The Final Cut Read online

  “Fucking hell…” said Miller as he fought the urge to vomit. That really was a disgustingly violent act, made all the more horrifying by the complete unexpectedness.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, that’s… what the hell is going on?” asked the security man, the colour had left his face, he’d turned an unhealthy shade of grey as the sickening violence was replayed.

  “I’m going to need this on a stick.”

  “Yeah, no problems. But what the hell is going on?”

  Miller had a grave look on his face. The footage had had an overpowering effect on him, and he felt a swell of anger that he had never experienced before. “I don’t know, but I’m not going to rest until I find this bastard and ask him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Thursday Morning

  The story was national now, the “lone wolf” character appeared on all of the front pages except The Star, as they were reporting a Big Brother star’s wardrobe malfunction. The Sun, Mirror, Mail, Express and Metro were all carrying the creepy photograph of the tall, hooded man standing outside the DWP office in Hyde. Miller had allowed the press to access the footage the previous night. He wanted them all to be as outraged and as shocked and disgusted as he had been on watching the seven-second clip of brutal violence.

  It wasn’t just the newspapers who were making this the number one news item. Breakfast TV, News TV and all of the talk-radio stations were leading on the attacks. There was no doubt left that the attacks were personal, and aimed at people who work for the government’s DWP.

  This was a primary news story, and one which brought lots of public opinion along with it. Radio station phone-ins were struggling to answer all the calls they were receiving. At Sky News, the reporters and presenters were trying to maximise the drama and expectation, with a tone of expectancy, and with blatant insinuations that the emergency services were anticipating another attack “at any time.”

  BBC News were replaying their footage of the previous day’s press-conference with DCI Miller, repeatedly showing the part where he refused to ask the questions regarding DWP employee’s safety. It felt a little bit as though the BBC news editors wanted to lay the blame for the latest attack squarely at Miller’s feet.

  One thing was clear. The story that had only been reported in the local area the previous day, was now the biggest story in the land. This could only mean one thing as far as DCI Miller’s investigation was concerned. He needed to get this sorted sharpish.

  *****

  Despite all of the debate and discussion, Miller couldn’t give a shit about what people were suggesting the attacks were about. It just wasn’t relevant to the enquiry as far as he was concerned. The only thing that did matter was getting the person responsible for these unforgivable atrocities off the streets. He’d missed much of the media response and the debate that was taking place. His morning had been taken up mostly by meetings, the worst possible kind of morning for the DCI. All these meetings ever did was to shift the onus of blame onto another person or department or organisation.

  Today, the outcome of the meetings was that the SCIU were the “fall-guys” and, any success, or failure would now be directly attributed to Miller and his team. That also meant that the press were going to be pissing him off no end until all this was taken care of.

  Miller’s office answer-phone was full of messages, the number was in constant demand from members of the press who wanted a “quick word.”

  The whole thing was a massive head-ache, and it was starting to irritate Miller that all of the news channels suddenly seemed to be transmitting vox-pops from people who claimed that “something like this has been inevitable for a long time.”

  To Miller, it was bullshit. The only thing that mattered to him was the positive conclusion, with the arrest of the maniac responsible.

  “Good morning, and thanks all for coming in early.” Miller wasn’t in the mood for cracking stupid jokes or having any idle banter with his team today. He looked like he’d worked all night, his shirt was creased and stale looking, and he desperately needed a shave. “Welcome to those of you who are joining my team today, and welcome back to those who have been assisting with this enquiry over the past couple of days. I want to get straight down to business if that’s okay? I want to start with an update on our latest victim, 31 year-old Gary Webster, who was attacked yesterday tea-time. I’ve been informed this morning that the surgery on his legs was positive, and he has survived the night. This is a miracle, as that boy should be dead right now. I cannot tell you how lucky he is to be alive. Now, to bring this crime into some kind of context, I want to show you this, its footage of yesterday afternoon’s attack in Hyde. I must warn you, this CCTV is extremely graphic and violent. I’ve sent it out to the press last night, but obviously, they won’t show it in its entirety. I must warn you all, this is about as violent as anything you will ever see, so look away if you want to.”

  Miller played the video footage. He wasn’t watching it himself, he was looking at the team of fifty police officers and detectives that had been assigned to work under the SCIU’s rule for the foreseeable future. The gasp echoed around the room as the officers saw the shocking footage with their own eyes. It had a profound effect on everybody in the room, and that was exactly what Miller was aiming for.

  “Now I’ve been doing this job a long time, and I can’t remember such a disturbing attack. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as distressing or violent as this. The reason that it’s so bad, is this.” Miller clicked the laptop mouse and the film started again. But this time, it was an earlier clip. “Now, watch closely. This is the attacker, standing very calmly, leaning against the pillar.” Miller patted the projection screen, just to make sure that there could be absolutely no doubt who he was talking about.

