Nothing To Lose

by Steven Suttie

  Once she was happy with it, Joanna made a coffee and had a shower. She decided that the letter was a great idea, it managed to say all the things that she wanted to express, whilst avoiding any awkward moments that could potentially damage Lee’s mental state any further. As Tony had said, Lee was worth so much more than five grand.

  At work, Joanna asked the paperboy who does Lee’s street to deliver the letter. Sadly, the paper-boy in question was the worst one the shop had. He was forever posting the wrong paper through the wrong door and was known by the staff members as “shit-for-brains.” Joanna told the lad to take a photo of himself, on his phone, posting the letter. She wanted to be sure that Lee got it, and that it didn’t go into some random house up the lane.

  A couple of hours after the paper-boy had set off on his relatively simple round, Joanna received a text message from Lee. It was short and to the point. “Thank you, Big Sis. I’ll sort this out, all of it. Love you xxx.”

  It took a few days for things to calm down, for the emotions to settle and for the community to stop gossiping about Lee and his disappearance. Life was returning to normal. Olivia had been around to see Joanna and explained the situation. Joanna was pleased to hear that Lee had confessed to everything, in great detail, as painful, humiliating and as emotionally draining as it had been. This news had come as a huge relief, as did Olivia’s graceful acceptance of Joanna’s questionable silence regarding the issue whilst Lee was missing. Olivia respected the fact that it was Lee’s problem and that the explanation should come from him. Besides, it would have only worried her more. When all was said and done, it had been the right thing to do.

  The best news was that Olivia was 100% supportive and was determined to help Lee deal with this overwhelming problem, a task that had already begun in the form of Olivia taking complete charge of Lee’s financial affairs. This resolution that the two had come up with was borne out of Lee’s completely open honesty about the severity of his problem, coupled with a rather starling confession. Lee had explained that despite knowing the hell and misery that his gambling unleashes, he still had an overwhelming desire to go and do it again, an intense compulsion to try and win all of his money back. Even stronger still, Lee had an overpowering need to win back Joanna’s money. In amongst all of this torment, Lee was battling with himself over the fact that he’d let a lot of people down through all of this and that didn’t sit well with him either. As far as Lee’s mental health was concerned, he recognised that he was at crisis point, but he was determined to put everything right and come through this in better shape than he’d been in before it all began, just three and a half weeks earlier.

  Lee had promised Olivia that he wouldn’t trust himself with anything more than his dinner money until he felt absolutely sure that he had been completely released from the suffocating grip of this shockingly powerful addiction.

  Olivia went with Lee and signed up for a bank loan of six thousand pounds and as soon as the money hit their joint account, Olivia transferred five thousand pounds into the account of Lee’s building materials supplier and one thousand into Joanna’s account. The rest would be repaid in instalments over the following months, but Olivia was aware that Joanna had literally no money at all because of this, so the first thousand was just a down-payment to replace her wages and tide her over for now.

  Lee made a startling confession to Olivia, which really demonstrated to her that he was taking all of this seriously. He signed his van over to her, filling out the log book and asking her to sign her name in the “new keeper” section.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I’ll probably sell it otherwise.”

  It was at this moment that Olivia really, truly felt that she grasped the enormity of Lee’s problem and she respected him for being so brutally honest and open about just how vulnerable he had become to this gambling problem. It was extraordinary that a man as grounded and sensible as Lee Riley was talking in such a way. But none the less, it was greatly appreciated and it served as the strongest sign yet that Lee was determined to overcome this. “Deeds are stronger than words!” said Lee, borrowing a phrase that his gran, Elsie used to say.

  Joanna finally sat and spoke with Lee four days after he’d turned up. It wasn’t planned as such, she just called around at Lee’s house out-of-the-blue, as she often did. Lee was a bit awkward at first, it was clear that he felt an immense deal of shame. But Joanna was an expert at putting people at ease. She walked in, held her brother in a tight embrace before saying, “Well, don’t just stand there like a mouldy old dildo. Tea, two, plenty of milk.”

  The conversation which followed lasted hours. Joanna was absolutely thrilled to see that Lee had made such a positive start in beating these demons. The tears and the self-pitying that she had witnessed in Lee’s van the previous week, high on the moors above the town, were gone. Now, Lee was talking openly and frankly about his plans to beat this, the online researching that he’d been doing, the stats and figures of how many people he had discovered were in exactly the same boat as him.

  Most encouragingly of all, Lee was talking about all of this clearly and confidently and he seemed much more accepting of what he had gone through, thanks in part to realising that there were a lot of people just like him, who had experienced the very same problems. Lee had learnt that there were many, many thousands of people in the same boat as him. People who’d had everything one minute and had fallen victim to one of the most addictive activities on planet earth.

  Lee explained how it works, how the adrenaline buzz grips you and how the money lost never really feels lost, because a gambling addict’s mind hasn’t accepted that it is lost, it’s just temporarily being held by the bookies until you win it back, next time. He explained that games are addictive, pointing out that Joanna was forever filling her spare time playing Word-Cookie on her phone. No money was changing hands, but Lee explained that her compulsion for playing “just one more game” at bed-time, was no different to what Lee had found himself doing, when it was all boiled down. The only difference was that Lee’s “one more game” issue had been much more exhilarating because of the money and had also resulted in a loss of more than twenty-thousand pounds in under a month.

