“I need to think. You’ve gone fucking nuts!” he said as he slammed the door behind him.
Dawson unclipped his belt and scrambled out of the car. He began running after Sykes. He quickly caught up and dived onto his back, the unexpected weight and momentum forced Sykes down into the long grass like a wall had fallen on him. Dawson began wrestling with him, eventually grabbing his arms and holding Sykes still. Dawson sat across his chest and stared deep into his eyes.
“You selfish bastard! How can you say I’ve gone mad? How can you? How can you say it? You’ve just fucked everything up. Everything I hoped to achieve has been lost, thanks to you, taking it too far.” Sykes tried to struggle but Dawson was holding him with all of his strength.
“I never meant for - I can’t believe you’d think I’d…”
“Why was the gun loaded? We never talked about any gun being loaded when we discussed it. The idea, your idea, was to frighten them off, give us a chance to get away. The gun was never meant to be loaded.”
“I don’t know. I loaded it. I wasn’t going to shoot it…it just happened. That copper kicked me, it went off. Jesus, I’d just told her that I wouldn’t hurt her. Now get off me - let’s sort this out properly.” Dawson applied more pressure.
Beads of perspiration were beginning to appear on his head.
“I’ll not let go of you. You’ve fucked everything up. Everything I wanted to achieve, gone, just like that. I’ll just be known as a cop killer, a trouble maker. Nobody will remember my cause. Everyone will forget what I was fighting for, and I was so close! So fucking close you bastard!” Tears were running down his cheeks as he forced his hate driven words through clenched teeth into Sykes’ face.
Dawson was gripping Sykes with everything he had, but the constant struggling was taking its toll. Sykes was about to overpower Dawson when he released him. He pulled his fist back and punched Sykes with all of his remaining strength, landing a ferocious punch on Sykes’ jaw. Sykes’ energetic struggling stopped. Dawson had knocked him out.
He stood, pushing himself off the man’s chest. He looked at his friend with pure contempt, then turned and began walking down the hill through the field, down towards the town at the bottom.
“That poor woman,” he sobbed as he kicked a mound of earth.
*****
Even though they had been sitting, impatiently anticipating it, Dixon and Miller jumped as the knock resounded from the door. Dixon stood and made his way round the desk to open it. He was greeted by three white and frightened, remorseful faces.
“Hiya lads,” he said sombrely, possibly sounding a little patronising. Miller stood as they filed in. They never gave him a second glance, their eyes never sparked as though to question Miller’s appearance in Dixon’s office.
“Alright lads,” he said, knowing nothing was alright. It was just his typical greeting.
“What can I get you? Tea, coffee? Can of coke?” asked Dixon as he made his way back around the desk. “Scotch?” he added as he sat down.
Suddenly, Saunders felt as though he hadn’t had a drink in days, his throat felt tight and dry. Dusty.
“Can I have a glass of water, Sir?” he asked. His eyes were soulless, as though there was nothing behind them. A blank glaze just covered the pupils. Chapman’s were the same, whereas Worthington’s eyes told a different story altogether. Worthington’s eyes were busy, attentive, looking to unite, pleading to connect with another human beings. They connected with Miller’s.
Dixon offered water around the room. Chapman opted for some of the Scotch. Once everybody was satisfied with their desired beverage, Dixon began. He spoke slowly, considerately.
“Okay lads, I know this is tough, but - nobody has a clue what happened there except for you. We’re going to need a full account.” Dixon’s face had adopted a fresh, caring look. Saunders shifted in his chair and focused his attention onto his feet, He would normally be the chosen spokesperson, but he seemed to be making it obvious that he didn’t want this particular job. Chapman raised his hand like a child in the classroom. Dixon nodded for him to begin.
“Sir, we’d gone over to Dawson’s house to arrest him. We had him down as prime suspect for the Pop case…”
“Dawson?” Asked Dixon, on the pretence that he had no idea who Chapman was referring to.
