Deadly Vengeance: A gripping crime thriller full of twists and turns (Detective Jane Phillips Book 3)

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘The compositions are carbon copies. The biggest component in each mix is heroin, with large traces of fentanyl, quinine, manganese, calcium, copper, iron and zinc.’

  ‘So they’ve come from the same source?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘It’s difficult to say for sure but, looking at the samples side by side, it would seem highly likely. I must say that, compared to other samples I’ve tested before, it looks like a relatively pure batch as well.’

  ‘Yeah. And people pay a premium for purity. I’m guessing this stuff was never destined for the sex workers and smackheads of Manchester’s underbelly. This looks like the heroin of high-rollers.’

  ‘Based on its purity, I would say that’s probably a fair assumption,’ said Chakrabortty.

  Phillips reclined in her chair, thinking aloud. ‘If that’s the case, then how did a low-paid security officer get hold of it?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s your area of expertise, Jane,’ said Chakrabortty.

  Phillips nodded, her head now awash with questions.

  ‘Jane?’ Chakrabortty prompted.

  ‘What?’ said Phillips. Clearly she had missed something.

  ‘I asked you if there was anything else you needed from me?’

  ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘I could tell.’

  ‘No. Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.’

  ‘Right, well, it’s time I was going home. You know where I am if anything else comes to mind.’

  Phillips checked her watch. It was 6 p.m. and she had lost track of time. ‘Of course. I forget that not everyone keeps the same hours as me. You get yourself away.’

  ‘Take care, Jane,’ said Chakrabortty, and ended the call.

  Phillips sat in silence for a few minutes and stared at the lab reports. ‘Where did Cartwright get such pure heroin?’ she whispered into the now-dark room. Her gut told her that, somehow, it had to be connected to Hollie’s kidnapping.

  24

  November 6th

  The Major Crimes Unit’s core team all arrived at Ashton House at 7 a.m. the next day. Phillips was keen to piece together the events from the hours leading up to Sam Cartwright’s death. To that end, Bovalino and Entwistle had been tasked with searching CCTV footage from the streets and shops surrounding Cartwright’s house, whilst she and Jones paid a visit to Gerry Donald in the ground-floor custody suite.

  Phillips led the way to the charge desk, where the Custody Sergeant sat behind a screen, working at his computer. Mike Allinson was a seasoned copper with just a few years remaining before he was obliged to retire. Considering the abuse he endured on a daily – or nightly – basis from drunk or high criminals, he maintained a jolly demeanour, which perfectly matched his round face and greying beard.

  He looked up as they approached. ‘Morning Ma’am, morning Jonesy,’ he said, as he flashed one of his trademark smiles. ‘What brings you down here so early?’

  ‘Gerry Donald,’ said Phillips. ‘We’d like to ask him a few more questions before he heads off to court.’

  ‘Is he in?’ joked Jonesy.

  Allinson chuckled. ‘Last time I looked.’

  The sergeant made his way round to the other side of the desk, and Phillips noted his uniform was a tight fit against his rotund belly. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and headed in the direction of the cells, his keys jangling on a chain against one of his thick legs.

  When they reached Donald’s cell, Allinson opened the small observation hole in the door and peered inside. ‘Mr Donald. You have some visitors,’ he said with a cheerful tone that sounded more guest-house manager than detention officer. He turned to Phillips and Jones. ‘Looks like he’s awake,’ he said, before unlocking the door and pulling it open. ‘You can use the small room at the end of the cells. It’s empty at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Phillips.

  ‘Cheers, Mike,’ added Jones, as he patted him on the shoulder.

  Allinson nodded and headed back to the charge desk as Phillips stepped inside Donald’s cell. ‘Morning, Gerry,’ she said with false enthusiasm. ‘You ready for your stay in Hawk Green?’

  Donald screwed his face up when he saw his visitors. ‘What the bloody hell do you two want?’

  ‘A little chat,’ said Phillips. ‘DS Jones, please escort our guest to the meeting room, will you?’

  ‘My pleasure, Guv,’ said Jones, and stepped forwards and hauled Donald up from the blue plastic mattress and onto his feet. ‘This way, sir.’

