He screamed at the top of his voice, “SHUT UP! Leave me alone.”
He had not heard the imaginary voices since he had been a child. Why had they started again now? He had enough problems to deal with as it was. Instantly, the voices vanished.
Malachi glanced at the car’s console. He was speeding. He slowed a little. He noticed that the fuel gauge was nearing the red empty mark. Shit, he thought. He saw a service station ahead and pulled in under the forecourt canopy that sheltered the petrol pumps. Whilst he filled the car with fuel, he extracted his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and sent another text message to his boss.
“On way – Had problem – Explain on arrival.”
As he continued his journey, Malachi recalled how he had ended up in this predicament. Everything had been going so well, up until the last hour...
...
A few weeks earlier, Malachi had been summoned to see “The Russian.” He had worked for him for a few years now, part of the gang that governed the estate in which they both lived. Malachi had been a gang member as far back as he could remember. The Russian had moved into the area 5 or 6 years ago, deposed the then, “head man,” and taken over his drug empire, expanding it dramatically.
Malachi had worked his way up through the ranks, and on this particular day, he had been informed that he had been selected, trusted even, to collect an important shipment of drugs (and a firearm) from the gang leader’s business contacts in Liverpool. Malachi had been elated. He was on the up. It would not be long before he was being regarded as one of the top men in the gang. He would be as trusted as The Karpov Brothers, The Russian’s current two henchmen.
The Russian’s real name was Sergei Petrov, but he preferred his minions to call him, The Russian; it was more mysterious, intimidating. He was ruthless, brought up in another country, in a much more brutal world than he now found himself. To him, the locals of the Manchester estate that he lived on were weak, easily manipulated into doing what he wanted, and totally expendable if they messed up.
He had explained the basics of his current mission to Malachi – Go to Liverpool by train, collect a hire car from a backstreet firm near the airport, rendezvous with the scousers at a set time and place, and then transport the drug shipment back to him in Manchester. It had been meticulously planned. The Russian had even visited the hire firm himself, scoped-it-out personally, even shown him a photo of the place on his mobile phone. The car had been pre-booked and paid for online (using a fake ID and a cloned credit card acquired from a drunk at a nightclub without his noticing).
Malachi had then been photographed by his boss.
“I’ll send this to a man I know. He’ll make you a forged driving licence, add it to the cloned credit card, so you’ll have a totally new matching ID for this job,” he said in his deep Russian accent.
“But if the car’s already paid for online, I won’t need the credit card,” Mal replied.
“They’ll want to see it, probably note its details, just to cover themselves in case of damage to the vehicle. It needs to match the driving licence.”
“Cool. Why are we going to all this bother? Why don’t I just nick a car and use that?” he asked.
“Are you fucking questioning me?” Sergei roared. He was angry; he could flip from one personality to another instantly. He clipped Malachi around the ear.
“No, no, sorry...” Mal said, back-pedalling quickly.
“Do you really think it’d be sensible to drive back here carrying a load of drugs and a gun in a stolen car? Think about it...”
Earlier today, Sergei had handed Malachi the cloned card and new driving licence.
“Don’t lose it,” he said, “or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Malachi had no intention of taking that risk; he feared his employer’s wrath. He had been given details of who to meet, when, and where. With Sergei’s final words of, “Don’t fuck this up, or you’ll regret it,” ringing in his ears, he had walked to the railway station to begin his journey.
Once in Liverpool, collecting the car had been a doddle. As he had entered the office of Case Rentals, he had seen the young girl standing behind the counter, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a pre-arranged customer by the name of Jones, Jayden Jones (his new ID). He had spotted a discretely positioned CCTV camera in the top right corner of the room, and so had pulled his hoodie over his head and lowered his eyes to avoid being seen. It had not looked too strange considering the temperature outside. He was just trying to stay warm; that is what he had planned to say, if asked. He had shown the fake card, shown his licence, and had been handed the car keys. The girl had told him about collision insurance and the terms of the rental agreement, but Malachi had not listened, he had no intention of returning the car, it would be dumped somewhere later.
The drug collection had gone smoothly. He had arrived a little early at the deserted multi-storey car park, positioning his car so as to enjoy the panoramic views from the top floor. He had been nervous. He had never done a job like this before. At the same time, he had been thrilled. The adrenaline was pumping. He just wanted everything to go according to plan.
The scousers had arrived on time (to the second), pulling up 5 parking spaces to his right. They drove a black SUV with tinted windows, something that Malachi wished he would be able to afford some day. As he stepped out of his car, the SUV’s rear doors had opened and two muscular men got out, each with a handgun tucked into the waistband of their jeans. They stood either side, and slightly to the rear, of their boss who was carrying a sports bag that bulged with the drugs contained within it. He smiled, an evil smile, like a snake.
“You Malachi?” he asked, in his nasal Liverpudlian accent.
Mal’s throat had been dry. He doubted whether he could speak without making himself look stupid, so he nodded instead.
“Nice name.” The man smiled and held the bag at arm’s length. “Here, you wan’ it?”