“George Dawson. We had quality information on him, relating to the shootings.” Chapman was talking fast, though his eyes were still showing little sign of life.
“On whose authority was the arrest to be made?” interrupted the superior. Chapman was direct in response. He was determined that he would provide honest and accurate answers, this was no time to start creating deceit.
“It was on Ellis’ authority Sir,” he said. Dixon waved a hand, gesturing to Chapman to continue. “The plan was to bring him in on some bullshit charge of driving without due care and attention. The idea was to lull him into a false sense of security, make him feel that he was just going through the motions. There was concern that he may have been armed.” Chapman’s empty eyes were looking straight into Dixon’s.
“Whose idea was this?”
“It was Ellis’ idea Sir. All of it. She said the fire last night was the last straw, that a fireman could have been injured or killed there. She’d had the information on Dawson for some time, not sure how long.” Said Chapman, without any pause or hesitation.
“Carry on,” said Dixon.
“Well, Saunders was sat on the street, opposite the suspect’s house, his intention was that he would inform us of Dawson’s movements.”
“Where were you?”
“Me and Worthington were on the main road, waiting for the signal. The plan was to crash into Dawson’s vehicle when he pulled out of the avenue.”
“And Ellis?”
“She was parked further down the road. She was supposed to arrive just after the collision. It was all supposed to play out like a freak accident, Sir.”
“What was?” asked Miller, not quite grasping what Chapman was saying. Chapman and Saunders looked over at him, as though acknowledging him for the first time.
“The accident. It was supposed to seem like we were just in the area, when he pulls out in front of my car and we hit. Ellis was to arrive a few seconds later, witness like. Anyway, that’s exactly how it panned out. We smashed his car, then got out - asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing and all that. Loads of neighbours starting coming out of all the houses and gathering round as Ellis read him his rights, she explained that he would have to come down to the station. It was all very nice type of thing. Then, one of the neighbours, said his name was Peter Sykes, he say’s “you’re not taking him anywhere.” Well, we’re all thinking - no wait. That was it, he says “Ellis,” said her name. He said “I know what’s going on here Ellis,” or something to that effect. That’s when Worthington told him that he was under arrest. He moved towards him to grip him and this Sykes whacked him right in the throat.” The eyes of the two senior detectives shifted and locked onto Chapman’s partner who was sitting next to him. Worthington nodded as though to confirm.
“So, I moved in, went straight for him, but I had to get around these fucking neighbours that were stood in my way. It was total chaos. Anyway, when I got in front of him, that’s when I saw the gun. A revolver, it was just there, it came from nowhere. It was pointing right up my nose.”
“It was Sykes’ gun? He was holding it?” Dixon was desperate to find out the specifics, he was being patient - he could see that Chapman was clearly in shock.
“Yeah, yeah, Sykes was holding it. I don’t think Dawson had even got out of the car yet,” said Chapman.
“He was, he’d got out by now, he was just stood by it, looked totally out of his head,” offered Saunders.
“It was Sykes who was holding it. Anyway, I froze when I realised what was going on. It was dead phoney really, as though it had all been rehearsed or something. Then, Sykes told Ellis to go to him, which she did. He put his arm around
her shoulder and put the gun against her temple. He looked at me, saying that everything’s going to be fine and then next thing, it went off.”
Chapman seemed very matter-of-fact about the incident, which was proof if any was needed that he was in a deep state of shock. Worthington looked at Dixon, a scared, remorseful, pleading look was unmistakable in his eyes. He looked vulnerable and desperate, like an abandoned child, starved of affection.
“I never knew about the gun. I didn’t know what was going on. I was on the deck clutching my throat, trying to get some air. That punch really hurt. As I started to come round a bit I could see Sykes’ legs in front of me. That’s when I kicked out.” He began crying. Dixon looked at Miller who was equally as confused.