  “Okay, keep your eye on that clock. He has stood there for eight minutes, and watched ten different DWP staff leave the building, before he attacked Gary. Keep watching, I’ve fast-forwarded it up a bit for you. There, one, two, three-four.” Miller counted each person as the door opened and they walked past the camera and off into the street. “Seven, eight, nine and, here comes Gary. Watch what happens now.” Miller pressed the laptop again, and the footage slowed right down to slow-motion. The hooded man suddenly looks alert, stands up straight, pulls his left arm out at a right angle to his body, and steps forward with total aggression. Miller paused it before the sword was swung. He didn’t think these police officers wanted to witness that footage again. He certainly didn’t want to.

  “So, this is where it gets totally confusing. He arrived at 16.22. He maintained that calm, care-free stance throughout, as nine DWP employees wandered out of that door, straight past him. What happens next… as soon as Gary Webster appears at the door, the attacker bursts into life. He was waiting for Gary specifically, its written all over the guy’s body language. But why? This is the thing, as with the victims in Stockport, we’re hearing nothing but lovely stuff about Gary. He is a pleasure to know, he’d go out of his way to help anybody, he’s a real gentleman in every sense of the word. Why then, do these nice people from the DWP keep getting attacked in such savage and damaging ways?” Miller looked out across the sea of faces. They all looked disgusted, and angry. And that’s how it should be, thought Miller, pleased to see that the officers shared his sense of outrage at these cowardly, unprovoked, and life-changing acts.

  “Last night, we closed the motorway, after the attacker had run off over the motorway footbridge. We were confused by something.” Miller pressed his laptop again, and an aerial view map appeared on the screen. It showed two big blocks. “Block A here, is the DWP office where the crime scene is.” Miller then pointed to the other block. “This is block B, Hyde bus station.” Finally, Miller pointed towards a thick blue line which ran across the map. “This is the M67 motorway. Now, follow me here for a few seconds. This motorway has two footbridges crossing it. Bridge one is here, at the north side of the bus station, less than twenty-five metres away from the
crime scene. And bridge two is here, southside of the bus station, and almost two-hundred metres away from the crime scene.”

  Miller glanced at the officers, just to check that they were all following. They seemed to be keeping up. “Right, now, a show of hands please… if you had just attacked somebody here,” he pointed to Block A on the map. “Please give us a show of hands if you’d escape using bridge one?”

  Most of the police officer’s hands went up without hesitation. It confirmed Miller’s instinctive belief that choosing the first bridge, the closest one, was a no-brainer.

  “Okay, you can put the hands down. Anybody think that bridge two would be a better option. There were a couple of hands raised. Miller smiled and pointed to the closest officer with his hand aloft. “Go on, why are you choosing the bridge that’s further away?”

  The officer looked slightly embarrassed, but answered the question anyway. “Sir, my first thought is that the second bridge offers more opportunities to get away on the opposite side?”

  “Okay. That’s a possibility. I could look into that suggestion. Thanks. You, why would you choose the second bridge?” Miller pointed to a young female constable.

  “My beat is around there, Sir, and I know those bridges pretty well. The nearest one comes out on an exit slip-road from the motorway. It would be impossible to keep a getaway vehicle near to the first bridge. Whereas, bridge two has a couple of options for stashing a vehicle nearby, be that a motorbike or scooter. It would be nearer for a car as well, and no traffic-lights.”

  “So, you are saying that even though it looks like he ran the long way around, it would have made his escape quicker in the end?”

  “Yes, Sir, that’s my experience, Sir, yes.”

  “Brilliant, thank you, constable?”

  “Kerry Fisher Sir.”

  “And that’s your regular beat is it, Hyde and surrounding?”

  “Sir. Hyde, Godley and Hattersley mainly.”

  “Okay, that’s very informative, thank you Kerry, and I may want to ask you a few more questions about the geography around there later on, thanks very much.”

  Kerry blushed and looked down at her lap.

  Miller averted his attention to the rest of the group as he continued talking, but he added an explosion of energy into his voice, in an attempt to make the police officers jump, and maintain their levels of concentration.

  “I however, have my own theory, and it’s a theory that has given me this stubbly chin and these big ball sacks under my eyes, because I’ve been working on it all night.” There was a faint sound of amusement amongst the officers, many of whom were fresh into the room this morning and had no idea how to respond to Miller, the DCI who had become quite a celebrity.

  Miller smiled, sensing the awkwardness from many of the new faces. Miller turned back to the map projection on the wall.

  “You see, I started thinking that he has committed the attack here, at Block A, and then ran down through Block B, and over Bridge two in order to attract as much attention to himself as possible in the moments after the attack. Just remember how he was behaving on the CCTV. This is a man who was standing as still as he possibly could for the eight minutes leading up to the attack. Once it’s done, suddenly he wants as many people as possible to see him.”

  Miller looked around the faces staring back at him. “I’ll tell you why I arrived at this conclusion, okay.” Miller clicked his laptop and brought up an aerial view of the location, taken from Google maps. “Now, this might help you to get a better sense of the geography. That big diamond shaped thing is the bus station. Now can anybody tell me what those big grey things are on either side of the bus station?” Miller patted against the wall, at the projected image.

  “Bus lanes, Sir,” said an eager sounding officer.

