George led her into the house. His mind had been set similarly. He had imagined arriving home with Alison telling him that Sarah was inside, having a cup of hot chocolate.
They were crushed.
The night passed unimaginably slowly. Each hour seemed to drag with a deliberate slowness. They felt completely useless, the imposing silence was menacing - its very existence seemed to augment their desperation. The silence and the darkness bolstered the fact that there was nothing they could do.
At 8 o’clock on the dot, George got into the car. Long, slow hours had passed when all he could think of was doing just that. He needed to be in the car, doing something worthwhile. Something useful. There was sufficient light now, he could drive round and find her.
The rush hour drivers were not impressed with George’s fifteen miles per hour driving, car horns were blaring behind him as the tears ran freely from his eyes. He’d given up on wiping them away, they just kept flowing. He just wanted to ask every horn blower to help him.
After an hour or so of retracing the trips he had made the previous night, plus visiting a few other places that he was aware his daughter knew, George finally wound up at Moses Gate Country Park.
He parked the car up and decided to walk around the lake. He was halfway round when he spotted her.
She was hanging from a tree near to the footpath.
“Oh no. Aw no.”
He didn’t run. He felt no desire to race to the tree and untangle his little girl from the strap of her school bag. It was plainly obvious that she was dead. He just continued to walk, his gaze locked on the most horrifying sight that he could ever possibly imagine.
He didn’t touch the body. He sat down beneath her dangling legs and stared out aimlessly at the brown murky water before him. Two ducks floated by as though everything was normal. He picked up a handful of pebbles and stones from the gravel path, and began absent-mindedly throwing them one at a time into the water. He wanted the ducks to go away now.
He checked his waist. He was wearing his belt. He wrestled with his mind whether he should get up there next to his angel. That’s all he wanted to do.
He couldn’t. He really couldn’t.
He had to pass this on. He had to go and tell his beloved Alison where their baby was. He’d have to tell her that Sarah wasn’t coming home again. He’d have to tell her what he had discovered.
He couldn’t just kill himself, even though that’s all he wanted now. As he sat there and continued to throw his gravel into the lake, refusing to look behind him. He wished to God that he could.
Eventually, George Dawson stood. He had no concept of time. He could have been sitting there for five hours, it might have been five minutes.
He turned slowly. His eyes met the image once more. A cry left his lips as he raised his hands to his eyes. He couldn’t look at her. Not like this. He inched forward and pouted his lips, connecting them with Sarah’s cold, blue knee. He gave her his last kiss, unable to remove the hands from his eyes. He turned and walked away.
The intense burst of tears that came rushing from his eyes hurt him. He felt completely numb everywhere, except for this intense, hot pain in his eyes. It felt like hot ashes had blown directly into them. He took a few more steps before he threw himself onto the ground, unable, unwilling to take another stride. Refusing to step one foot closer to Alison. Or Lisa.
This had been the unspoken worst-case scenario that both George and Alison had fought against imagining throughout the long, endless night.
Sarah might be dead.
What if she’s dead.
She’s dead.
It had crossed both of their minds, privately, more than once. In fact all through that long, scary, desperate night.
Neither had dared to speak of the thoughts.
But this? No. This hadn’t crossed George’s mind at all.
George was discovered by a dog walker just before 10 am. The man had seen the body on the ground from the other side of the lake, and had jogged around fearing the worst. He prodded George who just lay sobbing. He hadn’t noticed Sarah, such was his interest in the shape that lay across the footpath.
It was as he bent down on one knee to try and decipher George’s words that the full, horrific picture became clear. The man ran with everything that he had, back around the lake and up the sloping hill to the car park.
The police arrived literally within minutes. An ambulance came to take George away, it was obvious that he was in need of psychiatric help.
Alison was at her wits’ end when she saw the police car pull onto the avenue. Margaret was with her, she’d come straight back from dropping Lisa at school, trying without success to give her friend and neighbour some support. They had been standing at the window for a good half an hour, desperate for the sight of George’s car. George’s car with Sarah sat inside it.
They both knew. They could tell by the way the police car drove so slowly. The way it was parked. The way the officers got out. They knew from the manner with which the two policemen carried themselves down the driveway. Margaret hugged her friend, who was shaking violently. As Margaret let go of her to the chime of the doorbell, Alison ran into the kitchen and threw up onto the floor, not managing to reach the sink.
Margaret let the two sombre faced policemen in. They went into the living room as Margaret called out for Alison. There was no reply. She went through to the kitchen and found her friend in a heap on the floor, vomit surrounded Alison’s collapsed body. Margaret was distracted by the ferocity of Alison’s violently shaking body.
“I - don’t - want - them - here - send - them - away” she managed to say, between giant sobs. Margaret broke down too. It was just too much to take. It was quite clear that this news they were about to hear would be devastating.
Alison was not prepared to hear it. Any of it.
Margaret broke off from cuddling Alison as the two officers appeared in the kitchen doorway. Margaret was scared of them. Scared of what they were going to say. She didn’t feel that she had the strength to hear what needed to be said. She couldn’t possibly imagine what Alison might be feeling.
