The Final Cut

by Steven Suttie

  Beech House is an uninspiring 1960’s four-storey concrete and glass building which houses the DWP staff who cover the Tameside area. This is a large metropolitan zone with a population of almost 300,000 people. Miller was quick to notice the deafening roar of aeroplanes passing overhead every couple of minutes, as they made their way towards the Manchester airport landing strip. There was another source of thunderous noise too, and Miller quickly realised the M67 motorway was running by the location, just twenty metres away behind an abandoned, decaying old bingo hall.

  “I couldn’t work here with all this racket going on!” said Miller. Saunders didn’t seem to notice the noise, he was speed-reading through some notes that he’d been handed from another officer.

  “Come on, we’d better take a look,” said Miller as he pulled back the door-flap of the forensics tent and gestured Saunders through.

  Inside the tent, both detectives were shocked by the amount of blood which had been lost by the victim. The forensics officers were scouring the pavement, looking for any traces of contaminating evidence that might have been left behind by the attacker.

  The situation started to become clearer as Saunders relayed the notes, and the forensics officers added their own assessments. In short, the victim had been hit by a large weapon across the back of his legs. At this early stage, it seemed most likely that the weapon was a large knife, or more likely a sword, similar to a Samurai type of weapon. The injuries sustained by the DWP employee were consistent with being whipped with great force across the back of both legs with a long blade. The weapon had penetrated both thighs, extremely deeply, just above the back of the knees. It was obvious that the injuries were life-changing, in so much as the blade had severed many of the victim’s tendons, muscles and hamstrings. Miller shuddered as he listened to the forensic officer’s opinion that if the victim survived, he’d never be able bend his legs again.

  “Good God. This is like something out of a horror film.” Saunders was talking to himself as he struggled to make sense of the amount of blood lost.

  “They don’t think he’ll make it,” said Miller. “The ambulance crew just threw him on a stretcher and shot off to the hospital.”

  “But there are witnesses?”

  “There’s a couple from here, they heard screams, and heard the loud footsteps of the attacker running off, down towards the bus station. There are a dozen or so who saw him legging it through the bus station. After that he headed off across the motorway footbridge. Nobody knows where he’s gone after that. He’s long gone though.”

  “And I thought I heard someone say he moved pretty sharpish?” asked Miller, referring to a comment that he’d heard over the police radio, on his way over. The comment was made by a witness, to the first police officers on the scene.

  “Yes, he shot off like Usain Bolt, according to those who saw him legging it through the bus station. He was carrying a black-bin bag with something in it. One person thought it was a poster, rolled up.”

  “The blade?”

  “Sounds like it. Anyway, he’s gone right through the middle of the bus station, which doesn’t make any sense as you’d think he’d have run along the bus carriageway.”

  “Yes, that is odd.”

  “Its double-odd, because there are two motorway footpaths. One at either end of the bus station. He’s chosen the one that is furthest away, but they both lead out to the same place, which is the opposite side of the motorway.”

  “So, he wants to be seen?”

  “No idea. It’s the same bloke though. The description is similar to what he wore in Stockport, he sounds tall and skinny. We’re just waiting for a call from Transport for Greater Manchester who are reviewing all of the bus station’s CCTV. Fingers crossed, we’ll get a pretty good shot of him.”

  “You know what, it sounds like he wants to be on telly. Why else would you run through the bus station, which is totally lit up, full of witnesses and CCTV?”

  Saunders shrugged. He didn’t like to try and second-guess the motivations of people who were clearly mentally ill.

  Miller’s phone began ringing. It was Rudovsky and Kenyon at Tameside Hospital. He listened for a minute or so before replying. “Right, okay, nice one, keep me posted Jo. Cheers.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “He’s alive, he’s in surgery, they think he’s got a chance.”

  “Fucking hell! Lucky bastard if he survives that!” Saunders looked again at the puddle of congealing blood which was setting darker around the edges.

  “Right, well, I think we need to follow the path the attacker took to get away.”

  “Sir.”

  Miller and Saunders thanked the forensics officers and left the tent.

  “Down here?” Miller looked along the street and saw the familiar M logo of the bus station. The officers walked in silence, scouring the pavement and the road for any obvious items that may have been discarded as the attacker launched into his sprint. Up ahead, Miller could see the first motorway footbridge, it started outside the boarded-up entrance to the derelict old bingo hall. The detectives crossed the road, and stepped into the modern, glass bus station. There were dozens of people standing around the various stands, a great many of whom were gossiping about all the blue-revolving police lights outside. Miller and Saunders walked through the building in silence. After a minute, they had reached the opposite end, and crossed the pelican crossing, which led them to the second motorway foot-bridge.

  “So, instead of crossing that one, he’s run all the way down here? That is fucking bonkers.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s to our advantage though, he’s bound to have left summat behind.” The two detectives started walking across the bridge. Cars were zooming beneath, the lights of thousands of speeding vehicles were heading towards Sheffield in the east, and Manchester in the west.

