by OMJ Ryan
Sims grabbed his notepad and pen. ‘So, what can you tell me about him?’
Gabby’s gaze moved to the bar for a moment, where the barman was busy making a cocktail of some kind. ‘What do you think of DCI Phillips?’
Sims narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know her.’
‘Yeah, but how do you think she’s handling the copycat murders?’
‘Well. I’m no expert, but she seems a bit lost, if I’m being honest. I mean, he’s killed five people so far and the police appear no closer to catching him.’
Gabby’s grin reappeared. ‘No, they don’t, do they. What about the killer?’
‘What about him?’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘Er, well, again, I have no idea who he is, but based on what I know about the murders so far, I’d say he’s clearly smart, calculated, and seems one step ahead of the people trying to catch him.’
‘I like that description,’ said Gabby, taking another drink.
An uncomfortable silence descended as they eyed each other.
Everything about Gabby unnerved Sims. ‘You said on the phone that you knew his name.’
Gabby nodded. ‘I do. But that’s not important right now.’
‘It is to me. It’s the whole reason I’m here.’ Sims was struggling to hide his frustration.
‘All in good time, Lachlan, all in good time,’ said Gabby. ‘So, tell me, what you think of me.’
Sims coughed nervously. ‘I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘Do you like how I look?’
‘Sure,’ he said without conviction.
‘What about my tattoo?’
Sims glanced at it for a moment. ‘It’s very impressive.’
‘It’s new,’ said Gabby proudly.
‘Must have hurt.’
‘Yeah. I did it myself.’
Sims nodded, unsure of where the conversation was going.’
Gabby leaned forward across the table and locked eyes with Sims. ‘You can’t tell if I’m a man or a woman, can you Lachlan?’
Sims blushed before choosing his words carefully. ‘If I’m being honest, no, I can’t.’
Gabby nodded, then drained the contents of the bottle before setting it down carefully on the table and stepping out of the booth. ‘I need a piss.’
Sims watched Gabby head inside the ladies’ toilet. Confusion fogged his brain. This was without doubt the weirdest meeting with a source he’d ever had, and he was getting nowhere fast. Just then, his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Don Townsend was calling. ‘God, Don. Your timing couldn’t be better.’
‘Why? What’s up?’ asked Townsend.
‘My source, that’s what’s up.’
‘What? Is he a no-show?’
‘No, they’re here, but it looks like he’s actually a she.’
‘What?’
‘I’m seriously confused, Don. I definitely spoke to a guy on the phone earlier tonight, as well as the first time he called, before the press conference, but the person who’s turned up now sounds kinda like a woman – albeit with a masculine tone – has long hair, painted nails, and calls herself Gabby. Plus, they’ve just walked into the ladies’ loo.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same person you spoke to before?’
‘I think so. I mean, she identified herself as my source, knew my name, and asked about the money as soon as she sat down.’
‘So what’s the issue? Maybe she’s transgender. This is Manchester after all, Lachlan, the LGBTQ capital of the UK,’ said Townsend.
‘Maybe so, but she’s seriously freaking me out!’
‘What? Because she’s trans?’
‘No. I couldn’t care less if she’s trans, Don. That doesn’t bother me at all. No, it’s her. The way she talks, the way she looks at me, and she has this massive homemade star tattoo on her cheek. It’s creepy as all fuck.’
‘Well, has she given you any information on the killer yet?’
‘No. She just keeps talking about DCI Phillips.’
‘Really? What’s she said about her?’
‘Asked me what I thought of her and how I thought she was handling the case. Then after that, she wanted to know what I thought of the killer.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said I thought he was one step ahead of the police, which seemed to please her.’
‘Sounds like you might have a crazy on your hands,’ said Townsend.
Sims blew his lips. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’’
‘It happens, mate. The high-profile cases do tend to bring out the nut-jobs, I’m afraid. Look. If it doesn’t feel right, then just get out of there. You’ve still got plenty of copycat content for the next few weeks, and I’m sure more will come up before long.’
‘Yeah. Sounds like a plan,’ said Sims.
