by OMJ Ryan
‘How are the bugs fixed to the frames?’ asked Phillips.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Evans. He moved the phone away to talk to one of his team. A few moments later, he returned. ‘We’ve just removed one, and the mark left behind is almost identical to what we found at the Carpenter house.’
‘She was bugged too,’ said Phillips in a low voice. ‘Thanks, Evans,’ she added, then rang off.
Jones’s eyes were wide. ‘What did he say, Guv?’
‘It looks like the Carpenters’ house was likely bugged too, but they must have been removed before she was killed.’
‘Have we stumbled into an MI5 operation here?’ said Entwistle, half joking, just as his laptop pinged and an email icon appeared on the big screen. ‘I think this is the CCTV footage from Metrolink.’
The team watched the big screen as Entwistle opened the link within the email and downloaded the files, which opened automatically.
‘Shaw went under the tram around 8.30 this morning,’ said Phillips as Entwistle searched the footage for the correct period of time. ‘Start at 8 and let’s see what comes up.’
Entwistle found what he was looking for and pressed play.
For the next twenty minutes, the team watched the video in real time as people filed onto the platform and trams came and went every few minutes. At 8.19 a.m., Shaw could be seen clearly as she walked onto the north-bound platform and stood with her arms folded. She was carrying a large handbag over her shoulder and, wearing wireless headphones, stared off into space. The Rochdale tram approached at 8.27 a.m. and Shaw turned to face it, along with those around her, as it drew closer to the platform edge. Suddenly someone wearing a hooded top rushed to her back, and a second later, Shaw fell head-first in front of the tram.
‘That’s him!’ shouted Phillips.
Entwistle stopped the video and stared in silence at the screen.
‘Fuck,’ Jones said, shaking his head.
‘Play it again,’ said Phillips. She got up from her chair and moved to take a closer look. She turned to Entwistle. ‘Do you have video from the south-bound platform?
Entwistle scanned through the file names, then nodded and pulled up the video. They watched in silence as footage from the opposite platform played out. Once again, they could see Shaw standing, arms folded, then stepping forwards in readiness for the Rochdale tram’s arrival. From this angle, they had a better view of the hooded man, but, frustratingly, his face remained covered by the hood as he moved in behind Shaw, then shoved her in the back and rushed away without waiting to see the outcome of his actions.
‘See where he goes,’ said Phillips.
Flip-flopping between Metrolink cameras and Council CCTV, they were able to track him until he disappeared down a small alleyway. After that, they could find no trace of him.
‘He’s vanished, Guv,’ said Entwistle.
‘Damn it!’ Phillips slammed her hand on the desk in frustration. ‘How the hell can he just disappear in a city with CCTV on nearly every corner?’
‘Maybe he knows the blind spots?’ said Jones.
Phillips dropped back into her chair and stared in silence at the frozen image of Shaw falling from the platform. ‘We need to find this guy now. Entwistle, I want every camera across the city checked.’
‘Got it.’
‘I’ll head over to see Aaron Carpenter, find out more about their burglary,’ said Phillips. ‘Jonesy and Bov, you guys go back through ANPR and CCTV in Withington and Droylsden the nights Carpenter died and Shaw was burgled. See if you can find anything to connect the two.’
‘Yes, Guv,’ said both men in unison.
‘Right. I know it’s late and we’ve all got places we’d rather be, but let’s get to it,’ said Phillips as she picked up her car keys and headed for the door.
43
Aaron Carpenter looked like a haunted man as he opened the front door. In just over a week, he appeared to have aged ten years; the dark shadows that framed his eyes were in stark contrast to his almost opaque skin; his posture reminiscent of a frail geriatric.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Carpenter, but could I have a quick word?’
Carpenter nodded and led the way into the house and through to the lounge room. An array of fast food cartons and boxes littered almost every available surface, and a half-empty bottle of whisky sat in the middle of the smoked-glass coffee table. He flopped down onto the sofa and muted the large television in the corner of the room, which was showing a classic Manchester United football match.
