Nothing To Lose

by Steven Suttie

  “Understood. Address?”

  Miller gave his boss the particulars and ended the call by reminding Dixon that this information required a grade one response.

  Miller called DCI Katy Green at Tameside and told her to stand-by with the raid on the estate agents.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asked grumpily. She sounded extremely frustrated.

  “I don’t know the specifics, I’m in my office. But I think your job is a decoy. DCS Dixon is arranging a grade-one response at the home of the prime suspect for the fire.” That shut her up.

  “Oh, right. Well it would be nice to kept informed.”

  “I am informing you now. You know as much as me. Anyway, got to go, I’ll phone you back when you’re clear to proceed.” Miller hung up. He’d really warmed to DCI Green at first, but now that initial positivity was cooling. Miller was beginning to realise why she was so good at managing her team. She was a total ball-breaker.

  Miller raced out of his office and shouted his officers. “Guys, stop what you’re doing please. Time to make some arrests for the fire.”

  The SCIU team members looked stunned. That enormous announcement had literally come from nowhere.

  “Chapman, Worthington, you travel in your car. Kenyon, Grant, you can jump in with me. Come on let’s go, blue lights and sirens to Guide Bridge.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As the convoy of police vehicles approached the address, they were ordered to kill the blues and twos. The last thing anybody needed was the suspect receiving a tip-off that he was about to get a visit from over thirty police officers, some of which would be wearing riot gear, whilst the others would be holding loaded guns or barking dogs.

  The vehicles pulled up quietly around the corner from the address. This area of Manchester was predominantly made up of the old Coronation Street style terraces. Fortunately, these types of streets were the perfect kind of address for a police operation of this nature, as a solid police presence around the front and back made it extremely easy for kettling a suspect inside their own home.

  There was no messing about, every officer had been briefed on the way to the job. They all knew exactly what was required, so within seconds of the vehicles being parked up out of sight of the address, the van doors slid open and the officers filed out, running straight to their specified locations. The first team of TA officers, fully suited up in their helmets and riot gear ran along the junction at the top of the street and headed down the back ginnel behind the suspects address. A few seconds later, every officer’s radio crackled alive.

  “Rear of property secured, over.”

  On that, the rest of the police officers headed down to the street, running the short distance to number 15 Sterling Street, the home of Adrian Wilson. Two ARU officers followed, carrying their Heckler and Koch firearms proudly across their chests.

  “Standby.” Said the TA Sergeant as the officers assembled in single file along the front doors and windows of neighbouring properties. The silence on the street was eerie, but that was soon to change with the next instruction from the sergeant.

  “Engage.”

  Upon hearing this instruction, the TA officer carrying the “big red key” stepped forward and gave the battering ram an almighty swing at the front door. The wooden door flew open on impact, which was always satisfying for the officers. The armed police stepped forward and walked into the address with their guns pointed.

  “ARMED POLICE!”

  “GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!!”

  Inside the property, a fat, middle aged man with frizzy grey hair was sitting in his armchair, the sudden intrusion clearly came as a huge shock as the drink in his hand had jumped out of his cup and was being worn down the front of his t-shirt.

  “GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” Screamed the firearms officer as the TA officers began filing noisily and boisterously into the living room. The fat man did as he was told, kneeling slowly from his seated position and then slowly making his way onto the floor. It sounded as though he was sobbing.

  “ARMS BEHIND YOUR BACK.”

  With the fat man’s arms placed on the small of his back, he was quickly cuffed by the sergeant.

  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

  “Adrian… Wilson…”

  “WHO ELSE IS IN THE PROPERTY?”

  “No-one.”

  The suspect was left on the floor for several minutes whilst police officers checked every room in the address for other people. They quickly established that Wilson had been telling the truth, there was only the suspect in the address. The huge police presence very quickly slipped away, as officers were stood down and advised to return to their units and back to their respective divisions. As they returned to their vans, minibuses and cars, it seemed that the whole neighbourhood had come out, people standing in their doorways or glimpsing out from behind net curtains. A significant crowd was gathering at the end of the street, not far from the police vehicles. Many of the spectators were taking photos and videos of the drama on their phones.

  One of the neighbours had a theory already. “It’s a fucking terrorist raid! Our Susan always said he was a fucking Javadi, that one.” Said one of the ladies in the general direction the crowd.

  A few minutes after all of the drama had unfolded, an MCP custody van pulled out of the convoy and headed down Sterling Street, its driver blaring the siren as it parked up outside number 15, alerting the TA officers inside that Mr Wilson’s lift had arrived.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself! Fucking muslamic bastard!” shouted the woman in the direction of the police van. Several of the by-standers looked at her quizzically.

  “He’s white. And he looks like he lives off bacon butties.” Commented another member of the group, to much amusement.

  Moments after the overweight, scruffy looking white man was locked in the van, the police van pulled off and headed down the street slowly, before turning left and disappearing out of sight. Not long after, several of the other police vehicles set off in the same direction, this unexpected commotion resulted in some impressive videos for Facebook.