Alison didn’t have to hear it. Not ever. She was not in a fit state for anything. Alison Dawson was sectioned under the mental health act, after standing up and running at the back door with all of her might, smashing straight through the glass. She then pulled her head, which was spurting with blood, out of the broken pane and ran, screaming at the policemen, her sharp fingernails extended. Alison was feral, she was ready to inflict some serious pain on the officers. Anything to prevent hearing their words.
Alison succeeded. She never got to hear the devastating news. She knew it, of course, in her heart.
But she never heard the story. Alison never discovered what had happened. She never had the opportunity to punish herself over the details.
George had been strangely glad when she’d died three weeks later. Relieved, in a peaceful kind of way. He felt thankful, regardless of the loss he was suffering, the pain he was experiencing, he was glad that Alison would not have to suffer this, then try and rebuild her life.
Alison had woken in the hospital, where she had spent her time drugged, and somehow slipped out of the ward and headed out of the complex. She jumped from the hospital car park roof and died instantly.
George was glad that the vacant faced woman at the hospital was gone, she wasn’t the girl he married. The girl he had always treasured and adored. The girl that he would never ever have to tell that her treasured eleven-year-old daughter had hung herself from a tree because a paedophile school assistant had repeatedly abused her and raped her, and had forced her to perform depraved acts on him. He’d never have to explain hat Sarah couldn’t tell them because he promised to kill her Mum and Pop if she ever told anybody.
Through all the shock, grief, anguish. The desperation and helplessness, George had felt burdened that one day, he might have to tell her that the bastard that did that killed himself just after. He would
never have to tell her that the whingeing cunt left a note, saying that he couldn’t go to prison, he couldn’t face it again. George was thankful that he had been spared telling her that. Telling her that the depraved demon had left a suicide note that went on for three, self-indulgent pages about how life had been unfair. George could never express his anger that the word “sorry” had not appeared in the evil, inadequate cunt’s note once.
He was glad that Alison died, because he knew that she would never have to bear any of the crippling pain that he was suffering.
She would never have to read the heart-wrenching suicide note that had been written so neatly by their promising young girl.
Chapter Twenty Six
Thursday 25th May
Walter Greenwood Court, Salford
Salford Precinct looked quite photogenic under this vivid sunset. The sky was a mixture of powdery pinks, oranges, greys and pastel blues, framed by a deepening, darkening lilac which signalled the passing of another hot, balmy day in the city of Manchester.
The tall, dark imposing structures that made up the huge blocks of flats looked solid, modern and sombre against the beauty of the backdrop. The scene would make a great silhouette photograph, recognisable only to the people of Salford. Casual viewers would be forgiven for thinking it was New York or Chicago. Anywhere but Salford Precinct.
Much had been made locally of the sudden burst of light from Walter Greenwood Court. The place stood out like a sore thumb. The lights from every flat shone out into the dusky sky, and down onto the streets below, after a dark and lonely absence of a year or maybe longer. This sudden activity had attracted significant interest, a member of the Precinct Resident’s Association had already contacted Anita Robertson, the area’s Housing Manager. She was at a loss as to what to say. She wanted absolutely no part in the whole sordid affair, not even to answer questions from curious residents. She directed the call to Edwards, wondering whether it would be re-directed back to her.
If it had been, she wouldn’t have known what to do. With a mischievous defiance, she imagined herself answering the query with her typical honesty. “Oh, Walter Greenwood. Of course, we have postponed the demolition because we are using the block to house three hundred convicted paedos.”
That couldn’t possibly happen. Anita prayed that this information didn’t leak out, particularly in light of the recent demonstrations of hatred. This was a ticking time bomb, and Anita could only hope that it remained a secret. Salford has its fair share of criminals, that was the truth. But Anita knew only too well that the revelation that three hundred paedophiles were living in one of the blocks of flats would provoke a fierce reaction, and she would bet money on the angriest response coming from the criminal underworld. Crime was a massively diverse business. The crime of raping a child may be shocking to your average law-abiding citizen. That did not mean that gangsters, drug-dealers or armed-robbers found it any less disturbing.
No, this had to remain a secret.
Somebody must have uttered a word, though.
Somebody who knew the details must have had a loose tongue.
As the sun continued its descent and the sky gradually began to turn black, a small, barely visible shadow was lurking around the shrubbery outside the eight-foot steel spiked fence, the bars of which the shadowy figure had just silently pushed apart with a car-jack.
The block, as all of the others, had CCTV cameras on each corner that constantly revolved around, giving the security guard inside a constant visual feed as to what was happening immediately outside the block. By studying the camera’s patterns for a few minutes, it would be quite obvious that once a minute, each corner of the block had a blind spot for almost ten seconds.
It was this observation that inspired the crouching figure to step through the newly created gap in the fence, and sprint from the shadowy hiding place, towards the block, pausing to rest beneath the nearest camera.
