Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  Having updated the Superintendent on all developments so far, Colin awaited his instructions (Mitchelson was bound to issue some. It was his way).

  “Right, well I think we need to arrange a press conference, get a TV appeal organised. I’ll be the spokesperson for the force,” he said.

  “Sir, don’t you think that’s a little premature?” The Superintendant always had been keen to get his face splashed across the media; self-promotion.

  “No. Why?” He seemed confused.

  “We don’t know why PC Griffiths has disappeared. It might be personal, it might be medical, or it might be more serious. Until we have some actual idea of what is going on, shouldn’t we keep it in-house? If you go before the TV cameras half-cocked, they’ll rip you to shreds with questions,” answered the DI.

  Supt. Mitchelson thought about it, and his persona changed - he did not like being corrected. “You’re right, of course. Maybe I’ll do it later. Anyway, we’ve got a missing police officer; hadn’t you better go and do something useful, like finding him?”

  “Sir.”

  With that, Colin left the room, shutting the door behind him with a harder than needed “Bang” as his annoyance got the better of him.

  ...

  As he walked down the corridor, Colin heard the sound of his phone’s ringtone, felt the vibration as it juddered in his pocket. Quickly scanning the screen; the Caller ID read, “DAD.” Should he answer it? he thought. Relieved, the phone shut down, he had missed the call. Seconds later a text message arrived.

  “Sorry I missed you – You must be busy – I’ll call later.”

  Colin had been finding it difficult to talk to his father since his dad’s diagnosis with bowel cancer. He had never really spoken about his job anyway; that was one subject that was completely out of bounds. How could he explain to him the horrors that he encountered on a daily basis? It would scare his dad to death. But with his father’s terminal prognosis, he felt the need to explain what he did, to gain his dad’s acceptance, for him to be proud of his son. But where would he start? What would he say? Cancer was a taboo subject too, but he could not just avoid the topic. Right at that particular moment, avoiding his calls, putting off the inevitable, seemed like the best option. But time was limited, his dad was dying. He tucked the phone back in his pocket. I’ll phone him later, he told himself.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was the Sergeant from the PSU. He told the DI that his unit had finished their search of Brent Lane and its surrounding farmland, and that nothing had been discovered – no bodies, no evidence, no tracks - nothing. He added that the mobile search of the surrounding roads and farms had also resulted in a “No Trace.”

  Colin was beginning to feel despondent. So far everything had come back negative. He still had no idea where PC Griffiths was, or any clues that might help to find him. It felt as if he, personally, was letting Griff down.

  Chapter 6

  Case Rentals was not the most salubrious of car rental firms.

  Located just off the perimeter road south of Liverpool’s John Lennon International Airport, it consisted of a wire-mesh compound containing a gravel forecourt filled with various nearly new vehicles for hire. In the far left-hand corner stood a flat roofed prefabricated office with windows on all sides and a door midway along its nearest face. The words, “Case Rentals” were splashed across a billboard to its right.

  PCs Greene and Randle of the Merseyside Police drove their marked patrol car through the open double gates into the compound, parking adjacent to the office’s entrance. In this icy weather, the less time that they were exposed to the elements, the better.

  They entered the office to be greeted by a young girl in her late teens. She had curly ginger hair, dark “Harry Potter” style glasses, and wore a company polo shirt which was open at the neck, uniform trousers, and scruffy trainers. Compared to the outside temperature, the office was like a sauna, every radiator set to its maximum.

  “Hello, I’m Harriet Hursh. How can I help you officers?” she said.

  “HiYa. We’re after some information about one of your customers,” PC Greene replied in her Liverpool accent.

  “I don’t know that I can give you any information – data protection, and all that. Don’t you need a warrant?” Hursh had been watching too many TV crime dramas.

  “We can get one if you want. Or you can simply help us with our enquiries - public duty, and all that.” PC Greene mimicked Hursh’s own phrase.

  “What do you need to know?” Harriet felt embarrassed. She had never dealt with the police before.

