One Man Crusade : DCI Miller 1: The Serial Killer Nobody Wants Caught Page 5

  The eyes were bursting out of Miller’s face as he stared at Dixon.

  Dixon looked down at his feet, his hands clasped together at his groin, looking less like a Chief Superintendent and more like a kid in trouble for stealing sweets from the corner shop.

  “Andy, Look…”

  “Don’t give me that Andy look bullshit. You know as well as I do, I’m going to get fucking hanged on this. Who’s going to help me? A petrified nonce? A concerned social worker? I can’t fucking believe this, THIS IS MY FUCKING CAREER!” He banged on his chest while demanding with Dixon. Miller was relentless, he was chipping away at his superior like a man possessed, like a man who’d lost himself.

  “So, let me read between the lines here, because it’s not a vote winner to chuck vast amounts of public money at what will be such an unpopular investigation, you lot are prepared to throw it and I’m expected to publicly head the enquiry? Why don’t you hand the case over to a PCSO, he’ll probably do better than me. I’ll be a fucking joke. They’ll name ships with holes in them after me! No, I won’t do it, I won’t allow myself to get caught up in this bullshit. Bollocks, I won’t do it.”

  Dixon was getting ready to snap, Miller knew it but he couldn’t care less. The job meant a lot but his reputation meant almost everything to him. And he knew that Dixon was well aware that this new approach to the press conference was way out of line.

  “Come on, Sir, you know and I know that if the public feels at risk, we’ll be flooded with calls. You know it, we’ll be swamped, and out of the calls that we receive, we’re bound to get a lead, guaranteed to get at least one concrete lead. Then, in a few days when our leads are coming to fruition and we’ve eyeballed our suspect we’ll just have another press conference and explain the whole story as we know it, just before we arrest our man, and everyone’s happy. That’s the logical way to deal with this. You know it and I know it, please for God’s sake, Sir, I know you’ve got integrity, come on, let’s do it.”

  Dixon looked at Miller for the first time in over a minute. He tried to remain calm, but the sheer displeasure at Miller’s remark was all too present in his voice. It was the use of a certain word which unhinged him.

  “Now you listen to me, you ungrateful little sod. Don’t ever utter the word integrity in my presence again, I know what I have and haven’t got…” Miller could see that he had obviously struck a nerve.

  “…I don’t appreciate you taking that tone with me and I cannot excuse it. If you never believe another word I say Andy, believe this. There was nothing that you have just said to me that was not said in my superior’s office just before I came here. Goodness knows, I wouldn’t have spent over an hour with you earlier refining this conference, if I had known that upstairs were planning to step into this enquiry, literally an hour before the preliminary press gathering. You’ve got unlucky, that’s all. It’s nothing personal, but please, don’t have a go at me.” Dixon stopped to take a breath.

  Miller was staring down at the floor. The sound of the impatient crowd outside the door was getting louder. The DCS continued with his pep talk.

  “Furthermore, I have been very understanding with your plight, but if you ever talk to me in quite the same manner as you just did, I’ll rip your bloody head off and shit down your throat!” Dixon was a good man and Miller trusted him, but the DCI was still furious at the interference in his case.

  “Let’s go and do it then, eh?” Said Dixon, opening the door slightly to reveal the backs of the media’s heads. The noise came flooding into the little room, giving Miller a sudden rush of adrenaline. It was obvious that the press were getting hot and bothered. Dixon handed the updated “script” to Miller.

  “Shut the door a minute, Sir.” Miller had had a thought. Dixon did as requested, the door sealed shut, locking the noise outside.

  “What if I forget to mention that detail, Sir? I mean, like after you’ve done your introduction and handed over to me, what if I was to completely neglect to mention that specific point of reference? Just forgot to mention the motive? It wouldn’t come back on you, would it?”

  Dixon’s big, white, bushy eyebrows raised high up onto his forehead as he measured Miller’s idea - his hand was still firmly attached to the handle of the door.

  “No. As we discussed Andy. Exactly as we discussed. Now, I feel I’ve given this adequate explanation, but if you want a little bit more I’ll give you my opinion. I think that they want to use this case as an experiment to measure the true public outlook about the whole topic of sex offenders. I mean you must be aware of the criticism the government has had pointed at it over the last few years, with Jimmy Savile, Stuart Hall and Cyril Smith, and countless others. They want to touch, taste and feel the general mood of what is about to become one of the most enthralling criminal investigations ever known, to see if maybe they can introduce drastically merciless measures that would work in finally ridding the country of these sick bastards. That’s an opinion Andy, and if it’s half way right then maybe - just maybe, that’s not such a negative thing.” He didn’t wait to hear Miller’s judgement of his opinion. The door was thrown open and Dixon disappeared through it. Miller followed close behind.

  The two men walked silently along the side of the room past the numerous cameras and boom microphones. The uniformed Dixon and smartly, plain-clothes dressed Miller took their seats behind their table, which was littered with microphones, tape recorders and dictation machines. Dixon looked at the familiar faces in the group. The rowdy chattering subsided.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen and employees of the BBC…” The room erupted into laughter at Dixon’s typical greeting. “Please accept my sincere thanks for attending this official press conference at such short notice.” He paused to take a sip of water from his strategically placed glass.

