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

by Steven Suttie

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Grand Logistics Warehouse, Stockport

  Dixon sat in the chair looking out of the window as a train travelled slowly across the famous red brick railway viaduct that dominated the view. He couldn’t think straight. He left the introductions to Miller, who was stood at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Hello, my name is DCI Andrew Miller from Manchester City Police. I need to speak to Bob Ellis immediately,” he said. He could feel his insides jumping with his racing heartbeat. This was without any doubt going to be the worst moment in his life. But he needed to do it. If he’d sent some patronising, specially trained liason officer, he’d never be able to look Bob in the eye again. He wouldn’t be able to face his own reflection again. Bob came bounding through from his office. He was smiling as he breezed into the reception. He saw Miller’s City shirt before he noticed the sad, apologetic look on his face.

  “Aw, no - don’t tell me you’ve come to say you can’t do it! I’ve just sacked the guy you’re supposed to be replacing!” He was grinning. Then his eye caught Dixon who had stood up. He was wearing his full, grand uniform. Bob looked back at Miller. Then back at Dixon.

  “What’s? Everything okay? What’s going on?” The smile had faded, it was replaced by a sudden fear.

  “Hello Bob. Can we talk. In private?” Miller felt as though his heart was about to burst. Bob knew. He knew as he turned, said “sure” and led them through to his office. He knew what this was about. He slumped in his chair.

  “This is about Karen. Is she dead?” Bob was staring at Miller through glazed eyes. He looked lost. Miller kept eye contact. He was shocked by the question. It was as though the question was just so unbelievable. He had to check himself , he had to fight himself from saying “No, don’t be so bloody daft!” But Bob was right, as unbelievable as it was, that was the truth. Karen was dead.

  Miller nodded. “I’m really sorry, Bob. I’m afraid so. Karen is dead.”

  Bob seemed to collapse into the chair that he was already slumped in. A quiet, involuntary noise left him, it was a haunting mixture of a sigh and a howl. It was the soul-wrenching sound of a heart breaking. It was as though all of his muscles had given up. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to be brave, didn’t try to be dramatic.

  Bob just sat there. He just let the horrible, awful words sink in. He just sat there and felt the true feeling of dread and anguish, pain and sorrow wash over him. He had spent many, many long nights wondering whether Karen was dead, when she’d not come home. He’d fallen asleep so many times, clutching the pillow, praying for her safe return, desperate to wake up in the morning and find Karen snoring next to him. He’d played that scenario out more times than he cared to remember, and each following morning would be the same. He’d scold himself for being so neurotic.

  A couple of times, when it had been really bad, he’d told his wife of the fearful sleep that he’d fallen into. She would just laugh, tell him that there was no way that she could die because Bob would grow a beard if she did. She always made it into a joke. But now it was real. Now it was actually happening, and Bob wanted to clutch that pillow so much, to fall into the uneasy, panicky sleep that had always ended the nightmare.

  Bob had absolutely no desire to find out why, or how or even when his wife was taken from him. He didn’t want to consider the magnitude of the words that Miller, his friend, had just spoken. He certainly didn’t want to think about bringing James up without his beautiful, wonderful mother. He just wanted to be left alone. For now, anyway.

  “Do you want us to take you home?” asked Miller, who felt completely useless, and in a strange way, malicious and sadistic, for what he had just done. Bob thought about the question for what seemed like an age, staring into space in his spinning, underwater, fuzzy, pulsating office.

  “Yes, I suppose you’d better had,” he eventually said, before the horror of the situation forced out another involuntary, quiet, heartbreaking howl.

  *****

  After dropping Bob at home and making sure that somebody was coming round to sit with him, Dixon and Miller got onto the motorway and made the journey west to Horwich.

  It was strange for both of them, working together like this. It had been a long time, yet both men felt that the connection was still there, despite the most tragic of circumstances which had forced them together again.

