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

by Steven Suttie

  A long, slow minute passed while the journalists made their final preparations to capture what was about to be said. Dixon spent the time whispering into her ear, mainly nonsense but Ellis appreciated that it was merely an impression giving exercise.

  Dixon gave his usual introduction - neglecting to make any comment on the whereabouts of Miller, before handing over to Ellis. Her insides somersaulted, as she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for attending today. This conference has been organised to give you all an update as to where we are up to in tracking down the individual who calls himself “Pop.”

  Ellis felt good, she thought that she had delivered the introduction nicely. That was the part she had been most anxious about. She was authoritative, polite and concise. She continued, the initial worry of messing up was already forgotten. She began to read out the statement that she and Dixon had drafted that morning.

  “The investigation so far has focussed principally on tracking down this gunman, a task that has proved extremely difficult. Before I give you all an update on the progress of this enquiry, I’d like to get one thing straight with all of you. I am not here to comment on Pop’s aims or the political issues that seem to be driving him. I am a human being, I am a mother, so let’s get one thing straight - even I can see that Pop has raised some very emotive points. But with that in mind, I find the manner in which he is drawing attention to his argument deplorable.” She caught sight of herself in one of the TV camera’s monitors and felt some of her nerves return. The room was in silence, the press pack were desperate to hear a new detail to freshen up their reports.

  “Naturally, you understand that Manchester City Police have got to arrest this man at the earliest opportunity, preferably before he murders anybody else. Now I know that most of you, correct me later if I am wrong - but I feel that the majority of you are reporting this case from a slightly supportive angle of bias. I am a realistic woman, and as I said, I can understand some of the arguments - but I am appealing to you all to stop creating such sensation in your reports…” Ellis was about to continue, but the room erupted with what can only be described as heckling sounds.

  The entire floor made murmuring and scoffing noises at what Ellis considered to be a perfectly reasonable request. She sat stony-faced as she stared at the countless cameras, the microphones and grinning people and began feeling suddenly very claustrophobic. She patiently let the bustle die down before continuing.

  “Okay. Thanks anyway,” she said, receiving a subtle disapproving look from Dixon, who sat facing the reporters with both hands clasped together on the shiny wooden table-top. Ellis’s flippant remark received a slight laugh from the group, but her face remained expressionless.

  “The investigation so far…” This quietened them immediately, they didn’t want to miss a word of what they’d come to hear.

  “…has proved extremely difficult. It seems that at almost every murder scene, there was not a single witness. As yet, we do not even have a consistent description of the gunman. However, the voice profile that we have created from the telephone calls to a television channel offer some very interesting lines of enquiry. At this moment in time however, we are still without a prime suspect.” The crowd seemed to greet this news quite cheerfully. It seemed that that was exactly what they wanted to hear.

  “I would like to take this opportunity to appeal to anybody who recognises the voice to please get in touch with us, or your local police station or - if you have any concerns regarding confidentiality, you can of course ring the Crimestoppers line where all calls are treated in the strictest confidence. Please try to remember - this man is dangerous, he is a cold blooded psychopath who uses a very sophisticated weapon and who shoots it quite randomly. While it may be fashionable to hail him as some kind of a hero, try and imagine how you would feel if your son or daughter or mother just happened to walk around the corner while he was firing his indiscriminate shots. If you know that voice, you have a duty to your family to report the details to us. That’s all we have to update you with at the present time. I think that there will be a further press conference when we have more to tell you. There will be no questions today I’m afraid, everything we have was in the statement. Thank you all.”

  That sudden conclusion came as a surprise. The furious noise of dissatisfaction from the press was deafening. They were in boisterous mood. Ellis stood slowly and gracefully before making her way from the small stage where the cameras were all pointing. She walked away from a volley of urgently voiced questions.

  “Where is Miller?”

  “Has he been transferred?”

  “Has he resigned in principal?”

  “Is it true that he supports Pop’s beliefs?”

  Those were the questions that Dixon and Ellis wanted to avoid the most - it was far too risky.

  It looked to everybody who had discussed Miller’s shockingly sudden desertion as though the DCI was with the rest of the country on this one. His popularity had soared thanks to this particular piece of speculation.

  “Why have you not assigned more officers? That too was a difficult one. Dixon had tried to give Ellis a “spin” for that question earlier on when they were planning the statement, but Ellis had flatly refused to answer it. If that one was to be answered, then Dixon was doing it. She had been very firm on that.

  Other, less tricky questions were being thrown at the back of her head, as she pushed through the heavy double doors at the rear of the conference room. She let go of the door and let it swing back, shutting out the noise completely. Ellis smiled as she walked along the corridor. She was pleased with herself, she had done much better than she imagined she would. She headed up to her office in an unshakeable good mood. The case was soon to wind down with an arrest, and nobody who could block the move knew anything about it.

  Ellis felt on top of the world.

  *****

  In London, at Sky News headquarters, the day had begun in the current style, with Pop’s crusade dominating the output. Despite the fact that Pop hadn’t been in contact, nor had he undertaken any other killings for five days, Jerry Phillips knew that this was a story that was not going away.

