by OMJ Ryan
McNulty looked up at her, his eyes red. ‘Th-thank you,’ he mumbled.
Phillips gave him a brief nod. ‘We’ll be in touch when we know more.’
17
Back at Ashton House, the team were gathered in the incident room. Brown’s office was empty, the Chief Super having summoned him upstairs an hour ago.
Phillips turned to Jones and Bovalino. ‘How far did you get on retracing Gillespie’s movements on the day she was killed?’
Bovalino leaned forwards in his chair. ‘She went where her phone log says. Nobody saw anything suspicious and everyone said she seemed happy enough. Nothing untoward.’
‘We got the same from the priest and her cleaning partners. A couple of lovely old dears in their eighties. Both short-sighted and stone deaf, so neither saw or heard anything on their way home. What about you Entwistle?’
Entwistle stood and handed out copies of Gillespie’s digital activity in the weeks leading up to her death.
Phillips scanned it for a moment. ‘Okay, talk us through it.’
‘Yeah, come on, Golden Bollocks,’ said Bovalino.
Entwistle shot him a look.
Jones laughed. ‘I think you’ve upset her, Bov.’
Phillips smiled. ‘Ignore them, Entwistle. They’re just jealous because they’re still using index cards.’ She turned her attention to Jones and Bovalino now. ‘And pack it in, you two. If Brown comes in and hears you pissing about, he’ll go off his head.’
‘Got his period again, has he?’ joked Bovalino. Jones laughed – until he saw Phillips’s face.
‘You do remember I’m a woman, don’t you?’
Jones looked sheepish. ‘Sometimes, Guv.’
Phillips produced a fake smile. ‘Funny, aren’t you? Don’t let HR catch you two talking like that or you’re in big trouble.’
Jones smirked. ‘We won’t, Guv.’
‘Let ’em catch us,’ added Bovalino.
Phillips glared at them both. ‘Are you quite finished?’
Looking like a couple of chastised schoolboys, Jones and Bovalino replied in unison, ‘Yes, Guv. Sorry.’
Phillips turned to Entwistle. ‘Back to you.’
‘Ok, so I’ve given you copies of all the social media relating to Susan Gillespie over the last six weeks. Either her own accounts or places where she’s been mentioned. As you’ll see, she really only used Facebook and, occasionally, Instagram. She was on Twitter, but only to follow the family business page and the St Patrick’s community page.’
‘A church on Twitter?’ said Jones.
Phillips drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘Pretty progressive, our Father Maguire, heh?’
‘Certainly seems that way compared to other parishes within the diocese,’ said Entwistle.
Bovalino appeared confused. ‘What’s a diocese?’
‘It’s like a region of the church,’ Entwistle explained. ‘An area that includes a number of churches under one bishop.’
‘As an Italian Catholic, shouldn’t you know that, you big lump?’ Jones mocked Bovalino.
Phillips slammed her hand on the desk. ‘What’s got into you two today? Can we please concentrate on Gillespie?’ She turned back to Entwistle again.
‘There’s not much to go on, really,’ the young officer continued. ‘She certainly wasn’t prolific on social media. Most of her posts were church-related…coffee mornings, pound-sales, fund-raising events and special services. The rest were work-related, reminding people of new tax regulations and upcoming deadlines.’
Phillips leafed through the pages. She stopped to examine one – an old-looking photo of a group of kids with a couple of adults in the background. She showed the page to Entwistle. ‘What’s this photo?’
Finding the same page, he scanned the image in more detail. ‘That was posted on the day of Father Donnelly’s funeral. I put it in because Father Maguire mentioned Susan had helped him a lot in the last month of his life.’
‘Who was he and what happened to him?’ asked Jones
‘He was the parish priest before Maguire. Pancreatic cancer. This post stood out for me as the others were current. It’s one of the few that gives an insight into Gillespie when she was younger.’
Bovalino read out the title under the post. ‘A church trip to Lourdes. Where’s that?’
