by OMJ Ryan
Phillips did her best to keep her face straight, but the image of such a scenario playing in her mind’s eye made her want to burst out laughing.
‘Look, Phillips, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Collins is retiring next month. That means there’ll be a Superintendent spot coming free…and it’s got my name on it.’
He needed her help to get a promotion. Of course, it was so obvious.
‘A quick result on the Cheadle murders would almost guarantee it for me. This PR disaster could actually turn into an open goal. Now, we have three murders that appear to be linked, the press are hungry for information, and the Chief Super wants me to hold a press conference this afternoon. If I’m going to turn this situation to my favour, I need something to give them. So, you and the team need to double your efforts. You got it?’
The thought of Brown going even higher and having more influence in the Force made Phillips’s blood run cold. Conversely, Collins’s squad had nothing to do with the murder team. Brown moving out of their way was an attractive prospect. The greater good versus the needs of her team? A tough one, but she knew where her loyalties lay.
‘I understand, sir. Like I say, we’re about to debrief, and I’m sure the guys will have more to share. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes sir.’
Brown looked at his watch. ‘I’m due upstairs in half an hour to plan the press conference, but I can give you twenty minutes.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Phillips did her best to sound deferent.
‘Right. No time to waste. Let’s get on with it.’
Jones, Bovalino and Entwistle were all busy at their desks exploring various lines of enquiry when Phillips and Brown walked into the incident room.
‘Heads up, guys. DCI Brown is joining us for the debriefing.
Jones and Bovalino’s faces gave away their disappointment, though Entwistle seemed as enthusiastic as only a rookie could.
Phillips took a seat at her desk as Brown adopted his favoured position – to her right, straddling a chair turned backwards.
‘So, Entwistle, did forensics find anything in the church grounds that might help?’ asked Phillips.
‘’fraid not, Guv. Nothing at all.’
‘Ok, and what about Donnelly’s death. Anything?’
‘I went through his records with Dr Chakrabortty. She’d never seen them before, as his care came through Wythenshawe and then the hospice, but she was confident pancreatic cancer was what killed him. Although it was probably a combination of that and liver failure in the end. He was a big drinker, which is quite common amongst older priests.’
‘Says who?’ asked Brown.
‘Well…er…just my personal experience, sir. I was brought up a Catholic, you see. As a kid, it was well known that priests liked a smoke and a drink. A lot of our teachers at school were priests. Back then, they could smoke in the staffroom. Up close they reeked of it, with yellowing fingers and sometimes browning facial hair. Not to mention bulbous, ruddy noses from the drink.’
Brown nodded. ‘Inside knowledge, I like it. Good observation, Entwistle.’
Phillips caught Jones rolling his eyes at Brown’s comments. She felt the same, but ploughed on. ‘And what about Gillespie’s estate? Anything on who benefits from her death, Bov?’
‘Yes, Guv.’ Bovalino handed her a photocopied file. ‘As you can see from this copy of her will, Noel Gillespie gets seventy per cent of her assets, with ten per cent going to her each of two nieces, Chloe and Hollie. The remaining ten per cent goes to the church.’
Phillips scanned the document quickly and found what she was looking for. ‘It says here that the executor for the estate is Noel Gillespie. So he must have known he was a beneficiary?’
‘Another one that’s lied to us, Guv,’ said Jones.
‘When did he lie to you?’ asked Brown.
‘Yesterday, sir. When we pushed him on who benefitted from Susan’s will. He said he had no idea.’
‘Then there could be something in this inheritance link after all?’
Jones nodded. ‘Potentially, sir. The business is also in trouble. Seems Noel was investigated by the HMRC last year and owes them a lot of money.’
‘How much?’ asked Phillips.
Jones handed over a thick file containing copies of documents from the HMRC and Companies House. ‘Almost half a million in back-taxes and penalties for his role in tax avoidance schemes, dating back ten years. Looking at their accounts, the business turned over £400,000 last year, with dividends for Noel and Susan of over 40k each. Based on those numbers alone, Noel Gillespie cannot pay his tax debt and is potentially looking at a custodial sentence.’
