Nothing To Lose

by Steven Suttie

  “This is total bullshit!”

  “You reckon?”

  “I fucking know it is!”

  “Was it your bright idea to come in here and try to suss out if you were on my radar, or Smithy’s?”

  “Who the fuck is Smithy?”

  “Smithy? He was the thick one out of The Bash Street Kids.”

  The man sitting opposite Miller looked confused, almost as though the room was spinning for him.

  “Callum Dewhurst, I am arresting you on suspicion of three counts of murder and one count of attempted murder. You do not have to say anything…”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Hi Sir!”

  “Alright Bill. Anything?”

  “Oh yes, just e-mailing you something now. We’ve got Hughes walking all the way up his street from the bus stop. If it’s not the same guy limping as the one in your CCTV, then you can strip me naked and call me Susan!”

  “Erm, that’s great news Bill, but why have you just put that visual impression inside my head?”

  “Where are you, anyway? Sounds a bit echoey.”

  “We’re over in Ashton, I’m in the corridor, we’ve been having some incredible developments. Callum Dewhurst popped in to try and work out if we were onto him.”

  “What a fucking whopper!”

  “I know. He’s set us up for a fantastic set-to with Wilson though. We’re beginning to think that they thought the flat was empty. It might have been an insurance job that’s gone very wrong.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Anyway, Jo’s about to go in and have a word with Wilson, so I’m just going to have a quick chat with her and then I’ll be heading back.”

  “Right. Well, we’re still here outside Hughes’ house, ready to make the arrest. He’s home alone.”

  “Perfect, give us five minutes and I’ll send you some cavalry. Great work Bill.”

  *****

  Saunders had driven the short journey from Tameside police station to The Corporation Arms, a big old Victorian era pub on the border of Guide Bridge and Audenshaw, just yards away from the famous old railway station.

  “Hello love,” said the barmaid. “What can I get you?”

  “Hiya, I’m not here for a drink, sorry, I’m a detective.” Saunders held up his warrant card as a couple of old blokes on the bar-stools began muttering to one another.

  “Oh, right. What’s up?”

  “I’m just wondering if you recognise this man?” Saunders showed the barmaid a mug-shot photo on his phone.

  “Yes, unfortunately. Everyone knows who he is.”

  “Do you have a name for him?”

  “Just a minute, I’ll get the landlord.” The barmaid smiled politely as she walked across to the phone at the end of the bar. “Brian, can you pop down a minute love? Ta.” She placed the phone on its cradle and walked around to where Saunders was standing. “He’ll be down in a minute, would you like to follow me through here? You can talk privately.”

  “Sure, thanks a lot.”

  Saunders was led through to another part of the pub, a small bar with just a couple of stools, a pool table and a dart board.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the customers. It’s Callum Dewhurst on your photo. Biggest pain-in-the-arse around here.”

  “Right. Does he come in here often?”

  “No.” The lady laughed. “He’s barred, I think he’s barred from every pub in Tameside, likes to start with his mouth after a couple of pints.”

  “So, he’s definitely not been in here this week then?”

  The barmaid smiled warmly. “Definitely not. He wouldn’t dare come in here. Anyway, Brian will tell you more.”

  “Cheers. In fact, do you know what, that’s enough. That’s all I needed to know. He’s using this pub as an alibi, says he was in here Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Well, I work every day, opening til’ six. We’ve got CCTV on the door as well so we can prove he’s not been in. He’s lying.”

  “Brilliant. Okay, well, I’ve a lot on. Tell your boss it doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay love, well, if you need anything else, just ring up and ask for Brian.”

  *****

  Rudovsky was facing Adrian Wilson in the interview room. He had a new duty solicitor with him, so she was fully prepared for a no-comment interview.

  “Okay, it’s just a brief interview Adrian, I just need some facts confirming.”

  “When are you letting me out?”

  “Well, that would depend on how co-operative you are. If you refuse to answer my questions, it’s only going to slow things down, isn’t it?”

  Wilson didn’t answer, he just stared aggressively at Rudovsky. It didn’t put her off her work.

  “So, a bit of breaking news for you. Callum Dewhurst popped in…”

  Wilson’s steely-stare was disrupted by this announcement. His eyes looked away from Rudovsky and down towards the table-top. That comment had knocked his confidence.

  “He has made a statement. In it, he says that you told him that the flat was unoccupied, and that you were burning it out because it was going to cost too much money to fix up for a new tenant.”

  Wilson’s hands began trembling and he moved them from the table-top, quickly placing them on his lap. His eyes were filling with moisture as the colour drained noticeably from his already pallid complexion. As devastating comments went, Rudovsky had just hit the jackpot. But she wasn’t done yet.

  “He’s a right wally, isn’t he? He came in thinking he’d be able to drop you in the doo-doo. But he hadn’t anticipated that we were already on to him. And Terence Bright. And Barry Hughes. Do those names mean anything to you Mr Wilson?” Rudovsky smiled as she waited for a reply. It felt good to see how devastating her words were to the man facing her.

  Eventually, Wilson replied, he sounded as though his emotions were affecting his voice. “No comment.”

