by Michael Wood
In 2017, Steven Harrison was given a life sentence for murdering six people in Sheffield. At the time of his killings, he was a serving police constable with South Yorkshire Police. He used his position to access information on people who had been released from prison who he thought hadn’t served enough time for their crimes. He hanged his victims, believing he was serving them the justice they should have originally faced.
When DCI Matilda Darke discovered the killer’s identity, he made sure she would remember him for life and murdered one of her own officers, DC Faith Easter, in front of her. She tried to save her from The Hangman’s noose but couldn’t. Faith’s death haunted Matilda. Steve haunted her, too.
The press was all over the story. Serial killers are rare in England, so the story of one, especially a serving police officer, was a dream for the news editors. Steve Harrison, dubbed ‘The Hangman’, filled the front pages for weeks, and although his guilty plea denied the papers a gritty trial, it made the sentence hearing unmissable. The court was packed. Journalists and reporters lined the pavements outside. Roads had to be closed and extra police drafted in to deal with the deluge of people wanting to witness a life sentence being handed down.
At the sentencing hearing at Sheffield Crown Court, Steve stood in the dock, wearing his best Hugo Boss suit. He was clean shaven, his dark hair neatly combed, and he wore a splash of his favourite fragrance. His hands were cuffed behind him, his head was high, and he paid attention to every word the judge said to him – the other man calling Steve a ‘degenerate narcissist with contempt for his fellow man’ – before he was sentenced. The whole life tariff didn’t come as a surprise, and he didn’t flinch as his freedom was taken away from him.
‘Is there anything you would like to say, Mr Harrison?’ the judge had asked.
‘Yes. First of all, thank you for your oratory, Your Honour,’ he said, giving a little bow. ‘To the families of my victims,’ he began solemnly. ‘I would like to say…’ He paused and bowed his head momentarily as if caught up in emotion. He looked up. ‘They fucking deserved it,’ he spat with venom.
Cries were heard from around the court. The judge slammed his gavel and ordered the police to take Steve away, and as he turned around he saw DCI Matilda Darke in the gallery, looking down at him. They made eye contact. He slowly licked his lips and smiled. ‘Matilda, sleep with one eye open. I haven’t finished with you yet,’ he screamed as he was led away.
The court rang with the echo of Steve’s crazed rantings.
As the largest high-security prison in the UK, Wakefield Prison in West Yorkshire has often been dubbed ‘Monster Mansion’, due to the number of depraved and dangerous criminals who have been housed there over the years. From serial killers and murderers to gangsters and paedophiles, notable inmates have included Dr Harold Shipman, Ian Huntley, Mark Bridger and Colin Ireland.
Steve wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t frightened. He left his cell on his first morning with his dark hair slicked back, a swagger in his step and a smile on his lips. If this was to be his home for the rest of his life, he might as well make the most of it.
While sat eating his breakfast, he received a few lingering looks and several inmates seemed to purposely keep their distance. His reputation had obviously preceded him. Here he was, the great Steve Harrison, Britain’s latest serial killer, whose handsome face had adorned many a front page for weeks. He was violent, sadistic, a cop-killer.
He chatted to a few inmates but knew they wouldn’t become lifelong friends. He had no interest in the banality of most people and believed them to be limited in brain power. Conversations would be basic and dull. He doubted they’d spend their downtime reading the works of Dostoyevsky, writing haikus and finding new ways to expand their minds. In all honesty, Steve found Dostoyevsky hard going, and most of the haikus he claimed to have written he’d found online, but he gave the impression of an intellectual, and the tutor in the prison’s literature-appreciation group was gullible enough to lap them up. He had the ability to bluff, and as long as people believed it, that was all that mattered. Steve was a master in manipulation.
Steve was also an incredibly handsome man. He was of average height, but of a muscular build. He had large, dark, twinkling eyes, and everyone remarked on his gorgeous smile, which they said lit up his face. When he saw his reflection in the mirror, he knew what they meant. He was good-looking. No, he was beautiful.
He caught the eye of several men in the shower as soon as he stepped in and made a play of showing off his body. He had no interest in engaging with sex with any of these blokes, but if they thought they had a chance with him, why not use it to his advantage. Within a week of being incarcerated, his cell was decked with all kinds of contraband. He’d even managed to get hold of a couple of memory foam pillows and a decent digital radio. And all he’d had to do was make eye contact and smile.
His charm soon began to waver, and when he gave nothing in return for the gifts he received, the inmates turned. He was set upon several times in coordinated attacks that resulted in him spending a few days in the prison hospital for bruised ribs, contusions and concussion. But it did nothing to dent his confidence. He still flashed the smile, he still strutted, and there were still some prisoners who gave him what he wanted when he asked in his own special way.
There were a group of lifers who had been at Wakefield long before Steve arrived who didn’t take too kindly to him turning up and thinking he was cock of the walk. If being pushed down the stairs, beaten up in the exercise yard or attacked in the gym wouldn’t wipe the smile off his face, they’d have to step up their assault.
