“It was because of her, my beautiful daughter, that I’ve got myself into this, and look how it’s turned out. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Karen Ellis. I never dreamt that anything like this could have happened.” He spoke slowly, sincerely. He wasn’t looking for forgiveness or comfort. Dawson just wanted to share his truth, and his shame.
Miller nodded. “Well, I’m afraid it has happened. You know, Karen was a dear and valued friend, not just a colleague. We’re all going to miss her more than anything, and directly, or indirectly - that is your fault.”
Dawson looked up and made eye contact once again. His eyes reached deep into Miller’s, deep into his soul.
“I know,” he said. He meant it. He did know.
Miller liked him, he felt for him.
He felt for Bob, for Saunders and Worthington and Chapman who had watched it. He felt for Ellis. For baby James. But he also felt for this pathetic, weak looking man next to him. He felt for him because he knew that this shouldn’t have happened. None of it. Right back to when Dawson’s daughter was being abused at her school by a known paedophile.
“Tell me about what happened with your daughter,” said Miller, not meaning to cause pain or undue distress. He just wanted Dixon to hear it. He wanted Dixon to know what the whole disastrous thing had been about, told in a victim’s voice, not via a report in a team briefing.
Dawson was comfortable with talking about it. He told the whole story. He told of discovering his eleven year old hanging from that tree, he told of finding out the reason for his daughter’s death from a note that she had written and placed in the bag that she had used to kill herself. He told of the breakdown his wife suffered, and then her tragic death. He told the two policemen how hard it had been to try and hold things together while raising his other daughter, Lisa.
Then he told them about the lost years.
George Dawson referred to them as the lost years because that’s exactly what they had become. Lost. Useless. Wasted. The lost years were spent trying to highlight the issue. Trying to raise awareness, improve sentencing, help victims, upgrade court procedures.
Just to stop the sick, inadequate bastards from doing it.
George explained how, for years he spent every waking hour trying to work on something that he realised nobody wanted to know about. “If it’s happening, that’s sad” he said, “but as long as I don’t have to hear about it, I’d prefer not to know the sordid little facts.” He was quoting a distinguished Member of Parliament whom he had contacted. Dawson laughed, a completely humourless laugh, as he stared out of the window at the passing countryside and continued to tell the Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Chief Superintendent what the MP had told him. “I’m sorry that you have to hear this, Mr Dawson, but it is a plain and simple fact. People know that it is happening, just like they know that old people are beaten up by care home staff, and that children as young as eight are addicted to heroin. They know it happens, but the reality is too plain to resist. Nobody wants to talk about it. It’s upsetting, and people don’t like to be upset.” Dawson looked up at the policemen to catch their reaction.
It was Dixon who looked up into the rear view mirror at Dawson.
“What?” he asked, as though he was in a state of disbelief.
Dawson ran over the finer points again. But there was more, George Dawson wasn’t finished explaining how he’d arrived at choosing to shoot paedophiles just yet. Oh no, there was still plenty more to say.
“Please don’t think that I just decided to do this. It wasn’t an impulsive thing. It was my last, final, cry for help and despite the tragedy today, and last Saturday up in Preston, I think it’s had some effect, I really do.” Dawson’s voice seemed to crack suddenly, he said the words as though somebody was pulling a cord around his neck.
“At least people are discussing it. People are talking about what I did, why I did it.” He began thumping his index finger into his chest, as though trying to convince himself. “If I have made anything happen, I know that those sick fuckers I killed will never lay their pathetic hands on innocent kids again, I’m glad for that.”
Miller looked at Dixon in the mirror. He was looking straight back at him. Miller returned his attention to Dawson.
“What was all that about then, with Sykes. How was it that he was willing to risk everything, in order to help you make a run for it? I mean, you wouldn’t have been on the run for very long, you must have known that?”
Dawson answered swiftly.