“So you kicked Sykes?” asked Dixon. Worthington tried to get himself together. He spoke through the emotion that was engulfing him.
“Yeah, I lashed out, just above his knee cap. That’s when I heard the blast. But I didn’t know. You don’t think I would have done it if I knew, do you?” Worthington’s eyes were pleading. Dixon exhaled a heavy gust of air.
“Jesus!”
“It was just surreal, all of it,” said Chapman.
“So where were you?” asked Dixon of Saunders.
“I was still in the car, further up the avenue. I couldn’t do anything, just had to sit and wait until Sykes and Dawson escaped.” Saunders’ voice was flat, totally emotionless.
A moment of silence passed while everybody gathered their thoughts. Suddenly Dixon’s telephone began ringing once again. He lifted the receiver and stared into space while the others looked on. Dixon’s face remained expressionless as he listened intently to what it was he was being told.
At the end of the conversation, he smiled wryly and said thanks before placing the receiver down. He looked up at the four broken, gutted faces before him.
“You’ll never believe this,” he said.
Chapter Thirty One
Avenham Close, Little Lever
Bolton’s K division were given the crime scene. The murder investigation.
The entire avenue was closed off, the body of Acting Detective Chief Inspector Karen Ellis was lay hidden beneath a forensics tent.
As usual in the current climate; the news companies had all arrived at the scene, and were beaming live pictures within half an hour of the incident taking place.
They all knew what was happening. They knew who lay beneath that huge yellow and white tent, but for the first time recently the media representatives showed some contrition. They all gave clues, sure, but out of respect for the dead officer and her family, the name and sex of the dead detective was not to be announced until the press officer at MCP gave the say so.
As for the other elements of the story, the reporters were chattering away feverishly into microphones and cameras. There was no shortage of eyewitnesses to interview and the story was “breaking news” on all terrestrial stations, whose regular programming was being interrupted to bring up-to-the-minute coverage of this horrific development in the Pop story.
The BBC were the first of the channels to interrupt normal programming when they went live with this report:
“The Pop affair has today progressed with the saddest and most shocking of developments. Behind me lies the body of a police officer, who has been shot dead while trying to apprehend the man known as Pop. It is not clear at this stage whether Pop was actually responsible for the shooting, there are many conflicting accounts as to what happened here. As we stand here at this sad place, rumours are flying around that Pop was not actually responsible, that it was another man who fired the gun and eyewitnesses all insist that what has happened here today was a freak accident. We are awaiting a press release from Manchester City Police, which should shed some much–needed light on the matter, but one thing is absolutely certain at this hour. Pop has gone from sacrosanct hero to nationally detested villain in just a couple of small hours. The car crash site that you can see just behind me here is apparently the vehicle of the police officers who had come to arrest Pop, and the black vehicle is believed to be that of the gunman’s. As I stand here and look at the carnage, and the grieving police officers, I wonder whether hell has today visited this neat little suburban avenue just outside Bolton. Back to you in the studio.”
*****
George Dawson could not articulate the way that he felt. A thousand dark and desperate thoughts were swimming around his head, the violent death of Karen Ellis was being replayed again and again around other shocking visions. Thoughts of that crash which launched this horrible chain of events. Thoughts of Sarah’s lifeless body hanging from that tree. Thought’s of Alison’s vacant face each time he went to visit her. George Dawson had never felt so tormented, and he had experienced his fair share of torment in the past.
He knew that he was going to do it, when he walked off and left Peter lying on the ground at the camping spot. He knew he was going to do it as he made the long trek down the hill, even as he boarded the bus; he knew what he had to do.
But now he was here, he felt strangely inadequate. He didn’t feel as though he could go through with it. He was scared. He sat down on the wall across the road and went over it in his head. He must have gone over the same thoughts a thousand times and each time he arrived at the same conclusion. He had to go through with it.
