The Final Cut Read online

  The officers all said “Sir!” at the same time.

  “Brilliant, okay, I’ll hand you over to Detective Inspector Keith Saunders. He will allocate your tasks and organise todays investigations. Thank you all.”

  Miller breezed out of the meeting, and back towards his office. He tapped Grant on the shoulder as he passed her.

  “Got a sec?” he asked, gesturing her to follow him.

  Once they reached Miller’s office, the DCI closed the door behind them.

  “You did really well there Helen, well done.”

  “Thank you very much Sir.” Grant began blushing again. This was biggest the problem with being fair-skinned.

  “You’ve managed to convince me anyway. We are living in pretty weird times, and yes, I don’t think it is beyond the realms of possibility that some whacko would start maiming people to make his voice heard. Sorry I dismissed you so quickly.”

  “It’s fine. Seriously…”

  “Well, I’d like to make it up to you, anyway. You’re doing the press conference with me. So, ring your parents and tell them to put Sky News on at twelve.”

  Miller laughed loudly at the shocked expression on Grant’s face.

  Saunders was looking over from the incident room, wondering what Miller and Grant were so jolly about.

  Chapter Nine

  The news regarding the attacks on Jason Brown and Kath Palmer was still the number one headline story in Greater Manchester and the wider North-West region. It wasn’t quite important enough to make the national news headlines, mainly because it was a story which was occurring “up north.” Most northerners are fully aware that national news only covers local stories if they happen in London. Put simply, if these attacks had happened in London, then the story would be massive.

  However, this was just a local matter for the northerners, not many people had heard about it outside “Granadaland.”

  The local ITV subsidiary, Granada TV is so well known that the north-west has become affectionately known as “Granadaland,” and is one of the country’s liveliest regions, if not the most vibrant in the land. The region starts just north of Stoke-on-Trent, and covers parts of North Wales, all of Merseyside, Greater Manchester, Lancashire, Cheshire, parts of North Yorkshire and much of Cumbria too. That’s a hell of a diverse landscape; from the breath-taking scenery of the Lake District in the north, to the magical* coastal resorts of Blackpool, Lytham and Southport, through to some of the wealthiest country piles in Britain. All of this is intertwined with emerging and exciting new developments such as Media City UK and Liverpool Waters, and the area contains several of the nation’s best-loved football teams too.

  But it’s not all a bed of red-roses. Granadaland contains some of the poorest and most deprived areas in the entire country. The heavy industries lost since the regions cotton, coal and steel hey-day have never been replaced, and entire towns have been left to rot, their people left to try and get-by on state-benefits and very few prospects. Places that were once the richest on earth, towns like Burnley, Rochdale, Accrington and Ashton were in decline on an almost industrial scale. These places had boomed during the industrial revolution, the Abu Dhabi’s of their day. It sounds far-fetched, but to demonstrate their wealth and power, the cotton-towns all built decadent town-halls which were like palaces during Queen Victoria’s reign. But now, these places are struggling to keep their libraries open.

  The region is also home to many of the country’s best-loved celebrities and sports stars. The cultural and political contribution that Granadaland has had on the world’s stage is unmistakable, starting with the Industrial Revolution, the building of a ship canal, the birth of the Co-Operative Society, the world’s first railway, the invention of the computer, the music of the Beatles, the drama of Coronation Street, the comedy of Peter Kay and the glory of Manchester United.

  The north-west really is a remarkable region, and one which is known the world-over for its people and their good-humour, friendliness and warmth to strangers. And those decent people from Granadaland were extremely concerned about these attacks. The way the news reporters were putting it, these were random attacks, totally unprovoked, and carried out on unsuspecting citizens, from behind. It was a terrifying situation, and there was a lot to be scared about, especially when the poor woman involved will never walk again, and the bloke has lost the use of his right-arm.

  The people of the north-west were desperate to hear more information about these incidents, and the scheduled police press-conference at 12 noon which was being covered live by local radio, and was streaming online via local newspapers websites, couldn’t come quickly enough.

  The media centre at Manchester City Police HQ was reasonably busy. It wasn’t jam-packed, as it had been so many times on previous cases of Miller’s. But none-the-less, the local press were out in force, and Miller was glad to see them all. The more press that attended, the better the coverage would be in the area that mattered, which was Stockport, Greater Manchester and just a little beyond that. At this stage in the investigation, there was no need for national press interest. There was very little point in people in Brighton and Cornwall being bombarded with this news every five minutes. As such, Miller was not remotely concerned that the national media hadn’t attended.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Miller of DC Grant, as they prepared to enter the media centre.

  “Fine, I’m really looking forward to it.” Grant smiled confidently at her DCI.

  “Good, let’s go and do it.” Miller pulled the door and started walking briskly to the front of the hall. Grant was surprised at the pace her boss had set off, and found herself speed-walking to catch up with him.

