by OMJ Ryan
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Jones frowned. ‘So how do you explain the fact your wife called in sick?’
‘The girl pretended to be Dee-Dee. I gave her an extra tenner for it.’
‘Of course you did, and why wouldn’t you?’ Jones’s tone was sarcastic.
Bovalino looked up from his notes. ‘How long were you with the girl?’
‘About an hour all in, I guess.’
‘That takes you to about 10 p.m. What did you do after that?’
‘I drove around for a bit, then came back to Cheadle and pulled the car up round the corner and went to sleep.’
‘And that’s where you stayed all night, is it?’
‘Yes. I’m not proud of it.’
Jones pulled his mobile from his jacket and unlocked the screen. ‘Would you mind if I get a picture of you, Kevin?’
‘What for?’
Jones’s camera clicked. ‘We’re going to have to track down your alibi. Hopefully this will help jog a few memories.’
McNulty’s voice was a whisper now. ‘Please, you won’t tell Claire and Malcolm about this, will you?’
‘Your secret’s safe with us for now,’ Jones replied. ‘But until this alibi checks out, make sure you don’t go anywhere. Understood?’
‘Yes. You have to believe me, Sergeant, I loved my wife. I could never hurt her.’
‘I really hope that’s the case, Kevin. For your sake.’
Bov sat forwards. ‘Did you know Susan Gillespie?’
‘Who?’
‘Susan Gillespie. She was murdered a few days ago.’
McNulty thought a moment before answering. ‘I can’t recall her.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Bovalino laughed, ‘Really? You went to the same school and she’s friendly with your wife. Strange that you wouldn’t remember her.’
‘School was a long time ago.’
Bovalino made a note in his pad as Jones rose from his chair. ‘We have no more questions for now,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out.’ Bovalino stood next and the two men walked out of the conservatory.
Malcolm Speight stood waiting in the hallway as they headed for the front door. ‘Get everything you needed, Sergeant?’
‘For now.’ Jones pulled the door open, before stopping in his tracks. ‘Out of interest, Mr Speight—‘
‘Malcolm, please.’
‘Malcolm. Where were you on the night of Deidre McNulty’s murder?’
Speight looked taken aback. ‘I was in Denmark on business. I’m out there the first week of every month.’ He pointed towards the kitchen behind him. ‘I can show you my passport stamps if you like?’
‘That won’t be necessary, Malcolm. Thank you all the same.’ Jones paused a moment. ‘Keep an eye on Kevin, will you? He’s going through a lot at the moment. If you notice anything unusual, let us know.’
‘Of course, Sergeant. Like I say, happy to help.’
‘Good man.’
Jones stepped out onto the front path. Behind him, Bovalino shook Speight’s hand and moved in close. ‘Mind how you go, sir.’
Jones and Bovalino walked back towards the car, which was still parked outside the McNulty house. When they were a safe distance from the Speight’s house, the big man was the first to speak, ‘I don’t trust him, Jonesy.’
‘Me neither. I mean, how can he not remember what the girl looked like? He only had sex with her a couple of nights ago.’
‘He’s lying about something, Jonesy. I can feel it.’
‘Yeah, and I’m not sure he’s smart enough to keep whatever it is hidden for long. So whatever he’s up to, we’ll find out. I’m sure of that.’
19
Since her husband’s death two years ago, Betty Clarke liked to shop at the local supermarket each night, rather than one weekly visit. It broke up the monotony of each evening, and if she arrived after 9 p.m., she could pick up fresh produce and bread that had been reduced to clear. Tonight, she found some organic bananas, a custard tart and a milk loaf for half their original price. As she wandered up and down the aisles, she smiled at the regular workers she had come to recognise over the last few years. Her last stop was always the wines and spirits section, where she would pick out a small bottle of something dry and white to enjoy when she got home. After losing Harry, she found it harder to sleep these days, and a little night-cap helped her on her way.
