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

by Steven Suttie

  Eventually, he turned to speak again but Clare was busy reading. He stood and headed for the bedroom door. He turned around again before he left, annoyed that there was an atmosphere in his own home, with his own wife because of this “Pop” idiot.

  “Clare,” he said as he grabbed hold of the door handle. She looked up from her book. He blinked his sad puppy dog eyes at her.

  “Do we have any crumpets in the freezer? There’s no bread.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday May 18th

  M66 Motorway

  Saunders was full of himself this morning, thought Ellis, as she sat in the passenger seat listening to the ambitious young DS waffling on about his promotion chances all the way to Bury. She looked out of the window for most of the journey. Saunders had this irritating, and often dangerous habit of turning his head forty five degrees and staring at his passenger while driving. By keeping her head at forty five degrees herself, this habit of Saunders corrected itself.

  Ellis’s mind was full of work, questions were swimming around her head, and ideas of potential lines to follow were consuming her mind. Saunders’ incessant talk was becoming distracting.

  “Look, can you take a deep breath? For Christ’s sake - yes, I think that Dixon reckons that you are promotion material. He thinks you are the answer to all his prayers. Change the record Keith. God! I just want to open the door and throw myself out.”

  Saunders decided that his tactic for dealing with this sudden outburst of emotion was to feign hurt. He was quickly put in his place.

  “And don’t think that I’m going to fall for that wounded animal bullshit either. Just shut up and drive, or I’ll tell Dixon that are sleeping with his wife. Then we’ll talk about your promotion chances. Alright?” Ellis meant it. She just wanted a bit of hush in the car, and she didn’t think it was too much to ask. Saunders remained silent for the rest of the drive.

  The housing estate that they had come to visit seemed like one endless road, with similar streets of orange brick council houses shooting off in each direction. Eventually they pulled into the one they had come to visit, Shawcross Street.

  “There it is, number thirty nine. Come on,” said Ellis, eager to get this random start to the day’s investigations underway.

  “Bloody hell!” said Saunders as he surveyed the house.

  They got out of the car and wandered casually up the path to the house. The front and side garden appeared to have been used as some kind of dumping ground by the whole estate, broken old bikes were strewn amongst the countless old washing machines and fridge freezers that seemed to have been carefully arranged around a wheel-less car, which was being held up by metal ramps at the front and bricks at the back. An upturned wheelie bin had spilt most of its rotting contents onto the floor, and the mess blocked their path to the door. They skipped around it, stepping onto a filthy pink and grey mattress that had been thrown into the long grass.

  Saunders knocked loudly on the fading red door and smirked at Ellis. Within the house, there was the sound of activity, a radio was blurting out the latest pop song above the sound of a couple of kids playing inside. The ear - piercing wail of a small baby crying made Ellis’s nursing breasts feel tender. They waited a few minutes but there was no response. Ellis knocked this time, a less formal but equally authoritative knock. Still no reply.

  “I’ll go round the back. See if I can see anyone.” Said Saunders. As he stepped around the side of the house, Ellis jumped as the letterbox flap burst open and a child’s eyes appeared, looking through the gap.

  “Is your Mummy or Daddy there please?” she asked in her nicest voice.

  “No. Go away. Fuck off,” said the child who sounded about seven or possibly eight. Another child, maybe slightly older, was laughing hysterically.

  Ellis decided to laugh along, which made the abusive child stop laughing so much. She stood on the spot and continued to laugh until the flap closed, and then flicked open with another kid’s eyes peeping through.

  “Can you open the door please?” she said. Saunders reappeared by her side.

  “What do you want?” asked the new kid, obviously older than the first. The baby was still squealing inside.

  “I need to come in. I am a police officer. If you don’t open the door I will have to break it down. Do you understand?” The two officers could hear the younger child starting to cry.

  “Where’s your ID?”

  “Here.” Ellis flashed her card through the small gap, pleased that the child had shown such sense.

