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

by Steven Suttie

  *****

  It was almost noon when the three unmarked police cars met on the Jolly Carter pub car park on Church Street. Little Lever was a small, relatively quiet town on the outskirts of the Bolton borough where it met with Bury. It was surrounded by neat countryside halfway between Farnworth and Radcliffe.

  Ellis appreciated that luck was on her side regarding the location of this assignment. Should Dawson manage to escape the initial confrontation, the resulting chase would be relatively hazard free; thanks mainly to the location of Little Lever. There was only one road heading out to Bolton, and just the other one, which led to Bury.

  Ellis and Saunders got out of their vehicles and got into the back the car that Chapman had driven over with Worthington. They covered the ground one last time. Ellis had become very nervous, her shaky, dry voice hinted that her heart was racing. The others were quietly composed, eager to get on with the job in hand.

  Once Ellis was satisfied that everybody was sure what they were doing, she told them to take their positions around the address.

  Saunders parked his car at the very top of the cul-de-sac. From his position he could make out the side of the house clearly. He radioed the others to inform them that Dawson’s car was parked on the drive. He was home.

  The tension rose, particularly for Ellis.

  Avenham Close was a pretty, well-kept neighbourhood. There was nothing exceptional about this serial killer’s home, certainly nothing to give the impression that it was owned by anybody but a good, upstanding family man.

  Saunders vantage point was somewhat restricted. He couldn’t see what was happening inside the house from where he’d parked, which was about thirty-five or forty yards up from Dawson’s place. His position was invisible from the upstairs and front of the house, the huge holly shrub in the next door garden obscured him completely. His only concern was being spotted from one of the visible downstairs windows, or from the two small windows in the hall, which looked out over the side of the house; directly at Saunders’ position. He radioed to say that he was fairly happy with his position and that he would next make contact when there was some activity to report. He ended his report with the words, “standby, over.”

  Ellis was parked precisely where she had planned on the map back at HQ, further down the road which joined Avenham Close. The avenue ran off Radcliffe Road, which rose up the hill. Ellis was downhill from the turn off, facing upwards. Her position was completely blind to what would happen when Saunders gave the call, just as she had directed. She was parked outside a house, patiently waiting for Saunders to tell her to prepare, nervously chewing at her finger nails.

  Worthington and Chapman were in the exact position that Ellis had specified. They were facing down the hill, in full sight of the entry to Avenham Close. They felt supremely confident that this was going to be totally straight forward, thanks to their position and the lack of other vehicles obscuring the view. The only real concern was the steady flow of traffic that was passing them from both directions. It was obvious that a little bit of luck would be required if this was going to pass off exactly to plan, but none the less, they were ready. The two DC’s sat in relative silence, their minds fixed on their role in the arrangement. They were both staring intently at the entry to the close, hoping that no other vehicles would come and park, unwittingly blocking their view.

  The time passed slowly. Saunders had been silent for over an hour. He’d had nothing to comment on, so didn’t lift his hand held radio to his mouth to point out the fact.

  The minutes seemed to drag on forever, slowly and steadily the tension rose in all three cars. Dawson was obviously not feeling as energetic as he had been on the previous two occasions that Saunders had observed his movements. Maybe he was tired today, after his arsonist activities the previous night, considered Saunders.

  The longer he sat there, the more vulnerable he began to feel. What if somebody had spotted him, began asking questions of his presence, maybe even ringing around the neighbourhood, asking if anybody else had spotted the car with the bloke sat in it. Nah - getting paranoid, he reasoned.

  Ellis was going to have no fingernails left at the rate she was going. Something was troubling her, something deep down inside, something she couldn’t put her finger on. The importance of this arrest was going over and over in her mind, if this were to go wrong she knew that her promotion chances would be spoiled for good. D.I. would be as far as she would be going. That was as far as all her dedication, hard work and effort would get her. This swoop had to go perfectly, for her sake.

  But there was a nagging, scraping doubt at the back of her mind, which was putting her under even greater tension.