  When they arrived at Horwich police station, they couldn’t help but feel the electricity that was flowing around the place. The station’s officers were treating this like some kind of celebrity visit, excited chattering about the nick’s star prisoner had already passed beyond the police station’s walls, a fact testified by the ITN News van that was beaming live pictures from outside the building.

  Miller and Dixon sat in the interview room waiting to meet the serial killer. They weren’t sure what to expect, but what they found when Dawson was led into the dark little, claustrophobic room surprised them both. He looked neat, not quite how Miller had imagined him, but very similar. The height issue was instantly noticeable, he must be less than five foot five, considered Miller as the humble, sad-looking man pulled the chair out opposite.

  There were no introductions, no “how do you do’s.” Miller informed the nervous, remorseful figure opposite him that he was being recorded by video camera in the corner of the room, which he pointed to, and by microphone on the wall beside the table where they were seated.

  “Okay, let’s get straight down to business. Where is Sykes?” asked Miller.

  Dawson looked him straight in the eye and told him where he had left his friend. He added that he didn’t know whether he would still be there, or where else he might head to.

  Miller left the room and requested a local map from one of the PC’s outside on the corridor. He waited until the constable brought it back, thanked him and then went back into the room, where Dawson was just staring into space and fidgeting with his hands under the table.

  “Can you give me the specific location where you left Sykes?” He unfolded the map. Dawson studied it for a few minutes before pointing to a place up in Rivington.

  “And what do you think are the chances of Sykes still being there?”

  “I couldn’t say. We had an arrangement between us. He insisted and insisted and in the end I foolishly agreed to let him help me. That whole…” Dawson stopped as his emotions got the better of him. He struggled to speak, as his words fought the raw emotion in his voice. His eyes filled with tears. “…that whole situation… today. Sorry.” The tears began pouring down Dawson’s face as he tried to finish his sentence.

  “It’s okay. Take a minute,” said Miller, which attracted a glance from Dixon.

  “Aw God!” Dawson wiped at his face with his sleeves. “Sorry. The situation today, it was supposed to have been my getaway. We’d planned it when DS Saunders started hanging about on the close. The gun though, that’s a different story. We’d both agreed that it would not be loaded. That’s how come I was so shocked when it went off. I couldn’t…” Dawson broke down again, as Miller himself found it difficult to put his own emotions to one side.

  “Do we need a break?” asked Dixon.

  “No, Sir. It’s fine. Take a minute,” said Miller to Dawson, surprising himself at how softly he spoke to the suspect.

  “I’ll be okay, it’s okay, it’s important that you know, it was never intentional what happened today, I can’t explain it, I don’t know why the gun was loaded. I asked Peter…”

  “Sykes?”

  “Yes, I asked him and he doesn’t know why he loaded it. I walked off when he told me, we were roughly here.” Dawson pointed at a specific point on the map. “We were going to camp here until we’d figured out our next move.”

  Miller was intrigued about how it was that this man, Peter Sykes, had become so involved in Dawson’s campaign, that he was willing to sacrifice his own liberty to protect him. But that would have to wait. He needed to bring Sykes in first.


  Miller stood and moved over to the door. He opened it and was met by the constable who had brought the map, standing directly outside the interview room.

  “I need a Panda car, straight away,” he said. The constable walked quickly away after nodding his understanding. Miller turned back into the room that was housing one of the country’s most notorious serial killers. A man who so far, Miller could find very little fault in.

  “I need you to come up that hill with me. You can talk to Sykes. I take it he’s still got the gun?” said Miller. Dawson nodded.

  “I assume so. He had it when I left. It was on the dashboard,” said Dawson.

  “You can talk him round. I don’t fancy getting shot myself.”

  Dixon looked troubled. “Andy. Outside. We need to talk,” said the superior as he made for the door Miller was still hovering next to. Dixon went through the door as Miller followed. The corridor was deserted.

  “You can forget that nonsense. Nobody is approaching Sykes until Armed Response have dealt with him.” Dixon’s face was fixed. Miller knew that look. It meant there was no potential for bargaining. Usually, anyway.