  “Well, just so you know, the others aren’t no commenting. They’ve got a lot to say about the fact that they are facing multiple murder charges off the back of your fibs.”

  This comment forced an involuntary tick from Wilson, he did a very noticeable twitch which seemed to start in his shoulder but made his entire body twist quickly. He was rattled, there was no question about it. Rudovsky could see that she was close to ruining this evil bastard’s day and decided to get on with it.

  “How sick do you have to be? Getting your mates to help you burn down a building, knowing that there are kids sleeping inside?”

  “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Shouted Wilson as he leapt to his feet, his chair flew back and clattered against the floor. Wilson’s eyes were filled with rage as he pointed his finger at Rudovsky. She stayed put, looking up at him from her seated position, deliberately wearing an expression of indifference.

  “THEY SAID THEY’D MOVED OUT!”

  As he shouted it, Rudovsky’s tummy flipped. She hadn’t expected a confession, not just yet anyway.

  “Just calm down or I’ll press the alarm and you’ll be tasered!” Rudovsky held her hand over the red strip which was fixed all around the wall. “Sit down.”

  Wilson’s duty solicitor realised that everything had just gone about as badly as it could. “Can I request a break please?” he asked calmly. Rudovsky gave him a death-stare across the table as Wilson picked his chair up from where it had fallen and sat down on it.

  “No, fuck your break. I’m not fucking having this murder bullshit. I’ve got a fucking e-mail, right, that says this prick who was living there had moved out. I didn’t fucking know they were in, did I?”

  “You didn’t check though. Did you?”

  “Listen, you smart-arse little bitch. He sent me a fucking e-mail that said he’s fucking moved out and I aren’t getting my rent, which was three grand! So, I admit it, yeah, burning the flat out. But I didn’t mean to kill anyone, so fuck off.”

  *****

  Terence Bright was sitting on his door-step, smoking a roll-up when the police
arrived at his terraced street. He took a long hard drag at the cigarette as he realised that the huge Tactical Aid van wasn’t driving past. It was slowing down. He stood up, threw the cigarette on the floor and held his wrists out for the officers as they approached him. He saw no sense in running or putting up a fight. If anything, he’d been looking forward to this moment, ever since he’d heard about those people who’d been in the flat when it had gone up in flames.

  He’d only agreed to go along and be a part of the whole thing because he was bored. Ady had promised to give him “a wedge” when the insurance money came through. All he had to do was sort out an alibi for where they had all been when the fire had started. It had all seemed like a genius plan to Terence, he was impressed by how much thought had gone into it all. The stolen car with a local taxi’s plates on. When does a taxi ever get pulled by the police? The petrol cans in the boot, parking on the motorway. They’d even gone as far as to make sure the petrol needle was showing as empty if any police stopped on the motorway. Terence Bright had really felt like a serious gangster that night, it was all so well organised, and the buzz they’d all felt afterwards, in McDonalds. It was brilliant, the most professionally organised crime he’d ever been involved in. And Ady was looking at about £100,000 in the bank within a week. Maybe he’d give Terence a grand. Maybe even two. What did a wedge mean anyway? Might even be five grand! It had been one of the best nights of Terence Bright’s life.

  But the next day, when Terence got up around dinner-time and heard the news on the radio. That was the worst moment of his entire life. He couldn’t take it in at first. He ran downstairs and put the telly on. Seeing the footage on Sky News, seeing all those police and fire engines and all those sad faces at the cordon line had helped him to accept the horrific news. As he stared at the TV screen, the cameraman had zoomed in on a group of little kids in their school uniforms placing a bunch of flowers next to the policeman’s feet. That was when he realised what he’d done.

  From that moment, Terence Bright wanted nothing more than to hand himself in, just go into the police station and explain the mistake, just to look in another person’s eyes and tell them that he was involved, that it wasn’t supposed to have ended that way. But he knew the consequences would be even worse than what he was already going through. His past experience of prison had learnt him one thing, there’s nowhere to hide if you’re a grass, the word gets around.

  The news people were confusing everything, saying it was some gang who had something against betting shops. Even though Terence was struggling to control his breathing, it looked like they were going to get away with it, that some other people would take the blame. But that still didn’t make him feel any better.

  The best that Terence Bright had felt all week was when that massive copper in the riot helmet threw him down on the floor and put the cuffs on his wrists, tighter than they’d ever been put on before. It was over.

  *****

  The mood in the SCIU office was flat as the shift came to an end. The sudden news that Marija Ozols had passed away in hospital had been devastating for all of the investigating officers, all of whom had been in high-spirits about the arrests. This awful news had come through from the hospital whilst Miller and his team were celebrating the fact that they had at least one piece of good news for Marija when she woke up. But now, that wasn’t to be.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  There had been no Twitter activity from the people behind the “Odds on Justice” moniker for several days. The last message which the account had posted had been in the hours following the unforgettable night of pugnacious damage which had seen over two-hundred of the nation’s betting shops put out of business within just a few short hours.

  Despite the lack of activity on Twitter, the account had still managed to attract over two hundred-thousand followers.

