“Aw for… we’ve already had yous round last night. He’s not here!” She sounded desperate to be left in peace. Even when her son wasn’t there, he still managed to bring stress and anxiety to his mother’s door.
“Hiya, yes, I know. We’ve a few more questions, we
won’t keep you…” Saunders was playing the good cop today. He liked that role much better than the bad cop. He always found that he got more information being nice.
“Come on then. I’m going to have me windows put in, they’ll all think I’m a fucking grass or summat! Snitches get stitches!”
The smell of poorness hit Miller and Saunders as they stepped inside. Saunders smiled as he spotted a can of Oust air freshener by the front door, and decided that this lady must be very optimistic by nature.
“I know, it’s a nightmare. We’re just keen to speak to Curtis. We don’t think he’s got anything to do with these DWP attacks, but there’s nothing we can do about that until we speak to him.”
“I know, yeah. Well it’s obvious that he hasn’t done those attacks. He’s a soft bastard anyway. Sit down if you want.”
Saunders and Miller glanced at one another. Neither of them wanted to sit down, for fear of transferring the smell of stale nicotine and poor domestic hygiene onto their clothes. They had both spotted a very iffy looking stain right in the middle of the sofa. But they sat down, anyway, perching on the edge, as far away from the yellowy patch.
“Thing is, nobody seems to have heard from Curtis for at least a month.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve not… he’s not been here. Not seen or heard off him.”
“But that’s quite common, isn’t it?” asked Saunders. “He has a tendency to drift, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, he fucks off all the time. It’s usually because someone on the estate is after him. He goes all over, he was living in a bail hostel in Skegness a few months ago. He’s tapped. Always has been. Fucking head-the-ball.”
“Mam! Who’s at the door?” shouted an obnoxious sounding young woman from upstairs.
“It’s the police again!”
“For fucks sake!” The sister came running down the stairs. She made no effort to be quiet and the heavy banging of her feet sounded like the end of Eastenders. She burst into the front room, looking angry. Her shocking blue hair really framed her pale, spotty face.
“If you think our Curtis has done that to them Jobcentre people, you’re off your fucking tits!”
“Madison, shut the fuck up will you?”
“No, I will not shut up! This is prosecution!”
“We don’t actually think Curtis is involved.” Said Saunders, calmly. “We’re more inclined to think that he was at that address for another reason, possibly buying some drugs or something. We need to speak to him, in order to eliminate him from our enquiries. That’s what we were just trying to explain to your mother.”
This announcement wrong-footed the gobby young woman who stood there with her hand on her hip. “So why are they saying it all on the news? The amount of shit I’m getting on Facebook because of all this is unbelievable.”
“He was standing outside a DWP workers house last night, and some people have come to a rash conclusion. That’s all.” Said Saunders.
“For fuck’s sake, so you’ve got him down for…”
Miller decided to shut this obnoxious little chav down, she was doing his head in, and she’d only been in the room for thirty seconds.
“Hoi you, shut your trap, it’s your mum we want to talk to. It’s not about you, so go and suck a gob-stopper.”
“You what, who the…”
“Can you get her to leave please, Mrs Kennedy?” Miller looked hard at the girl’s mother.
“I’m not going nowhere! Cheeky twat.”
“Mrs Kennedy, if you don’t get her away, I’ll have to no alternative but to arrest you and speak to you down at the station. This is a very urgent enquiry and I haven’t got time for drama queens.”
This comment seriously upset the mum. She already looked like she’d had enough of life before Miller and Saunders had even stepped into this run-down shit-hole of a house. And now, her blood-pressure was through the roof again.
“Madison, please, just go upstairs while I sort it.”
Madison looked at her mother with pure contempt, before pulling the door shut as loudly as she could.
“Stop slamming my fucking doors!” Shrieked Mrs Kennedy.
“Sorry about this. We’ll be gone before you know it, we just need to ask a few more questions that our colleagues didn’t ask last night.”
Mrs Kennedy sat down and lit a cigarette. Her hand was shaking noticeably. Both of the detectives felt quite sorry for her. This was no life.
“When was the last time you saw Curtis?”
“About a month ago.”
“Can you remember the date?”
“Nah, every day is the same in this house. Fucking shit.”
“What about TV? Can you remember what was on that night?”
“Nah. I don’t think so… Coronation Street probably.”
“Where was he when you last saw him?”
“He was here, the last time I saw him.”
“And was there a row, or anything? Did he say that he would be away for a while when he left?” Saunders was being really nice.
“No, just… I don’t know. There’s always a row about summat. But no, I don’t think so. He was just… I can’t really remember.” Mrs Kennedy was being frustratingly vague.
Miller decided to spice things up a bit, and give her a judder.
“Roughly around the time that Curtis was last seen here, you had a new front door fitted. Are those two things connected?”
“What.. how do you mean… front door…” Mrs Kennedy suddenly started shaking violently, and the tiny amount of colour that she’d had in her anaemic looking face was completely drained now. She looked a ghostly shade, like a packet of Bernard Matthews chicken roll.
