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

by Steven Suttie

  Pop’s apparent disappearance had now become the major point of discussion.

  He had been out of the public arena now for a longer period than he had been in it. The air of expectancy that he’d left the nation wallowing in, had cleared days ago. Almost a week had passed since the outrageous activities that Pop indulged himself in last Thursday.

  Conspiracy theorists in pubs, and corner shops, and canteens the length of the land were having a busy old time concocting half plausible plots to explain Pop’s disappearance. Some were credible, if you did conspiracy theories. Some however were just plain ridiculous, completely made up without any research into the facts.

  “He has been arrested, they just don’t want anybody to know because he could become a martyr or summat.”

  “The murders are still happening. They are covering it up.”

  “The guy has been brainwashed to do it. They will just un-brainwash him now. He’ll never face charges.”

  “He’s killed himself. They just haven’t found the body yet.” Those were just a handful of the stories that had been going around since the start of the week.

  Most of the theories were dispelled however, at about 2.40pm. The mystery of his absence was explained apologetically. The reason was quite astonishing to hear. Pop rang Sky News, again his conversation took place with Sue Bentley, who in the past week had become instantly recognisable as the most famous newscaster in the UK, if not the entire world, thanks to the interest in and constant replaying of Pop’s calls.

  The call, as each time before, was patched through instantly. The excitement could not be hidden, that same energetic buzz was still present as Sue announced the call. “Well, if I can stop you there,” she said to one of the charity workers that she had been interviewing in Manchester about the arrangements for this Saturday’s marches, “I am being told that Pop is actually on the line, So I will join him straight away. Hello Pop, you are live on Sky News.” Her introduction was far more relaxed than any of her previous ones had been, possibly an indication of how comfortable she had become talking to the person who had initially spooked her.

  “Aw Sue, thanks so much. Listen, I can’t apologise enough for not getting in touch for so long. My phone was broke, I had to have it repaired.” Sue, along with most of the studio-floor staff, was struggling to suppress a grin. This surely had to be one of the most bizarre statements that any serial killer had ever publicly made. Sue continued, employing a technique learnt long ago to stop her from laughing. She nipped the skin between her thumb and forefinger with her long fingernails as she asked the next question. She stared straight into the camera, her eyes locked onto the lens, her mind focusing on her job. She was acutely aware of the magnitude of this moment. She could not slip up.

  “There has been a lot of speculation regarding your sudden lack of contact, there’s even been talk of your suicide. Are you aware of how much public interest you have attracted?” She pulled it off. Where people were sat at home laughing into their TV sets, Sue had managed to keep control.

  “Yes, I am. I’m extremely grateful for the affection that people have shown towards me. The reason I’m calling is to offer my sincere condolences to the families of those that were killed yesterday in Wakefield. I am deeply saddened by what I saw, as I know the rest of the British public were. It should never have happened.”

  Sue was nodding sombrely at Pop’s testimony.

  “But those people who died yesterday did so in support of what we are trying to achieve. They lost their lives as they stood to show this government, and anybody who will listen, that evil, deviant scum like Mark Palmer should not be treated as human. They stood there to demonstrate their disgust at having to live in the same world as the man who did that to little Tim. This shouldn’t be happening Sue.”

  Sue Bentley was unsure how to continue this line, bearing in mind that her legal obligation not to discuss any ongoing criminal proceedings on a case which was yet to go to trial. It didn’t matter anyway, Pop changed the subject swiftly.

  “Furthermore, I wish to offer my sincerest apologies for the death of Eric Wallace in Preston. I cannot come to terms with these tragic consequences that have occurred in the wake of this campaign. I would like to urge everybody to calm down, and leave the killing to me. I invest a lot of time and effort in tracking down the child molesters that I kill, for the precise reason that I wouldn’t want to make any mistakes. I’m afraid that that is exactly what Mr Wallace’s death was, a mistake, made by somebody that I can only describe as deplorable.” Pop sounded utterly genuine, you could tell that his statement was not some kind of PR exercise. It came from the heart.

  “Pop, we have to ask you what you make of the government’s failure to comment on any of your points so far. Why do you think that they are ignoring what is being described as the biggest social uprising in living memory?” Sue heard a chuckle that contained no amusement. Pop was scoffing, but she was unsure whether it was at her, or the government. A silence hung for slightly longer than was comfortable for Sue Bentley. She was about to prompt her interviewee when he suddenly spoke.

  “My message to the government is unaltered. I will continue to murder paedophiles until I am stopped. Whether that is tomorrow or in thirty years, I really don’t care. It is of no consequence to me whether the government hate me or back me, the conclusion remains the same. The policy for rehabilitating sex offenders is utterly futile, parents of abused victims know this only too well. Take for instance the case of the paedo who was jailed for molesting his next door neighbour’s child. When he was released from prison, he was sent back to live there, next door to his victim. That case alone highlights the contempt that the government has for the public on this matter. I suspect the reason that the government has not taken time to comment on my campaign is purely and simply because they don’t know what to say. If they commit themselves to the debate, they will be pressed relentlessly on a subject that they have given no attention at all. Alternatively, if they said something that their voters weren’t keen on, that wouldn’t be favourable for them at this moment in time either, with an election around the corner.”