Brown sounded excited now. ‘That’s a clear enough motive for me.’
Phillips did her best not to react and let out a long, silent breath. ‘He’s certainly putting himself into the frame, sir, but I’m also keen to know more about the boys in the Lourdes photo. Entwistle, did you find out anything on Matt Logan and Thomas Dempsey?’
Entwistle pinned enlarged copies of Logan’s and Dempsey’s driving licenses to the incident board. ‘I’ll start with Dempsey first, as he seems the most straightforward. Born and bred in Cheadle but, unlike Gillespie and McNulty, he went to the grammar school on a scholarship; a bright student by all accounts. He was educated to A-level standard and then went to work as an apprentice at DR Smith Engineering Ltd. He stayed with them for twelve months, but was released and ended up working as a postman, which he still does. He’s forty-three and lives alone in a former council house in Fallowfield, which he has a small mortgage on.’
Brown appeared to be losing interest and began checking his watch. Phillips urged Entwistle to continue.
‘Logan, on the other hand, is quite a colourful character. He went to the same school as Gillespie and McNulty, but left before taking his GCSEs. He then took a job at Hexagon Paints in Stockport. He was with them for a couple of years, but was sacked when he was arrested for burglary in 2012. He’s been in and out of prison for the last seven years. His most recent stint was three years in 2016, this time for drug possession and breaking and entering. He served eighteen months. Since then, he’s drifted between the streets and various shelters and hostels across Manchester. He’s well known to the city centre division for begging to fund his drug habit.’
‘Sounds like a prize ratbag. Could he be our guy?’ said Brown.
Phillips sensed where Brown was leading them: the easy win. ‘Well, sir, it’s certainly a possibility. But – we should also consider that both Dempsey and Logan could be in danger themselves. If the killer is working his way through the group in the photo, then either one of them could be our next victim.’
‘Or the killer, Guv.’ said Jones.
Phillips agreed. ‘Again, it’s possible.’
Looking incensed, Brown rose from his seat. ‘Let me get this straight. I’m due on live TV this afternoon to share our progress, and my crack team of detectives is telling me that both our current suspects could also be our next victims. How the fuck am I supposed to sell that upstairs? “Yes, ma’am, we have a couple of suspects who fit the profile, but they could also be our next murder victims.”’ He threw his pen across the room petulantly. ‘How the hell did I end up with you lot in my team?’
Phillips opened her mouth to speak, but Brown cut her off by pointing a finger at her. ‘You’re in charge of this sorry lot, Phillips, and you’re going to be sat right next to me at that press conference this afternoon – I’m not about to let you lot fuck up my chances of making Superintendent.’ Without waiting for a response, he stomped out of the incident room, muttering under his breath.
The team sat in silence for a moment until they could see Brown was out of sight and earshot. Phillips was still shaking her head at his tantrum.
‘There was one more thing, Guv,’ said Entwistle quietly.
‘Go on.’
‘Logan made a claim of sexual abuse against an unnamed Catho
lic priest in the early nineties. I found it in the local police logs. But it didn’t go anywhere.’
Phillips said nothing for a moment, instead tapping her index finger against her lips. Then she stood. ‘Right. It seems Logan is someone we need to talk to. Jones, Bov, go pick him up. Entwistle, keep digging into his background. Find out if he ever handled chemicals when he worked at the paint factory. In the meantime, I’d better see if I can get myself out of this bloody press conference.’
24
For the remainder of the morning, Phillips tried in vain to find an excuse to get out of the press conference. She’d hoped to conjure up a strong enough lead that needed her urgent attention, to play on Brown’s desire to close the case quickly. Sadly, all avenues appeared very general at this stage of the investigation. She knew damn well he wouldn’t go for any of them.
