“Yeah?”
“Can your husband hear me as well?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, I can,” confirmed the gruff sounding man.
“Okay, listen to me, very carefully. Do you organise the charity events at work?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, we’ve just discovered, in the past few minutes, that the victims of the attacker are also the charity co-ordinators.”
“Oh, for… what a sick bastard…” sobbed Tina. Her husband was comforting her, telling her that she was safe.
“But this is excellent news, because it means that we know who he is going to be going after, so we can protect those people, as well as arrest him the next time he attempts to hurt somebody.” Miller thought that he sounded reassuring, but it wasn’t him who had just been told that he was on the attacker’s list of people to seriously harm.
“I can’t believe this…”
“Now, listen, Tina, this is so important, so please listen to me incredibly carefully. Nobody can know about this. Just you, and your husband. You must not tell a soul, because if this gets out, and the attacker hears that we’re onto him, then you will be in far greater danger.”
Tina let out another sob, but her husband seemed to be agreeing with what Miller was saying, he could be heard encouraging her, and saying things like “makes sense,” and “good idea.”
“Now, the first thing that I want your husband to do is lock your doors, and close all the curtains in your home, in every room. Can you tell me when he’s done that please?”
There was a couple of minutes of heavy-breathing and sighs of exasperation and fear. Eventually, a door opened and Tina’s husband said “done.”
“Okay, brilliant. Right, now you are going to have a plain-clothes police officer at your home anytime. They will be very discreet, and you won’t know that they are there. I don’t want you to answer the door, or step foot out of your house, until we say that it’s okay. That goes for your husband as well, okay?”
Both voices agreed.
“Now, as I said, it’s absolutely crucial that this stays a top secret. Please don’t tell anybody, not even your mum. It’ll all make it a better story for them anyway, once we’ve nicked this sick bastard. Okay?”
“Okay, yes, I think I understand,” said Tina. “Just stay in, don’t answer the door. Don’t tell anybody. Until further notice.”
“Correct, and stay positive, because this is the safest you’ve been since the attacks started. We’re just going to wait for him to show up, and we’re going to take him down.”
“Okay, well, thanks…” Tina sounded completely stressed and confused.
“Save this phone number, and if you need anything, just call me straight back. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Miller ended the call, and looked around his huge team. “Right, let’s get on with it. Write this down on your pads. Main points, number one, they have to keep this top secret. No drama on Facebook, no phone-calls to best friends, no mention to anybody except husband or wives…they need to be totally silent about it, or they are going to make matters worse. Number two, they lock doors and close all curtains and blinds, and they stay in the house, and they don’t open the doors under any circumstances. Okay?”
“Sir, what if there are kids in the house, or teenagers?”
“How do you mean?” asked Miller of one of the new faces.
“Well, I’ve got teenagers. Asking them to keep anything quiet is a complete waste of time. If they hear about this, it’ll be all over Snapchat and Insta and all the apps they use. They’re millennials, Sir, they’ll want to make it all about them.”
“Good point. Okay, write this down. Kids must not be informed. The only people that are allowed to know are husbands and wives, stroke spouses. Really emphasise this point. Okay?”
There was a loud cheer of agreement.
“Sir, was it true about a plain clothes officer being outside?” asked another.
“Yes, well, I mean, it will be when we get one round there. But in the fullness of time, I mean within the next twenty-four hours, there’ll be armed response officers guarding every single address. Any more questions?” Miller looked across his team, and smiled when he saw that there were none. “Okay, everybody who wants to make one of these unforgettable phone calls, come up and take a press-clipping, and don’t forget to thank Saunders for also supplying their phone numbers. Great job Keith!”
*****
An hour later, the job was done. Every one of the thirty-six potential targets had been made aware of the situation. The responses had been overwhelmingly different from the employees. Some of the DWP charity liason staff had been very relaxed and calm about it all, grateful that they were now under police protection. Others were not so rational, and quite a number had required Miller or Saunders to get involved with the calls. Eventually, by 9pm, Miller dismissed his team, and thanked them for their excellent input today, and for also staying late to finish this task off.
It had turned out to be an extremely positive day, especially considering the difficulties presented by the Chief Constable’s unhelpful comments. Miller was still incensed that the Chief had hijacked this ongoing inquiry to score a few political points. But it was done now, and the Granada and ITV news interview should by now have returned the public’s attention to the sheer nastiness of the attacker, rather than the debate around the cuts.
Miller sent the list of the 36 names and addresses to Dixon, and the Chief Constable, to be distributed around each police station. Miller left the ball in their court, after ensuring that he had covered his arse for any future court hearings, saying “please make sure that all of these people, and their home addresses are given round-the-clock protection. I cannot stress highly enough that they are all in very, very serious danger at this moment in time. Many thanks.”
Finally, this was coming together, and once again, it was DI Saunders who’d made the break-through.
“Right. Bollocks to this, I’m going home!” said Miller as he shut his laptop down.