She never used the self-service checkout, always opting for one of the manned tills, making the most of a little chit-chat as she bagged up her groceries. Her server tonight was Angela, who was looking forward to a day-off tomorrow with her kids and planned on taking them to the park. Betty smiled as Angela shared her itinerary for the school holidays, remembering her own children running around Bruntwood Park when they were little. She missed those days but felt blessed to have grandkids to take to the same place their parents had loved; although their visits were limited to once or twice a year now. Both her son and daughter had moved away with their work, to Glasgow and Kent respectively.
Pushing her trolley filled with a couple of bags of shopping, Betty smiled as she passed the usual security guard on her way out of the store. She wished him a pleasant evening as she pulled her hood up against the cold February night before stepping out into the darkness.
One of the things she liked most about shopping late in the evening was how the empty carpark made it easy to locate her car, parked alone in a bay far away from any of the other shoppers. She wasn’t the world’s best parker, and preferred to leave her car in a space where no-one was likely to pull up next to her. Arthritis had taken hold in her hips and she needed to push the door fully open, taking her time getting in and out.
When she approached the car, she fished in her bag for the keys, then clicked the central-locking activation on the fob. The indicators flashed once as she pulled the trolley up to the back of the car and pressed the automatic boot release. To her surprise, it remained closed. Is it one light or two to open? She couldn’t remember. Practically new, the car had been recently sourced by her son from one of his friends in the trade, and she was still coming to terms with how it all worked. In truth, she didn’t even know the make or model was – just that it was silver – her only stipulation to Liam when buying it. She pressed the key fob again and the indicators flashed twice this time, the audible sound of the locks releasing echoing around her. ‘That’s it,’ she muttered to herself. Opening the hatchback boot, she placed her bags inside the pristine space.
After returning her trolley, she slipped gently into the front seat and buckled herself up, switching on the heater and letting the window de-mist for a few minutes. As she sat in the darkness, she thought about Liam and the kids, and Kerry and her two boys. She really missed having them around, especially since losing her husband. Both had offered to move her closer to them, but Manchester was her home and all her friends were here. It would be lovely to see the grandkids regularly, but at seventy-two she didn’t relish the thought of having to make a whole new set of friends, and she had no desire to live either in Scotland or down south. No, she was better off in Manchester, and besides, with video-calling on the mobile phone Kerry had bought for her, she at least got to see them on screen every Sunday.
Feeling like a chat, Betty decided to call Kerry on the way home, and used the hands-free function to ring her. The call connected just as she pulled out of the carpark onto the main road, and for the next ten minutes Kerry brought her up to date on everything that had been happening with the family that week on the South Coast. It was the school holidays, and Kerry wasted no time telling her mum how busy she was, planning each day to keep the kids occupied and her own sanity intact. Smiling, Betty wondered if being a parent was harder these days or whether modern parents simply weren’t as resilient as those of her own generation. In her day, you just got on with it; complaining wasn’t an option.
As she pulled into the drive, she said goodnight to her d
aughter, who promised to Skype with the boys on Sunday, then activated the automatic garage door Liam had fitted for her when she got the new car. He had been adamant it should never be left outside in a ‘crime-riddled city like Manchester’, as he so eloquently put it. Also, that a woman her age should not be lifting heavy metal doors anymore. She loved her boy with all her heart, but couldn’t help thinking he was a bit over-protective – and a doom-monger at times. She’d lived in the same house since she married Harry almost fifty-years ago, and they’d never been burgled or witnessed any kind of vandalism. It was a lovely area.
Bringing the car gently to a stop by the breeze-block wall at the end of the garage, she pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine as the electric door rumbled closed behind her. ‘Home sweet home,’ she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
The voice from the back seat was muffled and deep. ‘Hello Betty.’
Jumping out of her skin, she turned to the face the man staring at her, a surgeon’s mask tied across his face. ‘Goodnight Betty,’ he said softly, and pumped the spray dispenser in his hand.
