One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught

by Steven Suttie

  Miller was determined to keep a positive mood within his team.

  “Hey, I didn’t expect it to be a blast, listen - keep at it. You’ll come back here this afternoon with a bunch of new leads. I can guarantee it.”

  “Well, there’s been something, Sir.” Miller waited for Chapman to continue.

  “This bloke we spoke to, he lives directly opposite Kreischoff.” Chapman was referring to the first victim, Alan Kreischoff. The house, which he’d rented, was in the middle of a compactly populated cul-de-sac. The neighbour had struck Chapman and Worthington as a “twitchy curtains” type. The best type of person to encounter when you had to do these wretched door-to-doors.

  “He said that he saw a smallish looking bloke loitering outside the house for a couple of minutes, about an hour before the shots were heard. He reckons that he’d not seen him before. Probably now’t, but.”

  Miller was intrigued - he hadn’t mentioned the description he was given of the gunman by DCI Blake. A resident in Sheffield who came along just after the shooting had said that the gunman was “pretty small.” But that was all they had, as he was running away, and it was dark.

  This was a second separate mention of the suspect’s height. Beyond coincidence, thought Miller.

  “Description?” Chapman picked up on the interest in Miller’s voice.

  “Well, vague really. Said he was small, dressed quite smartly. Didn’t really see the face, although he noticed he was wearing a Trilby hat.” Miller pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the handset in disbelief. He returned it to his ear.

  “Wearing a Trilby? In Staly Vegas?” He sounded utterly thunderstruck.

  “See, I told you we were looking for a fucking nutter.” Miller was laughing at the ludicrous thought. He could hear Chapman laughing too, Worthington was in the background saying “what you laughing at? What you laughing at?”

  Chapman stopped chuckling and gave his partner a severe look. He spoke into the phone, “I said the same thing. That’s why he noticed him, the bloke said.”

  “Go back and get a full description, everything this bloke can remember. Alright?” Miller had applied an urgent edge to his voice.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good work, Chapman.” He slammed the phone down. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he really felt that things were starting to come together. Finally.

  *****

  Jerry Phillips was buzzing around the TV studio like a man possessed. He knew that this world-exclusive was going to be the greatest scoop in his twenty-five-year career. He’d been pinging around the building all morning, sharing the news of the previous days call.

  First thing, he’d called an urgent production meeting. He outlined that from the moment of the next shooting or telephone call, whichever came first - this story was going to be the main feature. In essence, Jerry was announcing to the award winning journalists, presenters and editors that Sky News was about to broadcast almost constant coverage of this case, demoting all other news, unless a story of major significance broke, to be covered in a five minute slot on the hour and at half past each hour. He booked three of Britain’s most distinguished crime and investigation experts and put them on standby to give in-depth analysis on the case. He sensed the excitement in the room, which gave his adrenalin rush that extra kick. This was why Jerry loved working in news.

  Next he went in to see Head of Programmes, Barney Shaw. His main objective was to get a large budget to cover the story, as the costs to meet his plans would be quite significant. He played on the fact that he knew that advertising revenue and sales of the recordings of any exclusives to other networks would more than cover the amounts he required, before finally revealing the details of his scoop.

  Barney was a big man, with a huge personality. He and Jerry had been friends for many years and knew each other extremely well. Barney was in a good position to make a quick assessment of the situation. He knew very well that Jerry wasn’t likely to ask for money to cover a mundane story. When Jerry finally announced his scoop, the big man nearly fell off his executive chair. His initial exhilaration quickly gave way to concern about the authenticity of the caller.

  “You know it’s definitely him?” he asked. Jerry had anticipated him asking the question, as almost everybody he had already spoken to had raised that point.

  “It’s already on the auto cue as the first question we’ll be asking him on air. But, in my own opinion, I think it might well be. I’m extremely confident that it is him.”

  Barney seemed happy with the reply, but was concerned about the legal side. However, he was as excited as Jerry when he learnt that the detective leading the enquiry had agreed to the proposed broadcast. It made sense really, it was a massive evidence gathering opportunity for the police, even though the Crown Prosecution Service would certainly have a few misgivings about any broadcast of this type, especially when it came to the trial.

  At worst, legally speaking, Sky TV could only be accused of “helping police with their enquiries” should Ofcom take exception to their involvement. Barney was delighted and practically gave Jerry a blank cheque to cover the story in style.

  As Jerry continued to take his information around the TV channel’s head quarters, a real buzz began to awaken the staff to what a massive news story this was, particularly the staff in advertising sales. They were desperate to ring their best clients to warn them of what an opportunity this was, and treble if not quadruple their month’s commission. But Jerry insisted that this could not happen and substantiated how important it was that it remain an in-house secret, and he methodically warned his staff that if this was to leak, the person responsible would be found, and would be dismissed immediately.

  Jerry didn’t have to keep his staff quiet for too long. The phone call eventually came at four fifteen that afternoon.

