Proof of Life Page 11

  They also discussed the bank withdrawal, and of course, the hire of the motor-home. All in all, it had been a superb reaction from the public, one which had very quickly provided plenty of clues as to what was going on, and had really brought this mystery to life.

  But now, as the helicopter hugged the North Wales coast, past Rhyl, Abergely and Colwyn Bay, the mood changed. All three detectives knew that there was every chance that they were about to face a most distressing and tragic conclusion to this investigation. The mood became tense as India 99 approached the Great Orme and engaged its powerful search light. The blinding white beam began illuminating the rocks at the foot of the huge cliffs which surrounded the gigantic limestone rock which made up the Great Orme.

  The waves were crashing violently against the base of the rock, and it was instantly obvious that if the motor-home had indeed been driven off the cliff 100 metres above, there was no way the occupants would have survived.

  After several minutes of searching, the helicopter officers, as well as Miller and his colleagues agreed that there was no evidence of any vehicle having crashed down the cliff face. They would have expected at least one item of debris to be lapping up and bashing back into the rocks.

  “Can you check the car park?” asked Miller, into the microphone that he was wearing in front of his mouth. The deafening roar of the helicopters engines and rotor blades above made it impossible to communicate without the headsets. The air observer officer retrained the giant torch onto the area that Miller had requested.

  The area was a car park, next to a café called “Rest and Be Thankful.” It was surrounded by a stone-built wall, although there was a section where the wall was missing. There was the opportunity to drive off the edge, but it looked as though the railings were still intact.

  Sure enough, there was no sign of the motor-home on the car park. The helicopter hovered above the spot, while Miller and his officers assessed the location. There was nothing here, just a deserted café, and an empty car park.

  “Will you be able to land her here?” asked Miller.

  The pilot was quick to reply. “No problem. Do you want to do that now?”

  “Yes, I think so. We’ll have a quick look on the ground, and then give the entire area the once over.”

  “Okay, prepare for landing.”

  Within seconds, India 99 was down, and parked at one of the nation’s favourite beauty spots.

  Miller was the first to alight the chopper, just as soon as the rotor blades had stopped rotating. The force of the down drought could have easily blown one of the detectives off the car park, and down to their deaths in the Irish Sea had they attempted to alight with them still spinning.

  “Keith, give your contact a call, see if her software is still showing this site. And if it is, tell her from me that it’s just cost tens of thousands of pounds to prove her software is shite!”

  “Sir.” Saunders followed his orders, and rang Donna. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hiya, we’re here now. The motor-home is definitely not here.”

  “Bloody hell, how did…”

  “We’re in the helicopter. We’ve had a good look around. There’s no sign of your vehicle, I’m sorry to say.”

  Donna sounded gutted. “Well, it’s still there, according to my tracker. And all of my other vehicles have either moved since we last spoke, or are stationary. I’ve phoned the people that haven’t moved, and they’ve confirmed the locations are what my computer is saying.”

  Saunders was shocked. This didn’t make any sense.

  “Sir!” shouted Rudovsky. She was crouched down by some bushes. Miller and Saunders walked across to her. She was shining her phone’s torch at the bush.

  Miller and Saunders saw it instantly. The tracker device was there, a little black box, no bigger than a CD case. A little red light on its side was flashing intermittently.

  “Oh, Donna, I think we’ve found your tracker.”

  “It’s not the tracker that’s shite.” Said Rudovsky. “It’s taken me twenty seconds to find it. Why the fuck couldn’t the bobbies who came up here have had a quick look?”

  “Keith, keep her on the phone mate.” Miller returned to the aircraft, and came back a few seconds later with an evidence bag and a pair of rubber gloves. He put the gloves on and placed the small device inside the clear, plastic bag. He began walking out of the car park, and onto Marine Drive, heading down the hill in the direction of the town. “Come on,” he said to Saunders and Rudovsky.

  After walking for a minute, he asked Saunders to find out if the motor-home was moving on Donna’s computer screen.

  “Yes, its showing the vehicle heading south-east on Marine Drive.”

  “Okay, thanks Donna. We’ve got your tracker, anyway.”

  “Tell her we’ll get her motor-home as well.” Said Miller, who had a weird expression on his face. He looked relieved that they hadn’t located the motor-home and retrieved two dead bodies from the sea, but at the same time he was gutted that he had fallen for this crafty plan and scrambled the helicopter to pick up a £200 tracker device from North Wales.

  “Let’s head back. It’s bed-time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday

  Miller was first in the office, beating Saunders for a change. He was still fuming about the tracker device but deep-down, he knew that this stupid prank had only empowered his desire to catch Philip Pollard at the earliest opportunity.

  He turned his computer on and headed straight to the Google Maps website, looking at the road system around Llandudno, looking at the options that Pollard had available to get away.

  Due to the fact that he had no idea how long the tracker had been on the Great Orme, he realised that this was a futile exercise. His first task needed to be a nationwide request for ANPR details on the motor-home. ANPR is an abbreviation of “automatic number plate recognition” technology. The ANPR cameras automatically log all number-plates going past. The cameras are on police vehicles, city-centre CCTV and motorway and town centre speed cameras, and hundreds of new ANPR cameras are added to the nation’s road network every week.