One morning in November, Steve stepped into the showers, threw his threadbare towel to one side and stood under the lukewarm water as it rained down on him. He slowly ran his hands over his body, caressing himself. He knew he was being watched. He knew he was fulfilling someone’s fantasy. If they enjoyed what they saw, that was their pleasure. Fingers crossed they’d thank him with something he could sell or put to use. He was about to soap up, when he felt a hand on the back of his neck. He was pushed forward. His head hit the cold tiles with a dull thud.
‘You’re a cocky cunt, aren’t you, Harrison?’ He felt the warmth of the stale breath as the words were hissed into his ear. The large, calloused hand gripped him harder around the neck. His legs were kicked apart.
‘Jesus,’ his whispered to himself. He knew what was coming.
A finger was inserted roughly inside him. He gasped.
‘Oh God, please no. Please. Please. I’m begging you,’ he said as he started to cry.
‘Not so tough now, are you?’
Steve was turned around and slammed against the tiles. In front of him were four muscular men, all taller than him, all grinning with crooked smiles, showing off broken teeth and enjoying his terror. He was pushed to his knees and had a large erect penis thrust in his face. He closed his eyes tight. He heard the gang laughing and jeering as he was slapped around the face with it. He could smell it, taste it. He felt sick.
‘Open your mouth, copper.’
Tears streamed down his face. Fortunately they were mixed with the water from the shower, so they couldn’t see him crying.
‘You either open your mouth or it goes up your arse. Your choice.’
He couldn’t open his mouth. He froze. The man leaned down and squeezed his nose shut. Steve had no option but to open his mouth to breath. He gagged as the penis was thrust to the back of his throat. But he’d show them.
He clamped his mouth closed, biting down hard. He heard a high-pitched sound he’d never heard before in his life. He tasted blood.
Everyone backed off as the injured prisoner dropped to the floor, screaming in agony.
Steve opened his eyes and saw the thug on the floor, his hands between his legs, blood running through his fingers. There was something in Steve’s mouth. He could feel it resting on his tongue. He turned and spat it out. It landed in a wet plop of shower water. He felt sick. He’d just bitten
off a piece of a guy’s penis. Steve stood up. He wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, drank from the shower head, swilled the water around his mouth and spat it out. He looked to the other three prisoners standing back, not knowing what to do. He smiled. ‘Don’t even think of fucking with me again. Understand?’
They nodded, their hands up in surrender.
Steve stepped over the stricken prisoner, grabbed his towel and walked slowly out of the shower room. If that didn’t cement his position at the top of the chain of command, nothing would.
Two years into his sentence, and Steve was now a hardened prisoner. Nobody fucked with him again after the incident in the shower. The twinkle in his eye had long since gone, as had the winning smile, which had turned into a depraved sneer. He had no friends, no acquaintances, nobody to chat to or confide in, and he didn’t give a flying fuck. He went about his work calmly. He showed the prison officers respect, though it pained him to do so, and he behaved as a model prisoner. But it was all part of the bigger plan.
Since just after breakfast that morning, Steve had retreated to the television room. There was an underlying smell of sweaty feet teasing his nostrils and causing him to grimace. He wasn’t a fan of daytime television; baseless, dumbed-down entertainment aimed at the elderly and unemployable, presented by shiny-faced rejects not good enough for prime time. He turned to the BBC News channel and rolled his eyes at the mention of Brexit. He voted in the referendum and opted to leave. He could see the country would benefit more from being in Europe, but he wanted to enjoy the ensuing chaos of a leave victory. Now, he was bored with it. It wasn’t chaos; it was annoying.
Steve looked at the time in the bottom corner of the screen. It was twenty past ten. Surely the police would have released something for the media by now. He was impatient and paced the room, biting his bottom lip and tasting blood. He’d woken early, excited, with a sense of trepidation. Steve had been indirectly brainwashing Jake for months. It had all be leading to this, to today.
He was alone in the room when an inmate entered and sat down. He picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen.
‘Press one button on that remote and I’ll break off every one of your fingers.’
‘You’re not even watching it,’ the young inmate said.
A death stare from Harrison was enough for the other man to put down the remote. He picked up a well-thumbed car magazine instead and opened it at random.
Steve continued to stare at him. Eventually, the young lad looked up over the magazine.
‘Fuck off,’ Steve growled.
‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘If I have to tell you again, I’m going to roll that magazine up and shove it down your fucking throat.’
The inmate swallowed hard. He closed the magazine, slapped it down on the coffee table and left the room.
At ten-thirty, the newsreader announced there was some breaking news. Steve was all ears. He sat on the seat closest to the television. His eyes widened in excitement. He was almost drooling. A gunman had opened fire at the headquarters of South Yorkshire Police.
‘Good lad, Jake,’ he said to himself.
At eleven o’clock, the BBC News channel went live to South Yorkshire Police HQ. The building he used to work in hadn’t changed much, and he felt a pang of something from deep within. He almost missed the place.
He watched with rapt attention as Chief Constable Martin Featherstone approached the microphone and announced to the waiting press that ACC Valerie Masterson was among the dead. Steve felt his face soften into a smile. She was a bonus hit. He never liked the way the short-arsed bitch strutted around the station like she owned the place. When Danny Hanson asked about Matilda Darke, Steve sat up. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume. It was a while before Featherstone began to answer, but before he had the chance, he was interrupted. But that was okay; his stony face had said more than any words could. Matilda had been hit.