  “Forget that. You are not fucking things up now by suddenly adopting a responsible attitude.” Miller was staring back at Dixon, daring him to speak. Dixon lifted his hand to his brow and wiped the glistening sweat from his forehead. Miller lowered his voice to little more than a whisper.

  “You can stay here, I’m taking Dawson up there with me. Alone.”

  “Oh. What a great idea. That’s marvellous that Andy! Bloody genius!” exclaimed the DCS.

  Miller smiled. He wasn’t about to get annoyed by Dixon. Not at this late stage in the game.

  “Your rules apply to both teams do they?” he asked. Dixon hadn’t a clue what Miller had meant.

  “What?” asked Dixon.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Miller saw somebody approaching along the corridor.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Dixon’s white, bushy eyebrows raised. It could be read on his face, he was confused and concerned by what Miller had just said.

  “See you in a bit,” said Miller as he opened the interview room door and told Dawson to “come on.”

  Dixon reached out and placed his hand on Miller’s shoulder.

  “I’m coming too,” he whispered snappily, “before you make the biggest mistake of your life.”

  Miller smiled. He turned and faced Dixon who suddenly looked exceptionally nervous, like a yob suddenly realising he’d been mouthing off at a cage fighter.

  “Fine. That’s fine.”

  “Sir! I’ve got a car waiting round the back,” Miller spun around. It was the constable he had sent for the Panda. “But, I have to tell you, the car park entrance is full of news crews. It’s like a bloody picket line out there. There’s no way you’ll be able to drive out there without being spotted.” Miller looked unhappy by this announcement, he’d not thought about that.

  “What do you suggest we do then?”

  The PC looked rather flattered to have been asked advice from such a high ranking and well respected senior officer.

  “Well, maybe the best idea, I think, if you leave through the reception doors, walk around the corner and I’ll pick you up. Reception’s clear, they’re all camped out by the custody entrance.” Miller smiled and nodded.

  “Great, that’s what we’ll do then, you pull the car up when we’re a couple of hundred yards up the road and get out. Detective Chief Superintendent Dixon can drive.”

  *****

  Outside, the gathered media presence was attracting interest from passers-by, who stopped to see what all the fuss was about. Horwich was not used to having all these TV crews and radio cars. It is a normal, quiet little town, halfway between Bolton and Chorley. It was a place that was once famous for building Army tanks in the first and second world wars. But nowadays, it’s not really a place you hear about, and a very surprising place to find Britain’s most wanted man.

  The reporters weren’t all that sure what was going on inside the building, but had begun reporting that Pop was inside, and that he had handed himself in. That revelation alone was creating a surge of excitement amongst the representatives of the Manchester Evening News, ITN News, the BBC, Tower FM, Granada TV, Sky News, Piccadilly Radio and the various freelance journalists who were praying for a good story that they could sell. Nobody was all that sure that the information was accurate, and the yearning to hear confirmation from the MCP press office was becoming intolerable.

  However, MCP press office hadn’t yet commented. Confirmation or denial as to whether Pop was in custody was low down on their list of priorities. They were still trying to come to terms with, and understand, the circumstances which led to Karen Ellis’s death.

  *****

  The constable that Miller had come across by chance when he’d asked for the map was becoming an increasingly helpful ally. Dixon, Miller and Dawson were standing by the doors to the reception where Dawson had volunteered himself, when the young officer re-appeared. Miller had been watching the road outside, waiting to see the Panda car drive past.

  “Sir!” he said urgently as he approached from behind. Miller again spun round.

  “It’s chocka all the way around the station. I’ve asked my mate, Phil Derbyshire if he can help. I thought I’d best clear it with you first, though,” he was talking fast, obviously excited by the extraordinary events that were unfolding in his workplace.

  “What are you thinking, constable?” asked Miller.

