Deadly Waters

by OMJ Ryan

  As time passes, I begin to sense she’s clucking in the seat next to me, rubbing her thighs and chattering inanely. All of a sudden, she appears impatient. Eager to get on with this job so she can score her next hit. ‘So, what d’ya wanna do?’ she asks, her accent unmistakably Mancunian, her words very nasal and drawn out.

  I point through the windscreen into the distance. ‘I wanna take you down to the canal.’

  She doesn’t look too pleased with my request. I’m not surprised; it’s minus six outside.

  ‘Come on. It’s a fantasy of mine.’ I smile and open my wallet so she can see the crisp, fresh notes. ‘I’ll pay you an extra tenner.’

  She wants an extra twenty. For the sake of expedience, I agree.

  I get out of the car and watch as she steps awkwardly onto the frozen ground. Her thick-soled high-heeled shoes are not appropriate footwear for the short walk down to the canal. I walk ahead, forcing my head down against the bone-chilling wind. From time to time I turn back and watch her hobbling along like a baby giraffe. She looks ridiculous in her skimpy outfit and high heels. I can hear her whingeing and cursing. She’s cold, but I don’t care.

  As I reach the opening to the towpath, I stop. She’s going to need my help to make it down to the water without breaking her neck on the slippery, moss-covered steps. As she reaches my position, I hold out my hand and guide her down each step, slow and deliberate. It’s almost pitch-black down at the bottom. At last she plants her heels on the cobbles and waits for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

  When she’s ready, and still holding her hand, I guide her under the bridge.

  ‘Is it much fucking farther?’ Her words echo around the curved underside of the bridge.

  ‘Just a few more steps. It’ll all make sense when we get there. I promise.’

  She’s not happy. ‘I should have charged you an extra thirty, for fuck’s sake.’

  We reach the spot I want.

  ‘What kind of fantasy involves having sex under a fucking bridge in the middle of winter?’

  Her language leaves much to be desired, but then, what can I expect? She’s a junkie-whore.

  She stands in front of me shivering, hopping from foot to foot, rubbing her arms in an attempt to keep warm. ‘So what you want me to do then?’ Her words bounce off the walls around us.

  I stare in silence at her for a long moment. I’m downwind of her and it smells like she’s not washed her genitals for some time. What kind of low-life punters are happy to pay for a stinking vagina?

  Her teeth have started chattering. ‘Can we get on with his? It’s bloody freezing down here,’ she spits.

  ‘Get in the water,’ I say, my tone unflinching.

  She laughs.

  I repeat myself.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Her face screws up in a ball.

  Then I press the silenced Glock 19 9mm beneath her ribs. Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth to scream, but I clamp my hand over it just in time.

  ‘Shut your dirty fucking mouth and get in the water, Sasha.’

  Her eyes widen and she stares at me in horror. I can almost hear her thoughts. How do I know her name? I move my face as close to hers as I can stand, and dig the gun harder into her ribs. ‘I’m not kidding. Get in the water now.’

  She grimaces, then with some reluctance turns and totters towards the canal. She looks ridiculous in the skimpy outfit with skin on show everywhere. Stopping at the water’s edge, she turns back to look at me.

  ‘Keep your shoes on but remove your coat,’ I tell her.

  She starts to cry. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  It’s too late for tears. ‘Do as you’re told, Sasha. Remove the coat.’

  She complies.

  ‘Now jump in.’

  ‘Please don’t do this!’

  I’m beginning to lose my patience. I step forwards and press the gun against her forehead, ‘Shut your fucking mouth, bitch!’

  Tears streak down her swollen cheeks. The cheap black mascara gives her the look of a wet panda, and she whimpers like an injured animal as I cock the pistol.

  ‘It’s your choice. Either you get into the water or I put a bullet in your skull. What’s it gonna be?’

  She looks at me. Then down at the water. Then back to me.

  ‘Do it now!’ I roar.

