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

by OMJ Ryan

  As Phillips strode into her office, she was surprised to see Chief Superintendent Fox standing there, examining a framed photo she’d picked up from the desk.

  ‘Morning, Ma’am. I wasn’t expecting you for another thirty minutes,’ said Phillips.

  Fox turned and flashed her trademark Cheshire Cat grin. ‘How long did you live in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Sixteen years,’ said Phillips. She walked towards her office chair. ‘I was born there, and we moved back to the UK when it was handed back to the Chinese.’

  Fox replaced the picture on the desk. ‘Your father was a policeman, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. The Royal Hong Kong Police.’

  ‘Is that what inspired you to join the force?

  ‘Amongst other things. I guess I always had a sense of right and wrong, of wanting to see justice done.’

  Fox took a seat. ‘That’s you all over, isn’t it? Out for justice at every turn.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, Ma’am?’

  Fox didn’t answer, choosing instead to glance around Phillips’s small office. ‘Looks like you could do with a new carpet. And the walls could do with a lick of paint.’

  Phillips bit her lip. ‘I’ll speak to the maintenance team. I’ll make it a priority as soon as I’ve found Hollie Hawkins.’ Her tone was borderline sarcastic, and she held her breath for a moment, expecting a reprisal. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘So. Since you brought her up, what’s happening with Hollie Hawkins? Did you get anywhere with the head of security at Marstons? Robbins, wasn’t it?’

  Phillips never ceased to be amazed at how much information Fox absorbed when, most of the time, she appeared to be paying little attention. But then again, it was also well known that she had spies everywhere in Ashton House.

  ‘I’m afraid that one looks likes a dead end. He’s something of a war hero. As clean as a whistle, and has no ties to anyone of a criminal nature. And, I must admit, he doesn’t seem the type.’

  ‘So, according to the ransom video, we’re expecting the kidnappers to tell us the location of the money drop when? Tomorrow?

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And we still have not one clue who they are or where they might be holding the girl?’

  ‘The team is working on a couple of leads as we speak, Ma’am.’

  ‘Really? What leads?’ said Fox.

  ‘Jones spotted something in the background of the ransom video that looks like she is – or was – being held in a Victorian structure. The team are out trying to find its location.’

  ‘This is Manchester, for God’s sake. The bloody place is full of Victorian architecture. What are you going to do? Search every old building in the city?’

  Phillips could feel her blood beginning to boil. ‘If we have to, yes.’

  ‘Oh, get real, Phillips,’ said Fox, losing her temper. ‘Even with a hundred officers, that could take months. We have one day! The chief constable called again last night, complaining that Sir Richard is threatening to go to the Prime Minister. He says that, with the amount of tax he pays, the police should be working much harder than we are to find his daughter. And he’s really not very happy about having to pay the ransom.’

  ‘He’s worth close to a hundred million. What’s four million to him?’

  ‘That’s not the point, Phillips. No one should be expected to pay money to see their child safe. That’s what we get paid for.’

  ‘I know that, Ma’am. And I agree with you. But this gang left nothing behind. The only lead we had was Cartwright, and she’s dead.’

  ‘She wasn’t a lead; she was a junkie. An ex-squaddie who couldn’t handle civilian life. The world’s full of them, all moaning about having PTSD. They knew what they were signing up for when they joined the military. There’s no use complaining about it now.’

  It took all of Phillips strength not to reach across, grab Fox by the hair and smash her face into the desk. Instead, she took a silent breath and reminded herself that Fox was more than likely a sociopath; she had no heart. ‘With respect, Ma’am—’ Those three words almost stuck in her throat as she said them. ‘—PTSD is killing more of our veterans than the active combat in Iraq and Afghanistan combined. It’s a serious issue for a lot of our ex-forces. Addiction is one of the many symptoms—’

  ‘Oh, spare me the public service broadcast, Phillips,’ said Fox cutting her dead. ‘Just find me the fucking girl, and quickly. The last thing I want is another call from the chief constable with more complaints from Sir Richard.’

