So, as the estate agent eventually arrived and offered her overly-nice greetings and put her key into the lock, the door swung open to reveal the hallway. George and Alison knew at that moment that they were going to buy the house, without even stepping a foot inside it.
Alison made all of the decorating arrangements, furniture purchases and did the domestic organising. George made all the money.
George’s work as a music teacher was enjoyable, arguably the least stressful of jobs in the teaching profession. The money was good, certainly enough for the couple to live on comfortably and Alison’s part time job in her father’s small back street bakery provided them with what is now fashionably labelled “disposable income.” But in those days, put simply it was the couple’s “good time” money.
A good few years of home building took place before the event in 1994 that was to compound the couple’s happiness even further. At 6.37 on the morning of May the second Alison gave birth to a beautiful, healthy 7lb 6 oz daughter, who they named Sarah Marie.
Sarah’s arrival brought such joy to the family unit, but also a vague desire to expand on that. By the time that Sarah had mastered that ancient art of sitting up without toppling under the weight of her own head, George and Alison were fornicating like crazed rabbits.
Although they were the youngest residents of Avenham Close, they had been welcomed wonderfully. Occasionally, particularly after Sarah’s birth, George joked that it might be better if they lived in a field, such was the interest in the baby. At times, it seemed like the neighbours were queuing round the house, the next in line pressing the doorbell just as the last well-wisher had pulled the door shut behind themselves. But it was a wonderful way to live and they both appreciated the affection that they received from the neighbours.
By now the house was just how they wanted it, the young couple welled up with pride as they considered how much they had achieved at such tender ages. By the time Alison had conceived again, The couple were only thirty three. It had taken a while, probably because they were trying so hard, but eventually in the August of 1995, Alison became pregnant with their second child. The pregnancy hadn’t gone quite as well as the first had done. Alison suffered dreadfully with morning sickness in the earlier stages and chronic back-ache in the latter.
But, happily, it was all worth it with the safe arrival of Sarah’s younger sister, Lisa in the early April of 1996. The family unit was finally complete, George and Alison spent the days walking around with ridiculous grins on their faces. They couldn’t help it, it was just how they felt. Alison looked at her most beautiful at that time, her figure had returned within a couple of months. Her happy, healthy, radiant glow was enchanting.
Sarah was ecstatic about her new younger sister. She made such a fuss over the tiny baby, trying to help her mother with everything, constantly playing with her while she was awake. Sarah outdid her mum and dad by beating them to Lisa’s first big smile. When friends, neighbours and relatives called around, Sarah would greet them at the door and while pointing into the house, she would say “Look - baby.”
George returned to work in September in his new post as head of year, a job that he had applied for with some enthusiasm the previous term. He learnt that he was to be leading the first year, which he was delighted about. It was his task to oversee the children’s smooth transition from primary school to high school, a tough and challenging undertaking but one which he was totally excited and committed about. It also meant that there was extra money coming in, which George celebrated with the purchase of a brand new car.
He had been unsure about it at first, but the more he talked about it, the more Alison encouraged him, telling him to “just go and buy it, you deserve a treat.”
Shortly after, he did just that. He treated himself to a bright red Ford Sierra, the first new car that anybody in his family had ever bought, a purchase that his mother was particularly proud of, a fact made obvious to George when he called round in the new car and she barely spoke to him. She spent the whole duration of his visit ringing everybody she knew as she stood at the living room window staring at the gleaming new car. George’s mother began each call with the line “Oh, you’ll never believe this!”
George’s father Bert spent over an hour inspecting the vehicle, amazed by the “newness” of everything. For much of the time his head was beneath the bonnet - he was like a stuck record, repeating the same line again and again,
“Bloody hell - look at that!” He even had the spare wheel out to inspect. He had been mesmerised by the freshness of the engine and all the other bits and pieces that go with it. He wasn’t a mechanic by any stretch of the imagination, but this brand new car fascinated him.
George handed the keys to Bert - urging him to take the Sierra for a drive around. He looked as excited as a child with a new bike - but he resisted his son’s kind offer. It was a kind gesture, but his dad didn’t trust himself. George could not recall a single time that he had seen his father looking so proud.
Christmas that year had been one of the happiest for the family. Lisa was too young to have any idea what was happening. For her, the bottles and mashed carrots and nappy-changing routine continued unaltered.
It was a different story altogether for Sarah though. This was Sarah’s first “real” Christmas. The magic and festivities had overwhelmed her the year previously, she hadn’t really had any idea what was going on. This time though, she was two and a half, and she took the Avenham Close party season by storm.
It would be a fair assessment to say that Sarah was “spoilt rotten” that year. George and Alison would probably agree that they went totally over the top with the ridiculously big pile of presents, and they didn’t care one bit. Sarah enjoyed the opportunity of showing her baby sister off at every social event over Christmas. Alison would look back over the photographs for years to come, smiling, laughing and crying at each one.
