by OMJ Ryan
A look of surprise filled Phillips’s face. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I just do,’ said Hollie.
‘Two million. We recovered Baker’s and Spencer’s shares from the boots of their cars. They had a million each.’
Hollie said nothing for a moment, then turned to her mother. ‘Can you go downstairs to the coffee shop and get me a soy latte, please?’
Concern was etched into Sandra’s furrowed brow. ‘I really don’t want to leave you again, baby.’
‘I’m fine, Mum. And Chief Inspector Phillips will stay with me until you get back, won’t you?’
Phillips appeared taken aback. ‘Er, yeah, sure. Of course.’
Sandra produced a faint smile. ‘Well, if that’s all right with you, Inspector?’
‘Not a problem.’
With that, Sandra left them alone.
Phillips took a seat next to Hollie’s bed. ‘Ok. So, now your mum’s gone, why don’t you tell me how you’re really doing?’
Hollie began to tear up. ‘I’m ok,’ she said, and wiped her eyes again with the tissue. ‘It’s just all a bit surreal. One minute I feel happy that I’m free, then the next I just start crying for no reason.’
Phillips squeezed her hand. ‘It’s probably just shock, Hollie. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.’
Hollie nodded. ‘The consultant said I should start seeing my therapist again when I go home.’
‘Sounds like a good idea to me,’ said Phillips.
‘Yeah. Maybe I should talk to them about my dad and what he’s done?’
Phillips opened her mouth to speak, but appeared to think better of it.
Hollie continued. ‘He’s a bad man, you know. Baker told me he’s responsible for the deaths of a lot of people, including British soldiers in Afghanistan. I think that’s why they kidnapped me. To get back at him.’
‘Baker said that?’ asked Phillips.
‘Yeah. He said that “Sir Richard” had got away with stuff because he has friends in high places. And Black said my dad had put people like them in great danger.’
Phillips nodded. ‘I couldn’t say whether that’s true or not, but at the end of the day they were kidnappers. You shouldn’t pay too much attention to them.’
Hollie nodded. She remained silent for a long moment, then turned to look directly at Phillips. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Me and Mum were talking earlier, and she told me about you. About how you were in the news a couple of years ago for helping that radio presenter who was accused of murder.’
Phillips eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yeah, and she said the press wrote some pretty horrible things about you.’
Phillips folded her arms across her chest and sat back on the plastic chair. ‘It’s fair to say they did, yes.’
‘Who was the worst?’
Phillips frowned. ‘How do you mean – who was the worst?’
‘Who wrote the worst stuff about you?’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Phillips, with a chuckle. ‘That would have to be Don Townsend. He was brutal. He’s an old-school journalist who only deals in sensational stories. He said some pretty hurtful things about me, that’s for sure. He continuously questioned my integrity, and that really damaged my reputation. He’s Manchester-based, but very well connected to the national papers. Thanks to him, I was given quite a hard time. It made my job very difficult for about a year afterwards. Why do you ask?’
Hollie shrugged her shoulders and smiled. ‘Oh, nothing. Just wondering,’ just as her mum returned with her soy latte.
Phillips stood slowly with a grimace. ‘Well, I’ll take that as my cue to leave.’ She handed Hollie her business card. ‘Take care of yourself. And if you ever need anything, or remember something that might help us track down Blue and White, give me a call, ok?’
‘Ok,’ said Hollie.
Phillips nodded. ‘Look after her, Mrs Hawkins.’
‘Oh, I will Chief Inspector. I will.’
And with that, Phillips left the room.
At around 10 p.m., Hollie finally managed to persuade her mother to go home. She had resisted at first, insisting she would sleep in the chair next to the bed, but Hollie convinced her it would be better if she went home to get Hollie some fresh clothes for the morning. Reluctantly she had agreed.
