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

by Steven Suttie

  Ellis let her team go home, hoping that Pop’s warning of doing eight had suffered a set-back. Unless one of them had yet to be discovered. Either way, it was home time. Miller had made a lot of sense with his pearl of wisdom and Ellis liked it. Fuck ‘em.

  *****

  The following morning’s papers made as much of the latest attacks as they possibly could. The fact that Pop was back to his scandalous tricks must have been a great relief for the journalists and photographers whose words and pictures dominated most of the pages.

  Again, public demand for the reports was just as high as it had been the previous week, the hunger for the aftermath was all too clear. The subject was once again the only talking point across the length of the land.

  The ugliness of last Saturday’s horror in Preston seemed long forgotten.

  It really seemed that the British public were praising Pop’s every move with whole-hearted devotion. He had become the country’s hero and it would take a lot for him to mess that up now. He had gained the majority’s affection, his tireless and ludicrously defiant campaign was compulsive entertainment, even to those who would normally sit on the fence on such matters.

  The only concern that the British public voiced right now was their fears that he would go quiet again. If they could make contact with Pop, they would beg him for more.

  *****

  One potential target of the gunman would never know of what a narrow escape he’d had. The gunman had visited an address on a terraced street in Rochdale, with the intention of killing thirty nine year old Stephen Walker, an offender who had been found guilty of running a child porn website, and for having possession of over 100,000 indecent images of young children to share with other like minded child and baby rape enthusiasts.

  There was no answer as he knocked but Pop saw that the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open some more.

  “Mr Walker?” he shouted. There was no response. The place looked deserted. The visitor entered the property, the happy sound of youngsters playing in the streets nearby made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  There was nobody inside the house. There was a cold cup of tea on the kitchen side, beside a letter. It was from the Probation Service.

  Dear Mr Walker,

  Further to our communication regarding concerns about your personal safety, in light of the recent murders of child sexual offenders in Greater Manchester, we are pleased to advise you that your application for retreat into one of our temporary safe houses has been approved.

  It is your own decision as to whether you take up the residency, but please be advised that once you are entered into the safe house, you cannot leave until the Probation Service Manager gives you his express permission. Your Senior Manager will be: Geoff Dawes, who is the Senior Manager of Salford City Probation Service. I am dealing with him on your behalf.

  There will be strict rules to which you will be expected to adhere, many of which may remind you of your time in prison. I cannot stress highly enough the importance of co-operation from everybody in the safe house. You will be given a copy of the rules when you arrive. Be sure to understand that should you break any one of the rules, you will be excluded from the building immediately.

  You are expected to attend the Probation Service office on Thursday at 10.30am, from here you will be transported to the safe house. Naturally, the location is secret and will not be discussed with anybody. Here is a list of things to bring with you.

  •2 spare sets of clothing.

  •Toiletries, toothbrush, etc.

  •1 book or magazine. (No Pornography.)

  That list includes everything you are permitted. Any additional items will be confiscated when you arrive.

  Please phone the office to confirm you still wish to take this place, before closing time on Wednesday.

  Obviously, this matter is strictly confidential. It is in your personal interest that this remains a secret, so tell nobody about this. It is strongly recommended that this letter is destroyed.

  Yours Sincerely

  Gary Braxton

  Probation Officer

  The letter was quickly folded and put into the visitor’s pocket. He left by the back door and smiled at this exciting new development.

  Pop’s Story

  Part Three

  The autumn of 2005 was the time when things began, unbelievably - to go so wrong, so suddenly for the Dawson family.

  It started out with the occasional mood. It was very uncharacteristic of Sarah, she had always been very laid back and easy going. Her little moods quickly progressed. After a very short while, she would come home from school, throw her bag in the cupboard under the stairs, run upstairs and just lie on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Alison always went up, it alarmed her that her daughter had suddenly become so stroppy. She would stay with her, asking all of the obvious questions. She got no response, except the occasional “I want to be left alone,” or “I’m just tired.”

  George was perplexed. Sarah had suddenly become very distant with him particularly. It very quickly became intolerable. Alison and George would talk for hours about what might be wrong. Alison’s first instinct told her that her daughter was simply heading into adolescence, that her temperament was at its worst at the moment.

  “Things will be okay soon,” she advised her husband.

  George wasn’t so sure about that though. His job was to help the first year pupils integrate into the new school environment, he was paid to help them make the transition. He hadn’t encountered many pupils who had suddenly become so unhappy, particularly in the first year.

  George was well aware of what he might expect from the third years, but even with kids at such a turbulent age, with all the concerns that they suddenly have - they didn’t generally become so withdrawn. He spoke to his headmaster about his concerns, asking him if he might know of any bullying issues that Bolton Royal Grammar might prefer to keep quiet about. Mr Marr, the headmaster of George’s school said that he hadn’t heard of anything, but assured his head of first year that he would make some enquiries.