  ‘What about Saxby?’ said Phillips.

  ‘What do you mean, “What about Saxby?”’

  ‘Isn’t he supposed to be liaising with Sir Richard, keeping him off our backs?’

  Fox scoffed. ‘Have I taught you nothing about police politics, Phillips?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Do you really think someone like Saxby is on your side, that’s he’s in and out of his meetings with Sir Richard, telling him what a great job you’re doing here at MCU? Not a chance. He’s a self-serving, snivelling little prick from the Met who is here purely to further his own reputation in Whitehall. As you have no leads, I can guarantee you the only thing he’s telling Sir Richard right now is how shit you lot are, how it would be different if the Met were handling it.’

  ‘But that’s bullshit,’ said Phillips. ‘He couldn’t catch a cold, never mind a kidnap gang!’

  Fox stared at Phillips now, her eyes black and cold. ‘That’s as maybe, Phillips, but he’s got the ear of the people that matter – including the chief constable. So stop being so bloody naïve and find the girl before this damn case damages the reputation of Major Crimes for good. Got it?’

  Phillips swallowed down her hatred for Fox and the likes of Saxby. ‘Yes. Got it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox, and stood. ‘I want an update by the end of the day.’

  With that, she took her leave.

  Phillips sat and stewed for a few minutes after Fox had left. She wanted to scream and shout out her frustration, but that wouldn’t be a good look for a DCI in a glass office.

  At that moment, there was a knock on her office door, followed by it being opened. Phillips turned to see PC Lawford.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Phillips, annoyed by the interruption.

  ‘It’s John Robbins.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s in reception and he’s asking for you,’ said Lawford.

  Phillips raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he, now?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Says it’s urgent.’

  30

  Phillips didn’t feel the need to speak to Robbins in the formal surroundings of an official interview room. So instead, she showed him into one of the ground-floor meeting rooms usually reserved for community group sessions and the occasional staff presentation. The lights came on as they entered, and Phillips suggested he take a seat at one end of the u-shaped conference table. He did so, and produced his laptop as she sat down next to him.

  ‘I wanted to show you something that proves I had nothing to do with Sam’s death,’ said Robbins as he opened the laptop and logged in.

  Phillips’s interest was piqued. ‘Really? What?’

  Robbins kept his eyes on the screen as he tapped away at the keyboard. ‘CCTV from her neighbour’s house, from the day she died.’ He turned the screen to face her. ‘This is timestamped, and clearly shows the comings and goings at Sam’s house on November 3rd.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Like I said, from her neighbour, Mrs Elliot. She lives at number thirty-eight, which is attached to Sam’s house. The camera is positioned to capture their front door, but because of the angle, it also covers Sam’s. For expedience, I’ve prepared an edited version for you, but I’ll also give you a copy of the whole, unedited, video as well. That way, you can check for yourself that it’s not been doctored.’ Robbins pressed play, and the screen came to life.


  Phillips watched as the footage unfolded.

  ‘Nothing happens until 10.55 a.m., when Sam leaves the house,’ said Robbins. ‘You’ll notice she locks the door before she heads off, turning left at end of her path and heading towards the main shopping precinct. She’s away for approximately thirty minutes, and returns carrying two bags of shopping. She unlocks the door and goes inside. We don’t see anything else of her after that. Then, just after 1.45 p.m., I arrive – which matches the timeline of your own footage. The stuff you showed me the other day.’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Phillips.

  ‘I ring the doorbell and try the door. Then, when I don’t get a response, I look through the lounge window. Because I can’t see anything, I head round the back to try the back door, but again get no response. I’m gone for no longer than a minute before I’m back at the front of the house, where I walk straight onto Broadwood Road and back down to the shops, where your cameras picked me up again.’

  ‘How did you get this footage?’ said Phillips.