“You’ve got a new front door. It was installed on the fifteenth of October. What happened to your last one?”
“I’m, this is doing my head in, I’m not…”
Suddenly, the living room door burst open. Madison hadn’t gone back upstairs. She’d stayed behind the door, listening in.
“Why won’t you tell them mam? You’re a fucking disgrace!”
“Madison, you’d better shut your trap you, or I’ll shut it for you!”
“Tell them mam! Tell them why you’ve got a new front door that’s costing you eight-hundred quid!”
Mrs Kennedy looked at the two detectives, then back at Madison who was glaring at her from the doorway. She took a long, hard drag on her cigarette, and blew the smoke out through her nostrils.
“Mam! Tell them, or I will.”
“And then I’ll have to move off the estate, you stupid bitch!”
“Good! It’s a fucking shit-hole anyway!”
“Right, Madison, will you just pipe down a minute love? We really need to eliminate Curtis from this enquiry.” Saunders was playing the nice guy superbly well. “All this shouting and kicking off is just delaying us. Mrs Kennedy, please just tell us what you know.”
There was another delay as the boy’s mother chose her words. Her hand was still trembling as she held the burnt-out cigarette butt.
“I’ve not seen him since the front door went in. He was taken away by two big massive black men. One of them carried him out on his shoulder, and shoved him in the boot of their car. That’s all I know. I swear down.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Thank you for joining us on BBC Radio Five Live this Saturday lunchtime, I’m Susan Northwood. The suspect in the DWP attacker case has been named as twenty-two-year old Curtis Kennedy, a Greater Manchester resident, who is reportedly in receipt of Jobseekers Allowance, and it has been revealed, has previously been sanctioned by the DWP. It sounds like a clear motive, and there are reports this morning that Curtis Kennedy is well known to police
locally, and has indeed served some time in prison. So, with this information at our disposal, we are trying our very best to get the message out there, and to tell the public to remain vigilant. If you suspect that Curtis Kennedy is around your local community, the advice is to call 999 immediately, and do not approach this man. Now, let’s go to the phones, and see what our listeners have got to say about these dramatic developments. On line two we have Harry Webster in Lincoln. Good afternoon Harry.”
“Good afternoon Susan, and thanks for having me on.”
“You’re very welcome Harry. Now, it says on my notes that you’ve got a theory for us?”
“Yes, well I have actually. I’ve been reading a few things that are being said about this kid, and it’s becoming pretty obvious that he is not the person responsible for these crimes.”
“Well, sorry to interrupt you there Harry, but, in the interests of reporting the facts, that is the name of the person that the police have named as their number one suspect. What makes you so sure that your theory is more reliable than that of the investigating officers?”
“Look, go online, and see what people who know Curtis Kennedy are actually saying. They think it’s a joke. This person is more at home spitting on people from upper floors in shopping centres. It seems totally inconceivable that he has the intellectual ability to carry out these attacks, let alone plan them.”
“Well, that is certainly an interesting viewpoint. But you’ll appreciate that we have a duty to report the information that we are given.”
“Yes, I understand all that. The thing is though, last night they were very excited about this, and today, it seems the mood from Manchester police is a little flatter. I’m guessing that they’ve realised that this young chav isn’t the attacker.”
“We will certainly find out if your theory is correct, or not, in due course. In the mean-time Harry, you sound like an informed kind of man. What do you make of what’s happening with these attacks?”
“Hmmm. Good question. I just think it’s yet another disastrous situation for the government, another self-made catastrophe. My mate and me were having a few pints and discussing it the other night. He said that if what was going on in this country at present was the plot of a film, you’d walk out of the cinema, or you’d switch the channel over. You’d just think it was total nonsense! Totally far-fetched garbage.”
“Which part in particular?” asked Susan.
“All of it. Come on, you’re a clever person, you know it’s a shambles. It feels like we’ve asked the most idiotic people in the UK to cause as much damage as they possibly can to our country. It’s like some conspiracy theory, to turn Britain into a joke!”
“Harry, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to qualify those comments.”
“I can qualify them. Take this DWP sanctions nonsense. They are spending more money on stopping people’s benefits, than just paying them out in the first place. These sanctions cost an extra one-hundred and fifty million pounds a year to put in place, so let’s just think about that. It is costing us tax-payers an extra one hundred and fifty million, every year, in an attempt to save money!”
“How does that work Harry?”
“I don’t know how it works, but those are official figures from the office of national statistics. Go on line, look them up. Every person who is sanctioned has to appeal, and appeal again, and so it goes on. The extra admin and extra staff, court costs, etc it all adds up.”
“But if it means that its getting people into jobs Harry, its surely a worthwhile investment?”
“What jobs? Working for free at Tesco or Poundland to keep your benefits? Or are you referring to the zero-hour contracts down at Sports Direct, where staff have to give birth in the toilets on their lunch-break, because they’re so scared to take a day off?”
“That was an isolated case. But I take your point.”
