by OMJ Ryan
‘Hmmn. So, if I’m understanding this correctly, me and my team do the grunt work – you know, get our hands dirty and do everything we can to figure out who took Hollie and where she might be – and whilst we’re doing all that, you just sit here and wait for either the kidnappers or Sir Richard to call. At which point you’ll jump to it. Is that about right?’
Saxby smiled thinly. ‘Chief Inspector. If you have an issue with the division of labour on this case, you need to take it up with your superiors. In the meantime, unless you have anything of value to share with me, I’d be grateful if you could leave me to get on with my work.’
Phillips nodded and started to stand, but dropped back into her chair. ‘Actually, there is one thing I could do with your expert opinion on.’
Saxby folded his arms across his chest. ‘And what might that be?’
‘Why seven days?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not following you.’
‘The kidnappers. Why be specific and tell Sir Richard he would hear from them in seven days?’ said Phillips. ‘That’s unusual, don’t you think? I mean, most kidnappers give nothing away. Every message comes without warning, to give themselves the edge.’
Saxby said nothing for a moment as he appeared to process Phillips words. ‘In my experience, I’d agree that’s true, yes.’
‘So why did these guys specifically tell Sir Richard he’d hear from them in seven days? It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ said Phillips.
Saxby shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s certainly not something I’ve seen before, but I can’t say I’m overly concerned by it. I’m sure the reason will present itself in the fullness of time.’
Phillips would have laughed if she wasn’t so concerned about how clueless Saxby appeared to be. In her experience, a gang capable of kidnapping a teenage girl from the middle of a crowded party – without leaving a single trace – would leave nothing to chance. The fact they had given him seven days was significant, but Saxby seemed oblivious to it.
‘Right. Well, I can’t sit around on the fifth floor all day. I’d better be getting back to the team. That grunt work won’t do itself.’ She stood and headed for the door.
‘Oh, Chief Inspector,’ Saxby called after her.
Phillips turned back towards him.
‘You will keep me in the loop on everything now, won’t you?’
Phillips did her best to appear earnest. ‘Of course. Like the Aerosmith song says, “You won’t miss a thing.”’ She was just about able to keep a straight face before she ducked out the door.
Back in her office sometime later, Phillips stood staring out of the window onto the dimly lit car park below, mulling the case over in her mind.
‘You got a minute, Guv?’ asked Jones from behind her.
Phillips turned to find Jones and Bovalino standing inside the door. ‘How did you get on?’
Jones appeared excited. He and Bovalino brought Phillips up to speed on the CCTV footage they’d seen, and what it implied for both Robbins and Cartwright.
‘So, Cartwright’s royally in the frame then?’ said Phillips.
‘Totally, Guv,’ said Jones.
At that moment, Entwistle walked in carrying a large file. ‘What was that about Cartwright?’
‘Looks like she could be the person who let the kidnappers into the building,’ said Phillips.
Entwistle hitched his buttocks onto the low cabinet next to Phillips’s desk and handed her the file. ‘Well, this lot doesn’t look good for her either.’
Phillips opened the folder and began leafing through the pages as Entwistle narrated his findings.
‘There was a good reason it was so hard to find anything on her before 2014. She changed her name that year, taking her mother’s maiden name – Cartwright. Prior to that, she was Sam Blackwood.’ Entwistle pointed to the folder in Phillips’s hands. ‘As you can see from the files, Blackwood was a combat medic with the Yorkshire Regiment. She served from 1997 to 2010, and completed multiple front-line tours of Iraq and Afghanistan before being medically discharged with PTSD. Since then, she’s had a number of convictions for drug use, assault and using threatening behaviour.’
Phillips blew her lips and passed out some of the pages to Jones and Bovalino. ‘Bloody hell, Entwistle, this is brilliant.’
Entwistle produced a knowing grin. ‘If you look at the last couple of pages in the file, you’ll see I also checked with the company she gave to the Marstons Club as a reference. They’ve never heard of either Sam Blackwood or Sam Cartwright.’