‘Ok. But before you go anywhere, I’ve had the boss on the phone wanting to know when your poll on public safety and the effectiveness of the police is going live. I told him I thought you’d already done it earlier, but I’ve looked and there’s nothing on the website or social media.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Sims. ‘I set it to go live from 8.30 this evening. I’ll double-check it.’
‘Ok, well, I’ve been in the office for long enough, so I’m going home now. If you need me for anything, call me on the mobile,’ said Townsend.
‘Will do. Thanks, Don.’
Sims hung up and attempted to login to his work profile remotely, but the 3G signal was pretty much non-existent inside the thick stone walls of the ancient pub. He glanced up at the ladies’ toilet, wondering where Gabby had got to. If she had just gone for a piss, as she had claimed, then it was probably the longest wee ever. Checking his watch, he realised it was approaching 10 p.m. It had been a long day and, having worked all weekend, he’d run out of steam. With no sign of Gabby returning, he decided it was time to go. He had zero confidence his so-called source had anything of real value to tell him, so, grabbing his bag and coat, he slid out of the booth and headed for the door.
Once out in the car park, he checked his phone in the hope of finding a 3G signal. Finally, one bar appeared on the screen, and as he moved farther away from the building, it changed to two and eventually three. He quickly reopened the remote login window on his phone and double-clicked on the poll he had set up. Scrutinising the details for a moment, he soon realised his mistake: he’d keyed in a broadcast date of 8 p.m. tomorrow, instead of tonight. Cursing himself, he revised the date and set it live.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked the now-familiar voice from behind him.
Sims spun around to find Gabby staring at him. The leering look that filled her face sent a shiver down his spine. Without thinking, he stepped backwards. ‘Erm, it’s getting late. I think I’m gonna go.’
Gabby’s eyes bored into him. ‘But I haven’t told you who the killer is yet, Lachlan.’
‘Look, no offence, Gabby, but in the half hour that we’ve been here, you’ve talked a lot but actually told me very little. And, to be honest, it seems like this is all just a game for you.’
A snarl formed on Gabby’s lip. ‘You don’t think I’m serious, Lachlan?’
Sims sensed Gabby’s anger, and took another step backwards. ‘Look, I’m just gonna go, ok? No hard feelings.’
Gabby stared at him in silence and nodded her head. ‘I see,’ she said, then lifted up her baggy jumper.
Sims’s eyes were drawn to a huge combat knife wedged inside the top of her jeans.
‘How serious is this?’ asked Gabby, and yanked the knife out in one fluid movement and thrust it at Sims.
Before he could do anything, an ungodly pain exploded in his right leg. He screamed in agony as Gabby stepped closer and clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him, using her shoulder to hold him upright. The overwhelming pain made him want to vomit.
Gabby pulled the knife free before pushing him backwards. ‘We’re going for a little ride in my van, Lachlan.’
Unable to speak or cry out, he staggered backwards under Gabby’s control. Everything was happening in a blur. He heard doors opening, then was forced backwards onto the hard metal floor of a foul-smelling van. A moment later, the doors slammed shut and he found himself entombed in darkness.
54
Phillips and the team stared at the large screen on the wall of the conference room as Entwistle continued to pull up information on Joanna Dennehy’s crimes.
‘So,’ Carter ventured, ‘if Anderson does copycat Dennehy, then by the looks of it, the next victim is likely to be male.'
‘I’d say so, sir,’ Phillips replied.
At that moment, Entwistle’s phone beeped loudly, followed by Jones’s and Bovalino’s in close succession.
Phillips frowned as each of them checked their screens. ‘Seriously, guys, can we stay focused here, please?’
‘Sorry, Guv,’ said Entwistle. ‘It’s a notification from Twitter. I set up an alert for any stories relating to the Copycat Killer.’
‘He did the same for me,’ said Jones.
‘And me,’ added Bov, holding his phone up so his screen was visible to the room.
Entwistle explained what he was looking at. ‘It’s a Twitter poll that’s just been posted by the MEN. It’s asking how safe readers feel in Manchester with the Copycat Killer on the loose, and how well they think the police are handling the investigation.’ He passed his phone over. ‘There’s already hundreds of comments. It doesn’t make for good reading, Guv.’
