And that was it. He hung up. Jerry looked up at the TV monitors, at the dumbfounded presenters who were attempting to summarise what Pop had just said. The clock on the Sky News screen said 11.57 a.m.
*****
Nigel Kerrane was walking hurriedly past the bus shelter on his way home for his lunch. It was just past twelve when he came out of the factory where he worked in Farnworth, near Bolton.
Luckily, he only lived about fifty yards away, so he was one of the few workers who could be bothered going home for lunch. He had this habit of always keeping his head bowed when he walked, a peculiarity of his since his release from prison. It was quite lucky really, because he didn’t see the man in the bus shelter who shot him in the face, and then pumped four more bullets into him as he lay dying on the pavement.
Pop’s digital watch read 12:02.
“Just made that one,” he muttered to himself as he wandered down a back street and headed along the cobbled stones through a maze of ginnels and back alleys.
The alarm was raised through a 999 call, which had been made from a public telephone box about twenty yards away from the bus stop. It was an elderly lady who made the call. She sounded extremely upset by the incident but the Emergency Services operator could ascertain the essential details. It was a shooting - a man lying, apparently dead in the street outside Smith and Son’s glue factory on Bolton Road in Farnworth.
The information was relayed to Farnworth Police Station who had officers at the scene within two minutes of receiving the call.
There was nothing they could have done, the victim of the shooting was beyond saving. It was immediately established by the attending officers that this was not a typical gangland shooting. It certainly wasn’t in accordance with anything that the first influx of Farnworth station’s officers had ever seen. It was obvious to everybody standing around the body that this was the work of Pop. The SCIU office was alerted as soon as D.I. Ged Durham arrived at the scene.
Chapter Thirteen
Oddfellows’ Arms Public House, Glasgow
1 p.m.
It was just starting to fill up with the lunchtime regulars at the Oddfellows’ Arms in the centre of Glasgow. The same old faces were sitting around the bar, listening to reports on the local radio station, Clyde 2. It was the one o’clock bulletin and the entire three minute segment was dominated by what was occurring down south in Manchester.
As the news report concluded, and the discussions about the gun-man that had not quite been finished yesterday got a fresh lease of life, the landlord Jack Scott bowed to the pressure of his locals and agreed to set up the big screen TV. It had been stored away in a cupboard in the cellar since he’d had that huge bust-up with Sky over the sudden price increase on the football matches, and he’d cancelled his subscription.
One of his regulars, if that’s the correct definition for a customer who only goes home at last orders, and is standing at the door waiting for admission each morning, a bitter looking old drunk called Tam Smith, informed Jack that even if he hadn’t got a subscription, he could still get Sky News as it’s a free channel.
So, after several minutes of heated discussion with Tam and the rest of his lunchtime regulars, he finally backed down and traipsed down to the cellar to retrieve the equipment. A peculiar thing happened in the bar while Jack was down in the storeroom. A group of six office workers came in, and asked if the pub had a TV. Jack’s wife, Carole, who’d never seen these people before told them that her husband had just gone to get it, and that it would be on in five minutes. These people have never looked twice at the place, she thought.
“Oh magic!” said the smartest looking of the group. “That Pop has just shot another child molester. Apparently he’s phoned up Sky News again, told them that he’s not going to stop until the police nick him! What are ye’s having?” he said to his friends.
There was an air of excitement in the pub as Jack eventually appeared with the equipment. A fresh influx of local office workers popped in with the same hope of catching Sky News’ coverage, and hear the latest phone call played back, and the breaking news on the fresh murder.
Tam was becoming quite excited. This pub was his whole existence. Nothing else happened in his life other than what happened in the pub. This developing situation with all of these new faces was overwhelming him, as he sat typically at the end of the bar with his Daily Record, his pint of heavy and his pouch of Golden Virginia, observing these fifteen suits milling around the pub from his bar-stool vantage point. He overheard them asking for yuppy - sounding drinks. He looked over at his pals, they looked equally as perplexed as him. The mouthy one who’d been talking about the murders was ordering his party’s drinks.
“I’ll have two Bacardi Breezers, a Bud, three Wickeds’ and one pint of Stella for retro man here.” He got a hearty laugh from the shirt and ties as he pointed at one of them who had these huge, thick, Elvis style sideburns. Tam couldn’t stand this. He had to react.
“Hey, son. Whit the bloddy hell is all that shite yis’re ordering? This is a fuckin’ pub mon, no’ a fuckin’ youth club. Yis can hae a pint ae’ heavy or yis can aw fuck off.”
Tam looked across at his comrades for support. “Dinnae jist think that yis can aw come doon here tae watch the tellay, and then skulk back oaf tae whaerever it was yis have come frae. Carole, git these boys a pint ae heavy each. Ye’ve tae drink like men when yis are in a mon’s pub.” Carole knew how to deal with Tam, it wasn’t unusual for him to lay the law down like this.
“Ach, jist ignore ‘um, he disnae git many visitors!” The strangers smiled cautiously. It was precisely because of sad old piss-heads like Tam that they didn’t venture out much to this kind of establishment.