  “We need that shrubbery searching,” said Miller as they reached the other side of the bridge. There was an embankment of trees, weeds and long grass. “Good place to chuck the weapon, especially if he wants to get caught, which is what it seems like to me!”

  “Sir.” Saunders was making notes in his pocket book. He looked both ways once he reached the end of the footbridge. It was just a path, and a piece of wasteland. It wasn’t very obvious which way the attacker would have chosen to escape.

  “Right, we need to lock this entire area down, the motorway bridge, the bus station, the whole area between the crime scene and this location. I can’t believe the local Inspector hasn’t closed the bus station. We need a finger-tip search of every inch of this place.” Miller was walking back across the bridge. He stopped halfway across and looked down at the steady flow of cars, vans and wagons. He was looking towards Manchester, and an endless stream of what looked like a million white car lights were headed his way. The view was matched with an endless flow of red lights of vehicles whizzing underneath, heading towards the city.

  “Do you know what, we might need to close this motorway and get those carriageways checked as well. If the attacker has deliberately chosen the route, and consciously decided to run through the bus station, then there’s a good chance he wants to tell us something.”

  “Agreed.”

  “If you don’t want to be caught, you go the easier, quicker, less populated route, don’t you?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, that’s what usually happens.”

  “God, this one is a proper loon. We need to get this one locked up sharpish Keith, or our reputations are going to be hacked down as ruthlessly as these DWP staff.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The BBC North-West editor had alerted the national BBC News desk about the latest attack. Until now, there had been a sense of confusion about the motive for the attacks in Stockport. Sure, there had been plenty of insinuation about the motives, and plenty of online debate and discussion. But there hadn’t really been enough to make it into the definitive headline of the story.


  Now, the information was coming in from Hyde, that another DWP employee had been attacked, in exactly the same circumstances as the previous two incidents, and right outside the DWP building, too. It was pretty conclusive that this was now a major story. This was no longer a local item just for the north, it was now of paramount interest for the national news networks.

  Within minutes of the national BBC editors receiving the North West Tonight story, the BREAKING NEWS graphic was applied on its TV, Online and App services, breaking this sensational story in the most dramatic of styles. It was a BBC exclusive for at least fifteen minutes, before Sky News copied and pasted the story, and went live with their version.

  *****

  Outside Beech House, a number of media crews had assembled across the road, and a little further up the street. Local newspaper reporters from the M.E.N and the Tameside Reporter were there, along with the familiar faces from BBC and Granada, as well as a smattering of reporters from local radio stations Key 103, Tameside Radio and BBC Manchester. They were all reporting, photographing and filming the scene, talking breathlessly about this disturbing assault which had taken place less than an hour earlier.

  The footage they filmed was grim and disturbing, as dark silhouettes of forensics officers on their knees inside that tent were illuminated by their floodlights. The slow, meticulous pace at which they were moving gave a clue as to how grisly the scene must be inside.

  A similar number of reporters were beginning to gather at Tameside hospital, the location that it was believed the victim had been taken to. The A&E staff found themselves suddenly bombarded with members of the press trying to find out the condition of the victim.

  All of the media crews knew that they were embarking on the start of a very scary, very disturbing news story. It was potentially so serious, so terrifying, that it was going to give an enormous boost to the viewing figures between now, and its conclusion. This thought filled most of the reporters with great joy and excitement.

  *****

  DC Grant was waiting close to the tent with a number of the seconded officers. DC’s Chapman and Worthington arrived from around the corner just as Miller and Saunders got back from their site recce. Miller headed straight for the Divisional Inspector from Hyde police station, and began to discuss his requirements. The Inspector seemed quite happy to accommodate Miller’s plans. It may well be a headache to shut the bus station, and close the roads, especially the motorway in the middle of the rush-hour, but DCI Miller was an extremely well-respected officer, and if that was what he wanted, the local Inspector wasn’t about to try and negotiate or downgrade the plans. He got onto his radio straight away, and began demanding that his officers carry out the orders.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Miller as he turned and addressed his team. He allocated jobs to several of the support officers, and asked Chapman and Worthington to oversee the temp staff. Their main task was going to be interviewing the bus station witnesses.

  “Okay, Grant, you and Saunders can go back to base and start working on the background checks on our latest victim. Stick him up on the incident room wall. Find out if he has any links to the other two victims, other than via their employment. I want to know if they all hang around together, or if they used to work in the same office? I think it’s fair to say that there could still be a link between these victims that doesn’t involve a random vigilante who is pissed off about benefits cuts.”

  Saunders looked surprised. “Really? I thought this was a full-gone conclusion now Sir?”

  “It might be. But you need to prove it. If you come back to me and say that this person has never met the other two, that they’ve never even heard of each other, then I’ll agree with your theory Keith. But until then mate, there’s a distinct possibility that this could be a very personal, very private grievance about something petty, like buying the wrong brand of tea-bags in the staff room.”

