“So then, this Pop isn’t working alone. Interesting.”
“I’m going to release the photo-fit to the press. I had hoped not to, but we’re completely lost. I desperately don’t want her to be involved, it makes everything twice as difficult.” Miller looked quite surprised.
“Well, if you can’t eliminate her, it won’t be too long before you pull her in. It’s case solved.” Ellis wasn’t so sure.
“Yeah, but, Jesus. You should see the picture that Mr Greaves has come up with. She’s absolutely bloody stunning. He said that it’s the spitting image of her, and I’m worried that if we release that, well, who’s going to want to run her in?” We’ll have the world’s most popular serial killer and his beautiful assistant!” They both laughed. It helped to break the tension.
“Well, I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Karen. Nobody is going to run anybody in. People are waiting for the next murder. It’s sport! I mean, how many people do you reckon will know this Pop from his voice?”
Ellis nodded. She knew all this.
“Anyway, Dixon says that I’m prime candidate for your job full time. It’s just, well, if I don’t get a result fast, maybe I won’t be in such a strong position when it comes to interviews.” The kettle clicked. Miller poured the boiling water into the cups.
“I wouldn’t worry about that just yet. The thing that I tried to concentrate on, even on the day that I quit, I just kept thinking, I’ll get this killer if it’s the last thing I do. Now, to be perfectly frank, I’m not that bothered about him getting caught. Because, in the nicest possible way - it’s not my problem. It’s weird, I never thought that I’d feel this way, but I sit in front of Sky waiting for him to do it again. I’ve caught this bug that’s going around.”
Ellis was stunned. He smiled at her expression.
“I’m sorry, but it’s like the best TV show on earth. They’ve said this morning that a few action groups and organisations that have been campaigning for this kind of awareness for twenty years, are staging demonstrations in every major city on Saturday. I’m feeling inclined to go. You’ve got to understand, this is a revolution. This one man has taken the whole of the UK by the scruff of the neck, and said are you going to help me or not? The people have replied with a big massive “hell yeah!” I honestly can’t remember anything like it.”
Miller was still smiling.
“Well thanks for your encouragement.” Said Ellis, totally dejected.
“I don’t mean it like that. All I’m saying is, you can’t blame the public, the mums and dads, the kids who Pop is trying to help. How are those constables getting on with this database?”
“They are about two thirds through… eighteen thousand names up to now.”
“Bloody hell!” Even Miller was surprised.
“I know. Eighteen thousand potential killers. How the bloody hell are we supposed to get through that?” Ellis picked her cup up off the worktop and took a sip of the tea.
“You’re not. You can’t get through that, not without a single shred of evidence, a description or witness.” Ellis looked up at the man who had taught her so much over the years that they’d worked together. She paused for a minute before asking,
“Shall I just go back there and resign? I could easily get another job, probably as DS, but I can start again.”
Miller thought hard. He didn’t know what to say.
“Go home, lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Don’t move until you are absolutely sure what you want. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I will say this, as a mate. Even if you do catch him, or her, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you will be rewarded properly. It may turn out that you have upset certain members of the hierarchy. You can’t win.”
“Yeah, but what if they suddenly decide that they do want him caught? Look at what happened to that old chap in Preston on the weekend. What if there’s more of that? They’ll kick me out straight away. You’re bloody right - I can’t win.”
“So you are beginning to see why I felt I had no alternative but to resign.” Miller looked out of the kitchen window at his huge, well tended garden. “These demonstrations that are taking place on Saturday. Go and ask Dixon what the MCP bill will be for policing the city centre. Don’t let him tell you that he’ll get back to you. Insist that he rings Operations and gets an estimated figure. Then TELL him that you are quitting if you don’t get twenty five seasoned detectives working for you indefinitely. Trust me, if he has asked for your resignation, he’s clearly worried about who could end up leading this investigation in your absence. I said that I wouldn’t tell you what to do, but that’s what I’d do. You’re absolutely right though, you’d get a job anywhere, so I wouldn’t worry about that too much.” Ellis appreciated his advice, even though in Miller’s head, it wasn’t advice at all.
“What about you? What are your plans?”
Miller’s face lit up. “I don’t know. I have no idea whatsoever. Between me, you and these four walls, I’m thinking of getting my solicitors to look at my “resignation.” I reckon I’d be able to get my mortgage paid off in a golden handshake.” Ellis’ eyes widened at this most out-of-character statement.
“Well, think about it. I’ve been forced out. I don’t think it’s going to go down too well if the force is in court arguing the toss about running such a high profile case with less than ten operating officers, right in front of the world’s media. They’ll give me a wheelbarrow full of cash just to go away and shut up.” Ellis understood, though she was amazed that Miller of all people would consider such a move.
“There’d be no place left in the force for you, though,” she reasoned.