“Peter’s dying. He’s got about six months they reckon. I think he wanted a bit of excitement before his time is up. But why he loaded that gun is absolutely mystifying, it makes no sense at all.”
“Is he bitter about that fact?” Miller looked hard at Dawson. The puzzle was beginning to take shape.
“You mean about dying? The big C? Yes, of course he’s bitter. He’s angry, furious about it. He is fifty-three years old for God’s sake. He’s terrified about leaving Margaret. He’s scared for himself. He’s bitter alright.” Dawson had had enough for now, he looked close to tears.
“Sir, stop the car. I need to talk to you,” said Miller. Dixon’s eyes flicked up at the DCI, then down at the road, then back in the mirror at Miller. He began indicating, the turn off for the country lane that meandered up the hill was next on the right. Dixon turned onto the lane.
“Sir. Stop the car.” Dixon saw no sense in arguing. He indicated again and pulled the car to a halt at the first lay-by. Miller got out.
“Stay here, George. We’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
Dawson nodded as Dixon pulled himself up out of the driving seat. He slammed the door shut and looked at Miller who was leant against the boot of the car.
“I have never known such irregularity. What’s the meaning behind all of this? And don’t bullshit me!” Dixon was furious, there was no mistake about that. Miller laughed.
“Irregularity?” He scoffed, “fuck me sideways. Talk about a severe case of acute hypocritis!” Dixon looked down at Miller’s scruffy white trainers.
“This isn’t a game Andy. We’re both looking at jail for this. You do realise that don’t you?”
Miller laughed again, merely for the purpose of belittling the DCS.
“You are facing jail Sir. You, and your cronies upstairs, including the Chief Constable. Who else? Oh yeah, the Home Secretary, and probably half of his department. Who else? Oh, sorry, how silly, of course… it’s him.” Miller’s finger shot up and pointed through the window into the back of the car, right at the back of George Dawson’s head. Dixon looked unsteady. Everything was happening too quickly and he couldn’t think straight. Dawson just sat there, staring ahead, lost in his own world.
“We’re letting him go, Dawson is going free, today. If you try and obstruct that process in anyway, then you are going to prison. No two ways about it Sir. I don’t want to know your opinion on it. That’s what’s happening.” Miller reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He offered it to Dixon.
“Call who you need to call, tell them to pave the way. Sykes is Pop. Sykes is our prime suspect. Sykes killed Karen, but just remember one thing before your righteous air returns. Sykes is not responsible for Karen’s death. You fucking are!”
Miller left the Detective Chief Superintendent standing at the rear of the Vauxhall Astra Panda car as he made his way round to the side and got back onto the backseat with Dawson. He didn’t care to look at the damage his words had caused. Dixon didn’t use the phone, he followed Miller into the car and started it up.
The drive up the hill was slow and tense. Winter Hill is one of the most famous in the north west of England, the home to the giant TV transmitter, the aircraft warning red lights of which can be seen from all across the region at night.
The main question that was swimming around Miller’s head was whether Sykes would still be there. He thought it unlikely, but had to remind himself that the pair of them, Sykes and Dawson were complete amat
eurs. There was no way that he could predict anything that Sykes might do. Miller noticed that Dixon was nibbling nervously at his fingernails as he drove.
“You okay Sir?” he asked, out of genuine interest. Dixon’s eyes flicked up at the mirror again. Then back onto the winding country lane.
“Yes, I’m alright. I’m just worried that this Sykes character is going to shoot that gun again.” He said.
“He won’t, Mr Dixon. I know he won’t.” offered Dawson, but Dixon ignored him.
A further five tense minutes passed before anybody spoke again. It was Dawson who broke the silence.
“It’s just up here now, Mr Dixon.” He was looking at the turn off for another lane. Dixon turned the corner.
“How much further up? Asked Miller. Dawson looked across at him.
“We’re here now. It’s just behind those trees,” he said. Dixon stopped the car and turned round to face Miller.
