It took a few pints in the unit’s local, the Queen’s Head, which they had nicknamed the Queen’s Legs, as they were always closed on Sundays, to attain a lead.
Miller had been asking everyone what he or she knew about the victim. The overwhelming response was painting a picture of a well adjusted and conscientious young man, who had a strong desire to achieve his realistic and conventional goals. Miller noted that there was a distinct lack of social engagement in the lad’s life, particularly, unusually for an eighteen-year-old lad, the lack of a girlfriend, or previous girlfriend. He asked if the lad was gay, which, even though it sounded like a petulant question - actually became a fresh line of enquiry.
Ellis and Saunders spent two nights visiting the bars of Manchester’s gay village with photographs of Gary Stewart. When displayed to the district’s regulars, it became apparent that Gary had been a regular in the area himself. Eventually, another young man, Steven Gilbert recognised the photograph, saying he didn’t know him so well, but he knew his boyfriend. They got a name, address and went round there to speak to him. After twenty minutes of questioning, the boyfriend confessed to the murder, crying that it was because Gary refused to commit himself to the relationship and because he’d been sleeping around. Case solved, and with hardly any budget left, it was another to be satisfied amid the Queen’s Legs.
Miller lifted one eyebrow, which always amused Ellis, and forced a laugh from her. She saw that both men were staring at her.
“Okay, you pair of bleeding piss-heads, I’ll just ring Bob.”
Miller and Saunders deliberately stood on the spot while Ellis made the call, but there was no response.
“What time is it?” she asked. Miller looked at his watch.
“Five past five,” he said, his words making him realise that forensics had been given the address over thirty minutes ago. Apart from a puncture, or engine seizure, there was no excuse for them not being on site yet.
“He’ll be on his way home. I’ll call him later.” Saunders began making a chicken noise, but stopped when he saw the look of mystification on Miller’s face. He was staring at his watch.
“Is that definitely the time?” he asked. Saunders looked at his watch.
“It’s definitely five past five, Sir.” Miller walked over to the corpse’s little coffee table and pressed his forefinger against the cup.
“Come on.” Miller retreated carefully out of the dead man’s living room, as the others walked behind him.
Outside, to the sound of loud gossiping from the mammoth crowd, and under the view of Sky News’ audience, he got back on his mobile.
“Sir? You’re still there? Good. I need to speak to you urgently.”
He looked at his shoes as Dixon spoke, informing him that he was watching the DCI live on the internet. Dixon asked him how things were working out at the scene.
“I think we’ve got a problem. We’re going to have a few pints at the Queen’s when we’ve finished here. Can you make it?” Dixon agreed, even though it was highly unorthodox for a Detective Chief Superintendent to come and have a few jars with his investigating officers. He realised that it must be quite important if Miller had made the request.
“Cheers Sir, about eight-thirty I reckon.” He ended the call and turned to Saunders.
“Listen, when Gray and his merry men arrive, I want you to give me a description of him, alright?”
Saunders looked understandably confused.
“You want me to…”
“Yeah, describe him. Not now, when you see him alright?” Saunders shrugged.
“Alright.”
“Dixon’s coming to the pub.” He stated, ever so casually. Ellis looked horrified, Saunders laughed.
“What? What did you just say?” she asked.
“I asked him, just then. Anyway, don’t pull faces like that, he’s watching on there.” Miller nodded at the Sky camera.
“He’ll know you’re pulling faces about him. Think promotion!”
At the top of the street, they saw the familiar white and blue van that the forensics officers used.
“Well, buckle-my-shoe. They’ve finally decided to grace us,” he said as he gently jabbed Saunders in the kidney. “Don’t forget what I said. Okay?”
Miller lifted the cordon line once again. The crowd was becoming restless. Once the A.R.U. and the substantial, initial presence of police vehicles had slowly started to depart one by one, there wasn’t that much excitement left.
The forensics van pulled up directly outside the property and five boiler suited scientists scrambled out and began pitching up their screen to seal off the scene from onlookers. This was just the excuse the majority of the crowd needed to go home, and tell their friends about the unusual occurrence on the estate. The die-hards remained though, convinced that they might see a body or something.
Miller purposefully ignored Professor Ivan Gray who led the team. He waited for him to approach before speaking. Miller explained the situation, and told the professor that he wanted a thorough examination of the whole house. He wanted every single hair, fingerprint, fibre and other piece of conclusive evidence found, even if it took a week. He also told him that his attitude was becoming “lacklustre”, to which the scientist smirked and asked,
“Will that be all Detective Chief Inspector?”
As he turned to go into the house, Miller nodded to Ellis to trail him into the house, and follow the instructions he gave earlier. Miller walked around the van, where the photographer was fidgeting with his camera.
“You seemed to take forever. We didn’t think you were coming!” he said, in a mocking way. The young photographer wasn’t remotely interested in the DCI’s observation.
“Oh, is that right?” he asked.
“Well, I call you lot at four thirty exactly. It’s now ten past five. It doesn’t take forty minutes to get up here from HQ, does it?”