  Sue was listening intently, she was captivated by his response.

  “Okay, so you basically feel that the government is at this moment in time working on a policy that will suit both yourself and the rest of the population?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Let’s see how these marches go at the weekend. I’m sure you’ll find the politicians will all want to talk glass-eyes to sleep on the subject after that. It doesn’t take a genius to see how fragile the situation is to all of the political parties, it’s the General Election in a couple of months, they’re going to play it just right. In the meantime, we can sit back and watch them scratching their heads, trying to come up with a solution to the mess we are in right now.”

  Pop felt that he was making good points, his calm, friendly-sounding voice hinted a new found confidence in these interviews.

  “And what about you? Are you going to wait for these announcements that you are predicting with a quiet satisfaction that, essentially, it is your campaign that has created this situation?”

  Despite the traditional delay on his phone, Pop was quick in his response.

  “By no means, my campaign is quite different. I want to see radical changes, I want to see life imprisonment for any man or woman who has the incurable condition of paedophilia. I want asylums built to house them. I will hopefully see the day when this comes about, but by no means am I about to sit around and wait for the spin-doctors to concoct some amazing new answer. I am going to kill as many of them as I can before I’m caught. That has always been my aim.”

  Sue was equally as quick in her response to Pop’s defiant stance.

  “But surely, you must feel some satisfaction. I’m sure that most people would agree that you should stop the murders now that you have gained such massive support from the British public. Do you not feel that you have achieved what you originally set o
ut to do?” Sue was almost insistent.

  “I’ve already said, I set out to kill paedophiles. That’s what I have given up my life for. I’ve got a list of victims on me now, eight names in all, people who have done monstrous things to children, knowing all too well that it is wrong, that they are damaging the little kids they abuse, but knowing that are inadequate people and they can’t stop themselves. In my next session, I am going to kill two women, just to raise awareness that these sicko’s are everywhere, it’s not just bespectacled middle aged men who wear baseball caps. These monsters come in all guises. I’m going after them Sue, and to hell with the consequences. Thanks for your time.” With that came the familiar click and then the empty sound of a broken line.

  Sue was left looking into her camera with an unmistakable expression of frustration. With his trademark abrupt farewell, the line had gone dead. This was becoming farcical, she thought as she tried to back-peddle over the interview’s main points amid the swooshing sounds of the “Breaking News” banners being presented onto the screen.

  *****

  It took just thirty minutes for news of Pop’s first victim in almost a week to come to light, and to get the usual excitable coverage. The address was Pickford Lane in Denton. The victim, as promised was a woman, forty-four year old Sharon Johnson, who had served a prison term for aiding in the rape of a nine year old girl and a seven year old boy.

  Her nine-year-old girl. Her seven-year-old boy. Her children. Raped and beaten with her help, by her boyfriend.

  The cordoned-off scene quickly resembled a film set, the presence of so many film crews, reporters and police had the usual influx of public spectators, swarming crowds of excitable, nosey, shocked neighbours and passers-by who wanted to touch the POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS tape, just to convince themselves that all this was really going off on their street.

  The incident had been observed by a lady who lived across the road on the terraced, red brick street, she had seen everything from behind her net curtains. The gunman had knocked on the door with a very loud knock, engaged Sharon in conversation while showing her a piece of paper. He had then lifted a small hand gun out of his jacket pocket and shot her at point blank range under the chin. The gun had made no sound, but the witness saw the vestibule suddenly turn red, as the back of her neighbour’s head exploded all over the modern wallpaper. As her body landed with a heavy flop, he pumped another bullet into her face, before kicking the corpse away from the door and casually pulling it shut, concealing the gruesome picture. He strolled off casually up the road, hands in pockets. The lady across the road hadn’t seen his face clearly, but she noticed that he was quite small.

  No more than forty minutes after closing the door on Sharon, he had struck again, in Dukinfield this time, about ten minutes drive away from Denton.

  He used the same tactic for the murder of fifty nine year old Frank Dutton, a lorry driver from Swansea, who had lived all over the UK and had been in and out of work all his life, between jail terms for molesting young girls. Of the crimes that he had been punished for, his record stated that he was a prolific offender.

  Between 1981 and 2008, the man had served eight separate sentences, each one for similar crimes. It could be argued that Pop had chosen this target very carefully, an excellent opportunity to highlight the very flaws that he had stood to counter. It was true, there weren’t too many Frank Dutton’s around, but the very fact that there was ever one, a man so clearly beyond rehabilitation, yet released from custody time and again to damage even more innocent children with his depraved, unnatural crimes, would surprise the entire country in the following day’s press.

  Pop had followed the same formula, knocking at the victim’s door. As Frank Dutton had been working all night, he had to knock for quite a long time until the door eventually opened. When it did, Pop simply asked;

  “Hi, Frank isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, his big fat belly dominated the doorway as he stood wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  “I’m Pop.” He lifted the gun from his pocket with the speed and assurance of a hit-man, and shot Frank Dutton in the face, the cranium and neck. The point blank blasts left little of target value so he completed the last few of his eight shots in the man’s chest.