Malachi had stepped forward, taken the bag, and then moved nearer to his own car to open it and check its contents. By the time that he had stood up and looked towards the scousers, they were already in their SUV, the front window wound down, and the passenger tapping his forefinger against his head in a casual salute.
“See you around, mate,” he said as their car had driven away.
With that, they were gone, and Malachi had an expensive package of illegal items in his possession. He put them straight into the boot of his car. Safe. He stood still, took a deep breath, and smiled to himself. So far, so good, he thought.
He had planned his return route to Manchester such that it avoided the main hotspots and motorways. Less chance of being stopped that way, he had thought. He followed the plan to a T. He maintained a steady speed, not drawing attention to himself, keeping a low profile. Everything had gone well. Nothing had gone wrong. Not until that bloody cop had decided to stop him! How was he supposed to know that his car had a broken light? How could all of this thorough and detailed planning have been ruined over something so trivial? It was ridiculous. But that was exactly what had happened. And Malachi had compounded his problems by acting without thought, by attacking the police officer, by kidnapping him, by making his problems a whole lot worse.
It had been an act of stupidity, a reflex action. Now he had to deal with the consequences...
Chapter 5
The Parade Room was relatively quiet when DI Peterson stepped through the door.
Normally it would have been buzzing with activity, the hub from which all uniformed police officers based their daily duties. But today, everyone seemed subdued. Maybe it was tiredness; the officers present in the room had been on duty for close to 12 hours already. Or maybe anxiety over their missing colleague had started to filter into their subconscious.
The room was centred on a series of formica-topped tables arranged into a square in its middle. Around the perimeter were numerous computer terminals, telephones, and filing cabinets (filled with every conceivable variety of
form and paperwork). PC Griffiths’ shift members were stood, or sat, around the tables. Some stared into space, one or two propped their heads upon their hands, whilst others caught up on admin.
The DI stood at the head of the table, leaning forward on his arms.
“Hi guys. Listen up, I need to talk to you all,” he began. “You all know who I am, right?” There were a few nods of acknowledgement as everybody took a seat and listened carefully to what he had to say. “As you know, PC Griffiths is still missing. At this point, all options are on the table. But one thing we need to consider is that he chose to disappear of his own accord.” Most of the shift looked confused.
“He wouldn’t do that,” somebody said.
“Probably not, but we can’t discount the idea. Can any of you think of any reason why he might have gone missing?” There was a deafening silence.
“He might ‘ave been abducted by aliens!” suggested a junior constable.
It was meant as a joke, a way of defusing the tension that had built up, but nobody had found it funny. Each of the shift members stared at the poor unfortunate soul who thought he was helping by bringing some levity to the proceedings, disgusted with his attitude.
“Wrong time and place,” said DI Peterson, sternly. “If you’ve got nothing sensible to say, keep it buttoned!”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean...” His voice trailed off as he looked at the floor, embarrassed.
“Has anyone noticed a change in Griff’s character recently? Had he been upset, worried, or annoyed by trivial things; anything that wasn’t the norm?” the DI continued.
The majority of the shift sat quietly, contemplating the question. Most shook their heads, confident that Griff had been his usual self. Colin Peterson knew most of the shift members by sight. He knew who the jokers were, and who the experienced officers were. He knew their characters and personalities. Looking around the room, one thing struck him; PC Jessica Thompson was not her usual bubbly self. Had this incident hit her harder than the others? PC Griffiths had been her tutor for a while. Maybe they were closer than he had realised? Did she know more than she was telling? Maybe she had an insight into Griff’s state-of-mind? But if he asked her outright, she would probably become embarrassed and say nothing. Maybe there was something that she did not want to share in front of her colleagues. Whatever it was, there was definitely something not right with her. He decided to see if she would approach him, volunteer the information freely; if there was actually anything to share at all.
“OK, I know you’re all tired. Get off home, get some rest, and I’ll see you all later. Think about what I said. If you know of anything that might help, no matter how trivial, come and see me. It might just be the key to explaining why PC Griffiths has gone AWOL.”
He smiled, and then left the room. Next stop was the bank on the High Street. DI Peterson had to break the bad news to PC Griffiths’ wife.
As Colin entered the police station’s foyer, his mobile phone rang. It was the Sergeant from the Underwater Search Unit. He informed him that they had conducted a thorough search of the drainage channel and that NO body had been discovered. Colin was relieved. At least he had one bit of positive news to tell Mrs Griffiths. It ruled out the possibility that Griff had committed suicide (at least, suicide-by-drowning, at that particular location. He might still have wandered off elsewhere to do it). The Sergeant continued, telling him that they had discovered PC Griffiths’ police radio and mobile phone amid the muddy sludge at the bottom of the channel. Had they been thrown there by the abductor (if there was an abductor)? Or had Griff thrown them there before disappearing of his own volition? It raised as many questions as it answered. Maybe there would be some evidence on the actual items; they had been sent to the forensic experts for analysis.
...
DI Peterson entered the entrance hall of the High Street branch of Lloyds Bank. There was a queue of customers waiting to be served at the enquiry counter, a bald man using the self-help deposit machine, and an elderly couple sat in an alcove talking across a desk to a young blonde member of staff.