Phillips began scrolling down through the live comments. ‘Shit! This is a feeding frenzy!’
Carter’s phone began to ring. He stepped up from his chair to answer it. ‘Ma’am,’ he said as he made his way out of the conference room.
‘Looks like he’s getting another bollocking from Fox,’ said Jones.
‘Believe me, he won’t be the only one,’ Phillips shot back.
Entwistle brought up the Manchester Evening News’s website on screen. ‘The poll’s running on their site too. Looks like Lachlan Sims is the journo behind it.’
‘That little prick,’ growled Phillips.
Carter opened the door, a grave look on his face. ‘Jane, have you got a minute?’
She followed him out into the now-empty main office. ‘I take it that was Fox, sir?’
‘Correct, and she’s seriously pissed off.’ Carter let out a loud sigh. 'It seems she’s just read the online article by Sims, and taken exception to the fact he’s suggesting the force has gone backwards since she took over as chief constable and I became chief super of Major Crimes. Seems she’s blaming me and you for the fact Sims has singled her out.’
‘Oh, God. That’s all we need.’
‘I thought Townsend had put a leash on Sims?’ said Carter.
‘Knowing Don, he will have tried, but he also said the editor was actively encouraging Sims to make as much noise as possible about the Copycat Killer to drive more click-bait.’
‘Seriously, Jane, we need to get a hold of this, and quickly. Fox is looking for a neck for the noose, and I can feel it tightening around mine with every hour that passes.’
‘Probably mine, too. I’ll call Don now and find out what the hell’s going on. See if there’s any way we can mitigate some of this shit.’
Phillips pulled up Townsend’s number and headed for her office. His phone rang for about thirty seconds until the voicemail greeting kicked in. Phillips tried again with the same result. ‘Jesus, Don. Answer the bloody phone!’
She tried a third time.
Finally, he answered. ‘Sorry I missed you, Jane. I was getting petrol and left my phone in the car. Everything ok?’
‘No it’s bloody not, Don,’ spat Phillips, as she paced around her office. 'That little shit who works for you has just made my job a hundred times harder.’
‘I work with a lot of little shits,’ joked Townsend. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
Phillips wasn’t in the mood. ‘Sims, and that bloody poll he’s just put out online. Fox has seen it and is going mental. The comments alone are bad enough, but it seems Sims has suggested Fox’s leadership isn’t as good as that of Chief Constable Morris.’
‘Oh, dear. I didn’t know he’d done that.’
‘I thought you were his boss, Don? Don’t you check his articles?’
‘Ordinarily, yes, but the editor has taken a shine to him at the moment and he’s proofing everything to do with the Copycat Killer. I’m just watching from the sidelines like a spare dick at a wedding.’
‘It’s not funny, Don. We need to get this stuff under control. My team is spending every waking minute trying to catch this guy, and shit like this not only batters the morale of an already exhausted team, but it riles up the public and makes us look incompetent.’
‘I know. I know. I’m sorry, Jane.’
‘Can you send me Sims’s mobile number? I want to talk to him myself.’
‘I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. I’ll ping it over to you then,’ said Townsend.
‘As quick as you can, Don. I’m gonna make sure the little bastard won’t be printing anything else about us in hurry.’
‘Ok, Jane. And look, I know you’re angry, but try not to be too hard on Sims. He’s young and just trying to make a name for himself. We’ve all been there. Plus, he’s had his fingers burned tonight with a source who claimed to have information on the Copycat Killer, but turned out to be nut-job, so he’ll be feeling a bit wounded right now.’
‘What source?’ asked Phillips.
‘He took a call from a guy this evening who said he knew who the Copycat Killer was. It turns out it was the same person he spoke to before your press conference, the one that put him onto the copycat theory in the first place.’
‘Go on.’
‘So, this guy calls into the office tonight about 8, saying he would give Sims the name of the killer in exchange for a few grand cash.’
