by OMJ Ryan
‘We dug up some interesting background on her and had hoped she was somehow connected to the gang.’
‘You said “had hoped”. Are you saying that she isn’t?’
Phillips took another breath. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know, Ma’am. She’s dead.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘Evans says it looks like an overdose. Potentially heroin mixed with fentanyl.’
‘And do you agree with him?’
‘Well, based on the evidence in the room, I’d have to say yes. To all intents and purposes, it does look like an overdose,’ said Phillips, unconvinced by her own words.
‘I sense a but?’
‘Well, Ma’am. It all just feels a bit neat, to me. We get our first solid lead on the gang, and when we arrive to investigate, we find her dead.’
‘You said “on the evidence in the room”. What do you mean by that?’ asked Fox.
‘Well, there’s no sign of forced entry – or a struggle – and it appears as though Cartwright was alone when she died,’ said Phillips.
‘Well, if there’s no evidence to suggest otherwise – and it sounds as if there isn’t – why can’t you just accept it was an overdose?’
‘I just think there’s more at play here, Ma’am.’
‘Of course you do.’ Fox’s tone was sarcastic.
Phillips continued, ‘We’re about to start canvassing the neighbours to see if they saw anything. Maybe—’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ interrupted Fox. ‘You’ll leave the SOCOs to it and get back where you should be – on the case of finding Hollie Hawkins. Time is critical in kidnapping cases, and we cannot be wasting it on investigating a bloody overdose.’
‘But Ma’am—’
‘No buts, Phillips. Round up your guys and leave it alone. I can probably fob off the chief constable in the morning, but I’ll need to give him something concrete in the next forty-eight hours. If not, then Whitehall will be breathing down our necks, which will be very career-limiting for all involved. Do you understand what I’m saying, Phillips?’
Phillips bit her bottom lip. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Don’t let me down. Believe me when I say this, Jane. Letting me down would not be good for you, or your team.’ Fox ended the call.
13
Chief Pathologist Dr Tanvi Chakrabortty greeted Phillips in the reception to the mortuary, which was situated in the lower basement of the MRI – Manchester Royal Infirmary – in the heart of the city. As ever, her tall, athletic frame was covered with perfectly pressed blue scrubs. Her long brown hair was tied back against her head to reveal blemish-free brown skin, which carried the slightest hint of make-up.
‘Afternoon, Jane,’ said Chakrabortty.
‘Afternoon, Tan.’
‘You ready?’
Phillips nodded her agreement and Chakrabortty led the way through to the examination room.
Once inside, they took up their positions on either side of the examination table, on which Cartwright’s naked body was laid out, torso and genitals covered by a green sheet.
For the next twenty minutes, Phillips watched on in silence as Chakrabortty worked her way through the post mortem, carefully dissecting the chest before opening up the large cavity. It was in moments like this that Phillips found herself questioning her choice of career. Surely there were less macabre ways to earn a living?
Chakrabortty worked quickly but with grace, and with the utmost respect for the person the body had once been. Phillips admired her immensely, as well as considered her a friend. Together they had witnessed many strange – and, at times, brutal – things over the years, which had further strengthened their bond.
After ninety minutes, the post mortem was complete. Chakrabortty had confirmed that the cause of Cartwright’s death was a straightforward heroin overdose. As Evans had suggested, small traces of fentanyl were found in Cartwright’s blood.
‘So, there’s no sign of anything that would suggest foul play, Tan?’ asked Phillips.
‘Nothing that I can see. Like I said, the heart condition was almost certainly the reason she arrested, and it’s more than likely that the introduction of fentanyl triggered the heart attack. So, unless someone was aware she had the condition and spiked her heroin – which would seem a bit of stretch – it looks to me like a simple overdose.’
This was not what Phillips wanted to hear. ‘But what if that is what happened?’
‘What? Someone spiked her drugs?’
‘Yeah. What if someone put the fentanyl in her normal supply and that’s what killed her? It could be possible, right?’