The figure stood perfectly motionless for the next fifty seconds, watching the smooth, slow revolution of the surveillance camera overhead. As soon as its swooping lens had moved towards its furthest reach, the figure ran again, this time towards the shelter of a doorway that was set back into the building. Just as the camera arrived back at the spot, the shadow slipped into the urine stinking gap. He removed the heavy back-pack bag from his shoulders and pulled out a pair of heavy-duty bolt croppers, along with a crow bar.
The first job was to break the chain that had been fastened around the doors handle. The chain offered little resistance to the powerful jaws of the bolt cutters. Slowly, he then began wrenching at the centre double doors. With a fairly audible crunch, the dilapidated lock gave way under pressure from the crow bar. The door was pulled open slowly creating a loud and unmistakable squeak. The figure disappeared inside and pulled the door shut behind him.
Moving slowly and carefully with the aid of his torchlight, he made his way through the boiler room and up the steel steps into the maintenance rooms above. From this room he had access to the lift shaft. He made his way across to the shaft and listened for the lift. It was stationary. He needed to know which floor it was stopped at. He sat in the dark and waited for somebody to try to use it.
Eventually, with a clunk and a whine, the mechanical noise of the motor kicked in, and then the metallic sound of its steel cables hoisting the metal box could be heard. Somebody must have pressed for it. He hadn’t heard the doors open, so there couldn’t be anybody inside. He hit the emergency stop button. This was the master control switch.
Immediately, the power to both lifts ceased completely with a sharp, grinding, halting sound that echoed through the shaft. The first part of the trespasser’s plan was complete.
He stepped quickly, moving back down to the boiler room where he began searching for some kind of receptacle. In the darkness, via the strong white beam of his torch, he eventually found a large five-gallon container. He moved stealthily back up to the maintenance area and began collecting various bits and pieces, some old rags, a couple of old cardboard boxes and a huge wedge of ancient newspapers. He stacked the bits and pieces as best he could into the largest box.
He knelt down beside an old lawnmower that had been dumped with the rest of the block’s maintenance tools. He undid the fuel cap and stuck his nose over the tank, recoiling as the fumes stung his nostrils. He shot the torch beam round, scanning the various shelves and units. He found what he had been looking for, a coiled up hosepipe was leaning against an uninstalled bath-tub. Taking his knife out of his jacket, he sliced a length of hosepipe and returned to the lawnmower. Placing one end of the pipe into the lawnmower’s petrol tank and the other in his mouth, he began sucking. After a couple of seconds his mouth was filled with petrol, which made him spit furiously. While trying not to vomit, he carefully put the flowing end of pipe into the container. He shone the torch at the clear plastic and watched as the petrol siphoned out of the mower. Once the lawnmower was drained, he picked up the container, the cardboard boxes that were filled with rags and headed for the door that would bring him out on the first floor of the block.
He stuck his head out cautiously, checking that the coast was clear. There was nobody around. He was immediately struck by an overwhelmingly musty, festering smell as he stepped out onto the first floor landing. It smelled as though the building was rotting from the inside out. He walked casually around the piles of junk that had been discarded from each flat, to the end of the corridor where he found the staircase.
He set down the boxes and container and began ascending the fourteen floors, stopping at each landing to open the fire door and prop it open. After the exhausting climb, opening each of the fourteen doors, he headed back down to the first floor and back into the corridor.
The masses of junk interested him. He stood for a moment scanning the old furniture, the piles of crockery, the repugnant-looking cookers and fridges. He realised that this was the foul smell that consumed the very fibre of the building.
The floor was eer
ily quiet as the darkly-dressed stranger began hauling mattresses and old cupboards and armchairs back into the stairwell. It took him about fifteen minutes to fill the space between the second and fourth floors with anything combustible that he could drag along the corridor. The space was crammed, but for a small gap down the centre of the stairwell that he would need to get through on his way to leave.
Once he felt that he had enough, he dowsed the various materials with the petrol and the two bottles of paraffin that he had brought with him, taking extra care to concentrate on the area nearest the window that extended all the way up the building with the staircase. Only the window frames and the staircase banister rails were wooden. Everything else in sight was made from concrete, glass or steel.
He stood back and considered the scene before him. He nodded, rubbed his hands together and searched in his pocket for his matches. He then stepped out onto the landing and struck a match, tossing it at the nearest mattress on the small mountain of petrol soaked junk. It went up with a “woof,” the tiny fire from the match was hungrily eaten up by the petrol fumes. The man stepped back a few paces, surprised by the instant, ferocious heat. He stood for a moment, watching. He desperately wanted the wooden window frame to catch the licks of the ravenous flames. Success. The paintwork began bubbling as the choking black smoke began billowing up the stairwell.
He turned and headed back to the maintenance door through which he had entered, quickly clambered down the unlit steps and made sure that he had not left anything incriminating behind, before he headed back through the external doorway where he had broken in. He pushed it slowly and stepped out into the stinking doorway, peering round cautiously at the camera. It was pointing straight at him. He leant back against the doors, closed his eyes and began to count. The timing had to be perfect. On the count of thirty five, approximately the time he reckoned that the camera would be facing the opposite way, he leapt out of the doorway and ran with as much speed as he could muster and disappeared back into the bushes.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 30