Contents
The Final Cut
Thanks
Important Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PART TWO
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Part Four
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
The Final Cut
Copyright © Steven Suttie 2017
Published by Steven Suttie 2017
Steven Suttie has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design by Steven Suttie
Cover photo used under license from PA Images
Font type Calibri Light
P/B 1st Edition – published 27th November 2017
Kindle 1st Edition – published 27th November 2017
Thanks
There is a lovely author called Donna Maria McCarthy who retweets and Facebook shares my book adverts on daily basis, without being asked, or sent gifts. I would like to thank you Donna, for supporting me, and so many other indie authors, on a daily basis.
I hope my readers will head over to Amazon, and buy your excellent books. The Hangman’s Hitch is brilliant.
*****
I got a little stuck on a technical policing matter whilst writing this story. I’m not a policeman, and as such, not 100% accurate on police procedure. (I’ve seen The Bill though.) I know some readers have mocked my policing knowledge in previous books.
Anyway, one day a few months ago, I met a very nice police officer, PC Graham Hartley from Accrington police station, and he put me right on a few points. Thank you very much, PC Hartley.
*****
I’d like to thank my wife Liz for her never-failing support, as we reach a pretty cool milestone this New Year’s Eve.
25 years ago, aged 16 we became a couple, and almost every day since then you have let me off for annoying you.
I hope that I can enjoy the privilege of your partnership for another quarter of a century, at least.
I love you
Important Note
Although this is a work of fiction, the activities of the government, and their acts of war against the poor which makes up the heart of the story, sadly are not.
Most of the examples of deliberate cruelty against benefit claimants which feature in this story, are based on real events, events that have actually happened to real people. Each time you think “that’s absolutely ridiculous” or “this is too far-fetched” as you read this novel, please just take a moment to remember this note, or better still, Google the event which seems so hard to believe. You will discover it as fact very easily.
Because I write books, some people wrongly assume that I’m loaded, and one person, another author in fact, accused me of being a “poverty tourist” for exploring the themes that this book is based around. I feel it’s worth noting therefore that this book was written in the council house that I rent. I’d like to add that I have always lived in council houses, and I have lived in the areas of high deprivation which feature in my books. When I pointed this out to the very successful Edgar winning author who made the accusation, I was blocked by her on Facebook. I’ll take that as winning the argument that I am not a “poverty tourist” but that I am in fact, a native. This is something I feel no shame about and I have been inspired to write this book because I know, and regularly come into contact with many people who are falling victim to horrendous treatment from the government, just for being poor.
If you are a passionate supporter of the Conservative Party, I must point out that this might be a very uncomfortable topic for you to read about.
This book contains swearing (including the worst one a few times) as well as some upsetting violence. If swearing, and/or violence is not for you, please choose a different book. Ta.
Prologue
John Smith had arrived for his signing-on appointment in plenty of time. He was sitting on the chairs at Ashton Jobcentre, patiently waiting to hear his name being called out.
The forty-three-year old had been unemployed for just over a year, since being made redundant from Tameside Council Parks and Gardens Department. John had worked for the council for almost twenty-five years, since leaving Tameside College. He had loved his work, which ranged from planting decorative flowers in the parks, to mowing the grass and picking up litter along the roadsides. It was a good, honest job. Not brilliant money, but he and his wife Sally and their two kids had managed to get by okay, making just enough to pay the bills and enjoy two weeks in the Med each summer.
But then in 2016, John became the latest victim of the “cuts” and his position had been made redundant. He’d left the council with a glowing reference, and the promise of a “call back” should the Town Hall’s dire financial situation improve. But as another three years of “austerity cuts” of 26% of the council’s spending power had just been announced, that situation didn’t look as though it was likely to alter.
“Mr Smith?” said the young woman behind the counter. She sounded cold, and quite strict, characteristics which contradicted her youthful face.
John stood, and walked across to her.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
John passed the lady his job search diary, which itemised all his attempts to find work since he had last signed on. There were dozens of records of phone calls, letters sent, applications posted.
But the lady didn’t look at it.
“Mr Smith, it says that you missed an appointment with your job coach on Wednesday last week?”
John looked shocked. He had to think for a minute. He quickly remembered what had happened.
“Oh, no, I was at an interview.”
“A job interview?”