  “Have you rented a dark blue Toyota Avensis, registration number...” PC Randle checked his notebook. “...ST18 AFP?”

  Harriet checked her computer monitor. “Yes. It went out yesterday, about midday.”

  “When is it due back?” PC Randle made notes as he spoke.

  “A couple of day’s time, I think.”

  “And who was the customer?”

  Harriet hesitated before answering, still in two minds whether she ought to divulge confidential information. “It was rented by a Mr Jayden Jones of Manchester.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got his address, a copy of his driving licence, anything like that?”

  “Just a moment, we scanned it. I’ll print you a copy of everything,” she said.

  Moments later, PC Randle was in possession of a sheet of paper detailing the customer’s full name, address, credit card details, and a copy of his licence.

  “How did he pay? Was it on these card details?” he asked.

  “It certainly was. It was pre-booked on the internet, but we needed to see his card anyway, just to cover damage etc.”

  PC Greene asked, “Who was on duty when he came in?”

  “That would be me,” Harriet replied.

  “I don’t suppose you can remember what he looked like? The picture on his licence is pretty poor quality.”

  “I can do better than that, we’ve got CCTV.” She pointed to the camera in the top corner of the office. “Give me a second while I spool through the footage.”

  A few minutes later, she found the section she needed. “Here we are...”

  She showed the two police officers the film. It showed a mixed-race man with a muscular build, wearing a hoodie and a dark jacket. His hood was up, partially obscuring his face, but his build was quite distinctive. It was almost as if he was trying to avoid being seen by the camera. He kept turning away, looking at the floor or leaning across the counter.

  “Can we get a copy of this footage, please?” asked PC Greene.

  “Two seconds, I’m already downloading it to disc for you.”

  “I don’t suppose you can isolate a specific image of his face, maybe take a still photo from it?” asked PC Randle.

  “Yeah, no problem. It might not be the best though, he keeps looking away. Don’t ya just love modern technology?” said Harriet, her confidence building.

  Within half an hour of arriving, PCs Greene and Randle had all of the information that they required. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As soon as they returned to their own police station, they made a point of emailing everything direct to the CID Office at Bradwell Street Police Station, in Manchester. What they intended to do with this information was their business.

  ...

  Colin Peterson was sat in his office when DS French came through the open door waving a few sheets of paper in his hand.

  “We just got this back from Liverpool, Guv.”

  “That was quick. What have we got, Gary?”

  “The hire car was rented for three days by a Jayden Jones of 56 Crewkerne Street, Manchester. It hasn’t been returned as of yet. I’ve checked him on PNC and Local – nothing, no reports.”

  “Have we got any pictures of him?” asked the DI.

  “Yeah. We’ve got a scan of his driving licence, but the image is crap; could be anyone! We’ve also got CCTV of him in the rental office, and a still image t
aken from it.” Gary handed the photo to his DI. “I’ve emailed a copy of the CCTV to you, sir.”

  They both watched the video clip on a computer monitor.

  “What do you think, Gary? Looks pretty suspicious the way he’s covering his face, don’t you think?” Colin valued his Sergeant’s opinion.

  “I’d say so. Might be nothing though, might be legit. It was cold yesterday, so having his hood up would be sort of normal. I’ll go pay him a visit anyway, see if I can get his side of things.”

  “Great. The sooner we know if he’s connected to PC Griffiths’ disappearance, the better.”

  “Oh, Guv, we’ve put a marker on the car’s registration number on PNC, and I’ve alerted ANPR and local CCTV control rooms to be aware. If it’s still on the move, someone ought to spot it,” added Gary.

  Colin nodded, and then looked at his wristwatch. “It’s the oncoming shift’s briefing downstairs. It should be Griff’s own team. I’ll pop down, have a word, let ‘em know to look for the car.”

  Once in the Parade Room, Sgt Kier was bringing the meeting to a close.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mick. Is it OK if I have a quick word?” asked the DI.

  “Sure, go ahead, sir.”

