by OMJ Ryan
Jones cut back in. ‘Because we have no idea which direction she went in when she left the pub, we’ve got close to fifty cameras to check, which is going to take time.’
Phillips took a mouthful of her tea, then placed the cup on the desk. ‘Ok. Bov, if there’s nothing else to review from the bus company, then you can help Jones with the rest of the council cameras.’
‘Sure,’ said Bovalino.
She focused on Entwistle next, hopeful that her digital tech specialist would have come up with a lead after spending the day searching the Automatic Number Plate Recognition Camera database. ‘So, what about ANPR?’
Entwistle angled his laptop so Phillips could see his screen. ‘Nothing of note regarding Galloway, I’m afraid…’
Phillips’s heart sank.
‘…and no stolen or cloned vehicles. But, there is something I thought you’d want to see.’
Phillips sat forward. ‘Ok. What have you got?’
Entwistle double-clicked an image on his desktop so it filled the screen. On closer inspection, it looked like a grainy still from one of the cameras. ‘This van was caught heading towards the Pig and Whistle just before 8 p.m., and then again, heading away, just after 9. What struck me about it was the fact the number plates didn’t register with the database, and when I zoomed in – although the image quality is poor – it looks as if they’ve been covered over with something like mud, oil maybe, paint even. It’s a Ford transit, and judging by the body shape, it’s a first generation Mark-II.’
‘What are you, a van geek or something?’ teased Bovalino.
‘No, Bov,’ Entwistle shot back, ‘I’m a detective with access to Wikipedia. You should try it sometime.’
‘Never mind, Bov. Carry on,’ urged Phillips.
‘The Mark II was in circulation across the UK from 1977 to ’96. I’ve checked the DVLA database for existing models in the Greater Manchester area, and there are just under a hundred still registered on the road, with a further thirteen off the road and certified as SORN.’
Phillips stared at the black and white image of the van on the screen. It looked dark and gloomy, sinister even. ‘We need to find that van. Entwistle, draft in the wider team and coordinate the search. And make sure you use PC Lawford. She’s got a keen eye for detail.’
‘On it, Guv.’
‘And what about Galloway’s phone records? Anything of use there?’ asked Phillips.
‘I looked at those too, Guv,’ said Bovalino, shaking his head, then checked his notes. ‘It last connected with the mobile phone mast in Altrincham town centre at 8.43 p.m. Then it either ran out of juice or was switched off.’
‘Well, that can’t be a coincidence, can it?’ said Phillips.
‘No, Guv. That’s what I thought.’
Phillips rose from the chair. ‘Right, guys. Our priority is to find footage of Galloway, and we need to track down that van ASAP. Let’s get on it.’ She headed for her office. It was time she took another look at Steve Wright and the Suffolk Strangler murders.
14
Saturday, February 20th
Gabe placed the small flat-screen TV onto the chest of drawers at the end of his father’s bed, and inserted the HDMI cable that was connected at the other end to his open laptop. His hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline coursing through his body in anticipation of what was to come.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing to my TV?’ Bert wheezed through his battered larynx from his bed.
Gabe ignored the question as he activated the camera feed on his phone, which was set up and recording next door, secreted on a shelf in the corner of the room. The footage appeared on the large screen, and his heart skipped a beat as he gazed at the young man seated on the sofa, sipping a glass of champagne. A chill of excitement run up his spine. With everything set, he stepped to the side, then turned to face his father.
‘Who’s that on the telly?’ asked Bert. He was sitting at a 45-degree angle, propped up with pillows.
A broad smile spread across Gabe’s face, but he remained silent.
His father’s expression twisted as he focused on the screen. ‘Is that our sitting room?’
Gabe angled his body so he could see the screen once more. ‘Yes, it is, and that young man is called Sean. Adorable, isn’t he?’
Bert locked wide eyes with Gabe’s. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Turn it back to the proper telly!’
‘What? And have you miss all the fun? No chance.’
‘I’m telling you, turn my telly back on!’
‘No.’ Gabe chuckled. He was enjoying himself now.
‘Do as you are told for once and stop this bloody nonsense right now. Do you hear me?’
‘Oh, I hear you,’ said Gabe, ‘but I’m not listening. Not anymore.’ He faced the screen fully now. Holding the remote in his hand, he increased the volume so they could hear the music that was playing in the other room: a compilation of 80s pop. He then placed the remote purposely out of his father’s reach.
‘Boy! I’m telling you, turn that shit off and stop this stupid fucking game right now.’
‘I will not,’ Gabe spat back, ‘so just lie back and enjoy the show.’
A look of confusion spread across Bert’s face. ‘What are you talking about? What bloody show?’
Gabe grinned maniacally. ‘You’ll see,’ he said, then made his way out of the room.
Sean remained seated as Gabe walked into the sitting room. He was twenty years old, and his slim, angular features were accentuated by the candlelight. The glass in his hand was empty.
‘Sorry about that. I just had a few chores to get sorted, but I’m all yours now. Can I get you a refill?’ Gabe asked.
Sean appeared nervous as he nodded. ‘Yes please, that would be lovely.’ The accent was thick Glaswegian, but with a tenderness that softened the hard edge.