In the thirty minutes since she had gone, Hollie had found herself staring at the wall, running through the events of the last ten days, over and over, in her head. She wondered if White would ever be caught, and where in the world Blue was right now. Then her thoughts turned to Marcus Baker, the man who had taken the bullet meant for her. Having seen only his mask for nine days, his kind, handsome face would be forever etched in her memory. She wished that he, too, had got away to achieve his dream of doing something good with her father’s dirty money.
At that moment, a nurse came in carrying a small paper cup with a single tablet in it, and a glass of water. ‘This should help you sleep,’ she said, and placed it on the top of the cabinet next to the bed.
Hollie, lost in her thoughts, didn’t answer.
‘Are you ok, love?’ the nurse asked in a warm, motherly tone.
Hollie turned to look at her. ‘Sorry. Yes. I’m fine. Just thinking.’
‘Well, when you’ve finished thinking and you’re ready to sleep, take that tablet, ok?’
Hollie nodded, and the nurse left.
After a long moment, Hollie pulled back the covers, got out of bed and walked over to the small wardrobe where her jeans had been hung. She reached into the pocket, found what she was looking for, and got back into bed. She then grabbed her iPhone, opened up the web browser and began typing:
‘Operation VOGUE’.
48
November 11th
It was already 8.30 a.m. on Monday morning and, much to her chagrin, Phillips was at her desk, catching up on the mountain of paperwork that had backed up whilst she worked on the Hawkins case; expenses, time sheets and case-file updates, etc. There was a knock at the door. When she looked up, she saw Jones standing in the doorway, a newspaper under his arm and holding take-out coffees. He had a smile on his face as wide as the Manchester Ship Canal.
Phillips sat back in her chair and eyed him with suspicion. ‘What are you looking so happy about this early on a Monday?’
Jones strolled in and passed a coffee to Phillips, then took a seat as Entwistle wandered in and dropped into the seat next to him. ‘I’ve just got off the phone with Izzie at the hospital.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Phillips sat to attention, her hands wrapped round the hot drink.
Jones’s smile grew. ‘Bov moved his legs yesterday.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Phillips, ‘that’s amazing.’
‘Bloody brilliant news,’ added Entwistle.
Jones nodded like an excited schoolboy. ‘Yeah. Izzie say’s the specialist reckons that, now the swelling has gone down on his brain and his spine, there’s a good chance he can make a full recovery. He’ll need physio, and stay in the hospital for a while yet, of course, but Izzie reckons he could be back to his old self in four to six months.’
Phillips breathed a sigh of relief and allowed herself to relax into the chair. ‘That’s such good news, Jonesy. God. I was so worried he’d never walk again.’
‘Me too,’ said Jones, as he took a sip from his drink.
‘So, is he still in the spinal unit?’ asked Entwistle.
‘Yeah,’ replied Jones, ‘and Izzie thinks they’ll keep him in there for the duration – to help get him back on his feet, so to speak.’
Phillips placed her coffee on the desk and dropped her head into her hands. The relief she felt was immense. Bovalino had been part of her team for so many years that the thought of losing him had terrified her. Now, thanks to the grace of God, he could be back with them by the middle of next year. She pulled her face away from her hands and noticed Jones staring at her, his face fixed in an inane grin. He
appeared to have something else to say.
‘Are you all right, Jonesy?’ asked Phillips.
Jones nodded. ‘Have you seen the news this morning?’ he asked, clearly enjoying himself.
‘No. I just got up and came straight into the office. Why?’
Jones picked up the folded newspaper from the floor next to his feet and tossed it over to Phillips. ‘Check this out,’ he said, with glee.