  ‘I met Mrs Elliot once, when I went to a barbecue at Sam’s. She joined the party for a gin and tonic, and we got chatting. Turns out her nephew is in the Navy, so when she found out I was a retired Royal Marine, well, she took a real shine to me.’

  ‘But how did you explain why you needed the footage?’

  ‘I just told her that Sam’s death had been a real shock to me – which it was – that you lot were investigating how she died, and that I wanted to do what I could to help you,’ Robbins said. ‘She said that Sam had always been a good neighbour, and was more than happy to give me whatever I needed. I downloaded it straight from her PC.’

  Phillips sat in silence for a moment, processing what she had just seen. It appeared that Cartwright had died of an overdose after all. ‘So why come all the way out here to show this to me? We released you without charge.’

  Robbins fixed Phillips with a steely glare. ‘Because I lost so much of myself in Afghanistan and even more when I left the military. I won’t lose my integrity now. I needed you to know that I wasn’t lying the other day. I did go to her house to check on her, but I never went in. I just wish I’d looked through the kitchen window. She might still be alive.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Phillips said, her voice soft. ‘The heroin was exceptionally pure, plus it had been mixed with fentanyl, which is lethal. On top of that, she had a heart condition. There’s little chance she would have lived.’

  Robbins’s eyes widened. ‘A heart condition? I never knew.’

  ‘I doubt she did either , to be honest. It appears as if it was an underlying problem,’ said Phillips. ‘The pathologist believes she would’ve had to become quite ill before it was picked up in testing. So, don’t blame yourself.’

  Phillips glanced at the clock on the wall. It was approaching 10.30 a.m. ‘Look. I really appreciate you going out of your way to bring this to me.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Robbins passed across a USB stick. ‘It’s all on there. Your tech guys will be able to verify that it’s not been tampered with.’

  Phillips took it and nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

  Robbins glanced at his watch now. ‘Well, I’d better get going. My shift starts at eleven.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll show you out,’ said Phillips.

  They stood in unison and walked towards the door.

  As Phillips opened it, Robbins touched her arm. ‘I meant what I said the other day, Inspector. I swore to protect those who cannot protect themselves. If there’s anything I can do to help you find Hollie Hawkins – or the people that took her – just name it. It really pisses me off that she was taken on my watch.’

  Phillips smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. And thank you, Mr Robbins.’

  31

  Professor Fiona Levin had just finished giving her first lecture of the day when Entwistle arrived at the Manchester School of Architecture. He waited patiently as her students filed out of the lecture hall before he stepped inside. Her back to him, she packed her files into a large, brown attaché case.

  ‘Professor Levin?’ Entwistle said into the cavernous hall.

  Levin spun on her heels to face him. She was younger than Entwistle had expected – mid-thirties at a guess – tall and long-limbed, with curly brown hair, and smartly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. ‘Yes?’ she said as she looked him up and down.

  Entwistle produced his credentials and stepped close enough for Levin to read them. ‘I’m Detective Constable Entwistle, with the Major Crimes Unit. Your office told me you’d be here.’

  Levin’s brow furrowed. ‘Did they? And why would the police be looking for me?’ Her tone was clipped, her accent neutral and unmistakably public-school.

  ‘I understand you’re the leading expert on historical Manchester architecture—’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Levin cut him off.

  Entwistle felt his cheeks flush slightly. ‘Er, well, I googled it.’

  ‘Ah Google, the tool of the idol generation.’ Levin sounded decades older than her years. ‘Whatever happened to using the library?’ she added wistfully.

  Entwistle bit his lip. He really didn’t have time for a lecture on learning styles from an academic. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Professor, but I’m working on an urgent case and I need you to look at some images for me.’

  Levin raised an eyebrow as she locked the buckle on the strap of her attaché case in place. ‘What case is that?’

  ‘A missing person. A fifteen-year-old girl, actually. We’re very concerned for her safety, and I was hoping your expertise might help us find her alive.’

