by OMJ Ryan
5
From his position in the darkened garden, he marvelled at the fact that, in a crime-riddled city such as Manchester, most people hadn’t invested in security lights. What’s more, they appeared happy to go about their business with the curtains or blinds open, in full view of anyone wishing to watch from outside.
Standing in the freezing cold shadows of the tall trees surrounding him, he observed her evening routine once again, conscious of his hot breath visible in front of him. No matter how many times he stood in this exact spot on her lawn, staring through the kitchen window, he never failed to marvel at the way she moved around the space with a rhythm that was beautiful, almost theatrical. Time had been kinder to her than Gillespie, yet still her clothes, thick glasses and limp hair made her look older than her years. Maybe that was part of the problem with her marriage?
He checked his watch: 8.28 p.m. Right on cue, her husband walked into the kitchen, just as he did every night. Placing his bag on the bench, he loaded it with a thermos flask and a box of sandwiches freshly prepared by her. The usual chatter ensued before he slipped on his heavy winter coat and scarf, kissed her on the cheek and headed for the front door. A heavy thud echoed through the night air as it closed. A moment later, the car engine rumbled to life, followed by high-pitched reversing tones, before he engaged drive and headed for his night shift at Manchester Airport.
Just like that, she was alone until 7 a.m. the following morning, with only her decrepit chocolate Labrador for company. If she really knew where her husband was spending the night, she might not be so keen to see him go. After all, she wasn’t the only one he’d been watching the last few weeks.
He looked on as she busied herself with the washing up, clearing away the remnants of the evening meal. She was a traditionalist, washing everything by hand in the sink in front of the window. Now, vigorously scrubbing a large pan, she looked up and stared out into the garden. For a moment, her eyes appeared to fix on him. His heart jumped and he held his breath, waiting for her to acknowledge him. Evidently, she could see nothing more than her own reflection in the glass. Still, something had clearly spooked her, for she reached over and closed the blinds to the outside world.
‘I’m afraid they won’t help you, Dee-Dee,’ he whispered into the silent garden.
Despite the cold, an hour passed surprisingly quickly as he maintained his position in the shadows, listening to the sounds of the surrounding streets and households going about their business. As was the case each evening, the back door opened at 9 p.m. and the old Labrador hobbled into the garden to relieve herself before retiring for the night. He had grown fond of the old girl, and genuinely enjoyed the few moments they shared during his visits. Cautious at first, a few doggy snacks had broken down the barriers, and now she lay happily on her back as he stroked her belly, legs splayed, face content.
At 9.05 p.m. on the dot, the back door opened and the chocolate Lab returned to the house. The kitchen light went out. Then, a moment later, the upstairs landing light came on, followed by the one in the bathroom. He could see her preparing for bed on the other side of the frosted glass. With no knowledge of her bedtime routine, he imagined her desperately scrubbing her skin, washing away the grime and grit that had blackened her soul for so many years. Soon he would help her find a purity she had never known.
The toilet flushed and, as water rattled down the drainpipe, she switched off the bathroom light and headed for her bedroom, which overlooked the back garden.
Another ten minutes passed before her bedroom light flicked off, plunging the property into complete darkness.
He closed his eyes, painting pictures in his mind of what lay ahead. Not long now, Deidre McNulty. Not long now.
6
Phillips unlocked the heavy front door and stepped inside the warm red brick terraced house, throwing off her shoes and coat in the ornate entrance hall. Making her way through to the large extended kitchen-diner, she was greeted by Floss, her blonde pedigree Ragdoll cat, snaking between her legs, purring loudly with delight.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ she said, picking her up and cuddling her tightly. ‘Why can’t humans be as nice as cats, hey?’
She placed Floss back on the floor and opened the fridge. She pulled out a ready-meal Lasagne, a tin of expensive Waitrose cat food and a bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio. She bent over and filled the bowl under Floss’s prodding nose.
