“No way! Aw, that’s good news. When did all that come about?”
“Last night. I bet you’re glad it didn’t come on the news until you’d gone to bed, or you’d have been watching telly all night, and now you’d look as rough as me!” Miller started to tell Clare all about the developments in Glossop.
“I’m so pleased Andy, you needed a lucky-break on this one.”
“Er, excuse me, it wasn’t a lucky-break, you cheeky cow! It was…”
“It was a lucky-break. Right, well, the twins will be up soon so I want five minutes quiet on my phone.”
Miller sat up and leant round to grab the cup. “Cheers love. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you somewhere nice, sometime.”
“Ooh, that sounds vague!” Said Clare as she slumped on the other settee with her brew in one hand and her phone in the other.
*****
Miller arrived at the office just after eight. He looked dreadful. To his annoyance, Saunders arrived at the same time as him, and looked as though he’d just had a week off, followed by the best night’s sleep of his entire life.
“God, you look like you’ve had more than four hours sleep Keith! How do you do it?” asked Miller, slamming his bags down on the floor outside his office door.
“It’s because I’m only in my thirties Sir. Once I’m over that hill, like you… I might start looking grim. Like you.”
“Nah. I’m sure there’s two of you Keith. I’m absolutely convinced of it. If it ever goes quiet around here, I’m going to do some investigating into this. I’ll find your body double.” Miller unlocked his door and pushed it open with his hip as he picked up the bags. “Besides, I’m only forty-two, you cheeky bastard.”
“Past it Sir!”
“Right, I’ll get this laptop fired up and we can have a chin-wag about today’s proceedings.”
“Yes, no problem Sir. I’ll sort the coffee.”
Once Miller and Saunders had sat down and completed a brief recap of the previous day’s developments, they were both reminded that the investigation had come a very long way in just twenty-four hours. It was easy to forget how much progress was being made, when you were right in the thick of it.
And now, with the chief suspect’s name out there in the community, it should all come to a quiet, positive conclusion, anytime soon. That was certainly the way things usually happened in Saunders’ and Miller’s experience. It may take a few days, a week even, but once a known scrote’s name has been released to the media in relation to a serious case, the scrote in question quickly discovers that they don’t have any mates left, or any sofas to doss on. In their experience, it was now just a waiting game.
“How do you fancy doing a press conference this morning Keith?” Miller looked across the desk, and again felt a pang of annoyance at how youthful and fresh-faced his colleague appeared, despite the lack of sleep.
“On a Saturday?”
“Yeah. It’s still the biggest news story in the UK.”
“Well, yes, of course I’ll do it. But why aren’t you?”
“I can’t do one looking like this.”
“Fair point. I doubt anybody would come forward if you did it Sir. You look like Phil Mitchell during his crack phase.”
“Right, that’s settled then. I’ll phone Dixon in a bit, I love ringing him on the weekend, it does his head in. Right, what do you suggest we get everybody working on now that we’ve got our prime suspect?” Miller really did look like shit. He started rubbing his eyes, before taking a huge slurp out of his cup.
Saunders thought about Miller’s question for a bit. There had been an enormous amount of work done in this investigation, by a huge number of people working here in the SCIU, and also out in the DWP buildings, where staff were checking their own systems for details on recorded threats, and acts of violence against staff.
“Well, Sir, the truth is, I don’t know. I’ve half a mind to suggest that we all work on locating the suspect, but we’ve far too many staff to justify that. And if we hand them back…”
“Yes, you’re spot on. If we hand them back, we’ll never see them again, and we might still need them in the coming days. So, I suggest we review what everybody is looking at, and we can deliver the good news in the 10am briefing.” Miller was filled with positive energy, and was loving the blank cheque mentality regarding this case. Usually, he’d struggle to justify his tiny team’s overtime. But today, the Manchester police were paying almost fifty officers to come in.