  “Are you going to open the door?” asked Ellis. The two officers could hear the chain being slid off inside. The door creaked open, and Ellis was immediately hit by the pungent stench that wafted out of the house. The older child was standing in a filthy green Scooby Doo T-shirt and a pair of black football shorts which were far too big for him. He had nothing on his feet, which were black with dirt from the uncarpeted floorboards. The younger child was still crying, obviously worried about the trouble he was in for swearing. He was about six, judging by the size of him.

  “Can we come in?” asked Saunders, who hadn’t yet got a real hit of the smell.

  The older kid opened the door fully. Ellis raced through the house to the back room, and scooped the screaming baby out of her cot. She calmed the baby quickly. She was appalled by the seepage from the over-filled nappy. It was so bad that the faded baby-grow was completely soiled.

  “My name is Karen and this man is called Keith. What’s your name?” asked Ellis of the eldest. She realised that she had adopted her most affectionate voice.

  “Jordan. He’s called Ronand.” He pointed to his younger brother who was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. The child looked very scared, and Ellis wanted to alleviate his concerns about the visit.

  “Is your Mummy or Daddy in? We need to ask them a question. It won’t take a second.” She was rocking the baby against her shoulder, trying to calm the child.

  “Mam’s in bed. Me Dad’s not here. I shouldn’t wake her up,” said Jordan.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” she asked. The eldest just shrugged. Ellis wondered if he had ever been to school. She stepped into the living room. Saunders followed, his nostrils pinched as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him.

  “Can you get Mummy up for me? I really need to talk to her,” asked Ellis. Jordan turned and bolted up the stairs, leaving his brother, Ronand looking absolutely terrified. At his grubby feet lay a discarded takeaway pizza box.

  “I bet you support Man United don’t you?” asked Saunders of the filthy, snot-nosed little boy. He nodded.

  “So do I. She doesn’t though. Guess who she supports?” he said.

  Ronand shrugged, in much the same way as his brother had.

  “She supports rubbish old Bolton Wanderers. Don’t you?” Saunders smiled, hoping to earn a response from the youngster. Ellis looked deep into the little boy’s dull blue eyes. He looked lost.

  “Do you want to know a secret about Manchester United Ronand?” she asked as Jordan began his descent of the stairs. “They are only good because I don’t support them. You see, if I did support them, they’d always lose like Bolton Wanderers do.” Ronand managed a smile. Jordan stood on the stairs - the discontented thud of footsteps could be heard on the bare floors upstairs.

  “Me Mam’s just coming now” he said.

  “Thank you very much Jordan. Good lad.” Saunders was still trying to earn the trust of the smaller kid.

  “Does your brother support United too?” he asked him.

  “Yeah, he’s gonna play for them when he’s a man. He’s sick!” he said in his small voice. His face was full of hope, full of belief in his big brother’s abilities. Ellis wondered if that was the only hope that these two boys had for their future.

  “What about you? Are you going to play for them?” asked Saunders. Ellis interjected.

  “No! He’s going to come and play for Bolton, aren’t you?” Jordan nodded; his tough little face was contradi
cted by his little eyes, which gave away an untold helplessness. He was just about to speak, when the voice of his mother gave him a start.

  “Fuck off out and play you two. Little twats,” boomed the woman as she reached the top of the stairs. The two small boys darted out of the house, barefoot.

  The considerable sight of the children’s mother dominated the staircase. She was huge. She stood at the top step for a moment, viewing her uninvited guests. The sight was unsettling for the two senior detectives. She began descending the stairs. With each step came a massive judder of flesh on the woman’s vile white flabby thighs, which were completely visible below the skimpy T-shirt that allowed her enormous belly to fall and wobble beneath. The T-shirt looked as though it had been sprayed onto her, the navy blue colour was faded, but the word “Playgirl,” was still legible. Saunders wondered how it was physically possible for her to have got the T - shirt on herself. Her dull pink knickers were quite noticeable as she continued to trudge down the stairs, each step causing a further tidal wave of wobbly fat to splash around. Saunders eyes were locked unwillingly on the masses of thick, black pubic hair that protruded each side of the panties. He struggled not to retch.