Jack had just about set the screen up and was about to turn it on when another influx of strangers entered the bar.
“Bloddy hell, have yis all come tae see the murders on TV?” asked Jack of the new faces, as he put the Sky News channel on. He looked quite excited as he wondered how much this unusual business would be worth to the takings.
“Ye were right Tam, it’s oan.” He announced to Tam’s righteous approval.
“Aye, it’s bloody brilliant what he’s doing, eh?” asked the first of this new group, in the direction of nobody in particular. Jack messed around with the volume on the TV remote but couldn’t get any sound.
“I’ll have tae pit it through oan the hi-fi,” he said as he made his way back through the increasing crowd, towards the bar area.
The banner on the TV said “Latest Footage, Pop shoots victim eight.” The pictures accompanying the as yet muted commentary showed a sealed-off main road surrounded by big old mills and chimneys. The road was filled with buses, trucks, cars and taxis which had been forced to stop at each end of the cordon zone. At the centre of the picture was a group of police officers standing beside a big yellow and white tent structure. The tent was concealing the body from public view, and protecting any valuable evidence.
Jack turned the hi-fi on and the audio accompanying the pictures was blurting out around the pub. It was breathtaking. The audio began booming around the building. The sound of car horns beeping in tune, accompanied by the relentless chant of “Pop, Pop,” which came from the few hundred voices dotted around at the scene.
It brought a smile to everybody’s face. Even Tam’s.
“Whit a carry oan! I bet these pervert bastards are shiteing themselves the noo, eh?” asked old Alec who was seated beside Tam at the bar.
“It’s no bad fer business either,” said Jack, bending down beneath the bar and rummaging for one of the brewery’s “what’s on” posters. He laid it flat on the bar and stood for a minute while he decided what to write on it.
Eventually, he wrote “See the Pop man on Sky News, here!!!” beneath a picture of a sexy looking model serving beer behind a bar.
“Eh, whit do ye’s think aboot this?” he asked enthusiastically.
“You’ve only used a wee bit. There’s all that space th
ere,” said Carole, pointing at the two thirds of untouched white space on the poster. Everybody in the bar was watching the TV as he considered what else to put beneath his initial advertisement. He thought for a while before scribbling on the glossy paper with his bingo marker. Beneath the first message he wrote “dinnae come in if you are a nonce - you’ll get us shot!!!!” He stood back and admired his handy work with his loud infectious laugh.
“Ha ha look. Seen whit ah’ve done?” he said to the party of regulars around the bar. They laughed hysterically while Carole slapped him on his shoulder.
“Ye cannae put that!” she said while chuckling mildly.
“How no?” he asked while searching under the bar for his roll of sellotape.
“It’s no right making fun oot ay this. Ye cannae make a joke oot ay it” she announced, above the incessant laughter from the bar. Several of the newcomers were laughing along too.
“Ah can put whit the hell I want. I know one thang, ah’ve nothing to be feared of, ah’m no worried aboot this Pop shootin’ me! Ken why that is don’t ya? That’s cos I have’nae been trying tae molest any wee kids.” He walked around from the bar and stuck the poster in the window.
“There, that’ll mak all they poncey bars wish they’d thought o’ buying a tellay,” he said in the general direction of the bar. Tam heard him, and held his glass up.
“And dinnae ye forget that any extra business ye get, including all this riff-raff, is especially thanks tae me. So stick anither pint ae heavy in there,” he demanded, confident that Jack wouldn’t argue. Jack knew all too well that it was better to give Tam a free pint every now and again, because if he refused him one, he’d spend the rest of the day pissing him off. For the two pounds that was involved, it was well worth keeping Tam sweet. Plus, to his credit, it had been a very good idea.
Sky News were showing the live pictures from the scene in Farnworth, though the commentary had now ceased and the celebratory, carnival sounds had been dipped for a replay of Pop’s telephone call that had gone out live on Sky, little over an hour earlier.
A deathly hush came over all the patrons of the Oddfellows’ Arms, while they listened to Pop intently. There was no other sound in the bar. It was as though the US President was announcing his intentions to invade China.
After the replayed call, the group began chattering wildly amongst themselves, discussing the points he’d raised, and smiling at the audacity of carrying out this latest murder just a few minutes after ending the call. They were all talking about Pop.
“See, that’s just the trouble wi’ Scotland these days. Nae fucking originality. Why couldn’t it have been a Scottish boy who had thought ae doing this? Git us oan the map again,” asked Tam of his drinking colleagues.
The presenter on the TV, an attractive older woman by the name of Sue Bentley began talking to the former head of Scotland Yard’s Flying Squad. She was making a big point of the fact that despite the murder taking place almost ninety minutes ago, there was still no sign of the leading investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Miller at the scene yet. The ex-officer kept his allegiance to the force by brushing past the question, offering that it was not really appropriate to speculate on what DCI Miller and his officers were actually doing at this moment in time - adding that for all anybody knew, they may actually have been in pursuit of the gunman. They may even have arrested him.