Miller sat forward and loaded Sky News on the laptop. They were repeating the comments that people from Hattersley had been making all night on social media. This was the first that Miller and Saunders had heard about this, and it intrigued them greatly. After a few minutes of listening to the Sunrise report, and a few of Curtis Kennedy’s contacts from Hattersley being interviewed, Miller switched the news app off.
“What are they playing at now? We get our first decent lead, and Sky News are saying it’s the wrong person. WE’VE GOT HIS FACEBOOK PROFILE! WE’VE GOT HIS PRINTS!” He shouted at the laptop.
“Dunno. Sounds a bit queer all this Sir. Why would Sky start reporting that we’re looking for the wrong person. I’ve never come across this before. Maybe there’s something in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, from that little bit we heard there, it sounds like the people who know Curtis Kennedy are all saying that its bollocks. Well, sorry Sir, but I can’t recall a case where that has happened before. Can you?”
Miller thought long and hard. Eventually, he spoke. “No, I can’t say I have, but times are changing aren’t they, everything’s going viral and all that shit nowadays. If this kid has got a lot of mates on Hattersley, it would be pretty easy for them to all start confusing the picture by talking shit about our only suspect, trying to throw us off the scent.” Miller blew out an exasperated breath. “But, well, I think you’d better see what’s behind this Keith.”
“Right Sir, no worries. Are we putting the press conference idea on hold then?”
“Yeah, for now. I think we might fall in a trap here if we don’t suss out the lay of the land. I’m not in the mood for us being made to look like dicks on Sky News.”
“No Sir, fair comment. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up.”
*****
It didn’t take Saunders long to see why there was so much fuss about the suspect’s involvement in this case. Judging by the Police National Computer, Curtis Kennedy was the typical ASBO. He’d had dozens of police interventions throughout his young life, and all of it for the type of behaviour that would be regarded as “silly” if it wasn’t so stressful and infuriating for other members of the community where he lived.
He’d been in trouble for letting down all the car tyres on his street at the age of eleven, and since then, a decade of fuck-wittery of the highest order followed. Saunders smiled at some of the bizarre escapades of this ridiculous young man. One entry from the previous year caught his eye. Kennedy had burgled a washing machine from a charity shop in Stalybridge, and tried to get it home on a bus. Police were called when he started kicking off with the driver, who wouldn’t let him on with such a bulky item. Officers were surprised to find him still standing at the bus stop, with the washing machine. Saunders laughed loudly as he read that Kennedy had stolen it, “because it was his mum’s birthday, and hers is fucked.”
In 2012, when Kennedy was 17, he was arrested for painting the panes of his next door neighbour’s windows black. In 2013, he was sent to a young offender’s institution for repeatedly kicking the wing mirrors off cars in the Hattersley area. In 2014, on return to the community, he was in trouble again, this time for setting the primary school’s bins on fire.
By the time that Saunders had finished reading this depressing list of pointless criminal activity, he too was absolutely convinced that Curtis Kennedy was not the right man. He wasn’t capable of the DWP attacks, it was quite obvious that there had been some kind of a massive cock-up here. The realisa
tion frustrated Saunders, as he tried to figure out how this could have got so confused.
Miller arrived back from his meeting with DCS Dixon, and he appeared quite relaxed, cheerful even. But then he saw how pissed-off Saunders looked, and he knew straight away that this wasn’t going to be as straight-forward as he had imagined. He could just tell.
“DI Saunders, got a minute please?” said the DCI as he stepped into his office.
Saunders stood and walked quickly across the SCIU floor, which was a hive of activity with so many staff working so enthusiastically.
“What’s up with you, Keith?” asked Miller as Saunders sat down.
“These people who are saying that Kennedy is not the man responsible for the attacks… they’re right.”
“You certain?” Miller looked dismayed.
“Yes, absolutely one-hundred per-cent Sir.” Saunders leaned forward and handed over the PNC report into Curtis Kennedy’s criminal history. Miller raised an eyebrow as he read. He sniggered at one part too.