Phillips opened her mouth, but Entwistle beat her to it. ‘It’s in southern France. A holy place of pilgrimage considered to have healing powers for the sick. It’s claimed that during the late eighteen-hundreds, the Virgin Mary appeared to a young girl called Bernadette almost twenty times. She told the girl to dig into the ground until she found a spring of water. It’s said that people started drinking from that spring and were miraculously cured of all manner of illness and disease. These days, over five million Catholics make the pilgrimage to Lourdes each year.’
Jones was impressed. ‘Bloody hell, Entwistle – where did that come from?’
‘A childhood of mass every Sunday, plus I went to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School. We were well-versed on the miracle of Lourdes and St Bernadette.’
Bovalino looked a bit confused. ‘So how come you went to a Catholic school if you’re black. I thought you’d be into the gospel church.’
‘That’s a bit presumptuous, Bov,’ said Phillips.
‘It’s fine, Guv, I’m used to people making assumptions because of how I look.’ Entwistle turned his attention back to Bovalino. ‘My parents were both Catholic, and I’m mixed-race, actually. Mum’s from Trinidad and my dad’s from Dublin. They’ve been in England since the fifties.’
This seemed to satisfy Bovalino, who nodded.
‘Well, as fascinating as Entwistle’s heritage is, can we focus on the matter in hand, please?’ said Phillips. ‘So, do we think this picture was taken on a pilgrimage?’
‘More than likely, Guv.’
Phillips examined it closely. ‘So what’s its significance to Gillespie?’
‘Nothing jumps out other than she posted it on the day of Father Donnelly’s funeral. She mentions him in the post. As you can see, there’s a priest in the picture. I’m guessing it could be Father Donnelly.’
Phillips looked at the row of faces, all in a line and staring back at her, with the slight fuzziness that came from pre-digital images. ‘Ok. So, who are the kids in the photo?’ She smiled wryly. ‘Judging by the looks on their faces, it doesn’t appear like they were enjoying the trip. Is there a date on the photo?’
Entwistle checked his notes on the tablet in his hand. ‘No date, but I've googled the branding on some of the kids’ clothing, and it’s coming back as popular in the early-to-mid nineties.’
Phillips pointed to one of the adults. ‘And what about this older lady? Any idea who she is?’
‘Dunno, Guv, but it can’t be that hard to find out.’
Phillips gazed at the photo for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the image. Was it significant? It was hard to know. She closed the document and focused on Entwistle again. ‘All right, what else?’
‘Both victims went to the same school, but one year apart. Gillespie left St Mary’s Catholic College, Cheadle in 1993, and McNulty in 1994.’
‘Anything else?’
Entwistle pulled out his tablet and appeared excited by what he was about to show them. ‘There is one more thing, Guv. The husband of victim two called in sick last night. I checked with his boss.’
Jones sat forwards. ‘He did what?’
‘He called in sick…didn’t turn up for work. Well, strictly speaking, he didn’t call in. According to the night manager, his wife did.’
‘Are you sure?’
Entwistle looked triumphant. ‘One hundred per cent. I spoke to his boss in person.’
Phillips’s brow furrowed. ‘The grieving widower told me he was at work all night.’
‘Not to mention the fact the lying bastard had fresh bruises on his head,’ Jones added.
Phillips felt her pulse quicken. The case was about to open
up. She pointed to Jones and Bovalino. ‘You two, get over there and find out what else our Kevin’s being lying about. Entwistle, dig into his background and see if you can find anything to link him to Gillespie – besides his wife. In the meantime, it’s time I paid Chakrabortty a visit. Let’s see what she has to say about Deirdre McNulty’s death.’
Gathering their notes, all four stood up from the table and filed out of the incident room. As Phillips walked back to her desk, she considered Brown’s words from Gillespie’s bedside earlier. The man they were looking for wasn’t a serial killer, not yet. Not until he had killed at least three people. But she had a terrible sense of foreboding that that was exactly what he was going to do.