Phillips picked it up and read the headline aloud, ‘“Taliban death squads were armed by Manchester businessman – an exclusive by Don Townsend”. Bloody hell,’ she said, and continued to narrate the article. ‘“Manchester multi-millionaire, Sir Richard Hawkins, is at the centre of a political storm today as it emerged that weapons and munitions manufactured by his company – Hawkins Industries PLC – were knowingly sold to Taliban fighters in Afghanistan.”’ Phillips looked up at Jones and Entwistle, grinning. ‘This is dynamite! “It is alleged that Hawkins – who has long denied that weapons made in his Trafford plant were being used in war-torn countries against British troops – personally sanctioned the sale of millions of pounds-worth of arms to Taliban leaders. Information sent to us from a whistleblower within his organisation provides evidence that Hawkins used a network of middlemen in the Pakistan city of Peshawar to broker the deals, which netted him over fifty million pounds in the last ten years. It has emerged that hundreds of thousands of pounds-worth of Hawkins Industries munitions was discovered stockpiled in a Taliban compound in the aftermath of OPERATION VOGUE, undertaken by Allied Forces in 2008 – including members of the Parachute Regiment’s 3rd Battalion. However, at the time, no action was taken to verify the claims.”’
‘Read the last paragraph, Guv,’ said Jones.
Phillips dropped her eyes to the bottom of the page and once again read aloud. ‘“Senior government officials have denied having any knowledge of Sir Richard’s alleged connections to the Taliban, and have promised a root and branch investigation into all of Hawkins’s business activities, which could result in criminal charges being brought against the multi-millionaire.”
‘Today is the best day I’ve had in ages,’ Jones said enthusiastically.
Phillips chuckled. ‘Couldn’t happen to a more deserving fella, could it?’ She passed the paper back to Jones.
‘So, who do you reckon the whistleblower is, Guv?’ asked Entwistle.
Phillips reclined in her seat and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to speculate without solid proof, Entwistle,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but, based on the conversation I had with Hollie Hawkins in the hospital the other night, it looks like the mighty Sir Richard Hawkins pissed off the wrong teenage girl.’
Jones shook his head. ‘I’ve got two of my own. A rookie mistake.’
Phillips chuckled. ‘Well, I have some good news too.’
Jones’s and Entwistle’s eyes widened.
Phillips continued. ‘I’ve had an email from the CPS, and it looks like Gerry Donald will plead guilty to possession with intent to supply. Johnson has negotiated a reduced sentence, of course, but at least he’ll do some time – maybe a year or two.’
‘To be fair, that is good news,' said Jones. ‘You know what Johnson’s like. I fully expected her to get him off with a fine.’
‘Me too, but the fact it was cut with fentanyl, which is so deadly, worked against him,’ said Phillips.
‘Well, as we’re all sharing, I have an update of my own,' said Entwistle.
‘Oh?’ said Phillips.
Entwistle nodded. ‘I heard back from the lab. It looks like the heroin recovered from Spencer’s car is an exact match to that found in Cartwright’s system.’
‘So maybe she was murdered by the gang?’ said Jones.
‘Maybe,’ said Phillips. ‘Depending on Spencer’s mental health, we may never know for sure, but we at least know where Cartwright got the drugs from. Who knows, it might even have been part of the deal to help the gang get in, and she did just take too much.’
‘Or maybe Spencer made sure that what she took was deadly,’ said Entwistle.
Phillips said nothing for a moment as she ran both scenarios over in her mind. If Spencer was deemed fit to stand trial, she would push her for the truth of what had really happened with Cartwright. But if she wasn’t fit, then sadly, just as in so many cases before this one; they would never know the whole truth.
‘Oh, and one more thing, Guv,’ said Entwistle. ‘Digital forensics have come back to me on the CCTV footage from Baker’s office the night Hollie was taken.’
‘And?’ said Phillips.
‘It’s fake. The timestamp was doctored. They say it was very well done, but the footage was from the month before. It looks like it was spliced into the system to appear as if it was filmed on the 31st October.’
‘Clever bugger,’ said Jones.
‘Always one step ahead,’ said Phillips, then clapped her hands together. ‘Right. Well, I don’t know about you two, but I know someone else who would appreciate an update on all this…’
‘Mr Bovalino?’ said Jones with a smile.
Phillips nodded enthusiastically. ‘How about we go over to the hospital to see Bov and Izzie, and then afterwards we can head to The Briton’s Protection for a few beers and some lunch on Chief Superintendent Fox? It’s not far from the MRI.’
‘Sounds like a plan to me,’ said Jones.