  “Correct answer! Bus lanes. Why would you run through the middle of the bus station, which is full of CCTV and witnesses, when you could just whizz along this piece of tarmac at the side of the bloody thing?” Miller highlighted the journey with a smooth swipe across the image. “It’d be quicker to go along the tarmac, than negotiate the doors, and dodging the old dears inside. Plus, this is Hyde, this is not a soft place. What if a member of the public fancied being a hero and rugby tackled him down as he sprinted through? All these thoughts and ideas were making me believe that he has come through here for a reason. And I was right…”

  Miller smiled at the expectation on the fifty-odd police officer’s faces before him. This was the best bit in every briefing, the “I know something you don’t know” section, where he held all the cards. The attention in the room was all his. “He deliberately went that way, so that there was absolutely no doubt which way he had gone. The reason? He left us a little something. He threw a piece of paper down in the bus station, we found it last night. We’ve reviewed the CCTV, and it clearly shows the attacker reach into his jacket pocket, and throw it down onto the floor. I’ll show you the piece of paper.”

  Miller walked back to his laptop and changed the Google map image, replacing it with a photograph of a very normal looking piece of white A4 paper. The note had been printed onto the paper, and by the way the words were a little blurred on some sections, it looked like a cheap, home printer had been used.

  “Here it is.” The room went completely silent as the officers strained forward slightly to try and read the note. “To help those of you at the back, I’ll read it out loud for you. Here we go. It says, “How do you sleep at night?”

  Miller could see that this was a very interesting note. Every single one of the police officers looked absolutely mesmerised by it.

  The press people were also about to be just as mesmerised, as the investigation started making some kind of logical sense. Things may be chaotic and somewhat scary, but Miller was happy about this note. It meant that his team could now set about investigating a very solid line of enquiry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hyde is a market town in the East of Greater Manchester, nestled halfway between Ashton and Stockport. The small town, with a population of 30,000 has been home to many great personalities including John Fontana, Ricky Hatton, Timmy Mallett, LS Lowry and the writer and journalist Owen Jones, among many others.

  However, despite being the home-town of so many famous people, the past fifty years have not been kind to Hyde’s reputation. The town is indelibly linked with the Moors Murderers, the sick crimes of Brady and Hindley were revealed by Hindley’s brother-in-law, a Hyde resident, and subsequently the infamous child killers were arrested by officers from Hyde police station. The arrests were made at the couple’s address in Hattersley, the gigantic 1960’s built council estate on the edge of Hyde. In the years that followed, Brady and Hindley’s council house on Wardlebrook Avenue was demolished. The reason was two-fold. Partly, it was because nobody from the local area wanted to take up the tenancy, and anybody from outside the area who did take up occupancy of the house, soon learnt what horrors had occurred there. The other part of the reason that it was demolished was because the property attracted lots of strange and ghoulish people who came from all over the country, in order to dance in the garden, or hold seances and perform acts of devil worship.

  As time went on, people began to distance the crimes of the Moors Murderers with Hyde. But just as people were starting to forget, the town was to be linked with another of Britain’s most infamous serial killers. In January 2000 Dr Harold Shipman was sentenced to fifteen concurrent life sentences for murdering fifteen of his patients, though the findings of the two-year Shipman Inquiry which followed, revealed that the true number of his victims was likely to be around 250 patients.

  During his 21 year period as a General Practitioner in Hyde, Shipman was said to be the area’s best known, and most popular doctor. Shipman always denied the criminal charges against him, right up to his suicide in Wakefield Prison in 2004.

  And as though the area hadn’t suffered enough, the town’s notoriety was to be pushed to the limit a decade later, w
hen Dale Cregan, the one-eyed drug-dealer from Droylsden murdered two female police officers, after they attended a report of a burglary in progress. Cregan made the call to police, intentionally setting up the officers. After killing the two young female PC’s, Cregan handed himself into Hyde police station, and is now serving a whole-life sentence with no chance of parole.

  And now, once again, Hyde was back in the national news for all the wrong reasons. The previous night’s attack outside Hyde Jobcentre was accompanied with a stark reminder of this small town’s troubled past. The media couldn’t leave it alone, and they had even linked all three notorious cases in their reports about Gary Webster, the young man attacked so violently the previous evening as he left his work at the DWP, and headed home.

  Miller had arranged for the press conference to take place directly outside the crime scene at 12 noon, precisely twenty-four hours after his last presentation to the media. Press invites had been sent out after Miller’s team briefing, shortly after 9am. With the press invitation, Miller attached the latest press release, along with a photograph of the victim, Gary Webster.

  In the cheerful photo, Gary was sitting in between his parents, looking very happy and relaxed at a family do. The press release also contained an image of the attacker fleeing through the bus station, his weapon chillingly wrapped up in a black-bin bag, and finally, a photograph of the “how do you sleep at night?” note that had been thrown down in the bus station.

  The press conference had been arranged to take place at the scene of the crime, for one simple reason. Miller wanted the press to really understand that this was a real, life-changing attack, by making the press come and visit the scene, and smell, taste and feel the reality. He wanted them to hear all about the horror, right there, where it had taken place. Experience told him that the press took more of a sense of ownership over it this way. It made these cases feel much more real than if they were just hearing about it at the police HQ.