  “Well, I was about to get in the car, when suddenly I felt like a Hollywood star - there were people rushing around the corner to try and see what I was doing. Cameras, microphones, everything. So I came back inside. I asked Phil if he’d act as a decoy, what I was thinking was, if he puts his full uniform on, his helmet and everything, and heads outside carrying some paper, they’ll all flock round him. He said he’s cool to just stand there for a few minutes while we get out of here. What do you reckon Sir?”

  Miller smiled. “I think that’s brilliant constable!” He was impressed with the young officer’s ingenuity.

  “What’s your name, constable?” he asked.

  “Simmons, Sir. PC Daniel Simmons,” he replied as he began walking swiftly away.

  “We’ll have to keep an eye out for you, lad. Well done.” Miller returned his attention to the road, in anticipation of seeing the Panda car breeze past the main entrance.

  PC Simmons gave his colleague PC Phil Derbyshire the nod as he reached the custody department. Phil smiled slyly, this was a welcome distraction to the daily tedium and he was delighted to be of such use, particularly when it was merely to carry out his speciality, “taking the piss.”

  PC Simmons got himself ready in the car, which was parked unfortunately in sight of the press-pack. He looked over to Phil and nodded. The car’s engine was started and Phil came walking out of the door where the reporters were assembled. He stared directly at his pieces of A4 typed paper as he marched into the centre of the jostling group.

  He was greeted with intense, raw excitement. The group scrambled around him, the journalists were struggling to find a space amongst the various onlookers who also wanted to hear the news first-hand. Inaudible questions were being shouted at his face.

  PC Simmons drove the car slowly past the mob and smiled when he didn’t receive a second look from a single member of the rabble.

  Phil stood amongst them for a minute, overlooking his paperwork, which actually consisted of a sandwich shop’s menu and a memo regarding the correct procedure when arresting “substance users,” which he had unpinned from the custody suite notice board. He waited until PC Simmons was well out of sight before he spoke.

  “Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen. Has anybody seen Kev?” He looked at their confused faces for a few seconds, before adding, “oh well, thanks anyway.” He turned and began to make his way back to the building through the mystified group. He laughed at himself as soon as the door was firmly close
d behind him. The more experienced members of the media saw the whole exercise for exactly what it was. A decoy. They knew that whatever the purpose, they wouldn’t find out in this lifetime.

  PC Simmons pulled the car up round the corner as agreed and waited for Miller, Dixon and Dawson to catch up. They all got into the car, Dixon in the driving seat. They went totally unnoticed. Miller thanked Simmons for all of his help and left him standing on the pavement, feeling very pleased with himself, as the police car was driven away.

  Dixon wondered how long it had been since he had last driven a Panda car as he headed away from the town. Miller saw this short drive as a prized opportunity to understand fully the situation with Dawson. He was sitting on the back seat next to him.

  “Are you alright, George?” asked Miller. He was beginning to feel tense, he had no idea what was waiting for them up that hill.

  “Yes, I’m okay, under the circumstances,” said Dawson without any warmth.

  “Or would you prefer it if I called you Pop?” Miller smiled sarcastically as he made eye contact with the kindly, yet sad-looking serial killer.

  “No, George will be fine,” said Dawson, sounding flat and hopeless.

  “What was that all about anyway, Pop. Why do you call yourself that?” asked Miller. Dawson looked down at his clasped hands as he explained.

  “That’s what my girls called me. Pop. I don’t know why, it just kind of stuck from when they were both babies.” Miller was stunned. Dawson’s words hit him hard and knocked his wind out for a moment. He’d never even considered that the nickname’s origin could be so simple. He’d thought it was some weird and wonderful code name. He instantly felt bad, and looked at Dawson with pure respect. Dawson’s words had moved the seasoned detective immensely. He hadn’t expected to feel that.

  “Sarah still called me that right up until the day she died,” continued Dawson. Miller had been downright unpleasant with the question and he knew it. Dawson had softened him already. Dixon however wasn’t quite so moved. He drove slowly and listened, trying to remain impartial to Dawson’s story.