He sat for a few minutes, taking deep breaths, watching the world go idly by. Then he stood. He felt ready, or as ready as he’d ever feel. He walked over the road, almost being knocked down by a motorcyclist as he reached the other side. He chortled humourlessly to himself as he realised that he might have been killed. Britain’s most wanted man, killed on the road outside the police station.
He walked up the steps to the entrance and waited for the automatic doors to open. He looked back at the street, at the people, at the freedom, before he stepped inside. He wondered what he’d ever done to deserve such terrible tragedy in his life. He’d wondered about that many times before, in the darkest moments of self pity and anguish, but it seemed so much more relevant now as he was about to hand his miserable freedom over.
George Dawson introduced himself to the desk sergeant with his given name. He was surprised when the busy looking policeman asked, “And how can I help you today, Mr Dawson?” He gave the officer his nickname. A fear was gripping at his insides, a feeling that he had never before experienced. Not even the night Sarah disappeared.
The officer looked utterly spellbound. He froze, just for a few seconds before he finally picked up the phone and asked for assistance at the duty desk.
“Can you make this easy?” asked the sergeant. Dawson didn’t quite understand. He thought he’d made it pretty easy by walking into the place.
“Put both of your hands on the counter here, please,” said the sergeant. Dawson did as he was told, and followed the next request of spreading his legs.
“Are you armed Mr Dawson? He asked when he was satisfied with Dawson’s stance.
“No, I’m not,” said Dawson as three burly looking police officers came bounding in through a door that Dawson hadn’t noticed to the side of him.
“George Dawson I am arresting you for murder. You do not have to say anything…” as the sergeant read him his rights, one of the other officers handcuffed him while the other two took hold of his arms. When the sergeant was through, he looked at the other officers and a sly grin appeared on his lips.
“Gentlemen, can you please take Pop into custody?” The disorientated look on the constables’ faces was priceless. The sergeant nodded, confirming what he had just said.
“Fucking hell,” said one of the constables as they led George Dawson through to the holding cells.
The sergeant contacted the division’s most senior officer, Chief Superintendent Joseph McKinlay, who in turn rang Dixon to announce the news. To announce that Pop was in custody at Horwich police station near Bolton and that he had walked in voluntarily.
*****
Dixon couldn’t
help the smile that had crossed his lips. Dixon was smiling.
Miller, Saunders, Worthington and Chapman looked on, wondering what there could possibly be to smile about.
Dixon relayed the conversation that he had just had with Chief Superintendent McKinlay at Bolton. The news was welcomed, though it hardly raised a smile. A moment’s reflective silence passed. Miller was the first to speak.
“He said he’d do that. He said on Sky that if he got anybody who wasn’t connected with his campaign - he’d hand himself in. He’s a man of his word, even if he isn’t directly responsible for this.”
Saunders shot his head round at Miller, an untold vehemence was present in his eyes.
“Don’t fucking defend him! Jesus!” he snapped, “it’s fucking obvious you love this guy, so why don’t you just fuck off - like you did when the pressure was on?” Saunders leaned back into his chair. Miller felt the anger rise within him, he had to fight not to stand up and hit Saunders. He couldn’t believe that he’d said that. That he’d insinuated that he’d quit because he couldn’t handle it. Because he “loved” the murderer. He took a minute to calm down and catch his breath before responding.
“Keith, we both know that that’s bang out of order. I’ll let it go, but don’t think that you’re hurting more than anybody else over this. We’re all in the same boat. Okay?” Miller was staring at the side of the Detective Sergeant.
Saunders refused to acknowledge Miller, he just stared impassively ahead, at nothing in particular. Dixon intervened.
“Listen lads, I’ve asked Andy to come back. That was before we learnt that Dawson has handed himself in. I’ve asked him to pick up the case where he left off. I think the prime objective now is to bring Sykes in.”
Miller interjected, he looked pale and scared. “Sir, I think the prime objective is to go and inform Bob Ellis that his wife is dead.”
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 35