A plump middle-aged woman dressed in bank uniform approached.
“Hello, sir. Can I help you?” she asked politely.
“I’m looking for a Mrs Griffiths, I believe she works here.”
“Is she expecting you? Do you have an appointment?”
“No. It’s a police matter.” Colin showed his warrant card.
“Oh! Just one moment please, she has a couple of customers with her. Can you wait, or is it urgent?” The woman seemed taken aback.
“Urgent.”
It appeared that the member of staff with the shoulder-length blonde hair was Mrs Griffiths. She stepped into a private office, and Colin was ushered in behind her.
“Mrs Griffiths?” She nodded. “I’m Detective Inspector Peterson from the police station up the road. Please, shall we sit?” They both sat down.
“Mrs Griffiths...” he began.
“Please, call me Donna.”
“OK, Donna... I have some bad news!”
Donna was about 30 years old, slim (a person who worked hard to maintain her fitness), with a shapely figure. She was dressed in a professional looking blue skirt, blouse, and jacket. Clearly she was middle-management, or above.
DI Peterson continued, informing her that her husband had not returned from his night shift, that his patrol car had been found abandoned, and that the police had been searching for him all morning using specialist search teams, police dogs, and diving units, but that no clues had been discovered as to his location.
Colin had half expected her to break down, burst out crying, lose control. Instead, she looked blankly at him, calm, collected, focused; totally emotionless.
“So, what are you saying? Nick’s been kidnapped?” she asked.
“Well, we don’t know that, at this point. It is a possibility that we’re looking into, but he might equally have gone off of his own free will,” replied the DI.
“It’s his bloody job, isn’t it? It’s got him into trouble,” she interrupted.
“We don’t know that. When did you last see your husband?”
“Yesterday evening, about seven-ish. I was going out to a work’s party. He was having dinner.”
“And how did he seem? Was everything OK? He wasn’t distracted, worried, concerned about anything?”
“No.”
“Did anything seem strange? Like, did he say anything that seemed out of place?” Colin probed deeper.
“No.” Donna glanced nervously out of the office window at her work colleagues who were watching from a distance.
“What about over the last few months? Had anything changed?”
“Like I said - NO! Everything was normal.” She was beginning to sound frustrated.
Colin thought about what she had said. “How are things at home? Is your marriage OK?”
“What are you implying? Are you saying he chose to run away because he wanted to leave me?” Donna was instantly defensive, overly so, in Colin’s opinion.
“No, no, I was just trying to get some background. So, is there any reason you can think of as to why he might disappear?” he asked.
“No. None. Look, I’ve got customers waiting, is that all?”
Colin felt as if he was being ushered out of the room. Donna appeared more concerned about how her workmates saw her than she did about her missing husband. Something felt wrong. She was giving stock answers, not thinking about what she had been asked, saying anything in order to get him to leave. Alarm bells were ringing in Colin’s head. There was something she was not telling, information she was covering up. But now was not the time to pursue it. In the dark recesses of his mind, he knew that he would be having further words with her – SOON!
As he walked back towards the police station, Colin’s mind was a blur of thoughts. Donna had shown no emotion. She had seemed cold, distant, almost avoiding the idea that her husband was missing. Surely she ought to be surprised and up
set, even just a little bit? It was almost as if she resented the fact that Nick’s world had impacted on her own work-life. Colin remembered how Sgt Kier had said that she rarely went to shift social events – it was as if she did not want anything to do with the police family – it was a them-and-us situation. She had become defensive when asked if there were problems at home. Although she had denied it, in Colin’s experience, she was saying the exact opposite. There was definitely more going on than she was telling.
Colin had seen it all before. He remembered the telltale signs; the distancing, the lack of emotion, the focusing on their own career, and the facade that needed to be shown to the world in order to disguise the pain and upset hidden behind closed doors. He knew because he had been through it himself. As a young squaddie in the army, his wife had shown those exact same traits as their marriage had deteriorated, ultimately resulting in divorce. He could see the same happening with Nick and Donna, despite her words to the contrary.
...
Back at the police station, DI Peterson took the stairs to the top floor and knocked gently on the door to his Superintendant’s office.
“DI Peterson, what’s all this about PC Griffiths?” Supt. John Mitchelson asked.
Colin felt awkward. He had not been welcomed into the room by his boss. He had been made to stand in front of his desk as he peered over the rim of his glasses, like a naughty schoolboy stood before his headmaster. There was history between the two men. Both had been detectives in The Metropolitan Police in London, both had risen to Detective Sergeants, and both had served on the Met’s Drug Squad. Having transferred to the police in Manchester, Mitchelson had flown through the ranks and become a Superintendent, whilst Colin had only risen as far as DI. Although Colin denied it, he resented the fact that his former colleague was now his superior. Mitchelson always had been ambitious, keen to further himself. But at what cost? He had never been popular, never one-of-the-team. Even now, officers did not particularly like him. He had a way of looking down on people, putting them in their place (just like he was doing at the moment).
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