  Miller started a list. Number 1 was to contact the National Crime Agency and ask them to pull in all ANPR logs of the motor-home from every Constabulary in the UK. Pollard could sling the tracker in bushes all he wanted, but he couldn’t evade the power of automatic number-plate recognition technology.

  Number 2 on the list was a further press conference. Knowing what he now did, following the first press conference, just over 12 hours ago, Miller was sure that the developments in the story would be of huge interest to the press, and as a result would bring in lots of fresh information.

  Number 3 was to organise a team briefing and bring the other detectives of the SCIU up-to-speed with the developments of the investigation so that they were freshly equipped with all of the latest information and fully prepped for a day of none-stop investigation work, and organising door-to-doors all around the Jenkins house to try and discover exactly what had happened at the door when Mr Pollard called around the previous Thursday morning, seven days earlier.

  Although he hated to admit it, this stunt with the tracker device had really got under Miller’s skin. For a variety of reasons, he was extremely annoyed by this attempt to throw the police off Pollard’s scent. The fact that the North Wales police couldn’t even be arsed to have a quick look around at the site and save them a trip in the helicopter really bugged him. After all, it had taken Rudovsky less than a minute to locate the bloody thing. But more than that, this now felt quite personal. Miller didn’t like to take things personally, but he felt genuinely angry about the wild-goose chase the previous night, and he felt pissed off that Pollard’s own wife had been messing him about, too.

  Saunders arrived soon after Miller had begun writing the 4th task on his to-do-list. He could see that Saunders wasn’t happy as he walked into the office.

  “Morning Sir
,” he said, without his usual warmth.

  “What’s up with you, did Helen make you clean the bath again?” asked Miller, trying to get a smile from his DI.

  “Not, nowt… what do you mean?”

  “You just look uncharacteristically pissed off. Everything alright?”

  “Do I, oh, sorry. It wasn’t intentional. Just feeling a bit narked by that performance last night.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. But don’t let it get you down. We’ll still get the silly bastard.”

  “Oh, there was a parcel for you at reception.” Saunders stepped into Miller’s office and handed him the folded, brown A4 envelope which was addressed simply to “DCI Miller.”

  Miller took the parcel and opened it. He laughed humourlessly when he saw what was inside. It contained three chocolate-chip cereal bars, and a Manchester City Police Air Support compliments slip, which read “For Andy and co, just in case you get hungry LOL.” The cereal bars were called “Trackers.”

  “Knob heads!” said Miller as he opened one and threw another to Saunders, who found the joke a lot more amusing than his boss did.

  “Well, that’s cheered you up. If only I knew a free breakfast was the answer! Right, go and get a brew, I’m working on today’s priorities. I want Pollard in our custody today, I’m not messing about now.”

  “Do you want one?” asked Saunders.

  “You know me, Keith. Never say no to a brew.”

  *****

  The morning briefing had gone well, and all of the SCIU officers were geared up, ready for a busy day.

  Miller had arrived back at his desk to good news. The Forensics department had managed to find finger-prints for Pollard on the tracker device, taken from finger-prints taken from around his flat and his i-phone.

  Darren’s finger-prints were already on file, and positive matches had been found in several locations around the flat. The positive news kept coming too, as Miller read through the report. No signs of violence or sexual activity had been discovered within the flat, and the evidence pointed to Darren having slept on the sofa on the night that he stayed at the flat. This was all good news, and Miller hoped that this was just the start. He had a really positive feeling that there was plenty more to come throughout the day.

  The morning-shift of constables had arrived, pumping the team’s strength up slightly. But Miller needed more help on man-power, particularly for the door-to-doors in Stalybridge. He and Saunders felt certain that something would come up, something of value, so Miller had asked his boss, DCS Dixon to call in a few favours from Tameside police, and try and get some bodies to help with this operation. The sooner it was done, the better.

  With his team all aware of their tasks, and what the day’s plan was, Miller set them off, and retreated into his office to organise his own activities for the day.

  *****

  Ashton CID, along with several bobbies and PCSO’s had been drafted in to assist with the door-to-doors around Sand Street, and all the way up Cheetham Hill Road, to the Raj Bros shop. DI Saunders was heading this operation, and had prepared a questionnaire that he wanted each police officer to fill out at every address on Sand Street initially, and then the neighbouring streets and roads.

  “Hello, I’m from Manchester City Police, just wondered if we could ask you a few questions about the young lad that’s gone missing from this street?” asked one police officer.

  “Darren? Yeah, I heard about that. He’s not a bad lad. Bit of a gob-shite but weren’t we all at that age?” The neighbour, a fat man in his late fifties looked as though he couldn’t decide if he needed to shave or if he wanted to grow a beard. “His mum was a nice woman, do out for anyone, she would, and Johnny weren’t a bad lad either. Shame what happened to him really. The dad’s a fucking bell-end though, so I imagine Darren’s run away so he can get away from that useless fucker!”

