Deadly Silence

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘It looks like a compelling motive to murder your sister. And do you know what else I think? I think you got spooked when we came to see you and you decided to kill again, to throw us off the scent. I think you knew Kevin McNulty was on nights and Deidre would be a sitting duck. Then you figured one more wouldn’t hurt in distancing you from it all, so you killed Betty Clarke. Three weak and vulnerable women. Killed by you.’

  ‘No – that’s not true!’ Gillespie shouted. ‘I never killed anyone. I loved Susie. She was my little sister. I could never hurt her.’ He lifted his hands to his face and began to weep.

  Phillips was in no mood to stop. ‘Where were you yesterday between 3 and 9 p.m.?’

  Gillespie pulled his hands away. ‘What?’ he asked, appearing confused.

  Was he play-acting? She couldn’t be sure. ‘I want to know your movements yesterday. Where were you between 3 and 9 p.m.?’

  ‘Er, I was at work.’

  ‘Until nine?’

  ‘Yes. I was working late, trying to catch up.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’

  ‘My receptionist, Jodie. She stayed late with me.’

  ‘Until nine?’

  ‘No, she was there until about seven-thirty, then I sent her home.’

  ‘Why would you need a receptionist at that time of night?’

  ‘She was doing some filing for me. It was overtime.’

  Phillips made a note in her file. ‘So, if she left at seven-thirty, that means you were alone at the office until nine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’

  Gillespie shook his head and his mind appeared elsewhere.

  Phillips watched him in silence.

  ‘The alarm,’ he suddenly blurted.

  ‘What about the alarm?’

  ‘It’s digitally logged. You can see who comes in and out, based on their swipe key. I can show you the logs and prove I set it on the way home at nine.’

  Phillips eyed him suspiciously as Gillespie stared at her, his face full of hope.

  A knock on the door broke the tension and Entwistle entered the room. ‘Sorry, Guv, but DCI Brown wants to see us in the incident room ASAP.’

  ‘On my way. This interview is suspended at 9.15 p.m.’ She pressed stop on the recorder before gathering up the various documents and placed them back in the folder. ‘I’ll get one of the duty officers to bring you something to eat and a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Gillespie watched wordlessly as she stood up and followed Entwistle out of the room.

  Brown, Jones and Bovalino were waiting in silence as Phillips and Entwistle entered the incident room. The tension was palpable. Brown stood with his hand in his trouser pocket, nervously shaking his change in front of the incident board, which was now covered with images of all four victims – in life and in death. ‘So, what have you got?’ he asked, staring at the team.

  ‘Shall we go first, Guv?’ said Jones.

  Phillips nodded.

  ‘Ok. McNulty’s alibi is that he was with a sex-worker in Cheetham Hill at the time of his wife’s murder. But when we ran McNulty’s car through the ANPR database on the night Deidre was killed, it was nowhere near there. We mapped all the possible routes he could take from Cheadle to Cheetham Hill, and nothing came up. Not just at the time of the murder, but from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. Nothing.’

  ‘So, he’s lying.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but he now has a fresh alibi.’

  Phillips scoffed. ‘Of course he does. Who is it this time?’

  ‘Have a guess, Guv.’

  Brown was in no mood to play along. ‘This is no time for games, Jones,’ he snapped. ‘Just get to the fucking point, will you?’

  Jones looked slightly put out. ‘Claire Speight.’

  Phillips took a moment to process the name. ‘Deidre’s best mate?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘What was he doing with her?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Shagging, Guv,’ said Bovalino flatly.

  ‘What?’

  Jones cut back in. ‘Yes, Guv. According to McNulty, he and Mrs Speight have been having an affair for two years.’

  Phillips paused. ‘Two years? That means they were together when Deidre had the chemo and mastectomy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’

  Phillips was disgusted. ‘Jesus. Your wife, and your best mate, is fighting for her life – and you two are shagging behind her back. What is wrong with these people?’

  ‘And have you verified this alibi?’ asked Brown.

  ‘No sir. Not yet.’

  ‘Well, get that done ASAP.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Anything else from McNulty?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Brown turned his attention to Phillips, perched on the edge of her desk. ‘Ok, what about Gillespie?’

  She unfolded her arms, placing her hands on the desk either side of her. ‘Well, if only Susan had been murdered, he’d be a prime suspect, but he’s not our guy.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘He has an alibi for Ricky Murray’s murder, for a start. He was working late with his receptionist Jodie.’

  Bovalino laughed. ‘Doing the same as McNulty and Speight, more like.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Cos she’s seriously hot, and there was definitely something between them when we called in. She seemed very protective of her boss when we asked to see him, didn’t she, Jonesy?’