“Yes. For the caretaker position at Hartshead High.”
She looked up at him with an inquisitive expression.
“I didn’t ge
t it.” John looked disappointed about the unsuccessful application, but was more concerned that the computer was saying that he’d missed an appointment with his job coach. It was his job coach who had arranged the interview for him. It didn’t make sense.
“Did you ring the Jobcentre to inform us that you would not be able to attend your appointment?”
“No. Well, I mean, it was obvious, if I was being sent on an interview that you arranged…”
“But Mr Smith, it clearly states in your contract that you must inform us in plenty of time if you are unable to attend an appointment.”
“Well, yes, I know that, but, obviously, I…”
“I’m afraid that you’ve broken the rules of your contract Mr Smith. You will face a thirteen-week sanction.”
John Smith smiled. This was clearly a joke. He’d heard about these sanctions, where your tiny bit of unemployment benefit was stopped if you didn’t follow the rules. His wife Sally was so frightened of the sanctions that she always made double-sure that his paperwork was spot on, the night before each of his appointments.
“You guys told me to go to the interview. Chris, my job coach, he arranged it. Ask him, he’ll confirm it. Even Chris knows that I can’t be in two places at once!” John was still smiling, he knew that this was just an error. It would soon be sorted.
“Mr Smith, I feel we are going round in circles here. Did you phone the number on your contract, to inform us that you were going to be unable to attend your appointment?”
“Well… no, of course I didn’t. I’ve just said…”
“And that’s why we have no alternative but to take the action that we are taking. As a consequence of breaking the rules of your contract, you won’t be able to claim Jobseekers for thirteen weeks.”
John looked totally lost. He was beginning to realise that this wasn’t a joke. He was starting to understand that this stony-faced young woman was being completely serious.
“I can’t… I’ve got two kids, my wife… How am I going…”
“We can give you a leaflet about the process. It will include details of how to apply to the Food Bank as well.”
John couldn’t take this in. He sat, looking dazed for a minute. How the hell was he going to tell Sally that the money they couldn’t get by on already, had been stopped. For three months.
“Wait, can I talk to somebody else? A manager. Please, get me a manager. This is just a mistake.”
“If you read this leaflet, it will explain how you can appeal against this decision if you feel that you have been treated unfairly. But I must inform you that appeals cannot be heard until after the sanction period has ended.” The woman sounded like a robot. She couldn’t give a shit about John, or his family, or his problems. He took the pamphlet, stood, and walked out of there, unwilling to let her see the tears that were forming in his eyes.
They were tears of pure rage, of helplessness, and humiliation.
Chapter One
The mood within the Serious Crimes Investigation Unit was very tense. It was Tuesday morning, just after eleven, and DCI Andrew Miller had just interrupted his team, demanding that they step away from their work and join him in the incident room. He was breaking the news of a new case which had been handed to Miller’s department only moments earlier. He had a stern, sombre look on his face, and his small team of detectives sensed that whatever he was about to announce was likely to be very serious.
Their intuition was spot-on. This was serious. Before going into any further detail. Miller informed his team that all of the department’s current live investigations were being suspended, with immediate effect.
“There’s too much shit, and not enough spades.” Said Miller, as he broke the news. It was frustrating, and extremely rare for the detectives to be taken off their current cases. They were all desperate to learn what had come in.
“I don’t know if any of you know about an attempted murder case that Stockport CID were dealing with last week… it made the news. It was reported as a random axe attack at a bus-stop.” Several of the detectives nodded.
Detective Inspector Saunders interjected. “Yes, I was reading up on that case Sir. It was a lady in her fifties, wasn’t it? Just minding her own business, waiting for the bus.”
“That’s right Keith. The victim had just finished work, and was stood, reading her Kindle. She was struck in the small of the back, just above the buttocks with an axe. The injuries that she sustained are life-changing, in the most tragic of ways. The axe penetrated her spinal cord. They don’t think she’ll regain use of her legs.”
There was a moment of angry silence as the SCIU team considered the gravity of the seemingly random, unprovoked attack.