Sue Bentley asked another question of the pundit, but stopped him suddenly half way through his response to join a live impromptu interview with the Shadow Home Secretary, Duncan Gregory, who was being besieged by Sky’s cameras as he left his office in Whitehall.
It was a messy link, but that added extra authenticity that this was all going out live. The camera was being held shakily, these were raw images - it seemed as though the cameraman was still walking up to the politician as the interview began. The politician stopped at the foot of the steps from his office and smiled at the reporter.
“Mr Gregory, you must be aware that Pop has just shot another paedophile dead in Manchester. Can you give us your reaction to this latest murder?” asked the youthful looking reporter. The question had a great deal of significance, and although Duncan Gregory tried to make his reply sound utterly spontaneous, it was pretty clear that he had spent the past thirty minutes revising his reaction.
“Well it goes without saying that I do not condone this type of behaviour in the slightest. However, I must say that I can understand why it is happening. The government has for many years allowed themselves to ignore the serious issues that blight our society. I think that what is happening in Manchester, no matter how ugly it is becoming, it has been inevitable under the current government. If we were in power, I could assure you that the whole issue regarding the rehabilitation of sex offenders would be, as it should be, radically reformed. Thank you.”
With a friendly, possibly smarmy, nod of the head, he stepped into the waiting car, flanked by three or four serious-looking people.
The director cut back to Sue in the studio, who made no comment as regards the lucid exploitation of Pop’s crusade to help strengthen the Shadow Home Secretary’s own party politics. Tam listened intently, then offered his own opinion.
“See that fucking weasel, I hope that bastard gets popped by Pop, the shaan gadgie. This guy has decided tae kill all they perverts, and all that baw bag can say is “ach well child molesting would’nae happen if ye vote fer us. Load ay bullshitters, they politician bastards. Ah hope Pop kills every last one ay thim whin he’s done wi’ they kiddie fiddlers.” His outburst was met with rapture, the crowd in the bar agreed with Tam wholeheartedly. It was totally inappropriate of Duncan Gregory to attempt to utilise the situation to his and his party’s advantage.
Another influx of lunch-timers entered the bar, their eyes were immediately drawn to the screen. Jack’s eyes were drawn to them. He had to prompt them to order drinks, such was their engrossment in what was happening on the huge screen. The rest of the lunchtime was spent exuberantly watching, listening and talking amongst each other about what was playing through the pub’s speakers.
It was good TV. Sky was treating this latest shooting, its first murder exclusive, like it was some kind of festival or major sports event.
The nation’s jubilant atmosphere that was becoming apparent, personified with the image on the screen of yet another pub, crammed with dinner-time workers, laughing, clapping and cheering at the screen. It did not remind anybody of any crime report that had ever been seen before. The reporter in the pub also seemed rather exhilarated, the story did not seem anything like a report on a murder that had just taken place. It was more like the atmosphere when a British Olympian had just won a third Gold. The visuals were whipping up the atmosphere in The Oddfellows’ as well, there seemed to be a carnival mood in the air everywhere.
The Oddfellows’ newfound drinkers seemed gutted when it was time to leave and return to work. None of them would have returned, had they known what was to ensue just five minutes after they had downed their beer and headed back to their various posts in the nearby office blocks.
*****
Miller had been in the middle of a furious quarrel with Dixon when the first detective on the scene, D.I. Ged Durham phoned to inform him that this latest victim was laying in a bus shelter in the middle of the main thoroughfare of Farnworth.
By the time that Sky News’ various studio guests had begun to wonder why neither Miller nor his colleagues had yet arrived at the scene, Andrew Miller was sitting at home explaining to Clare that he had resigned from his coveted position as the youngest and most distinguished senior detective in the history of Manchester City Police.
Dixon had returned from his meeting with the force’s highest-ranking officers at HQ, chaired by the Chief Constable himself. This was after much discussion, which was completely dominated by the force’s “semblance” in this enquiry, as opposed to any real proposal of how to catch the perpetrator of the crimes. Little regard was shown towa
rds the officers who had the misfortune of being involved in the investigation, though plenty of PR angles were discussed.
The conclusion was that Dixon could be afforded an enquiry budget which would allow him a further twenty officers, though the total manpower cost of these extra officers plus Miller’s existing staff meant that he only had the extra men for a total of one hundred and twenty hours each. As though that wasn’t hard enough to take, it was then announced that these extra officers would not be drafting into Miller’s team until the following Monday.
It was even worse than Miller had anticipated, a blurred attempt to make a token gesture. Policing the city centre on a single Saturday night cost more than five times the amount that was being offered here. It felt like a stitch-up. The gesture was conclusive enough for Miller - Manchester City Police’s hierarchy had absolutely no desire to put a stop to this. Not yet at any rate, and that was not a decision that Miller was prepared to get strung along with.
Miller had exploded at the news, despite Dixon’s detailed explanation of the points he had raised and the explanations that he had received. Miller thought that he could see the bigger picture, that the Chief Constable had been told to hang fire with the enquiry - he had been made to conduct the enquiry in this way. But that was too much for Miller to face up to. He cleared what belongings he had scattered around his office, and went home.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 16