‘Jake, you’re a fucking legend,’ he said to himself as he sat back in his seat.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What’s this about another shooting?’ Chief Constable Featherstone asked as he entered the HMET suite.
Christian had been talking on the phone with an inspector from Armed Response while his team waited for orders.
‘A man has opened fire on a bridge over the Sheffield Parkway,’ he said, looking grey.
‘Casualties?’
‘We don’t know yet. I’ve just been speaking to Inspector Porter, sir. He and his team are on their way to the scene.’
‘Same man?’
‘We have to assume so until we know otherwise.’
‘So, what are we saying? There’s an armed man running around Sheffield shooting at random?’
‘It would appear so,’ Christian said reluctantly.
‘Jesus!’ The Chief Constable ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I want an armed presence on the streets and a helicopter in the sky, Brady.’
‘I’ve already taken care of that. SY99 are being diverted to the Parkway.’
‘Good. We need to show we’re in control of this, even if we’re not at the moment. I want schools and hospitals placed in lockdown. Is there a football match tonight, do we know?’
‘There’s a charity event at the Sheffield United ground tonight,’ Sian said. ‘My Stuart’s got tickets.’
‘Brady, inform their security of the situation. Tell them no extra police officers will be available due to what’s happened today and advise them to cancel.’
Featherstone turned on his heel and headed for the door. He stopped and turned back. ‘Have you all contacted your families?’
There were nods of ascent from around the room.
‘Good.’ He left the room, taking his own mobile out of his pocket. With shaking fingers, he selected his wife’s number and called. She should cancel her appointments for today and stay home. He couldn’t face the prospect of her being hurt again.
The ambulance transporting Matilda Darke from the Northern General to the Royal Hallamshire Hospital tore through the streets of Sheffield with lights flashing and sirens blazing. It pulled up, its brakes squealing, and Matilda was whisked straight into theatre where a team of specialists were standing by to save her life.
The shot to her head was not a direct hit. It had grazed along the side but, upon impact, the bullet had fractured her skull and the force of the bullet had imbedded some of the fractured bone inside Matilda’s brain, causing it to swell to dangerous levels. The fragments of skull needed to be painstakingly removed if she were to have any chance of survival, and she was placed in a medically induced coma so the delicate procedure could take place.
Matilda lay on the operating table, her eyes closed, tape over each one. Her thick dark hair had been shaved. When she first arrived at the hospital, doctors had worked aggressively to resuscitate her, and they’d been able to maintain her blood pressure and oxygenation levels so that a CT scan of her head was possible.
When the brain is injured, it swells. However, as it is encased in the skull, the swelling has nowhere to go. As pressure inside the cranium increases, the more damage is done to the soft tissue, which, if the patient survives, can cause serious debilitating injuries. The only solution is to relieve the pressure, and fast, and that involves cutting open the skull.
Using a craniotome, a piece of Matilda’s skull was removed. The noise, like that heard in a dentist surgery to extract a tooth, echoed around the theatre as the surgeon cut out a large section of skull. It was carefully detached from the brain and refrigerated along with several of the larger fragments from the impact of the bullet, which could be put back together like a jigsaw at a later time once the swelling had gone down.
‘Blood pressure is falling,’ a nurse said as she monitored the screen.
‘This is incredibly nasty,’ the surgeon said as he surveyed the brain. ‘There would have been less damage with a direct hit. There are a great deal of tiny fragment
s of bone. Getting them out is not going to be easy.’
‘What do you need?’ a doctor next to him asked.
‘Well, I know it’s only early, but I wouldn’t say no to a large scotch right now. Can we get some of this blood drained?’
‘Suction.’
‘What’s this I hear about a second shooting?’ the surgeon asked as he leaned down to try and pick at a small piece of skull with tweezers.
‘Some bloke on a bridge over the Parkway opened fire,’ a nurse said.
‘Many casualties?’
‘Plenty by the sounds of it.’
‘It’s going to be a long day. BP?’
‘Still falling.’
‘Have we enough blood?’
‘Still waiting for cross-match. I’ve sent for some O-neg, and they’re standing by.’
‘She’s a detective, isn’t she?’ the surgeon asked as he dropped a fragment of bone the size of a pin head into a metal dish.
‘One of the best by all accounts.’
‘Well, unless something miraculous happens, she’s going to be looking for another job if she pulls through.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Scott asked.
Christian’s face was a map of worry as he tried to think. The situation seemed to be spiralling out of control and he had no idea what do next. He needed Matilda.
‘We need to get out there,’ he eventually said. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. ‘Sian, you and Rory stay here, coordinate what’s going on with forensics and eyewitnesses. Chase up CCTV – it’s taking too bloody long. Finn, Scott, we’re going out to the Parkway.’
‘We’ve just this second got back.’
‘And seeing as you haven’t had time to take your coats off, you can go back out again,’ Christian said, his voice raised slightly.
His phone started ringing, and he disappeared into his office to answer it while Finn and Scott exchanged worried glances.