Nothing To Lose

by Steven Suttie

  Beyond Littleborough, the canal flattened out somewhat, and Joanna and Tony were pedalling on the flat for several miles as they made their way steadily towards Rochdale. There were fewer people around now, fewer boaters, fewer joggers or dog-walkers and hardly any cyclists along this long, relatively straight section of canal which went on for as far as the eye could see without deviating from its perfectly straight line.

  They would stop, regularly to check any suspicious looking locations. There were dozens of little hidey-holes along this stretch of canal, be them old, dilapidated sheds or dens built by kids which had long since been abandoned. The high-hopes were fading fast, and although nothing was said between Joanna and Tony, they were both beginning to have their doubts about Frank’s information. But what sort of a sick, twisted bastard would give people false hope like that? Well, it took all sorts to make up the human race, considered Joanna as she continued to pedal behind Tony, determined to overcome these nagging doubts and try to keep a positive outlook.

  “A fit, strong bloke like Lee could walk thirty or forty miles in a day,” said Tony, slightly breathlessly as he rode beside his wife. “He could have made it Manchester by last night.” He was trying to keep Joanna’s hopes up. But her hope seemed to be fading, and Tony sensed it. He continued talking anyway. Joanna interrupted him as they got closer to Rochdale.

  “Tony, what’s that up ahead?” Joanna’s voice was cold, it didn’t even sound like her.

  Tony looked up from the towpath that he’d been concentrating on. He quickly realised why his wife’s voice had sounded so detached. Up ahead were several police officers, wearing their hi-vis jackets. A police car and a tactical aid van were parked up along the grass verge beside the towpath. Beyond them, Joanna and Tony could make out a crime-scene tent. A big white and yellow tent like the ones off the TV news appeared to be set up right across the middle of the tow-path.

  “Aw fucking hell Tony. What’s happening?” The panic was clear in her voice. Joanna’s flushed complexion from the cycling had suddenly turned a deathly shade. “What’s going on, Tony?” she repeated. Her husband said nothing. It was obvious that they were both thinking the same thing as their bikes arrived at the police cordon line. A police officer was signalling at them to slow down with a gentle wave of his hand. He was standing behind a section of blue and white tape which was flapping in the wind. POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS was written all across it.

  “There’s no access through here at the moment I’m afraid. You’ll have to turn around…”

  “What’s happening?” asked Joanna as she squeezed her brakes, despite fearing the answer.

  “We are dealing with an incident. The towpath is closed. If you turn back you can…”

  “I’m… I’m looking for my brother. He’s missing.” Joanna pulled a poster out from the breast pocket of her waterproof jacket. She handed it to the officer, her hand trembling as she did so.

  The police officer was thrown by this sudden and extraordinary encounter. Joanna was staring at him, trying desperately to read every expression on his face, every twitch, every muscle spasm. Every movement of his eyes.

  The policeman looked at the poster for a long time. Eventually, he looked up in Joanna’s direction.

  “Have you reported him missing?”

  “Yes, yes, two, no three days ago.”

  “I see. Where are you from? You sound like you’re from over the hill?”

  “Yes, we are, Hebden Bridge.”

  “Ah, that’ll be why I’ve not heard about your brother yet.”

  “That’s, that’s not….” Joanna was pointing at the tent.

  “Oh, I see.” Suddenly, the police man offered a warm, reassuring smile. “No, don’t worry, this is nothing to do with your brother.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s a crime scene, a serious incident occurred here last night. It’s not connected with your brother, so don’t worry.”

  It was easy for this copper to say don’t worry, while Joanna’s heart was bursting out of her chest.

  “What was the incident? I need to know that Lee wasn’t involved.”

  “Trust me, it’s fine. This has nothing to do with your brother, some kids were fighting here last night and one has been stabbed, it’s not life-threatening but we still have to set up a scene and carry out a forensic examination. We’ve got all the kids who were involved in custody. You can stop worrying.”

  Joanna collapsed onto the grass verge, her bike fell across the towpath. She was overwhelmed by the overpowering cocktail of emotions. Tony placed his bike down carefully and kneeled by his wife.

  “Ssshhhh. Come on now love, shhhh.”

  Joanna was sobbing uncontrollably as the policeman tried to make small-talk with Tony, presumably in an attempt to neutralise this unexpected drama. Or maybe he just felt awkward. “I can see why you’d think… must have been a shock to the system… just take a few deep breaths.” It was obvious that the copper didn’t have a clue what Joanna was going through. He was only a young bloke himself.

  Joanna’s meltdown was distracted by the ping of a new text message on her phone. She wiped her tears away with her sleeve and unzipped her pocket.

  The text was from Olivia. “Lee’s home, looks like shit, really sad, just walked in. Don’t know what’s happened yet, just running him a bath. I’ll phone you as soon as I get chance. But he’s home safe and in one piece. Love Liv xxx”

  Joanna handed the phone to Tony and collapsed on the grass verge once again.