  A few minutes later, Phillips and Jones took seats at a small table opposite Donald, who now took tentative sips from a mug of hot tea. He looked dishevelled, and his eyes were red and puffy, as if he hadn’t slept. His dark stubble cast a shadow across his jaw.

  ‘Rough night?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘What do you think?’ sneered Donald.

  Phillips cut to the chase. ‘Have you ever met a woman called Sam Cartwright?’

  Donald shook his head. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘You sure? She worked at the Marstons Club, where your sister and brother-in-law are members.’

  Donald took a mouthful of tea. ‘I know what the Marstons Club is. I used to be a member there myself.’

  ‘Used to be?’ said Jones. ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘I dunno. About a year ago, I suppose. It was an expense I didn’t need.’

  ‘I see,’ said Phillips.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Donald, ‘if you’re asking me questions, shouldn’t Nic be here?’

  Phillips shook her head. ‘This is just a chat. Off the record. You’ll notice there’s no recording device and we’re not taking notes.’

  Donald leant back in his chair and placed the cup down on the table between them. ‘Nope. I’m not having it. Either my lawyer is present, or I’m saying nothing.’

  Phillips continued, unperturbed. ‘You see, the thing is, Gerry, Sam Cartwright died of a heroin overdose just a few days ago. We tested what was in her system, and guess what?’

  Donald stared at Phillips, his gaze unflinching.

  ‘It was the exact same heroin as we found in your flat. The compositions are identical.’

  Phillips spotted Donald’s nose as it twitched – in the exact same way it had during yesterday’s interview, when she’d mentioned Bahmani’s name.

  ‘So what?’ he said.

  Phillips looked at Jones for added effect before exhaling loudly. ‘Well, Gerry. If we can prove the heroin in Cartwright’s system came from you, then we’ll be looking at adding secondary murder to your charges…manslaughter at the very least. And that, coupled with the possession charge, means a very long time in Hawk Green for you.’

  Donald’s eyes widened.

  Phillips was stretching the bounds of the law, and she knew it. But she also knew her best and only chance of getting a lead on the heroin – and potentially finding a connection to Hollie – was off the record. If Nic Johnson became involved, she would destroy this line of questioning in a nano-second. ‘Tell us who sold you the heroin. Let them take the blame for Cartwright’s death instead of you.’

  Donald opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  Phillips continued to push. ‘Was it Adders Bahmani? Did he sell you the heroin?’

  Jones joined in too. ‘Come on, Gerry. You shouldn’t have the spend the rest of your life in prison for a man like Bahmani. Tell us off the record what we want to know, and we’ll have a quiet word with the CPS. Tell them you cooperated. Help you get a reduced sentence.’

  Donald folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat as he looked first at Jones and then at Phillips. ‘No comment.’

  25

  After continuing his ‘No comment’ answers to their questions, Phillips and Jones gave up trying to elicit any information from Donald, and left him to Sergeant Allinson to prepare him for his trip to the Magistrates’ Court.

  Stopping at the canteen on her way back to the incident room, Phillips ordered a round of bacon sa
ndwiches and hot drinks for the team. It was 8.30 a.m. and the incident room was still empty, with most of the wider team not due to start work for another thirty minutes. Phillips and Jones joined Bovalino and Entwistle at their desks and tucked into their quarry.

  ‘Any joy with Donald?’ Bovalino asked through a mouthful of food.

  Phillips swallowed what she was chewing. ‘“No comment”.’

  ‘Smart boy,’ said Bovalino.

  ‘Whoever his supplier is,’ said Jones, ‘Donald must be sufficiently terrified of them to want to take his chances in Hawk Green rather than grass them up. That place is horrific.’

  ‘Do you think it’s Bahmani?’ asked Entwistle, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Has to be,’ said Phillips. ‘Has to be.’

  Bovalino finished his food and threw the wrapper, with a loud clatter, into the metal wastepaper bin against the wall. He mock-celebrated his victory, and grinned. ‘In that case, I’m not surprised he’d rather go to prison. Bahmani’s an animal.’