  “Good afternoon guys, thanks for coming,” said Miller as he stepped up onto the raised platform in front of the assembled cameras and sound recorders. After a few minutes of idle banter with a few of the more familiar faces from the press, Miller started to give them all a run-down on the events so far, starting with the attack against Kath Palmer a week earlier, followed by the attack on Jason Brown. His account lasted almost five minutes, as Miller tried to ensure that every detail was covered.

  “So much of what I have just told you is already public, and has been for the past twenty-four hours, or so. I’m now going to hand over to my colleague Detective Constable Helen Grant from Manchester’s Serious Crimes Investigation Unit, who has a little more information regarding our appeal for information. DC Grant and I will be taking questions after the statement. Thank you.”

  The redness started burning up again in Grant’s cheeks, but she paid it no attention as she thanked the press and read out her statement. “Good afternoon, and I would like to expand on what DCI Miller has just told you. At this stage of the enquiry, we do not have a description of the attacker. Our officers are currently going through thousands of hours of CCTV video from the main roads, passing buses and all local shops in the area. This is a mammoth task, and it is made all the more difficult because of the very vague description that we have for the attacker. However, we do have this still footage of him, close to the bus stop where he attacked Kath Palmer last Tuesday evening. We are confident that we will soon have much more information regarding this individual.”

  A CCTV still image appeared on the media screen by the side of where Miller and Grant were sitting.

  “As you can see,” continued Grant. “The suspect is wearing very generic clothing, consisting of dark trousers and a dark hoody, with the lower half of his face concealed by a scarf. We have not managed to get a clear shot of his eyes, they are concealed by the hoody. He is wearing gloves, so we have not been able to ascertain his ethnicity. However, what we can ascertain from this image is that the attacker is male, of slim build, and is approximately six-feet tall.” Grant stopped for a moment and took a sip from her glass of water. The media people were writing on their pads, or checking their camera lenses. There was a tension in the room, and it seemed that the press staff wanted this bastard off the streets just
as much as the police did.

  “While I accept that this is not a lot to go on, our team are optimistic that somebody in the community will know, or recognise this individual. This is a very dangerous, very vicious person who needs to be apprehended before another life-changing assault on an innocent member of the public can occur.”

  The pens were still scribbling away, the press wanted to capture every word that was being said here.

  “We may not have detailed information about the attacker yet, but what we do have is solid information regarding the times and locations of the two attacks. So, if you know anybody from the local area, who looks anything like the man in these images, very tall, very thin, wears dark clothing. If you have any suspicions about any violent people you may know, or people with mental health challenges, including psychotic episodes, please think long and hard about the times of these attacks.”

  The locations, times and dates of the two attacks appeared on the screen, alongside photographs of the victims. These weren’t the “mug-shots” that were being used in the incident room. These were “real” images, of Kath Palmer laughing as her grand-daughter blew bubbles at her face, and a delightful shot of Jason Brown smiling widely, holding his new-born baby, with a tear in his eye. These photographs actively encouraged the journalists, and their subsequent viewers to see what ordinary, happy looking people these victims were, before the attacks. The images were intended to “humanise” the victims in the eyes of the public, and subsequently encourage the public to really think hard about the appeals for help in hunting down this attacker.

  DC Grant continued with the prepared statement. “The times and dates of the attacks are on the screen, along with the locations where the attacks occurred. We are especially keen to hear from any motorists or cyclists who may have been in either location around the times that are listed. It’s extremely possible that you might hold invaluable evidence in a helmet-cam, or a dash-cam device without even knowing it. Please, take a look at your devices, and if you have any recordings at all, from either of these places, at these times, call us urgently on 101 please.”

  Grant clicked her button and another image appeared on the screen. It was the grainy, dark footage of the attacker in his dark clothing again. “We also want to know if anybody saw this person, before he pulled his hood up and placed that scarf around his face.” Grant paused again, and lifted her glass of water. She looked as though she was absolutely determined to catch this maniac, and the press members could feel her steely energy.

  “If you do have any suspicions about a specific person, somebody that you feel may be capable of such madness, we would urge you to ask yourself these questions. Think about those times and dates. Can you account for that person’s whereabouts on those days, at those times? If the answer is no, I would urge you to phone us as soon as you possibly can. Once again, the phone number is 101, and we will try to eliminate all names as quickly as we can. Somebody, somewhere will know the person who has caused these catastrophic injuries, and I am urging you, if you have the slightest suspicion about a neighbour, or a friend, an ex-partner, or he might even be a relative. Get in touch with us, and let’s get this person the help that he desperately needs, whilst protecting innocent people from the potential threat he poses.” Grant looked straight down the lens of the BBC North-West Tonight camera, pleading for the support of the programme’s viewers.

  “Okay, thank you DC Grant. If anybody has any questions for myself, or DC Grant, please put your hand up in an orderly fashion and we’ll try and get around as many as we can over the next five minutes. Miller pointed to a familiar face from the Manchester Evening News. “Joe.”