  The policeman was amazing, he radioed his sergeant and explained the situation which was unfolding at his cordon line, and his superior officer organised a van to come down and pick Joanna and Tony up and take them back to West Yorkshire. It was a tight squeeze getting the bikes into the prisoner cage in the back of the police van, but the police officers persevered and Tony and Joanna were soon sitting up front in the vehicle, on their way back up the road to Hebden Bridge.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The British Home Secretary stood before the invited media reporters in the small press briefing room at Number 10 Downing Street. This much anticipated press conference was being presented from inside Number 10, rather than on the packed-out street outside, where every member of the 160 press representatives with Downing Street security clearance could have recorded it and shouted their questions at the end.

  The fact that this was being held inside told the media professionals exactly how Number 10 were planning to play it. The government weren’t looking for any awkward questions, and so they were only inviting their most trusted reporters and journalists along. The ones who generally tow the line and write or present their news from a very biased angle. Every single one of the thirty or so reporters and journalists, most of them very familiar faces from the TV news, knew that they were in a privileged position. It was a great honour to be invited through the door of number 10, which is widely regarded as the most famous front door in the world. The address dates back to 1735 and has been the home to over 50 Prime Ministers.

  Each press member sitting inside here today knew exactly what was expected. Without a word being spoken on the issue, these journalists all knew that they were to be nice in their reports. Otherwise, next time, they’d be out on the street, in the cold, with no story, like the vast majority of their colleagues. This wasn’t a particularly sensible decision from the Number 10 spin-doctors and advisors. It just meant that the reporters outside would be even more critical and negative than they might otherwise have been. But this was a government which was widely renowned across the globe for its complete disregard for logic.

  “Good afternoon,” said the Home Secretary, stepping up close to the lectern in the cramped, but luxurious press briefing room which had started life as a dining-room. Through the years it has been instrumental in entertaining the world’s most powerful and influential people.

  “Thank you all for coming along today. I am very shocked to announce that over the cou
rse of last night, in almost every county in the United Kingdom, a total of two-hundred and forty-seven betting shops were ransacked and wrecked by gangs. I’m sure you are all as shocked and angry about this as I am, the television reports today have shown sheer devastation in these businesses and the clean-up operation required to get these shops back in business will be in the tens of millions of pounds.”

  The Home Secretary paused and let that figure hang in the air a moment, before continuing with the prepared statement. “Let me make something very clear. The people responsible for these unacceptable and despicable acts will be caught by our police officers and they will be dealt with in the most severe manner that the law allows. There is nowhere to hide. Let me remind you all that the last time that we saw anything like this was during the riots of 2011 and I would like to take this opportunity to remind the perpetrators of last night’s hooliganism, that over 3,000 arrests were made then, and over 1500 people were sent to serve maximum sentences in our prisons. I will have no mercy at all in replicating this unparalleled level of punishment again. I urge every single person who was involved in last night’s outrageous activity to listen to my message. I am asking you to wrestle with your conscience and hand yourself in at your nearest police station. Anybody who appears at their local police station voluntarily will be treated more leniently than those who try and evade the law, which will inevitably prove to be a futile exercise. My colleagues in the police force will be tackling this crime-wave in the most profound manner.” The Home Secretary paused again, in order to let that point dominate the speech.

  “I would like to take this opportunity to send my sincere and heart-felt sympathies to all of the business-owners, staff and neighbours of the shops who have been dealt an unimaginably damaging blow as a consequence of this shameful and reprehensible night of mindlessness. I know that many of the shops targeted are small, independent, family-run businesses, as well as shops from the larger, national bookmaker chains. Whether yours was a large, or small shop, I offer you my full assurance that this shameful behaviour will not be tolerated. Thank you.”

  With that, the Home Secretary offered a gentle nod of appreciation to the tiny audience, turned and left. The reporters didn’t say anything.

  *****

  “Well, that was quite a strong message from the Home Secretary, a stark warning to those who took part in last night’s devastating betting shop attacks. There was no mistaking the message, those responsible will be facing the full power of the law, when, not if, they are caught. Our Home Affairs correspondent Graham Jones was at the press briefing and joins me now live in the studio. Well, Graham, what do you make of what the Home Secretary had to say earlier?”

  The vision switched from the head and shoulders shot of the famous Sky News anchor to the face of the channel’s veteran politics correspondent.

  “Thank you, Kay. I think that this was a speech which demonstrated a huge amount of defiance and at times, was rather mocking of the people who caused so much damage and terror in neighbourhoods throughout the country last night. I think that the Home Secretary said just enough to leave anybody involved under no illusion that they are going to face some very harsh consequences for their actions if they don’t take themselves into their nearest police station and admit defeat. One thing which was made unequivocally clear is that this kind of behaviour will not be tolerated and I get the distinct impression that the police service will be instructed to cancel all leave until these people are rounded up and put safely behind bars.”

  “What did you make of what the Home Secretary had to say about those businesses which have been affected by these mindless actions?”

  “Not as much as I might have expected if I’m perfectly honest Kay. I thought that there may have been some announcement of an emergency fund to help some of those smaller, independent bookmakers get their shops back up and running as quickly as possible. So I must confess that it came as something of a surprise that there was no actual offer of financial aid, which I had thought that the Home Secretary was leading up towards announcing.”

