by OMJ Ryan
Deadly Waters
A Detective Jane Phillips Novel
OMJ Ryan
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Free Crime Thriller
Acknowledgements
Also by OMJ Ryan
Rights Info
1
DCI Phillips killed the engine of the unmarked police car and Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’ faded away as the radio switched off. The dashboard clock reminded her the time was just after 8 a.m.
As she sat in silence for a moment, the windows soon steamed up against the bitter December wind gusting across the barren concrete. The spot where she had chosen to park had once been a factory floor; the walls of the old building were long since demolished.
She pulled on her gloves and scarf, and stepped out into the dilapidated industrial landscape of Miles Platting, a former manufacturing hub just north of Manchester city centre. She picked her way across the treacherous ground and descended the frozen, mossy steps that lead to a now-desolate stretch of the Rochdale Canal. The canal had once been a bustling transport route for merchants moving goods to and from the North West of England. Up ahead, two uniformed officers huddled together, tense. Detective Sergeant Jones stood a few feet in front of them, head bowed, looking towards the water’s edge. A couple of paramedics and a fire crew busied themselves with harnesses and safety equipment.
As she approached, her DS nodded. ‘Guv.’
‘So, what brings us to the glamorous world of Miles Platting this early on a Thursday morning, Jonesy?’
Jones pointed towards the ice-covered dark green water and the body being pulled out by two firemen in full fire-fighting kit. ‘Looks like a young girl drowned, Guv.’
Phillips could feel her face screw up. ‘A drowning. Then why are we here?’
‘An enthusiastic young rookie called us in directly. He thought it could be the work of the infamous “Pusher”.’
Phillips scoffed. ‘What? The so-called serial killer of the Manchester canals?’
‘The same, Guv.’
‘I thought that fairy story was long since dead.’
Jones nodded towards the young rookie, who was now deep in what looked like an uncomfortable conference with a much older officer. ‘Yeah, and so does his sergeant. From what I’ve heard so far, his guvnor's not best pleased the lad called us in without speaking to him first. He’s been barking at him for the last twenty minutes. The poor sod.’
Phillips turned her attention back to the water’s edge. She watched as the fire crew carefully laid the body of a black girl on the wet stones at the side of the canal before the paramedics moved in to complete the formalities and confirm life extinct.
Phillips and Jones were now free to examine the body – albeit limited in scope at this stage – before deciding whether or not a forensic team would be required. Moving closer, Phillips removed her leather gloves and exchanged them for a latex pair. She knelt next to the dead girl, who lay face upwards. She was dressed as if ready for a night on the town in a skimpy black skirt, red crop top and matching stilettos. It appeared odd, given the season, that she was without a coat or jacket.
‘Did her coat come off in the water?’ said Phillips.
‘Not sure, Guv. I’ll get uniform to have a look for it in a minute. In the meantime, I want to show you this.’ Jones knelt down next to her, his hands also gloved, and tilted the dead girl’s head to the side. He pulled the wet, matted hair out of the way so Phillips could see what he was looking at. ‘I spotted something on the back of her neck, Guv, when she was face down in the water. A large, perfectly circular bruise. I thought it worth a closer look.’
Phillips stared at the mark for a long moment and rubbed it gently with her gloved index finger. ‘Looks very unusual. Can’t recall seeing anything like that before.’
‘Me neither, but is it enough for Major Crimes to take on the case? Should we just leave it to uniform?’
Phillips let out a deep sigh. She knew Chief Superintendent Fox would be royally pissed off if she added another investigation to the team’s already significant caseload; especially with the Major Crimes Unit running way over budget. She could almost hear the lecture about department stats and KPIs she’d be subjected to once she got back to Ashton House.
Looking at the petite young girl, soaking wet and frozen stiff, the striking, pretty face with dead eyes that stared into the abyss, she shook her head. It was never easy to lose a loved one, but how would her family feel, just three weeks before Christmas? The world could be a cruel place. She took another long look at the bruise. Sod the lectures, budgets and bullshit. This young girl was her responsibility now. ‘Do it, Jonesy, before I change my mind. Let’s stick around. See what Evans and the SOCO team have to say. Maybe then, we can find out what really happened to this poor creature.’
Jones smiled. ‘Good on yer, Guv.’
Less than an hour later, Senior CSI Andy Evans and his team of investigators had replaced the fire crew at the canal side. The paramedics and uniformed officers remained in situ for now, most of them nursing steaming hot drinks and stepping from foot to foot in their efforts to keep warm.