“Well since my phone’s not rung once since I jacked, I’m not so sure that there is a place for me anyway. I’m gutted; I’ve been stitched up good and proper, and the reason? Because of this fucking government playing around with the voters before the election. You just watch them all come out in a few weeks and say that child molesters will receive mandatory life sentences. It’s nothing more than a vote rigging exercise that’s lost me my job. I’ve even wondered whether this Pop character is an employee, some MI6 agent who has been instructed to carry out the murders for some “social investigation exercise,” it’d certainly explain MCP’s handling of the case. Fuck ‘em, I’m going after every penny I can get. I didn’t even vote this government in!” He laughed at the statement that he’d just made, he too recognised that it was totally unlike him.
Ellis finished her brew. Then gave the recently retired DCI a peck on the cheek as she thanked him for his time, however further confused it had made her feel.
“I’d best get back, Dixon will be screaming blue murder. I’ll speak to him. Hope your leg gets better quickly. Try some of that Voltarol pain relief gel, its amazing.”
“Cheers. Be lucky,” he said, though he realised that luck was what you had when you got six numbers on the lottery. It wasn’t luck that Ellis needed. It was help.
Ellis went back into the front room and gave the twins a cuddle, she apologised to Clare for her visit not being too sociable and made for the front door. Clare and Miller followed her.
“If it’s still fine, we’re planning a barbeque on Sunday afternoon. Bring Bob and little James. We’ll have a right laugh,” said Clare as she watched Ellis make her way down the drive.
“Oh brilliant. Thanks a lot, I’ll look forward to it.” She got into the car and considered how happy that barbeque invitation had made her. Then she thought about James, and Bob, and Dixon. But especially James. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reached round for her seatbelt buckle.
It had been getting much harder to leave James with her mum each morning. She had cried every morning, sometimes for a moment. A couple of times she’d had to pull the car over to the side of the road until the swell of tears abated. She reasoned that it was just down to hormones, that she would get used to it, that it was perfectly natural. But all the same, she struggled to control how guilty she felt.
/> That’s what was going through her head when she knocked on Dixon’s door. But in a very cold and solemn voice, she was told to wait outside.
Chapter Eighteen
11:00 a.m.
The area known as Salford Precinct had long been regarded as one of Greater Manchester’s bleaker districts. The two-mile area that almost reached the outskirts of Manchester City Centre was made up of over twenty high-rise blocks, with the entrances to most surrounded by eight foot spiked fences. The opening title sequence to Coronation Street shows the area. However, on the cloudless, sunny day that those images were taken, the place doesn’t look quite as unwelcoming and uninspiring as it does on a cold, wet Monday morning.
Every single block employed at least two security guards at any one time - their job was to ensure that nobody entered the building without their approval. It was a tough area, no question about that. Drug and alcohol abuse mixed with poor education, minimal employment opportunities and utterly bleak surroundings were the main social problems on Salford Precinct.
It was an area run predominantly by the youth culture, there weren’t too many over thirty-fives living in the district, nor were there many people who didn’t have a drug, alcohol or other habit. It was a place where hope gradually turned to desperation, a district where the most timid of men could turn violent within weeks. It was also an area facing drastic funding cuts. Salford City Council had tried, but the attitude on the precinct was too far gone, it was an area that had spent thirty years waiting to be levelled and reborn.
One particular block, Walter Greenwood Court had finally had its day and been condemned, awaiting demolition. It was situated right on the fringe of the Precinct, its fourteen floors with their disowned, grimy net curtains looked down ominously at the traffic heading into Manchester’s bustling City Centre.
The building was named after the celebrated Salford poet, Walter Greenwood, his most famous piece being “Love on the dole.” How apt. Of the last five years before it was closed, there was not a single tenant from the one hundred and forty flats who actually worked, with the exception of the janitor whose job it had been to pick up the discarded syringes, mop up the piss and blood and occasionally inform the police when the smell on a particular floor got so bad, it could only mean that another young addict had died alone in one of the concrete boxes.
As area housing officer, it had been Anita Robertson’s job to manage the estate’s properties. It was a job that she had become extremely guarded about.
It had always been her dream, her driving ambition, to bring about some regeneration in the area. She knew the Precinct, the people and the problems, and all she had ever wanted to do in her work was improve the place. She spent her evenings setting up community groups, sitting on committees, writing funding applications and generally trying her very best to bring about better opportunities for everybody in the district.
Anita had grown up in the area, her manner with her residents paid tribute to her local roots. Her job brought her plenty of stress and little satisfaction, but she soldiered on, believing wholeheartedly that she could make a difference.
Many of her clients, the sixteen year old single mums, the eternally recovering heroin addicts and the mentally challenged outcasts who had been dumped in the flats could, on first impressions, be forgiven for believing that Anita was a pushover. She reached little over five feet, her thin body and pale face, coupled with her badly dyed blonde hair with dark roots, enabled her to blend in amongst the populace. You could make the mistake of crossing Anita Robertson once, but it would not happen again.
Today though, she had finally realised that everything that she had worked so hard to achieve had been for nothing. Today, she had learnt that the final nail was going into the coffin that she had worked tirelessly to prevent from being constructed.