  Pop stood over the scene for a moment, taking in the picture, before turning and walking off casually towards the town hall where he had parked his car.

  During the five minute stroll away from the crime scene along King Street - three police patrol cars and an ambulance passed him at great speed with their sirens blaring. He couldn’t help but laugh. He looked up to the skies as he reached the car park and the magnificent town hall. He thought he’d heard a helicopter overhead, but he couldn’t see anything.

  Another panda car raced up the road as he got into his car. Pop started the engine and glanced over to his map book on the passenger seat. He traced his finger along the roads that had been highlighted in luminous yellow marker. His finger stopped as he reached the sticker that read “3.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  3.30 p.m.

  Pickford Lane, Denton

  Ellis was at the scene of Sharon Johnson’s execution within twenty minutes of the murder being reported. She arrived at the address after Sky News, the BBC and the Manchester Evening News, much to her mystification.

  “How the hell do they do it?” asked Saunders, as he pulled the car onto the pavement some fifty yards behind the crowd. Ellis unclipped the seatbelt and pulled herself out of the passenger seat.

  “I reckon Granada bloody Reports are phoned before us,” she muttered, as she slammed the door shut. She looked at the familiar looking scene before her, crowds of excited onlookers gathering around flapping constables, looking entirely unsure of what they should to be doing. The road was blocked at both ends, mainly by police vehicles.

  The house had been cordoned off by the first attending officers, but the line was literally eight feet from the front door which was slightly ajar, revealing a hint of the horror that lay behind, to the morbid fascination of everybody stood close enough to see. Those who couldn’t see past the obstruction of people’s heads could certainly smell something. A sweet, offensive and unexplainable scent, one that they couldn’t possibly have recognised as congealing blood and brain matter in the warm afternoon air.

  “Right then. Let’s take a peek.” Ellis led the way through the gormless looking chatterboxes, often having to inform particular individuals of her occupation as they jostled her and Saunders. Some of them were taking umbrage at the presence of these newcomers who seemed to be forcing their way through for a better view.

  “Fucking ghouls,” said Saunders in the hope of being heard. They eventually reached the cordon tape. Ellis flashed her warrant card at one of the overwhelmed constables, who was standing behind the line.

  “Acting DCI Ellis, this is DS Saunders. Who has been in charge here?” she asked of the young rookie. He pointed to the front door, where a sergeant and a constable were discussing something, a look of stunned shock and adrenalin was etched on their faces.

  “Sergeant Knowles, Ma’am,” he said, as she was passing him, following the direction of his finger.

  Ellis introduced herself and her DS to the Sergeant. “Can we move these people back, take the cordon back at least twenty five yards?” she asked. The sergeant scowled, obviously feeling undermined by Ellis in front of the constable he was talking to. He shouted Ellis’s request to the officers who were guarding the cordon, who in turn began the arduous task of moving the gathered crowd back. Ellis, Saunders and the Sergeant looked round suddenly as they heard a commotion in the group.

  “Move out of the way, you imbeciles.” They heard somebody shout, the voice was familiar. They looked into the mass of heads and saw Worthington, with Chapman close behind, trying impatiently to make their way through, with the same amount of difficulty that Ellis and Saunders had experienced. Just as they reached their fellow detectives, Ellis’s m
obile rang.

  Saunders, Worthington and Chapman watched her face as she listened to the details that were being fed down the phone. The look of anger was irrefutable as she silently listened. She opened her mouth a couple of times as if to speak, but no words came out.

  “Okay, thank you Sir.” She pulled the phone from her ear. She shot an icy look at the handset as she pressed the end call button. She seemed to stare at it for an age, before slowly lifting her head to her colleagues, who were wondering what was wrong. She turned away from the Sergeant who had initially taken offence at her presence. Her voice was deliberate in conveying the anger that she felt.

  “Come on, we’re going back to base,” she said. All three of them looked at her as though she had gone mad. A long, uncomfortable moment passed, while she considered what she had just heard and how to pass the news on.

  “We’re leaving all murder scene investigations to divisional CID from now on. We just have to assemble the information that they gather.”

  The SCIU detectives all looked stunned. Another silence passed.

  “Why?” said Worthington, asking the most obvious question. Ellis looked hard at him, then the others.

  “There’s just been another one, over in Dukinfield. Dixon has been told to call us off and leave the investigations to divisional, said that we can’t cope. I think they are expecting a load more today. Pop has been onto Sky, reckons he’s doing eight.”

  “So Ashton are going to investigate this, and the one in Dukinfield?” asked Saunders. Ellis nodded, acknowledging the point he was making. It meant that Ashton CID would be left with two murder scenes, and the elite “Serious Crimes Investigation Unit”, the team that had been on this case from the very beginning with none. It didn’t stack up.

  “So, what - we just go back to HQ and sit and wait for all the various CID departments to tell us what they know?” asked Chapman, knowing that this line of questioning to his superior was becoming grating, but all the same, completely nonplussed as to what exactly the situation was. Ellis nodded.