“Can you give me a list of everybody who you know is in possession of that number?” Miller could sniff a lead.
“Of course, that’s no problem. But back to the call, I haven’t told you the main part.”
“Oh, I thought you’d finished?” Jerry was bringing with this conversation the only useful piece of information surrounding the entire case.
“Well almost, but he said something else after I’d agreed to speak to you on his behalf. He said “Please tell DCI Miller that I’m very sorry for putting all of this on him, he looks stressed out and I’d be lying if I pretended that it wasn’t my fault. Tell him, I’ll not be carrying out any functional tasks for a couple of days, I’ll let him get a bit of a rest.” And then he said, “thanks very much for your time, Mr Phillips, I appreciate it.” And he just hung up. Jerry could hear Miller laughing.
“Are you alright?” he asked. Miller was still laughing.
“Yeah, I’m alright. I just can’t get over the cheek of the crazy bastard. Will you do me a favour Jerry, could you write down the whole of the conversation as best you can remember it and send it to my email address with that phone number info? I need to know the name and number of everybody that is in possession of your number. My email is DCI dot Miller at MCP dot org dot uk. The minute he gets back to you, I need to know about it, alright?”
“What about airing the call?” It was obvious that Jerry wanted to book adverts on the back of this, and Miller couldn’t blame him, he recognised that this was one hell of a scoop.
“If that’s the only way he’s going to communicate, then, do it. Yeah, but don’t plug the call before it comes and don’t broadcast any details about the call you received today, particularly the “couple of days off” rubbish. Is that okay?” Miller was definitely feeling a lot more positive about this case already.
“Yes, of course. Thank you Detective Chief Inspector. I’ll get that email to you straight away.”
“Cheers. Speak to you later. Thanks.” Miller slammed the phone down and picked it right back up and dialled Detective Chief Superintendent Dixon. He needed more staff on this case. It kept ringing until Miller eventually accepted that he wasn’t in the office. He could feel a new wave of enthusiasm flowing through him.
Miller could barely control his excitement as he stared at his PC screen, waiting for his inbox to show the email from Jerry Phillips. He was dismayed that it hadn’t arrived after a few minutes, but his brain was racing. He was scribbling various points down onto a piece of paper, and the speed of his writing gave a good indication of how quickly his mind was working.
Miller felt a presence in the immediate atmosphere. He looked up to find Dixon standing at the door.
“Busy?” he asked. He looked distressed and unhappy. Miller ignored the question and looked back at what he was doing, too busy jotting on the paper to be distracted by silly questions.
“Andy?” Miller looked up at the once intimidating presence of his senior officer. He gave Dixon a grouchy scowl before replying.
“I’m getting somewhere, slowly. Yes - I’m busy. Sir.”
“Andy - I know you think that I have something to do with that fiasco today, and I can accept that you are feeling dissatisfied but I cannot excuse your deserting the conference like that, it’s wholly improper. It makes me look like a damn amateur.”
Miller was deliberately unreceptive to Dixon’s complaint. He continued with what he was doing, seemingly oblivious to the Detective Chief Super’s gaze which was glaring right at him. Dixon waited a moment longer for a response.
“Are you bloody ignoring me you inconsiderate little sod?” he almost shouted.
Miller looked up slowly. He could feel the rise of contempt inside him, he tried hard to control it but he was overwhelmed. It exploded. He stood and walked around his desk towards the door where Dixon was stood. He maintained eye contact with him as he closed his office door. Miller was an impulsive and conscientious man; he couldn’t simply sweep this under the carpet. He sat back down and looked straight at Dixon who was still standing. His round, kind face was now looking distorted through the anger in his eyes and the vile colour of his face - which was superimposed in terracotta from the sun’s rays burning through the blinds behind Miller.
The DCI stared up at the man who had moulded him out of the eager DC into the commendable example of a detective that was today. He stared up at him for a second, noticing an empty feeling inside himself where usually he felt nothing but admiration for the man.
“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he asked, totally absorbed in his sense of morality. Dixon, for the first time that Miller had ever seen was quite astounded. He took a while before he could stutter back his response. Miller cut in as he began to speak, his direct gaze was intense.
“You see, I’m sat here thinking that you are taking me for a fucking half wit. I’m amazed that I did that hare-brained conference today, and you know what? I did it out of respect for you. I come back here and sit down and I think to myself, why? How come Dixon gets enough respect from me that I allow myself to jeopardise my own respected and honourable reputation, because of interference from corrupt senior officers?”
Dixon was infuriated by Miller’s words. The PC made a bleeping sound, confirmation that Jerry’s email had arrived - Miller opened the email as Dixon spoke.
“Hey now, just a minute there. There’s no damned corruption, I think you are being slightly melodramatic…” Miller took further offence at that, interrupting Dixon once again.
“Melodramatic? Okay, let’s test the theory then. I want, no sorry, I require a minimum of twenty five extra officers drafting into my team by tomorrow morning. Zero eight hundred hours.” He stared at Dixon even harder than before. He took a second to respond.