  *****

  After almost six hours of none stop viewing, Miller was growing sick of Sky News already. He sensed that the newsreaders were sat waiting for the call as impatiently as he was. The actual story regarding the serial killer was still getting plenty of coverage, but it was basically being driven by the details that Miller had released the previous day, and with some extensive embellishment.

  It was quite obvious to Miller, and possibly all of the viewers, that there was an impending excitement ravishing the presenters, which they were determined to conceal. As the time went on, and long after he’d had to close the blinds behind him so he could make out the vision on his PC monitor, Miller was alerted to look up at the screen by an urgent announcement from the channel’s afternoon presenter Sue Bentley.

  The sound of whooshes was played amid the flashing of “Exclusive” and “Breaking News” banners flying onto the screen. Miller felt his heart suddenly burst into action, beating twice its speed. It was as though he’d just run up the stairs. Miller looked at the computer to make sure his recording software was working.

  “This is it,” he shouted to the constables who were still feeding the PNC information along the line. They all ran into his office, and gathered around Miller’s computer screen as Sue Bentley introduced the phone guest. As she spoke, the studio backdrop transformed from its usual view of TV screens in the open office behind the newsreaders and a huge Union Jack flag background appeared. The flag contained a black silhouette image of a sniper holding a gun aloft, dramatic images that the art department had obviously spent all morning creating.

  “Well we have an incredible development to the story we’ve been covering all day here at Sky Centre. Somebody who claims to be responsible for these murders joins us live on the telephone. Are you there?”

  The expectation was electrifying. There was a slight pause before the caller spoke. Sue looked into the camera and waited. Her usually calm composure seemed to be deserting her.

  “Oh, sorry. Hi Sue, thanks for airing my call. Call me Pop.”

  Miller was stunned. The caller sounded like, well, the complete opposite of what Miller had anticipated.
He spoke with an educated accent. There was a definite Manchester twang present, beneath the perfect pronunciation. He definitely sounded older, in his forties certainly, his fifties maybe. And he was calm - as though he was ringing an old acquaintance. Miller was instantly of the opinion that this guy was a crank. This wasn’t the killer.

  The presenter was obviously having trouble deciding the etiquette when interviewing a serial killer. She pushed past the niceties.

  “First of all, as you will appreciate, we have absolutely no reason to believe your claims that you are responsible for these crimes. Can you provide us with any kind of proof that you are who you claim to be?” There was another brief silence, as though the phone he was using was subject to some kind of delay.

  “Oh, of course. I thought that you might ask that, it’s a perfectly sensible question, so I have taken steps to prove that I am the killer.” His delivery was word perfect, without a single stutter or a pause for thought.

  “What are the steps that you have taken?” asked Sue. Again there was a slight unnerving pause before the response.

  “Sure. I killed one of these paedophiles in his own home the night before last, after breaking in through a rear downstairs window. I strangled him rather than shot him because I didn’t want to attract any attention. This was just to prove that I am who I say I am. I hope you appreciate that I have taken a serious risk of leaving evidence behind, so there’s no way I’ll be using that method again.”

  Sue was a gifted interviewer, but she found this particular interview too intense. She felt repelled talking to this man, who spoke coldly of his crimes, and showed absolutely no remorse. It was apparent to the viewers in Miller’s office that she was struggling.

  But she had to keep going. Miller was still suspicious about the caller, but he had to concede that this guy had thought of a pretty ingenious way of proving his identity.

  He also considered that if it was true about this other murder, it meant that Pop had killed three on the same night.

  “Can you give me the address of this house?” Her hands and voice were trembling - her face had turned a deathly shade. Her voice was weird, it was almost as though she was freezing cold, struggling to catch her breath. It looked to Miller like the news presenter was having a panic attack. Just out of shot you could see the shoulder of somebody who had come onto the set and sat down next to her.

  “Sure, but I’d prefer it if you took me off air while I reveal the address, otherwise you might find members of the general public getting in there before the police arrive.”

  Miller scoffed loudly. He was amazed by how cool this man was acting and smiled at the thought of this caring, responsible serial killer. The camera panned around and focused onto a man looking quite out of place in a washed-out grey T - shirt who had joined Sue at the desk. The newcomer continued the conversation to give Sue the opportunity to get herself together.

  While all this was happening on the screen, DCS Dixon came bounding through the office door and took position behind Miller.

  “If we take you off air for a moment, would you be happy to pass that address onto our director?” asked the man.

  “Who is that?” asked Pop, still sounding as calm and collected.

  “My name is Mark Read, I’m a producer.” He was a young confident guy who seemed quite comfortable before the cameras.

  “How do you do Mark? Yes of course I’ll be happy to go off air. I’ll speak to you in a moment okay?”

  Dixon looked at Miller.

  “Is it genuine? Is it him?” Miller shrugged his shoulders and shot him a look that suggested he didn’t know as he continued watching the live broadcast.

  “Okay, you are watching Sky News where we have a quite extraordinary situation this afternoon. We’ll be back in a moment with “Pop,” whose existence was announced only yesterday at that press conference in Manchester. It would appear that Pop as he calls himself has embarked upon a murderous campaign aimed at convicted paedophiles, his victims total six, but quite extraordinarily he has just announced live on Sky News that there is another victim, who so far has not been discovered. I think that the call is live again, hello?”

