by OMJ Ryan
‘And it’s worth noting,’ Phillips interjected, ‘Doctor Murray performed the post mortem as opposed to Chakrabortty who did the one on Webster. That would explain why the pattern of bruising to the neck wasn’t spotted.’
The team nodded.
‘Anything else, Jonesy?’
‘Nothing of note, Guv, no.’
Phillips turned her chair to face Entwistle. ‘So, what about Webster? What do you have on her?’
Being the computer geek of the group, Entwistle shared his laptop screen with the room. Using the projector hanging from the ceiling, he beamed images onto the white wall opposite them.
‘Close the blinds, Bov,’ said Phillips, conscious of any wandering eyes in the outside office that might land on the enlarged images of a soaking wet and frozen Chantelle Webster.
Entwistle recapped the dead girl’s background right up to, and including, her death, before presenting fresh information. Clicking on a folder on his laptop, he opened a PDF file. ‘This is where it gets interesting. Digging through the system, Webster’s name popped up on a report from Operation Roundup.’
‘What’s that?’ said Bovalino.
Entwistle offered a smug grin. ‘Exactly what it sounds like. An operation by the Sex Crimes and Trafficking Squad in November to round up the street-walkers and get them off the streets.’
Bovalino scoffed. ‘What, literally?’
‘Not quite, Bov, but not far off. The idea was to speak to the girls and offer them help to get off drugs. Shelter if they needed it, as well as safe havens for those that might be the victims of trafficking gangs.’
Phillips sat forwards and leaned on the desk. ‘So, what did the report say about Webster?’
‘Just that she was spoken to by the officers but denied being a prostitute. She had no convictions and was new to the streets. However, the report suggests she was more than likely a sex worker. Anyway, like each of the girls spoken to that night, she was offered support and shelter but refused it. Again, citing the fact she wasn’t a prostitute or an addict.’
‘If she wasn’t a hooker, then what was she doing in Cheetham Hill at that time of night?’ said Jones sarcastically. ‘It’s not quite Spinningfields, is it?’
Phillips drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Ok. Even if we assume she was a prostitute, that in itself is not enough new information to make the case to Fox. So, what else have you got?’
‘I’m not sure if this is helps, but Roberts was also spoken to as part of Operation Roundup in the exact same location at around the same time.’
‘Meaning they may have known each other,’ said Bovalino.
Phillips gazed at the projection on the wall for a long moment. It still wasn’t anywhere near enough to warrant further investigation. Squinting, she strained to see the name of the officers who had filed the report. ‘Can you blow up the names at the bottom, Entwistle?’
Entwistle obliged, and Phillips read the first name out loud for the benefit of the room. ‘Detective Sergeant Rachel Gibson.’
‘Oh, that’s Gibbo,’ said Bovalino.
‘You know her?’
‘No, Guv. But a mate of mine worked with her in the Tactical Aid Unit a few years back. Held her in very high regard.’
Phillips’s gaze returned to the projection on the wall as she read the second name on the sheet. ‘Detective Constable Don Mountfield. Anyone know him?’
The three heads around her shook, each face a blank.
‘Well, we still don’t have enough for me to take this to Fox. That said, my gut tells me that if we keep looking, something will come up. For now, you lot get back to your active cases whilst I take a walk over to Sex Crimes. Let’s see if Gibson and Mountfield have anything that might help us.’
A chorus of ‘Guv’s followed, and the team began packing away their laptops and files.
‘I know I don’t need to tell you this,’ Phillips said, ‘but you know how paranoid I get. This stays with us, ok?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not a word.’
Phillips smiled. ‘Right. Let’s clean up this room so that even SOCO wouldn’t know what we’ve been up to.’
11
Fletch curls into a ball in a vain attempt to limit the damage of the belt buckle as it strikes, over and over again. The mother is ranting, raging and almost incoherent. Her venomous behaviour sprang from nowhere just a moment ago as she returned to the bedsit. Fletch was watching television, but could see something was wrong as soon as she walked through the door – and knew better than to catch her eye in such a mood. Better to look anywhere but at her. But – as had been the case so many times before – the slightest movement from Fletch had been all the excuse the mother needed to unleash her venomous demons.