Phillips took a seat in the armchair nearest to him. ‘How have you been?’ she asked softly.
Carpenter scoffed and appeared intoxicated. ‘How do you think I’ve been?’
‘Is your sister still checking in on you?’
Carpenter nodded. ‘Every few days. She comes in, tells me off for drinking too much, cleans up and leaves.’
‘And when was she last here?’ said Phillips, casting her eyes around the filthy room.
Carpenter shrugged. ‘Dunno. I can’t remember.’
It was clear Phillips would struggle to get much from him in this mood, but she pressed on regardless. Even the slightest detail right now could be the breakthrough they were looking for. ‘When we last spoke, you said you suffered a burglary a couple of months ago.’
Carpenter nodded again.
‘You said you thought they’d been disturbed, as nothing much had been taken. Can you remember any details of what was actually stolen, other than Vicky’s laptop?’
‘Not really. A bit of cash, I think, that we use to pay the window cleaner. It was on the side near the microwave, as he was due the next day.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Phillips.
Carpenter’s head lolled back against the sofa and he stared at the ceiling for a long moment. She couldn’t tell whether he was thinking hard or struggling to remember through the booze. ‘I honestly can’t recall,’ he said eventually.
Phillips took a deep breath as she attempted to control her mounting frustration. It was time for a different approach. ‘Would you mind if I take a look around the house?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Carpenter as he leaned forwards and poured himself a large whisky, then unmuted the TV.
Phillips got up from the armchair. ‘Thank you.’
Leaving him to his drink and the football, she made her way into the kitchen. It was even filthier than the lounge; plates and dishes strewn across the worktops, with yet more used food cartons lying around. ‘What a mess,’ she mumbled under her breath as she walked through. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, she soon found what she was looking for: a large replica Kandinsky print within a heavy frame, secured to the wall. She lifted it off and inspected the back. Sure enough, she came across a sticky circular residue like Evans had described. She took a photo on her phone, then returned it to the wall. Next, she moved into the hallway, where she removed a number of pictures for inspection. The first three were clean, but the final frame, situated close to the front door and above the landline phone, boasted another sticky circle on its reverse. Again, she took a photo and hung the picture back up. For the next ten minutes, Phillips worked her way through all the rooms on the ground floor, finding yet more evidence that listening devices had potentially been removed. She took a seat inside Carpenter’s study and called Jones.
‘Guv?’
‘I’m at Carpenter’s house. So far, I’ve found four picture frames with what looks like evidence of there having been listening devices on the backs of them. And that’s just downstairs.’
‘Bloody hell. Whoever put them in wasn’t taking any chances, were they?’ said Jones.
‘You’re not kidding.’
‘We think we may have found something significant ourselves, Guv,’ said Jones.
Phillips’s pulse quickened. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ll recall the night Carpenter was killed, we spotted a cloned vehicle in Didsbury?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well
, that same car was also picked up in Burnage the night of the Carpenter burglary, as well as on Ashton New Road – about half a mile from Shaw’s home – on the night she claimed to have been burgled, too.’
‘They have to be linked,’ said Phillips.
‘No doubt about it.’
‘But how do we connect them?’
‘Therein lies the problem,’ said Jones.
Phillips sat in silence for a moment as she cast her eyes around Carpenter’s study and considered her next move. Her attention was drawn to a newspaper cutting on the desk, of Victoria and Eric Jennings standing on a building site wearing hard hats and high-viz vests over their suits. The article was entitled ‘MANCHESTER’S SKYLINE – IN SAFE HANDS.’
‘I think we need another run at Jennings; see how he’s taken Shaw’s death,’ said Phillips.
‘Not a bad shout. Do you want me and Bov to pay him a visit?’
‘No. I’m only ten minutes from his. I can do it. You guys get off home and we can reconvene first thing tomorrow.’
