That comment got through. Wilson suddenly had a look of anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No comment. Come on, let’s get you back to your cell. We’ll pick this up again in the morning.”
“No. You’ve got to charge me or let me go…” said Wilson, as though desperate to hear his fate. The two detectives smiled slyly at one another. Saunders threw his eyes over at Grant, then back at Wilson, creating a “what’s he like?” look, which amused Grant.
“Under the circumstances, I’m confident we’ve enough to secure the maximum ninety-six hours to detain you. But you’re right, after that time is up, we will have to decide whether we are going to charge you, or release you. I mean, if you can come up with a plausible explanation for all of the evidence against you, you’ll be out of here by Thursday.”
“Interview suspended at sixteen-fifty.” Said Grant, delighted that Saunders had managed to wrap this up with plenty of food-for-thought for Wilson to sleep on. It was going to be a long, long night.
Saunders requested a custody officer to come and escort Wilson back to his cell. As soon as he was led away, Saunders and Grant raced out of the police station, and into Saunders’ car.
Chapter Forty-One
Tameside Division were delighted to be involved in the arrest of Jamie “Miggy” Miggins. He was known to several of the CID officers based at Ashton police station, and had his own revolving door at Strangeways prison. At least it felt like that. He’d go in for a year, sometimes two, for violent crimes. But somehow, he always managed to wriggle out of the most serious charges, and received far more lenient sentences than the Ashton officers had been hoping for.
With hindsight, it came as no surprise that Miggins was the chief-suspect for the DWP attacks. Several of the CID staff in Tameside were annoyed with themselves for not suggesting his name. As soon as it had been relayed to them by their DCI, the room erupted with the sound of discontent. The DWP attacks meant a lot to the Tameside officers, they’d attended the attack in Hyde the previous week, and Stockport is only up the road from their patch. These attacks had been very close to home for all of them. Too close to home.
Ashton’s DCI addressed his officers. “There is a total radio ban on this job. We have reason to believe that Miggins, and others, have been eaves-dropping our radio network for some time. So, there will be absolutely no airtime until further notice in relation to the DWP attacks. If you do hear any talk on police radio about the DWP attacks, ignore them, these are decoy remarks being made by DCI Miller’s team, and they will be completely irrelevant to the inquiry. It’s just to give the impression that its business as usual if the attackers are monitoring. Is that understood?”
“Yes Sir!” said the group of twenty-six detectives in the incident room at Ashton police station.
“Thank you. Right, down to business. We currently have several patrols out looking for Miggins’s vehicle. As soon as it is seen in transit, we are going for a hard stop, led by armed-response officers.”
The tension rose in the room. Suddenly, things had become very serious.
“At this moment in time, we have not made eye-ball on the suspect’s car. However, he was caught in an ANPR log, driving through Denton at eleven o’clock this morning, headed in the direction of Stockport, possibly Brinnington estate, he is known to spend a lot of time in that area. We have to make the assumption that he is still local to that district, or the Denton, Hyde, Haughton Green or Bredbury areas at this moment in time, as these are his most frequented districts. As soon as one of our patrols spots him, we will engage in Operation Imbellis.”
*****
Operation Imbellis was named after the Latin word for coward, and the major operation got under way shortly after 5pm. It was dark, and raining in Manchester. Miggins’s car had been spotted headed towards Denton, coming from Bredbury. Unmarked police cars quickly made discreet pursuit, and within minutes of the initial sighting of Miggins’ dark blue Ford Focus, there was a convoy of unmarked vehicles on his tail, with many more units headed his way.
Communications between the police teams involved in this pursuit, were not as straight-forward as usual. Each car was in contact with the control room via open-line mobile phone, which was being managed as a conference call by the Detective Superintendent at Ashton. This unique form of communication was limited, but effective enough to keep a running commentary with the police vehicles, and to feed-back key intelligence from the ground to the control room. The information that the officers all heard was that Miggins was alone in the vehicle, and he seemed to be quite relaxed, smoking a cigarette and singing along to the radio. He hadn’t appeared spooked by any of the trailing cars, as he continued to play the air-drums against his steering-wheel.