  That night, George got home to find the same scenario. Sarah had arrived home from school and headed straight up the stairs to her room. Alison was beside herself, Lisa was becoming upset with it all too. He decided that he was going to go to Sarah’s room and get to the bottom of this disturbing behaviour once and for all. He was in there for over two hours. There was a lot of talking, but it was all George. Alison sat on the top of the stairs, listening in. Whatever it was that was bugging Sarah, she wasn’t prepared to explain. George was convinced that it was down to the school. Something was wrong there, something that was making his little darling unhappy.

  He pressed at her relentlessly. He was worried that she was being bullied, or that she was finding the work too hard, and as a result was keeping her problems quiet through fear of “letting down” her parents. It also crossed his mind that she may be ill, some horrible childhood disease that only she was aware of but didn’t want to face up to.

  He offered every conceivable problem that he could think of, convinced that when he hit the right one a flood of tears would come and whatever it was, it could be fixed straight away.

  “If you’re not happy at the school darling - there’s no problem changing.”

  “What, are you worried that you might be letting us down? Don’t be so silly. All we want is for you to be happy.”

  “Are you missing your friends from Primary? You can invite them all over for a sleep-over party.”

  “Is somebody giving you a hard time? A couple of the older girls perhaps? If they are, you only have to say and we’ll sort it out first thing in the morning.”

  “Are you worried about your period? If you’ve got any concerns about these kinds of things, you know that mum can help you with all that.”

  George pressed and pressed but it was all to no avail. Something was seriously wrong, that much was obvious. But Sarah was determined to keep s
ilent about it, whatever it may be. He spoke to Sarah’s school the next day. He was dismayed to learn that her studies had started to suffer after a very promising start. They said that Sarah had settled in nicely, but over recent weeks had become something of a “nuisance” in class. George was further disappointed to hear that she hadn’t really made any friends, and was deemed as “a bit of a loner.”

  This news broke his heart. It didn’t sound like his little girl, his little princess with whom he had enjoyed every single father-daughter relationship cliché so utterly. He left work early that day. His intention was to go to the school, take her out of class, put his arms around her and hold her tight. He wanted to make everything better. Make her better.

  He decided against that idea. He considered giving her a little time, if she was feeling down because she felt pressurised - there was no point in attempting to make amends by applying more pressure.

  Against his instinctive notion of going to the school, he went home and decided to see if laying off the matter for a time might improve things.

  That approach didn’t help either. Sarah wasn’t attention seeking, that much was obvious. The more she was left to her own devices, the further she retreated into her own shell. George hadn’t seriously considered that she was attention seeking, it wasn’t something that she’d ever done. Still, she had never suffered from depression, and that’s exactly what her behaviour suggested was wrong. George had experienced the crippling nature of depression, and the tablets that he’d been given treated him very quickly.

  As Christmas approached, George went to consult the family doctor. He’d become so upset by the situation that he wasn’t sleeping. Whenever the thought of Sarah popped into his head, his heart began thumping hard against his chest. He found himself feeling constantly angry, an emotion that he had never before experienced.

  The GP listened sympathetically to George’s problems. He advised that he should bring Sarah in to see him, under the pretence of a routine check up. Sarah didn’t object; it wasn’t as though she was being deliberately difficult, she was still her usual obliging self. It seemed as though she was just desperately uncomfortable in the presence of other people. She preferred to be alone.

  Doctor Wilkinson was sympathetic to George’s predicament. He was a kindly old man with huge spectacles and fuzzy grey hair. When Sarah arrived for the “check up” with her father, he stayed in the waiting room while she went in. The doctor went through the appointment, with care not to blow the cover. He checked her height, her weight, her blood pressure. He looked in her ears, listened to her chest and looked at her tonsils. He then sat her down to speak to her, to ask about the new school, ask about her health, asked how things were going at home. She answered the questions rather dismissively - “alright” “fine” “okay” was all she’d said.

  He tried a different tack. He invited her to discuss any problems that she might have. Sarah had been perfectly composed up until this point. Dr Wilkinson’s routine question was met with total disapproval. She stood up, grabbed her coat and said “can I go now?” The doctor nodded, feeling quite stunned by this abrupt change in the girls demeanour.

  When she got back into the waiting room, George stood, surprised that the appointment had been completed so soon. He asked Sarah if she was okay, to which she nodded. George told her that he needed to go in and see the GP for some tablets for his backache, a problem that Sarah had no knowledge of him suffering with.

  Sarah obviously didn’t believe him and George knew it. He realised that Sarah knew that he was going to speak to Doctor Wilkinson about her. George left Sarah sitting in the seat that he had, and retraced her steps through to the consulting room at the bottom of the corridor. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Sarah stood and walked briskly out of the surgery.

  Dr Wilkinson had nothing to tell George. From her attitude, he had found her polite and co-operative if a little quiet. He advised that whatever it was that was causing Sarah this sudden unhappiness would, in his experience, soon pass. He told George that kids can and often do become suddenly introverted, and that it doesn’t usually last too long.