  Mark, who had stepped in to help Sue, was doing a valiant job. Miller was trying to suppress a grin; this whole circus was more like something out of a crap film. He couldn’t believe that it was actually happening.

  “Hello again, Mark. I’ve just given the details to your director, who tells me that they will be passed on straight away to DCI Miller.”

  “Who is of course heading the investigation?”

  “That’s right. I am sure DCI Miller and his fellow officers want to catch me as soon as possible, and put a swift end to my campaign, but I have to tell you this - I will press on with my campaign relentlessly until that day arrives. I don’t mean to sound arrogant or cocky there, not at all - but I am hoping to create a little more debate before I am handcuffed and led away.”

  Miller looked at the five constables who were watching the screen with him, their expression said it all. This was unbelievable.

  Mark was reading Sue’s autocue as he tried to keep the momentum of the call going.

  “What does the name “Pop” actually mean? Would you mind telling us?” The pause lasted slightly longer this time.

  “Well, I am still very early into my campaign at present. Maybe later on in this I will be willing to discuss such details. I’m sorry.”

  Miller got the impression that this guy was going for the popularity vote. He reminded him of a smarmy politician. Mark continued with the prepared questions.

  “What about your campaign, would you like to expand on what it is that you aim to achieve?”

  “Well, that’s complex. We are facing an epidemic in this country, fuelled in part by the internet that is making sex symbols out of little kids with the absolutely mind numbing amount of disgusting, child abuse pornography that’s available for these freaks to perv over. It’s getting to a stage now where so many of these mentally ill people from our own communities are being caught looking at these images, we risk the prospect of actually accepting paedophiles as a part of life. We are becoming un-shockable. So many high profile cases of famous television celebrities, music stars, politicians, teachers and carers who have been abusing little kids, it’s hard to believe but it’s all building the impression that this stuff must actually be normal. Well it’s not normal - it’s mentally ill, it’s evil and it’s only carried out by defective, sick, hopeless people. We all need to do what we can to remind ourselves of that basic fact. I want to see an environment where the kids can grow up without these disgusting, inadequate monsters threatening their innocence. The more they have access to pictures of little kids being raped, the more they are able to justify their horrific desires in their own warped, sick minds. How long does it take before the weirdos get bored of seeing the images and want to carry out their own sick abuse? Think about it. I don’t think that people in this country are really aware of the situation as far as convicted child molesters are concerned. It may surprise your viewers to learn that people can, and often do - get far harsher punishments in our courts for not having car insurance or not paying their council tax, than somebody who has indecently assaulted a child. I am not prepared to accept that, as I’m sure most of the British public are not, and I intend to highlight this absurd practise, and highlight the injustice of letting child molesters walk around in our communities, unchecked. I am very serious about my campaign, I’m not just a killer, I’m here to educate the public. I must go now, but I warn you people out there in the North West who have ever done time for doing anything to a little kid for your sad, pathetic sexual gratification, it’s very likely that I am going to kill you. Your only way out, is if you kill yourself first. I’m not joking.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Nine

  4.30 p.m.

  Plowden Road, Woodhouse Park, Wythenshawe

  The first officers to attend the scene had been or
dered to cordon off the street at both ends. The initial police presence was of two officers who had been routinely patrolling around the estate in their Panda car. Their first priority was to guard the property from any disruption.

  The next influx of police to arrive at the address came from Wythenshawe Police station, about six minutes drive away, and the closest station to the gigantic, sprawling over-spill estate that was once famous for being the largest in Europe.

  The estate was situated on the very outskirts of south Manchester, built to replace the slum Victorian housing. Like so many of the North West’s regeneration projects, the Wythenshawe estate had all the positive attributes to begin with. People were brought in from every area of the city as the endless rows of crumbling terraced houses that had long outlived their builders expectancy were condemned and pulled down.

  The new tenants couldn’t believe their luck as they surveyed their new homes for the first time. These were good, well sized family homes with such luxury as fitted kitchens and fitted bathrooms with running hot water, all the things that people from the inner-city slum areas of Gorton, Longsight, Beswick and Chorlton had dreamed of having.

  Nobody who was given a house on the estate complained, it was like the equivalent of winning the pools and the moving in date couldn’t come quickly enough.

  But it was after moving in, after the “honeymoon” period that the people began to realise that their nice new houses with upstairs and downstairs toilets were just that, houses. Endless “Avenues” and “Walks” and “Closes” of them, slap bang in the middle of nowhere. It quickly began to dawn on this brand new community that they had been dragged into an enormous field and left there to get on with it.

  There was no work in the area, little sense of community, no money - in fact there was nothing in the area except a huge, sprawling housing estate that went on for as far as the eye could see, an international airport with flights arriving and leaving every few minutes and the challenge for thousands of families from different areas across the Greater Manchester region, trying desperately to recreate the community spirit that the streets of their previous condemned neighbourhoods had enjoyed.