Chakrabortty considered the question for a moment, before answering. ‘Possible, yes. But probable? I’m not so sure. This death is identical to twenty or more I’ve worked on already this year. Fentanyl is lethal, and it’s everywhere at the moment. It’s November now, and I can pretty much guarantee that, before Christmas, I’ll see probably five more bodies in this room where the death is connected to heroin mixed with fentanyl.’
Phillips shook her head with dismay. She was back to square one.
‘Sorry, Jane. You know I’ll always be straight with you. The evidence points to Sam Cartwright having died from massive heart failure, the cause of which was a heroin overdose.’ Chakrabortty removed her latex gloves and gestured for them to leave the examination room. Phillips took her leave.
Back in the mortuary reception, Phillips thanked Chakrabortty and said goodbye before heading for the door back into the main hospital.
As she climbed the stairs to the ground floor and the exit to the car park, she considered what to do next. Her thoughts turned to Hollie and the ransom video; a scared and vulnerable teenager, locked away, threatened with a violent death. Her heart went out to the young woman, and she prayed she and the team would make a breakthrough soon. If not, she knew only too well what it could mean for Hollie. Finding her quickly was a matter of life and death.
Back in the car, Phillips drove on autopilot, alone with her thoughts; something that, at times, could prove destructive. She was her own worst critic, and her lack of progress was very frustrating. As she guided the car onto Oldham Road, her phone began to ring through the car stereo system, jolting her back to reality. She didn’t recognise the number, but answered it anyway.
‘Phillips,’ she said as she passed the Wing Yip Chinese supermarket on her left.
‘There, she is.’ The tone was condescending, and she recognised it immediately.
‘DCI Saxby,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t answered the call after all.
‘I understand you’ve been chasing a dead end since we last spoke.’
Phillips felt her hackles rise. ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
Saxby chuckled. ‘Really? Well in that case, why don’t you bring me up to speed with what you’ve been doing.’
Phillips took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before releasing it in silence. She then spent the next few minutes debriefing Saxby on Cartwright.
When she was finished, Saxby was quick to deliver his assessment of their efforts, so far. ‘So, you’re no further forward, then?’
Phillips was tempted to tell him exactly what his opinion meant to her, in the most colourful language she could muster, but thought better of it. She’d worked with Saxby’s type before, and felt confident he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against her further down the line. Instead, she threw the onus back on him. ‘Well, as the resident expert, have you managed to find any leads?’
Saxby scoffed. ‘As I explained last night, I’m not a bloody beat copper, Phillips.’
Phillips felt a snarl forming on her lips, but kept her cool. ‘Silly me. Sorry, I forgot. You’re just the “liaison” guy.’
‘Exactly,’ said Saxby. ‘I’m so glad we understand each other. Well, I can’t stay on the phone chatting to you all day. I’m on my way to see Sir Richard now. Of course, I’ll have to debrief him on how you and your team are progressing with the investigation. And I have
to say, based on your lack of progress so far, it’s not a conversation I’m relishing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll survive,’ said Phillips, and ended the call without saying goodbye.
She drove in silence for the remainder of the journey, all the time replaying the conversation in her mind.
As she pulled into her space in the car park of Ashton House, a sick, nervous agitation lay heavy on her stomach. As if this case wasn’t difficult enough, now she had to contend with Saxby roaming around in the shadows, saying God-knew-what to Hawkins. She had felt this way before, and she was damn sure of one thing; the longer MCU went without a breakthrough, the bigger the shit-storm that would be heading her way.
14
Phillips opened the door to the Major Crimes incident room with a heavy heart. The investigation was going nowhere, and she had no idea how to kickstart it. As she stepped into the room, the noise that greeted her lifted her spirits. Excitement hung in the air alongside the buzz of phone chatter and phones ringing across the room. Phillips stopped in her tracks and stood for a moment, watching with pride. Her team hadn’t given up hope. Neither should she.