“This lie that they are banding around about record numbers of employment, the lowest figures of unemployed people for forty years. It’s utter nonsense!”
“Well how can you possibly say that…”
“Because our economy isn’t growing. It’s the worst performing economy in Europe, after Greece, which is bankrupt of course. It’s all lies, and I can’t believe people are falling for it!”
“Be careful what you are saying please, Harry.”
“I’m just calling out the lies and the fake news that the government are pushing at the gullible idiots. Listen, if all these people are in work, then why isn’t the economy growing? Why aren’t all these happy people, these extra million people that have been cured of being jobless, why aren’t they spending their wages, why isn’t the tax man rubbing his hands together about the million extra wage packets he can tax?”
“Well, that is an interesting question Harry.”
“I’ll tell you why. Because it’s total poppycock. It’s nonsense, and it totally restores my utter contempt for lying, cheating Tory politicians. Look at what they are doing to disabled people, sick people, people with learning disabilities. They’re signing them off as fit for work. Work where? A lot of them had jobs already, with specialist support workers and carers at Remploy. But this same government closed it down, turfing thousands of vulnerable people out of their jobs, to save money. Like I say to you, none of these policies make any sense. It would have made sense to expand the Remploy factories, to expand the amount of support workers and carers, and teachers, training these guys up to do valuable work, and improving their standard of living. But instead, they closed the factory, stuck them all in their houses, then took away their disability benefit, declaring them fit for work. It’s just as illogical as every other disaster that these lunatics in Number 10 have created.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, come off it, for heaven’s sake! The whole situation in Britain is a complete joke. Just look at this mess that you see before you at the DWP up in Manchester, it is a perfect example. We’ve got the army working on security because there are no police. Ambulances are arriving half an hour late to a shooting, but even then, the A and E departments can’t cope when the ambulance finally gets there. The DWP staff aren’t turning in to work for fear of being attacked, I read a report that thousands of today’s pensions are late hitting the bank accounts. It’s a never-ending cringe watching this insane government going about their business. The issue that lies at the heart of these DWP attacks boils down to nothing more than good-old-fashioned nastiness. The people behind it are sadists, there’s no other word to describe them. They cannot have a conscience. This diabolical, deliberate treatment against the poor costs more money than it saves, and the government are trying to pretend that their never-ending list of epic fails are good for the country.
Seriously, from every single perspective of life in Britain, the government are failing disastrously. From Brexit, to schools, to health, public services. They lie of course, and tell you a different story. But surely the people in Britain are not that stupid.
Everybody knows what’s going on, they can see this country falling apart around them. Every single one of us can see the state of the place, the crisis of having no nurses, no police. We can see the mess they are making of schools, prisons, trains, the roads. One of the richest countries on the planet is being turned into a third-world country because born-rich morons who’ve never done a real day’s work in their lives are running the show. Like I said, it would be laughable, if it wasn’t so serious.”
“I think you’re painting a rather negative picture here Harry! Is it really so bad?”
“Well, you’re paid to say that Susan. You’re part of the propaganda machine, aren’t you?”
“Well, um, if I am, I must have missed the memo about that one Harry, to be perfectly honest.”
“You are, and if you don’t believe me, let me ask you a question.”
“Go ahead, I’ll answer it if my government masters nod through the glass, oh yes, there they are, nodding. Go ahead.”
“Very funny. The
y’ll stop nodding in a second, when they hear my next question.”
“Yes, yes, they’re looking very worried now Harry.” It was obvious that the presenter was having great fun taking the mick out of Harry.
“Ask them if they can see the sense in fannying about to try and save half a billion quid with these petty benefit reforms, when they could raise seventy-four times that amount of money, by simply raising the cost of corporate tax to the same level that it is around the rest of Europe.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow…”
“Didn’t think you would. They are losing us thirty-seven billion pounds, every year, bungs to their super rich chums, whilst kicking disabled and sick and mental people in the balls.”
“Come on Harry, we can’t say things like that.”
“Why? Because you’re on a government radio station? Stop it. Imagine if I came into your studio now, and said that I want to donate some money to Children in Need, yeah?”
“Yes, go on.”
“Well if I had 50p in one hand, and thirty-seven quid in the other, which would you choose?”
“The thirty-seven pounds, of course.”
“What about if that was half a billion pounds, or thirty-seven billion pounds, which would you choose?”
“It’s very obvious, I’d choose the thirty-seven billion, of course!”
“Well, go and ask your government masters why they’re blissfully ignoring the thirty-seven billion, and snatching the half a billion off the poor! Poking the sickest, most vulnerable people in the eye while they do it!”
“Okay Harry, thanks very much! Another one who’s clearly escaped from his hospital. Right, onto line three, Anne in Swansea.”
“Hi Susan,”
“Hello Anne, I hope Harry hasn’t made you slit your wrists?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t go that far. But he did make a few good points about the state of the country. It’s a joke.”
The presenter swerved Anne’s observation. “It says here that you wanted to talk about the DWP attacks in a different light?”
The Final Cut Page 26