Once George had returned to the new term and the fresh challenges that the new year would bring, Alison had decided that she would like to learn to drive. It seemed silly that George was the only car driver in the household when it was she who needed to get around with the children during the day.
Alison began her driving lessons with a qualified instructor. The thought of George teaching her made her nervous, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate properly if she was worried about getting a scratch on the new car. So, her lessons began, she proved a natural, passing her test within six months of starting.
George was delighted when she phoned him at work to tell him. He arrived home that afternoon and took her up to the car dealer’s in town. She chose herself a second hand Mini Metro, bright red like George’s Sierra.
Alison became something of a truant wife just after that, never at home when George finished work, she was always out in the car with the children. She was just driving around aimlessly, thrilled by the new found freedom that driving had given her. George ate rather poorly during this time, a fact that he would tease Alison about for years to come.
Lisa began nursery in the September and the house began to fill with garishly coloured paintings. Once the kitchen walls were completely covered, the fresh influx of paintings began to fill the walls of the dining room. Alison put the date in the bottom left hand corner of each picture, so that it would be easy to track Lisa’s ever developing paint splurging skills.
As 1997 drew to a close, tragedy struck. George’s father collapsed with a severe headache and was rushed to Bolton General Hospital. The doctors told George and his family that his father had suffered a massive stroke and his chances of survival were minimal. He was being kept alive at the time by the life support machine. They added that should he live, he would live out the rest of his days as a virtual vegetable; unable to communicate his most basic of needs.
It was a dreadful shock to everybody, especially as Bert had enjoyed excellent health throughout his life. George took the family tragedy hardest. His brother and sister were distraught, naturally Georg
e’s mother was beside herself - but George seemed to take this terrible news the worst.
Bert died a few days after being admitted to hospital. George was inconsolable, and quickly fell into a deep depression, which made him feel incredibly guilty. No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t shake the feeling of hopelessness and lethargy that he felt towards everything. He didn’t want to do anything, didn’t even want to see anybody. Not even Alison. George would be standing in the garden and suddenly burst into tears, when he’d felt fine just minutes previously.
Alison tried to make the most of Christmas, but it was hard. She too felt heartbroken about George’s father, but she tried to make as much of Christmas as she could for the children’s sake.
George recognised that things were bad, but wouldn’t face up to how he was feeling. Alison despaired, it broke her heart that George was so remote all of the time. He showed absolutely no interest in her or the girls. He showed no interest in his work, he’d already spent three months off - previously he had prided himself on his one hundred per cent attendance record. Even his best friend Peter, from next door, couldn’t bring him out of it, no matter how hard he tried.
Eventually, once George accepted that he was feeling more than just grief, he decided to speak to his GP about things. His doctor saw the symptoms straight away. George was prescribed some anti-depressant tablets, which he was initially reluctant to take. Once he started the course, he soon began to feel much better. He was still heartbroken about his dad’s untimely death, but whatever it was that had been dragging him down so low had seemingly vanished without trace almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Things began to get better and better as the year progressed. As George and Sarah were preparing to head back to school for the new term in September 1998, things were practically back as they had been.
Chapter Twenty Two
Wednesday May 24th 8.a.m.
The morning after his call to Ellis, Saunders was once again in the role that he preferred most. He was carrying out a second day’s stake-out on Dawson’s house. His mission was simple; just watch the suspect. “If he moves, follow him. If he stays at home all day, try and see what he does.”
At about the time that he pulled his car up on the well-to-do, leafy avenue where Dawson lived, a shocking situation was developing about forty miles away in West Yorkshire.
The magistrate’s court in Wakefield was the scene of very distressing public order. Two hundred and fifty police officers were assigned to barricade the street, to allow access for the police van which was carrying Mark Palmer from the unnamed police station where he had spent the night, to the court where he was due to enter his pleas to the charges of abduction, rape and murder.
A crowd had been forming outside the complex since 6 am. By the time the police van arrived, flanked by two panda cars at 8.40 am, a massive crowd in excess of one thousand people had gathered. A lot of the mob were made up of the parents, who had kept their own children prisoner, having been gripped with the terror that one of theirs could be savagely attacked, just like little Tim had been.
The mob’s angry shouts and chanting gradually built into a frenzy. The barriers that the police had erected to line the pavements were being constantly pushed down, prompting countless police officers to rush in and reinstate them. The scene was being covered by all of the major news agencies, by most to further bolster the profile of the discussion regarding paedophiles.
The shocking images of the morning were broadcast live on several channels, as the police van with blacked-out windows approached the court. Although it was travelling at speed, the demonstrators threw various missiles at the vehicle, as the volume of the hate filled, angry shouting became intolerable.