18
When Jones rang the bell at the McNulty house for the fourth time without answer, Bovalino wandered around the back, looking for any indication of life inside. A few minutes later, he returned. ‘Place looks empty. Do you think he’s done a runner?’
‘I bloody hope not or we’re in deep shit.’
Bovalino stood back and looked up at the upstairs windows, hoping to see a nose peek out from behind the curtains. ‘You think he’s in bed?’
‘Nah, I’ve been ringing that bell for five minutes. He’d have heard it by now.’
‘What about the wife’s mate. He could be there’
‘Worth a try. It’s just down the street.’
The pair headed over to Claire Speight’s house. On the way, Jones’s phone rang. It was Entwistle. He hit the green icon. ‘Hello?’
Jones listened intently for a minute, then ended the call.
Bovalino looked intrigued. ‘What’s up?’
‘According to Entwistle, Kevin McNulty went to school with both victims. He was four years older than them, but with only five hundred pupils in the school, there’s a chance he’s known Susan Gillespie for over thirty years.’
Jones raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s good to know. Entwistle’s certainly keen to impress, I’ll say that for him.’
‘Yeah, but who’s he trying to impress – us or Brown?’
They reached Claire Speight’s house and Jones rang the bell. After a few moments, a tall, muscular man wearing a designer T-shirt and jeans answered. For a moment, Jones thought he had the wrong house. He flashed his credentials. ‘DS Jones and DC Bovalino, Greater Manchester Police. Can we speak with Claire Speight?’
‘Of course. Claire’s upstairs in her office.’ His accent was almost certainly public-school. He opened the door wider. ‘Please, come in and I’ll get her. I’m Malcolm by the way, Claire’s husband.’ He stretched out his hand.
The two shook it, then followed him inside. At the bottom of the stairs, Malcom craned his neck and called out, ‘Darling. It’s the police.’
A moment later, Claire Speight appeared on the landing looking nervous. ‘Can I help you officers?’
‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Speight, but we’re looking for Kevin McNulty. He’s not answering his door.’
‘Kev?’ Malcolm said. ‘You should have said. He’s out the back in the conservatory. It’s this way. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll show them through.’
Jones and Bovalino fell in behind Malcolm as he guided them through the kitchen-diner and into a large conservatory that overlooked the long narrow garden at the back of the property.
Kevin McNulty sat in a wicker chair, facing out into the garden. He turned, looking surprised to see them.
‘Mr McNulty, this is my colleague, Detective Constable Bovalino. We’d like to ask a few more questions, if we may?’
McNulty shot Malcolm a glance, who immediately excused himself.
‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ asked Jones.
‘Er, no, not at all, Inspector.’
‘It’s Sergeant actually. I’m not that important, I’m afraid.’ He took one of the cushioned wicker chairs next to McNulty, while Bovalino dragged over another.
McNulty was the first to speak. ‘What can I help you with?’
It was Bovalino’s turn to pull out his notepad, with Jones taking the lead on questioning.
‘Can you tell us again where you were the night of your wife’s murder?’
McNulty looked startled. ‘Why – am I a suspect?’
‘It’s purely routine. I just want to make sure I got all the details correct last time we spoke.’
McNulty shifted in his seat before answering. ‘Like I said, I was working at the airport.’
‘And what time did you leave your house?
‘Same as usual. Eight-thirty on the dot. It’s not far and I start at nine. It gives me enough time to park up and put my sandwiches in my locker.’
Jones’s eyes locked on McNulty. ‘I see. And if we check the ANPR cameras, your car will pop up at the airport at that time, will it?’
McNulty didn’t reply, but looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘Where were you on the night of your wife’s murder, Mr McNulty?’ asked Bovalino.
‘I told you, I was at work.’
Jones continued to stare at McNulty. ‘Then how come your manager, Gordon Stevens, reckons your wife called to say you were sick and wouldn’t be in for your shift? It’s in the log.’
McNulty closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
‘If you come clean, we can help you. Keep lying to us and you’re in a world of shit.’