  ‘Yeah, she did. And it certainly could explain why he’s being so shifty. Worried if we dig too deep into his life, we’ll discover his little secret. Hard to believe, though; he looks like a melted candle most of the time.’

  Brown interjected. ‘This is all supposition at this stage. Any other reason you don’t like him for this?’

  Phillips shrugged her shoulders. ‘Just motive, really. With his sister’s death, he’s in the clear of his money troubles, so I could see him in the frame for that. But I cannot see any reason why he’d torture and kill three more people. Sure, we could argue he was creating a false trail away from himself, but I don’t see that at all. He hasn’t got it in him. We’ll look into the alibi, but I’m pretty sure it’ll check out. I really don’t think he’s our man, sir.’

  Brown looked happy for once. ‘Well, I have to say, I think Logan is. Entwistle, pass around those printouts.’

  Entwistle handed each of them a series of CCTV stills.

  Brown’s chest seemed to expand as he began sharing his theory. ‘Logan claims he was in the city centre yesterday, begging in St Peter’s Square, at the time of Murray’s death. Brown pointed to the printed image in his hand. ‘As we can see here, there are two men positioned at two cash machines on either side of the square. Both are wearing dark hoodies, which matches the description Thomas Dempsey gave of the man who followed him and tried to gain access to his property. The film is time-stamped, so we can see that at three o’clock, the guy on the library side of the square leaves his position and joins the man on the opposite side by the War Memorial for about ten minutes. He then leaves and gets on a tram heading to East Didsbury, where he eventually alights and the cameras lose him. Now, Logan claims that David Mitchell left early and that it was actually Logan who changed his location to Piccadilly Station. He insists he stayed there from 4 to 8 p.m. Looking at the image on page three, we can see one of the men sat by the main entrance during that time, but importantly, he has his hood up throughout his stay, meaning we never see his face. I think Logan knew Mitchell would go to Piccadilly at the end of the day, so dressed the same as him so he could create his alibi.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible, sir,’ said Jones.

  ‘I detect a ‘but’, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, not really. It’s just Logan rarely knows what day it is. It’s hard to see him as a calculated killer, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? What about his experience working with chemical compounds at Hexagon Paints?�
��

  ‘He loaded the wagons, didn’t he? I’m not sure that makes him an expert on creating sedatives,’ said Phillips.

  Brown’s face had turned almost beetroot again. ‘I don’t get you lot, I really don’t. We have a suspect sat down that corridor. A man who has done serious time for breaking and entering, was known to all the victims, has no real alibi for any of the murders, and has experience in handling chemicals. And none of you like him for these murders. Why? Because the killer is smart and methodical. Did it ever occur to you that if he’s so smart, he may even be hiding in plain sight, pretending to be a junkie?’

  Phillips was first to respond. ‘When you say it like that, I’ll admit it’s compelling, sir. But the CPS won’t charge on those facts alone. We need hard evidence: DNA, fingerprints, witnesses.’

  ‘Well, do your fucking job and find them. Logan is our man. I want him arrested on suspicion of murder immediately, so we can hold him for at least twenty-four hours, by which time you’d better have found what we need to charge him. Got it?’

  A reluctant chorus of ‘Yes sir’s echoed around the room before Brown dismissed them and headed for his office.

  The team milled around their desks until the door to Brown’s office closed. Phillips turned her back to him and tried to her best to appear casual, in case he was watching. She kept her voice low as she spoke. ‘Should we be worried that Murray doesn’t feature in Susan Gillespie’s Lourdes photo? Have we been following a red herring?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just that particular photo he wasn’t in?’ said Bovalino.

  ‘Maybe. But neither Gillespie nor McNulty knew him.’ Phillips turned to Entwistle. ‘Brown said Logan was known to all the victims. What did he have to say about Murray?’

  ‘Dunno, Guv. He sent me out to get the CCTV footage before he got on that.’

  ‘So, we don’t actually know if he talked to him about Murray?’

  ‘No, Guv. Not without looking at the tape.’

  A determined look came over Phillips’s face. ‘That seals it for me. We’re doing this our way. Brown can think we’re doing what he wants, but you lot follow my orders, got it?’

  All three officers nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Here’s what we do. I’ll pay another visit to Maguire in the morning and see if he can shed any light on Murray for us. While I’m doing that, Jones, you check out McNulty’s alibi.’

  ‘Got it, Guv’

  ‘Bov, you go and see Gillespie’s secretary and check the alarm logs.’

  The big man nodded.

  ‘Entwistle, see if you can find any CCTV of the surrounding streets, to see where our mystery man went after he got off the tram.’

  ‘Will do, Guv.’