  Miller arrived a couple of minutes later, with his officers right behind him. The scene that he found in the house was one of relative calm and tranquillity. The TV was still on, and it looked as though the man suspected to be responsible for the tragic and devastating fire a few miles up the road in Denton, had been watching “A Place in The Sun” on television whilst eating chocolate digestives with a cup of tea.

  “Don’t touch anything.” Said Miller.

  “We know how a crime scene works boss!” said Worthington.

  “I know. But that comment was directed at Bill when I saw those biscuits.”

  Chapman leant forward and pretended to take one, which received a good laugh. The tense drive here had heightened everybody’s mood. It felt good to relax now, safe in the knowledge that Manchester’s most wanted had been arrested and it had all passed off peacefully.

  “So, it looks like the man behind the arson attack is in custody. I can’t wait to see what Saunders and Rudovsky have got on him. But while we’re here, let’s have a snoop about, see what we can find out.”

  The SCIU officers had a quick look around the small, two-bedroomed house. There were just two rooms downstairs, the living room was at the front of the property and the kitchen was situated at the back. The place was quite tidy, but the décor was tired. It instantly presented as a single man’s address, there were no feminine touches around the place and it didn’t look as though there was much money knocking about either. The bread on the kitchen work-top was the supermarket’s budget brand and the kitchen lino had a big hole in the middle which was covered with brown parcel packing tape. There was a dirty pan in the sink, the contents of which were dried hard inside. It felt very cold and lonely in there. Miller stepped on the pedal-bin lever and its contents were exposed. It was filled with empty cider cans.

  “Okay, I think I’ve seen enough, it makes me feel a bit sad this place. L
et’s go and see what intelligence we can find out about this chap. Helen, can you get on to Tameside nick and sort out a thorough SOCO examination?”

  “Sir.”

  “Bill, you find out which nick they’ve taken the suspect to.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “I need to ring Dixon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  DCS Dixon’s meeting with the Chief Constable, the Assistant Chief Constables and the Greater Manchester Police and Crime Commissioner had been postponed for one hour, subject to the outcome of the very live developments which were unfolding. It looked like it was going to be positive news as far as the arson attack was concerned. The issue of the over-night bookies attacks still remained, but that wasn’t MCP’s major concern at this moment in time, not now that there was some compelling evidence which backed up Miller’s view that the shop attacks and the fire were two separate things. It was certainly looking like that theory was coming up trumps.

  But there was still a great deal of confusion and speculation about the matter. The only people who really knew exactly what was going on were the four people standing inside an estate-agents shop on the outskirts of Ashton town centre, waiting for a very public raid and the very public arrest of its manager, Tim Bingley. It was all arranged, and Tim was in agreement that it was for the greater good. Saunders had come to the conclusion that if the suspect had been arrested first, which Miller had now confirmed, then there was absolutely no reason not to carry-out a fake arrest on Tim Bingley, and his partner Chantelle. This event, coming after Adrian Wilson’s arrest, would make a very authentic smoke-screen intended to shut down any “grass” claims before they could even get started.

  It was all arranged. Bingley would be dragged about in the street, then thrown in the back of a police van, then after arriving at Ashton nick, he’d be given a brew and a look around the police station, before being released without charge a few hours later, with a press release apologising for MCP’s “heavy-handed” arrest and an acknowledgement that his arrest had been based on incorrect information. It all made perfect sense, and the timeline of the events would prove to any of Wilson’s associates that any “tip-off” which had resulted in all of this had nothing at all to do with Tim Bingley.

  One hour after the drama on Sterling Street, close to the border of Ashton and Denton, the fake police raid commenced on Cavendish Street in Ashton town centre, in the most unrestrained of circumstances.

  The news broke, as it so often does, on Facebook. The Tameside Hangout page, which had twenty-five thousand members went crazy for the dramatic story.

  “What the fuck is going off in Tameside today? First a million police storm an house in Guide Bridge, and now there’s a million of them in the town centre raiding an estate agents!!!!”

  “Chopper’s up as well. Can hear it from here.”

  “Armed response, sniffer dogs, tactical aid, they’re all out. Something proper big is going down!”

  One member of the group posted a shaky video from their mobile phone. It was hard to make-out what was going on with all of the police officers running about, the shouting and the deafening roar of the police helicopter overhead, but the person who had taken this footage zoomed in on the pavement outside the shop where two people were laid down being handcuffed. One thing was abundantly clear; the police were not messing about. The man looked distressed, but the woman in the footage was screaming and struggling, shouting “fuck off me now! Fuck off me!”

  It seemed that everybody in the Facebook group was watching the video, as it kept stalling and buffering. But the nosey neighbours of Tameside persevered and waited for the next few seconds of film to load on their Facebook feed.

  Once people had watched the thirty-five second clip, it didn’t take long for all the gossiping to start-up again.

  “That’s Tim Bingley they are arresting! From Bingley’s estate agents. WTF is going on???”

  “It’s his girlfriend as well.”

  “She’s fit.”

  “She seems a bit moody though!” added one joker.