  Phillips nodded, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘Yeah. He is. So, did you find anything of interest on the CCTV?’

  ‘Nothing on the cameras that I checked,’ said Entwistle, ‘but Bov had better luck, didn’t you?’

  Bovalino turned his monitor to face the team. ‘I had a look at the junction of Poundswick Lane and Broadwood Road, where Cartwright lived. There’s a bunch of shops on there, and the indoor market. Chakrabortty’s post mortem confirmed she died at approximately 2 p.m. on Saturday the 2nd of November, so I scanned through footage of that morning and found this.’ He pressed enter on the keyboard and the footage played on screen.

  The team watched as Sam Cartwright appeared at the end of Broadwood Road. She stopped, looked for traffic, then crossed Poundswick Lane. ‘We pick her up again here,’ Bovalino said as he opened another window on the screen and pressed play. ‘This is the camera from the shopping precinct.’

  Phillips leaned forwards to get a closer look.

  ‘She goes into the small supermarket for about ten minutes,’ Bovalino continued to narrate, ‘and reappears with two bags of groceries.’ He switched windows once again. ‘And then we see her here again, heading back across Poundswick Lane and home.’

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Eleven a.m., Guv.’

  ‘And is there any footage closer to her house?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Bovalino as he pulled up a different image on his screen, ‘But I did have a look at the cameras from 11 a.m. through to 2.30 p.m., and spotted this guy at 1.45 p.m., heading towards Broadwood Road. He’s wearing a cap to cover his eyes, and is the only person all day who never once let his face be seen on camera. It struck me as odd.’ Bovalino pressed play, and again the team watched the footage unfold.

  ‘You’re right, Bov,’ said Phillips after a few moments. ‘It’s as if he knows he’s being watched. Look at that there; he’s in the middle of the frame, but keeps the peak of his cap down so we never see his eyes.’

  ‘We lose him after that on this camera. He’s gone for about fifteen minutes, but then he’s back just after 2 p.m.,’ said Bovalino, ‘walking at pace in the opposite direction. He stops at the junction to take a call.’

  At that moment, on the screen, the mystery man pulled his phone from his pocket and spoke into it for approximately twenty seconds before he ended the call and stepped off the curb to cross the street.

  ‘Is there any more footage of him in the shopping precinct, where we see his face?’

  Bovalino shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve found yet, Guv, but I’ll contact the different retailers and see if they have anything from their own cameras.’

  Jones stood up from his chair and moved towards Bovalino’s computer. ‘Play the bit where he answers the phone again, will you?’

  Bovalino complied.

  ‘Pause it there!’ Jones said.

  With the screen frozen, Jones moved closer to the screen, studying it before tapping it with his index finger. ‘Look at that, Guv.’

  Phillips frowned. ‘Look at what?’

  ‘The tattoo poking out of his jacket, on his left arm. Do you recognise it?’

  ‘Should I?’

  Jones nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, Guv. It’s a dead ringer for John Robbins’s tattoo. I had a really good look at it each time we talked to him, as it kept popping out of his shirt sleeve. And I’m telling you, that’s his wrist. Either that, or it’s a bloody big coincidence.’

  Each of the team smiled, clearly expecting Phillips’s next words. ‘And you know how I feel about coincidences, don’t you, Jonesy?’

  ‘You don’t believe in them, Guv,’ Jones said with a wide grin.

  Phillips clapped her hands together. ‘Bloody hell, what an amazing spot. Pull Robbins in and let’s see what he has to say for himself. Well done, guys. Great work.’

  At that moment, Phillips’s phone began to ring. She checked the display and her heart sank. She rolled her eyes in the direction of the team and stood, answering it as she strode back to her office. ‘DCI Saxby. How can I help?’

  26

  Phillips was busy at her computer when Jones knocked on her open office door.

  ‘He’s downstairs, Guv. Do you want me and Bov to interview him, or do you want to do it with me?’

  ‘I’ll do it with you,’ said Phillips. ‘Bov can watch from the observation suite. Does Robbins know what we want to talk to him about?’

