officer.

  ...

  Detective Inspector Colin Peterson arrived at Brent Lane shortly after 8am, parking his unmarked silver Laguna alongside the many other police vehicles and scientific services vans that littered the lane’s grass verges. He climbed out of the car, stretched his 5 foot 11 frame, and stood quietly surveying the busy scene before him. DI Peterson was the senior detective for this sector of the city, and as such, he had been allocated the role of Senior Investigating Officer (SIO) for the missing PC Griffiths.

  Colin Peterson was 48 years old. He
had close-cropped black hair, slightly receding at the temples, and stood with his shoulders firmly pulled back and squared-off in true military style (a hint to his former career). At one point, he had been fit, muscular even, but with age came a slackening of his washboard stomach, and the hint of a beer belly had begun to form. He had striking pale-blue eyes, a number of “worry lines” etched across his forehead, and beneath his dishevelled light grey suit, white shirt and purple tie, he had a couple of tattoos on his forearms; a reminder of his time in the army.

  There was a frosty mist enveloping the fields that surrounded him. The sun was attempting to break through the heavy cloud cover, unsuccessfully, and there was a fresh clean smell to the morning air, with just a hint of cow dung. As far as the eye could see, the land was flat, unnaturally so. Colin was not local to the area; he was a city dweller, having been raised in London (he still retained a strong London accent), before transferring to Manchester. To him, the landscape was totally alien. The road he was stood upon, a single-lane asphalt strip, stretched into infinity, cutting through the haze as straight as an arrow, before vanishing into the distance. Alongside it ran a drainage channel, a deep water-filled valley used to prevent the fields from flooding.

  As he looked around, his eyes darted from the solitary marked police car, enclosed within a barrier of police tape rustling in the breeze, to a police dog making its way across the farmland, its handler in-tow at the end of a long tracking lead. There were uniformed police officers acting as scene guards, their fluorescent yellow jackets giving some protection from the early morning chill, their clipboards cradled in their arms to note everybody’s comings and goings. Other officers were positioned further down the road on traffic-control-duty, “Road Closed” signs at their feet. And, hidden within PC Griffiths’ abandoned patrol car, two scenes of crimes officers (SOCO) were meticulously hunting for evidence, each clad in full-length white paper coveralls, blue plastic boot protectors, and purple rubber gloves. DI Peterson felt a sense of pride as he watched his colleagues performing their duties. One of their own was missing. What had happened to him, nobody knew at that particular time. But he was pleased to see everybody pulling together, doing their best to unravel the mystery. Now he needed to find his Detective Sergeant to see what these specialists had discovered thus far.