‘Yeah. It’d be great to see the big man. And they do a cracking pint in there,’ said Entwistle.
Phillips stood.
‘But before we go, Guv,’ said Jones, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something about your fight with Spencer,’
Phillips raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. Where on earth did you learn to head-butt like that?’
Phillips produced a wide grin. ‘Well, what can I say, Jonesy? You can take the girl out of Manchester, but you can never take Manchester out of the girl.’
DEADLY BETRAYAL
DCI JANE PHILLIPS BOOK 4
She knew too much. She had to die.
Victoria Carpenter, a high-ranking government official, is found hanging in her garage – an apparent suicide.
But her husband has another theory – he is convinced she was murdered.
And when the post-mortem results confirm foul play, DCI Jane Phillips and her Major Crimes team find themselves on the hunt for her killer.
As Phillips begins to dig, she realises there are powerful and wealthy people who may have wanted Victoria dead. People who are willing to do whatever it takes to stop her investigation.
In a terrifying case that takes her to the other side of the world and back, Phillips puts her own life on the line as she battles local power-brokers and Hong Kong’s murderous Triads.
Facing corruption and treachery at every turn, can Phillips catch Carpenter’s killer before he disappears forever? Or will she herself fall victim to a deadly betrayal?
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Please enjoy this sneak preview of Deadly Betrayal.
CHAPTER 1
Ordinarily he didn’t kill women, but Victoria Carpenter was about to become one of the rare exceptions. After all, orders were orders. With his knee wedged firmly in the small of her back, she was trapped face-down against the cold concrete floor of the garage as he looped the nylon noose around her neck and pulled it tight. Her arms flailed as she attempted to grab the blue rope and loosen it from around her neck, but it was no good. She didn’t stand a chance.
He jumped to his feet and handed the rope to his partner for tonight’s job, who threw it up over the steel girder that held the small out-building in place before catching it again and expertly wrapping it around his gloved right hand. Standing together, they began to pull on the rope with all their might. Carpenter’s head jerked up and she let out a stifled gasp as the noose tightened. She grabbed at the rope as they continued to pull, but within a few seconds her feet were off the floor, her body rising into the air. He wa
tched in awe as she tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her eyes bulged and her face reddened as the blood began pooling in her head. Despite her obvious terror, he felt nothing other than a desire to get the job done quickly and efficiently, which meant leaving no evidence behind and enough clues to suggest suicide.
Carpenter’s legs kicked out as she attempted in vain to find something solid to stand on. Holding her weight on his own now, his partner moved across the garage and secured the end of the rope in a thick knot against the heavy workbench that was bolted to the floor. All the time, her fingers manically clawed at the noose as her oxygen supply dwindled.
It won’t be long now, he mused, watching her body jerk back and forth as she began to lose consciousness. Ten seconds later, and with one last desperate flurry of movement, Carpenter passed out. The garage fell almost silent, the only sound the rhythmic creaking of the rope against the steel girder as Carpenter’s dying body swayed gently in the air.
Moving to stand underneath her, he used both hands to hold her body still, and stared up into her lifeless face. He felt nothing.
He checked his watch; it was 8.18 p.m. It would take at least ten minutes for Carpenter’s brain to shut down completely and he would not leave until he was sure she was dead. His partner had been careless tonight, so he would use the time to clean up his mess and dress the space ready for the discovery of her body, which would happen later this evening. In the meantime, he returned to the main house to remove any evidence of their presence, and ordered his accomplice to get the car ready for a quick retreat.
Fifteen minutes later he returned to the garage, just in time to witness as Carpenter’s body finally gave up the fight. A small puddle of urine had pooled on the concrete floor below her. Careful to avoid stepping in it, he moved closer and felt her pulse at the wrist as it faded away and stopped.
With everything in place, he surveyed the space one more time, then switched off the light and made his escape through the back garden and into the alley that ran adjacent to the house. A few minutes later, he jumped into the waiting car at the end of the street and nodded silently to his partner – it was time to move out.