After a prolonged and frenzied attack with the belt, the mother runs out of steam and falls onto the bed, her breathing laboured. She’s drenched in the grey sweat of exertion and heroin withdrawal. Fletch is semiconscious, fighting to stay alive. Fletch clings now, with lacerated hands, to the dirty carpet that covers the floor. It’s no use. A moment later the world goes black.
After what feels like a lifetime, Fletch returns to consciousness. An eerie silence fills the grubby bedsit. It’s never this quiet. Summoning every ounce of strength and courage left, Fletch manages to stand. Pain surges through every fibre and tissue; the urge to defecate is overwhelming. The television is off for the first time in a lifetime, and the mother is nowhere to be seen.
Careful with each step, Fletch moves through the tiny room to the bathroom and comes face to face with the mother. She’s unconscious, half submerged in a bathtub full of water. Her arm hangs over the side of the plastic tub. Below it, a filthy hypodermic needle sticks out of the floor like a dagger. The mother’s breathing is laboured and she looks grey all over, as if sinking into death.
‘Please God, let her die so I can leave this place.’ Fletch offers a silent prayer, then prods the mother’s head. With little force, it flops sideways and slides closer to the water. Even though one side of her mouth is now submerged, the mother does not stir. Fletch pushes the mother’s head farther into the water without response, then farther still, and farther again until the mother’s mouth and nose are submerged and bubbles begin to form on the surface. Fletch gazes in awe as the bubbles continue to appear for the next few minutes. The expectation is the mother will soon wake, but she doesn’t.
When morning comes and the monster remains under the water, Fletch can dream of freedom. The mother is dead.
12
Despite the Sex Crimes and Trafficking Squad also being based in Ashton House, Phillips and SCT’s DCI Paul Atkins did not often cross paths or even speak to one another aside from a nod or the odd hello as they passed each other in the corridors or the car park. So it was no surprise Atkins looked suspicious when Phillips strode into his squad office. He was in the briefing room and had just finished the morning update. Phillips waited patiently by the door as the team filed out and Atkins finished up a conversation with his two-I-C, Detective Inspector Manushri Chaudry, who stared at Phillips for a moment as she walked past without saying a word.
Atkins was a tall, long-limbed man with a well-trimmed dark beard. He smiled. ‘Detective Inspector Phillips. This is a surprise.’
‘I’ve been reinstated, as well you know. It’s detective chief inspector.’
‘Just my little joke. Anyway, DCI Phillips. To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit from the GMP’s celebrity copper?’
‘Jesus. When will people let that shit go?’
Atkins raised his hands in mock defence. ‘Getting a little sensitive in your old age are you, Phillips?’
‘No, just tired of being reminded of the past. The Michaels case was a long time ago. I’ve paid my dues since then and put it behind me. Sadly, not everyone else has, it seems.’ She stared at him, daring him to test her patience again.
Atkins took the hint and his tone softened. ‘Ok, ok, I’m
sorry. It was just a bit of banter, no offence intended. Let's start again, shall we?’
Phillips nodded.
‘So how can Sex Crimes be of help to MCU?’
‘Am I right in thinking you were the SIO in charge of Operation Roundup in October?’
Atkins raised an eyebrow. ‘I was. Why do you ask?’
Phillips pulled a copy of the files relating to Roberts and Webster and passed it over. ‘I’d like to speak to DS Gibson and DC Mountfield if I can.’
Atkins scanned the sheets. ‘Oh. Why?’
‘A potential double-homicide.’
He looked closer at the reports now, flicking between the two sheets. ‘I don’t know this Webster girl but everyone in SCT knew Roberts. She drowned, didn’t she?’
‘So the pathologist report suggests, but the other girl, Webster, turned up last week in almost identical circumstances. It could be a coincidence, but it could also be a double murder. I’d like to know either way.’