“Stockport CID haven’t made any progress in identifying the attacker, but it’s not for a lack of trying. The problem they face is that the attacker was standing at the bus stop as well, wearing a hoodie. He waited until the road and the pavement had gone quiet, before he launched his assault, so there are no witnesses who saw what happened. The few bits of CCTV that they’ve managed to grab offers nothing. There was no incriminating forensic evidence left behind at the scene. Most worryingly of all, the victim is a well-respected mum-of-three grown up kids. She’s described as the pillar of the community, loved by everyone. So, as nightmare cases go… this one was right up at the top of the tree. Motiveless, cowardly, and totally inexplicable. Until today, that is.”
Miller looked at his team, and smiled humourlessly as they all sat up a tiny bit taller. They were desperate to hear this next bit. Miller indulged them.
“I’ve just learnt that another, very similar attack occurred yesterday, in roughly the same area of Stockport. It wasn’t an axe this time, it was a knife. A gentleman was walking home from work and was struck across the shoulder-blade with a large knife, we’re still waiting for full details of the weapon, but what we know for certain is that it’s a very sharp, very heavy one, quite possibly a meat-cleaver. The victim is okay, in that he is alive, but the attack has cut through his supraspinatus tendon.” Miller lifted his hand and pointed to the back of his shoulder, demonstrating the area where the injury had been sustained. “The victim is in Stepping Hill hospital, undergoing surgery. But here is the thing, it is very likely that he won’t use his arm again. This injury has pretty-much switched it off.”
“Jesus Christ!” said DC Jo Rudovsky, looking around the incident room at her colleagues. They all looked thoroughly shocked and appalled by this news that Miller was delivering.
“The victim is a forty-four-year old dad of two under-tens. Boy and a girl. He too, is also a very well-respected member of the community, these are not the kind of people that usually get caught up in street-fighting, knife culture etcetera. In fact, they are both the total opposites of that demographic.”
“So,” said DC Bill Chapman, “we’ve got two very nice, perfectly ordinary people with life-changing injuries. What’s the link between them?”
“What makes you think there is one?” asked DC Peter
Kenyon, spinning around to face his colleague. “The guy might be mental. There doesn’t have to be a link.”
“Nah, not in my experience,” said Chapman. “There is something that connects these two, I’ll bet you a pie.”
Miller nodded. “Yes, I’ll stop you there Bill, you’re spot on. But the last thing you need is another pie, mate.” Miller waited for a faint laugh at the familiarly themed joke, but it was not forthcoming today. His team wanted to hear the rest. “This has been fast-tracked to this team because there is a link between the two victims. A very, very sinister one. They both work in the same office.”
“Whoah. Flipping heck!” said DC Mike Worthington. He wasn’t expecting that.
“Good grief!” commented DC Helen Grant, the team’s newest member, and girlfriend of DI Saunders.
“So yes. It’s not random, there is a motive of some description… and we need to get the sick bastard responsible in custody before he hurts anybody else.”
“What’s the plan Sir?” asked Saunders, leaning forward as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to get stuck into this case.
“The plan is a very simple one. We are going to the office where the two victims work, and we start there. We find out who everybody is, who the office weirdo is, we try and establish a motive, and most importantly, we let them all know that there’ll be no more injuries now that we’re in charge.”
“How many staff are we talking about in this office, Sir?” asked Rudovsky.
“The core team of staff is thirty-six, but others come and go from other sites as the workload dictates.”
“Shit!” said Worthington. “Sounds like a pretty big office.”
“Oh yes, it is. It’s a government office, the Department for Work and Pensions. They employ eighty-five thousand people around the UK.”
Chapter Two
Miller’s team had been working on a number of high-profile jobs until this DWP case came in. The most significant one, in Miller’s view, was the inquiry that he was personally investigating into the notorious Manchester gangster Marcus MacDowell, known better as “Marco”. The inquiry was centred around MacDowell’s criminal activities, primarily the gigantic cannabis farm that he was operating inside an old cotton mill, alongside rumours that MacDowell was responsible for the disappearance of several well-known criminals and their associates. Miller’s objective was to find some damning proof of MacDowell’s activities, and enough of it to lock him up and throw away the key. The police didn’t want to mess about with charges against the cannabis farm, they wanted a list of water-tight charges, in order to see the back of MacDowell for a very long time.
It was an extremely sensitive inquiry, and Miller had been working steadily on it for a couple of months. He was disappointed that he would have to take a leave of absence from it now, in order to deal with these DWP attacks.
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