by OMJ Ryan
‘What do you lot want now?’ he sneered. It was obvious he didn’t appreciate the visit.
‘Please may we come in, Mr Webster?’ said Phillips.
‘My wife is very upset. It’s not a good time.’
Phillips knew the information she was about to share with the Websters would be heart-breaking for them, and for a moment she contemplated walking away from the investigation completely. Was it necessary for them to know what Chantelle’s life had become? Jones coughed and glanced sideways at Phillips, before his gaze moved in the direction of the squad car. She had worked with him for a very a long time and could sense he was having the same thoughts.
‘What do you want?’ Webster repeated.
Just then Chantelle’s son, Ajay, appeared from the lounge and stepped into the hall, stopping for a moment to stare at his grandfather, then at Phillips and Jones in turn. His big brown eyes seemed to bore into Phillips’s soul. He continued to stare, biting his lip and hopping from foot to foot. A second later, his aunt Lisa appeared and whisked him away upstairs. Phillips’s responsibilities became very clear to her; if somebody had murdered that little boy’s mother, it was her job to bring them to justice. ‘Can we speak inside, Mr Webster? It won’t take long.’
Webster nodded and they followed him inside and into the lounge. Anya sat in the same spot as last time, on the sofa. Tissues were bunched together in her right hand and her face, like her husband’s, was swollen from crying. Webster took a seat next to her and stared back at Phillips and Jones as they took an armchair each.
Phillips sat forwards and offered a sympathetic nod. Her voice was soft when she spoke, ‘We’ve been looking into Chantelle’s movements the night she died. We’re hoping, with your help, we can work out how she ended up in the canal. We have a few more questions, and then I promise we’ll leave you alone.’
Anya Webster was struggling to keep it together, her breathing shallow and noisy through her blocked nose.
Richard Webster held Phillips’s gaze. ‘Ask your questions and then please go.’
Jones retrieved his notepad.
Phillips pressed on. ‘When we last spoke, you said Chantelle came here at 7.45 p.m. and left soon afterwards. At the time you believed she was going to the McVitie’s factory, but as we now know, she lost that job back in October. Do you have any idea where she had been going each night since then?’
Webster shook his head. ‘I can only imagine she was going back to her flat and, based on what you said, using drugs.’
‘Her former boss at the factory told us she was a heavy user and he had no choice but to let her go. That kind of usage requires a lot of cash. Have you any idea how she would come by that kind of money?’
‘Begging, maybe? You see a lot of them on the streets nowadays, don’t you?’ said Webster.
Phillips wasn’t ready to share the full details of Chantelle’s life just yet, so changed tack, hoping to soften the blow. ‘Had Chantelle ever been in trouble with the police?’
Anya covered her mouth with a tissue, struggling to hold back the tears. Richard shook his head. ‘No, Inspector. Shanny was always a good girl. We brought her up to know the difference between right and wrong.’
Jones glanced up from his notepad at Phillips. She knew what he was thinking; prolonging the inevitable wasn’t helping. It was time to come clean. ‘Mr and Mrs Webster. I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this, but we believe Chantelle was working as a prostitute.’
The room fell silent as Phillips’s words landed. Richard Webster reacted first and jumped from the sofa. ‘How dare you!’
Phillips recoiled in her chair. ‘I know this can’t be easy to hear, but Chantelle was listed in a police operation. It was undertaken in November by the Sex Crimes and Trafficking squad, and targeted known prostitutes. It happened not long after she lost her job.’
Richard Webster looked incredulous. ‘Chantelle was arrested?’
‘No. But as part of the operation, she was spoken to late at night alongside known prostitutes in Cheetham Hill. It’s a notorious red-light district.’
‘Just because she was there doesn’t mean she was one of them, does it?’
‘No, but it does increase the likelihood. Having spoken to the officers in charge of the operation, they believe she was a sex worker. It would go some way to explaining why she was dressed the way she was on the night she died, plus why she had cash in her purse.’
Webster dropped onto the sofa.
Phillips knew no father would ever want to believe their daughter was selling their body for sex, but the knowing look on his face suggested it was all starting to make sense to him. Anya could no longer control her emotions and once again turned to the sanctuary of her husband, sobbing into his chest.
Now reluctant, Phillips continued. ‘If Chantelle was a sex worker, then, judging by the money we found in her purse, the likelihood is she came into contact with a number of people on the night she died. We’d like to speak to them. Is there anyone she was friends with that might help us do that?’
Webster swallowed hard. ‘No, Inspector. Like I said to you before, Chantelle had become distant in recent months. She shared very little of her life with us. She rarely stayed long after dropping Ajay off, and had nothing to say when she picked him up. I just assumed she was tired after the night shift.’
Anya Webster pulled her head clear and turned to face to Phillips, her lip trembled as she spoke. ‘Are you saying my daughter’s death wasn’t an accident?’
‘At this stage we don’t know, Mrs Webster. Everything is pointing towards her having drowned, but her case is very similar to another girl’s, who died in November. She was a sex worker, and they were both found with similar marks on their bodies. It could be a coincidence, but it’s our job to find out if it’s not and if somebody did harm her.’