A moment later, she slumped sideways against the driver’s door, her head thudding loudly against the glass.
20
Once again, Phillips found herself stuck in the morning rush-hour traffic on the notoriously busy M60 motorway, heading from her home in Chorlton to Ashton House. It was 8.45 a.m. and she was late, again. Since her demotion, she was finding it harder to care about the little things that used to mean so much to her, like time-keeping, and another night of wine and sleeping on the sofa until the early hours had made it impossible for her to drag herself out of bed when her alarm triggered at 7 a.m. After hitting the snooze button several times, she’d eventually switched it off without realising it. Waking with a fright an hour later, she had dressed quickly without showering and jumped in the car.
For a moment, she contemplated activating the siren and lights to expedite her journey, but thought better of it. Instead, she people-watched, idly scanning the cars around her for inspiration on the case. Working through the information in her mind, she found herself coming back to the same two people: Noel Gillespie, for no other reason than a gut-feeling about him, and Kevin McNulty, because he’d lied about his whereabouts on the night his wife died. Hardly enough to warrant an arrest, though, and they didn’t have enough for the Crown Prosecution Service to charge Gillespie either.
Traffic began to move, bringing her attention back to the road. She inched the car forwards. ‘What am I not seeing?’ she mused to herself.
After crawling along for another twenty minutes without any inspiration, she finally reached the Stockport exit. Mercifully, traffic began to flow again, and at 9.35 a.m. she rolled into her spot in the Ashton House overflow car park.
Checking herself in the rearview mirror, she adjusted her ponytail. Then, crunching on a mint, she stepped out of the car, put on her overcoat and scarf and walked briskly over to the main building in the sub-zero temperature.
To her relief, she noted that Brown’s space – her former spot as DCI – was empty. Marvelling once again at the gleaming metal sign he had had maintenance attach on his very first day, Detective Inspector Fraser Brown, she couldn’t help but say what she was thinking: ‘Prick!’
A uniformed officer walking out of the revolving door at that moment stared at her. She blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean you.’
Inside, she activated the security gates and moved swiftly to the elevators.
By the time she reached the office, it was 9.45 a.m. To her surprise, the incident room was empty. Taking full advantage, she quickly removed her winter layers, fired up her laptop, and breathed a small sigh of relief when the screen burst into life; she’d gotten away with it, but this had to be the last time she was late.
Busying herself, she scanned through all the information on the Gillespie murder and took notes on anything that stood out about Noel and Kevin. After half an hour, she headed to the ladies, and returned just as the phone on her desk began to ring.
She rushed to pick it up. ‘Inspector Jane Phillips.’
Jones sounded agitated at the other end of the line. ‘Guv, where’ve you been?’
‘The toilet, if you really must know.’
‘For the last two hours?’
‘What are you talking about, Jonesy?’
‘I’ve been ringing your mobile since half-past eight.’
‘You can’t have.’ Phillips fished her phone out of her pocket. It was dead. ‘Shit, I must’ve forgotten to charge it last night. See, I—’
‘Guv!’ Jones broke in. ‘There’s been another murder in Cheadle. Looks like it could be the same guy.’
‘Jesus. Where?’
Jones relayed the address and Phillips promised to be there as quickly as possible.
Charging out of the incident room, she ran into one of the uniformed support team assigned to support the murder squad.
‘Where are you going in such a rush, Guv?’
‘There’s been another murder, Lisa. Can’t stop now. I’ll update you later when I know more.’ Phillips continued at speed down the corridor.
‘Where should I tell DCI Brown you’re going?’ Lisa called out after her.
‘Wherever you like,’ Phillips shouted back before heading down the stairs to the car park.
21
Entwistle was standing in the doorway of the integrated garage that fed straight off the kitchen as Phillips entered Betty Clarke’s kitchen in her SOCO suit. He gestured her over. ‘In here, Guv.’
