by OMJ Ryan
‘No, he’s fucking not.’ The acerbic tones of the Scotsman filled the room from behind them.
Phillips and Jones turned in unison to see their DCI walking towards them, his angry, red face accentuated by his white shirt. ‘Sir,’ they said together.
‘Jesus Christ! When is this going to stop?’
Phillips stepped forwards. ‘Looks like it could be the same guy, sir.’
‘I can see that for myself.’
‘Although we could be looking at a copycat, sir,’ said Jones.
‘Copycat? What are you talking about?’
Jones pointed to the map of South Manchester on the wall. ‘While the cable ties and plastic bag are similar to the other murders, this time he’s moved out of his usual hunting ground. The time of the attack is different, too. Plus, there’s no black tape over the eyes.’
‘Maybe he’s getting sloppy or was in a rush.’
Phillips folded her arms. ‘Doesn’t fit with our guy’s MO. He’s meticulous and methodical. Plans everything to nth degree. This one looks almost identical to the rest, but there’s something different about it.’
‘How could it be a copycat? We haven’t released the details of the other murders.’
‘Stuff leaks all the time, sir.’
Brown glowered at her. ‘Not in my squad, Inspector.’
Phillips bit her tongue. This was not the time to go to war with the ‘wee man’.
‘So, tell me what we know so far?’
Jones produced his notepad. ‘Well, sir, the victim is Richard Murray, known on all his social media channels as Ricky, according to Entwistle. He was forty-one, single and a web designer for a company called Media Mogul, based in the Blue Tower of Media City. Evans estimates he was killed yesterday afternoon, around four or five o’clock.’ Jones tapped his pen against one of the crime scene photos. ‘You can see from the rigor mortis and the saggy skin, he’d been in the water a long time.’
‘Who found him?’
‘His mother. She got a call from one of his work colleagues, a girl called Charlie who had been trying to get hold of him all morning. She says he left early yesterday after a serious case of vomiting, and didn’t show this morning. She tried calling and texting, but he didn’t reply, which was unusual – apparently Ricky was permanently attached to his phone. When it got to lunchtime and she’d still not heard from him, she called the emergency contact on file – his mum – to see if he’d been in contact with her. He hadn’t, but she lives just a few doors down, so she went to check on him. She let herself in with her key and found him like that.’
‘Jesus Christ… Poor woman,’ whispered Brown.
Phillips nodded. ‘She’s devastated, as you can imagine. We have an FLO at her house, and we’ve called her youngest son, Aaron, who’s on his way down from Carlisle as we speak.’
Brown stroked his jaw. ‘This is getting out of hand. We need to stop this guy – and fast. Four unsolved murders is not a thing to share with the media.’
‘With respect, sir, the media shouldn’t be our main concern right now,’ said Phillips.
‘They may not be yours, Inspector, but they are mine. This is modern policing, and the media have a huge part to play in how we manage the reputation of the Greater Manchester Police.’
‘You mean your reputation, don’t you?’ Phillips said, unable to stop herself.
Brown stepped closer to her, his face even redder. ‘I know you don’t like me Phillips…’
‘How perceptive, sir.’
‘…And I’m sure you’d love to see me fall on my sword for this one so you can get your old job back. Well, let me tell you something. Fraser Brown does not fail, and I will not let you fuck up my career the same way you fucked up your own.’
Brown turned to Jones next, pointing his finger at his face. ‘And as for you, sonny, and that Neanderthal Bovalino, be careful which horse you two back. Unless, of course, you want your careers to go the same way as hers.’ He moved his gaze between them. ‘Get this into your thick skulls, the pair of you: we are going to solve these murders quickly – and I am going to be the next Superintendent in the GMP, whether you like it or not. I want every available body on this, and I want a head in the noose, fast. You can start by getting your “people of interest” in and sweating them until one of them cracks. Do I make myself clear, Inspector Phillips and Sergeant Jones?’
Jones nodded. ‘Yes sir.’
‘Crystal,’ said Phillips.
Brown checked his watch. ‘It’s almost four o’clock. I want the three suspects in for questioning immediately. I don’t care where they are or what you lot have planned tonight. Bring them in now.’
33
Kevin McNulty sat opposite Jones and Bovalino in Interview Room 1, dressed in jeans and a hooded tracksuit.
‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?’ he asked nervously.
‘Do you think you need one?’ said Bovalino.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘That’s good, because we’d like to ask you a few more questions about the night your wife was killed,’ said Jones.
McNulty looked at each man in turn. ‘But I’ve told you everything I know.’
Bovalino looked him dead in the eye. ‘Everything except where you were that night.’
McNulty appeared exasperated. ‘I told you, I was in Cheetham Hill with a prostitute. I’m not proud of the fact, but I’m sorry to say it’s true.’
Jones leaned over the desk. ‘What time did you leave home that night? You know, when you pretended to go to work?’
‘The usual, just after eight-thirty.’
‘And you went straight to Cheetham Hill?’
‘Well, not quite. I stopped at the garage on the Parkway to get some petrol, and went on from there.’
Jones passed him a map of Manchester. ‘Show me your route, please?’
