One Man Crusade: Manchester Has A New Serial Killer Read online

  ONE MAN CRUSADE

  Copyright © Steven Suttie 2014

  Published by Steven Suttie 2014

  Steven Suttie has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover Design by Steven Suttie

  Font Type Bodoni MT

  1st Edition

  Thanks…

  Thank you to Kaye Moon who worked really hard on the editing and development of this story.

  The hours, weeks and months are still valued greatly. Thanks Kaye. I really hope you enjoy this version as much as I enjoyed and valued your excellent support and advice working on the first version a decade ago.

  Thanks to my wife Liz for putting up with the tap tap tappety tap of my laptop keyboard when she’s been going to sleep while I’m messing about writing books. If enough people buy this one I’ll get you some of those ear muffs you’ve had your eye on.

  This book would not be available to read without the insistence of Jill Bowyer, who told me over and over again to do something with it. You win Jill. Thanks so much for keeping on at me. We’ll have to have that brew soon…

  Prologue

  February 10th

  Keighley, West Yorkshire

  Seven-year-old Tim MacDonald’s body was discovered in the dark just after 6.30am by a pet dog and its walker’s torchlight. The naked body was found in shrubbery at a frozen picnic site just a few miles away from his home.

  Tim had disappeared from his street almost a week earlier, as he’d waited outside his gate for his big brother to arrive back from the shop with popcorn and a bottle of Coca Cola ready for the family sitting down and watching a DVD for the evening.

  The horrific discovery of Tim’s frozen, injured body under a few hastily placed branches and twigs was the worst case scenario that West Yorkshire Police had been anticipating for the past few days. Hundreds, if not thousands of local people from the community had combed the hills, the woods, fields and embankments all around Keighley for the past six days looking for signs of Tim, or clues as to where he may have disappeared to.

  The canal had been searched by police divers, manhole covers were lifted, garages and sheds checked, wheelie bins and old vehicles were inspected and checked again. The end of each day’s painstaking searching by police and volunteers brought more darkness to the shadow of doubt that Tim was unlikely to be found and returned happily to his family.

  But there was still a defiant glimmer of hope that the public were desperate to keep ignited, as they came back again each following day and began their operations at first light.

  After five days of searching, the inevitable conclusion had finally been reached, with a 999 call. It was heartbreaking for the emergency services phone operator who took the call from the dog walker. The last grains of hope of a happy ending had been finally swept away. Another innocent child had fallen victim to evil.

  Once again, the British public’s collective heart was to be broken with the announcement that would follow in the coming hours.

  Once again, another family had been destroyed forever.

  Once again, another innocent, harmless child had been stolen in the most traumatic of circumstances.

  But this time, it wasn’t about to be accepted so quietly.

  Chapter One

  Tuesday May 16th

  Four Months Later

  There was a refreshing late night breeze flowing past the Porta Delco factory on the fringe of the massive West Gate Industrial Park in Denton, roughly five miles outside the centre of Manchester.

  The development was relatively new, though its character was reminiscent of any generic industrial estate in any other part of the country. It was a characterless, soulless, remote and unwelcoming suburb of steel, glass, breezeblock and corrugated tin - abandoned away from the former hat manufacturing town at the edge of the motorway.

  It was extremely warm still for the middle of the night - the cooling breeze made it a pleasant night to be outdoors. The industrial estate was deserted except for the Porta Delco factory, which conducted a twenty four hour operation - demand for their electronic circuitry products was consistently high. The firm operated a skeleton crew on the nightshift, made up mostly of married men and one or two young lads, lured to the unsociable hours by the extra money.

  The deserted security cabin, which stood proudly at the main gates, cast a long imposing shadow under the glare of the bright moon. A lonesome stray cat was rummaging through the bins for a discarded sandwich or the remnants of a pie, when the sudden, shrill sound of the meal - break siren shattered the stillness and startled it, making it dart away across the moonlit grounds, racing back into the shadows.

  Inside, as though in perfect choreography, the workers put down their tools and picked up their cups, bags and other bits and pieces. With the harsh blast of the siren, the factory’s amplified silence was shattered further by the sudden sound of eleven men joking and chattering, scrambling to be first in line for one of the four microwave ovens with as much effort as their wearied legs would allow,

  One of the older lads, Phil Davies was laughing at the others, holding aloft his bag of sandwiches, while walking with about as much urgency as a man strolling around a park.

  “Ha ha, look at you daft buggers! When are you going to bring some butties like me? You’ll all have a bleeding ulcer carrying on like that!”

  A couple of the lads laughed. One of the younger ones, Mick Palmer, was grinning from ear to ear as they entered the canteen. He turned back to Phil who was still sauntering along at his carefree pace.

  “We’ll bring some butties when we’re fat bastards like you!” He patted his perfectly flat stomach as everybody laughed. Phil smiled, nodding at his heckler’s typical remark.