  “What the fuck has he done now?” she asked, her blunt, derisive attitude gave the impression that police were regular visitors to the address.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Ellis, as Saunders retreated out of the door. His weak stomach had let him down many times before.

  “Go on, it’s me what’s got to pay the fucking fines anyway. You might as well tell us.” She continued, while sweeping her greasy black hair behind her ear, revealing a huge purple love bite on her neck.

  As she got closer, Ellis realised, to her astonishment that the woman before her was no more than twenty five years old. The size of her, coupled with the manner with which she spoke, completely contradicted her youthful face. Ellis had initially thought of her as at least twenty years older. She handed the baby, now much calmer, to the mother.

  “I’m sorry, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. My name is Detective Inspector Karen Ellis from Manchester City Police Serious Crimes Unit. I’ve come to ask a few questions in relation to a murder we are investigating.” Ellis was excellent in these situations. Saunders could only stand outside by the door and listen as she handled the interview alone.

  “What murder? It’s nowt to do with me. I’ve never murdered anyone in my life!” stormed the woman. Ellis battled hard to suppress a grin.

  “It’s in relation to the previous occupier of this property, a Mr Eric Bradshaw.” She saw the sudden look of comprehension dawn on the woman’s face.

  “Oh, him. Yeah, he’s been killed hasn’t he? It’s his own fucking fault if you ask me, innit?” Ellis hadn’t expected her to know about the case, she hadn’t estimated her to be much of an aficionado of current affairs.

  “It were on telly last night. I think good on ‘im whatever’s done it. Fucking paedophiles, they deserve it.” Ellis was impressed, even people as morally bankrupt as this woman looked down their noses at child molesters, although Ellis would bet her whole mortgage on this fat cow handing one of those poor kids over to a paedophile for an hour in return for a nice, crisp twenty pound note.

  “Well, we are just following up a routine enquiry regarding Mr Bradshaw’s contact with you or any of the neighbours. I wonder if he had notified you of his new address?” Ellis looked at the wall as she spoke - the sight of this woman coupled with the unearthly smell had started to make her feel a little queasy too.

  “Nah, have we fuck. I don’t know him. Why should he tell us? That specky old bastard over there at thirty six, that Mr Greaves knows him. Why don’t you go and ask him?” Her manner was deplorable. Ellis was becoming increasingly annoyed by the woman. She’d asked enough questions now.

  “Thanks, I will. Can I just take your name for our records, just so that I can say that we’ve spoken to you?” Ellis was desperate to join Saunders in the fresh air.

  “Well. Yeah - if you want. Melanie Turner.”

  Ellis said thanks as she hastily closed the door behind her. She tackled the path down to the broken gate, where Saunders was stood. She fought the urge to scratch her head and arms and shoulders, it felt like things were crawling all over her body. Her shirt had the unmistakable stain of nappy seepage all around the front and side, which Ellis had picked up from comforting the baby.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but that was just too vile. Sorry.” Ellis forgave him. She lifted her phone out of her bag and rang Janet Garner at Social Services, a rare social worker whom she trusted implicitly, to inform her that there was justification for an urgent care order for two young boys, and a new born baby which needed to be implemented immediately. She gave the address before offering her assessment of the situation.

  After she had ended the call, Ellis asked Saunders to open the car so she could grab her jacket.

  “What do you want your jacket for? It’s roasting!” he asked. Ellis pointed to the brown and yellow stains on her white shirt.

  “Eww.” Was all he said as he pressed the central locking button on the key. Once she had put on her jacket and sprayed herself with some perfume from her handbag, Ellis told Saunders about the neighbour across the road, Mr Greaves. She led the way over the street and stepped into a much nicer garden. Saunders knocked at the door and the pair were welcomed into the house immediately. They both looked back at number thirty nine as they entered. Melanie was upstairs, watching them through a cracked window.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea perhaps?” asked the gentle old man as he welcomed them in.