McNulty peered down at the large plastic sheet in front of him while Jones marked an X on it with a black marker pen. ‘This is your house here.’
McNulty placed his finger on the map and began to narrate the route. ‘So I left Cheadle, went along the A34, onto the M60 for one junction, and then down onto the Parkway, heading straight for the city. I stopped here for petrol and then carried on, along and up onto the Mancunian Way before going right onto Trinity Way, up by the Arena, then turned left on Park Street and right onto Pimblett Street.’
‘And what time did you meet up with the prostitute?’
‘I dunno. About nine, nine-fifteen maybe. I wasn’t paying attention, to be honest.’
Jones folded the map slowly for effect and set it down to one side. Bov continued to stare at McNulty, who shifted in his seat.
Jones continued. ‘Do you know how many ANPR cameras there are on that route, Kevin?’
‘I don’t even know what that is.’
‘Bov, why don’t you enlighten Kevin here.’
‘Delighted to, Jonesy. ANPR stands for “automatic number plate recognition”. It basically means a camera that takes a photo of your number plate as you pass. It registers your details and flags if there are any issues with say, unpaid road-tax, driving suspensions, or if the car’s been reported stolen.’
‘Right. And what does this have to do with me?’ McNulty looked puzzled.
‘Here’s the thing, Kevin. It also tells us what time the car passed and, in some cases, we can even see who’s driving,’ said Jones. A muscle in McNulty’s face twitched as Jones continued. ‘So, we know, having looked at all the cameras along your route, plus the surrounding roads leading to Cheetham Hill, that your car’s number plate was never once captured in that area on the night of your wife’s murder.’
McNulty shot a glance at first Jones, then Bovalino. The big Italian leered at him as their eyes locked. ‘Stop fucking about, Kevin, and tell us the truth. Where were you on the night Deidre was killed?’
Brown chose to interview Matt Logan without Phillips, instead enlisting the help of Entwistle. He wanted the rookie
to see some proper police interrogation in action. Before heading into Interview Room 3, he’d made it clear to Entwistle that he would do all the talking, and ask all the questions – without exception. He also explained that his tactic would be to soften Logan up before pulling him apart.
As Brown and Entwistle sat down opposite a dishevelled Logan, Brown passed him a vending-machine sandwich, which he greedily devoured.
‘You hungry?’ said Brown.
Logan grunted, then took another mouthful of the ham sandwich, chewing loudly.
Brown explained the various protocols of the interview before starting the DIR and beginning his questioning. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, Matt?’
Logan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. Town, I s’pose.’
‘What time were you in town?’
Another shrug.
‘Can you tell me where you were in town?’
Logan chewed loudly with his mouth open. ‘By the town hall.’
‘And were you with anyone, Matt?’
‘On and off.’
Brown was already beginning to lose patience, and Logan’s disgusting table manners were getting on his last nerve. He decided to wait until he had finished the sandwich before continuing.
‘Can I have some more?’
Brown forced a smile. ‘In a while. I need you to answer some questions first.’
‘Can I go for a fag then?’
‘Not at the moment’.
Logan looked nonplussed by this news.
‘I need you to think back to where you were yesterday, from the morning to the evening. Can you do that, Matt?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
Brown finally lost his patience and banged his fist on the table. ‘Are you deliberately, trying to piss me off, sonny?’
Logan raised his arms in defence. ‘No, I’m just not following you. I’m a bit confused. I don’t know what you want me to say.’
‘I want the truth! And if I don’t get it, I’m going to charge you with obstruction and send you back to Hawk Green for the next six months.’
‘All right, take it easy, man.’ Logan had the air of a sulky teenager. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just say it slowly, will yer, I can’t understand your weird accent. Is it Irish or something?’
‘Scottish,’ growled Brown through clenched teeth, before taking a moment to calm himself. As Entwistle’s mentor, he needed to set a proper example.
‘Right. Let’s start again, shall we?’ Brown passed Logan a notepad and biro. ‘Can you write down where you were yesterday, between nine and twelve, twelve and four, four and nine, and then 9 p.m. onwards?’
Logan screwed up his face, clearly deep in thought. After a while, he scribbled for a few minutes before passing the pad back to Brown, who turned it around and attempted to decipher the scrawl on the page.
‘My God, look at that. Did you actually go to school?’
‘Not much in the end.’
‘Missed the handwriting lessons, I’m guessing?’ Brown narrowed his eyes as he read down page. ‘Ok, so if I’m reading this correctly, you were at the hostel in Cheetham Hill from nine to twelve. And between 12 and 4 p.m., you were begging in St Peter’s Square…’
Logan nodded along.
‘From 4 to 8 p.m., you were begging by Piccadilly Station, and after nine you were in the hostel.’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
‘Can anyone verify any of this?’
‘The hostel people can, cos they seen me leaving at lunchtime and coming in after nine. In between, it’s just the other lads from the street.’
Brown opened a Manila folder and pulled out a transcript of Logan’s first interview with Phillips. ‘I see from your last interview that one of your alibis for the murder of Susan Gillespie is a David Mitchell, also known as Mitchy, vouched for the fact you were with him when she was killed on the night of Monday the twentieth-eighth of January.’