  She half jumps, half slips, then falls into the water. There is a loud crack as she hits the ice, followed by a satisfying splash as she breaks through it.

  Time is of the essence. I put the gun back in my pocket and retrieve the animal control pole I stashed in the large bush at the base of the bridge yesterday. Holding it in both hands, I walk back to where Sasha is now flailing in the ice-cold filthy water. She tries to speak, but nothing is coming out.

  It’s taken hours and hours of practice, but I’m now able to hook the rubber loop around her neck and tighten its grip in one smooth movement. Following her instincts, she grabs at the pole behind her, but I yank it out of her reach, then force her head under the water, which silences her splashing. I hold her under for fifteen seconds, and when I pull her back above the surface, she coughs up water as she gasps for air.

  ‘I’m sure you want to scream, Sasha, but I’m afraid you can’t. You see, your body is experiencing cold water shock, causing your lungs to tighten and your heart to beat at almost twice it’s normal rate. In a few minutes, hypothermia will set in and your body will begin to shut down as it draws blood away from your skin to your vital organs, attempting to keep you alive.’

  I dunk her once more, this time for thirty seconds.

  As she resurfaces, I’m forced to shout above the noise of her flailing arms splashing in the water. ‘Do you know why I’m doing this, Sasha?’

  She’s struggling to stay afloat. Her heavy shoes aren’t helping. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t answer me.

  ‘You, Sasha, are a junkie and a whore. A stain on the world that needs to be eradicated. To be wiped out and destroyed. There is no place for your kind in decent society.’

  I force her under the water once more. This time I count to forty-five before letting her back up for air. Her breaths are short, and her arm and leg movements have slowed to almost nothing. Only the pole is keeping her afloat.

  It’s time to complete the ceremony. I close my eyes and open myself up to a higher power, summoning the strength to finish the job. When I open my eyes again, I look upon her flailing body, consumed with abject fear and panic. I hold the pole in my left hand as I bend down and place my right hand on top of her frozen head. ‘I am The Baptist, here to deliver you, Sasha Adams, to the reckoning. The time has come for you to leave this life and make your peace with God.’

  Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Her teeth chatter, and she tries calling for help one last time. Nothing comes out. I can see she’s not far from death.

  It’s time to let her go.

  I press the release button at the end of the pole and the rubber loop becomes slack once again, which allows me to remove the animal control pole from her neck. She is unable to stop herself swallowing water and sinks below the surface. As she disappears into the dark waters, bubbles appear on the surface for a few seconds and then cease, leaving nothing but tiny waves blowing over the surface of the water.

  I stare at the spot where she went under for a long moment. I’m filled with a mix of emotions; anger, mixed with a sense of relief and justice.

  The world is a better place without Sasha Adams. At least now her four-year-old daughter has a fighting chance at life.

  15

  Phillips poured herself a strong black coffee and took a seat at the kitchen bench overlooking the garden. The rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house. The dark grey sky outside didn’t help her mood. She took a deep breath and released it with a low, frustrated growl. She and the team had so far been unable to find anything that would warrant a full investigation into the deaths of Roberts and Webs
ter. She took a long drink, then pulled the folder of the MCUs outstanding case notes across the bench. She opened the Manila folder to reveal a one-inch-thick stack of reports and updates. It was 7.30 a.m., and she was due to meet Fox at 10 a.m. A meeting she dreaded.

  These days Phillips considered herself pretty battle-hardened. With over fifteen years of experience dealing with some of Manchester’s most horrific crimes, very little intimidated her. With one exception: Chief Superintendent Fox. Phillips had fought off killers in her own home and even survived being shot at point blank range, so a one-to-one with her boss should be a walk in the park. But there was something very unnerving about Fox. Her black soulless eyes, the fake Cheshire Cat grin that oozed disingenuity. Perhaps it was the never-ceasing rumours circulating around Ashton House that she was a functioning sociopath – a woman always plotting and planning. Happy to say whatever was required to deliver the exact outcome she wanted. Regardless, Fox brought Phillip’s anxiety back to the fore whenever they met.

