by OMJ Ryan
Entwistle smiled, his face filed with pride.
‘Bloody teacher’s pet,’ teased Bovalino, throwing a ball of paper at Entwistle as Jones chuckled.
‘Now, now, Bov,’ Phillips chortled. She loved the team banter and actively encouraged it. She felt it was of vital importance to team morale, especially after the recent dark times they had shared under the oppressive leadership of their former boss, DCI Brown.
‘Turn to page forty-three of your files.’ Phillips waited for them to catch up before reading the relevant points out loud. ‘Candice Roberts was found less than a mile from Webster. Time of death was 1 a.m. She was wearing hot-pants, heels and a crop top but, just like Webster, no coat or jacket. She also had cash in her purse, but nowhere near as much as Webster. Official cause of death – accidental drowning.’
Bovalino chipped in. ‘Nothing in the post mortem indicates she was unconscious when she went in, but then there’s also no marks or abrasions on her hands or shoes. That would suggest that, like Webster, she didn’t try to climb out.’
‘Look at this, Guv – page forty-nine.’ Jones had skipped ahead.
Phillips flipped forwards a couple of pages. ‘Jesus.’
Jones presented the team with the image he had found. ‘She was found with a circular bruise on the back of her neck.’
Phillips stared at the image for a long moment. ‘What are the chances of both our victims suffering the same bruising after drowning in the same stretch of water?’
‘Slim,’ said Bovalino.
Phillips flicked through to the last page of the document and took a moment to find what she was looking for. ‘That makes sense.’
Jones followed her lead and pulled up the final page of the report. ‘What we looking at, Guv?’
‘The pathologist who performed the post mortem was Doctor Murray. That would explain why Chakrabortty didn’t make the connection between the bruising on Webster and that on Roberts.’
Entwistle’s fingers danced loudly across the keyboard, his face fixed on the screen. ‘I’ve found Roberts’s full file, Guv. Even the first page doesn’t make great reading.’ He turned his laptop to face her.
Phillips began to read from the screen. ‘Multiple convictions for prostitution, soliciting, possession of class A drugs. She was no angel, that’s for sure.’
‘Prostitution would explain the cash in her purse and the skimpy clothes,’ said Bovalino.
Phillips nodded. ‘Which, considering the similarities, begs the question: was Webster on the game too?’
Jones nodded. ‘It would explain a lot, Guv. Leaving the house every night under the premise of going to work. Lying to her parents. The cash in her purse.’
‘Agreed,’ said Phillips. ‘But there’s one thing I still can’t get my head round. Why, on such cold nights, was neither Roberts nor Webster wearing a coat or jacket?’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to hide their assets?’ ventured Entwistle.
Bovalino scoffed. ‘You can still show your “tits and ass” and wear a coat, lad.’
Entwistle shot him a look. ‘Sorry, Bov. Unlike you, I’m not an expert on paying for sex.’
Before the bickering and insults derailed the discussion, Phillips raised her hand to signal a truce. ‘Check CCTV in and around the area where the girls went into the water – as well as the city centre cameras – on the nights they drowned. See if you can spot either Roberts or Webster before they died. It’d be good to know if they took their coats off – or even had them removed – or whether they were daft enough to walk the streets in bugger-all clothes each night.’
As the team set off to tackle their various tasks, Phillips took a moment to finish her coffee and pull the file together.
A few minutes later, she began to prepare for her weekly one-to-one with Chief Superintendent Fox at 3 p.m. that afternoon. She expected to be pulled to task for adding Chantelle Webster’s supposed run-of-the-mill drowning to MCU’s already bulging caseload. The connection they had just discovered between Roberts and Webster would go some way to softening the blow, but Phillips knew there wasn’t enough evidence for Fox to green-light a full investigation into Webster’s death. Not yet, anyway. Still, she had a couple of hours to work out a way to sell it to her boss and keep the case alive.
Standing up from behind her desk, she walked across her office and closed the door before drawing the blinds. The clock was ticking and there was no time to lose.