  Pop had, to his credit opened a huge can of worms, since bursting into the nation’s consciousness just one week ago. The worms were not going back in the can any time soon. It was going nowhere. The debate was well and truly open, discussion was not losing any momentum whatsoever, and other nuggets of interest such as the demonstrations that were being organised for the coming Saturday, were keeping the story alive.

  This morning’s Sky News interactive poll had been launched at 6:20am. The vote took place everyday, giving viewers the opportunity to vote in favour or against the day’s major topic through their television remote controls. It was an invaluable way to gauge public feeling, not merely on any particular issue in question, but also in judging the editorial stance that should be used in reports.

  Jerry had set the question; “should convicted paedophiles spend the rest of their lives in prison?” Viewers simply had to press the corresponding button to vote “yes” or “no.” By the first update of the day’s vote at 9.15 a.m the yes’s outweighed the no’s by a staggering 92%. Voting rates were average, about three thousand viewers had voted by the time of this first update. By the end of the day though, an unprecedented four hundred thousand votes would be cast, as the topic of paedophiles was thrust into the spotlight once again.

  More interestingly though, it had nothing at all to do with Pop this time.

  Chapter Twenty One

  West Yorkshire Police HQ Conference Hall

  A major news story broke at eleven minutes past five. By some poetic quirk of fate, this story was to be of paramount interest not merely because of the subject matter, but also the timing.

  Every major broadcaster covered the breaking news, the invitations to the press conference had only been sent out at 3pm, but the location of the conference gave a clue that
this was to be an announcement of major interest. The conference was shown live on Sky, BBC News, CNN and Euronews. It was then replayed in it’s entirety as the lead story on all of the national tea-time news programmes on terrestrial TV.

  The location was Wakefield, Headquarters of the West Yorkshire Police. The news that was being announced had seemed a long time in coming. It was Detective Superintendent Edmondson who read out the statement, his face mildly and respectfully showing the elation and relief that he and his officers were feeling. He sat against the dark blue back-drop of the constabulary’s emblem, with the tag line “Working For A Safer West Yorkshire” blazing in yellow letters above his head. An intense hush filled the room as he began to read out his brief statement.

  “In the early hours of yesterday morning, my officers in Keighley arrested a man in connection with the murder of Tim MacDonald. The man we are holding is thirty six year old Mark Palmer, who is from the Bingley area. He will appear at Wakefield Magistrates court tomorrow morning, charged with the abduction, rape, unlawful imprisonment and murder of Tim MacDonald, whose body was discovered on February the tenth at a picnic site in Keighley.” The assembled journalists, TV reporters and radio staff couldn’t hide their relief and delight that this statement had brought.

  Despite their continued support since Tim’s tiny body had been found, the lack of progress in catching the killer had been frustratingly disconcerting. It was a huge respite to hear this statement, it had been far too long in coming.

  “Naturally, we are extremely relieved to have finally caught up with this person after four long months of intensive investigation. I would, on behalf of West Yorkshire Police like to thank everybody who has been so helpful during the course of this enquiry, especially the press who have kept the case so close to people’s hearts. Thank you.”

  This was the news that it had seemed for a while, the last month or so particularly - would not be announced. It was pleasing to everybody to learn that the alleged perpetrator of Britain’s most odious crime in recent times was finally off the streets and safely behind bars. It was a huge relief to the police, who had received some severe criticism for the lack of progress. It was also of great relief to everybody in the country whose hands had been raised to their mouths in measured disbelief when the news of this crime was announced.

  But most relieved were the people from the quiet town of Keighley, who had not let their children out of their sight for the past four months. It seemed that life could finally return to normal. The past month had been the strangest of times in Keighley, when practically every single day had brought fantastic weather. Despite the endless days of sun-drenching, water-fights and paddling pool weather, Keighley had remained a ghost town. Children were simply not seen in the area, apart from when they were being chaperoned to and from school. A perfectly understandable fear had gripped the parents, resulting in them keeping their own children under house-arrest.

  This news that had been announced was not received by the town’s children as it was being received by their parents. As their mums and dads sat gripped by the statement, desperately awaiting further detail, the kids put down their play-station joypads, their iPads and laptops, their thrice read comic books, and all the other bits and bats that had seen them through this miserable period of curfew, and ran out into the sun-kissed streets almost simultaneously.

  They excitedly called for friends, raced to the shops to spend their swellings of pocket money, and generally thanked the heavens that their confinement had finally ended. Many parents gathered at the doorsteps and watched as their kids bounced around like lunatics, their excitement too fierce to conceal. The feeling of jubilation was obvious wherever you stood, such feelings of togetherness had not been seen in the area since the street parties in celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee in the 1970’s and the royal weddings of the 1980’s.