  Just over a year ago – not long after the shooting that almost killed her – Phillips had been diagnosed with PTSD. In the months that followed, she had struggled in silence as she and the team waded through the endless devastation and destruction that formed the basis of investigations for the GMP’s Major Crimes Unit. She had, for a time, managed to hide her mental health problems until she had once again come face to face with a killer. In the heat of that battle she had frozen and, to her eternal regret, her inaction had allowed the killer to inflict life-threatening injuries on DC Entwistle. From that moment she had vowed to seek help, and been lucky enough to be referred to the renowned Manchester psychologist, Dr Scott Hogan. Together, over many painful and profound sessions, they had found a way for her to manage her inner demons each day, to enable her to live a normal life again – if there was such a thing in the MCU.

  Since working with Hogan, she had been reinstated as DCI. Leading her beloved team, and with the help of meditation, exercise and diet, she had found a balance she had never known before. Yet, despite all the mental-health work and self-help, Chief Superintendent Fox still made her feel vulnerable and, somehow, unsafe.

  She drained her cup. ‘Why the fuck am I still doing this to myself?’

  Gathering up the case notes, she grabbed her car keys. Just then, her iPhone rang, vibrating on the bench as her ring tone – Tom Jones’s ‘What’s New Pussycat?’ – filled the kitchen. The music was silenced a moment later as she accepted the call.

  ‘Jonesy, what’s up?’

  ‘We’ve got another one, Guv.’

  Phillips was attempting to pull on her coat with one hand. ‘Another what?’

  ‘Another dead girl in the canal. Scantily dressed, no coat. No signs of trauma.’

  Phillips dropped the file back on the bench. He had her full attention now. ‘Any bruising to the neck?’

  ‘I asked the same question, but she’s still in the water at the moment. A fire crew will be on scene in the next few minutes.’

  ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘A city centre uniform crew.’

  ‘Where and when was she found?’

  ‘This morning, just after six. A jogger spotted her in the Rochdale Canal near Victoria Mills Park.’

  ‘I take it Evans is on his way?’

  ‘As far as I know, Guv.’

  ‘Ok. Text me the exact location and I’ll head over there myself.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Phillips’s attention was drawn back to the copies of MCU’s case files on the bench. ‘Shit. Fox.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I’m due in her office in two hours.’

  ‘Lucky you. Seriously, don’t stress about it. Me and Bov can handle this one.’

  ‘Oh, I know you can. It’s just that I suspect Fox has called me in because she’s trying to shut down the Webster investigation. Another dead girl with a circular bruise on her neck would be a good thing right now. If that was the case, then Fox would have little choice but to let us carry on looking into Webster's death.’

  ‘So what do you wanna do?’

  Phillips considered her options for a moment. Deliberately missing a meeting with Fox was never a good idea, but her gut told her the similarities Jones had just described were no coincidence. She had to see the body for herself. ‘Send me the location, Jonesy. I’m on my way.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Guv?’

  Phillips closed her eyes and took a couple of long, deep breaths. It was a technique she used every day to manage her anxiety.

  ‘I’m sure, Jonesy,’ she lied. ‘Pick up Bovalino and meet me at the scene as soon as you can. Tell Entwistle to get over to the office and wait for instructions. We’re going to need to dig quick and fast into this one before Fox finds out what I’m doing.’

  She ended the call and sat back at the bench for a moment, absentmindedly tapping her phone against her teeth as she considered the consequences of going behind Fox’s back. Was getting to the bottom of Roberts’s and Webster’s deaths worth risking her career for? For a split second she contemplated ringing Jonesy back to call the whole thing off, but then she thought of little Ajay growing up without his mum; the missed birthdays and Christmases, his wedding, the birth of his own children, even. She pictured a young boy turning into a man, never knowing what his mum was like or how she felt about him. Would he spend his life wondering, ‘Did she fall into the canal or did she jump to her death?’ He deserved to know the truth, and whatever the risk to herself, Phillips knew she had to take it.