9
Phillips sat on the large black leather sofa outside Fox’s office under the watchful eye of her assistant, Ms Blair. In the last couple of hours, Phillips had pulled together as much information as she could to try and persuade the chief super to keep the Webster case open – at least for the time being. As ever, Entwistle, Jones and Bovalino had rallied round to help find the level of information Fox would expect to see at this stage, but on such short notice it was still thin. Phillips could only hope her boss was in a good mood. However, her heart had sunk when Ms Blair had informed her that Fox was running late, as she was locked in her office with Chief Constable Greenacre – a man Phillips knew she despised and whose job she craved. Phillips braced herself for the inevitable fallout of that meeting.
After reading though her files on the Webster case one more time, she made notes on the rest of the team’s caseload and prepared to deliver as much good news as she could up front – in order to soften Fox up if such a thing was even possible.
Phillips checked her watch and glanced at Blair. ‘Should I reschedule?’
Blair looked up from her computer and forced a thin smile. ‘She won’t be long.’
Phillips nodded and glanced at the door to Fox’s office just as it opened and the chief constable strode out and across the space without acknowledging either Blair or Phillips. A moment later, Fox appeared, glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her sunbed tan and bleached blonde hair appeared incongruous for the time of year.
She passed Blair a large file. ‘I need copies for me, the chief constable and the mayor.’
She turned her attention to Phillips. ‘Come in, Jane,’ she said, her tone flat.
Phillips followed her and took a seat. Fox’s large smoked glass desk was covered in files, which appeared to be full of budget sheets, and a stack of local and national newspapers.
Fox busied herself without looking up before turning to face Phillips. ‘Right, what have you got for me this week? Good news, I hope.’
During her twenty-year career, Phillips had faced-off against stone-cold killers, hitmen, gangsters and psychopaths, yet her weekly one-to-one with Fox terrified her more than any of those battles. She couldn’t put her finger on why her boss made her so uncomfortable, but each time they met, Phillips felt the stomach-wrenching nerves of a naughty child facing their headmaster. Taking a deep breath, she started with the good news: a list of the convictions the team had delivered in quarter four. Of particular note was a case of human trafficking that had been hand-balled to MCU from another force from the south. The southern force had failed to make any meaningful progress on it, and when the gang moved into Manchester, the case was dumped at Phillips’s door. After six months of dead-ends, Jones and Bovalino had finally made the breakthrough needed. After tracking an Eastern European haulage firm from Dover to Manchester, they had arrested the driver and seized the lorry. Inside, they’d uncovered thirty young women, all locked in a tiny container hidden behind a false wall in the trailer. Under interrogation, the driver had broken down and given up layer upon layer of detail about the organisation. The CPS had just charged three foreign nationals with trafficking, kidnapping, rape and prostitution.
Phillips passed Fox the file. She examined it without flinching, her cold black eyes scouring every detail on the page. ‘Excellent work, Jane.’ She dropped the file from a height onto her desk. ‘Always nice to show Kent Police how it’s done.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
‘Now tell me, Jane. How many cases does the MCU have open as of today?’
Phillips glanced at her notes. She had been expecting the question. ‘Thirteen, Ma’am.’
Fox reclined and tapped her pen on her teeth. ‘Thirteen, thirteen. Unlucky for some.’
Phillips knew what was coming next.
‘That’s quite a lot, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Look, I think I know where you’re going with this, Ma—’
‘So why, DCI Phillips, with so many open cases, are you taking on even more?
Phillips felt her neck blush as her heart rate rose. She pulled the two photos of Webster and Roberts from her file. ‘Ma’am, if I may—’
‘Do you know how far behind we are against our conviction rate targets, Phillips? Never mind how much money this department is haemorrhaging!’
Phillips held the pictures in her hand. ‘Ma’am, if you’ll just look at these photos.’