After she despatched the Lasagne to the microwave, she grabbed a long-stemmed glass, poured herself an extra-large measure, and made a mock toast. ‘Here’s to another day above ground, Floss. And to the wonderful world of police politics, of which I am a master, or should that be disaster?’
Gulping down the cold liquid, she drained the glass, loudly wiping her mouth like a thirsty child on a hot day. Floss finished her food and looked on as Phillips poured a refill. ‘I know, Floss, I know. Drinking on a school night isn’t good, but you try working with Brown. The man’s a total idiot. All he cares about are statistics and budgets. He doesn’t give a shit about the victims and catching the bastards that are out there, killing people’s daughters, sisters and mothers.’ She took a large mouthful. ‘He just wants a nice, neat, cheap result to show off to the Chief Super. And don’t even get me started on her. The way she smiles in a briefing – as if she truly cares – when actually she’s taking mental notes of how she’s gonna screw you at the first chance possible.’ Another gulp. ‘Clowns, the pair of them – like Crusty and Sideshow.’
The microwave pinged, signalling it was time to eat. Grabbing a fork, she peeled off the plastic film, placed the container straight onto a tray and headed into the living room. She switched on the TV.
Surprisingly hungry, she demolished the meal in no time before retrieving the remaining Pinot from the fridge. She drank it quickly and allowed herself to relax into the large couch. A few minutes later, she was fast asleep.
Floss’s rough tongue licking her fingers eventually woke her. Lying face down, she felt cold, wet saliva on her cheeks. Lifting herself up, she noted the wet patch on the blue cushion. ‘Classy girl, Jane,’ she mumbled, sitting up.
Blinking her vision into focus, she stroked Floss, who had jumped into her lap, and stared at the familiar face on TV. It was Marty Michaels, delivering a re-run of his morning magazine show that aired daily on Sky. After cutting short his self-imposed hiatus following their macabre experience, Marty had recently signed a big-money TV contract, plus landed a book deal to tell his side of the story. Despite the horrific events, he had added even more weight to his formidable reputation, star status and power. After almost losing everything, Marty was back at the top of the celebrity tree, raking in millions in the process.
She looked down at the cat purring loudly in her lap. ‘If ever there was an example of how times change, Marty is it. A murder suspect six months ago…now the nation’s TV darling with people lining up to hear about the sex crimes and murders. Whereas I – in the exact same time – have gone from an ambitious, successful murder squad DCI to a powerless, disillusioned Detective Inspector, working for a total wanker.’
If the cat was listening, she wasn’t showing it.
‘You know, almost every day, without fail, I wish another SIO had taken the call that morning. That someone else – anyone but me – had been given the so-called “case of a lifetime”. That investigation was supposed to cement my reputation and fast-track my career. Instead, it almost cost me my life and flushed my career down the toilet.’
She switched off the TV and checked her watch. It was 3 a.m. ‘Time we were in bed, Floss. Come on.’
7
Bovalino watched with bemusement as Entwistle grappled with the multitude of wires under the desk next to him, intermittently sticking his head up to type something on either his laptop or the tablet locked into the docking station. After ten minutes of mumbling and tapping, the new recruit finally signalled everything was working to his satisfaction.
Bov compared Entwistle
’s gleaming kit to his own ageing PC. ‘How come you’ve got all the new gear, then?’
‘Dunno. The guv ordered it for me.’
‘Phillips did?’
‘No, Brown. He told me he wanted some digital expertise on the team and asked me what I needed. This is it.’ Entiwistle smiled broadly.
Bov leaned across the desk. ‘Listen ’ere, son—’ His accent was thick Mancunian. ‘—let’s get one thing straight from the off. There’s only one “Guv” round ’ere, and that’s Phillips. Brown may be the boss, but she’s the guvnor. You can call him anything else you like, but if I hear you call him “Guv” again, I’ll take that posh laptop of yours and stick it up your arse. You got that?’
Entwistle raised his arms in defence. ‘Jesus, yeah, I got it.’