“Go on. I’ll stay here and make that call. Are you absolutely sure about all of this?” he asked. Miller just shrugged and nodded dismissively as he opened the door and got out. Dawson followed and closed the door behind him. Dixon began punching numbers into the keypad on Miller’s mobile. Through a gap in the trees ahead, they could make out the silver Mercedes.
“Listen, George. I want you to go up there and make peace with your friend. This is probably the last time you are going to see him.” Miller’s words slammed into Dawson hard. It seemed that he hadn’t considered that detail until that moment. He looked hurt.
“I’ll follow behind. I’ll be just behind you, alright?” Miller could almost feel the sudden, intense emotions that were being stirred up in Dawson. He began walking, then stopped and turned back to Miller.
“Mr Miller, I don’t understand this kindness that you are showing me. You have been really good to me, when you have every reason to hate me. Thank you, it really does mean a lot.” He turned and began his short walk up the last part of the hill. Miller followed behind.
Sykes had set up his tent and was sitting on a deckchair, staring aimlessly into space when Dawson’s sudden appearance made him jump with fright.
“Peter. You’re still here,” he said. Sykes jumped out of the chair and walked over to his friend. He held out his hands and the two men embraced each other for a few seconds.
“I knew you’d come back. I knew it,” said Sykes, victorious. He was sporting a swollen jaw, from that punch earlier.
“I’m sorry. I sort of lost it earlier,” said Dawson, “I see you’ve pitched the tent.” Dawson pointed at the three man tent that was blowing slightly in the warm breeze. Sykes nodded.
“Listen. We can stay here tonight, maybe tomorrow night as well, then we could…”
“Peter. We are both murderers. You, unintentionally I know, but none the less, you’re kidding yourself if you think we can live in a tent until it all blows over. You know it won’t. We’re both wanted men,” said Dawson, calmly. Sykes did not want to hear any of this.
“Don’t be daft, we’ll be okay. We can just drive around the country, pitching up anywhere we like. It’ll be great,” he pleaded, demonstrating that he was in complete denial of the seriousness of the situation. His face was full of hope, full of belief that his idea was a sensible one.
“No, Peter, we can’t. When I left you earlier, I went straight to the police station and handed myself in. I’m under arrest.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about…”
The sudden interruption stunned both men. It was Miller, who’d just appeared from the trees behind the tent.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he continued. Sykes looked lost, he looked confused and scared. Betrayed. It was clear from his face that he felt deceived by his oldest friend.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I had to do it, out of respect for that poor detective who died today.” Said Dawson. Sykes looked like he was about to break down, Dawson’s sudden entrance had lifted his spirits, filled him with hope. And now this. He’d been dropped like a ton of bricks. He couldn’t believe it.
“Sykes, I need to know one thing. Your answer is crucial, so please answer me honestly,” said Miller. Sykes slumped back down into his deck-chair. Miller couldn’t help but associate his posture with that of Bob’s earlier.
“How come that gun was loaded? George here tells me that you both agreed that it wouldn’t be. Of course, if it hadn’t been, Karen Ellis would still be alive.” Miller was being cool, relaxed. His manner had the desired effect. Sykes began to talk.
“I wanted to do one, right. That’s all it was. George told me last night, after the fire, that he was going to take a few days off. I figured that I could steal a peep at his paperwork and kill a couple today. I just wanted a go at killing the sick bastards myself. Truth is, when your officers came crashing into George at the bottom of the close, I completely forgot about it.” Sykes’ voice had gradually weakened. The final part of his explanation was barely audible through the breaking emotions.
“I saw it happen, right before my eyes. I’m so sorry - I just meant to scare her. Scare your officers. I never meant for…” He placed his face in his hands as the moment was replayed in his mind once again.