  The response was similar at each door on Sand Street. One or two neighbours had a few choice words about Darren, and some of the activities that he’d been caught up in, but it was Darren’s father who most of the community had issues with. The message was unmistakable, Michael Jenkins was a fucking knob.

  The street was filled with police officers, their cars, vans and smart, unmarked CID cars. The officers were all wearing MCP high vis jackets, even the detectives. Most doors were unanswered as the occupants were out at work, so officers posted through a note which had already been printed on MCP letterhead, asking the householder to contact the number below, if they saw anything of Darren, or Mr Pollard, on Thursday of last week.

  Some of the neighbours were quite excited by all this activity on their quiet, unremarkable little street, and one in particular had been filming the police activities on his mobile phone, and had uploaded the footage to the BBC North West Tonight Facebook page, along with the comment “Police presence right now on Darren Jenkins street.”

  The video footage showed officers knocking on doors, chatting with neighbours and looking in wheelie bins. The mood was very sombre, and the officers looked as though they weren’t expecting a happy ending to this unusual case.

  Eventually, a couple of officers arrived at a house across the road from the Jenkins household, whose owner said that she had seen Mr Pollard arguing with Michael Jenkins on the morning in question. When asked what time this argument had occurred, the lady in question, Mrs Aspinall said, “it was about half past ten, because This Morning had just started and I had to mute it to hear what was going on.”

  DI Saunders, who has out on the street, knocking on doors was quickly called to the address.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Inspector Saunders. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “No, no, you get yourself comfy. Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs Aspinall was a nice old lady. Her walls were covered with photos, and Saunders quickly assessed that she was a great grandmother, following the generations of faces that adorned the walls and shelves.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine. So, what happened, what did you see?”

  Mrs Aspinall sat down opposite Saunders, in her comfy chair by the window.

  “Well, Mr Pollard came along, he parked his car outside. I didn’t realise it was him until it was on the news last night. He taught my grand-kids, he’s supposed to be a lovely man, so it makes you think…”

  “And what happened?” Saunders gently steered her back to the point.

  “I heard all this shouting.”

  “And was this on the street?”

  “Yes…”

  “Did Mr Pollard go inside the property at any point?”

  “No, not when I was watching. He stood arguing outside, on the street, then stormed off, got in his car and drove away.”

  “He definitely didn’t go inside the house?”

  “No, he wasn’t welcome. That much was clear. Michael shouted something after him, I can’t… it was… do-gooder! Or something like that. Then he went in his house and slammed the front door shut. He always does that, gives me the fright of my life!”

  “Did you see Darren at all?”

  “No, no, just Mr Pollard, and his dad. I thought Mr Pollard was going to go for him at one point, Michael backed off and went in the house for a few seconds, but he came back out as Mr Pollard returned to his car.”

  “Mr Pollard definitely didn’t go inside?”

  “No. How many times? I might be a little old biddy, but I’m not retarded.”

  “Sorry, and he drove away you say?”

  “Yes, he looked annoyed, upset even. He just drove down the hill.” Mrs Aspinall demonstrated which way the car had travelled.

  “Can you describe the vehicle?”

  “Yes, it was a black car, newish. It was a nice car, posh looking, it definitely looked out of place around here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Aspinall. You’ve been really helpful. I will leave you my card, please give me a call if you remember anything else.”

  “Okay, just leave it next to the phone for me.”

  The door-
to-doors continued, but there was hardly any decent intelligence coming in, just lots of anecdotes of things Darren or Michael had done in the past. As the inquiries on Sand Street drew to a close, Saunders was grateful for the information Mrs Aspinall had provided, but he was disappointed that not a single other neighbour had provided anything. It’s common to encounter a wall of silence in certain cases for fear of repercussions or community smears about “grassing”, but Saunders was always disappointed when the public stayed quiet on cases involving kids.

  “Right, I think we’re done here, thanks very much everyone. Stand down,” said Saunders into his radio.

  Chapter Twenty

  Miller’s press conference had been advertised as “brief” on the official invitation, which had been sent out to all local and national media outlets on the press office’s database. To stress the point about how brief it was intended to be, the invitation stated that the press conference was to be held outside the MCP headquarters main entrance.

  The press knew this tactic, it meant that Miller was literally only going to speak for a couple of minutes, tops. And they were right. The press release did include all of the key developments, though, and contained the CCTV footage of Philip Pollard withdrawing a large sum of money from his bank, along with footage of him inside JD Sports. These clips were accompanied by photographs of the items which Pollard had purchased and Darren Jenkins was now presumably wearing. There was also a photograph of the mobile home that he had hired. The press release also contained excellent footage of Darren Jenkins, from the paper-shop he worked at on the morning that he had disappeared. This up-to-the-minute footage was invaluable for letting the public know exactly who they were keeping an eye out for.

  At 12 noon precisely, DCI Miller stepped out of the huge, glass fronted building, and walked straight towards the press. He made sure that the building’s giant red, blue and silver police motif was in shot of the cameras, before he began reading his short, prepared statement.