“Fucking hell. This guy is a bit of a tool, isn’t he?”
“He’s an A-list bong-a-dong.”
“Yeah. I bet the only way you’d get this one to wear a condom is to draw a Nike sign on the side of it.”
“Oh, don’t Sir. Have you got up to the bit where he got locked in the car he was trying to nick? It was the hottest day of the year, and he was screaming, banging on the windows for help.”
They both laughed, but there was a real sense of disappointment present in the humour.
“So, come on Keith, I imagine that you’ve figured this out?”
“Not really. I’ve been thinking through few scenarios which might explain it.”
“Go on.”
“Well, he’s done a bit of burglary. He was stood down a ginnel, in the dark. He might have just been casing a house to break into. Then, the lady from the DWP has spotted him, and we’ve all added two and two together and got seven.”
Miller agreed. He was scratching his chin as he considered Saunders’ explanation for the apparent mix-up.
“Yes. I think I agree with you Keith. He’s wound up there on other business, probably about to set some fire extinguishers off or something, and it was a pretty insane case of wrong place, wrong time.”
Saunders nodded. “Well, the fact remains, we’re not going to know until we catch up with Kennedy. I thought we’d have felt his collar by now.”
“It won’t be long. But let’s not go too far with explaining this to the team. We’ll just tell them that we are keeping an open-mind, and continuing our investigations until further notice.”
“What was Dixon saying about the DWP target list?”
“Oh, very positive news on that front. We’re going to have armed police presence inside every one of the thirty-six addresses on that list until the suspect is in custody, regardless.”
“That’s good. Expensive… but it’ll bring a lot of peace-of-mind to the DWP staff.”
“Yes, it will. But it’ll also drive them nuts having a load of police in their home twenty-four seven. The only thing that’s going to make the DWP staff happy is the announcement that we’ve caught the bastard.”
“Which presents us with a massive problem. We’re going to pick up Kennedy at any moment. And when we do, and it’s become public, the DWP staff will let their guards down, the armed officers will be stood down from the addresses, and we’ll probably lose all these extra officers… even though Kennedy isn’t the attacker.” Saunders looked seriously pissed off.
“You’re right. Shit. This is a pickle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we’re snookered. What have uniform said about Kennedy’s address?”
“Apparently, he’s not been seen there for over a month. His mum and sister live at the address, neither have heard from him.”
“Is that common?”
“Apparently so, it’s quite normal for him to take himself off for a while. They don’t seem like a very close-knit family, from the notes.”
Miller looked deep in thought for a moment. “I think me and you should go down and speak to the mother. I’ll be nice, you be a dick, let’s see what we can uncover. What do you think?”
“Okay, I’ll get this team brief nailed, and then we’ll go and do Kennedy’s mum’s head in. But I was the dick last time, so you’re doing it today. I’m in the mood for being nice.”
“Fair enough.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Miller and Saunders arrived at the address, just before noon. The curtains were still drawn in the front-room window.
“Is that a new front door?”
“Looks like it. It’s not in keeping with the neighbour’s front doors, is it?”
“They are tenants aren’t they? I mean, they’ve not bought the property?”
“No idea. Shall I call the council?”
“Yes. Try and find out why they’ve had a new front door. There was nothing on the computer about us lot smashing their front door in. Do a bit of digging, see what info the council have about this family. I’m going to have a quick look around the street, and a peep around the back.”
“Sir.”
Miller got out of the car and had a walk along Sandybank Avenue, the neat, quiet cul-de-sac in which the Kennedy family occupied one of the gigantic estate’s three thousand council homes. Despite Hattersley’s “rough” reputation, Miller couldn’t find fault with the place. It was a very nice street, all of the gardens were tidy, all the properties were clean and well presented. Most of the cars on the street were up-to-date models, and Miller realised that the place must have improved considerably since the last time he had reason to visit the estate, several years earlier, when putting a psycho loan-shark out of business.