Suddenly, a large tin of paint crashed off the windscreen of the van, covering the front of the vehicle with red paint. At this moment, all hell broke loose. The entire barricade fence was broken down, and hundreds of angry people ran screaming into the road, pushing, punching and kicking past the police officers and stopping directly in front of the path of the oncoming van, which was forced to brake sharply. The driver panicked and threw the vehicle into reverse, unaware that demonstrators were also rushing in from behind.
What resulted remains one of the ugliest and most traumatic pieces of television ever shown. Five people were crushed by the reversing van that was carrying Mark Palmer. The majority of the protestors, whose irresponsible actions had caused the accident, were further incensed and began clambering onto the van. The police officers tried to control the developing crisis, but were overpowered by the sheer numbers of mothers, fathers, granddads and brothers who were intent on running amok. Aware that their every move was being broadcast on live TV, the police officers became powerless and confused by the chaos.
The crowd began shaking the police van, rocking it from side to side until eventually it was put onto its side with a stomach-turning crunch. Like possessed animals, scores of demonstrators began thumping and smashing at the windows with their bare hands. Fortunately for the paedophile child killer caged inside, the toughened glass proved resilient to their relentless, reigning blows.
The sound and sight of such passionate anger was alarming, these people were genuinely mad - this was no bandwagon troupe. The people who repeatedly smashed and punched at the battered van wanted Palmer out of there. They wanted their bruised and bloody hands to be hitting him. They wanted to drag him along the pavement, to stamp all over him. They just wanted to administer their own brand of justice. The protesters had crazed expressions on their faces, seemingly oblivious to the injured people and carnage that lay behind the van. This looked like a scene from a war-torn middle-eastern country, not a Yorkshire city centre.
Eventually, thanks to the deployment of eight horseback officers who were on standby at the top of the road, and the steely determination of the officers on foot, order was ultimately regained.
Once the van was free of the demonstrators, fifteen to twenty police officers managed to push it back onto its wheels and it drove off very slowly into the court yard where the twenty foot high gates were immediately locked.
Other officers were trying desperately to help the people hurt by the van’s sudden reverse. The horrific news footage that was being collected for non-live output would never be shown in its entirety, such was the level of sickening violence and appalling injuries on show. Two people had been killed in the incident, from crush injuries sustained from the police van, several others were seriously wounded.
*****
At the same time that viewers were watching their TV’s with their hands held up to their mouths, Radio One was announcing the news that DJ Funky Jazz’s record “I think I’m hooked,” had already topped sales of 300,000 copies on its first day of release, a feat not seen since the shocking death of Diana, Princess of Wales and the subsequent charity record, Candle In The Wind.
It meant that the record was automatically this week’s number one single, but that figure was not a true representation of demand. A further 200,000 people had pre-ordered the record, which they would collect as soon as the CD’s and Vinyl copies had been manufactured and delivered to the shops.
The petitions that the newspaper had printed were replicated onto a piece of card, which was placed inside the CD case. The address on the card was:
The Boss of all us lot,
10 Downing Street,
London.
The task of the CD owner was to simply tick the box that read “Life for Paedophiles.” The card just needed a stamp and a signature.
On Downing Street, the second delivery of newspaper petitions and handwritten appeals had arrived at the residence of “the Boss of all us lot.” The number was impossible to guess, but the streaming visuals of postal workers carrying sack after sack left the TV presenters speculating wildly. ITV news spoke to a postal worker at the local sorting office who said that the total had probably topped five million already.
Quite what Downing Street were
planning to do with such an obscene amount of letters and cut-out newspaper petitions, had yet to be made clear. One thing was becoming certain though, the government’s stubborn refusal to comment on the issue was becoming extremely unpopular and infuriating for Great Britain’s public.
Chapter Twenty Three
16 Grosvenor Road, Worsley.
10.a.m.
The small back bedroom in Miller’s house had been left unaltered since they had moved into the large detached property some five years previously. The project of decorating and furnishing the room had become a constant distraction. So with no work to go to, he now had the perfect opportunity to finally get stuck in. He stood in the middle of the room, looking around the huge piles of stuff that almost completely covered the floor. There were all kinds of everything lying around, some good stuff that he should have given to the charity shops. The twins had gone through three bin bags of baby clothes already, he really should have taken them down to the RSPCA shop, he thought as he sifted through the lots.
There was loads of junk in the room as well, a rack full of five inch computer floppy disks that had been out of use for at least twenty years, their only purpose was stopping the dust getting onto the bare floorboards beneath. There was his old computer that he had intended to save for the kids, but he had since realised that by the time that they would be ready to learn how to use it, the system would be obsolete. Miller decided that what was needed was swift and decisive action. He must take everything out of the room and put it into the car and not come home until the car was completely empty. He would have to go to the charity shop, the church, the computer repair shop and eventually the tip.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 25