  The radio crackled alive. Saunders began speaking energetically. It came as a huge relief to the detectives sat “blind” on Radcliffe Road.

  “Okay, I’ve got eyeball on the suspect. He’s coming out of the front door. He’s clutching a hold-all. He’s walking to his car. He’s looking around. He’s not looked at me. He’s opening the boot. The bag has been placed into the boot of the car. A black Volkswagon Passat. Registration Yankee Tango One One Alpha Yankee Foxtrot.” Saunders’ voice became slow, deliberate, the initial burst of adrenaline fuelled energy had disappeared.

  “He’s closed the boot. He’s looking around the car. He’s heading back to the house. He’s gone back into the house. He’s closed the door.” The talking stopped. The radio fizz muted. The silence was sudden and disturbing.

  Chapman looked over at his partner in the passenger seat. Worthington met his gaze and exhaled loudly. Chapman looked back down at the avenue’s entry, turned the ignition key and gave the car a couple of revs. He pressed on the clutch pedal and put the car into first gear. The palms of his hands were covered in sweat, which he wiped on his trousers. The need for Saunders to speak again was intolerable.

  Two long, drawn out minutes passed before the radio fizzed alive again. Saunders’ voice was cold.

  “Okay, standby. He’s opened the door. He’s heading out. He’s getting into the car. I repeat he is in the car. He’s starting the car. The car is moving - He’s pulling off the drive. The car is on the road - he’ll be with you in ten seconds. I repeat the car is heading towards you. Strike in six seconds.”

  Chapman gave an almighty rev on the accelerator. He released the hand brake and set off at speed, changing instantly into second gear. He pumped the accelerator again and changed up into third gear. The car was hurtling down the hill, Dawson’s black Passat came into view. It began slowing as it reached the junction. He indicated right. He was looking down the road, in the opposite direction from Chapman’s speeding Mondeo.

  “Hold tight!” said Chapman, as he steered the car across the road. He was still accelerating. Dawson still hadn’t seen him. Worthington closed his eyes as the Mondeo hurtled towards the Passat.

  Saunders’ voice came back on the radio. “He’s about to turn right. He’s pulling…” Saunders stopped talking as he watched the speeding Mondeo plough straight into the suspect’s car. Chapman was thrown forward against the steering wheel as the car he was driving forced into the front offside wing of Dawson’s vehicle, which was punched back about six metres, up onto the kerb before halting suddenly and deafeningly, demolishing a garden wall. Chapman’s car went with it, spinning 240 degrees and winding up facing Dawson’s, clattering with a deafening bang, into the wall a little further down. All three people involved were momentarily blinded by exploding airbags. Worthington was first out, Chapman was jammed in by the wall. He needed to pull himself across and out of the passenger door.

  Ellis was bang on cue. She pulled her Golf onto the kerb opposite the two wrecked cars.

  The wild look on Chapman’s face as he emerged from the car was frightening. He brushed past Worthington who was standing by Dawson’s written-off vehicle, looking through the cracked windscreen at a completely stunned George Dawson. The sight of this man gave Chapman a strange, regretful feeling. He could not imagine this small, bald
ing, gentle looking, middle-aged man to be responsible for the murders at all.

  But he went ahead with the plan, if this wasn’t him, fine. If it was, he couldn’t mess it all up now because he didn’t think the suspect looked right.

  Chapman threw the car door open. Dawson looked like a frightened child.

  “What the fuck were you doing pulling out of a blind spot like that?”

  Chapman’s voice was booming, his rage looked genuine, possibly the product of an hour’s pent up adrenalin and anxiety. Dawson just sat there, he was speechless. He was clearly in a massive state of shock. Chapman kept going at him, he seemed utterly genuine, as if Dawson’s reckless driving really had caused this sensational crash.