The only house which looked deprived in this neat little cul-de-sac was the Kennedy residence. The paint work was looking tired, the front of the house had some “tagging” graffiti sprayed around the front-door, and one of the upstairs windows had a crack running all the way through it. The other window was closed, but had its curtain trapped, half-in, half-out. By the front door step was a bucket which was over-flowing with cigarette ends. It was the only property which had net curtains up, and the caramel shade of them suggested the occupants of this address didn’t always go to the front door to smoke.
Miller continued walking up the avenue, passing a couple of kids playing kerby. He smiled as he greeted a young mum pushing a pram. She was looking at her phone and didn’t notice him. He turned off the walkway, and headed for the ginnel which ran along the back of the properties. As soon as he stepped into the ginnel, he heard shouting from one of the addresses. He hoped it was the Kennedy house, and he felt pretty confident that it was. Miller quickened his pace, he wanted to have a listen to the commotion. He stopped by the back-gate, and crouched down, pretending to tie his shoe-lace, just in case anybody wandered down here. There was a hell of a row coming from the Kennedy house, and it was easy to follow as all the windows were wide open.
“Well I couldn’t give a fuck, he’s not coming back here, so shut your trap Madison, keep your fucking stupid bullshit to yourself.” It sounded like the mother, her voice was older than the other voice, and sounded as if several decades of cigarette smoking had deepened it quite considerably.
“It’s family mum. You can’t just turn your fucking back on fam. I know he’s a bell-end. But, he’s our bell-end.”
“Madison, I couldn’t care less. He’s not stopping here. The police will be watching the house anyway, you barmy bitch.”
“Well, if he comes here, I’m letting him in. So fuck off!” A door slammed loudly, and then the mother shouted, much more loudly this time.
“Stop slamming my fucking doors!”
Miller waited a minute, to hear if any other information could be gathered by listening to the row. But it seemed to be concluded for the time being. Miller was satisfied that Kennedy wasn’t here, and hadn’t been recently, from what he’d picked up eaves-dropping.
/>
He stood up and headed back around to the front of the houses, walking casually back to the car. Saunders was in the passenger seat, talking on his phone. Miller got in and made a few notes in his pocket-book, passing the time while he waited for Saunders to finish up.
“Right,” said Saunders, as he finished the call. “Just been onto the emergencies line to Peak Valley Homes, they manage the estate. The lady I spoke to checked their system, and she said that the Kennedy’s had a new front-door fitted five weeks ago, the last one had been smashed off its frame. Mrs Kennedy hadn’t offered an explanation for the damage, so they had to pay the costs.”
“That was five weeks ago. And the reports you read from uniform last night said that Kennedy hasn’t been around the address for about a month?”
“Correct, Sir. So, it would appear that he might have annoyed the wrong crowd.”
“Looks like it. I was just ear-wigging at the back of the house, the mum and the daughter were having a bit of a barney. The sister is saying she’ll protect Kennedy, if he comes back. The mum’s telling her that that’s not happening.”
“Backs up the story that he’s not there, then?”
“That’s what I thought. They are very vocal, they sound like something out of Rita, Sue and Bob Too.”
“Great film.”
“It seems like one of those houses where the loudest one gets heard. It might be an idea to piss these off to the max, then go and have a listen at the back to see if we can gather any intel on Kennedy’s location.”
“Yes, well, I’m up for that.”
“Come on then, let’s get in there. And don’t forget to wipe your feet on the way out.”
Miller knocked out the familiar CID melody on the new front door. The two detectives heard a deep-voiced woman muttering some negative sounding words inside as she came closer to the door.
“Hello, Manchester Police,” said Miller as a poor, tired looking woman appeared at the door. At first glance, she looked like an old lady. But after closer inspection, Miller soon realised that this woman was probably quite a bit younger than him, but had clearly had a much more difficult life.
The Final Cut Page 25