Bov held Entwistle’s gaze for a long moment before turning his attention back to his own desktop PC and typing slowly on the keyboard with two fingers.
A minute passed before Entwistle dared speak again. ‘Bov?’
‘Hmm?’ the big man replied without taking his eyes off the screen.
‘What’s your theory on the Gillespie murder?’
‘Too early to say.’
‘It looks ritual though, doesn’t it? I mean, it has all the hallmarks of a symbolic killer, right?’
Bov looked up. ‘And you’re basing your thoughts on what exactly?’
‘Well, the way the body was placed. Tied to a chair in the middle of the room, facing the TV. The see-through plastic bag over the head so she could see her killer, but then the black Xs placed over the eyes. No signs of sexual assault—’
‘Says who?’
‘Well, we won’t know for sure until the post mortem, but there doesn’t seem to be any signs of it.’
Bov leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, ‘Did I miss something? I don’t remember you being at the crime scene.’
‘Er, no, but the guv – sorry – DCI Brown said it was unlikely.’
‘And you believe everything he says, do you?’
Entwistle looked confused. ‘He’s the SIO in charge of the investigation. Surely he knows what he’s talking about?’
‘How long have you been a copper, Entwistle?’
‘Twelve months next month.’
‘So, you have extensive experience, then?’
‘Not exactly, no, but I do have a first class criminology degree.’
Bov laughed. ‘So what you’re saying is that, in between getting pissed and parading around in fancy dress at uni, you managed to get to a few lectures on “textbook” crimes, did you?’
Entwistle blushed. ‘Look I’m not suggesting uni compares to real life—’
‘Good.’ Bov leaned forwards again. ‘Cos it doesn’t. In real life we don’t have the luxury of distance, pontificating or navel gazing. We have to deal with the reality of murder and its devastating effects on the victims and their families. That’s why we never jump to conclusions, we never assume – ever – and we always keep an open mind. Do you understand?’
Entwistle nodded.
‘How did you end up here, son?’
‘I was on the people-trafficking team over in Leeds and my DCI was mates with Brown. I did a piece of work last year tracking a gang through social media. Brown found out about it and said he needed someone like me on his team.’
‘Did he, now? Look, let me give you some advice, son. I’ve been doing this almost twenty years, and during that time I’ve learned that there are two types of coppers in this world: those who look for the simplest solution to a case, and those who never jump to conclusions. They think outside the box and will not rest until they get the right result – not just the easiest or quickest. You need to decide which kind of copper you want to be. Quick and easy, or thorough and determined?’
‘Thorough and determined, every time!’ Entwistle said enthusiastically.
‘Really? I’ll remind you of that as this investigation unfolds. Because not everyone upstairs appreciates that approach. It’s not always easy to be that kind of copper round ’ere, let me tell you’.
‘I’m determined to be the best copper I can be.’
Bov nodded slowly. ‘We’ll see, but for now you can start by forgetting all that criminology bollocks and crack on with the task in hand. Track Gillespie’s phone on the day she died.’
‘On it like a car bonnet.’
Bov shook his head, half smiling. ‘Jesus. Give me strength.’
8
Phillips jumped in the passenger seat of the unmarked Ford Mondeo, the sickly smell of ancient cigarette smoke still clinging to the upholstery. Jones sat behind the wheel and she passed him a hot cardboard cup. ‘One peppermint tea for Jonesy. God knows how you can drink that stuff.’
Jones smiled. ‘I’m an ex-smoker who drinks like an Irishman at a funeral. It’s my way of apologising to my body. Besides, coffee is like ingesting liquid stress.’
Phillips took a sip of her skinny latte, and chuckled as she glanced back at the coffee shop where she’d just bought their beverages. ‘You’ve gotta laugh, don’t you? Barristas earn just over minimum wage, and yet they ponce around with all the swagger of bloody rock stars.’
‘What do you expect? You live in Chorlton, for God’s sake. One of the “wankiest” places on the planet. Everyone round here takes themselves seriously.’