Anya wiped her eyes with a tissue, stood up from the sofa and moved across the room and out of sight into the kitchen. She returned a moment later and handed a key to Phillips. ‘Chantelle’s flat is two streets away. It’s not been touched since she left it. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for in there.’ She sat back down.
Phillips stared at the key in her hand and then back at Anya. She was overwhelmed by the strength of the woman in front of her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Webster. I promise we’ll leave everything just as we found it.’
Richard Webster stood. ‘I’ll show you out.’
As they reached the front door, he touched Phillips’s wrist, ‘Please, Inspector, be discreet. My wife and I are good Christians and active in the local church. If Chantelle was mixed up in everything you say, we’d rather the world didn’t know. We want people to remember her as she was before all this happened.’
‘You have my word, Mr Webster. No one will hear anything from us.’
Webster let out a faint smile. ‘Thank you, Inspector. Thank you.’
Phillips and Jones braced themselves against the wind and rain as they walked the short distance to Chantelle Webster’s flat. They unlocked the front door and climbed the stairs to the open-plan living space. It smelt musty and stale, in part due to a lack of fresh air but in the main because of the overflowing rubbish bin in the corner of the kitchen. A host of empty takeaway boxes had been left on the small glass coffee table in the lounge area. Unlike her parents’ elaborately decorated house, there wasn’t a single Christmas decoration to be seen. Phillips imagined what little Ajay’s Christmas day might be like without his mother; the poor kid.
As a precaution, they both slipped on latex gloves and began their search. For what, they weren’t sure. Whilst Jones started on the living room, Phillips took bedroom one, which had been Chantelle’s. Inside, the double bed was unmade. The cable of an electric blanket led from the mattress to a wall socket. Underwear was strewn on most of the surfaces. On closer inspection, it was a mixture of clean and used. Any flat space that remained contained framed pictures of Chantelle and Ajay, from birth up to about a year ago. Opening the small
IKEA wardrobe, she found the hanging rail packed with an array of tiny, provocative outfits on one side, juxtaposed by thick coats and jackets on the other. The floor of the wardrobe was covered by a mass of high-heeled shoes, but there was nothing of note. Checking the bedside cabinet, she found condoms and lubricant. Phillips wondered if Chantelle had brought clients home. Judging by the state of the flat, if she did, she guessed she hadn’t done so of late.
When she was finished in the bedroom, she moved back into the living area, where she found Jones hunched over a laptop.
‘Bingo,’ he said with a grin.
‘What you got?’
‘Access to her laptop. I just cracked the password.’
‘You have?’ Phillips was surprised. Jones wasn’t known for his technical prowess.
‘I tried her first and last name, then her first name and date of birth. None of them worked. Then I tried putting her son’s name in – you know, Ajay.’
Phillips smiled at the unnecessary explanation of the boy’s name. Jones was enjoying his moment.
‘Then I spotted this.’ Jones handed her a framed picture of Chantelle, holding Ajay moments after he was born. Running along the bottom of the frame was the inscription, ‘Ajay Webster, 25 October 2014’. So then I tried Ajay Webster 251014 – and hey presto.’
Phillips patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Jonesy. Entwistle better watch out – he’s got some serious competition.’
A huge smile of satisfaction spread across Jones’s face.
Phillips moved towards Ajay’s bedroom. ‘While you have a look at that, I’m gonna check the other room. Shout if you find anything of interest.’
‘Will do, Guv.’
Inside, she was struck by the sparsity of the little boy’s room. Aside from a Go-Jetters duvet cover and a few toys in one corner, there was very little to indicate it belonged to a child. It was cleaner than the rest of the flat, but the carpet was still in need of vacuuming. Like his mother’s room, a mix of clean and dirty clothes littered the flat surfaces. Inside his small wardrobe, she found a few books and a pair of well-worn Peppa Pig wellingtons with a matching raincoat. ‘For jumping in muddy puddles,’ she found herself muttering before closing it again and heading back to Jones.
‘Found anything?’
‘A few bits of interest, but nothing significant, I’m afraid.’
Phillips stood behind him and looked at the screen as Jones moved through various windows.
‘Based on her browsing history, she looks like quite a bright girl. I’ve gone back as far as October at the minute. Around the time she lost her job, she started looking into the typical punishment for soliciting and prostitution, as well as social service cases where sex workers had lost their kids.’
‘Weighing up the risks, maybe?’
‘Looks like that way. Then a bit later on, she’s looking up symptoms of gonorrhoea before searching for treatments.’
‘If she had an STD, then there’s a chance she was playing fast and loose without a condom. Maybe for the extra cash?’
‘Maybe. It’s a helluva risk, though, in this day and age – and in particular for the punters. I mean, the majority of street-walkers do it to feed their habit. If they’re taking heroin, there’s a good chance its injected and they’re sharing needles. HIV is on the increase again, for God’s sake. Why would anyone paying for or selling sex not use a rubber?’
Phillips sighed, ‘I dunno Jonesy—’
Her phone rang. She flicked on the speaker phone. ‘What’s up, Entwistle?’
‘It’s Fox, Guv. She’s just been down here looking for you.’
‘To the squad room?’