  “It’ll all come out in the wash,” advised the friendly doctor. George accepted Dr Wilkinson’s appraisal of the situation politely, though he felt utterly disappointed that no progress had been made. George was prescribed some sleeping tablets and was kindly advised to stop worrying so much. Dr Wilkinson suggested that maybe George was putting far too much emphasis on the whole thing - which in turn was creating a snowball effect. He thanked the doctor and headed back out into the waiting room.

  His heart sank as he realised that Sarah was gone. His pace quickened and his pulse was pumping in his throat. He tried to calm down as he walked out of the surgery, trying to utilise Dr Wilkinson’s advice.

  “Perhaps you are intensifying the situation by spending so much energy mulling over it.” No, it was no good. It was poor advice.

  George broke into a jog towards the car. As he neared the corner around which the car was parked, he caught himself praying that Sarah would be standing beside it. He rounded the corner and felt the apprehension turn to panic. Sarah was not standing by the car. He ran back to the surgery. Sarah could have been in the toilet. Yes, that was it. He was over-reacting.

  George asked the receptionist, who told him that Sarah had left ten minutes ago. He sprinted to the nearest call box. He had no change so reversed the charge.

  Lisa Answered. She agreed to the reversed charge.

  “Lisa it’s Pop. Is mum there?”

  “Hiya Pop. I’ll just get her for you.” Twenty seconds passed before Alison came on the line.

  “Hiya love.”

  “Alison, is Sarah there?” he asked, the urgency caused his wife to panic straight off.

  “No. She’s with you. I thought you were going to the doctors…”

  Alison was scared. George sounded strange. Fearful.

  “Check. Check her room.”

  Alison ran up the stairs. George could hear her footsteps as she ran back down.

  She lifted the phone.

  “No George, she’s not here. What’s going on?” George realised that he had passed his panic on. He didn’t really care. This was not right, Sarah knew better than to suddenly wander off without a word. In town especially, she’d never been allowed to go to town on her own before.

  “Don’t worry,” he said as he hung up. George didn’t know why he’d said it, the words just popped out.

  He drove the car all around, checking the bus stops, retracing the route that Sarah would have taken if she’d decided to walk home. There was no sign.

  He eventually pulled the car onto the drive. Alison came rushing out.

  “Where is she? Where is she George?”

  “She’s still not back?” he demanded. Alison shook her head slowly, her eyes glued to her husband. Her mouth was open slightly. George took her in his arms.

  “It’s alright. Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine,” he said. He sounded quite reassuring, which surprised him. Alison pulled away from him.

  “Well - what happened. Why isn’t she with you?”

  “She was. She walked out of the clinic. I’d gone in after her, to see Doctor Wilkinson. When I came back she had disappeared. I’ve looked everywhere. I guess she’s gone to a friend’s house. Someone from school.”

  Alison marched back down the drive towards the house.

  “I’m phoning the police. Something’s happened George!” she said, her voice hinting that she was fighting tears. He just stood there, staring down towards the bottom of the avenue.

  The police came after the third phone call. George and Alison had been advised not to panic on the previous two phone calls, but that was easy for somebody else to say. Somebody who doesn’t know Sarah. Doesn’t know about her recent problems. Somebody who doesn’t understand that she would never normally do this type of thing.

  The police officers who called round were nice. It was after e
ight o’clock when they had finally arrived. The WPC did most of the talking. She was kind and patient, she’d told them to call her Wendy. She took a statement, listened to the background and then asked for a photograph of Sarah. Wendy was handed one of the school photographs, taken earlier in the term. Sarah was staring out of the photo nervously, displaying her glo-white teeth as she smiled wonderfully. Her long, straight brown hair looked immaculate. Wendy made a big deal about how beautiful Sarah was before putting the family’s mind at ease. The photograph was purely to give officers an idea of who they would be looking for, she explained.

  After they departed, clutching the photo and the relevant details, a little calmness had been left. Wendy had made them think of the situation a little more rationally, promising the couple that kids of Sarah’s age do this kind of thing all the time. Wendy’s colleague, a friendly, fresh-faced young constable nodded reassuringly as she spoke.

  But, as the time went on, and Alison had phoned every conceivable person - that fragile positive attitude soon disappeared. It was replaced gradually by sheer, unspeakable panic.

  At eleven o’clock, George was back in the car. He drove for over an hour, the speed of his driving was frustrating to the other road users who wanted to get past. He went everywhere, all around Little Lever, up to Farnworth, then back over to Radcliffe. His eyes were tired, staring out through the windscreen glass. He muttered under his breath over and over. “Please. Please. Please,” as he persevered with his frantic mission.

  When he eventually arrived home, Alison was stood on the drive waiting for him.

  “Anything?” he asked hopefully as he slammed the car door shut. Alison just broke down completely. All she had been clinging to was the hope of seeing her little darling sat there in the front seat, looking a bit apprehensive about the trouble she was in. She had imagined what she would say to her when George pulled up. The huge cuddle that she needed to give her baby was becoming an all consuming ache.