Jones chuckled. ‘So, Mr Green’s recruitment policy is not quite as meticulous as he made out then, Guv?’
‘Clearly not,’ said Phillips.
Entwistle continued, ‘The final document in there is her current account bank statement. She deposited two grand in cash into it just last week. It’s not her salary, as Marstons pays her electronically, and you can see her monthly payments going in on the first of every month. So I checked to see if she’d had any previous or regular transactions to gambling sites or any similar payments, in case she was doing any freelance or cash-in-hand work. I found nothing. The two grand cash is a totally random, one-off payment. Now, obviously, we can’t prove where that money came from—’
‘No, but it’s a good place to start asking questions,’ Phillips said. ‘Great work, Entwistle. What did we do before you joined the team, hey?’
‘Had a lot less conversations about bloody urban music,’ joked Bovalino, which drew a collective chuckle from the room.
Phillips was excited now. ‘Cartwright has to be our insider. It’s just too much of a coincidence. And you know how I feel about them, don’t you, Entwistle?’
Entwistle grinned and nodded his head. ‘No such thing, Guv.’
‘Exactly. No such thing,’ Phillips repeated, playfully slamming her hand down on the desk. ‘Right. Jonesy and Bov, first thing in the morning, you head over to Cartwright’s and see if she can explain where the cash came from – and why she lied to get the job. See what else she’s been lying about.’
Both men nodded.
Phillips continued, ‘Entwistle, while they do that, I want you to pull up the CCTV footage of the Marstons Club on the night of the kidnapping. I want to take a closer look at the three masked individuals who came in through that fire door.’
‘Consider it done, Guv,’ said Entwistle.
Phillips checked her watch. ‘Right, it’s very late, and we all need to get some rest. Let’s regroup in the morning with fresh eyes,’ she said, pulling on her coat.
11
November 3rd
As always, Bovalino, an amateur rally driver in his spare time, insisted on driving. Jones had become accustomed to the sound of a car engine working at peak revs when Bovalino drove. He also knew better than to take a hot drink, as the big Italian regularly threw the car around corners with incredible speed and precision. By the time they parked the car on Broadwood Road in Wythenshawe, one of Manchester’s southern suburbs and just a few miles from the airport, Jones breathed a silent sigh of relief and thanked God they’d made it one piece.
Stepping out of the car, Jones surveyed the street. They were surrounded by large, semi-detached red-brick houses built in the 1960s. Aside from the roar of planes coming in to land and taking off at the airport, it was relatively quiet for the early morning. The weather was typical of an autumnal day in Manchester, with grey skies and rain not far away.
‘What number is she at, Bov?’ Jones asked.
Bov pulled his notepad from his coat pocket and leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘Thirty-six,’ he said, and scanned the doors around them before pointing at a house a few metres away. ‘That’s the one. With the red door.’
A moment later, Jones led the way up the cracked concrete path to the front door of number thirty-six Broadwood Road. According to Entwistle, Cartwright’s property was still council-owned, unlike the majority of her neighbours’ homes. It showed, too. Whereas
every other house on the street had been personalised and looked well cared for, it was evident that Cartwright’s would benefit from a large dose of TLC. The front door needed a new coat of paint, the grass was almost knee-high, and a broken armchair – soaking wet and minus cushions – sat against the front wall of the house, just under the lounge window, which was covered by net curtains.
‘I thought these military guys were trained to be tidy?’ Bovalino muttered as they stopped at the front step.
Jones nodded. While he understood Bovalino’s question, he knew that PTSD could change people in the most dramatic of ways.
In the absence of a working doorbell or knocker, Jones rapped on the weather-beaten front door with his knuckles. They waited a moment. No answer. He tried once more, harder and louder this time. Again, no response.
‘Let’s try round the back,’ said Jones.
Bovalino agreed, and led the way down the path to the left of the house, trudging through the wet autumnal leaves that had fallen from the trees above them. When they reached the rear of the property, Jones banged on the back door. This time he hit it with such force, the frame shook. A few doors away, a dog barked in response, but the house remained unyielding.