‘Yep. She left a couple of minutes ago.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing. I lied and said I had no idea where you were. Made a joke about your movements being above my pay-grade.’
‘Did she buy it?’
‘I couldn’t say. She just stared at me for a bit and then smiled, but in a way that kind of freaked me out.’
‘Shit. She knows we’re up to something. Did she say anything else?’
‘No, Guv, just that she would track you down herself.’
‘That’s all I need.’
Fox never ventured down to the third floor without good reason. She must have found out about her visit to Atkins and Gibson. Damn, that was quick.
‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Entwistle. She could squeeze a confession out of a dead man. You at least bought me some time to prepare.’
Just then, Phillip’s phone began to beep, indicating another call. She could see on the screen it was Fox and her heart sank. ‘She’s calling me now. I’d better go.’
Clearing her throat, she switched calls, leaving it on speaker so Jones could hear. ‘Ma’am, what can I do for you?’
Fox wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘You can start by telling me where the hell you are, Chief Inspector.’
Phillips decided to pretend she was working on another open case. ‘I’m following up on the McBride murder. A potential eyewitness.’
‘Who and where?’
‘Well, I say eyewitness. It’s CCTV at one of the neighbour’s houses. Turns out the kit’s quite cheap and there’s nothing that would stand up in court.’
Fox remained silent on the other end.
‘So a bit of a dead end, Ma’am.’
‘Sounds familiar.’ If Fox believed her, Phillips couldn’t tell.
Fox continued. ‘I think it’s time you and I sat down and prioritised MCU’s caseload. We need to ensure you and the team are working on the cases we can crack the quickest. I have a meeting with the chief constable and the mayor next week. I’d like to be in a position to assure them we’re making progress in the areas that matter.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, of course. I’ll speak to Gillian and make an appointment for next week.’
‘I’ve already done it. You’ll be glad to know she’s allocated two hours for us at 10 a.m. tomorrow. As we’re almost at year end, time is of the essence.’
Phillips’s heart sank. She had run out of time. Whatever had happened to Webster and Roberts would never see the light of day now. Fox would see to that.
‘You’ll need to bring your full list of cases. Plus progress reports for each.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I’ll see you at ten o’clock sharp.’ Fox ended the call without waiting for a response.
Phillips’s frustration was palpable.
‘Looks like somebody told her about your visit to SCT, Guv,’ said Jones.
‘Sneaky bastards. She usually finds out in time, but this has to be a record.’ Phillips blew her lips in frustration and scanned the room. ‘Right. There’s nothing else we can do here. Bring the laptop. Maybe Entwistle can find something on it.’
Jones looked disappointed by Phillips’s unintentional snub.
‘We’ll drop the keys off back at the Websters and get back to the station. You never know, Bov or Entwistle might have uncovered something – anything – I can sell to Fox in the morning to keep this case open.’
14
As my car slows, she steps out from under the lamppost, takes one last drag of her cigarette, which glows in the night air, then stubs it out under her heavy platformed shoe. The sound of the electric window whirring as it descends draws her towards me. Before I can say anything, her head is almost inside the car. I’m thankful she doesn’t seem bothered by my appearance, but is quick to tell me anything kinky will cost extra. That’s fine with me. I’ll agree to whatever she wants right now. All that matters is getting her into the car. She tells me the price for what I want is thirty pounds, and my heart lifts when she explains there is no pimp to report back to. She’s free to leave right away. She jumps into the seat next me and a moment later I pull away from the curb. The police scanner is buzzing on a low volume near the central console. She asks why I have it. I tell her it’s to ensure we don’t get arrested, and she appears t
o accept this.
I have a secluded spot in mind for us, and she’s happy to go wherever I want. It’s very cold tonight and she seems to enjoy the warmth of my car.
She pulls a cigarette from the packet, but I shake my head. I hate the smell of cigarettes and I don’t want that stench in here. This is a pool car. There would be big trouble at work if I was accused of smoking in it.
For the next ten minutes, we make steady progress towards our destination. I could get there quicker, of course, but the main roads are filled with police cameras, which I’m keen to avoid. I duck down one of the grimy back streets that make up Ancoats, just north of Manchester city centre, then zip through a maze of weather-beaten and ancient cobbled roads. I connect with Lower Vickers Street in Miles Platting and pull the car over to the right. When we park up, we’re not far from Victoria Mills Park.
The girl’s name is Sasha Adams. I know her, of course. I’ve been watching her for some time. She’s a heavy drug user, which means she doesn’t remember me. If she did, she would have thought twice about getting into the car tonight. Sat as close as she is to me now, I can see how heroin has ravaged her twenty-three-year-old skin. She has natural pretty features, but at the rate she’s shooting up, her looks won’t last much longer. Like so many girls before her, the heroin will ruin her teeth and cause her jaw to sink, and she’ll come to resemble a pensioner with missing teeth. Once that happens, her earning potential will shrink to almost nothing. It’s frustrating to witness someone so young wasting their life. I almost feel sorry for her. The truth is, though, she’s had plenty of chances to get off the street and start again – but she keeps coming back. It cannot be allowed to continue – the cycle has to end.