She had been out on house calls, a job that she had invented for herself to fit around her official duties, going around visiting the few older residents that were housed in various blocks, waiting to be moved into Apple Tree Court, a twenty two storey block exclusively for elderly residents. She was round at Mr and Mrs Wilkinson’s flat. They had spent most of the night waiting for the police, who never arrived, after a gang of youths had decided to kick their front door in and take off with all of their valuable possessions, a TV, a DVD player and a toaster. They did well though - no harm was done to them as they followed the advice that the police had given to all elderly residents on the estate. The leaflet had advised them that should they be broken into, “Do not try to tackle the burglar, do not speak to them and if possible, do not make eye-contact.”
The old couple explained to Anita that they had been terrified, but they had followed the advice to the letter, sitting together on the settee, holding hands while staring directly at the floor. They told her that the gang of five youths had laughed hysterically as they took the belongings. One of them even used the toilet, and then complained about the “cheap” toilet paper.
Anita heard about these kinds of incidents everyday. She believed that she had become un-shockable down the years. Anita was explaining about the waiting list system for Apple Tree Court. She was telling the Wilkinsons that they were three places from the top, which probably meant they were looking at less than six months for a flat, when her mobile rang.
The call was from Zoe in the office, she told her that she was needed back at the office right away. Representatives from Social Services, the Probation Service and the Police had turned up unannounced wishing to speak to her urgently. Anita told Zoe to make them a coffee, and that she would take about ten minutes. She then rang the Council’s repairs unit.
“Hi John, it’s Anita. Listen, I need an urgent joinery job doing. Broken down door, elderly residents in Thorn Court. Yes, but I need your one hundred per cent assurance that it will be dealt with today. Well can you find out and get back to me? I’m already nineteen grand over budget on external contractors. You lot are going to be redundant the way you are carrying on. Good. If not John, I’m afraid I’ll name you personally in my complaint. Slightest doubt, ring me. I need to know this is at the top of your list mate.”
She left the flat assuring the Wilkinson’s’ that the door would be repaired within the next few hours, though she could offer no assurance that it wouldn’t be kicked in again. Anita arrived back at her office, to be greeted by the suits that Zoe had mentioned. She welcomed them into her modest office and they sat before her desk. It was the probation officer who did the talking.
“Thank you very much for receiving us at such short notice Mrs Robertson. My name is Geoff Dawes - I’m the Senior Probation Service Manager for the Salford catchment. This is Superintendent Michael Street from MCP’s operational support, and on my left here is Jess Taylor who is Senior Social Worker for Salford City.”
Anita nodded at each face and offered the customary “how do you do?” while wondering what the hell these people wanted with her.
“Okay, down to business.” It was Geoff who spoke again. “We have all been called together to work on a project that will require your full support. We are here today to firstly, get your support, and secondly, to set the wheels in motion. I’m sure that you will quite aware of the serial killer we have in the region?”
“Pop? Of course,” offered Anita. She knew all about it. She supported the gun-man’s arguments whole-heartedly, though she had no idea where this discussion was leading.
“That’s right, and I’m sure that you will be equally aware that this Pop character has made it his business to go around murdering convicted paedophiles who have been released into the community.”
Anita usually took a while to form an opinion of somebody, but she could not take to this Geoff Dawes, particularly his arrogant manner. She instantly considered him a talentless, work-shy sweet talker who had brown-nosed his way to his position. She’d met many of his type, people who charm and career-laugh their way to their position and then somehow managed to convince themselves that they’d arri
ved there honourably, through hard work and dedication.
“The upshot of Pop’s activity in the area has obviously created panic amongst our collective clients, these are people who need support in the community as part of their reintegration to society. As a result, we currently have a rapidly growing list of offenders, who are terribly worried that they may be murdered at any moment. Therefore, we have come to you today to request use of your condemned block, Walter Greenwood Court, to temporarily house these people until Pop is safely under arrest. Obviously, we need your co-operation to make this happen.”
Anita was utterly floored by the suggestion. She had no idea what to say. Dawes continued, saving Anita from having to try and mash some words together.
“I mean, obviously, there will be a handsome fee made payable to your department for the letting of the property. We don’t anticipate that we will require it for too long.”
Anita persisted on staring at the big, smug man. She was speechless. She managed to utter a few words. “I don’t believe that would be my decision to make. I’ll have to consult my superiors,” she offered, though her tone made it quite clear that she had absolutely no desire to help put any of those poor paedophiles’ minds at rest. Not in this lifetime anyhow.
“Well, whoever you need to speak to, it would be greatly appreciated if you would ring them right now, so that we know the decision immediately.”
“Wait a minute, Mr Dawes. We might need to know a little more than the fact that you want to stick a group of child molesters into one of our condemned blocks. I don’t even think that that building has any utility supplies, besides - it has been condemned. It is rotting from the inside out. It would take weeks, months probably, and hundreds of thousands of pounds to make good, and then you’ve got to decorate and furnish it. If you think I can just give you the nod, and a huge bunch of keys, then you really should give your head a wobble.” Anita couldn’t disguise her contempt for the man, and she was equally unimpressed with the other two who just sat there like mutes staring at her.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 21