She had never relished speaking in public, but after the trauma of being shot and almost killed, her anxiety levels had increased exponentially. The pressure she felt walking into the Media Room at Ashton House almost pushed her into the floor. Her heart raced, her breathing was shallow, and she just hoped to God she wouldn’t have to speak.
She took seat next to Brown, behind a long table that had been placed in front of a GMP-branded media wall. A row of microphones emblazoned with various newspaper, radio station and TV network logos sat in front of them. The Force’s Director of PR, Rupert Dudley, stood to one side facing the room full of journalists and TV crews, a permanent and well-practiced smile locked on his face. When the last of the attendees had taken their seats, he introduced himself to the audience and handed over to Brown, who placed his scripted statement on the table in front of him.
A cacophony of automatic camera flashes erupted as the ‘presser’ went live.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Fraser Brown, the lead investigator in this series of murders. To my left is Detective Inspector Jane Phillips, who is assisting me in the investigation.’
Phillips looked out at the sea of faces as nausea washed over her.
Brown glanced down at his statement, then up to the cameras again, and proceeded with a steady delivery. ‘As you may be aware, in the last two weeks a number of residents from the Cheadle area have been found dead in their homes, in what can only be described as suspicious circumstances. I can now share the names of all three victims. The first was Susan Gillespie, aged forty-three from Brunswick Street in Cheadle. Her body was discovered on the morning of Tuesday the twenty-ninth of January, and we believe she died between the hours of 10 p.m. and midnight the night before. Three nights later, the second victim, Deidre McNulty, aged forty-two from Lawther Avenue, Cheadle was killed; again, somewhere between the hours of 10 p.m. and midnight. Her body was discovered the following morning. Lastly, Betty Clarke, aged seventy-two and of Blackmoor Gardens, Gatley, was found dead in her home on Tuesday the fifth of February. Evidence suggests that she too had been unlawfully killed the night before.’
Evidence suggests? The understatement of the century. Phillips mind filled with images of Clarke bagged and tied to the steering wheel of her car.
Brown continued. ‘Due to the ongoing nature of this investigation, at this stage I cannot offer any further details on how the victims died. But I would like to reassure the people of Cheadle, and Manchester as a whole, that we have dedicated significant resources to finding the killer and bringing them to justice quickly. I would urge any members of the public who may have information that could help the investigation, to contact the incident room on 0800 541-3372. All calls will be treated in the strictest of confidence. I’d like to remind the public to remain vigilant when out late at night, and to ensure that someone knows where they are going at all times. Also, it is advisable to lock all doors and windows until the killer is in custody. I’m pleased to say that DI Phillips and her team have presented me with a number of people of interest who we are currently investigating. Thanks to their work, I am confident it’s a case of if, as opposed to when, we catch the killer.’
Shit. Brown had just thrown her under the bus on live TV. If they failed to make any arrests, she would be the one in the firing line, not him. Sneaky bastard.
‘That completes my statement.’ Brown folded his script slowly, before placing it in his inside pocket.
Dudley stepped forwards now, the smile back on his face. ‘Thank you very much, everyone. Any further questions should be directed to my team via email. For those of you that don’t already have it, please take one of the PR-team contact cards on your way out.’
Next to her, Brown stood up from the table, nodded to a few people in the room and hurried out through a side door, keen to avoid any renegade reporters.
She followed hot on his heels. As he reached the adjacent room, she grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn and face her. ‘What was that all about?’
‘What was what about, Inspector?’
‘Throwing me under the bus out there.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh yes, you do. “I’m pleased to say that DI Phillips and her team have presented me with a number of people of interest who we are investigating.” You know damn well they’ll blame me if we don’t get a result on this.’
Brown smiled. ‘Can I help it if your previous heroics have given you a high profile with the press-pack?’
‘No, but you can bloody use it your advantage, can’t you? Catch the guy and you’re the hero. Don’t, and you can blame me and my team for your lack of success.’