  ‘No, Guv. I thought it best not to give him any time to prepare. He thinks he’s just here to help with our enquiries. Seemed quite pleased to be helping us, in all honesty.’

  ‘Not quite the reaction I would’ve expected.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Jones. ‘So how was Saxby?’

  Phillips let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Oh, you know. Arrogant, pompous, condescending. Would you like me to go on?’

  Jones chuckled. ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘He was lecturing me on the speed of the investigation – or as he put it, “the lack thereof”. I mean, what kind of a copper uses phrases like “the lack thereof”?’

  ‘He’s got a bloody cheek, hasn’t he? We’ve hardly seen him since he was drafted in. I mean, he’s the supposed expert. What exactly is he supposed to be doing?’ asked Jones.

  Phillips, reclining in her chair, used her pen as a pointer. ‘Well, that’s just the point Jonesy. As Saxby was at pains to tell me the other day, and I quote, “I’m not a bloody beat copper!”’.

  ‘So what is he, then?’

  ‘His job is liaising with the family – in this case, with Sir Richard and his wife. He was very quick to pass on Sir Richard’s apparent and growing frustrations at our lack of progress. Seems the good knight is not that keen on handing over four million quid.’

  ‘It’s his bloody daughter’s life that’s at stake. No amount of money would be too much to protect my girls.’

  ‘And most normal parents, I dare say. But Richard Hawkins isn’t normal,’ said Phillips.

  Jones moved farther into the room now, his brow furrowed. ‘Do you think Hollie’s still alive, Guv?’

  Phillips breathed in deeply, and shook her head as she exhaled. ‘I honestly couldn’t say, Jonesy. It really does seem odd to me that they gave the Hawkinses a week to find the money. Why so long? Why not send the ransom video on day one and the drop details on, say, day three. Why be so specific as to give him a week?’

  ‘Beats me, Guv.’

  ‘Saxby thinks it’s not significant,’ said Phillips, ‘but I’m sure it is.’

  ‘And how is he so sure it’s not significant?’

  ‘God knows. He didn’t expand on his theory. I even pushed him again on the call today. He just kept ducking the questions and moved back to talking about “how unhappy Sir Richard was”, and how “it would be better for all involved if the kidnappers could be caught before the money is handed over”. He’s a slippery bugger, I can tell you. Won’t be drawn on anything. Just
hangs around in the background, waiting for an opportunity to do his best seagull impression.’

  Jones screwed his face up at the statement. ‘Seagull impression?’

  ‘Have you never heard of someone “Doing a Seagull?”’ asked Phillips with a wide grin.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘It came from my old boss, DCI Campbell, back in the early days. It’s when someone waits for their moment to swoop in – shits all over you – then swoops out again.’

  Jones burst out laughing. ‘I love it. Sounds like Saxby all right.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘And someone else we’ve worked for, hey?’ She was, of course, referring to their former boss, DCI Brown, now a superintendent and climbing the ladder, fast. Considered by many to be the most disliked senior officer, he currently worked as part of the Greater Manchester Police Force.

  ‘Shall we go down and see Robbins?’ said Jones.

  Phillips sat forwards in her chair and drummed her fingers on the desk. ‘Yeah. Let’s find out if it was him on the CCTV, and if it was, what the bloody hell he was doing so close to Cartwright’s gaff the day she died.’

  As Robbins wasn’t under arrest, he did not require a solicitor to be present. He had, to all intents and purposes, come to the station of his own accord.

  Phillips placed her laptop on the table between them and took a seat opposite him. Jones took the seat next to her, and she explained the formalities and the various ways that their conversation would be recorded. She then asked if he was happy to continue – he was.

  With the clock ticking louder than ever in the hunt for clues to Hollie Hawkins’s whereabouts, Phillips wasted no time. ‘Did you visit the home of Sam Cartwright on the day she died?’

  Robbins recoiled a little in his chair. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Phillips’s tone was deliberately harsh. She wanted to shake him, to see what would fall out. ‘You heard me, John. Were you at the home of Sam Cartwright on the day she died?’