by OMJ Ryan
‘Not anymore. She kept herself to herself and, to be honest, no one wanted much to do with her in the end either.’
‘And before that? When she was singing and enjoying work, anyone then?’
Springwood nodded. ‘There was one girl, Kerry Baldwin.’
‘And could we speak to her?’
‘Sure, but she’ll not be in until nine tonight. You’re better off catching her at home.’ Springwood checked his watch. ‘Give her a couple of hours and she’ll probably be awake. Most night workers get up and start their day around 3 p.m.’
‘Could we have her contact details?’ said Bovalino.
‘Of course.’ Springwood pulled out his phone. He took a moment to locate Baldwin’s contact details, then dictated the number. Bovalino scribbled it down on his pad.
Jones pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Well, you’ve been most helpful.’
‘Glad I could be of use.’
Bovalino stood and slipped his notepad into his overcoat pocket.
‘Was it drugs that killed her?’ asked Springwood.
Jones shook his head. ‘No. She drowned in the Rochdale Canal.’
Shock spread across Springwood’s face. ‘Bloody hell! How did that happen?’
Jones looked him dead in the eye. ‘That’s what we intend to find out, Mr Springwood.’
After signing out, they made their way back to the squad car. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and the rain was coming at them sideways.
Jumping into the car, they brushed the surface water from their overcoats as Bovalino started the engine. The heat of their bodies soon caused the windscreen and windows to steam up, and they waited for the air-conditioning to clear the fog.
‘Well, his description of her as a junkie matches the post mortem results,’ said Bovalino.
Jones nodded. ‘Indeed it does. But, let’s check in with Kerry Baldwin this afternoon and see what she has to say about it all. The guv has arranged to meet with Richard Webster tomorrow at the MRI. He’s agreed to do the formal ID for Chantelle. She’ll want all the information we can gather before then.’
‘Jesus. What a shitty thing for any parent to have to do.’
‘I know. As a parent myself, I can’t imagine. And so close to Christmas as well.’
6
Despite the intense volume of the dilapidated television booming in the corner of the bedsit, Fletch can still hear strange noises coming through the open door. Moving carefully across the room, Fletch peers out onto the stairwell. The large, sweating man from the flat below comes into view. He’s stood on the concrete landing halfway between the floors, his back to the breeze block wall. His face is contorted, his eyes half closed. He’s grunting and moaning as if in pain. His hands are out of view, but his right arm is visible, moving up and down to a steady rhythm. Fletch wants to look away, to close the door and block out the view of what’s below, but an overriding curiosity draws Fletch closer. Fletch’s mother is on her knees in the stairwell. As usual, she’s half dressed, the mottled, spotty skin of her back a stark contrast to her thick red bra. Her face is in the man’s crotch. His trousers are pulled open and down around his thighs. His fingers are interlocked in the mother’s greasy red hair.
The man opens his eyes for a moment and stares up at Fletch, whose instinct is to run, to get away from this living hell. But there is no-one, and nowhere, to run to.
‘Looks like we have company,’ the man mumbles to the mother.
She stops and looks up at him, then follows his line of sight. When she turns to face Fletch, her eyes are glazed over as if half asleep. ‘I’m working. Go back inside, for fuck’s sake.’ Her shout echoes up the stairwell and her speech is slurred,
The mother doesn’t bother to wait for a response or a reaction. Instead, she turns back and continues, as if what she’s doing is the most normal thing in the world: performing oral sex in a communal stairwell.
The man smiles and closes his eyes once more. His moaning returns.
Fletch does as instructed and returns to the grubby bedsit and the solace of the TV, turning it up and up, desperate to drown out the sound of ‘mother at work’.
7
The multi-storey car park at the MRI was packed to the rafters and Phillips’s stress levels began to climb. She feared she would be late to meet Richard Webster at the Chapel of Rest.
Jones had called last night. Both Chantelle’s former boss and a Kerry Baldwin, a former colleague, had confirmed she had a problem with heroin. She dreaded breaking the news to Webster.
With each floor that passed with no available spaces, her anxiety rose. On the top floor, which was exposed to the elements, she eventually spotted a set of white reversing lights and a smoking exhaust. She came to a stop, switched on her indicator, and waited. She watched, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel with impatience, as an elderly man attempted to navigate his escape from the space. After what felt like an age, the car crawled past her at a snail’s pace, the old man’s head just about visible above the steering wheel. His hands appeared to be gripping it like the safety barrier of a white-knuckle ride.
At last she swung her car into the space and leaped out. She pulled her collar up against the torrential downpour and rushed towards the stairwell. The Chapel of Rest was just a few minutes away on foot.
Slipping inside, she shook the rain from her hair and headed towards the facilities to dry off. She needed a few minutes to prepare herself to watch a heartbroken father identify his dead child. Having wiped her rain-speckled glasses dry with toilet paper, she used the upturned hand-dryer to dry her face and what hair she could before checking herself in the mirror. ‘It’ll all be over in a few minutes,’ she said out loud to the empty toilets.
As Phillips stepped out into the reception area, she spotted Richard Webster sitting on one of the plastic chairs with his back to her. He stared into space, his shoulders hanging low under the weight of his grief.