  Levin’s whole body appeared to soften in an instant as a grave look spread across her face. ‘Oh dear. That’s terrible. How can I help?’

  Entwistle moved over to where Levin stood, and opened the file he was carrying. Inside were several close-up stills taken from the ransom demand video, carefully edited to ensure Hollie could not be seen. He pointed to the metal structure Jones had identified. ‘We’re looking to locate a building that might contain this kind of metal joist. We believe it’s Victorian.’

  Levin inspected the images for a long moment in silence, then nodded. ‘It’s definitely Victorian. Mid-nineteenth century, I would say.’ She looked up at Entwistle, and he saw pity in her eyes. ‘I’m afraid there are quite a number of buildings in and around Manchester that still contain this kind of metalwork. I would be more than happy to compile a list for you, but I’m afraid it could take a few days to complete.’

  ‘I don’t have that kind of time, and neither does she,’ said Entwistle, as he struggled to conceal his disappointment. ‘Would you mind taking another look? Even the tiniest of differences could help us narrow down the search.’

  Levin offered a soft smile. ‘Of course.’ She picked up the images once more.

  Entwistle watched in silence as she studied the images with forensic detail, her face contorting in concentration. A couple of minutes later, Levin’s face changed and her head moved back a fraction. ‘Do you have a magnifying glass?’ she asked out of the blue.

  The question caught Entwistle off guard. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Levin switched her focus to him now. ‘A magnifying glass. Do you have one?’

  Entwistle shook his head. ‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Levin passed the images back to Entwistle and grabbed her attaché case. ‘Follow me.’ She headed to the door at pace.

  Levin moved quickly along the corridor, Entwistle struggling to keep up, until she stopped and pushed open a door marked ‘Staff Room’. He followed her inside. The room was empty. Levin dropped her case on the floor and began rummaging through a cupboard situated next to a small kitchen area containing a kettle, cups and an array of teas and coffees.

  ‘I’m sure it’s in here somewhere…’ mumbled Levin, her back to Entwistle.

  ‘What is?’ he asked.

  ‘Ha! Got it,’ said Levin, then turned and presented hi
m with her find – a large magnifying glass. ‘It’s Dr Bannister’s. He never uses it, but he also never throws anything away. I knew it had to be in here. Pass me those images again, will you?’

  Entwistle handed them over, and watched with anticipation as Levin pored over the images through the magnifying glass.

  ‘That looks familiar,’ she said at length.

  Entwistle’s heart lifted. ‘What does?’

  Levin ignored him, instead moving across the room to a computer, where she began to type furiously.

  Entwistle followed her. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘This,’ Levin said with a satisfied grin, as she turned the monitor to face him. ‘Gorton Monastery. The building you’re looking for is potentially close by.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Levin handed Entwistle the magnifying glass and one of the stills. ‘Take a look at the shadow in the background of the picture,’ she said, indicating the spot with an index finger. ‘Note its shape and the bulbous edges at the base.’

  Entwistle could see it clearly.

  ‘I’m sure that shadow has been cast by the spire of Gorton Monastery,’ she explained, pointing to the computer, where an image of a large church filled the screen.

  Entwistle moved closer to compare the two images. They looked almost identical. ‘Bloody hell! That’s amazing!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Levin. ‘Obviously, I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, but it looks like the building you’re looking for is somewhere in the vicinity of the Monastery. The time of day, and the position of the sun, will affect the direction of the shadow, so I’m afraid I can’t be more specific on the exact location.’

  Entwistle felt his pulse race as adrenaline surged through his body. Without thinking, he grabbed Levin and hugged her. ‘Thank you, Professor.’

  The action clearly took her by surprise. As Entwistle pulled away, Levin stared at him, eyes wide, face frozen. For a split second he feared he had overstepped a mark and would soon find himself on the end of an official complaint, but, much to his relief, Levin eventually blushed and produced a warm smile. ‘You’re very welcome, detective.’