  “I’ll get on with it, Sir.”

  “Oh and Helen, please can you do me a report on any new releases from prison, say in the last six months, for violent crimes, murders, robberies, anything like that.”

  “No problem Sir.”

  “Okay, great stuff. I need to talk to these security guys and see what we can pull off their CCTV. We might have footage of this bastard standing there waiting for his victim.”

  *****

  Miller struggled to get into the building, the press-pack were all shouting for his attention and standing in his way as he tried to get through the alternative entrance. The main doors were cordoned off now, and the staff entrance was covered by the forensics tent. So Miller had to try and get in via the fire exit.

  “Why were you dismissing this question in today’s press conference DCI Miller?”

  “Do you think this could have been avoided if you’d been honest DCI Miller?”

  “Is it true you were anticipating this attack?”

  Miller kept a neutral look on his face as he struggled through the rowdy reporters. Eventually, he was inside the building and the security guard closed the door, shutting out the noise and the stupid questions. There was a very sombre, very shocked mood inside the building. Several members of staff were sitting on chairs, crying and sobbing, and most were being consoled by other colleagues. The security man looked as though he might be close to tears himself.

  “Are you alright mate?” asked Miller.

  “Yeah, yeah, just a bit shook up like, you know. It happened right in front of me. It was so quick, he just stepped out of nowhere, and bang, Gary was down, the blood was pumping out of his legs like they were water pistols.”

  “Did you see the attacker.?”

  “No, not really, I mean, it was just a shape, a dark shape that appeared from behind the pillar. It was all over in about a second.”

  “Did he say anything? The attacker I mean.”

  “No, again, that’s what was so weird about it. He was totally silent, just appeared, then swung his knife or whatever it was, and ran off. I tell you what though, he was fast on his toes. Probably a runner you know, he was that fast.”

  “Did Gary say anything?”

  “Nah, he was screaming, everyone was. It was just a fucking nightmare. We started taking our tops off and were wrapping them around Gary’s legs, trying to pull them tight to restrict the blood flow. That’s all we were concentrating on, trying to stop this blood, it was like a waterfall, I’ve never seen nothing like that. We were tying our shirts around the wounds, pulling them as tight as we could, it was exhausting you know, the ambulance seemed to take ages to come.”

  Miller liked this guy, and he felt sorry for him, he was clearly very shaken. Miller patted him on the back. “Well, thank God you did that mate, or he’d have died right there within minutes.”

  “What, is he alright?” The security man’s eyes had filled up with tears, and his voice was wobbling.

  “He’s in surgery. But they’re doing their best for him. Here, look.” Miller opened his text messages and found the one that Rudovsky had sent;

  “Alright Sir, apparently, things are going well here. They are feeling confident.”

  “That was from one of my officers at Tameside General, apparently things are looking good.”

  “Aw, honestly, I can’t tell you… that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard in my life you know.” The security man sat down and began sobbing openly. “I thought he’d died,” he said eventually.

  “Nope, you saved his life.”

  It took a few minutes for Miller to console the emotional security man, but it was worth the wait. Once he had calmed down, he led Miller through into a tiny office with several CCTV monitors on the walls.

  “I’ve not looked at it yet, but I know the camera on that door is definitely working because I was watching it this morning when a couple of kids were skinning up round there.” The security man was messing about with his computer system. “Ah, here we go. What time did it happen?”

  “16.30.” Said Miller.

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nbsp; “Yes, of course, right okay, I’ll start it at about twenty-five past and we can fast forward through.”

  Chillingly, as the CCTV footage began, five minutes before the attack had happened, the tall, darkly dressed character with the hoody pulled over his face was standing there, leaning up against one of the concrete pillars that hold the building up. He looked relaxed, casual, still. His body language didn’t make any suggestion that he was about to carry out a vicious assault. Miller watched with his mouth open. His heart was thumping violently, high in his chest. He felt anxious, and distressed by the prospect of watching this ghastly attack on replay.

  “Look,” said Miller quietly, as the staff door opened and a woman walked out, and walked past the man in the hoody. The screen read 16:26. The man didn’t move a muscle.

  A minute later, the door opened again, and another member of staff stepped out onto the street and walked casually away from the building. The shadowy character didn’t move, he just stood there as though he was waiting to meet somebody. Another person left the building, and walked past him, without giving him another glance.

  “What the f…”

  The clock read 16:28. Five separate members of staff had left the building, and the man hadn’t moved an inch.

  At 16:30 precisely, the victim of this latest attack, Gary Webster wandered out of the building and started walking down towards the bus station. He had got no more than three metres away from the door when he was struck from behind. The CCTV coverage showed the attacker pull his weapon away from his side, extend it out and then snap it back with great power. The hooded man chopped the sword at the back of Gary’s legs with as much force as he could muster.