  “Hi guys, how’s it going? Anyone had any thoughts on why Griff might have disappeared?” Again, there was silence. Nobody had come up with any theories since being asked the same question the previous evening. “PC Griffiths’ last job was to stop a vehicle on Brent Lane. It came back as a hire car, an Avensis, reg: ST18 AFP. We’ve checked with the firm, got footage of the customer, a Jayden Jones, and as far as we know, the car is still out there somewhere. Take a note of the number, familiarise yourselves with the driver’s photo, and let’s see if we can find it, eh? I’m not saying it’s connected to the disappearance, but at least we might be able to eliminate one possibility.”

  “Have we checked the driver’s H/A (Home Address)?” asked one of the PCs.

  “Not yet. DS French is on it though. If any of you can think of anything that might help, give us a shout, OK?”

  As the shift dispersed for their duties, PC Thompson hung back. When the room was empty, she said, “Sir, can I have a quick word?”

  “Of course you can, Jess. What is it?” replied DI Peterson.

  “There’s something you need to know.”

  “Go ahead.”

  PC Thompson looked at the floor as if searching for the right words. She looked embarrassed, a slight pinkness spreading across her cheeks. She was 5 foot 5 inches tall, of a stocky build, and aged in her early twenties. Her mousy-blonde ponytail swung from side to side as she spoke.

  “Well... It’s like... Griff and me, we’ve been spending a lot of time with each other... outside of work.”

  “OK? Like an affair or something?” queried the DI.

  “No, no, nothing like that. We didn’t see each other, not like that. We just talked a lot, about all sorts of things,” she replied.

  “I see.”

  “No, you really don’t, sir. Things were not good at home. He couldn’t talk to his wife. I was his outlet, so to speak. He told me things about his home-life. He wasn’t happy. I think his marriage was falling apart, even though he didn’t say so, not in so many words.”

  This confirmed what Colin had thought, having already met Donna Griffiths.

  “He had started using gambling websites to ease the tensions, I think. From what I gathered, he had a few debts as a result. It was all getting on top of him,” she added.

  “So he might have been suicidal after all?” asked the DI.

  “NO. Definitely not.” She shook her head. “Yeah, he’s got problems at home, and gambling debts, but he’s got it all under control. That’s why nobody else knew about it, he was coping.”

  “Did these problems at home have anything to do with you? Did his wife think you two were having an affair, whether you were or not?” Colin asked, bluntly.

  Tears welled up in Jessica’s emerald green eyes. “I hope not. I don’t think so. No, he’d have said...”

  “Or he might have not told you for a reason.”

  Colin let his last comment sink in for a moment. These revelations had put a whole new spin on everything. He had suspected that things at home were not as rosy as Donna had portrayed them to be. Now he had a lot more questions that he needed her to answer. The potential affair had caught him by surprise. He had not seen that one coming. And now there was the possibility of financial problems to consider too. Maybe the suicide option was not that far off the mark after all. It was certainly back on the table again now.

  “Thanks for coming forward with this information, Jess. It couldn’t have been easy for you,” Colin said. He felt sorry for her, and could see that she was genuinely upset by Griff’s disappearance. “I’ll keep you in the loop, as and when we find anything out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she sobbed. “There was something else. It might be nothing, but it might help find him.”

  “Yeah, what you got?” Colin was intrigued.

  “Griff’s a keen runner.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “He wore a running watch all of the time. He’d have had it on yesterday, during the shift.”

  DI Peterson was confused. He did not understand what Jess was getting at.

  “OK? And your point is..?”

  “You don’t get it do you, sir? The watch is a GPS tracker. It records your run after it’s been activated. If it can track a running route via satellites, then maybe it works in reverse – the satellites might be able to find his current location.”

  It was a light-bulb-moment for Colin. He had never heard of any MISPER being tracked by a running watch before, he did not even know if it was technologically possible, but it certainly made sense to him. In theory, it could be possible.