Brown glanced left and right, then stepped closer to her. When he spoke, his voice was a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s nothing personal, Phillips, it’s just business. I want to be Superintendent and you’re going to help me, one way or the other. We both know we can’t work together long-term. So why not make it easy on yourself, and your boys, and help me get that promotion?’
It took all her resolve not to smash her fist into Brown’s jaw as she stared down at the pathetic excuse of a man in front of her. A lopsided grin spread across his face, his hand shaking the change in his trouser pocket.
Phillips stepped in even closer, and mirrored his tone. ‘I’m going to catch this guy, but let’s be crystal clear: I’m not doing it to save my arse or help get rid of yours. I’m doing it because three innocent women and their families deserve justice. I happen to believe that honouring their memories matters. That’s why I do this job.’
Brown took a step back. ‘Admirable, Phillips, admirable. Send me a postcard from the cheap seats when you get a moment, will you?’ With that, he turned around and walked out of the room.
25
Matt Logan looked like he hadn’t had a hot bath in a very long time. He smelled that way too. Jones had warned Phillips of his current condition after he and Bov tracked him down to a homeless hostel in Cheetham Hill. Still, she wasn’t quite prepared for the stench that greeted her as she followed Jones into interview room three: a mixture of body odour, cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. He looked frail, like a malnourished animal, vulnerable and unsure of himself.
Taking a seat at the plain wooden table opposite Logan, Phillips passed him a plastic cup of water and introduced herself as Jones took the seat beside her. She explained that their conversation was being recorded by a video-camera on the wall behind them, as well as a separate digital interview recorder – DIR – positioned against the far wall on the other side of the room. Logan nodded without conviction. After the long and unnecessarily loud tone indicating the start of the DIR, Phillips began the interview.
‘Do you know why you’re here, Matt?'
‘I can’t really remember. His mate…’ Logan pointed at Jones, his accent a thick Mancunian drawl. ‘The big lad told me, but I’ve forgotten.’
‘Do you know Susan Gillespie, Deidre McNulty or Betty Clarke?’
Hearing their names had a physical effect on Logan. His body straightened, and he paused for a long moment before replying. ‘
I went to school with a Susan Gillespie and Deidre McNulty, but that was a long time ago.’
‘And Betty Clarke?’
Logan shook his head.
Phillips produced a printed copy of the Lourdes group shot. ‘That’s Betty Clarke there.’ She placed her finger on the photograph.
‘Oh, you mean Mrs Clarke? I didn’t know she was called Betty.’
‘So, you do know her?’
‘Yeah, she used to take us on church trips when we were kids.’
‘Do you recognise anyone else in this photo, Matt?’
Logan studied it closely, sipping his water as he did. He pointed to the print, his fingernails black with grime. ‘That’s Susie, that’s Dee-Dee. Wow, fucking hell, that’s me.’ He chuckled.
‘And who is this boy next to you?’
‘Been a long time, but I think his name was Tom.’
‘Do you remember his last name?’
‘Er, it began with a D…’ He squinted at the image. ‘Den…Denny… No…Dempsey. That’s it, Dempsey.’
‘What about this man?’ Phillips pointed to Father Donnelly.
Logan instantly stiffened. ‘I-I can’t say.’
‘You can’t say, or won’t say?’
‘I don’t want anything to do with that man.’
Phillips watched Logan’s physical reactions. She recognised the sudden onset of anxiety, so similar to hers. ‘What’s the matter, Matt. Are you afraid of him?’
‘Is this why I’m here? Because of the allegations?’
‘What allegations are you talking about?’
Logan’s eyes darted between Phillips and Jones. ‘Has he made a complaint against me? If he has, you can tell him he’s a fucking liar. Whatever he says I did, I didn’t do, right?’
‘Matt,’ Jones cut in, ‘can you confirm Father Donnelly is the man in this picture?’
Logan nodded reluctantly. ‘Why?’ he asked in almost a whisper.