Miggins’s car continued into Denton, passing the turn-off for his address in Haughton Green. It had been hoped that he would head back towards his home, and that the arrest could be made as he got out of his vehicle at his address, on the council estate. That had been the plan that the officers had hoped for, and the fact that it wasn’t now an option was disappointing, although it wasn’t a major problem. There were plenty of officers on hand to make the arrest, wherever the opportunity presented itself.
By the time that Miggins’ car had travelled through the traffic lights at Crown Point, turning left and headed towards Manchester, the Armed Response Unit had arrived on the opposite side of the junction, and was ready to join the convoy.
Now came the tricky part, which was to decide where the ambush, or “hard-stop” was going to take place. At this juncture, the Superintendent relayed the commentary from the ARU, whose officers would dictate the ultimate decision on how the arrest was going to pan out.
Less than a mile down the road from Crown Point, close to the motorway junction at Denton Rock, Miggins’s car began slowing down for traffic lights, and he hit his indicator, telling the trailing officers that he was about to pull into Sainsbury’s supermarket. The Superintendent’s voice suddenly lifted a few octaves as he relayed the message from the ARU officers.
“Standby Operation Imbellis. Suspect’s vehicle is about to turn left into Sainsbury’s. Armed Response want a hard stop outside the car park. Repeat, all units, hard stop OUTSIDE the car park entrance, do not allow the suspect to enter the car park. Over.”
The Superintendent had clearly forgotten that his radio language wasn’t required over mobile phone, but none of the awaiting officers noticed. They were too absorbed in what was happening. This was it.
The traffic lights changed to amber, then to green, and Miggins’s car pulled forwards, turning into the road which led to the supermarket. Four unmarked police cars suddenly hit their sirens and blue lights, the first one accelerating past, and then in front of Miggins’s Focus, while the others surrounded the vehicle at either side, and behind. The front car slammed on the brake, forcing Miggins to stamp hard against his own foot-brake. The rear car nudged Miggins’s car forward, as the other two unmarked police vehicles wedged him in at either side, leaving him with no escape route, not even through the door, as it wouldn’t open widely enough to allow him out. As all of this was happening, the ARU Range Rover had swooped around the side, and pulled up in front of the diamond-shape formation. It was a text-book hard-stop.
In the blink of an eye, the armed response officers were out, and had their weapons trained on Jamie Miggins.
“Armed police!”
“ARMED POLICE! PLACE YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL!”
There were four armed officers standing in front of the vehicle, all of them had the barrels of their Heckler and Koch G36 assault rifles pointed directly at Miggins. His face confirming the fear and surprise. This high-adrenaline encounter had taken him completely unawares.
“MOVE THIS VEHICLE!” Shouted one of the ARU officers, pointing at the car which was blocking the driver-side door. Within seconds the vehicle had zoomed out of position and the car door was pulled open. The coward who had crept up behind innocent peopl
e, viciously attacking them and causing them horrendous injuries, was crying like a terrified toddler, snot and all.
Footage was being recorded of this arrest via the ARU officer’s body-cams. For the twenty officers that stood around the scene as Miggins was cuffed and placed in the back of a police van, there was a sense of relief that this awful week of terror was over, and a sense of morbid delight that this whimpering, snivelling little bastard would long be remembered for this pathetic, debasing body-cam footage, above all else.
Chapter Forty-Two
At 5.20pm, the SCIU team members were sitting in the incident room, waiting for Saunders and Grant to get back from interviewing Wilson. All four of the suspects that had been picked up in that morning’s dawn-raids had now been informed that they were having a sleep-over. The Cole brothers were the only ones who made a fuss. Wilson had been quite subdued throughout the second part of his interview, and the stark reality of the situation was dawning on him as he settled down to a night locked up with nothing but his own thoughts for company. Hart knew what side his bread was buttered, and headed back to the custody cells looking quite relaxed.