  “Now as you are aware, Manchester City Police greatly appreciate your efforts whenever we have a case of such high profile that it requires your dedicated support. As you will be similarly aware, we have a simple rule which we expect everybody to adhere to during press conference, which is self explanatory really. Do not interrupt at any time. There will be an opportunity for questions, which I’m sure you will want to be answered, at the end of the statement that you are about to be read by my colleague who I think you’ll all be familiar with, Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Miller who runs our Serious Crime Investigation Unit. Okay, if everybody is happy we’ll begin in one minute’s time if you want to begin recording. I see Sky News have made it. Hi Paul, is this going out live?” Dixon was looking at the news channel’s North West correspondent, Paul Mitchell, who nodded his confirmation.

  Dixon passed the time looking around the room, trying to put names to faces that he vaguely recognised. Miller studied the revised statement.

  “Great stuff. Okay, if everybody is ready I’ll start in five seconds.” A red light came on above Sky TV’s camera. Dixon paused until the five seconds were up.

  Miller’s face still looked as colourful as it had a few minutes earlier in the side room. He gave a couple of forced coughs to clear his throat in preparation for his statement. Dixon began his official introduction.

  “Good afternoon and thank you everybody for coming to this press conference. My name is Detective Chief Superintendent David Dixon. We have brought you here today in the hope that you can, through your audiences, bring attention to a case which is currently being investigated by the Serious Crimes Investigation Unit of Manchester City Police. Our aim ultimately is to appeal for help in solving the case. I’ll hand you over at this point to the officer who is leading the enquiry, Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Miller who is in a position to explain the situation at present.”

  Miller looked up from his script and straight out at the audience. He took a deep breath before beginning.

  “Thank you Sir. Thanks everybody for coming. Now as most of you will be aware, we are currently in the process of investigating a number of murder enquiries which all share similar hallmarks. I know tha
t a few of you have already put two and two together, so I’ll take this opportunity to expand on what has been reported so far. I can confirm that we are connecting six separate murder investigations from recent weeks as being committed by the same person.” The room was filled with the sound of whispering into dictaphones, scribbling of pens and the flashing of camera bulbs.

  “The six cases that we are connecting are as follows, in chronological order. The second of May, in Stalybridge Mr Alan Kreischoff aged forty-three years was the victim of two gunshot wounds and was killed instantly. On the fourth of May, Mr Martin Grimley of Eccles was shot with single bullet in his back garden. He was thirty-six years old. Then, on the eighth of May we were called to an address in Stockport where forty-eight year old Mr Jim Carpenter was found with four fatal gunshot wounds. One day later, the ninth of May in Middleton, Mr Harold Dyson aged seventy-one years was shot twice. Now you will all be aware that those four cases have all been reported already. Things had quietened down for a few days until last night, May fifteenth. At approximately nine-twenty pm, a fifty seven year old, Mr Eric Bradshaw was walking his dog near his home in Sheffield when he suffered three fatal gunshot wounds…”

  There was more unrest, as the press scribbled and whispered this new piece of information. Miller allowed a grudging pause in his reading until the crowd quietened. The camera bulbs were flashing intermittently at his face, giving him the occasional blinding dots.

  “…Then, earlier today, May sixteenth at approximately two-fifteen am, about five hours after the murder in Sheffield, the gunman visited the West Gate Industrial Park in the Dane Bank area of Denton and waited in shrubbery for Mr Ian Andrews, aged thirty-nine to leave his workplace on his break. He was shot twice, and died instantly. That’s all of the victims until now.”

  Miller shuffled his paperwork as the unsettled crowd waited for more information. He thought for a second, he knew that his next sentence was going to be a minefield if he did not use the words appropriately. For each second that he remained silent, the obvious feeling of apprehension throughout the room intensified.

  “Now obviously, this is a major enquiry, which is still in its early stages. I have no doubt that the gunman who is responsible for these cowardly crimes will continue to hide behind walls, trees, cars etcetera to shoot people who are going about their day-to-day business until he is caught and is securely in our custody.” Miller took a sip of his water and looked cautiously at the crowd before continuing.

  “But, in the interest of preventing any widespread panic, I would urge everybody to remain calm, as there is a very significant and specific principle that this gunman adheres to. It is unprecedented for such information to be released, especially at a press conference, but in order to prevent the spread of unnecessary fear and panic across the north of England, I’m afraid that I must explain the criteria that the gunman is following. In each case that we are investigating, we have found a common link between each of the victims. We categorically believe this common link to be the motive for these murders. To be more specific, each victim that I have just named…” Miller paused to take a look at the expectation on the journalists’ faces, anticipating the pandemonium that his next sentence was about to create.

  “…has at one time or another been convicted of sex crimes against children.”

  The uproar came. The media in the room were nothing less than rapturous. The shock and elation was plain to see. They had not seen that coming, not in a million years. Miller looked down over them as they began chattering and looking at colleagues and smiling. They all knew as reporters that this was a dream-come-true story.