  “Err, yes please. That would be great. Thank you.” Said Saunders. Mr Greaves offered them a seat in the little lounge, which was very neat and tidy, and spotlessly clean. A stark contrast with his neighbours’ home.

  “I’ll just go and make a pot. I’ve anticipated your calling. A terrible business, all this. Terrible.” He shuffled off into the kitchen, muttering to himself.

  “Mr Greaves, please can I use your bathroom a minute?” asked Ellis, desperate to wash her hands and face.

  “Of course,” shouted Mr Greaves from the kitchen. “It’s the first door you come to on the landing.”

  Saunders stood and looked out of the window, his silhouette hidden by the trim, bright net curtains that adorned the window space. After a couple of minutes, Ellis returned and joined him and looked out over the neighbourhood.

  “It’s a tidy little street really. I bet most of these houses have been bought you know, and then the council move filth like that in, who trash the bloody place.” Saunders sounded depressed. Ellis was in agreement.

  “It makes you sick, doesn’t it? I know it’s an old cliché, but it’s amazing that you need a licence to keep a dog, but no questions are asked about keeping children.” Ellis was sick of visiting the kind of family they had just left - inadequate parents, who believed that popping out as many kids as possible would give their benefits a nice boost on a Monday morning.

  Mr Greaves came through carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and some chocolate biscuits arranged perfectly on a small plate.

  “Here we are now. I’ll give it a minute to brew,” he said. His manner demonstrated that old-school respect for the police that the older generations have, despite the fact that these two detectives were probably half his age.

  “I noticed that you called across the way, at Eric’s old place?” he said.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we did. How long have that family lived there?” asked Saunders as he sat on the easy chair, near a huge tropical aquarium, and made himself comfortable. Mr Greaves put a finger up to his lip as he considered the question.

  “It must be about three months now. You wouldn’t think that would you? It’s atrocious the way they have wrecked that lovely house in such a short period of time. I mean, those old washing machines and what have you in the garden were brought with them. I was perfectly speechless as they arrived, all that rubbish they have there, they
must have had it at their old house. Absolutely senseless.” He seemed to be getting himself worked up as he spoke, for which Ellis and Saunders couldn’t blame him. They’d probably feel exactly the same in the circumstances.

  “And those two boys, they are out until all hours, walking the streets, making mischief. I’ve phoned the police a few times, out of concern for their well being more than anything.” He paused while he made the tea. Ellis decided it was time to change the subject.

  “And the property was previously being rented by Mr Bradshaw?” she asked.

  “Eric. Yes, I’m afraid it was. I must tell you I am at a loss for words about this whole business. I mean, I had absolutely no idea that Eric had been, well - you know, in trouble with the law.” Ellis liked this old man - he was genuine, which was a quality that was becoming harder to find these days.

  “Why did Mr Bradshaw move away to Sheffield?” asked Saunders.

  “Well, it actually makes more sense to me now that I am aware of his past, than it did when he told me he was going. He said that he wanted to “start again,” said that all he wanted was to feel safe in his bed at night. I tried to talk him out of going. You see, since my wife died a few years back, we’d become quite good friends Eric and I. Honestly, all of this has come as a terrible shock.” He spoke quietly - the detectives couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  “We were wondering, as a routine line of enquiry, if anybody has called around asking about Mr Bradshaw’s new address?” asked Ellis, feeling quite confident that this was a winner. The question sparked a reaction in Mr Greaves’ friendly old face.

  “Well, funnily enough, I had a visit some weeks ago by a very pretty young woman. It was quite out of the blue, on a Wednesday night as I remember, because I was just about to watch Holby.” Ellis gave Mr Greaves an encouraging smile, trying to conceal the rush of excitement that Mr Greaves’ words were bringing her.