  The suspect was frozen, his hands were still clutching the steering wheel, his face displayed the total disorientation that he was experiencing. Nothing that Chapman was saying was making any sense, and he didn’t look as though he wanted to understand. Ellis glanced at the pathetic looking man through the broken windscreen. She felt a pang of sympathy for him as Chapman was still shouting. Worthington was holding him back, not entirely convinced that this was all play acting.

  “Look at my car you fucking moron! I want your insurance details NOW!” He was shouting over Worthington’s shoulder, still waiting for any kind of response from Dawson. Ellis looked at Worthington.

  “Is he okay?” she asked loudly, trying to make sense above Chapman’s insane babbling. Worthington nodded, his manner telling Ellis that he’d had the same concern. The man was simply paralysed by fear.

  Ellis surveyed the damage to both vehicles and the garden wall. She shook her head. It was a mess. Maybe Chapman had understood her wrong when she’d explained about his role. She had meant for him to “prang” Dawson’s car, forcing him to stop. Not write it off.

  Still, a result is a result. Here she was with Britain’s most celebrated murderer of all time - looking like he wanted his mum.

  She noticed that a few of the neighbours had been disturbed by the commotion and were heading towards them.

  Ellis moved over to the passenger door which was open, Chapman had opened it as part of his Oscar worthy performance. He was settling down a little now, which pleased Ellis - he’d started getting on her nerves as he persisted with his routine, no matter how convincing he had tried to make it. She bent down into the car and looked at Dawson.

  “Are you alright?” she asked. Her voice showed compassion. She was surprised at how sorry she felt for the man as he continued to clutch at the steering wheel and dispassionately stare out of the cracked glass before him.

  “Are you okay?” she repeated. No response. She stayed there, just looking at him, his face was as white as morning snow. A tear looked ready to fall from his eye.

  Then, she was distracted by the presence of one of the concerned neighbours. It was a woman, she had come from a house across the road. She looked educated, attractive, well dressed, forty-ish. She had an unmistakable look of apprehension on her well made-up face. She leant into the car beside Ellis.

  “George!” she said. He turned his head slowly and looked at her.

  “Oh thank God! I thought - well, what happened?” She was instantly relieved to see him move, as was Ellis who had considered that she might have to call the nervous breakdown van. Ellis hadn’t noticed the growing number of concerned neighbours. She was taken aback by just how concerned they were. They weren’t merely having a look, seeing how bad it was. It was obvious that the man in the crumpled car was a very popular member of this community.

  “I’m okay,” stuttered Dawson. His hands were still gripping the steering wheel, knuckles tensed hard, the whiteness of the bones clearly visible. The rest of his body was trembling violently. One of the neighbours, a huge man who looked like he was getting into his fifties turned to Chapman.

  “How the bloody hell did you manage that?” he asked. Another voice came from behind his enormous frame.

  “You could have killed him driving like that!” Chapman didn’t see who’d said it, but slipped back into Hollywood mode.

  “This pillock pulled straight out in front of me. He’s lucky he didn’t kill me!”

  Dawson released his seatbelt and began the seemingly arduous task of shuffling over to the passenger seat.

  “I saw everything,” interjected Ellis. “I’m a police officer - I was travelling up Radcliffe Road when I saw this gentleman pull right out in front of him.” She pointed at Chapman.

  Dawson stood slowly as he pulled himself out of his wrecked car.

  “Are you alright George?” asked another voice in the growing crowd of worried neighbours. He nodded slowly, holding onto the open door for support.

  “Listen, just take a minute to get your breath back. I am arresting you for driving without due care and attention and with suspicion that you have been driving whilst under the influence of alcohol. Don’t worry - it’ll just be a routine breath test down at the station.” Ellis gave a reassuring nod at Dawson who looked further stumped by this latest development. One of the neighbours interposed. It was a man that Ellis hadn’t noticed before, he had been standing behind her, listening to everything she had said. He was short, but fairly well built. He looked like a manager in a supermarket, very likeable. Extremely approachable. He had grey, thinning hair. Ellis guessed that he was about fifty, if not a little older.