‘Maybe she’s out?’ said Bovalino.
‘Maybe,’ said Jones, and arched his back in an attempt to see into the upstairs windows – without success.
The grass at the rear of the house was knee-high, and a rusted folding washing line stuck out of the ground, pegs hanging from the horizontal plastic chords.
Whilst Bovalino watched on, Jones stepped forwards, cupped his hands against the side of his head and pressed his face against the wide kitchen window. He waited a moment to allow his vision to adjust to the dark interior. That was when he saw it.
‘Oh shit!’
‘What is it, Jonesy?’
‘We’ve gotta get this door open right now. Someone is lying flat on the floor in there, behind the kitchen table.’
Bovalino pressed his face to the glass. ‘Jesus! I’ll get the crowbar from the car.’ He rushed back to the street.
He returned a minute later, a large metal bar in his right hand. He slipped on forensic gloves and handed a pair to Jones, then stepped up to the back door and smashed through the pane of glass above the lock and handle.
Once it was clear of all debris, Jones reached inside, released the Yale lock, pushed the door inwards and rushed inside, Bovalino close behind.
Jones immediately recognised Cartwright, her face visible to the side, her eyes black and wide open. Kneeling next to her, he checked her pulse at the neck for a long moment, then shook his head. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Jesus,’ said Bovalino. ‘How?’
Jones stood and took a few careful steps round to the other side of the body, where he had full sight of her left arm. A large hypodermic needle was sticking out of her wrist. ‘Looks like she OD’d,’ he said, pointing to the needle.
Bovalino moved next to him. ‘Bloody hell. Looks like she’s been keeping a lot of things secret from her boss, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re not kidding, Bov,’ Jones said as he pulled his phone from his pocket and selected Phillips’s number from the favourites. He activated the speaker function.
Phillips answered quickly. ‘What you got Jonesy?’
‘Cartwright’s dead, Guv.’
‘You what?’
‘Cartwright, Guv. She’s dead. Looks like a heroin overdose.’
‘Bollocks!’ Phillips went silent for a long moment. ‘How long do you think she’s been dead?’
Jones looked down at the body once more. ‘Hard to say without Evans and his team.’
‘Shit. Fox is gonna go mental on this one. Cartwright was our only lead.’
Phillips went silent once more. Jones knew her well enough to know her brain would be firing at lightning speed, trying to work out their next move.
After a long moment, she returned. ‘Jonesy, call Evans and get him down there ASAP. I’m coming too.’
‘And what about Fox, Guv?’
‘Leave her out of this for now. Let’s see if we can find anything at the scene that might be of use. I’d prefer to break the news that our only lead is dead along with some new evidence rather than nothing.’
‘Good point,’ said Jones. ‘And Saxby? When do we share this with him?’
‘Ah shit. I’d forgotten about him,’ said Phillips. ‘He’s the last person we need sniffing around at the moment. Look, he doesn’t need to know for now. Let’s crack on as normal. I’m leaving the office now, so I’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes.’
Jones ended the call and exhaled loudly. ‘It’s never bloody straightforward in Major Crimes, is it, Bov?’
‘Never, Jonesy. But it’d be boring if it was.’ Bovalino produced a half smile.
Jones pulled up Andy Evans’s number. It was time to see if SOCO could salvage anything from this mess.
12
By the time Phillips arrived at Cartwright’s house, the white SOCO tent had been erected outside number thirty-six. She parked the car in the only available spot – a few doors up the street – and sat for a moment to gather her thoughts. She had never enjoyed this part of the job – seeing a dead person for the first time. It was always in those initial moments of discovery that she could see and sense the loss of life, a fleeting sensation soon replaced by a cold numbness that allowed her to do her job. She tried to remember when that numbness had first set in, but having investigated so many deaths in her near-twenty-year career, she found herself struggling to pinpoint any one particular case. Checking her reflection in the rear view mirror, she straightened her ponytail, then cleaned her glasses. She wasn’t sure why, but a deep sense of foreboding gnawed at her gut about the way this case was shaping up.