‘Did he?’
‘Are you surprised by that?’
Logan smiled. ‘Only because his memory’s worse than mine. Too many years on the gear. But his sister Dannielle can vouch for me too. We ended up at her house.’
‘I see. And I supposed they’ll both vouch for you yesterday, will they?’
‘Mitchy will…for a bit of it anyway. We were together in the afternoon by the town hall, but I went up to Piccadilly on my own afterwards. He’d picked up enough to score, so went off early to see his bird. I decided to do a few more hours at the station when the commuters were going home; always a good time. I got my gear and then went back to the hostel to do it in peace.’
‘You’re allowed to take drugs in the hostel?’
‘Not really, but they have different volunteers on duty all the time and there’s a couple of new ones at the mo. They don’t know how to stop us. They get nervous ’cos of the needles and HIV ’n’ that.’
‘Ok, so you were in Albert Square between midday and four with your mate Mitchy? If we check the CCTV cameras, you’ll both show up, will you?’
‘You tell me. If there’s cameras there, we will.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right, because what we have here—’ Brown placed his left hand on Entwistle’s right shoulder. ‘—is one of the finest digital detectives in the country. Hand-picked by me. He’s just about to go and find out if you’re telling me a load of porkies, aren’t you, sonny?’ He smiled at Entwistle.
‘Er, yes sir.’ Entwistle got up to leave.
As the door closed behind him, Brown moved on to phase two of his plan for the interview.
‘So, Matt, why don’t you tell me about your time at working at Hexagon Paints.’
Noel Gillespie looked more haggard than normal today. Wearing a tatty grey cardigan over his work shirt, he sat with his large, gnarly hands flat on the table in Interview Room 6 at Ashton House.
Phillips’s voice was warm. ‘How are you coping, Noel?’
‘Good days and bad, Inspector.’
‘Look, I’m sorry my officers had to drag you in here this evening, but there’s been another murder similar to Susan’s. I could really do with your help to catch the bastard who’s doing this.’
Gillespie sat forwards in his chair, immediately interested. ‘How can I help?’
‘Do you know a chap named Ricky Murray?’
Gillespie looked disappointed. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Did Susan ever mention anyone called Ricky?’
‘Not that I remember. Is he a suspect?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say at this stage, but he’s a big part of our investigation. It’d help to know a little more about him.’
‘Sorry, I really don’t know that name.’
Phillips opened a Manila folder and pulled out a document with the word COPY watermarked at an angle across the A4 pages. She turned it around to face Gillespie and pushed it towards him. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Gillespie pulled on his reading glasses. Resting them on the tip of his nose, he examined the document briefly, then pushed it back towards Phillips. ‘It’s Susie’s will.’
‘Are you aware who inherits your sister’s estate?’ Gillespie hesitated, so Phillips continued. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? Your daughters, Hollie and Chloe, and the church.’ Gillespie seemed uneasy hearing this information. ‘They each get ten per cent of her estate, with everything else going to you.’ Phillips pulled another sheet from the folder. ‘You get seventy per cent of the value of the house – that’s your parent’s house, I understand, which she alone inherited when your father died. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must have been tough to take as the older brother. Did it upset you, missing out on the house like that?’
‘Not at all. Susie deserved it. She looked after Mum and Dad, after all.’
‘That’s very admirable, Noel. I’m not sure I’d be so understanding if it was my little brother
who got my mum and dad’s house, but then he is a bit spoiled, being the youngest, and a lawyer, so he doesn’t need the money. Was that the same with Susie? Was she the favourite?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say that was the case at all. Mum and Dad loved us both equally, but after what she did for them, I was happy she got the house.’
Phillips continued reading from the list. ‘Then there’s her savings, which stand at thirty-thousand pounds, along with ten grand in shares and five grand in premium bonds. Plus her private pension, which stands at close to one-hundred thousand. A tidy sum, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Money can’t bring my sister back, Inspector.’
Phillips retrieved yet another document. ‘No, not at all, but it does look like your business could do with the money. Specifically you, Noel. This tax bill looks like a prison sentence in waiting.’ She passed him the HMRC penalty notice. ‘Half a million quid. That’s a lot of money for a business posting just ninety grand in dividends last year.’
Gillespie stared down at the penalty notice, remaining silent.
Phillips continued. ‘I’d like you to look at the second-to-last page of Susan’s will, under executors. Can you read out the two names listed there for me, please?’
Gillespie flicked through the pages. ‘Harrington and Moore Associates Ltd…’ He stopped.
‘Harrington and Moore Associates Ltd, and one Noel F. Gillespie, who, according to my notes, claimed to know nothing about his sister’s will when interviewed by my detectives just a few days ago. Tell me, Noel, is that your signature under your name?’ said Phillips.
‘Yes.’
‘So why lie to the police about your sister’s will?’
‘The truth is, I panicked. I knew it could look bad, with my debt and Susie’s money. I didn’t want you to think I had anything to do with her death.’
Phillips pulled all the documents together and laid them out slowly in front of him. ‘Do you know what this looks like to me, Noel?’
Fear was etched across Gillespie’s features.