The photographer showed little interest in Miller’s further reflection, he was busy concentrating on his camera equipment.
“Look, I’m pretty busy actually. I’m not sure what you want, but see the boss if you’re not happy, alright?” He was referring to Gray. Miller was furious at this gratuitous outburst. He managed to hold onto his temper. Just.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Lodge, Mike, Dad. Can I get on now?”
Miller grimaced at the young man’s manner.
“Yeah, but can you try and do your job properly this time? Carry on.” Miller lifted his phone out of his pocket once again. He rang Ellis who was standing twenty feet away, inside the house.
“Do me a favour, keep an eye on the photographer as well. Watch him and Gray thoroughly. There’s something going on here. I can’t put my finger on it.”
The photographer looked up at Miller, grinned, shook his head and then returned his attention to his equipment. Ellis informed Miller that she was making sure that they were being one hundred per cent fastidious, and she didn’t whisper it either, which Miller was pleased about. He walked back to Saunders.
“Go on then, give me a description of Gray, but in the style of a punter.”
“Eh?” he enquired.
“You know,” Miller put on a bold local accent,
“The woman what I saw nicking the stuff was dead fat, and dead old, about forty and her hair was rank and her tracksuit was covered in old food. Pot noodle I fink.” Miller’s mouth was open and he was staring ahead, a blank, vacant look on his face. Saunders was laughing - he thought he understood the concept.
“Okay, well he’s smartly dressed, mid forties, thin, small…”
“What do you mean small?” Miller suddenly seemed interested.
“Well, you know, short arsed.”
“Good. Good.”
Saunders had no idea what Miller was on about.
“I think I’ve got a long shot here.” Miller knew that Saunders description was pure. There was still only himself who knew the description of the gunman from Sheffield. Mill
er wondered if he was being paranoid, but deduced that there were significant grounds for his suspicions. He kept them to himself for the time being.
Inside the house, Ellis stood scrutinising every move that the forensics team made. After an hour of attentive observation, she was satisfied that everything was in order and decided to make her way back to headquarters. She had no idea what Miller had been getting at earlier, her first instincts told her that he was being paranoid. After all, it wasn’t unusual for forensics to come dithering into the scene over an hour after their call.
Still standing, Ellis was concerned that she was getting under the scientists’ feet in the living room. She made a call to Miller, who had just made it back to base. The overpowering sense of revulsion that she was experiencing, under the relentless glare of the murdered paedophile, made her feel ill.
She told Miller that the forensics team’s examinations were meticulous and that they seemed to be on top of the work. He wasn’t at all surprised to hear that they hadn’t found anything of significance yet.
The DCI’s mind was elsewhere as he spoke, the Sky News feed in his office was still showing the footage from Wythenshawe and the news channel was endlessly replaying the telephone call, the consultant psychologist from Queen’s Hospital was in the studio, adding his assessment of the mind of the killer.
Miller was totally indulged in the output, and was complaining about the over dramatic reporting that was being broadcast. Ellis waited for the complaining to stop before asking if she could leave the forensics team unsupervised. When he dragged his attention away from the screen and back to the call, he agreed that she could come back. The relief was obvious as she strode hastily away from the dead man. She felt tearful as she left the address - her mind was consumed with getting home, and giving little James and big Bob a nice long cuddle.
As Ellis got into her car and turned the ignition, the Sky News people decided that they had covered the story as far as they could. They had captured the sensation - there was nothing left.
Ellis pulled out of the road of almost identical council houses, followed by the Sky News team.
Chapter Ten
7.50 p.m.
The Queen’s Head Public House, City Centre
The Queen’s was fairly busy. Miller and Ellis had gone direct from the office. The others were making their way there after nipping home for a clean shirt or a bite to eat.
Miller and Ellis sat at their usual table at the back of the bar and caught up with what had been happening in their personal lives. As they spoke, their voices gradually had to be raised to compete with the jukebox which was blaring out the usual chart rubbish. The atmosphere was really good for midweek and Ellis wondered, already - if she’d manage to get away before closing time.
“So, personal question - you don’t have to answer it,” said Miller.
“Oh, here we go?” said Ellis, wondering what random question it would be this time.
“What do you think about what he’s doing, our killer?”
Ellis thought for a moment and spent the thinking time spinning her glass around slowly in her hands.
“Honestly? Admiration. I like that he’s got so much backbone to stand up for what he believes in. I think he’s mental, no two-ways about that - but I like him. I like his attitude. But not so much that I’m not going to bring him in. That’s all that really matters to me.”
“Really? You’ve shocked me there. I thought you’d share the same view as me.”
“Which is?” Ellis looked interested.
“Well, the same as it always has been - neutral. Not arsed about the small print, the finer details. I’m just bothered that there’s a job on my table and I want it done, same as all jobs.”
The conversation slipped away from the case as Saunders arrived and sat down next to Ellis.
“Alright?” said Saunders to Ellis.
“Hiya Keith, alright.”
“Nice shirt.” Said Miller.
“It’s fashion Sir. They won’t have stuff like this where you shop.”