‘Everyone? Are you including me in that?’
Jones looked Phillips up and down. ‘'fraid so, Guv. You are a bona fide “Chorlton Wanker”’.
‘Piss off!’ She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘All right, let’s go. The post mortem is at nine-thirty. We’ve got half an hour to get to the MRI.’
‘Gotcha.’ Jones placed his cup in the central console, then pulled away from the curb, heading for the Manchester Royal Infirmary and Susan Gillespie’s post mortem.
He was soon navigating his way through the backroads of Chortlon towards Whalley Range. ‘So what’s the deal with you and Brown, Guv? I mean, I know he’s not our kind of copper, but we’ve dealt with his type before. They come and go on their way up the ladder, but Brown seems different. I’ve never seen you get so agitated by another copper. What bothers you so much?’
‘Aside from the fact he took my job?’
‘It’s more than that. There’s something else going on between you and this guy.’
Phillips looked out of the passenger window and sighed. ‘I guess it was bound to come out at some point.’
‘What was?’
Phillips growled through her fingers. ‘I cannot believe I’m saying this out loud…I may have slept with him back when we were in uniform.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way.’
‘How the bloody hell did that happen? The guy’s a midget. I mean, he’s Ewok-small.’
‘Don’t remind me. Every time I think about it, I get a little sick in my mouth. Probably why I’ve blanked it from memory.’
‘But how the hell did you end up in bed with Brown?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes, I bloody do.’
‘Shit. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.’
‘Spit it out, for God’s sake!’
‘Ok, ok. Here goes. So, just after I started on the beat in Manchester, I got very drunk at a Halloween party. Brown was there, dressed as Gene Simmons from Kiss and wearing stacked heels. He didn’t look that short on the night, and was actually quite charming. He paid me a lot of attention and eventually asked if he could walk me home – which took forever in those bloody glam rock boots of his. We finally got to mine. He invited himself in for coffee, then made his move. It’d been a while, so I thought, “What the hell”.’
Jones smiled broadly. ‘How was it?’
‘Absolutely awful. He’s hung like a church mouse.’ Phillips wiggled her little finger for effect.
‘Brilliant!’
‘Seriously, I put my hand down there and almost burst out laughing. It was like a button mushroom, not to mentio
n the fact he’d had way too much to drink.’
‘So, he couldn’t perform?’
Phillips shook her head. ‘Not that it would’ve mattered. There really wasn’t anything to perform with.’
‘Wow. DCI Fraser Brown. A massive prick with a tiny willy. So that’s why he hates you so much?’
Phillips eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah, but there’s more.’
‘This gets better?’
‘So, after his little “performance issue”, he was desperate for another date; wanted to show me what he was really capable of. Once I’d sobered up, there was no way in hell it was going to happen. He kept asking, and eventually, to let him down gently, I told him I didn’t want to date coppers, that it would be messy mixing work and pleasure. Thankfully he accepted that, and everything was fine. Until, that is, he caught me snogging another copper at another party.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Oh dear indeed. Especially given said copper was DCI Campbell.’
‘The Silver Fox?’
‘The very same.’
‘Jesus, Guv. He’s retired now. He must have been ancient at the time?’
Phillips punched Jones on the shoulder again, harder this time. ‘You cheeky bugger. We actually got together at his fiftieth birthday party.’
‘And how old were you?’
‘Twenty-four. He was a really good-looking older guy and it was a just fling, nothing serious. But of course, Brown didn’t see it that way. He called me a lying bitch after he saw us – said I was only with Campbell to get promoted. He later claimed Campbell was the reason I got DS before him. Nothing to do with the fact I was the better copper.’
‘And he’s still holding a grudge?’
‘Yeah, fifteen years on he still believes I slept my way up to Detective Chief Inspector. It didn’t help that he had to transfer to Leeds to get DCI and I managed it in Manchester. He always thought GMP was the more impressive force and would look better on his CV.’