  “I’m only fat because your mum gives me a biscuit every time I shag her!” he declared to a chorus of laughter as he sat his bulky frame down at the closest table, eagerly opening his Tupperware tub. But Mick wasn’t listening - his attention was taken up by the cooking details on his Chicken Tikka Massalla box.

  Most of the workers were jostling around the hot water machine, filling their cups while others filed their microwave meals into the ovens.

  After making their cups of tea or coffee, the majority of staff sat down with their meals and newspapers while the small fraternity of smokers retreated swiftly from the canteen one by one. With their brews in one hand and their cigarette packs in the other, they all headed single file towards the back door.

  The company had a hard policy on smoking, and the back door was the only designated area for smokers. Matthew Pollard - who some said only worked nights because of his lack of looks, was probably the factory’s most prolific smoker, easily smoking seven or eight during the thirty - minute break. He was also what many of his colleagues referred to as a “gobshite.” His relentless chattering throughout the break times had been reason enough for several of his co - workers to quit the habit.

  “I’ll tell you now, we’re treated like peasants in this firm, just because the boss doesn’t smoke. That’s all it is. If that tosser smoked fags like the rest of us, we’d have a nice little smoking shelter here, with bins and heaters and that.” He took a greedy draw on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his long, crooked nose.

  It could be read on the faces of the other, less extreme smokers that this daily speech was of little interest. Occasionally, when it was January and the weather was Baltic, these lectures were viable. But the fact that it was a lovely warm, calm Monday night in the middle of May made being outside in the summer night air an extremely pleasant option.

  However, the subject matter was all Matthew was really interested in talking about, and he was determined to make his point yet again. He stood facing the bench where the other four smokers sat, in their usual positions. His six - foot frame should have demanded that they looked up at him.

  But none of the lads did. Johnny was staring at his feet as he usually did, the new, quiet guy Ian was looking nonchalantly down the length of the factory building, while Paul and Mark, “the twins” as they were affectionately known for their matching crew cuts and Manchester United shirts, were concentrating on the Sun crossword. Still, a complete and obvious lack of interest was not dispiriting to Matthew, who genuinely believed that his whining, nasal opinions were of great importance.

  “The reason I get pissed off is because everyday my health is put at risk because I have to stand out here in the middle of the night, in the cold, rain, wind and all that. Our Wendy says that chest infection I had the other month was probably caused by these bastards making me stand out here in the rain smoking.” The silence hung as he waited for some kind of sympathetic response that was noticeably not forthcoming.

  The new, quiet guy, Ian, felt vulnerable in the stillness - not yet “one of the lads” enough to let such silences hang around him. He swep
t his long blonde hair back nervously and undid the top button of his blue and white checked shirt as he tried desperately to think of a subject to talk about, one that was totally unconnected with smoking or work.

  “That err, new cinema in town opens on Saturday. It’s that DJ off Key 103 that’s opening it. What do they call him? He’s on at six in the morning.” He asked, in the hope of sparking a comment. Suddenly, all five of them looked up across the car park in the direction of the small wood that surrounded the rear of the factory. They could hear something walking around slowly near the fence. It sounded like a mumbled voice. A man, mumbling.

  They stayed silent a moment but the sound ceased.

  “Did you hear that noise?” asked Matthew though already aware that the others had by the expression on their faces.

  “It’ll be a cow what’s escaped, got lost in the woods,” suggested Paul to a torrent of laughter.

  “A COW! You absolute degenerate! What cow would come here to the middle of an inner city industrial estate?” begged Johnny - his amusement was as plain as the obsession with his shoes.

  “Shuddup Johnny” ordered Matthew whose eyes were still firmly transfixed on the woods. “I’m trying to listen.”

  They stayed silent a moment longer but the sound, whatever it was, had stopped.

  A car came speeding around the corner and halted suddenly at the other end of the car park. It was one of the other workers. He jumped out, slammed the car door and sprinted back into the building, clutching a carrier bag from the all - night supermarket. The distraction of their colleague’s erratic parking eased the tension slightly.

  “Well it might not have been a cow, but it’ll be an animal of some sort. A fox or whatever.” Paul was trying to regain some dignity, following Johnny’s harsh denunciation of his suggestion.

  “It’ll be something like that, what’s the big stress anyway? It might be some bloke walking his dog.” Mark, as ever, kept it realistic.

  Just then the back door swung open, which made all of the lads, who were already on edge, jump with fright.

  Phil Davies popped his head around the door as Matthew opened his pack and lit his third cigarette. Mark returned his attention to Paul’s crossword. Phil looked along the bench as he spoke.

  “Is Ian out here? Oh, there you are. There’s somebody on the phone for you, outside line. I told him to hold.” And with that, Phil disappeared back inside to his Tupperware box, only he had a little more urgency in his steps this time.

  Ian looked quite stunned, after all it was nearly quarter past two in the morning and he wasn’t expecting a call. He reasoned that it must be bad news.