‘Mr Webster.’ She kept her voice soft as she approached.
He turned to face her. Pain was etched across his features, his eyes red and puffy. ‘Inspector.’
Phillips could just about hear him. She smiled. ‘Are you ready?’
Webster nodded. He stepped up from the chair and followed her towards the door marked ‘Relatives’. The room beyond was small. The wall opposite the door was filled by a large window, beyond which hung a closed purple curtain. Webster moved towards it and took a deep breath.
Phillips did the same. ‘In a moment, I’ll open the curtains and you’ll be able to see Chantelle. There’s nothing for you to worry about. She’s been well looked after and will appear to be sleeping.’
Webster stared at his reflection in the glass.
‘Are you ok for me to proceed?’
Webster nodded, fists clenched by his side.
Phillips pressed the button. As the curtains parted, Chantelle appeared.
The big man took a slight step backwards and his shoulders sagged. ‘My baby,’ he whispered, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a large white handkerchief. ‘She looks so small.’
‘Would you like a moment alone?’
Webster nodded, his gaze fixed on his daughter. ‘Please.’
‘I’ll wait outside. Take all the time you need.’
As Phillips stepped out into the waiting room, it took all her strength to push down the pain surging through her chest. Far from getting easier every time, it was harder. It was as if the protective barriers she had built over the years were eroding. She took a seat in the waiting area and stared at the floor, her mind a complete blank. She could feel her jaw clenching as her teeth ground against each other.
A few minutes passed and, filled with overwhelming unease, she felt a compulsion to get up from the chair and pace. Therapy had helped her come to terms with and manage her PTSD, but it had chipped away at the protective mask she had built against the horrors of the job. The loss and pain of victims’ families was starting to get to he
r.
Webster emerged from the door behind her and broke her train of thought. She turned to face him. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr Webster.’
The big man said nothing. Normally so physically imposing, as he walked towards her he was stooped, and appeared an inch shorter; as if carrying his grief on his shoulders.
Phillips found herself battling between her desire to protect him from any further pain and her duty to find out the truth of how his daughter had died. For a long moment, she debated whether to share the autopsy results – or even Jones and Bovalino’s findings about her drug use – with him. Was it necessary for him to know his daughter was a heroin addict? Phillips already knew the answer to that question, but it didn’t make what she was about to do any easier. ‘Would you mind if I ask you a few questions, Mr Webster?’
Webster nodded and took a seat.
Phillips perched on the edge of the seat opposite him. ‘My officers spoke to Chantelle’s boss, and one of her ex-McVitie’s’ colleagues yesterday. Both confirmed she was a regular heroin user. Were you aware of that?’
Webster’s eyes, brimming with tears, locked on hers. ‘That’s a lie.’
Phillips nodded and felt genuine sympathy for his pain. ‘I know it must be hard to hear, Mr Webster, but the post mortem also confirmed the presence of heroin in her system the day she died.’
Webster dropped his face into his hands and began to sob.
Phillips touched his shoulder but remained silent. After a couple of minutes, Webster wiped his face with his hanky and sat upright.
‘We understand too that Chantelle was sacked from her job in late October for using heroin.’
Webster shook his head. His mouth fell open for a long moment before he finally spoke. ‘But I don’t understand. She’d been going to work every night, right up until she died.’
‘Could she have found another job and just not told you?’
Webster snorted. ‘How should I know, Inspector? Until a couple of days ago, I’d have said there was no chance of Chantelle lying to me and her mother. Now, after what you’ve said, who knows what was going on with her?’
‘She was found with a hundred pounds in cash in her purse. When we spoke the other day, you mentioned she was struggling with her finances?’
‘Yes, she was – or at least we thought she was.’
‘Could she have been dealing heroin, perhaps?’
Webster screwed his eyes tight and more tears streaked down and his cheeks. ‘I honestly have no idea what my daughter was doing, Inspector.’
‘The drugs would explain the moods you mentioned she was prone to – that and her tiredness.’
Webster nodded. ‘Yes, I guess it would. This is all my fault, Inspector.’
‘You can’t blame yourself, Mr Webster.’
‘Can’t I? I’m her father. How could I not know my own daughter was a drug addict? Looking back, it was obvious. If I’d been paying more attention and done something to stop it, she’d still be alive.’
‘Mr Webster, please believe me, drugs are indiscriminate. They affect all kinds of people from all different backgrounds. Coming from a good home doesn’t make one immune to them.’
Webster appeared lost in his grief now. Phillips wanted to leave it there, but she had one more question that needed answering. She hated to ask it, but it was important to know the answer, ‘Do you know if Chantelle had a boyfriend or had an active sex life?’
Webster wiped his eyes with the hanky and shrugged. ‘Not that me or her mother knew about, but I think we’ve already established that I hardly knew my daughter, Inspector.’
‘Thank you, Mr Webster. That’s all I needed to know.’
Silence filled the room for a long moment before Webster repeated his question from their first meeting. ‘Did she suffer, Inspector?’