Atkins handed the files back. ‘So how can Gibbo and Mountfield help with that?’
‘Looking at their files, they’ve both worked the streets for a long time and may have some insight that can help us. I’d like a quick chat, that’s all.’
‘Well, Mountfield’s a no-go today as he’s on leave, but Gibbo is around. Although I’m not sure she’ll give much away.’
Phillips eyed Atkins with suspicion. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well. Like you said, she’s worked the streets for a long time. She’s seen some pretty harrowing things. All the team have, to be honest. Comes with the job, but Gibbo has seen more than most.’
‘I know how she feels.’
‘Do you? You ever found an eleven-month-old baby that’s been dead for two weeks, lying next to its junkie mother’s corpse?’
‘Jesus. That’s rough.’
Atkins nodded. ‘That’s Gibbo. She was tough before that, but now she’s like concrete. Nothing gets through. So by all means ask her your questions, but don’t be surprised if she’s a bit frosty or hard to connect to. I think it’s her way of coping.’
Phillips felt the fading gunshot wound twinge in her chest, a daily reminder of her own trauma suffered in the line of duty. ‘I get it, Atkins, and at this stage I’ll take whatever information I can get.’
Atkins chuckled. ‘Bit thin on evidence, are we?’
‘Wafer thin, but my gut’s telling me to keep looking. You know how it is. But listen, not a word to anyone at the moment. Strictly speaking, the case is closed.’
He nodded and, based on his reputation in the force, Phillips believed he would be true to his word.
‘Wait here. I’ll go and get her.’ Atkins strode out of the briefing room and to the door of the large open-plan SCT office, ‘Gibbo. You’ve got a visitor.’
Phillips watched as a platinum blonde woman looked up. She nodded, stood up from the desk and walked over to Atkins. He said something out of Phillip’s hearing before pointing in her direction. Gibson nodded and headed for the briefing room.
Phillips offered her outstretched hand, which Gibson shook with force. She was quite tall up close, about five feet ten, with an athletic build. Her features were striking, with angular cheekbones and dark brown eyes which seemed even darker next to her bleached blonde hair.
‘What can I do for you, Ma’am?’
Phillips gestured to a couple of chairs close by. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’
Gibson sat. Up close, her face was taut, eyes distant.
Phillips handed over the Roberts and Webster files and repeated what she’d just said to Atkins.
Gibson scanned the files. ‘I heard about Webster drowning last week. It’s so frustrating. We’re constantly warning the girls to stay away from the canals. In particular during the winter months. It’s so easy to fall in, even more so when they’re wearing thick-soled high-heels.’
‘So you believe she drowned?’
‘Don’t you?’
Phillips kept it vague for the moment. ‘I’m not sure, so we’re checking all avenues. Looking at your report, there’s no concrete evidence she was a sex worker, but it seems to lean in that direction.’
‘Like you say, there’s nothing concrete on file, but from what I saw, I’m almost certain she was a pro – she just never got caught.’
‘And do you know if she was using heroin?’
‘One hundred per cent. Chantelle was a big-time junkie. In fact, I can’t remember ever seeing her straight. That’s why she worked so damn hard. She was getting high in between tricks.’
‘And what about Roberts? Was she using?’
‘All the girls do. It’s a catch-22. They need money for drugs so they work the streets. Then they need drugs because working the streets is so fucking awful.’
Phillips sensed Gibson was beginning to soften. ‘Sounds like you feel sorry for them?’
Gibson nodded. ‘I guess it’s hard not to. It’s a vicious cycle. A lot of the girls’ parents were junkies and on the game themselves, so it’s all they know.’
‘So what happened to Webster, then? She came from a loving family and had a son of her own.’
All of a sudden Gibson’s expression turned stoic and she folded her arms tight against her chest. ‘Those are the cases that make the least sense to me. I’ll never understand why anyone from a background like hers ends up working the streets and hooked on smack.’
‘You mentioned Webster worked a lot each night. What kind of money are we talking there?’