Gabe took his glass and moved over to the small, kitsch, free-standing bar on the other side of the room, where he busied himself with the drinks. A classic Bronski Beat song played low on the stereo. ‘I love this track!’ he said, affecting a camp, high-pitched voice as he reached for the remote and turned it up.
A moment later, he flopped down on the couch and passed across the champagne. ‘Bottoms up!’ said Gabe with a wink, as he took a long drink.
‘I’ve never had champagne before,’ said Sean coyly.
Gabe flicked his head theatrically ‘What? You’ve not lived, sweetheart.’
Sean took a sip. ‘No. You’re right there.’ His head fell forwards slightly as his shoulders sagged.
‘Well, you’re with Gabriel now, darling. Your life will never be the same after tonight. That I can promise, you.’
An awkward smile flashed across Sean’s face. ‘How long have you been out?’ he asked sheepishly.
Gabe blew his lips. ‘God, it feels like forever. I was eighteen, so it probably is. What about you?’
‘One week today.’ Sadness filled his eyes.
‘I take it it didn’t go well, then?’
‘You could say that.’
‘So, who reacted the worst, your mum or your dad?’
‘Dad.’ Sean took a big gulp from the champagne. ‘He kicked me out. Said I was a poof and no son of his.’
Gabe nodded. ‘Sounds familiar.’
Sean bit his bottom lip for a moment. ‘He says he never wants to speak to me again. That I don’t exist as far as he’s concerned.’
Gabe’s tone softened. ‘Well, if he’s anything like my old man, you’re better off without him.’
‘You don’t get on with your dad either?’ asked Sean.
‘No, I don’t. In fact, I bloody hate him, and I’ll be glad when he’s dead.’ Gabe stared in the direction of the camera, hoping his father was watching, but knowing for sure he could definitely hear him.
Another 80s anthem started on the stereo, and Gabe jumped up off the sofa. ‘Come on, let’s dance!’ He held out h
is hand.
Sean took it, and as Gabe pulled him up from the chair, he got a sense of how slight the young man’s frame was.
As the song played, Gabe threw himself into a virtuoso performance as a ‘life and soul of the party’ gay man, something he knew – because of his gentle nature as a child – his bigoted, right-wing father had always feared he would become. Once more, his mind’s eye was drawn to the image of Bert lying in bed, watching his son frolicking with another man in his own house. A sudden urge to kiss Sean came over him, and he pulled his date into a clinch without warning, kissing him with ferocious abandon before pulling away and staring into Sean’s dark, expectant eyes.
‘Was that ok?’ whispered Gabe.
Sean nodded with a smile for a moment, before his face changed all of a sudden.
‘Are you ok?’ said Gabe, affecting concern.
Sean’s mouth opened as he placed his hand against his chest. ‘I feel a bit queasy…’
Gabe reached out and grabbed Sean’s wrists to steady him.
‘Maybe it’s the champagne?’ Sean’s words were slurred.
Gabe stared at him for a long moment before replying, ‘It’s not the champagne, darling.’ He pulled Sean closer. ‘It’s the rohypnol I put in it.’
Sean’s eyes bulged. ‘You…drugged…me?’ he mumbled.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Gabe, without emotion, as he stared into Sean’s wide, terrified eyes. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.’
Sean’s knees buckled slightly, and a few seconds later his body went limp and he fell backwards onto the sofa, unconscious.
Gabe stared at the young man sprawled out in front of him. His heart beat loudly in his ears. A rush of excitement surged through every fibre of his body, relishing the control he had over another human being. Then, for his father’s benefit, he turned to face the camera once more. ‘Did you see how easy that was? How much power I have now?’ He leered.
He turned back and grabbed Sean’s ankles, then dragged him off the couch and onto the floor. His limp body felt heavier now, but was still light enough to drag across the carpet with ease. A few minutes later, he opened the door to his father’s room, and dragged Sean inside next to the bed. When the young man’s feet were level with his father’s head, he dropped his ankles to the floor, stood upright and locked eyes with Bert.
‘Stop this madness,’ demanded Bert. ‘Please, son.’
‘Stop? Don’t be absurd. I’m just getting started,’ Gabe chortled as he left the room.
Returning a few minutes later, he placed a large bucket of water on the floor next to Sean’s head.
‘You’ve proven your point, son. Please, leave the boy alone. No one else has to die.’
Gabe ignored his father as he got down on his knees, then rolled Sean over onto his stomach. Next, he grabbed the thick hair at the back of his skull and lifted the young man’s head and shoulders up from the floor with ease. He turned to stare at his father now. He could feel his boiling hatred for the man who had caused him so much pain as a child as if it was a living thing inside him. ‘This is on you, father,’ he growled, before thrusting Sean’s head deep into the bucket of water.
‘Stop it!’ cried Bert.
Completely incapacitated by the rohypnol, Sean didn’t react.
Gabe locked eyes with his father, his jaw fixed in anger, his gaze unflinching as he held Sean’s head under the water. Bubbles popped on the surface as the air in his lungs was forced out by the water rushing in. Gabe’s entire body began to shake with rage as he pushed Sean’s head against the bottom of the bucket, holding it there with all his weight. Finally, a minute later, the bubbles stopped.