  “Not being funny right, but I rent my house off him, he’s a proper nice bloke. This is mistook identification.”

  “Someone said they were planning to shoot the Prime Minister!!!!”

  The Facebook debate continued, while fresh videos of the incident continued to appear on the social media platforms. It didn’t take long for the local press to learn about this extraordinary action on the streets of Ashton-Under-Lyne and headed off to try and find some factual explanations for the events which were unfolding this morning. Thankfully, MCP’s press office were all ready with a statement, which was published on the press-office section of their website within seconds of the raid on the estate agents commencing.

  This story was about to become much bigger than the Tameside Hangout group members could possibly have anticipated. This was not just a local story, the official police statement was to have a major impact on the national news headlines.

  “MCP OFFICIAL PRESS STATEMENT

  This morning, our officers arrested a number of people in connection with the fatal arson attack on Seymour Street in Denton during the early hours of the seventeenth of November. This incident resulted in the murder of three members of the Ozols Family and the attempted murder of a fourth.

  MCP would like to reassure the local community that the high-visibility raids today were in connection with this major investigation and would like to thank the public for their patience and understanding whilst these arrests were made. We cannot reveal the identities of the people arrested at this stage and would remind the public that naming people on social media may result in you committing a criminal offence. We are not connecting these suspects to the betting shop incidents which have taken place in the past twenty-four hours, nor the previous four incidents which have occurred in Greater Manchester over previous weeks. WE WILL PROVIDE MORE INFORMATION REGARDING THIS ONGOING INVESTIGATION LATER.”

  *****

  “We need to leave it there Lisa, sorry. Some breaking news now on Sky and a statement has just been released by Manchester City Police.” The newsreader read out the statement from MCP, whilst the TV screen showed the dramatic footage of the raids, taken from Facebook. The news editors had blurred out the faces of the people arrested, but this didn’t downgrade the level of drama in each video as dozens of police officers were seen storming the small shop, and a woman lay on the floor screaming, with an officer knelt on her back. Her words were bleeped out.

  “Joining me on the line is retired Detective Superintendent Ken Chiswick, Ken, what’s your reaction to this breaking news story?”

  “Ah, yes, good morning. Well, I think we can all agree that this is good news, if charges are brought of course.”

  “It seems like a very powerful police presence in Manchester this morning. Is it normal to see so many officers deployed on an operation such as this one?”

  “I think so. Let’s not forget the heinous crime that these individuals are allegedly involved with. The murder of children, as they slept in their beds is about as dark as crime gets, so no, under the circumstances, I am not surprised that MCP have deployed this amount of officers and have thrown absolutely everything at making sure that the arrests went ahead smoothly. They wouldn’t have wanted to get a single aspect of this operation wrong.”

  “What can you tell us about the timing of these arrests, bearing in mind last night’s nation-wide public disorder surrounding betting shops?”

  “I think that MCP’s hierarchy will be taking a huge sigh of relief this morning, the pressure to find the arsonists responsible for this tragedy will have been quite overwhelming over the past few days. I think they will be hoping beyond all hope that they have taken the correct people into custody.”

  All of the news channels were broadcasting the same BREAKING NEWS story. This was high-octane stuff, and a very welcome development to all of the news broadcasters, who had by now been getting a little bit bored of reporting l
ive from smashed up betting shops up and down the country, especially as they didn’t have an official “line” nor a dedicated spokesperson from the police or the Home Office to focus their attentions onto. That story, as sensational as it was, had remained stuck in limbo for several hours as no “official” wanted to step forward and claim ownership of it, at least not yet.

  The timing of MCP’s press release was excellent content for the broadcasters and newspapers, it was finally official that the fire which had broken the hearts of the nation was not part of the extraordinary developments throughout the night. That realisation also downgraded the seriousness of the betting shop attacks considerably. Now that people could make a clear distinction between the two separate things, it began to appear that most people weren’t massively concerned about the shops and the damage that had been done to them. There was just a sense of relief that the arsonists were off the streets and would face justice for the appalling crime that had been committed just three nights earlier.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Right, I think you’d better tell me what in God’s name has gone on!” Miller had a huge smile on his face as he met up with Saunders and Rudovsky. It didn’t take them long to explain the circumstances of how they had ended up with Manchester’s most wanted suspect in a cell before brew-time.

  Rudovsky took great delight in rubbing it in that Tameside CID had failed to spot the missing rent payments on Andris Ozols’ bank statement, mainly because she was standing in Tameside CID’s offices, within ear-shot of DCI Katy Green who, In Rudovsky’s opinion, deserved the ribbing after she had started the day being a dick with her.

  “Jesus. This is the jammiest arrest of all time, and I really do mean all-time!” Miller was buzzing, this was an incredible outcome.

  “Hey! Cheeky bastard. Good solid detective work is what led us to this point. Job’s not done yet though, there were four of them on that motorway, we’ve still got three of these twisted fuckers to pull in.” Rudovsky looked keen to get to work, she wasn’t a fan of back-patting when there was still plenty more to do.