‘Well, do you want me to come with you? I can be there in half an hour and I’ve got nothing else on.’
‘No,’ said Phillips. ‘I’ll get nothing more from Carpenter tonight. I’m pretty sure he’s hammered, so I’ll say my goodbyes and head over to Jennings now.’
‘Seriously, Guv. After what’s happened in the past, I’m not happy about you going into a suspect's home alone.’
‘I’m touched, Jonesy, but I’m sure I can handle Jennings on my own. He can’t be more than eight stone wet through. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll call you when I’m done, ok?’
‘Ok, Guv. Just be careful.’
‘I will.’ Phillips ended the call and made her way back through to the lounge room, where she found Carpenter snoring loudly on the couch. She watched him for a moment. Her heart went out to him. She was sure that battling grief with whisky would not end well, and hoped his sister could get through to him sooner rather than later.
Tiptoeing out of the room, she moved quickly to the front door and let herself out.
Phillips drove at a steady pace down Palatine Road towards Northenden. As she approached Withington Golf Club on her left, her phone began to ring through the in-car speaker system; a landline number she didn’t recognise appeared on the digital display on the dash, but she accepted the call. ‘DCI Phillips.’
‘Phillips. You have to help me! My life is in danger!’ said the agitated male voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Eric Jennings.’ The words sounded slurred.
‘Have you been drinking, Mr Jennings?’
He ignored the question. ‘You have to protect me. Someone’s trying to kill me.’
Phillips continued on towards his house. ‘Who’s trying to kill you?’
‘I can’t say over the phone.’
‘Are they an immediate threat to you?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t see anyone at the moment, but that doesn’t mean they’re not watching me.’
‘Lock the doors and get away from the windows. I’m on my way to your house as we speak. I’m five minutes out.’
‘In Northenden?’
‘Yes, I’m just passing along the High Street.’
‘I’m not there.’
‘Well, where are you?’
‘The Lake District.’
‘The Lakes?’
‘Yes. I have a house here.’
‘Right. Let me call the Cumbria Police for you—’
‘No! I’ll only deal with you.’
Phillips was certain Jennings was drunk. ‘With respect, Mr Jennings, if you feel you’re in imminent danger, then the safest and quickest thing to do is to call the Cumbria Police.’
‘I’m not putting my life in the hands of the local plod! I need you.’
‘Eric. I’m almost two hours away. If you ring the local pol—’
‘I know who killed Carpenter and Shaw,’ Jennings cut her off.
Phillips pulled the car over to the side of the road and brought it to a stop.
‘What did you say?’
‘I know who killed Victoria Carpenter and Cindy Shaw, and I’m scared that they’re coming for me next.’
‘Who is?’
‘I want to go into witness protection!’ ranted Jennings.
‘Witness protection? That’s not a simple thing to arrange, Eric. I need to know why you think your life is in danger to organise something as complex and costly as that.
‘Because I know too much about their illegal operations, just like Cindy did – and they killed her.’
‘Who did?,’
‘The Triads! The Triads are gonna kill me.’
‘Why Eric? Why would the Triads want to kill you?’
‘Because of the rezoning of St John’s Gardens,’ slurred Jennings. ‘They’re the ones that have been pulling the strings, and now it’s been approved––’
‘It’s been approved?’ Phillips cut him off. ‘Since when?’
‘Since yesterday’s meeting, and less than a day later, Cindy was murdered. I’m telling you, they’re removing all the loose ends, and I’m next on the list.’
Despite Jennings’s obvious drunken state, his story certainly fit with Phillips’s theory that Gold Star Trading were behind the St John’s development. There was no way she could risk leaving him in the hands of the local police if the Triads were after him. ‘Ok. I’ll drive up to your place, now.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Jennings. ‘I’ll give you the address.’