“Sorry, sorry!” said Saunders as he burst through the doors, with DC Grant just a few footsteps behind.
“Every red light! We tried the blues and twos, but the amount of pillocks that won’t let you through is getting worse!” added Grant.
“Okay, no problem. Sit down, we need to get started. It’s been an eventful few hours, there’s no time to discuss all of this now. But here’s an overview of the day’s developments. We know who killed Kennedy, we know what his involvement was, we know who carried out the attacks. We also know that the man who organised all of this horror in our city is booked on a flight out of Liverpool John Lennon airport at 19.50, headed for Marrakesh.”
“Fucking Norah! That’s a hell of a day of developments!” Chapman looked stunned by the extraordinary progress which had been made over the course of just one day of questioning. He and Worthington had endured the day from hell, sitting around and receiving “no comment” replies from Linton Cole.
“Yes, it gets better. I’m just waiting for a call to tell us that the actual attacker has been apprehended, the arrest operation is live as we speak. Once we have him, a cheap little hitman from Haughton Green, we just need to apprehend MacDowell at the airport, and it’s all over.”
These words were comforting to the SCIU staff. This case had been deeply disturbing, and extremely troubling for every one of them. The prospect of it all being concluded tonight was an incredibly welcome proposition.
“However, we need to keep a sense of reality. We have to assume that the arrests of the Cole brothers, and of Hart and Wilson won’t have escaped his attention. Wives and girlfriends have probably been in touch with him by now, if not other gang members who’ve heard the news. So, let’s be clear… this is not a done-deal. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”
This comment took the wind from under the SCIU officers wings slightly. But they understood it was a sensible suggestion. Miller continued, “we have organised a major police operation in conjunction with border force and Merseyside police. The airport is going to be inundated with undercover and armed officers, and as soon as MacDowell presents himself at the airport, he’s going in a police van. I’ve taken the decision that we will stay away, as there is a very high probability that MacDowell will have some eyes and ears at the airport prior to him making an appearance, just to check that nothing is untoward. We have to remember that we’re all familiar faces to him and his team of scumbags, so I’m not prepared to risk anything going tits-up at this late stage in the proceedings.”
There was an air of disappointment. None of the team liked to sit it out when a major arrest was imminent. Especially when the stakes were this high, and the crimes involved were so repugnant. But it did make sense.
Miller held his hand up as his phone started ringing.
“Miller!” he said, the expectancy in his voice was unmistakable. He smiled as he listened to the DCI in Ashton break the news. Miller raised his thumb to his team. There was an audible sigh of relief from all of the detectives.
“Brilliant, okay, nice one, nice one, cheers.” Miller hung up.
“We’ve got the fucking bastard!”
*****
At exactly the moment that Miller was talking to his team, and celebrating the arrest of Jamie Miggins, the check-in desk was opening at Liverpool John Lennon airport, processing passengers for flight FR3028, scheduled to depart two hours later, at 19.50.
There were no obvious signs around the entrance, or in the vast reception of the huge, glass-fronted building that anything untoward was going on. It looked like business as usual in the main lobby, which resembled an enormous bus station. Hundreds, if not thousands of excited, and anxious looking passengers and giddy kids were queued in long lines, waiting for their turn at the check-in desks. They were all eager to get this boring part done, so they could get through customs, and buy a drink at the bar, ready to kickstart their holiday.
But unbeknown to the holidaymakers, all around the airport were dozens upon dozens of plain-clothed officers. Some were armed, some were not, and they blended into the queues extremely well. Many of the police officers were waiting in the Ryan Air queue, the queue for the 19.50 flight to Morocco. The plan was to make a very peaceful, very quiet arrest, the moment that Marco MacDowell presented himself.