“You’re looking at life, Peter. George tells me that you haven’t got time for that?” asked Miller, affectionately. Sykes looked up at the DCI and then over at George who was also visibly upset. “From what I have heard, I think that George here has done his time already. I can’t imagine a worse punishment than the one he has already endured. What good will it do putting him in prison for the rest of his life? So, I think you could do a big favour for us all. You could confess to killing all these paedophiles, along with killing Karen Ellis. That’s the version that the press have anyway, that Pop has killed Karen.”
Sykes looked scared. He stared at George for a while before looking back at Miller. He then reverted his attention to the nothingness he’d been staring at when Dawson had appeared. After a while, he spoke.
“I need to phone Margaret. Can I have some privacy?”
*****
Miller walked over to Sykes’ car with Dawson.
“You can go back in this. You are insured aren’t you?” asked Miller, smiling ironically. Dawson smiled slightly.
“Mr Miller, I can’t believe you are doing this. Are you sure it’s the right thing?” asked Dawson who seemed neither pleased, nor disappointed by the prospect of heading back to his life.
“Never been more sure about anything in my entire life. Besides, if I bang you up, my wife will never forgive me!” They both smiled politely, but there was little joy. “Seriously though, what would be achieved by sending you away? From what I’ve learnt today, and only because Ellis is dead, otherwise I’d never have found out - it would make me as corrupt as the rest of them if I locked you up. I’m simply not prepared to do it.”
Dawson looked over at his dearest friend who was crying hysterically into his mobile phone. He considered Miller’s words, not really understanding the point the DCI was trying to make.
Miller felt for them both. He looked back at Dawson who he knew had been through the bowels of hell. “I just pray to God that no more paedophiles get shot in Manchester, and that everybody’s life can return to some kind of normality. I hope that Pop remains in jail and doesn’t cause any more hysteria, otherwise I’ll be joining you in prison - and I really don’t want to do that.”
Dawson was becoming visibly staggered at what he was hearing. He kept blinking, which made Miller laugh. It was as though the penny was finally dropping.
“Hadn’t you better go and help Peter’s wife come to terms with what’s happened, and with what’s going to happen?”
Dawson was clearly upset, countless tears had started racing down his face.
“Mr Miller, how can you be so kind to me after all that has happened?”
Miller laughed. “Dunno.” He said, looking down at the grass. He looked up and shrugged. “I just like you, that’s all. I
like your style, your ideals. And I know that I wouldn’t have had the balls to do what you did, even though I’d really want to. So, I respect you, and I, well, I just don’t want to see you behind bars. There’s no point. I think we both know that you’ve suffered enough. I just want you to go and draw a line under this, and rebuild your life. Try and enjoy what you’ve got left.”
“But surely you’ll get into trouble, won’t you?” asked Dawson, “people will know. I don’t think you understand Mr Miller.”
“Oh don’t worry about me. This is about the one and only case where I can actually do exactly as I please. Let’s just say that it is mutually advantageous. I have something that would disgrace the police and British government for the next three decades. They knew it was you all along, from your letters and petitions. They let you get on with it, and deliberately kept me in the dark, with no resources to catch you. I still don’t know why exactly. But there you go. They actively allowed you to carry on with the killings, so I’m playing their game back to them. They will all know that Sykes is not Pop, but let’s just say that they can’t possibly point that fact out because they’d all go to prison. This way, I get what I want, the force get what they want. And you get another chance at rebuilding your life. We all win.” Miller patted him on the shoulder. “And just so you know, Karen had a great amount of admiration for what you were trying to do. She really did. But you seriously pissed her off with that fire last night. That’s why they came after you today.”
George Dawson broke down in tears. This graphic information was hard to take. Miller didn’t have time for more of this emotion, he still had a lot of work left to do.
“Go on now, go home. Start again.” He pointed at the car. Dawson followed his instructions. Sykes was in no fit state to speak to him, he was crying uncontrollably into the phone. Dawson walked across to Sykes, and placed his hand tenderly against his heaving shoulders.
One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 37