A few minutes later, Phillips arrived at the SOCO tent and began suiting up.
Jones appeared next to her in his forensic suit. ‘Hi, Guv. They’re ready for you.’
Phillips zipped up and pulled on her latex gloves. ‘Ok. Let’s have a look inside then, shall we?’
Jones led the way into the house and down the narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back. A host of scene of crime officers were busy taking photos and discussing various elements about the body. Bovalino’s large frame – his white SOCO suit, as ever, bursting at the seams – stood with them. Seeing them walk in, he nodded.
‘Looks like a heroin overdose, Guv,’ said Jones.
‘No signs of forced entry or anyone else here?’ asked Phillips.
‘I’m afraid not. We had to break down the back door to get in. Everything else was locked down tight.’
Phillips nodded and scanned the room before walking over to the body. Cartwright’s face was squashed against the floor, but turned towards her right. Behind her lay an overturned dining room chair.
‘From what we can see, so far, we think she took a fatal hit of heroin – or whatever she injected – then fell forwards off the chair and onto the floor. Evans reckons the needle’s buckled and embedded in her arm, which would back up that theory.’
At that moment, Senior CSI Andy Evans approached. ‘Jane.’
‘So, we think it’s an overdose then, Andy?’
‘Looks that way,’ said Evans. ‘We’ve seen a spate of them in the last twelve months, with the introduction of fentanyl into the food chain. Nearly all ODs at the moment are down to it. It’s bloody lethal stuff.’
Phillips nodded. ‘I’ve heard a lot about it being cut with standard heroin.’
‘It’s super potent and indiscriminate, I’m afraid,’ said Evans. ‘Anyone taking heroin right now is playing Russian roulette.’
‘Jones says there’s no sign of foul play?’
‘None at all. It appears to be an open-and-shut case.’
‘And what about the time of death? Any ideas?’
‘Based on rigor mortis and body temperature, I’d say between 1 and 3 p.m. yesterday.’ Evans moved across the room to speak to one of
his colleagues.
That gnawing sensation returned. Something wasn’t right.
‘What you thinking, Guv?’ asked Jones.
Phillips breathed heavily through her nose. ‘Our only link to the kidnapping gang accidentally dies hours before we can question her. It’s all a bit neat, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah. I was thinking that too. But the problem is, there’s not a single sign of anyone else being here, so if someone did kill her, how did they get in and out without leaving a trace?’
‘Good question,’ said Phillips.
Bovalino joined them. ‘Guv. Jonesy.’
‘Are you buying this as an overdose, Bov?’ asked Phillips.
‘It’s pretty neat if it is.’
‘That’s what we were thinking,’ said Phillips. ‘Right, as we’ve established there seems to be nothing in here to contradict the overdose theory, let’s try the neighbours. See if any of them saw anything out of the ordinary.’
Jones and Bovalino nodded.
At that moment, Phillips’s mobile began to ring in her pocket. Stepping away, she removed her latex gloves and pulled the phone from her pocket. It was Superintendent Fox. Shit.
‘Ma’am?’ said Phillips, trying her best to sound natural as she walked outside onto the front path.
‘Phillips, I need an update on the Hawkins case. I’m due to meet with the chief constable first thing in the morning. He’ll want to know where we’re at with it.’
‘Well, naturally we’re looking at all avenues, Ma’am.’
Fox scoffed. ‘Don’t spout PR shit to me, Phillips. I wasn’t born yesterday. I want facts.’ At that moment, a plane coming in to land thundered above Phillips’s head. ‘Where exactly are you?’
Phillips took a deep breath. Fox had a way of triggering her anxiety. ‘I’m at Sam Cartwright’s house.’
‘Who?’
‘She was one of the security team at the Marstons Club. She was on duty the night Hollie was taken.’
‘I see. And how is she important?’ said Fox.