The apprehension amongst the police officers was high, and the longer the wait went on, the greater the tension became. After forty minutes, the Ryan Air queue was dwindling, and it was starting to look like this had been a red-herring. It looked as though MacDowell had pulled another stunt, diverting the police’s attention, while he did something else. But what?
Miller was in the SCIU incident room, with his team, anxiously following progress thirty-five miles away, via a mobile phone conversation with the Merseyside Chief Superintendent who was Gold Commander of the operation.
“It looks as though your theory was correct, DCI Miller. As each minute passes, it looks more and more unlikely that MacDowell is going to show up here tonight.”
Miller’s mind was racing. “Okay, well, let’s see if that flight leaves without him. If it does, I’ll call an urgent press conference and we’ll make him Britain’s most wanted man before that plane is over the north-sea. He’s not leaving the country via any other port, his name will flag up on the watch-list as soon as his details are entered into any airport or seaport check in desk...”
Suddenly, the Chief Super in Liverpool sounded tense. “Sorry, er, standby.” The phone crackled. Miller felt his insides somersault. Something had happened, and he had no idea what it was. His team were sat before him, glaring back. They all felt the sense of apprehension.
*****
The Ryan Air queue was much shorter now than it had been when check-in had opened. A young family from Runcorn were getting near to the front, and the children, a boy and a girl aged about eight and ten, were becoming more and more excited with each passing minute. Their parents looked stressed, the kids were driving them nuts with the constant talking and giggling and ducking under the ropes which separated the queues.
“Mum, I’m thirsty, can I get a drink?”
“Can I go to the toilet?” They asked, repeatedly.
“Amber! Leon! Just simmer down.”
“I’m bursting though!” pleaded Leon to his mother.
“No. Its nearly our turn now. Just wait quietly, how many times have I got to say it?”
“Just calm down, will you both?” said the dad. He was beginning to dread this holiday, and they’d not even dropped off their suitcases yet. Amber and Leon looked down at the floor, looking sad for being told off.
A couple of minutes later, the two youngsters had got over it, and started bobbing under the ropes once again, and were giggling as they tried to pop up at the same time on either side. Their parents were relieved to see that they were now finally at the fron
t of the queue.
Marco MacDowell’s appearance had changed from the photographs that all of the Merseyside and border force officers had. He’d managed to disguise his bald, shiny head under a baseball cap, and he had a deep stubble that was almost a beard. He was wearing a dark blue Nike tracksuit and white trainers. His eyes were covered by sunglasses. He was near the front of the queue, just behind the young family, when a border force officer walked over to him and politely asked to see his passport.
MacDowell smiled politely, and dropped his rucksack off his shoulder. He started unzipping the back-pack.
“Yeah, no problem mate,” he said as he rummaged inside. “It’s here somewhere, I just had it ten minutes ago.” He put the bag on the floor and knelt down, and as he did so, he yanked the little girl, Amber, by her hair and dragged her towards him. She screamed loudly.
It had all happened so fast. MacDowell was stood again, and he had the little girl’s head gripped between his hand, and his other arm. “You try anything, and I’m going to break her fucking neck. Do you understand?”
The border force officer stepped backwards, slowly, his hands raised before him.
Amber’s mum was at the check-in desk, but heard her daughter screaming. She saw what was happening and screamed herself. Amber’s dad started walking towards MacDowell.
“Stay there! DON’T MOVE!” He shouted. “I will snap her neck. One twist that way.” He demonstrated with his arm and twisted the little girl’s head slightly. “Do you understand me?” He asked. He was very calm, and Amber’s dad stopped dead in his tracks. His daughter was screaming, staring at him, pleading to her dad to help her.
“RIGHT! LISTEN!” MacDowell was shouting at the top of his voice, his voice was so loud that it reverberated all around the building. “YOU PUT ME ON THAT FLIGHT, AND IT LEAVES RIGHT NOW, OR I WILL KILL THIS KID. IS THAT CLEAR?” He shouted.
The Final Cut Page 34