Jones spotted her and made his way across the room with one of the young uniformed officers in tow, clutching a Manila folder against her chest. ‘Guv, PC Lawford has found something you should see.’
‘Come into my office,’ said Phillips.
Jones and Lawford took a seat each opposite Phillips, and the young constable passed over the file. She couldn’t be any older than twenty-five, and appeared bright-eyed and enthusiastic. Her natural red hair was striking against her white and black uniform.
Phillips opened the file. Inside were three one-page profiles of two men and one woman. ‘Who are we looking at?’
Lawford’s neck had flushed, and she cleared her throat before speaking. ‘Well, Ma’am,’ she said, clearly a little nervous, ‘Sergeant Jones asked me to look into Hawkins and anyone connected to him that has a military background. I’ve found some people I think are of interest. The first one is Ian Holmes. He’s fifty, and Hawkins’s current head of security at the Hawkins Industries PLC HQ in Trafford. He’s a retired Major from the Royal Signals. Served twenty-two years and left the Army in 2012.’
Phillips scrutinised Holmes’s profile. The picture was from his old army ID card.
Lawford continued, ‘The next one is Marcus Baker. This guy’s forty-nine and used to work for Hawkins, but he left twelve months ago – under a bit of a cloud, according to the person I spoke to. He was head of security before he quit and Holmes took over. A retired Staff Sergeant in the Parachute Regiment—’
‘A Para?’ asked Phillips, her eyebrows raised.
‘Yes Ma’am. Highly decorated after tours in Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Belize, Iraq and Afghanistan. He left the military in 2010 and, since quitting his job with Hawkins, manages the security for a property developer in Manchester.’
Phillips stared at Baker’s picture. His steely eyes seemed to stare back at her. ‘Ok, and who’s the woman?’
‘Kerry Matthews, Ma’am. She’s currently on the Hawkins payroll as part of the security team at HQ. She reports to Holmes. A retired Lance Corporal and combat medic from the Mercian Regiment. She also saw active combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. She’s thirty-nine and left the military in 2016.’
Phillips laid the file on her desk and leaned forwards. ‘Any criminal records in their histories?’
‘No Ma’am. They’re all clean. Not so much as a parking ticket on any of them.’
Phillips glanced at Jones, who produced a knowing grin; the young officer had done well.
‘This is great work, Lawford,’ said Phillips, tapping the file on the desk, ‘and very detailed.’
Lawford blushed and a coy smile flashed across her face. ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
Phillips retrieved Baker’s profile and stared at it for a moment before speaking. ‘You mentioned Baker had left under a bit of a cloud. That’s hardly standard HR chatter. Where did you get that info from?’
Lawford smiled again. ‘I have an old friend from university who works at Hawkins’s place. I figured she would be able to give me the kind of information I couldn’t get from regular sources. So I arranged to meet her for a drink last night. With a few G&T’s in her, she filled me in on some of the gossip. It seems Baker and Hawkins had a disagreement that ended in a bit of scuffle. That’s not the official line, of course, but everyone reckons it’s what happened. Baker left the same day, according to my friend.’
Phillips’s eyes widened. ‘Did he now? Well, that is interesting. Very interesting, in fact. Where did you say he works now?’
Lawford checked her notes. ‘Fletcher and Henderson Developments in Spinningfields. Just behind the Magistrates’ Courts.’
‘Well, I think I owe Mr Baker a visit. I’ll head over there first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Phillips. ‘Jonesy, while I’m doing that, you and Bov head over to Hawkins’s Trafford HQ and speak to Holmes and Matthews. Let’s see if they can vouch for themselves the night Hollie was taken.’
‘No worries,’ said Jones. He got up from his chair and headed for the door.
Phillips turned her attention back to Lawford. ‘Well done, Constable. This is first rate work.’
Lawford blushed again.
‘Have you ever held any ambitions of being a detective?’
Lawford’s eyes seemed to double in size, and almost sparkled. ‘Oh yes, Ma’am. That’s what I’m hoping to do.’