But, he wasn’t going to get very far, as news was about to reach him that the attacker had just been caught outside a DWP employee’s house.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A 999 call came in requesting urgent police assistance at 9.32pm. The address was York Street, Glossop. Reports were sketchy, but basically, somebody had spotted the DWP attacker outside their home, and he’d been hit with a baseball bat. The call was being made amid great confusion, panic and adrenaline, and it took several minutes for the emergency services call-handler to calm the woman on the phone, and get her to speak slowly, calmly, and succinctly. It was worth it in the end, as the information became clearer.
The attacker had been hanging around in the shadows of a ginnel near the back-yard of a terraced property. He was wearing his usual disguise of dark clothing, and his hood was up, concealing all of his face and head. The home-owner, Kelly Taylor had been phoned, only an hour earlier by an SCIU officer, and warned of the danger she could be in. Thanks to the phone call, she’d been quick to spot the man from her bedroom window.
Her husband Mike, armed with a baseball bat, had sneaked out of the front door of the property, and had crept silently up the street, around the side of the houses, and around into the ginnel at the rear of the street.
“What the fuck are you up to, you sick cunt!” shouted Mike, as he ran into the ginnel.
The man had been leant against Mike and Kelly’s back gate, looking at his phone. Upon hearing the sound of Mike’s booming voice, the shadowy figure dropped his phone with fright, and began legging it as fast as he could. He was just a bit too fast for Mike Taylor, but Mike had managed to land a couple of blows with the bat, hitting the would-be attacker around the head, and on his back, around the rib-cage area. They were good, well landed blows, and Mike was surprised to see the guy carry on running. Mike managed to keep up with him for about twenty yards, determined to get another swing in,
but once the attacker had gained a couple of metres distance, he started throwing wheelie bins over as he passed them, and Mike had to give up the chase. He was gutted, and instantly regretted the snap decision of shouting out as he’d ran into the ginnel. He had no idea what had made him do that.
The police presence on this normally quiet little street, in one of the quietest little towns in the Greater Manchester area, was unprecedented. The entire road was jammed with police cars, vans, tactical aid units, dog vans. The blue revolving lights certainly brightened up this normally dark, unremarkable little street. The entire back alley, or ginnel as the locals call it, was sealed off with POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape, and Kelly and Mike were being spoken to by specially trained officers.
Miller arrived just after ten pm, he’d raced to the scene in his car, mindful of the fact that his unmarked CID car was zooming up the very same motorway that he’d walked across a few days earlier, following the attack in Hyde. His Vauxhall Insignia was touching 100mph as the M67 motorway gave way to the A57 at Mottram, and he altered his speed accordingly.
Miller was absolutely delighted with what he found at the scene. The attacker had dropped his phone, which was still lay in situ. Miller had the feeling that this was all he needed to find out who the attacker was. The phone would most probably be logged into the attacker’s Facebook page, too, if experience was anything to go by. It felt like a gift from the Gods, and Miller couldn’t wait to see what delights the forensics team would come up with. Miller was feeling great, he was so hyped up about this unexpected, but brilliant development, mainly because the attacker had been given a good smack with the bat, and that the only damage done was the harm done by Mike Taylor’s baseball bat, which was now being examined by forensics staff.
Miller went into the house, and saw the couple. Kelly was upset, she was trembling and talking really quickly to the police officers, and her friend from across the road, who’d come to sit with her. Mike Taylor looked like he was dealing with the after-effects of a massive adrenaline rush, his leg was bouncing up and down on the spot, and he was breathing heavily. He was getting on a bit, probably late forties, early fifties. Certainly a bit too old to be running around whacking people with a baseball bat. But Miller was glad that he had done.
“Now, who is it I have to speak to about carrying an offensive weapon?” asked Miller. He smiled widely, and it took Mike a few seconds to see that Miller was just having a bit of fun.
“Ha, shit, you had me going there…” said Mike. He smiled widely too, and stood up to shake Miller’s hand. “You never know in this day and age though, do you?” he asked.
“No, you don’t! But seriously mate, well done there. I think you’ve possibly cracked this case for us.”
“No worries. I think I cracked his head open as well. I just couldn’t believe he carried on running. He’ll have a fair egg on his head, and I bet I bust a few ribs for him as well.” Mike looked pleased with himself.
“Seriously. Did you hit him hard enough?” asked Miller.
“Oh yeah, you should have heard the clunk noise. He’s definitely got an empty head.”
“Well, that’s brilliant. We’ll hopefully be pulling him in anytime soon. This egg on his head, and the bruises on his torso will be extra evidence against him.”
“Where do you think he’s gone?” asked Kelly. Miller could see straight away that she was scared of him coming back.
“Don’t know. The helicopters up, all of Manchester’s police dogs are out, trying to sniff him out. But I know one place he won’t be going again, and that’s here! He didn’t get a very warm welcome, did he?” Miller was trying to calm the DWP employee down. “So, quite an evening, eh? First we call you to warn you to be vigilant, and an hour later, your husband has given us our first decent piece of evidence!”
Kelly smiled, and looked admiringly at Mike. “I’m going to have to start calling you Bruce Lee!” she said to Mike.
“You mean Bruce Willis, you narner!”