  But today, some five days on, the Twitter account was back in action. At 6am precisely, the following message was sent to a number of high-ranking Twitter news accounts in Great Britain;

  “NEWS ALERT! @bbcnews @skynews @itvnews @bbcworld @bbcr4 @r4today @mcpolice @skynewsbreak @channel4news @cnni @TheSun @dailymirror @independent @thetimes @MENnewsdesk MAJOR NEWS STORY TO FOLLOW #oddsonjustice STANDBY FOR MORE”

  And that was it, that was all it said. This Twitter handle was supposedly being used by the people responsible for the chaos that the nation had seen over the past week. On the previous occasions that it had been used, it had served as a facility to comment on events that had taken place. This tweet was announcing that something was about to happen. And it was being taken very seriously.

  The only clue as to where this “major news story” was taking place, came from the inclusion of the Manchester City Police twitter account, as well as the Manchester Evening News newspaper. All of the other @ addresses included in the tweet were the Twitter account names of the biggest newsrooms throughout the UK.

  The Tweet was soon retweeted by the nation’s earliest risers, and it didn’t take long until it was going viral. The newspapers, talk radio stations and TV breakfast shows began making reference to it, dropping little hints and teasers that this was probably worth staying tuned into their channel for. The betting shops news story had been so big in this past week, it was perfectly legitimate to upgrade this simple news alert into a story in its own right.

  Several of the Twitter addresses which the message had been sent to had replied. “@OddsOnJustice thanks for news alert. Any more information? From @skynews”

  But these speculative tweets were being ignored. There was no further activity from the Twitter account for well over an hour and a half, until 7.48am to be precise, when a further Tweet was sent.

  “NEWS ALERT! People of Manchester, England. If you are in the City Centre this morning, please look above.”

  This rather ominous message was met with derision from the news editors and reporters who had been waiting impatiently for the next message to arrive.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asked Sky News’ Managing Editor of his staff.

  “Look above. All there is above is the last Tweet. What does it mean?” asked a Good Morning Britain news producer.

  It took several minutes before the message began to make any sense to the news teams who were desperately trying to understand what this cryptic message meant. The first message which made sense came from a member of the public in Manchester city centre, who Tweeted a photograph with the hashtag #OddsOnJustice.

  The photograph was quite dark and not very clear, due to the fact that daylight was only just breaking in the city. But despite the poor-quality image, it was still possible to make out what the image was.

  The famous Arndale Centre tower, in the heart of Manchester, had dozens upon dozens of people standing on its roof-top. These people looked as though they were holding hands, right on the edge of the flat roof.

  Another picture was Tweeted just minutes later, taken by another passer-by. This time it was the roof of Manchester One, another city-centre high-rise office block on Portland Street, about a quarter of a mile away from the Arndale. There were dozens of people standing all the way around the top of this building as well, holding hands and looking down, they were literally inches from the edge, standing around all four sides of the twenty-one story building.

  And then another Tweet was published, this one showed the rooftop of City Tower, the famous office block in Piccadilly Gardens which stands thirty-stories tall. It too was adorned by dozens of people, all standing by the edge, holding hands, staring down at the ground below.

  “What the actual fuck is going on?” screamed the BBC North news editor in the general direction of his production team, as more images began appearing on his computer screen. He had an unmistakable look of terror about him. “Is this… do we think this is a suicide pact?”

  Then another Tweet appeared, showing the rooftop of the CIS Tower. Then another quickly followed with a picture from the Civil Justice centre, the weird offic
e block which looks like a filing cabinet with a couple of drawers left open. On every dimly-lit photo, all of which were being taken by shaky hands on mobile phones, the images all appeared to show the same, bizarre thing.

  It was such a surreal sight, it took a few seconds for viewers to register what they were actually seeing. Dozens, no, hundreds of people were standing on the edges of the most famous high-rise rooftops in Manchester, all of them were looking down at the ground. It was impossible to make out the faces of the people on these camera-phone images, the people taking the photos were too far away and the morning light was still very faint.

  It wasn’t long before a few professional and amateur photographers in the area started snapping the scene with their top-quality cameras and their super zoom lenses. Their high definition images soon began surfacing on the various social media platforms. These pictures began to tell a better story of what was going on.

  The first HD picture which was published on Instagram allowed viewers to zoom right in and see what was happening. The people standing on top of the Arndale centre, some 80 metres above the ground, appeared to be talking and discussing matters casually, as though they were merely waiting for a bus. They certainly looked relaxed. The people ranged in ages, there were young adults and older folk, male and female. It was even more of a bizarre sight when viewed close-up.

  “Do you know what this reminds me of?” The Manchester Evening News editor span around in his chair and spoke to his closest colleagues. “Who remembers that guy who did the nude installations all around Manchester a few years ago? Spencer Tunick, that was his name. It looks just like one of those… only, well, all these people have got their clothes on.” The MEN editor had a point, this did look some sort of a modern art installation, which quite frankly, was a much cheerier explanation than a “suicide pact” which the North West Tonight editor was fearing, just a few miles up the road.