The young man was dead.
15
Tuesday, February 23rd
Jones steered the squad car down the rough track, driving at a steady pace over the frosty, uneven ground as he and Phillips made their way onto wasteland located in Knutsford, about a mile outside of the town centre. Whatever industry had once been located here had long since gone, and the land had been cleared. ‘Coming Soon’ signs featuring images of new homes were located at the site entrance as they turned off the main road. Up ahead, the flashing lights of a fire truck illuminated the dark early morning sky as a number of fire fighters tackled the blaze.
‘So, what are we expecting, here?’ asked Phillips.
‘Apparently it’s a rubbish fire that contains a body,’ replied Jones.
Phillips blew her lips. ‘What a way to start the day, hey?’
‘Nothing wakes you up quite like seeing a body first thing in the morning.'
‘Do we know who found it?’ asked Phillips.
‘Uniform said the call came in from a security guard who was looking after the site. I told them to keep him on-scene for us.’
A minute later, Jones pulled the car to a stop next to a parked patrol car.
‘Here we go again,’ said Phillips, as she opened the passenger door and stepped out.
Jones tucked in behind her as they made their way towards the flames. A fire fighter turned and stepped towards them, followed by a uniformed police officer.
Phillips flashed her ID as she looked at the fire behind them.
‘I’m Leading Firefighter Banks.’
‘Sergeant Noakes, Ma’am,’ said the police officer.
Phillips nodded in the direction of the fire. ‘I’m told we have a body in that?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ replied Noakes.
‘Along with a lot of other stuff, including old car tyres,’ added Firefighter Banks. ‘It’s proving quite difficult to extinguish.’
‘Is the body male or female?’ asked Phillips.
Banks glanced back towards his men. ‘We can’t say, I’m afraid. It’s too badly burnt at this stage.’
‘I see,’ said Phillips.
Jones turned his attention to Noakes. ‘You said on the phone that a security guard had called it in.’
‘Yes. Julian Macintosh. He’s in that van over there.’ Noakes pointed to a large white van with blue and silver livery running down the side. It gave it the look of a police van, apart from the logo, which read ‘iSecure Group.’
Phillips locked eyes with Jones and thrust her hands into her coat pocket to protect them from the cold. ‘Well, we’d better go and have a chat, hadn’t we?’ She gestured for her 2IC to follow.
As they approached the van, the driver’s door opened and a man in a hi vis jacket climbed out. He was about six feet tall and, Phillips guessed, somewhere in his mid- to late-forties.
‘Mr Macintosh?’ Phillips extended her hand.
‘Please, call me Julian,’ he said with a firm grip. His accent was unmistakably Yorkshire.
‘Can you tell us how you came upon the body in the fire?’
‘I was doing my rounds this morning and spotted the flames as soon as I arrived on site. I thought someone must have been fly-tipping, or some kids messing about. I keep a fire extinguisher in the van, so I parked up and went to see if it was small enough to put out myself, and that’s when I smelt it.’
‘Smelt what?’ asked Jones.
‘Burning human remains.’
‘How did you know what it was?’ asked Phillips
‘Two tours of Afghanistan. I’m ex-Green Howards.’
‘I see,’ said Phillips.
Macintosh continued. ‘To be fair, it was masked by whatever else was in the fire to start with, but once my nose got a whiff of it, I knew it was human. You never forget that smell.’
‘What time was that?’ said Jones
‘It was my second job of the morning, so just after seven. I called your lot straight away.’
Phillips cut back in. ‘Did you see or notice anything out of the ordinary when you arrived on site?’
‘You mean apart from the burning body, like?’ chuckled Macintosh, but immediately seemed to think twice about it.
Phillips glared at him. ‘Apart from that.’
‘Well, there was a van just over there that
I’ve never noticed before.’
‘A van?’ He had Phillips’s full attention.
‘Yeah. It was parked up over on the lane, just past those trees over there,’ Macintosh pointed to the farthest corner of the site. ‘As soon as I arrived, it moved on.’
Phillips and Jones locked eyes for a split second. ‘What kind of van was it?’ she asked.
‘An old transit,’ Macintosh said with confidence.
‘You’re sure of that?’ said Phillips.
‘Oh aye. I did sniper training in the army. Plus, I’m a right nosey bastard, so I’m always looking at what’s around me.’
‘Did you notice the colour?’ asked Jones.
‘It was too far away for me to be totally sure, and it was still dark at that time, but it was either dark green, navy blue or brown. And it had some faded white lettering on the side. I think it said “& son” or something like that.’
‘What about the registration?’ said Phillips.
Macintosh shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Like I say, it was too far away and dark for me to get a proper look.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Who owns this site?’
‘Marvel Homes. They’re due to start construction in the next month.’
‘It’s a big spot,’ said Jones.
‘Yeah. A hundred new homes, so I’m told,’ said Macintosh.
Jones continued. ‘And how long have you been looking after the security here?’
‘About three months. It’s not an active site, so we just do patrols.’
‘Is the site secure? Around the perimeter, I mean?’ asked Phillips.