  “I’ve never heard of it being done before, but it sounds feasible to me. Who’d be the best people to talk to about it?” he asked.

  “Well, I know his watch was a Garmin one. Maybe they’d know how to find him using it?” said Jess.

  “I don’t know. It’s beyond me, Jess. But I’ll find out. If it is possible, we might just locate him. Leave it with me.”

  Colin immediately contacted DS French, explained the theory, and left it with him to allocate for investigation.

  Chapter 7

  The Havering Estate was notorious.

  It was one of Manchester’s older residential housing estates. It consisted of an inner sanctum, an interlinked collection of five high-rise tower blocks; monstrous grey concrete monoliths that pointed skywards, stretching up towards the dark clouds that seemed to permanently hover above. Surrounding them, there was a middle layer of council-housing; a region of three-storey apartment blocks. Built in the 50’s, each two-bedroomed flat linked to its neighbour via a series of poorly lit communal balconies. These structures were built around open quadrangles; slab-covered pits open to the skies above. They were littered with discarded rat-infested rubbish, shopping trolleys, smouldering wheelie bins, and rubble. As an afterthought, some unknown master tactician had planned, and built, an additional outer layer of housing on the estate; small enclaves of adjoined bungalows arranged in cul-de-sacs around grassy village greens, not dissimilar to the way that Wild West cowboys corralled their wagons into circles to protect against the hostile Native Americans. Housed in these decaying buildings were the most vulnerable, and the elderly, who clung to their tiny communities in a vain attempt to protect themselves from their own hostile natives; their neighbours on the estate.

  The Havering Estate was regarded as a “No-Go-Zone,” a place that you did not want to be seen in after dark, a dangerous place! And yet it was home to thousands of the less fortunate members of society; the unemployed (or unemployable), those on benefits, and those with spare time on their hands. In that type of environment, the predators roamed freely, hunting their prey. It attracted the drug users, and their suppliers. It attracted loan sharks who took advantage of
the needy. And it attracted violent gangs, the organised groups who had their own hierarchy, who feared nobody (not even the police), and who ruled the estate with a fist of iron.

  Malachi was a member of those gangs. Malachi lived in a flat with his mother, in the middle belt of dilapidated apartment blocks, sandwiched between the inner sanctum and the elderly. And Malachi called this hellhole HOME.

  ...

  As Malachi neared the outskirts of the city, the open countryside gave way to urban sprawl. Gone were the wide open expanses of farmland, replaced by leafy suburban towns and villages, each one merging into the next to form the city’s outer limits. It was still night-time. The roads were empty save for the odd shift worker or milk float. The city seemed deserted, abandoned, quiet. It was bathed in a warm amber glow from the street lighting. It was a nice time to be driving on the roads.

  Malachi fumbled for his mobile phone. With one hand, he sent a text message.

  “Almost back at estate – Got your package – Where do you want to meet?”

  Within seconds, it buzzed with a reply.

  “Behind the lockups.”

  He put his phone away. He had begun to relax, safe in the knowledge that he was almost on home territory, but the imminent meeting with The Russian weighed heavily on his mind. What would he say when he found out about the cop? What would he do? He was unpredictable and extremely ruthless; anything might happen.

  The picturesque suburbs gradually succumbed to inner-city decay. The streets narrowed, encroached upon by gigantic office blocks, obscuring the view of the night sky above. It was as if a veil had smothered the city; a feeling of danger, depression, and hopelessness bearing down on all who lived within its boundaries.

  Malachi could see the familiar outline of Jackson House, his home, at the end of the litter-strewn street, the ominous shadows of the tower blocks looming over it from above. He turned to the left, following a narrow alleyway to the rear of his apartment building. It opened out into a potholed area with lines of garages along two sides. Each garage was large enough to house a single car. Each had an up-and-over garage door, many of which were broken, ripped from their runners, discarded on the damp earth. Others appeared intact (if a little rusty, and daubed in graffiti), but he knew that nobody actually kept their vehicles in them; that would just be asking to have them stolen or vandalised.