  Evans and his team arrived just before Phillips did. A crash on the elevated stretch of Manchester’s inner ring-road, the Mancunian Way, had delayed her by twenty minutes. Travelling from the opposite side of town, so able to avoid the congestion, Jones and Bovalino were also on scene by the time Phillips walked down the icy, worn steps to the towpath. Up ahead, both men stood with their backs to her, keeping watch as the SOCO team pulled on their white overalls. The rain had stopped, but the wind still howled over the water. Small wavelets broke against the mossy walls of the canal. Thanks to this morning’s heavy rain, the water level was high.

  ‘Morning gents,’ she said as she approached.

  Jones and Bovalino turned in unison. ‘Guv.’

  ‘Anything yet?’

  Jones pointed to the mass of uniformed bodies up ahead. A mix of police, paramedics and firemen surrounded the body, now resting on a plastic sheet on the towpath. ‘The paramedics are just confirming extinction of life and then she’s all ours.’

  A few minutes passed with no-one saying anything before a uniformed officer broke ranks and walked towards them. As he came closer, Phillips noted it was the same sergeant who was on the scene when Webster was fished out.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said before nodding to Jones and Bovalino. ‘Paramedics confirm extinction. Over to you now. From what we can see, it’s almost identical to the last one.’

  ‘Any bruising to the neck?’ asked Phillips

  ‘Nothing at the front. I couldn’t see the back as she was facing upwards.’

  ‘Ok. Which uniform team was first on scene?’

  The sergeant looked a little coy. ‘Er. Same as the last time, Ma’am.’

  ‘The young kid?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Yes. By pure coincidence, he and his partner were closest when the call came in. I’m grateful he’d learnt his lesson and called me first this time so I could decide on whether or not to contact you. As you can imagine, I wouldn’t ordinarily bother MCU with a drowning, but it was so similar to the last one, I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘And where’s the kid now?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘I sent him back at the station when the medics and fire crews turned up. No sense him hanging around if I was here.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Phillips, indicating the conversation was over.

  The officer turned and walked back towards the body, where Evans and his team were putting the finishing touches to the white tent tha
t would cover the dead girl.

  After suiting up themselves, Jones, Bovalino and Phillips entered the SOCO tent and looked at the dead girl for the first time. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. Like Roberts and Webster, she was wearing a short miniskirt and crop top with thick-soled high heels – the kind a pole dancer would wear. Kneeling down, Phillips could see her skin was marked with the sores and scars of heavy drug use, and her hands and fingernails were black around the edges. Evans passed over a small purse which Jones opened, peering inside. ‘Twenty quid cash, Guv. So, like the others, it doesn’t look like she was robbed.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Can we see the back of her neck please, Evans?’

  With the help of one of his assistants, Evans rolled the girl onto her side and pulled back her matted bleach-blonde hair, revealing a perfect circular bruise. It was identical to those found on Roberts and Webster.

  Phillips let out an audible sigh of relief and grinned. ‘We’ve got it. That’s what we needed.’

  ‘The bank card here says her name is Sasha Adams,’ said Jones, handing it to Phillips, who examined it for a moment.

  Phillips checked her watch. It was 9.30 a.m. ‘Get Entwistle to find out everything there is to know about her. And I mean everything. I’m due to meet with Fox in half an hour and she’s gonna be majorly pissed off when I don’t turn up. Which means I need to ensure I’m well armed when I do see her. With three identical bodies found in the same stretch of water, these deaths have to be connected. Now all we have to do is find something to convince our beloved chief super of that.’

  Jones and Bovalino looked at each other, then back at their DCI. Their expressions said everything: Phillips was once again skating on very, very thin ice.

  16

  Entwistle was ready with a large folder of information on Sasha Adams as Phillips rushed into the MCU squad room. ‘Here you go, Guv.’