‘I have it on file. It’ll probably take an hour and a half to get to you. So, like I said before, lock the doors, stay away from the windows, and whatever you do, do not call anybody else until I get there. Understood?’
She heard as Jennings swallowed hard on the other end of the line. ‘Ok, whatever you say. But please hurry.’
Phillips reassured him she would be there as soon as she could, then hung up.
Next, she called Jones.
‘That was quick, Guv,’ he said cheerfully.
Phillips wasted no time. ‘There’s a been a change of plan. Are you still in the office?’
‘Yeah, I was just about to head off.’
‘What about Bov and Entwistle?’
‘They left a couple of minutes ago. They’ll be heading downstairs as we speak.’
‘Go and get them – then find me Jennings’s address in the Lakes and call me back.’
‘What’s going on Guv?’
‘I don’t have time to explain, Jonesy. Just get the guys and that address, and call me back. I’ll tell you everything then. Hurry.’
44
Ninety minutes later, Phillips pulled her car onto the gravel drive outside Jennings’s holiday home, located on a small, dark lane about half a mile outside of Grasmere. The nearest neighbour was a few hundred meters away, and for a fleeting moment, as she gazed up to the small, single-storey cottage cast in darkness, she wondered if Jennings had made a run for it. She sat in silence, feeling suddenly tired; the jet lag was stubbornly refusing to leave her system. Exhaling loudly, she straightened her ponytail and refreshed her spectacles.
A moment later, she approached the front door and tried the handle. As expected, it was locked. Pulling out her phone, she returned Jennings’s call, but the signal was weak because of the surrounding terrain, so it failed. She tried again a couple more times, and as it finally connected, she could hear his landline ringing inside the house. After what felt like an age, he answered.
‘Hello?’ His voice was low and tentative.
‘It’s Phillips. I’m out front.’
Jennings ended the call, and a few seconds later she could see his silhouette through the small glass panel in the middle of the front door. The lock released, and he opened it on the chain and peered out into the darkness.
‘Are you gonna let me in, then?’ asked Phillips impatiently.
Jennings removed the chain, then opened
the door, standing behind it as though it was a shield. She stepped inside and waited for him to lock it. The whole place smelt stale, like it had been locked up without being used for a sustained period of time.
‘Are you alone?’ said Jennings, his speech more slurred than on their earlier call.
‘Yes, but my team is en route as we speak. They should be here in twenty minutes or so.’
‘Can they be trusted?’ he said as he walked past her and made his way to the rear of the house, still wearing his work shirt and trousers over stockinged feet.
Phillips couldn’t help but feel slightly affronted that a man of Jennings’s supposed questionable behaviour would question the integrity of her team. ‘Yes, they can be trusted. They’ve saved my arse on more than one occasion, I can tell you.’
‘Well, let’s hope they can do the same for me,’ Jennings said as they made their way through to the small kitchen at the heart of the house. A single table lamp lit the room, and Phillips noted the layout from where she stood; one hallway ran from the kitchen to what she assumed were the bedrooms, and a narrow, windowless corridor appeared to lead to a rear door.
Jennings took a seat. In front of him was a bottle of brandy with a large measure poured into a glass, and a metal golf club was positioned against the wall to his left. Phillips glanced at it and wondered what damage – if any – it could do in the hands of a scrawny man like Jennings. At this moment in time, with booze coursing through his veins, he looked as if just picking it up would be a challenge.
Phillips took a chair at the table opposite him. ‘So, who killed Vicky and Cindy, Eric?’
Jennings took a gulp from the brandy, then winced and made an unnecessary amount of noise after swallowing it. ‘Once I’m in witness protection, I’ll tell you everything, but not before.’
With her head fogged from jet lag and fatigue, Phillips bit her lip as she stifled her growing irritation. She had never warmed to Jennings, and his current drunken state and dramatic performance was getting on her last nerve. ‘Look, if you really do know who killed Cindy, then you need to tell me, now.’