“You know that I can’t just…”
“And that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” stormed Miller. “So how dare you come into my office on the foundation of bollocking me, when you are up to your eyeballs in this bullshit. Answer me this, right. If I was investigating the exact same crime, only the victim choice was different - say it was women, or students, or dustbin men - would I really be pissing about with a skeleton crew of four investigating officers, myself included?”
Dixon was sharper this time. “You’re not investigating the murders of dustbin men Andy. Can’t you get it through your thick head? Nobody really cares, well, nobody except you. And here’s the proof; at that conference today, how many people did you see put their hand up to their mouth in shock, or outrage, or disgust at what you were telling them? Nobody.” Dixon looked old when he worked himself up like this. And he was worked up.
Miller understood the point that Dixon was trying to make, but it was the principle that he was unhappy about.
“Bollocks! That’s just a lazy answer to this mess. You know me very well, answer this question - how much do I hate Mike Winters from vice?” Miller was on a rant, but Dixon nodded his awareness that Miller despised the man.
“He tried to screw my wife, he fucking tried to set me up in that Dolores and Canterbury enquiry, tried to get me sacked, and I’d never done a thing against him. Now, just say, bearing in mind how much I thoroughly hate the bastard, say he was murdered tonight and I got the case, answer me this - would I try and find the killer and arrest him or would I say - oh forget it, he was an arsehole anyway?” Dixon didn’t have to think too hard about the question. He answered in a slower, much calmer tone. He wanted peace.
“You’d find the killer. I know you would Andy. But, listen to me carefully - Mike Winters hasn’t been raping or murdering your kids.”
Miller felt like leaping out of the chair and grabbing the Detective Chief Super for even thinking of such a disgusting illustration. He controlled himself, but that remark, regardless of its objective troubled Miller. He managed to let it go. Just.
“I asked you a question about me having twenty five additional officers. Your response was?” Miller started tapping his fingers on
his desk as Dixon tried again to explain his position as far as the allocation of extra officers went.
“I was about to say that I can’t just commit to that without consulting my superiors.”
Miller laughed. “And my point is that if we were not investigating the murders of paedophiles, you would not have to consult anyone. You know that, as well as I do.” Miller left the discussion open for Dixon to add to. He didn’t respond.
“Now in fairness to you, I am going to allow this afternoon’s bullshit to go, partly because I have been completely naïve about the whole situation upstairs…” Miller reclined in the chair and placed his hands on the desktop. His dominance of the situation was gaining momentum.
“…and I’ll be perfectly honest with you, that’s my own idiotic fault. But let me get this abundantly clear, I’m not taking any more shit. Alright?” He didn’t let Dixon reply, the convoy of anger-driven words just thundered on.
“I’m not all that bothered what goes on upstairs, that’s your lookout. I just want you to know that no matter how hard you get dry bummed, don’t ever come down here and try to do the same to me. I’ll let you off for today, like I’ve said, but I hope you’re going to stand up to those knob-heads, get yourself some self respect back because they’re bumming it out of you. Now get out, I need to try and solve this bastard case.” Miller flicked his hand to the door, his furious stare had not left Dixon’s face since he had closed the door behind him. It had now.
Dixon looked like a broken man. Miller had broken him down in a couple of minutes, immobilised him with that vicious verbal assault. He shuffled out of the office with a look of complete bewilderment. He looked old.
What surprised Miller was that as he watched him depart, he couldn’t care less about any harm he’d inflicted on the old man’s feelings; he was still too upset at being forced into such a detrimental position. At being forced to become a tool for the media. Miller had a job to do, a job that Dixon had taught him to do very well, but that was back in the day when catching crooks was all that had mattered to either of them.
Miller was too busy reading the email to see Dixon depart the main office. He grabbed the mouse and pushed the cursor up to the print icon and clicked it.
To the sound of paper being pulled into the printer, he grabbed a whisky glass out of his bottom drawer and let his ice-cold bottle of Fanta gurgle into it.
“Got ya!” said Miller as the words on Jerry’s email filled him with the warm, fuzzy enthusiasm that had been completely lacking from this case. Until now.
Chapter Seven
5.50 p.m.
80 Moss Bank Drive, Heald Green
Bob Ellis had had a demanding day. The company that he ran had recently been struggling to secure orders with some of its long term customers, meaning essentially that drastic amounts of revenue was suddenly being lost due to repeated complaints of poor quality goods, late delivery and in increasing instances, complaints of not receiving the orders at all. These new and surprising problems were devastating the company’s “reliable” reputation.
As MD, Bob was the man responsible for turning all of this around - otherwise it was his neck on the line. Today he’d had to fire eleven staff, practically a quarter of his workforce. The reasons for the dismissals varied, the range covered various topics, including poor productivity - which had been the downfall of six of his warehouse staff. He’d had to let two others go in reference to their terrible time keeping and attendance records. One other was fired simply because Bob hated the sight of the individual and it seemed appropriate that his time was now. The other two he’d fired were done a little more tactfully. You might say that it was more of a forced, immediate redundancy negotiation, their ages had affected their effectiveness and their time was up soon anyway.
These sudden and unannounced departures were supposed to inspire immediate, radical changes in the work force’s attitude. The suddenness of the dismissals was intended to resound through the company, as a threat of what would happen to anybody who did not help the business bounce back from this impending crisis.