‘And your junior reporter didn’t think to call and share this information with us, with a serial killer on the loose?’ Phillips was struggling to keep her cool.
‘To be fair, Sims did ask why he wasn’t passing that information over to the police, but the guy said you’d bury it. He wanted to make as much noise as possible, as well as a few quid. We’re journalists, Jane. It’s in our DNA to get as much of the story as we can before handing it over to you lot.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Turns out the source was just a wannabe and a bit strange, by all accounts.’
‘In what way strange?’
Townsend chuckled. ‘Well, it seems he came dressed as a woman, sporting a huge facial tattoo and calling himself Gabby.’
Phillips stopped pacing.
Townsend continued. ‘It seems the guy said nothing about the killer the whole time they were together, and instead spent all his time talking about you and how you were handling the investigation.’
‘Did you say the source had a facial tattoo?’
‘Yeah. Homemade, apparently.’
Phillips marched back towards the conference room. 'Did Sims tell you what kind of tattoo?’ She opened the door and stepped inside.
‘A star, I think.’
Phillips stared at the historical mugshot of Dennehy on the big screen in front of her. The face of evil stared back, complete with a star tattoo on her cheek. ‘Don. Sims is in danger!’
Everyone in the room turned and stared at her.
‘What do you mean he’s in danger?’ asked Townsend.
Phillips pressed on. ‘Where is Sims now?’
‘He was at The White Horse pub in Woodford when I spoke to him about ten minutes ago, but he said he was gonna head home.’
‘I need you to hang up and call him immediately. The person you’ve described as his source could well be the killer, and Sims his next victim.’
‘You what?’
‘I don’t have time to explain, Don. Just call him and tell him to get the fuck out of there.�
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‘I’ll do it now.’ Townsend’s voice was laced with panic.
A sea of expectant faces greeted Phillips as she ended the call. 'That was Don Townsend. He’s just told me Lachlan Sims met a man tonight who was dressed as a woman, with a large facial tattoo of a star on their face – just like Dennehy’s.’ Phillips pointed to the face on the screen. ‘The person claimed to know who the Copycat Killer was, and lured Sims to The White Horse pub in Woodford. Called herself Gabby. We have to assume this person is actually Gabriel Anderson dressed up as Dennehy, and that Sims could be our next victim. I want the nearest uniformed patrol unit over to that pub immediately.’
‘I’m on it!’ said Jones, picking up the internal phone.
‘Tell them to look out for the transit van, or anyone leaving the pub that looks like Joanna Dennehy. Share her mugshot with control. They need to be discreet and watch from a distance until we get there. We want to catch Anderson, not spook him.’
Jones nodded and made the call to Control.
Phillips threw her car keys at Bovalino. ‘We need to get Woodford yesterday, Bov, so you’re driving.’
55
Gabe could hear the groans coming from Sims in the back of the van. He hadn’t planned to stab him at the pub; he’d lost his cool and it had just happened. He was annoyed at his momentary lapse in concentration, but at the same time, his plan was still in play and he was even closer to the end game now. The incident with Sims had merely accelerated the timeline.
The dark country road that led away from Woodford was mercifully quiet. As impatient as he was to reach his final destination as quickly as possible, he forced himself to stick to the speed limit. He was too close to the end now to mess it all up by drawing unnecessary attention to himself.
In an attempt to settle his racing mind, he switched on the radio and quickly flicked through the glut of so-called hit music channels until he found Classic FM. A live orchestral version of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ was playing, and he recognised the dark, foreboding sounds of Winter. How apt, he thought, and smiled to himself. A few moments later, as he rounded the next bend, he spotted a car heading towards him and switched his headlights from full beam to normal so as not to dazzle the oncoming driver. As the car drew closer, he realised it was a police patrol car. His pulse quickened. Holding his breath, he stared ahead and tried his best to appear non-plussed and natural. As soon as it had passed by, he fixed his gaze on his wing mirrors, watching as it continued on away from him. He exhaled loudly and celebrated his good fortune, but his relief was short-lived when his attention was drawn to a flash of brake lights in his mirrors. To his horror, the car stopped, then turned around.