Twist Of Fate

Thirteen

MANCHESTER PICCADILLY TRAIN STATION

"Train is in sight, all units stand by."

The 13.04 direct service from London Paddington glides noiselessly into the view of the officers waiting on Platform Three of Manchester Piccadilly station, hot and uncomfortable in their heavy uniforms in the summer heat, radios pinned to their vests and a nervous energy crackling between them like static. The train seems to take an age to slide along the platform, passengers already visible at the doors eager to escape the stuffy confines of the overheated carriages. 

PC Nick Sykes looks over at his colleague, WPC Georgina Penfold, who looks right back from twenty feet further along the platform. Even from this distance he can sense the adrenaline pumping through her veins as the train comes to a stop with a huff of relief, and the doors open with a hiss. 

As people pour out onto the platform Sykes' eyes scour each face for the one he has memorised, the one he is looking for, the one he must capture. Blond hair, red hair, grey hair, no hair. Glasses, baseball cap, dreadlocks, earphones. Hundreds of bodies pass him by and he studies every single one, tension mounting as he knows that any second he will see the one he seeks. Rucksacks, handbags, briefcases, suitcases. African, Asian, Eastern European, Latino. The crowd is thinning and he is poised, his heart now pounding as the last few people exit the train and he knows his target must be among them as he hasn't yet appeared. And then his anxiety turns to confusion as the last few stragglers step off the train, and he casts a glance towards his colleague who is looking as bemused as he is still to be emptyhanded. Is the suspect hiding on the train, having seen the police waiting for him on the platform?

He casts another glance, to his right this time, to another colleague stationed towards the front of the train. PC Alexander Ellison is looking annoyed, and speaks into his radio.

"No visual on the suspect. Confirm location via GPS?"

A voice responds with a crackle. "GPS tracking suspect location - now heading south west along Store Street."

PC Sykes breaks into a run, hurtling back towards the foyer of the train station, less than two feet behind PC Ellison. They dodge skillfully between the commuters and tourists, narrowly avoiding several collisions, intent on locating their game. They make a sharp right turn, WPC Penfold hot on their heels, and storm through the exit onto the street, eyes searching every face for one that matches the photograph they have studied back at the police station. 

A young man with cropped blond hair, wearing denim shorts, a vintage band tshirt and white pumps is strolling underneath the bridge, seemingly unaware of the commotion behind him. 

"Confirm suspect still heading west?" Sykes pants into his radio, as they close in on their target.

"Heading west, about to join the A6 London Road," comes the response.

"It's him, let's go!" Sykes heaves. Just as they emerge from under the railway bridge, on the corner of London Road and Store Street, Penfold reaches her hand forward to grab the suspect by the arm who turns in surprise at the sudden restraint.

"What the -"

"Harry Styles?!"

"What?!"

The blond man looks shocked and afraid, but he puts up no resistance to the three police officers surrounding him.

"Put your hands in the air! Harry Styles?!" Ellison repeats urgently.

The blond man's confusion deepens. "Who? Me? Think you've got the wrong bloke, mate." 

"Hands in the air! What's your name?" Sykes demands, adrenaline now coursing through his veins with a vengeance. This isn't going at all to plan.

"Jonathan Appleby." The confusion has turned to fear now. His arms are raised above his head and his eyes dart between the three officers.

"I'll need to see some ID."

"My driving licence - my wallet is in my back pocket. What's this about?"

Penfold speaks into her radio again, ignoring this question, while the blond man turns slowly around and Sykes pulls out his wallet and retrieves his ID.

"Confirm again location."

"Stationary, on the junction of Store Street and London Road."

PC Sykes examines the contents of the wallet. A driving licence and bank cards, a library card and a Tesco clubcard, all in the name of Jonathan Appleby. This isn't making any sense at all. "You got a phone?" he asks.

"Yeah, mate. Other pocket." The blond man's eyes are wide, as the gravity of the situation is slowly dawning on him. The police think he is somebody else, and by the looks of things, the 'somebody else' is a wanted criminal.

Sykes pulls a Samsung mobile phone from the rear pocket of the man's jeans, and presses the button at the bottom. Nothing happens.

"My battery died. On the train," the man who claims to be Jonathan Appleby explains. "I can't switch it on until I can plug the charger in."

"You got any other phones?" Ellison demands.

"No, just that one."

"Mind if we check your bag?"

"Yeah, course, go ahead."

Jonathan Appleby is eager to please; eager to cooperate. He has never been stopped like this by the police before. He has never had so much as a parking ticket in his life, or even a library fine. His hands are trembling as his imagination runs away with him, picturing himself in a police cell for the night, unable to prove he isn't who they think he is.

Penfold bends down and reaches into the side pocket of the navy Adidas holdall, and retrieves an iPhone. "This yours?"

Jonathan Appleby's eyes almost pop out of his head. "What's that? Where did you get that? That isn't mine!"

"What's it doing in your backpack then?"

"I don't - I don't know! I don't know whose it is!"

Jonathan Appleby is starting to panic. He has seen television programmes and read news articles about police stitch-ups like this, where false evidence is planted and innocent people are framed for crimes they did not commit. It seems incomprehensible that it could be happening to him, right here right now, but how else would there be a strange, unidentifiable mobile phone in his bag, and three police officers that seem to know exactly who it belongs to?

"Jonathan Appleby, I am arresting you in connection of the murder of Christopher Henshall. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"Who - Christopher who? I've never heard of him! I'm telling you, you've got the wrong guy! I haven't a clue what is going on, you have to believe me!"

Handcuffs are clipped to his wrists behind his back. Police sirens wail. More than one squad car arrives on the scene. The unfamiliar iPhone is dropped into a clear plastic evidence bag and sealed across the top. His vision starts to blur. 

Jonathan Appleby remains in a state of shocked silence in the back seat of the car on his way to the police station, desperately trying to understand the connection between this mysterious Harry Styles, a supposedly murdered Christopher Henshall, an iPhone he has never seen before that has somehow turned up in his bag, and the part he has inadvertently played in this whole unfathomable turn of events.