  Sky News was showing live footage of this jubilant reaction. Their reporter was interviewing various parents, who were out in the streets watching the kids as they tried to cram four months of playing out into a few small hours before bedtime. The cameraman shot images of a playing field which was hosting a hastily organised football match. The reporter joked with the presenter back in the studio at the images of forty or fifty young kids, from the ages of six to fifteen, as they ran around manically chasing the ball, not at all dispirited by the fact that it could only possibly be in their possession for a few seconds, before the swarm of players came running and scrumming around the player nearest the ball, hoofing it elsewhere on the field.

  Again, for all the wrong reasons, Britain was being treated to some timeless television images. Despite smiling at the scenes in Keighley, many people sat watching, feeling an anger rise within them. People asked their wives, their husbands, friends and neighbours “Why should these kids be out celebrating the fact that they can play outside? That they no longer have to worry about being murdered because the police have caught the man who killed one of their friends?”

  Quite by accident, by sheer timing more than anything, these images helped to further cement the feelings of every single one of Pop’s supporters - but more interestingly, they managed to pull a lot of the neutrals down off the fence at the same time.

  *****

  Ellis caught the story when she got home, just after six. She’d sat watching the output on Sky, chatting to Bob and playing with James. She was just as pleased to hear the news as everybody else, though a sense of dread came with it. She realised that on a professional note, this was possibly the worst news imaginable in the current climate.

  She was sitting, transfixed by the blissful scenes of the kids playing when her mobile rang. It was Saunders, still working. She’d not seen him since the previous day, when he’d started his investigations into George Dawson.

  “Hi Guv. I’ve got a report for you.” He sounded pleased.

  “You mean on George Dawson?”

  “Everything. I think your fat friend Melanie has just given you the best arrest you’ll ever make.” He laughed.

  “Interesting stuff?” she asked, with little enthusiasm. Ellis didn’t really want to know right now. She wanted to chill out. She just wanted to sit with her husband and her baby and not think about Pop. Just for an hour or so. Saunders knew that tone, he was tempted to say “oh, I’ll fill you in tomorrow” or “Nothing that can’t wait.” But instead, he told Ellis the truth.

  “It’s definitely him. There’s reason after reason to suspect him. Drives a black VW Passat, physical profile spot on, age fits with Miller’s suggestion, but the most interesting fact that I’ve uncovered…”

  “Go on,”

  “His daughter committed suicide.”

  Pop’s Story

  PART 1

  The neat suburban avenue where George and Alison Dawson bought their family home in 1989 still looks as well kept and respectable now, as it had then. Shiny cars, perfectly mown lawns and colourful flower beds stood proudly before each of the immaculate detached houses. First impressions fed the image of an inviting neighbourhood.

  The house had cost the young couple eighty thousand pounds, a little more than they could afford, but the country was in the middle of a housing boom, so for a house of that standard - it really was a bargain.

  The Dawsons had been extremely lucky, they’d settled in a neighbourhood of decent people that they could never imagine describing merely as neighbours. The people of Avenham Close were the couple’s friends.

  Memories of that windy, April Saturday morning when he and his bride looked around the house for the first time always made him smile. They had arrived at the house about half an hour before the estate agent’s appointment time, partly because of their unfamiliarity with the area, but mostly through excitement. They didn’t want to be late for their first viewing of a property.

  George parked the car just outside and asked Alison what she thought. His beaming, beautiful young bride had fallen in love with the place instantly, she could hardly contain her
excitement as she stared out of the car window in admiration. George laughed, surprised at her instantaneous reaction. He tried to calm her down, explaining that it was the inside that mattered most, but he had to concede that he too had fallen for the place just as quickly.

  They sat for about five minutes, just staring down the drive, fixing their eyes on the yellow paintwork around the windows, the beautiful garden, the flawlessly finished tarmac. They gazed at the perfect lines of brickwork, the perfect drainpipe. It even had a perfect letterbox on the marbled glass front door, which was also painted in a bright, vivid yellow.

  Alison shattered the tranquil moment as she flung the Chevette door open, said “come on” and skipped off down the drive to the porch. George sat in the car, chuckling as Alison’s brown haired perm was being thrown around by the wind. She held her hands to the side of her face and pressed her nose against the bay window, trying without success to peer in beyond the crisp white net curtains which were obscuring her view of the lounge. She looked back at her husband and signalled excitedly at him to join her.

  George got out of the car and began strolling down the drive when he was intercepted by a man who had suddenly appeared on the lawn of the next house. The man looked smart, a little older than George’s twenty-seven years, but young none the less. He was quite a short man, which pleased George who himself stood no taller than five feet four inches. The neighbour introduced himself as Peter Sykes. George introduced himself and then Alison, unaware that this brief encounter amid a biting wind and an intolerable excitement for the arrival of the estate agent would become the start of a solid twenty-five year friendship.

  It was Peter’s friendly advice that morning which George often considered was one of the main ingredients for the couple’s happiest days. Peter put it simply, “I’ve been out here putting other people off if they didn’t look right. I’ve even been mowing the lawn in my underpants. I can’t carry on doing that forever. You two have to buy that house, it’ll be the best thing you ever did.”