  “If it was a quid a game, but you could win a tenner if you won, do you reckon you’d play it as often as you do, or more?” he asked. It was a very good question because Joanna won most of the time on it. She didn’t honestly know the answer, but she understood the point and realised with quite a start that she was, indeed, addicted to the game without even realising it.

  The chat went on for ages, and Joanna was relieved that the tears were none existent. He had made a promise to himself, and Olivia, and now Joanna, that he wasn’t going to try and get the money back. He had to accept it was gone, forever, and as hard as it was going to be, he had to deal with the fact that every penny he had, every penny that he had saved, and every penny that he had borrowed off Joanna, was gone. “I have to face that, I have to treat it as though it was in a house-fire. It’s lost and if I can accept it’s gone, and that I’ll never get it back, I’ll be okay.”

  The final part of Lee’s plan was the most productive. He was going to start attending meetings with Gamblers Anonymous. The nearest group was in Halifax, and Lee told Joanna that his first meeting was the following night, at 7pm. “The first part of recovery is accepting that there’s a problem, admitting it, speaking openly about it, celebrating the fact that I’m aware of it, rather than trying to pretend I’ve got things under control. I can’t start to get over this until I’m completely open and honest about that.”

  All in all, this was a fantastic chat and Joanna was so pleased with how things were working out. There were lots of questions that Joanna really wanted to ask, and there were some that she really didn’t want to ask, but she wanted to know the answer to. As depressing and distressing as it would be, she really wanted to know where Lee had gone, when he’d disappeared, what he’d been doing, and what he had b
een planning to do.

  But there was no way. That would have to wait for another day. The main thing now, was that Lee was in a better frame of mind. And, even if he lost this first battle and wanted to relapse, it wasn’t going to be easy because Olivia was holding the money. Joanna left Lee’s house feeling a thousand times lighter than she’d felt when she’d arrived. She walked out there knowing that things were going to be okay.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Friday

  The SCIU team were sitting in the incident room, waiting to hear about the operation that Miller and Saunders had hinted at the previous evening. Miller was still pinning pictures and maps up on the incident room wall whilst his officers were taking part in some general office banter to pass the time. Worthington and Kenyon were having a go at one another over something that had happened at the previous year’s Christmas do.

  “You can’t say anything after you asked if the roast pork was halal, you stupid fuck-wit!”

  “I did not… everyone knows I didn’t say that so… if you’ve got to start making stuff up, you’ve lost your argument already! Knob rot.”

  “Right, guys settle down please.” Miller had finished what he was doing and turned to face his team. “Okay, let’s get busy, we’ve got a lot to achieve today. I want you all to take a good look at this man.” The mood in the incident room became much more serious as the officers realised that Miller was in full, no-nonsense mode. “This is Adrian Wilson, the man who owned the flat that was destroyed by fire in the early hours of Monday morning.” Miller reminded his team as to how it was that this individual had arrived in police custody. As he concluded, Saunders and Rudovsky stood and took a bow.

  “Yes, well done Keith, Jo, amazing result. But we’re not quite there yet. It’s nine am, which means we’ve got little more than an hour and a half to get this arsehole charged.” Miller looked at every member of his team, they all looked extremely concerned. The DCI smiled at them, sensing that they were all starting to feel a panic. “Thing is, that’s not going to happen, so I’ve applied for a warrant to extend his detention for another twelve hours, taking it to thirty-six hours.” The detectives all knew that because the offence that Wilson was suspected of was so serious, there was no risk of the application being turned down. But even with the 12 hour extension, it still meant that the clock was ticking, and that he only had until half-past ten that evening to gather enough evidence against Wilson to press charges.

  “So today, our primary objective is going to be focused on arresting these three men.” Miller gestured at the police mug shots on the wall, before he patted the photograph next to Wilson’s. “This man is forty-six year-old Terence Bright. He’s got a list of previous as long as Blackpool front. He’s been done for all sorts of mindless shite, from shop-lifting to car-theft. He was once caught stealing a mountain bike on Market Street in town, the bike was chained to the CCTV post. His surname is quite ironic, considering he’s about as bright as a two-watt bulb.” Miller allowed a moment to accommodate his team’s laughter at the brutal observation.

  “Terry two-watt!” said Rudovsky as the laughter died down, “I’m keeping that!”

  “Nice one Jo. Terry two-watt’s last known address on the PNC is close to Wilson’s, less than a two-minute walk away. He lives at 44 Henrietta Street, Guide Bridge. This guy, I believe is the man who is sat here next to Wilson in Ashton McDonalds, visibly enjoying some good crack over a Big Mac meal and a milkshake, just after burning two little kids and their father to death as they slept. I also believe that this man is the person I have numbered 4 on this photo.” Miller pointed to a different photo, this time he held his hand next to the grainy black and white image which was taken from a still of the Hat Factory’s CCTV. Number 4 was on the extreme right of the four people. Miller wrote “Bright?” on a post-it note and stuck it on the image, right above the number 4.