  “You can’t arrest him. I’m sorry - but there are no grounds,” he said. He seemed quite edgy, thought Ellis as she turned to speak to him.

  “Excuse me, Mr…”

  “Sykes, Peter.” The man had a quiet assurance about himself. Ellis wouldn’t normally engage in such conversations, but this whole charade had to pass off perfectly from a PR point of view.

  “Well, Mr Sykes, I’m afraid that I am arresting this man, I believe him to be drunk in charge of a motor vehicle and I will be taking him to Farnworth Police Station for a breath test.”

  Sykes stared right through her. He took a second before he spoke, but when he did his words froze her rigid.

  “Listen, Ellis. We all know why you are here. We know as well as you do that George had no part in this accident. His car hadn’t even pulled off this avenue, so please don’t assume you are speaking to idiots. We all know what you are here for, and I’m telling you now, you’re not taking him anywhere.” He nodded at Dawson who still wasn’t with it. With anything.

  Ellis was stunned. She was as stupefied by Sykes’ calm words as Dawson had been by Chapman driving a car into his at forty miles-per-hour. Worthington stepped into the small circle at which Ellis and Dawson were the centre. He stepped towards Sykes.

  “You’re under arrest!” he announced as he neared the smug looking neighbour. He took one more step before being knocked to the floor by an almighty punch to the throat.

  Sykes had moved like lightning. Nobody saw the punch being thrown. Chapman dived at the man, but was hindered by another man who stepped in front of him. He pushed a middle-aged man out of his way and grappled through the others to get to Sykes. Chapman didn’t see him do anything until he was stood face to face with Sykes. The handgun was pointing straight at his face. Chapman gave out an involuntary whimper as it dawned on him that he was staring down the barrel of a gun, that was being held by a man he had just been about to smack.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you how this is going to work. Ellis, come here.” Sykes’ voice suddenly had an edge to it. Ellis did as she was told and moved slowly towards the gunman. He put his arm around her shoulder while still holding the gun at Chapman’s face.

  Chapman looked at her before returning his eyes to Sykes. She looked terrified. Vulnerable. She was shaking violently, her teeth chattering as though it was a freezing lake she was stood in. There were tears in her eyes. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was the nagging doubt that Ellis had argued with. Sykes turned the gun away from Chapman and rested the barrel against Ellis’s head.

  “We all knew you were coming. We’ve been watching Detec
tive Sergeant Saunders doing his work here over the last few days. You must think we are stupid, trying to pull a ridiculous stunt like this. Now, this is not an ideal situation, not for any of us, but we can find a peaceful solution,” he began. He looked at Ellis who was whimpering and shaking uncontrollably.

  “Don’t worry, love. I’m not going to hurt anybody,” he said, gently. He had a kind look about him that Ellis wanted desperately to trust. He was cool and collected, which was incredibly intimidating considering the circumstances. Even Miller would be flapping in this situation.

  She closed her eyes and tried to take deep breaths. She knew that she needed to calm down, she was no use to anybody like this, least of all to herself. She kept her eyes closed and tried to think about her boys at home. Little James, trying to smile - but not yet really knowing what he’s doing. And Bob, big lovely Bob, her best friend, She loved them both so much.

  Worthington was still on the floor, writhing in absolute agony, clutching his throat and wheezing desperately. His eyes were pouring with tears. He had no idea of the danger that his colleagues were in when he pulled his leg up and stamped it onto Sykes’ knee with all of the strength he could muster. He had no idea about the gun. The gun that went off in Karen Ellis’s face.

  AFTERMATH

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Peter Sykes fell to the floor, still clutching Ellis’s dead body as her life was taken away. He was covered in blood as he scrambled to his feet, the blast that he had caused had showered back at him with Ellis’ blood and bones. He looked like a petrified child who had been caught on a railway line as a train thundered towards him. His face said it all; that was not supposed to have happened.

  The crowd of fifteen or so neighbours were equally dumbstruck. There were screams and cries as they all watched on with a look of sheer horror. One lady was vomiting onto the pavement.