He hated doing it though. He could manage everything that fell under his task umbrella, but firing people always got him down. He could easily have handed the chore down to a manager or supervisor, but he felt it was only appropriate to do it himself.
He was sitting in the car on his driveway, staring at the garage door - going over the day’s events and desperately trying to shake his gloomy mood. He heard the front door’s familiar squeak and looked across. He was presented with the image of his beautiful wife, looking radiant in her white jogging bottoms and tight fitting, pastel-blue T shirt. Her black hair was shining proudly where the sun hit it. She was holding their newborn, who was awake - but not looking too thrilled at being paraded in the hot, dazzling sunshine.
“Hi,” he said through the open window to his wife and little James. He thought it sounded flat. Unfriendly. He hated taking his job home with him.
“Do you wanna say Hiya to Daddy?” said Karen in a chirpy, bouncy, happy-as-can-be way to the baby. Bob dug deep to shake the dark mood.
“Hello my fatty watty,” he said in his best, stupidest baby-talk voice. He grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat and got out of the car. He gave Karen a kiss as he went about pulling on James’ dummy, pulling it slightly until a powerful, desperate slurp drove it back into his son’s mouth. He laughed at the phenomenon that had fascinated him since James had been born just six weeks ago. The family headed inside.
“How’s he been?” asked Bob, feeling slightly happier already.
“Oh, we had some fun today didn’t we?” she said to the baby. This amused Bob who had only recently found out that new mothers’ didn’t answer questions themselves anymore. Everything they say is directed at you through the baby, in a weird voice.
“Shall we make Daddy a cup of tea, or would he prefer a can of lager?” she asked the wrinkly little person who was trying to separate the dummy from its handle.
“Oh that sounds nice. Tell Mummy I’ll take a can of lager please.” He said. Karen looked confused, not quite comfortable with the concept when adopted by the third party.
She handed James to Bob, who sat down on the sofa cradling his baby between his arm and his ever increasing gut. He reached out for the TV remote control with his free arm, but it was just beyond his grasp. He was reaching out as far as he could when he realised how useless he looked and stood to retrieve it.
“Daddy’s being a lazy bones isn’t he? Eh? Isn’t Daddy being a lazy bones?” he asked the baby as he zapped the TV on. “Neighbours” was just finishing and Bob always struggled to resist singing the song. Now that he had James to entertain, he could indulge himself completely without the slightest chance of being taken as an idiot. This was the really cool part of parenting he thought, as he prepared himself. He stared down at the tiny child who was focusing straight at his face, which was still a relatively new skill that James had acquired. Karen came through and handed the icy cold beer can to her husband, who didn’t have chance to thank her before his line. Her big, sparkling brown eyes were drawn to his as he began his accompaniment.
“Just a friendly wave each morning helps to make a better daaay, Neighbours should be there for one another, next door is only a footstep awaaay…” He was singing in a quiet, melodic way to please James.
“Oh spare us the chorus!” pleaded Karen, with her fingers in her ears.
“We’re just having a sing-along, aren’t we baby James?”
The baby just continued staring up at his father, and sucking at the dummy.
Bob thought that he had best show his wife some attention, he realised that there had been hardly any conversation between them recently, and what there had been was generally based around the small fellah.
“How’s your day been?” he asked. Karen looked as happy as she had on their wedding day, and just as beautiful. She sat on the floor at her husband’s feet and rested her chin on his knee. The sunbathing t
hat she had obviously indulged herself in was evident in her healthy brown face.
“Oh, it’s been great. This morning was fun – we went to Grandma’s for an hour didn’t we? Then we came home for a feed and I had some lunch, and then we’ve been playing in the garden when the lazy lump has been awake.” She seemed utterly fulfilled, which was a relief to Bob, who had secretly worried that she may become restless or bored or depressed during her time off. By looking down at James though, he couldn’t imagine her feeling any different than she was.
“He is perfect,” he said.
“He is. He’s got his Daddy’s looks. All screwed up and grouchy looking!”
Bob threw at a cushion at her. She yelped as it bounced off her head and landed in the corner of the room.
“He looks more like you the morning after a night out!” Karen squealed with laughter, and at that moment it dawned on Bob that he’d not even noticed his transition from stressed-out, under-pressure workaholic, to doting, happy-as-a-dog-with-two-tails husband and dad. It had taken less than three minutes.
The news was about to start on TV so he adjusted the volume to listen properly.
“Not seen the news today, but I heard there was another shooting, in Denton I think it was. They reckon on the radio that it’s a serial killer!” said Bob as the news programme started. Karen didn’t have chance to confirm her astonishment, it was the top story on the national news. The healthy colour disappeared from Karen’s face as she watched the report.
“Welcome to the six o’clock news. Our main story tonight. Manchester City Police are hunting a lone gunman who has killed six people in little under a fortnight. The person they wish to apprehend preys solely on convicted paedophiles. He is expected to continue until he is caught. Those were the words of Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Miller who spoke of the shocking investigation at an impromptu press conference this afternoon. Mary Humphries was there, she has this report.”
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 7