McNulty opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to think better of it.
Jones spoke in a low, assured voice. ‘Let me explain something to you, Kevin. To get a conviction for murder, we need to prove to a jury beyond a reasonable doubt that a suspect killed the victim, right?’
McNulty nodded nervously.
‘To do that, we offer DNA evidence. You know, traces of sweat, blood, tears, stuff like that. We also put forward physical evidence, like cuts and bruises on the suspect’s body, sustained during a struggle with the victim. And then there’s the credibility of the suspect. Did they lie to us? Did they say they were in one place when, really, they were somewhere else? Are you following me?’
‘I-I guess so.’
‘Let me tell you, Kevin, from where we’re sitting, it doesn’t look good for you. Your DNA will be all over that room. Whether it found its way there on the night of the murder or not, that’ll show up on lab tests. You admitted to touching your wife’s body when you found her. You’re sporting fresh cuts and bruises and, to top it all, you’re lying about where you were the night Deidre was killed.’ Jones leaned in close. ‘As you can see, the picture I’m painting looks bad to any jury. So, unless you can provide an alibi, and sharpish, I’m about thirty seconds away from arresting you on suspicion of your wife’s murder.’
‘Oh God,’ McNulty sobbed.
Jones had seen it all before when questioning suspects and was in no mood to relent. ‘Where were you on the night of your wife’s murder, Kevin?’
McNulty dropped his head to his chest. ‘I knew it would come out one day.’
‘What would?’
‘Jesus, where do I start?’
‘Try the beginning,’ said Bovalino flatly.
McNulty took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a long moment before exhaling loudly. ‘When Dee-Dee got cancer, it hit us both hard. She went through hell with the chemo, then the mastectomy…well, that really broke her. Even though she made a full recovery, she wasn’t the same woman after treatment. Intimacy became a real problem. I never pushed her because it didn’t feel right after what she’d been through. And, to be honest, I was scared how I would react to her body after the surgery. She seemed to sense that and, after coming out of hospital, she never let me see her naked, insisting on getting changed in the bathroom. I still loved her dearly, but over time I began to crave physical contact. You know – sex.’ McNulty blushed.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m not proud of it…’
‘Of what, Kevin?’
‘I started using prostitutes.’
‘Were you with a prostitute the night your wife die
d?
McNulty nodded.
‘Can you tell us her name? I’m assuming it was a woman.’
‘I don’t know her name. I picked her up in my car in Cheetham Hill.’
‘And where did you have sex?’ Jones pressed.
‘In my car.’
It was Bovalino’s turn now. ‘Can you describe her? Was she white, black? Tall? Blonde?
McNulty raised a finger to his mouth a moment, as if scanning through his memory of the night. ‘She was white, average height. Very blonde – but it could’ve been a wig.’
‘Any distinguishing marks – you know, tattoos, scars?’ asked Bovalino.
‘Nothing that stands out. To be honest, having sex in a car is quite tricky, so I was concentrating on that as opposed to her.’
‘Where did you pick her up?’ asked Jones.
‘On the corner of Sherborne and Great Ducie.’
‘Is that where you normally pick up women for sex?’
‘It varies. The idea is to keep it random, to avoid you lot.’
Jones looked puzzled. ‘You do know The Purple Door is only ten minutes from there, don’t you? It’s practically legal. Why not just go there and reduce your chances of getting pinched?’
‘I can’t afford that place on my wages. Plus, I don’t get paid if I’m off sick, so I can’t afford to lose a night’s money, then spend a couple of hundred quid on a hooker. Pick ’em up off the street and you can get full sex for twenty-five quid.’
Jones sat back in his chair and thought for a moment while Bovalino scribbled in his notepad. ‘So, let me get this straight. You’re telling us that your alibi for the night of the murder is a streetwalker whose name you don’t know, who’s white, of average height and build, with blonde hair – which may have been a wig.’
McNulty laughed nervously. ‘When you put it like, it doesn’t sound great, does it?’