‘Well, with the influx of trafficked girls from Eastern Europe, supply is much higher than demand. Sex is cheap these days. For oral, she maybe got fifteen to twenty quid. More if the guy wanted it without a condom. Full sex, twenty-five to thirty-five – anal is premium-rate, so I’d guess fifty for that. She was servicing five or six johns a night, so she’d have been doing all right if she didn’t spend it all on smack.’
‘What would it cost if someone wanted to hire her for the night?’
Gibson scoffed. ‘This isn’t Pretty Woman, Ma’am. Street girls don’t end up in hotel suites.’
Phillips didn’t appreciate the attitude and she fixed Gibson with a hard stare.
‘Sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’ Gibson realised her mistake.
‘So, explain what you did mean?’
‘Just that street girls are so high on crack and heroin that by the time they’ve done a couple of tricks, they look scuzzy physically. Then they start clucking for their next hit, scratching themselves and shaking. They’re desperate to get high again. No man would want to spend a long time with a street-walker.’
Phillips passed two evidential photographs of Roberts’s and Webster’s purses across, both containing ten- and twenty-pound notes. ‘Both girls were found with cash on them when we pulled them out of the water. Roberts had forty pounds in her purse. Webster, on the other hand, had over a hundred and forty quid on her. I’m just wondering how long it would take a girl to earn that kind of cash?’
‘I guess it depends on whether or not they have a pimp.’
‘Did Webster have one?’
Gibson shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I never saw anyone with her, and we’ve come across most of the pimps that are currently working the city limits. A hundred and forty quid was probably three or four hours work for Chantelle, but I’m surprised she had it all on her. Like I said, it was normal practice for her to get high between tricks.’
Phillips retrieved the photos and placed them back in the file. ‘Are the canals often used by the girls for sex?’
‘In the summer yes, but it’s very rare in winter. It's freezing down there and most men don’t like the cold when they’re trying to perform. If you get my meaning?’
‘So, any idea why they would be down there?’
‘I’d say the most obvious reason would be to take a short-cut over the locks. Most of the punters will drive the girls to a secluded spot for sex, such as industrial areas t
hat aren’t used at night. There’s a few of those around the canals. When they’ve finished, the punters often kick the girls straight out the car, or at best drop them off at the nearest main road. So, depending on where they last had sex, Roberts and Webster may have been trying to get back to their usual patch as fast as possible to pick up their next job. If the canal intersected their route, they could have tried to cross it over the locks. But as many a drunken punter has found out on a night out around Canal Street, they’re very, very slippery. It’s so easy to lose your footing – even easier if you’re wearing six-inch heels.’
Phillips pictured the two girls trying to cross the thin wooden barriers and had to admit it made sense. Yet something about this case gnawed at her. Still, there was no need to share her concerns with Gibson. ‘You’re probably right. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’ Phillips gathered the file and stood, offering her hand to Gibson. ‘Thank you.’
Gibson stood and shook her hand. ‘Anytime, Ma’am. And if there’s anything else I can do to help, please let me know.’
Phillips nodded and made her way out of the office and headed back up to MCU.
She was no closer to a breakthrough she could take to Fox and time was running out. She knew full well she couldn’t hide an off-the-books investigation for long. Ashton House was a hot-bed for gossip, and she was sure her visit to SCT would be fed up to Fox before long. She felt certain neither Atkins nor Gibson would say anything, but Fox had many informants in the building, each feeding her information in the hope of furthering their own careers. Taking that into account, she figured she had the remainder of the day to work on the case unhindered before Fox pulled her in for one of her infamous ‘chats’.
With the clock ticking, it was time to pay another visit to Richard Webster.
13
The squeaking garden gate to the Webster’s house announced Phillips and Jones’s arrival. Once again the dog appeared at the bay window, barking ferociously. The growls and snarls increased in intensity as they approached the front door and rang the bell. They could hear Richard Webster shouting to the dog as he closed the front room door as per their last visit. A moment later, he opened the front door and peered out. He looked like he had aged ten years since Phillips last saw him at the Chapel of Rest, his eyes red and swollen.