Phillips tapped the file on the desk with her index finger. ‘Keep coming up with work like this, and I’m sure it won’t be long before you do.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’
‘Right. Get back out there and see what else you can find on these three. Plus anyone else with a military background who might be connected to Hawkins.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Lawford as she stood, her chest pushed out with pride. ‘Thank you,’ she added as she left the room.
Phillips watched the young constable stride away, and smiled. Lawford reminded her of herself at that age. She’d shown real initiative, and a willingness to go above and beyond to get a result. Phillips expected she’d be seeing a lot more from her in the future.
15
November 4th
The offices of Fletcher and Henderson Developments were located on the top floor of 3 Hardman Square, an uber trendy office block situated in Spinningfields, in the heart of Manchester city centre. Phillips stepped out of the lift into the double-height office space, which was fully glazed from floor to ceiling and offered magnificent views across the city and beyond. In the distance, to her left, she could see the arched roof of the Etihad Stadium, home to Manchester City Football Club, while to her right stood Manchester United’s Old Trafford Stadium. Straight in front of her, a sleek, curved reception desk housed a smart-looking receptionist, who was sat behind a huge Apple Mac computer, wearing a phone-headset.
As Phillips approached, the receptionist offered a broad smile. ‘Welcome to Fletcher and Henderson Developments. How can I help?’
Phillips returned her smile. ‘I’d like to speak to Marcus Baker, if possible.’
The receptionist nodded. ‘I’ll just see if he’s in his office. Can I ask who’s calling?’
Phillips looked her dead in the eye. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Phillips.’
The receptionist raised her eyebrows. ‘I won’t be a second,’ she said as she keyed into her computer. A moment later her call connected, and she explained who was waiting at the front desk to the person on the other end – Phillips assumed it was Baker. The receptionist finished the call and looked up at Phillips once more. ‘Mr Baker is on his way down. Please take a seat. He won’t be long.’
Phillips did as requested and sank into one of the lush grey leather sofas set aside for waiting guests. They were positioned alongside a tall smoked-glass refrigerator stocked full of ‘designer’ water bottles, as well as Prosecco and bottles of Peroni. You wouldn’t
find anything like that in Ashton House, thought Phillips. Just getting milk for the tea and coffee was a challenge some days.
A few minutes later, Phillips spied a tall, well-built man walking towards her. He wore a navy blue suit that fitted immaculately, and was coupled with a maroon tie.
As he moved to just a few feet away, he made eye contact and offered her a wide smile, as well as his outstretched hand. ‘Chief Inspector Phillips?’
Phillips stood and shook his thick hand, which enveloped hers in a tight grip.
‘I’m Marcus Baker. Head of security at Fletcher and Henderson. What can I do for you?’
Up close, Phillips realised he was about the same height as Bovalino – around six foot four – but slimmer and more athletic. She noted a thick vertical scar on the left-hand side of his face, running from a point above his left eye, along the length of his cheek and down to his jugular.
‘I’d like to talk to you about your time working for Sir Richard Hawkins,’ said Phillips.
An awkward smile flashed across Baker’s face. ‘Hawkins? I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Legal reasons, I’m afraid,’ Baker added by way of explanation.
‘Could we speak somewhere more private?’ asked Phillips.
‘Of course. We can go to my office. Please, follow me.’
Phillips followed Baker as he led the way through the middle of the large open-plan space, fitted with myriad desks. Each, it seemed, came complete with and a young, bright-looking individual, glued to their computer. At the end of the office, they reached a row of private offices with frosted glazing. Baker opened a door emblazoned with his name and title. As she followed him inside, Phillips took a moment to survey the space. It was military neat and simply furnished in some style. Lots of smoked-metal fixtures, and yet more frosted glass on the huge desk next to the window, which again offered more of the views of the city. Baker offered her a chair opposite him and took a seat himself. Sitting forwards, he linked his fingers on the desk. His eyes were wide and expectant.