She stepped inside to see a silver Ford Focus with its doors open. Stooping, she peered into the vehicle to find Betty Clarke sitting upright in the driver seat with her hands on the steering wheel, the now familiar plastic bag over her head, black Xs over her eyes.
‘Her name is Betty Clarke, age seventy-two,’ Entwistle informed her. ‘She’s been cable-tied to the steering wheel by her wrists. He used one to seal the bag around her neck, then fed it through the headrest. Hence why she’s sat to attention.’
‘Jesus.’
Andy Evans’s camera flashed, illuminating the grey walls around them.
Phillips caught his eye. ‘Same guy, Andy?’
‘Appears to be. Like the other victims, bruising around the wrists suggests she was alive when she was tied up. I estimate time of death between 10 p.m. and midnight last night. We’ll know for sure when she’s—’
‘On the slab, I know.’
Evans continued about his business, his team of investigators buzzing around the body. Phillips turned her attention back to Entwistle. ‘Who found her?’
‘The cleaning lady, Jennie Sinclair, who arrived shortly before eight this morning. She comes in every second Wednesday and has her own key. She assumed Betty was out, so she started on the house.’
‘So when did she find her?’
‘Not until 9 a.m. when she came into the garage to get the vacuum cleaner. The car’s interior light was on and caught her eye. She went to have a closer look and found the victim.’
‘Poor cow. Where is she now?’
‘In the living room. Talking to Bov and Jones.’
‘Ok, let’s go and see where they’re at.’
Phillips lead the way with Entwistle following behind. ‘Is DCI Brown not coming, Guv?’
‘Doesn’t look that way.’
‘I expect he’s in with the Chief-Super.’
Phillips didn’t turn around. ‘I expect so.’
Jennie Sinclair sat on the sofa in the lounge room, with Jones and Bovalino perched to either side of her. They appeared to be wrapping up the interview as Phillips entered.
‘If you can think of anything else, please give me a call.’ Jones handed Jennie his card.
She wiped her eyes with a tissue. ‘Betty was such a lovely woman. Who would do this to her?’
Spotting Phillips, Bovalino jumped to his feet. ‘Guv.’
‘Can I have a word, Bov?’ Phillips nodded towards the hall
way.
Bovalino followed her out of the room. ‘Is she genuine?’ Phillips whispered once they were out of earshot.
The big man nodded. ‘I’d say so, Guv. She seems pretty shaken up.’
‘Did she have anything useful to share?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. She comes in every two weeks. Usually has a cuppa and a chat with the victim before she starts on the house. There was no sign of Betty Clarke this morning, so she assumed she was out and got straight on with the cleaning.’
‘Isn’t eight a bit early for a cleaner?’
‘Apparently Betty was an early riser and liked it done first thing so she could get on with her day.’
‘Entwistle told me she was here for an hour before she found her.’
‘Yep. Can you imagine that? Happily cleaning the crapper upstairs, not knowing there’s a dead body in the garage below. I’m surprised she didn’t have a heart attack when she found Betty. She must be in her sixties.’
Phillips frowned. ‘This pours cold water on school being the connection between the victims.’
‘Agreed, Guv. This old dear was in her seventies. She’s the same age as my mother, for God’s sake.’
‘I really thought we had something with that.’
‘Me too.’
‘Maybe she was a teacher?’
‘’fraid not. Jennie Sinclair has known her for years. She said Clarke was a stay-at-home mum her whole life. Her husband, Harry, was a solicitor, so she didn’t need to work.’
‘Could she have been a dinner lady?’
‘Living in a house like this? I doubt it, Guv.’
‘Damn it, Bov. That was our best lead. I…’ She broke off as Jones appeared, followed by Jennie Sinclair, who smiled awkwardly as she passed them.
Jones handed her over to a uniformed officer at the front door, then joined Phillips and Bovalino. ‘Seriously, what the fuck is going on?’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’