“It looks like someone’s vomited on you.”
“At least I made the effort - you look like an off-duty postman.”
“Ha ha very good. All I need is a red jacket and a big massive sack and you’re right!” Miller threw a beer matt across the table at Saunders and it bounced off his head.
“Will you two shut up, or sit at another table?” pleaded Ellis.
The rest of the team had arrived by eight-thirty, and after a few pints the mood amongst the group began loosening up. Saunders’ somewhat “noisy” shirt had become the butt of Chapman’s jibes, but he handled himself well. Saunders was the master of shielding himself from humoured criticism, he either turned the situation around with a super fast one-liner which put his adversary on the back foot, made an utterly bizarre point to deflect the attention, or he quietly accepted the criticism, feigning hurt and thus usually forcing the antagonist to apologise and say that he or she was only having a laugh. This tactic was his favourite as he always managed to pull it off, and the piss-taker became the subject of the laughter.
Dixon seemed slightly nervous rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi, this particular social outing was a real blast from the past. Miller had only asked him to come because he figured that he might be able to redeem himself from the previous day’s outburst over a pint. His behaviour was still playing heavily on his mind, and he hoped he could patch things up with his oldest colleague.
As the jibes and small talk gradually began to settle down, the Serious Crimes Investigation Unit got down to the nitty-gritty. Miller opened the subject.
“That would have made some decent telly today, don’t you think?” The question was met with unanimous agreement. Chapman seemed the most enthusiastic, he loved a major case that attracted lots of publicity. It seemed to most of his colleagues that the only time Chapman took his personal appearance into consideration was when the press were buzzing around one of the team’s investigations. His hair had been cut this morning, and he was displaying the first close-shaved chin he’d had this week.
“I’ve been giving some thought to this “Pop” name. I’ve come up with a few suggestions of what it might mean.” Miller was about to continue but Saunders interjected.
“Yeah, me and Karen were on about that today. What was it you said?” He poked Ellis in the arm. She seemed a little embarrassed as she announced her idea.
“Well, P - O - P. I thought that it had to be related to the nature of his crimes, so I thought of a few, but the best one, I thought is “Person or Parent - Obliterating - Paedophiles.” The theory was met with derision. Dixon laughed loudly, as though it was a gag. She blushed slightly as the rest of the group remained silent.
“Well, it sounded alright in the car this afternoon.” She took a big mouthful of her bitter.
Miller was nodding. “It’s possible, it makes sense. He said on telly that he’d announce that detail when he’s a bit further into his “campaign”, the knob.”
Saunders wanted to show Ellis some support - he thought she was barking up the right tree. “Let’s face it, he’s obviously calling himself that for some reason, isn’t he?” Worthington looked thoughtfully at his pint.
“Pop! Pop! He’s popping a cap in their ass!” said Chapman, in an unconvincing mafia gangster accent. It received a good laugh from the team. Chapman wanted to make a serious point though, once the laughter had subsided. “Is it relevant though? I mean, we don’t know why he’s calling himself “Pop”, but we do know that he’s killed seven people in two weeks, trying to figure out what his name means seems a bit pointless, really.”
Ellis spoke next, trying to regain some authority following the neutral reception to her theory about the killer’s name. “The FME has said that the latest victim was killed two nights ago. That was the same night as the Sheffield and Dane Bank cases. Think about it, he’s going past Wythenshawe on his way back from Sheffield. That means that the murder took place bet
ween about ten p.m. and what, about one-thirty am, to give him enough time to get over to Dane Bank and prepare for the third at two-fifteen. It’s the cold blooded mechanics of it that does my head in.” Ellis shook her head slowly. The others were in agreement, nodding at their DI’s point. Dixon took the silence as an opportunity to finally speak.
“From that point alone, he’s practically demonstrating how organised and methodical each individual murder is. He is driven by his strategy which, in his mind is wholly justifiable, and I’m sure that it’s this kind of thinking that is allowing him to slip in and out of each murder scene un-noticed. He will be acting so casually, so confidently that he won’t receive a second look from anybody.” Dixon slurped his drink as though his speech had finally made his presence welcome.
Miller looked across at Chapman. “You got an eyeball today, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes and no really. We went back, but he didn’t give us any more. He didn’t seem very interested really,” replied Chapman.
“The thing is, Sir,” said Ellis as she looked at Dixon, feeling his awkwardness and wanting to include him and ease his discomfort, “and I know that it’s not popular, but you have to consider the general consensus. There are a lot of people who won’t be pleased to see this person caught, and I’m certainly not about to stand in judgement of that.” Dixon was suspicious about where this point was heading, though he appreciated the hospitality of the remark.
“What do you mean?” He set his eyes on the Detective Inspector. Miller sensed what was coming. He decided to go to the bar.
“Same again?” he asked while collecting the empty glasses. Chapman, Worthington and Saunders looked astonished.
“Are you getting them in?” asked Worthington.
“Is he balls, he’s winding you up,” quipped Saunders to Chapman’s obvious satisfaction. Ellis drained her glass and handed it to the DCI.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 11