  “Cheers Phil.” He stood up, looking very agitated and went inside. A couple of minutes passed by before the door opened again and Ian reappeared.

  “Everything alright mate?” Asked Matthew.

  “Eh? Yeah.” Replied Ian.

  “Funny time to get a phone call isn’t it?” Matthew pressed. Ian gave another evasive answer.

  “I know, yeah.”

  Johnny managed to tear his attention away from his boots and looked up at Matthew.

  “For Christ’s sake Matt, why don’t you just ask him who rang up instead of pissing about? It’s obvious you’re dying to know, you nosey bastard!” This was typical of Johnny, who often dropped people in it like this. But he didn’t see it in quite that way, he’d argue that they were “going around the houses” and he often thought he was actually being helpful. Besides - he too wanted to know who was ringing at this hour.

  Matthew’s face was frozen. It took him a second or two to compose himself before he responded.

  “Hey, you dickhead, I wasn’t asking that, I was just wondering if everything was all right.” Johnny cackled like a demented witch, adding a fresh surge of blood to Matthew’s face which was already as red as the Ford Mondeo parked just behind him.

  “Fucking prick!” He shot Johnny an icy look, which received the customary “Woo - Ooh” from Paul and Mark.

  “Sorry mate, I wasn’t trying to be nosey or owt.” Ian nodded his understanding at Matthew, and took a long, meaningful draw on his freshly lit cigarette.

  “There was no - one there, the line was dead. Someone playing a prank I’ll bet,” he stated with a matter - of - fact delivery, but he looked bothered.

  Just then, there was another noise from the woods, louder this time than before. In fact a good bit louder and completely different. The lads all jumped as they heard the deafening crack - crack, which panicked birds in the nearby trees that flapped urgently away, adding more noise and terror to the fright.

  Ian had dropped his cup, which had smashed on the floor, the liquid trickled desperately away in all directions.

  Mark gave a nervous laugh as they looked over into the sheer darkness of the woods. Their hearts were pumping wildly, the pulses in their throats were suddenly throbbing.

  “What the fuck?” said Paul, almost in slow motion.

  The workers all remained perfectly still as they scoured the huge black shadow for clues of what that terrifying sound was. Well - everyone except Ian, who had two gaping bullet wounds in his face.

  Chapter Two

  3.20am

  16 Grosvenor Road, Worsley

  The mobile seemed like it had been ringing for minutes, rather than the few seconds that it actually had. DCI Andrew Miller was oblivious to its incessant bleeping tune. His snoring confirmed the fact to his wife Clare, who was trying to wake him with a gentle nudge.

  “Andy! Come on, wake up. Your mobile. ANDY!” But it was no good. He was sleeping like a baby. She gave him another shake as she pulled back the covers, muttering a few choice words while searching in the darkness for his trousers, which also doubled as his mobile phone storage container at night. She found them, draped over the TV, a place she had explained many times was not a wardrobe. The phone said SAUNDERS on it. Clare answered the call.

  “Aw shit! Sorry Clare,” said the voice. It was Detective Sergeant Keith Saunders, sounding genuinely annoyed with himself for waking his boss’s wife.

  “It’s alright Keith, I can’t wake him up though. It’s like trying to wake a bloody rock, listen.” She held the phone beside her husband, who continued to snore at full blast into the little microphone.

  “See what I mean? Just wait there, I’m going to have to spray him!” She waited for Saunders’ familiar chuckle, which sounded strangely forced, before turning on the light and nipping through to the en-suite bathroom where she ran the cold tap for a few seconds before filling the spray bottle. She came back and picked up the phone before lightly spraying her husbands face with the cold water mist. The technique worked straight away. She was grinning, her blonde hair looked perfectly styled, despite her just waking.

  “Aw, Jesus. Clare!” DCI Andrew Miller sat bolt upright, shaking the surplus water off him, before wiping his face. He looked utterly miserable, but managed to smile for his wife who stood over him wearing the most innocent smile.

  He knew the spray bottle method was only used when it had to be. He laughed, but with very little humour.

  “Keith’s on the phone dopey. It’s gone three in the morning,” she announced as she gave him a big beaming smile and kissed him on the cheek. She got back into the big cosy, warm bed that Miller guessed he was about to depart. He rolled his half opened blue eyes at the ceiling, sensing that Keith had not rung to check if the five - a - side pitch had been booked for Sunday.

  “Yeah?” was his greeting, his tone representative of how rough he felt.

  “Sir, sorry. We’ve just had another one.” Saunders exhibited his usual middle of the night apologetic tone. Miller exhaled an exaggerated puff of air. He sat upright in the bed, looking at his wife’s naked shoulders that were facing away from him. He bowed his head, holding it up with the arm that was rested on his knee. He began stroking his fingers through his short dark hair as he spoke to his colleague.

  “Keith, mate, I’ve just woke up. Can you be more specific?” He guessed what Saunders had been referring to, but he hoped that by making him say it, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, or maybe not even be that at all.