*****
Glossop is not the best place to try and escape from, when all of Greater Manchester’s police officers are after you. The famous, bonny looking market town is the last stop before Greater Manchester gives up its boundary to Derbyshire and Yorkshire. Glossop is the last place you can buy a Greggs before Sheffield, 25 miles away on the other side of the Pennines. The infamous, dangerous road which takes you there is called the Snake Pass, named as such for its dreaded bends and twists.
Due to its location on the very edge of the city’s boundary, it was extremely fortuitous for the police that the DWP attacker chose this address out of the thirty-six. It was probably the stupidest decision since David Cameron called the EU referendum. There was a far greater opportunity of capturing this individual, based purely on geography. Manchester police had put South Yorkshire police on alert, requesting a road-block for all vehicles travelling into Sheffield from the west, so if he had gone that way, he was driving straight into a trap.
Similarly, road blocks were set up at the traffic lights at Mottram and on the various other B roads out of town. All escape routes from Kelly Taylor’s address were covered. Put simply, if this man was driving, he’d better have had his toe to the floor, headed towards Manchester, from the minute he reached his car. Otherwise, he was bound to be caught up in a road-block anytime now. All cars, coming in or out of the area were being stopped, details of all occupants were taken down, the vehicles and their boots were checked. Each vehicle took several minutes, so it was extremely good that this had happened so late at night, the only time of the day that the traffic is calm going through Glossop.
Other officers, who hadn’t been assigned road-block duties, were given the task of driving all around the town, checking all parked vehicles for occupants, looking underneath vehicles, inside and behind commercial bins, and inspecting all other obvious hiding places. Once a certain road, avenue or industrial site had been checked over, they were radioed through to the control room, and crossed off the list. If the attacker was still in Glossop, the Manchester police officers were determined to catch him. Every single one of them wanted to be the one who nicked this despicable individual, and receive the Queen’s Police Medal for distinguished service.
This was a full-swing, major police operation, and nothing like this had ever happened in Glossop before. This normally sleepy little town was buzzing with people who were desperate to know what was going on with all these hundreds of police officers and vehicles zooming around. The police were checking all the streets and all the bins, lifting man-hole covers, and there was no escape from the roar of the helicopter circling above, shining its giant torch down on back gardens and all potential hiding places. It was very exciting stuff for the locals, especially the youngsters.
Members of the community were filming the activities on their phones, and publishing the footage to Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, and some were even sending theirs to the newspapers and TV news channels. Glossop was the last place you’d expect to find this kind of frantic police activity.
The problem for the local community was that nobody really knew what was going on. There were plenty of rumours flying around, and most of the rumours accurately suggested that it was connected to the DWP attacks. One or two in the know, realised that the hub of the activity was centred around Kelly Taylor’s house, and that she worked at Glossop Jobcentre. But other than that, there wasn’t very much more to say, and the rumour-mill was in overdrive. This was the worst thing, when major things were happening in the community, but there was no way of finding out what it was, so many of the community members resorted to that old northern saying. “If in doubt, make summat up.”
Glossop Memories Old and New page on Facebook was bursting with comments and suggestions.
“Can’t believe it, you know that Kelly from number sixteen, she’s been stabbed in her feet.”
“That sick bastard has just killed a girl from Glossop Jobcentre, I’ve heard.”
“She
isn’t dead, I’ve just had a fag with her. They’ve caught the attacker as well.”
There really was a galaxy of falsehoods and fake news, and many people from the local community were becoming extremely concerned. Somehow, one person managed to write a comment that pretty-much summed up the situation.
“I’ve found out what’s what. This man who’d been doing the attacks was waiting outside someone’s house and he’s been battered, but he’s got away. All the police are looking for him now. DON’T APPROACH!” This comment got 76 likes, and once the word started to spread about this particular version of events, the excitement and curiosity began to turn to fear. If this was true, it basically meant that there was a mad-man, who cripples people, roaming around Glossop, injured. It wasn’t good news by any stretch of the imagination, it was the stuff of nightmares.
The police presence seemed to grow and grow. There were literally hundreds of police vehicles driving around in convoys. It looked as though all of Greater Manchester’s officers had been sent down to Glossop, with one job in mind. Bring in the DWP attacker. But as the time wore on, it started to become clear that they’d missed him. He wasn’t here, he wasn’t in Glossop.
Several hours passed with no news from the authorities, and tensions were really starting to reach fever-pitch in the small, close-knit former cotton and wool manufacturing town. Once the helicopter had retreated from the area, the deafening roar of the rotor-blades was not missed by anybody.
But despite the relative peace and quiet that the chopper’s absence brought, the loss of the aircraft made the public feel even more vulnerable. The annoying sound, it turned out, had been very reassuring to the community.
It was turning out to be a very stressful, and scary night at the foot of the Snake Pass. Slowly, but surely the colossal police presence began to thin out, as other jobs and priorities came in, and the vans and cars were despatched to shouts back home in their own towns and on their own patrols around Greater Manchester. By 1am, it was all starting to look and feel like a massive anti-climax.
The Final Cut Page 21