Fox ignored the request, instead sitting forwards to glare at Phillips. ‘I’ve just spent the last two hours being bollocked and patronised by the chief constable. He’s very unhappy with how far MCU is from the targets he set at the start of the year. It’s the middle of December, with time and money running out before the end of the fiscal year. A time when every pound is a prisoner. So, what does my DCI do to help reduce our deficit? She ignores the thirteen open cases that need convictions against them and tries her best to open up yet another case. Spending even more money MCU can't afford on a fucking stone-cold drowning. Can you explain that to me, DCI Phillips? Can you? Because I’m lost. I really am.’
Phillips steadied herself before passing across a photo of Webster. A close-up shot of the bruising on her neck.
Fox made a fuss of turning the photo at different angles, as if trying to make sense of it. ‘What in God’s name is this?’
‘It’s the reason I brought the case into MCU. A perfect circular bruise on the back of the victim’s neck. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Fox’s frustration was obvious as she threw the photo back at Phillips. ‘You tied up valuable man-hours because of a fucking bruise? Have you lost your mind, Inspector?’
Phillips was doing everything she could to stay in control of her emotions, when all she wanted to do was reach across the desk and slap some sense into the silly bitch. Remaining as calm as she could, she pushed the second photo across the desk to Fox. ‘This exact same bruising was found on another supposed drowning last month. Both were young women, and both were dressed inappropriately for the weather on the nights they died. Even though there were no obvious signs of a struggle, I’m not convinced either woman drowned. The similarities make me think their deaths could be linked.’
Fox let out a sardonic chuckle. ‘Jesus Christ, Phillips. When are these bloody crusades of yours going to stop?’
Phillips frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m not following you.’
‘You have thirteen bona fide unsolved cases on your desk, so why are you wasting time on two girls that obviously drowned. Seriously. Who cares if they wore skimpy clothes and had a similar bruise?’
‘Ma’am. Roberts was a known sex worker, and Webster was lying to her parents about where she was going each night. I’m confident she was on the game too.’
Fox took another look at the photo for a long moment before turning it to face Phillips, ‘Have you ever had cupping therapy, Inspector?’
‘No, Ma’am. I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’
‘Well, you should. It might help you relax and get some perspective in life.’ Fox threw the second picture back across the desk. ‘Google it when you get back downstairs. These bruises might not look quite so sinister once you do.’
With reluctance, Phillips collated the pictures and put them back in her file.
‘Now is there anything else we need to discuss, or are we done here, Inspector?’
Phillips said nothing for a moment. Her anger burned hot in the pit of her stomach. Where was the harm in digging just that little bit deeper if it meant they would know for certain how the girls had died? Surely Richard and Anya Webster deserved that much, and all she needed was a couple of days. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fox’s face made it clear the conversation was over. ‘There’s nothing else, Ma’am.’
‘Good,’ said Fox with force. ‘Dismissed.’
10
Jones tapped on the open door to Phillips’ office. As she looked up from her computer screen, he stepped inside with her fresh morning coffee and a bacon roll, and placed them on her desk. He took a sip from his own cup before speaking. ‘Everything ok, Guv? You look a bit pissed off.’
Phillips reclined in her chair and sighed. ‘Have you ever heard of cupping therapy?’
Jones took a seat opposite. ‘Can’t say I have, but Bov might know what it is.’
‘Bov?’
‘Sure. He might look like a silverback gorilla, but he loves a good spa day.’
Phillips laughed. ‘A six-foot-four Italian man-mountain who drives a rally car in his spare time, likes to spa? Jesus. And I thought I knew you lot inside out.’
‘Believe me, Guv, he’s never out of them. Says it’s good for cleansing his Mediterranean skin. You want me to call him in?’
‘No need. I’ve found what I was looking for online.’ Phillips turned her screen to face Jones.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Temporary scarring from cupping therapy. Look familiar?’
Jones leant forwards, his eyes squinting, ‘Perfect circular bruising. Just like Roberts and Webster.’
Phillips took a large bite of her sandwich and chewed it for a moment before speaking again, ‘Fox thinks both the girls had cupping therapy before they died.’
‘She said that?’