  At last, a major inner-city news story which involved police, murder, manhunts, sniper fire, and the beauty of it all - it was a welcome crime. The reporters all knew that this was not to be a story that they would have to cover with a tinge of sadness, with a yearning to be of some use to find a swift and peaceful outcome, like they all had in so many cases before it, cases that had ripped at their hearts. Far from it, this was going to be news entertainment. How many times had their jobs required them to report on the disappearance of a child, a story that they’d follow passionately with the overwhelming hope that there would be a happy ending? Even the most cynical of them. How many times had their hopes been crushed with the discovery of a body?

  The mood in the room had reached fever pitch. Dixon called for order, but nobody was listening, there was too much to say to one another. They all felt it, they all wanted it. It was a story that journalists dream’s were made of.

  “Order. Please. ORDER.” He shouted it the third time, which seemed to have the desired effect. “If you can let DCI Miller finish please, thank you.” Miller waited a little longer until he could hear nothing except the crunching metallic sound of the camera flashes. He nodded his acknowledgement to the audience and continued.

  “I’m sure you will all want to get out of here and write your first copy, but if you can bear with me, we’ll soon be finished. As far as the gunman is concerned, we do not have a single description of him, or her.”

  Again the unruly mob began to prattle between themselves and to their associates. Miller looked at Dixon, who had a dissatisfied headmaster expression on his face. Dixon leaned close to Miller and spoke into his ear.

  “Is there much left?” He could see that Miller was getting stressed.

  “Well, I was going to go into the lines of enquiry, but judging by this circus, it’s not of much interest. I think I’ve covered the “juicy” bits.” Dixon was incensed by the conduct of the press, even though he was educated enough in media matters to understand their mania. Miller and Dixon waited for a lull before continuing.

  “Okay, if there’s any questions, please put your hand up and we’ll try and get through them in a civilised manner.” Miller was beginning to wish that he had stood up to Dixon and refused to do this.

  There was a sea of fingers pointed up at the ceiling. Dixon took charge of who was asking. This was usually a skill in itself, because he could determine who would ask pertinent questions as opposed to who might ask peculiar and downright ridiculous ones, Not today though. He’d pointed out Michael Towline from the Manchester Evening News, A good solid journalist from a highly respected paper.

  “Thanks. You must have a database of literally thousands of people in the Greater Manchester area alone who have been affected, either directly or indirectly by child molesters. And that’s just from the cast of Coronation Street!” The room erupted in laughter. It was a cheap, tacky joke, but everybody seemed to be in the right frame of mind for such a sarcastic remark. Michael continued with his question, shouting over the noise of laughter.

  “Have you any specific individuals in mind that might be responsible for the murders?” He looked expectantly for Miller’s reply, as though he hadn’t realised how senseless the question was, he looked hopeful for a decent response. Miller stared through him as he replied. “No.”

  The dismissive response attracted another wave of laughter. Miller and his superior were the only people in the room who were treating this press conference professionally.

  Dixon indicated that Greg Phillips from Granada Reports could speak.

  “I hope this question doesn’t sound too impudent, I can assure you I am only asking from the perspective of my being a father, but I have to ask - how much do you actually want to catch the individual responsible?”

  The uproar was intense, it seemed that Greg Phillips had asked the one question that everybody else wanted to ask. Miller had anticipated it and waited for the crowd to settle once again. It was becoming obvious that Miller’s patience was being tested.

  “I’m afraid that will be the last question that I will be taking as, frankly I can tell that I am wasting my time here. I am always happy to answer useful and constructive questions in relation to my cases - but I can see that we need to reschedule this Q and A for our next briefing, when hopefully you will all have settled down slightly. In response to your que
stion Greg, as you will all be aware, I am given a job to do each time that a serious crime takes place in Greater Manchester. I have always prided myself on my team’s, and on my own ability for successfully solving the majority of cases that I investigate. This case will be no different. I am a professional, my team are excellent detectives and I have a murderer out there on my patch who, regardless of the moral questions around his motives, is a cold-blooded coward who is taking shots at unsuspecting people. I am not prepared to accept or condone that kind of outrageous conduct in my city, or anywhere else for that matter. Please make sure that you get this point abundantly clear. I will catch this person. Thank you for coming, we will arrange a further press conference when we have more to tell you.”

  Miller stood and walked off the stand amid a barrage of questions, a hundred raised voices all making their enquiries in unison. The rabble was so inaudible that as he walked out of the conference, he couldn’t make out one single question. He opened the door that he had entered through, and breezed out of the chaos leaving Dixon to try and salvage the situation as best as he could.

  Chapter Five

  3.20pm

  Sky Television Headquarters

  The Managing Editor of Sky News, Jerry Phillips - essentially the boss of information output at the channel, was watching the bank of monitors in the TV station’s production gallery. His sharp, pointy face was frozen. He was staring up at the news conference, wondering whether this story could possibly get any better. His elbows were outstretched as he clasped his hands behind his shiny, bald head and reclined back on the black leather chair. He’d been called in by the director, who was unsure of what to make of the information which was being broadcast across the world by their cameras.