  “Okay, stick with me, there’s a lot to learn here. This man,” Miller slapped another photograph, “is called Callum Dewhurst. He’s thirty-two and again, from the Guide Bridge area of Ashton, address we’ve got for him is 27 Jubilee Street. He’s a reformed heroin user with a long list of previous. Most of it is predictable stuff really, burglary, shop-lifting, common assault, breach-of-the-peace etcetera. But most interestingly, he’s got previous as a serious car-thief. He started out as a joy-rider and has graduated to stealing high-performance vehicles to order. He now appears to be quite heavily into his alcohol, he was last picked up by MCP officers three months ago for trying to get out of Asda in Ashton with a crate of Special Brew under his jacket.” This comment didn’t attract a laugh, or even a smile. It may have sounded quite bizarre, but this was ordinary behaviour from somebody with a drink problem and a low sense of self-worth.

  “Are we all jotting these addresses down and making notes? There’s a test later.”

  “Sir!”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Okay. Now, I have Callum here in McDonalds.” Miller pointed to the photograph and smiled as his team all nodded their agreement. Callum Dewhurst’s nose had been broken so many times, it looked like it was trying to get away from his face. It was certainly going to be difficult for him to deny that it was him in McDonald’s, his hooter was quite unique. “Callum’s nose is so misshapen, I think if he painted it yellow, he could get a job promoting bananas.” Miller’s cruel jibe received a hearty laugh.

  “Now then, simmer down. I have Callum on this photograph as number 3.” Miller repeated the process of writing the suspect’s name on a post-it note and stuck it in position on the picture. “In case anybody is wondering, number 1 is Wilson, in my opinion and based on the physical profile. So, onto number 2. This man.” Miller repeated the same procedure of tapping the police mug shot which was pinned up on the wall. It may have seemed like a patronising gesture to an observer, but Miller knew from experience that it was a good way of making sure that everybody locked eyes on the picture that he wanted them focused on, burning that image into their retinas.

  “Another bonny looking bloke, this one. This is 57 year-old Barry Hughes, a petty criminal with over twenty charges to his name, possession of stolen-goods, mainly stolen vehicle parts, there’s also quite a few investigations into dodgy activities that didn’t amount to any charges. Most interestingly, Barry has been banged up for offences centring around the motor-trade. In 1998 he served six months for providing fake MOT certificates, and received a fifty-grand fine, which closed-down his garage. From what I can gather of his life story, certainly as far as the PNC tells me, he’s been on the wrong side of the tracks since he was released from custody twenty years ago. The most interesting thing of all, he still works as a mechanic at a garage in Droylsden. So, I think he could have easily knocked up some dodgy registration plates at work.”

  The SCIU team seemed impressed by Miller’s ground-work. “There’s another thing as well. I’ve been a bit puzzled by the whole fake-plate scenario. It wasn’t adding up that this Zafira was stolen, and had plates made up for a local taxi which has been in the scrap yard for months. So, I had a bit of a play around on Google. The taxi comes up as the first result in a Google image search for a dark silver Zafira Ashton. Try it now, get your phones out.”

  Miller’s team followed the instruction and within seconds, they had all nodded their agreement that this was how the fake number plate had come about. The fact that the vehicle had been scrapped had added a layer of intrigue to the investigation, but now it appeared to be nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. One which had knocked Miller and Saunders off course for a short time.

  “So, once we’ve arrested these three men and seized all of the phones and computers connected to them, we’ve potentially got a solid piece of evidence if we discover that search term in the internet browsing history. Agreed?”

  Miller’s team were very vocal and enthusiastic as they chanted “Sir.”

  “Right, nearly done on all this. The final thing I want to talk about is this man. Barry Hughes�
�� and his funny walk.”

  This comment was met with confused looks from the SCIU detectives, but Miller was about to explain. He walked across to the window and pulled the blind down, blocking out the panoramic city-centre view which was framed by the moody and foreboding Pennine hills in the distance. Miller turned on the projector and the incident room wall was suddenly filled with a black and white image of the CCTV footage from the factory, which was situated just yards away from the scene of the arson attack on the opposite side of the road.

  “Now, it’s only a short clip this, but it is the only piece of evidence we have that potentially places these four men at the scene.”

  “Potentially?” asked Chapman.

  “I’m coming to that Bill. I want us to study this footage a number of times. Firstly, watch person number two. I don’t want you looking at anybody else, just focus your eyes on number two, okay?” Miller pressed the play button on the laptop and the detectives all trained their eyes on the footage being projected against the wall, watching the man that Miller was convinced was Barry Hughes limping along. The limp was unmistakable as Hughes tried to keep up in between Wilson and Dewhurst, though slightly behind. Once the four men had walked out of view, Miller paused the playback.

  “Okay, who wants to describe number two for me?”

  Grant put her hand up first.

  “Go on Helen.”

  “He’s overweight, looks quite old to me, from the way that he carries himself. He’s definitely got something wrong with him physically, he seems to do a strange hop with each step he takes on his right foot.”

  “A hop! That’s a great description. I had it as a limp, but a little hop is a much better way of describing it.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”