‘Not quite, but as good as.’ She took another bite. ‘Told me to forget them and concentrate on the rest of our caseload.’
‘Maybe she’s right, Guv. We don’t have much else to go on.’
‘I know, I know, but if you’d seen Richard Webster in the Chapel of Rest. It was heart-breaking. And I still don’t believe any woman in the world would deliberately head out on a cold December night without a coat or jacket. I mean, I understand that the rest of the outfit would be scarce, but standing on a corner freezing your tits off wouldn’t be the sexiest look to attract punters with, would it? Plus, I’m sure there’s more to Chantelle Webster’s story than her just lying to her parents.’
Jones took a gulp from his own drink. ‘But what can we do if the super’s not convinced there’s anything to investigate?’
Phillips stared at the computer screen as she finished the last of her sandwich. ‘We can have one more look. Unofficial, of course.’
‘You sure that’s a good idea, Guv? If Fox finds out, she won’t like it.’
Phillips shrugged. ‘With my track record, I may not be the best one to answer that. Look, my gut tells me there’s something not right with this picture. You know me; I won’t be able to rest until I know what happened.’
‘And what about the other open cases? Fox is expecting movement on those before Christmas.’
‘We can continue as normal, using the wider team for the legwork on the official cases, but run this investigation between just the four of us. If we double our efforts for a few days, then maybe something will fall out. You up for that?’
Jones drained his cup and chucked it in the bin. ‘Always, Guv. Not sure the missus will be too pleased, but she knew what she was getting into when she married a detective.’
Phillips pushed her chair back and stood. ‘Good. Let’s keep this between you, me, Bov and Entwistle. No need to share with the wider support team. We’ll commandeer the conference room. Grab the guys and bring your laptops. We’ve got some digging to do.’
Thirty minutes later found the four core members of Greater Manchester’s Major Crimes Unit spread around the large conference-room table. The blinds surrounding it were half closed to the outside offices. Each of the team had a laptop in front of them, and a large whiteboard on wheels was pos
itioned behind Bovalino. Yet another surprising element to the big man: he had perhaps the neatest handwriting on the planet, which meant he was their scribe.
‘I know we’ve heard it all before, but Jonesy, remind us of what we have on Roberts. If there is a case to answer here, it’s not obvious, which means that whatever we’re looking for will be hidden in the small details.’
Jones glanced between his notes, his laptop screen and the team. ‘Right. Her full name was Candice Roberts, no middle names. She was twenty-three, from Highgrove Avenue in Failsworth. A known sex worker with six convictions for soliciting, prostitution and possession. She was also a single mum to a twelve-year-old girl who is now in foster care due to the fact Roberts’s next of kin, her mother, was deemed unfit to look after her.’
‘Why was that?’ asked Phillips
‘A junkie and a sex worker too, Guv.’
‘A family business,’ said Bov facetiously.
Jones continued. ‘She was last seen alive just after 9 p.m. on the 5th of November on CCTV in the city centre. She was spotted crossing Trinity Way just by the Arena before heading up the road to Cheetham Hill. Her body was discovered by a jogger at 7 a.m. on the morning of the 6th of November. It was partly submerged in the Rochdale Canal in Ancoats, just by Little Islington. Like Webster, the body was caught up in junk and reeds in the water, so was unable to sink.’ Jones had already printed off several images of Roberts’s dead body as it was found in the water, as well as after it had been moved to the towpath. He stuck them to the whiteboard now, under a magnetic block. The team took a moment to look over them as he pointed to each photo in turn. ‘As you can see, like Webster, she was discovered wearing skimpy clothes and high-heels. And again, like Webster, no coat or jacket was ever recovered, but a purse containing forty pounds was slung across her torso.’
‘Official cause of death, Jonesy?’ asked Phillips.
‘Drowning.’
‘And has that been signed off by the coroner?’
‘Not yet, Guv. With the cold snap, there’s a backlog of deaths due to exposure. Without a grieving family demanding answers, she’s been classified as low priority. We’re expecting an update in the new year.’