  “Okay, Graham Jones, thank you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  DCI Miller had met with Dixon and updated his superior officer with all of the information regarding Adrian Wilson and his three accomplices. It was agreed by Dixon that there was “compelling” enough evidence to justify the SCIU department’s continuation of the investigation into the four men laughing and joking in the McDonalds restaurant CCTV footage.

  As had been anticipated, the wider investigation had been taken over by the NCA, under instruction of the Home Secretary’s department. It was something which Miller and Dixon were both pleased about. They strongly suspected that the NCA would not be particularly over-joyed to be handed this case, however. The National Crime Agency typically manage major investigations into organised crime, large-scale drug dealing, child-sex gangs and people-trafficking. Public disorder and vandalism, as part of a political protest was not something they would be too enthralled to be taking on. But Miller couldn’t care less about that, or the damage to the betting shops, really. It was annoying for the betting shop owners, without doubt, but Miller didn’t view this as a crime which was worthy of his department’s involvement. What Miller really cared about was building the strongest possible case against the people who had killed the two kids and their dad in Denton.

  Miller had officially relinquished his department’s involvement in the betting shops investigation, and had stood down the senior detectives in Tameside, Bolton, Stockport, Manchester and Salford with whom he had been working with since Monday. He did this task by e-mail, thanking them all for their excellent support throughout the week. Their instructions were to wind down their investigations with immediate effect and to hand over all of their case-notes and evidence to the NCA.

  With that, Miller was officially done. But there was one loose end which needed tying up. He called Saunders through to his office.

  “Sir?”

  “Sit down Keith.”

  Saunders sat and listened as Miller explained everything which had been agreed with Dixon.

  “So, that just leaves this peculiar situation with the website you signed up to. I’ll need you to do a report, for the NCA, with all your log in details and everything.”

  Saunders looked disappointed. He’d been really excited about this, he felt that his access to this information via the e-mail list would prove invaluable in discovering who the people behind all this were. He explained his dissatisfaction to Miller, who listened patiently, despite not giving a shit.

  “Fair dos Keith, I know that you wanted to be the one who brought them in. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t feel disappointed. But cheer up! You’ve cracked the arson case, that’s the crucial one. I’ve told you before, you can’t have them all.”

  “I know Sir. But someone from the NCA is going to crack this one, using my lead.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I… I don’t know. I just don’t like the idea of handing my leads over.”

  “Well my advice to you is this. There’s no way on God’s earth that this Odds on Justice group are going to share any sensitive information on that e-mail list now. That ship has sailed.”

  “I’m not so sure…”

  “Listen mate. That e-mail list you’ve signed up to won’t be recruiting any new members now, when every single police force in Britain is trying to find out who’s taking the piss out of them. It’s dead in the water.”

  Miller had a valid point, and Saunders knew it. The tactics that the gangs had used the previous night had seriously under-mined every police officer on duty. Whoever was behind all of this obviously knew something about the police’s health and safety at work directive. They must have known that individual officers are prohibited from engaging with a gang of people carrying tools which could easily be used as an offensive weapon. The organisers had been clever enough to plan the attacks around this loop-hole, making so much noi
se and bother in the local community to ensure that every concerned resident who dialled 999 would provide details which subsequently ensured that the police were aware that each incident was a “high-risk” deployment. It was a very clever plan, and well thought through.

  “There’s no way they’re going to e-mail you mate. If you’d had the foresight to sign up to it six months ago, then we’d be having a different conversation.”

  “But I didn’t know about it six months ago…” Saunders had missed the sarcasm, probably deliberately.

  “It was a joke. Anyway, sorry to piss on your chips but you’ve got five minutes to send me an e-mail with all the details regarding this, I want the website link and the e-mail address, plus the e-mail and password you used to sign up. Okay?”

  “Okay, fair enough.”

  “Don’t look so glum.” Miller had known that this was likely to be a disappointing announcement for his second-in-command, so he revealed the positive news which he had skilfully withheld, anticipating Saunders’ negative reaction to the first bit. “When you’ve done that, come back and we’ll start planning the arrests of Adrian Wilson’s horrendous little mates. You’re going to like this, I’m thinking of doing some undercover surveillance work on the three suspects, a bit of an evidence gathering exercise before we make the arrests.”

  Miller was right, Saunders suddenly looked refreshed and ready to go again. “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute when you’ve sent me that stuff for the NCA.”

  “Right, okay. No problem.” Saunders stood and headed out of the door. It was as though he’d found a new lease-of-life as he stepped quickly across the SCIU office floor to his desk and began flicking through his notepad looking for the information which had been requested. Miller knew exactly how to manage his enthusiastic and energetic DI. Just give him more work to do.

  A couple of minutes later, Miller’s e-mail notification sounded. He had a quick look and it was the information that he’d requested from Saunders. After giving it the once-over, he forwarded the e-mail to the DCI at the NCA, who was taking care of the betting shop attacks now. He was glad when the “e-mail sent” message popped up on the screen. That was officially the end of that, a case which he would have hated having to continue with, largely due to the trivial nature of it. Miller always preferred working on things that had a bereaved family member involved, somebody he could really get stuck in and work for. Today, that person was Marija Ozols.