The Scene of the Crime Operation team were quick to erect their tent over the body. Evans and his team set to work photographing the scene and removing her personal effects. They passed a thick, but cheap-looking, Bejazzled purse to Phillips. She located the driving license and inspected it. ‘Chantelle Webster, twenty-four, from Stretford.’ She handed the license to Jones and inspected the rest of the purse. ‘Just over a hundred quid in cash and a couple of bank cards.’
Jones pulled out his iPhone. ‘I’ll call Entwistle and see if she’s been reported missing.’ He punched in the number and stepped outside of the tent.
‘So what do you think, Andy?’ asked Phillips
Evans produced a half smile. ‘Well, I’d say it’s good news, Jane. Looks like a straightforward drowning to me, so there’s probably no need for a full investigation.’
Phillips pointed to the girl’s neck. ‘What about that bruise?’
Evans knelt next to the dead girl and inspected the bruise for a long moment, gently pulling the hair away to expose the mottled skin. ‘I must admit, it does look a bit odd. I’ve never seen a bruise so perfectly circular before, but I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the cause of death. From where I’m standing, she drowned in this stretch of water sometime in the early hours of last night.’
‘Can you be more specific about the exact time, Andy?’
‘Difficult to tell. The rigor mortis is
acute, but that’s because of the water temperature; it was minus five last night, so I’m guessing she broke the ice when she went in. If she was conscious at that moment – and with no obvious head trauma, I’d say she was – she most likely suffered cold water shock and drowned pretty quickly.’
‘Cold water shock? Is that a real thing?’
Evans nodded sagely. ‘It can be deadly. In fact, there have been many cases of people drowning from cold water shock on blistering hot summer’s days. Happens all the time when kids jump into reservoirs and canals to cool off. You see, the body – once immersed in very cold water – goes into shock, causing the victim to panic and hyperventilate, often gasping for breath. They open their mouths wide and start swallowing water. Before they can regulate their heart rate and breathing, they’ve already used up so much energy they struggle to keep their heads above water, so begin to drown. If there’s no-one around to pull them out, chances are they could be dead in a matter of minutes.’
‘And you think that’s what happened here?’
Evans looked the body up and down for a moment before nodding. ‘Based on the lack of evidence to suggest a struggle or head trauma, I’d say so, yes. However, Chakrabortty will know for sure when she conducts the post mortem tomorrow.’
Phillips stood and patted Evans on the shoulder. ‘Thanks Andy.’ Stepping out of the tent, the arctic wind caught her off guard for a moment, and she was reminded of how cold the water must have been overnight. The poor girl hadn’t stood a chance.
She glanced down the towpath and spotted Jones heading towards her, his collar turned up against the wind. ‘No missing person report according to Entwistle, but he’s given me her parents’ address. They live just around the corner from her property in Stretford.’
Phillips nodded and turned back towards the SOCO tent. ‘Evans reckons she drowned after suffering cold water shock.’
‘And what about you, Guv?’
Phillips pushed her glasses upwards over the bridge of her nose. ‘The way he describes it happening makes sense. God knows it was bloody freezing overnight, but I want to know more about how she got that bruise on her neck. It might be nothing, Jonesy, but as we both know, when a case looks so obviously open and shut, it rarely is.’
‘So what you wanna do?’
Phillips removed her latex gloves and replaced them with the leather pair. ‘Well, for starters, let’s get out of this bloody wind. As much as I hate to do it, I think we should break the news to the girl’s parents. They may be able to shed some light on how she ended up in the canal last night.’
‘We can leave that to uniform can’t we, Guv?’
‘Call it a hunch, Jonesy.’ Phillips nodded over Jones’s shoulder. ‘I’m not sure our young rookie is up to it yet. Are you?’
He followed her line of sight and could see the young officer standing at the side of the canal, looking forlorn and pretty sorry for himself, now his boss had finished with him. Phillips smiled. ‘He’ll get over it. The first bollocking is always the worst.’
2
Chantelle Webster’s parents’ home was situated on a large housing estate in Stretford, a densely populated town to the south-east of Manchester, not far from the world-famous Old Trafford Stadium, home to Manchester United.
The red-brick houses in the estate were a mixture of privately owned and council-lets. Like so many former local authority residents, the majority of those living here had opted to purchase their council houses for a fraction of the resale value in the eighties and nineties. Once they had all looked identical, but each now had a character of its own, made even more apparent with the approach of the Christmas holidays. Thousands of twinkling lights glowed against the dark grey clouds that hung low in the sky. Despite it being early afternoon, total darkness didn’t feel far away.
Jones pulled up to the address he had punched into the squad car’s Sat Nav and switched off the engine. Phillips scanned the street, noting the assortment of decorations, flashing lights, inflatable Santas and snowmen, as well as the glistening reindeer and assorted woodland creatures that grazed on the other side of the low red-brick walls surrounding the small front gardens of each house. She felt sick to her stomach, knowing what lay ahead at the Websters. ‘I hate doing this. It’s heart-breaking. Especially when the victims are so young.’