Phillips wanted to protect him from any more pain, so was careful in her choice of words. ‘The pathologist report suggests that cold water shock would have set in almost as soon as she entered the water, and she’d have died soon after. I very much doubt she was aware of what was happening to her at the end.’
‘She always hated the cold, just like her mother. The heating is always on full blast in our house, even in the summer.’ Webster flashed a smile as he relished the memory. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to drive you home?’
Webster stood and cleared his throat. ‘No thank you, Inspector. I could do with the walk and some fresh air.’
‘I understand,’ said Phillips, and shook his outstretched hand.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as Webster walked through the exit doors and back into the main hospital. She waited a minute or so before calling Jones.
‘Guv, how did it go?’
‘Oh, you know, awful.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Seeing a family’s grief up close is the worst part of this job.’
‘Yes it is. It really bloody is, Jonesy. That’s why I’m calling. I know everything is pointing to suicide by drowning, but I’m not convinced. I’ve just watched a heartbroken parent identify his baby girl, and I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t at least try and find out what really happened to Chantelle Webster.’
‘Ok, Guv. So, what next?’
‘I’m heading back to the station now.’ Phillips checked her watch. ‘I should be with you in half an hour. Pull the team together in my office. I want to have a closer look at Chantelle’s movements on the night she died. The first thing we need to figure out is how she ended up in Miles Platting.’
‘On it, Guv.’
‘And do you know if her coat was ever recovered?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, but I can double-check.’
‘Yeah, do, because that’s bothering me too. Why would anyone go out in this weather without a coat on?’
‘I have to admit, it does seem a bit odd.’
‘Suicidal more like.’
‘Is that what you’re thinking, Guv? It was suicide?’
Phillips blew her lips. ‘I don’t know, Jonesy. But, for the sake of her family, we need to find out.’
8
As Phillips rolled her squad car onto Oldham Road towards Ashton House, she gunned the engine without thinking. Her mind was stuck on Chantelle’s missing coat. Had she really gone out that night without one, or had someone taken it from her? Maybe it had been stolen? ‘What happened to your coat, Chantelle?’ she mumbled under her breath as she stopped at a set of traffic lights on red. As the car idled, her mind wandered back to Miles Platting and the moment Chantelle’s body was lifted from the canal. The image of her frozen body, soaking wet and lifeless, was clear in her memory. ‘Did you drown or were you pushed, Chantelle?’ Phillips said out loud as the lights turned to green.
Traffic was light and she was soon nudging the speed limit, repeating the question over and over: ‘Drowned or pushed? Drowned or pushed?’
In that moment, she was reminded of a news story she had heard in the last few months. Hitting redial on her phone, she was soon reconnected to Jones.
‘Everything ok, Guv?’
‘Something popped into my head just now. I remember hearing about another drowning a few months back. A young girl went into the water around Halloween, if I recall. Could be a couple of weeks either side of it. If I’m remembering it right, that victim was found wearing very little as well. Could be nothing—’
‘But it could be something.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Worth a look, at least. Tell Entwistle to pull all the drowning files from the last two months and bring them to the meeting. I’ll be with you in ten.’
Phillips strode into her office, where Jones and Bovalino sat opposite her empty chair. ‘Where’s Entwistle?’ she asked.
‘Printing off those files you requested,’ said Jones.
Phillips glanced out into the main office and watched as Entwistle walked to the large printer on the other side of the room and began pulling together reams of paper,
stapling them at the corners.
Phillips removed her rain-stained coat and scarf, and took a seat. A steaming cup of coffee was waiting for her on the desk. ‘So, who made the brews?’
Bovalino patted himself on the shoulder. ‘That’ll be me, Guv. Your star detective.’
‘Brown-noser,’ sneered Jones playfully.
Phillips smiled and took a gulp from her hot Americano, savouring the flavour and the warmth for a moment. ‘God, you do make the best coffee, Bov.’
The big man smiled. ‘I’m Italian. What do you expect?’ he replied before his nose disappeared into his own mug.
A few minutes later, Entwistle entered Phillips’s office and dropped a thick file in front of each of them before perching his buttocks on top of a small filing cabinet. ‘That’s every drowning case since October, Guv.’
Setting the coffee down on the desk, Phillips picked up the file in both hands and began leafing through it as the team waited with bated breath. ‘Right. We’re looking for a drowning that looks like Webster’s. I can’t remember the name or exact location on the canal network, but I’m sure it was the Rochdale Canal. Like Chantelle, she was wearing next to nothing. I heard it on the radio when I was driving to a meeting at the town hall. It stood out to me because the heater in the squad car was playing up that day and it was bloody freezing. I remember thinking the poor cow must have been half-way to hypothermia before she even went into the canal.’
The men scanned the reports in front of them, each focused on finding the girl first. Phillips did the same. The dominant sound in the room was that of pages flicking over.
As was often the case, Entwistle was first to the mark. ‘I think this could be it, Guv. Candice Roberts, aged twenty-three from Failsworth. Found on the sixth of November just up by Ancoats.’ Entwistle folded the file on the correct page and handed it to Phillips. She scanned down the report.
She nodded. ‘That looks like her, for sure.’