  “Thank you DCI Miller. There is currently a lot of discussion taking place on the internet regarding these attacks, and a lot of people are claiming that they have worked out a motive for the…”

  “Can I stop you there Joe, sorry mate. I’m aware of the same discussions and theories that are going around. But as detectives, we can only deal with facts, as you know. So, there’s not much point in me sitting here and talking about theories. Like all investigations that my team carry out, we have to work off the cold, hard facts, and not wild speculation. This is why we are here today, to urge your readers to check their dash-cams, their helmet cams, to help us find evidence of who this person is.” Miller pointed to another journalist from The Cheshire Courier. “Harriet.”

  “Thank you DCI Miller. Picking up on Paul’s point… I just wanted to explore this theory about a motive for the attacks. Our readers will all want to know what the official line is, and what you know about the attacks happening to DWP staff. It may only be a theory, but it is crucial that it is discussed.”

  “I’m sorry Harriet, but today’s conference is about the matters that DC Grant has raised, and the request for help that she has put out.” Miller looked around the room at the reporters and journalists with their hands in the air. He spotted Tim Kenyon from Granada Reports and pointed to him. “Tim.”

  “Thank you DCI Miller. I’m sorry to go on, but I need clarification. Are you ruling out the theory that these attacks have come in response to the DWP’s activities against the unemployed, the sick and disabled in recent years?”

  That was enough now. Miller snapped. “Okay guys, I’ve answered that one twice now. I’m happy to take your questions, but not that one. Any more questions?” Miller looked around the room, but none of the reporters seemed to have any other questions. They’d all had their hands up a moment earlier, and Miller realised that the only thing they wanted to talk about was the DWP thing. He got a sinking feeling, as he realised that he’d not prepped well enough for that question coming up.

  “Okay, we’ll wrap it up at that point I think. Please, pass out the information we have shared, please print and broadcast the photos that DC Grant has shown you. Let’s get this person into custody. Thanks everyone.”

  Miller stood and headed out of the press conference, just as briskly as he had entered. DC Grant found that once again, she was struggling to keep up with her boss. Miller seemed like he was in a mood, so she deliberately slowed her pace.

  But beyond the doors of the media centre, Miller was waiting for her, his arms were folded across his chest. He looked annoyed.

  “Well done in there Helen. You did a great job.” He was smiling kindly, even though he looked as though he was ready to blow steam out of his ears.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “This bloody conspiracy theory is going to become a pain in the arse, you know.”

  “Yes, I totally agree. That’s all the press were interested in, Sir.”

  “I know, and now I’ve backed myself into a corner by refusing to discuss it. Nightmare! I’ve nodded in an own-goal there.” Miller turned and started walking, at a much calmer pace towards the stairs, and the SCIU office. “I need to try and think of a way of reversing out of this. I’ll have a chat with Dixon later, he’ll know we can bullshit our way out of this.”

  Miller needn’t have worried though. If there was still any doubt about the link between DWP staff being attacked at random, it was about to be confirmed in very grisly circumstances.

  Chapter Ten

  There was a 999 call. Police and ambulance were being requested from a mobile phone number located in Hyde town centre.

  “Quickly, we need an ambulance, and he’s… get the police as well.” The caller sounded like she was in shock. Her voice was fast, but stuttering. “Seriously, he’s going to bleed out, there’s so much blood.”

  “What’s happened?” shouted another voice down the line.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” said another, terrified sounding voice.

  The phone was distorting with the chilling sound of a man screaming in pain. The emergency call handler was struggling to make sense of what was happening here.

  “Hello, this is emergency services…”

  “I know, we need to get an… here, you, grab my phone, I need to stop that blood, tell them we need an
ambulance.” The original voice went off the line, and was replaced by another woman, who also sounded extremely shook-up and agitated. The phone line was crackling and all the call handler could hear was shouting and noise from the scene of the call.

  “Hello, this is the Emergency Services, can you please tell me what’s happening?” The operator sounded calm, and totally efficient, despite the obvious chaos and terror that was happening on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, I’m, God, I’m, I’m not sure, I’ve just come out of work, one of my colleagues, Gary has been stabbed we think, he’s losing a lot of blood. ”

  “Is the patient conscious?”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes, he’s losing a lot of blood, tell them to hurry up.”

  “And what’s your location?”

  “It’s Clarendon Street in Hyde, it’s the Jobcentre.”

  *****

  Miller and Saunders were on the scene within forty minutes of learning of this latest attack. Almost a week had separated Kath Palmer’s and Jason Brown’s attacks. Only two days stood between this attack, and Jason’s. The location was different too, the increased police presence around Stockport was of no use here in Hyde, six miles away, in the Tameside Borough. The area had been cordoned off with police tape, and quite a crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the road, this area was the main thoroughfare between the town centre’s offices, market and shops, to the bus station.

  The familiar white and yellow forensics tent had been erected around the corner from the main Jobcentre entrance, at another entrance. The attack had happened directly outside the staff exit of the Jobcentre’s building, Beech House. Miller was surprised to see that the building employed its own security guards. They hadn’t been of any help on this occasion, it seemed.