‘It’s not too late to give it back to uniform, Guv.’
Phillips took a deep breath before releasing it. ‘No no, Jonesy. It’s the right thing to do. And besides, I’d like to know more about her movements last night.’
A minute later, Phillips led the way and pushed open the metal garden gate, the hinge protesting the movement. They made their way up the path that ran through the middle of the well-maintained garden, and Phillips noted the winter pot plants filled with pansies in full bloom. Someone cared a lot about this place. An instant later, a small dog jumped up and began barking at the spotless double-glazed front window. The brightly decorated Christmas tree with lights flashing in a sequence of different patterns attracted her attention for a moment. As she pressed the bell, it sounded inside and she took another deep breath to steady herself.
The door opened to reveal an imposing black man in his fifties. He was tall and muscular, with grey flecks at the temples to match his salt and pepper goatee. Dark shadows under his eyes and deep creases in his forehead gave him a haunted look.
‘Richard Webster?’ asked Phillips.
He nodded without saying anything.
They both produced their credentials. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Phillips and this is Detective Sergeant Jones. May we come in?’
Webster’s eyes widened. ‘Is this about Chantelle? She didn’t come home last night.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Phillips, keeping her voice soft.
At that moment a small boy appeared and wrapped his tiny arms around the man’s thick right leg. He couldn’t be more than two years old, and was shooed away by Webster before he opened the door wider and invited them inside. The dog was still barking, frantic, in the next room, but was on the other side of a door.
The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the bitter cold. Webster pushed a large wooden door open. ‘Please come into the lounge. My wife will need to hear this.’
The room beyond was covered in a mass of decorations; lights and tinsel adorned every available surface, and greetings cards were hooked through a ribbon hung across the fireplace. Sitting facing them on a large red leather couch was a woman of similar age to Richard, cuddling the little boy, who now stood between her legs. A young girl, probably in her late teens, stood behind them in the dining area, her eyes fixed on the iPhone in her right hand.
Richard Webster stared at his wife. ‘Anya, these people are from the police. They want to talk to us about Chantelle.’
Anya Webster opened her mouth to speak, but it was evident she was struggling. Her hand flashed to her lips a moment a later as fear filled her wide, tear-stained eyes.
Webster turned his attention to the young girl. When he spoke, his tone was matter of fact. ‘Lisa, take your nephew up to your room, will you?’
The young girl looked up from her phone, nodded and walked towards the young boy, holding out her hand for him. Reluctant to move, he shook his head in defiance.
Webster raised his voice a notch and pointed up the stairs. ‘Ajay, do as you’re told and go with Auntie Lisa upstairs.’
The boy hesitated, his eyes darting between Richard and Anya Webster.
‘Do as you are told, Ajay. Now!’ Webster’s voice was a borderline shout.
This time the boy moved, running to the girl’s outstretched hand.
As they left the room, Webster’s eyes followed them both until the door closed and the thud of footsteps on the stairs faded upwards. Apparently satisfied they were out of earshot, he turned his attention back to Phillips and Jones. ‘Where is my daughter, Inspector?’ he said abruptly.
Phillips could feel her anxiety rising. ‘May we sit dow
n, Mr Webster?’
He nodded but remained standing by the fireplace. His gaze never left them.
‘I’m sorry to inform you that a young girl was found dead this morning in the Rochdale Canal in Miles Platting. Based on the personal effects found in her possession, we believe her to be your daughter, Chantelle Webster.’
A guttural wail erupted from Anya as she dropped her head into her hands and her body began shaking. Richard Webster remained silent as he stared at the floor. Phillips and Jones said nothing for a moment, allowing the couple to process what they’d just heard. After an uncomfortable silence, Webster eventually looked up. ‘Are you sure it’s Chantelle, Inspector?’
Phillips nodded. ‘We found her driving licence in her purse, which confirmed her name and address as 34 Finchale Road, Stretford. Is that Chantelle’s home address?’
Webster took a seat next to his wife and wrapped a big arm around her as she turned her face into his chest and sobbed. ‘Yes, that’s where Shanny lives with Ajay. We just look after him overnight when she’s working.’
Phillips sat forwards on the chair. ‘Were you looking after him last night?’
Webster nodded. ‘Yes. Shanny was at work.’
Jones glanced at Phillips, his brow furrowed.
‘Chantelle was working last night?’ asked Phillips.
‘Yes, at the McVitie’s factory in Stockport. She does nights, Sunday to Thursday, in the packing team.’