  ‘And remember, Brown has already decided it’s Logan, so unless we find something that can change his mind, he doesn’t need to know we’re doing any of this. Right, it’s late. Let’s get out of here.’

  Jones and Bovalino stood and began packing up to leave.

  Entwistle stared at Phillips tentatively. ‘Guv…there’s one more thing.’

  ‘God, what now?’

  ‘How about Logan. Don’t we need to arrest him?’

  ‘Oh, shit. Well remembered.’ She stood up and patted him on the shoulder. ‘And well-volunteered, Entwistle – I’ll leave that to you. Jonesy, Bov, can you let Gillespie and McNulty know they can go. They’ll need transport from uniform. And then let’s all go home. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had more than enough “expert” policing for one day.

  34

  Claire Speight answered the door when Jones called just after 9 a.m. She was dressed in a smart suit with her hair tied back and, unlike last time, wearing make-up. She looked surprised to see him.

  ‘Sergeant Jones?’

  ‘Can I come in, Mrs Speight?’

  ‘It’s not really convenient. I’m due to leave for a client meeting in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I see. In that case, maybe you can come down to the station after your meeting and we can talk there?’

  Speight’s lip curled at the edge, then she opened the door wider. ‘Let’s do this now.’ Jones stepped inside and followed her through to the kitchen, where she sat at the table and folded her arms. ‘So, what I can do for you?’

  Jones took the seat opposite her. ‘Is your husband in?’

  ‘No, he’s away in Denmark again this week. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Kevin McNulty since last night?’

  Speight flinched. ‘No. I’ve not seen Kevin in about a week. Why, is something wrong?’

  Jones didn’t answer, instead taking a moment to look around the room. He noted the framed photos on the walls. One of Claire Speight lying on a beach alone; another of her standing in what looked like a paddy-field in Asia – alone. There was one of her stood in front of the Grand Canyon with her arms outstretched – once again solo. And a solitary photo of her and her husband Malcolm together, wearing swimwear and shorts, holding hands over a dinner table on a sun-drenched beach.

  ‘Do you holiday alone a lot?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, and if that’s the extent of your questions, then I really must be getting off.’ Speight made a move to stand up.

  Jones didn’t react. ‘Where you were on the night Deidre was killed?’

  Speight stopped in her tracks before slowly sitting back down. Her face appeared tense as she forced a smile. ‘Why, Sergeant? Am I a suspect?’

  ‘No, but we’ve been given certain information about a certain suspect’s movements that we need to verify. Part of that includes your own whereabouts on the night Deidre died.’

  ‘Me? Well, I was here all night watching TV and then went to bed early.’

  Jones already knew the answer, but he wanted to see her reaction when he asked the question. ‘Was your husband with you?’

  ‘No, Malcolm was in Denmark that week. He came back on the Friday night.’

  ‘So you were alone?’

  Speight paused before answering. ‘Yes, I was.’

  Jones didn’t respond, and deliberately stared at Speight for a long moment. He wanted her to hear the silence, to feel uneasy; an old interrogation technique that still came in handy. Eventually he spoke. ‘I’ll ask you again, Claire, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Were you alone on the night Deidre McNulty died?’

  Speight took a moment before finally shaking her head.

  ‘Who were you with?’

  Another pause. ‘Kevin.’

  ‘McNulty?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘And was that here, or were you elsewhere?’

  Tears began to form in Speight's eyes. ‘No, it was here.’

  Jones took out his notepad and pen. ‘When did he arrive and what time did he leave?’

  Speight was clearly struggling to hold back the tears. ‘He arrived at about eight-forty, and left just after six-fifteen the next morning.’

  ‘So he spent the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kevin claims you’ve been having an affair for the last two years. Is that true?’

  Speight grabbed a tissue from a box on the kitchen bench, dabbing it into her eyes as she sat back down. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I take it your husband doesn’t know?’

  ‘No, and I doubt he would believe it. Malcolm always sees the best in people. Sergeant, I know you must think we’re monsters, but honestly, we never intended for it to happen.’

  ‘Really, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Please, Sergeant, I want you to know what really happened.’

  Jones put down his pen. ‘Ok. I'm listening.’

  Speight wiped her nose on a tissue. ‘Fate just seemed to throw us together when Dee-Dee got sick. Kevin felt isolated after the operation and when Dee-Dee was going through chemo, and I was lonely. Malcolm is away every month, and when he is here, he’s always working. That’s the reason I go away on my own most of the time.’ She pointed to the photo of her and her hu
sband. ‘The one of me and Malcolm is from our honeymoon ten years ago; the last time we had a proper holiday together. I was comforting Kevin here one night when things were particularly tough for him and Dee-Dee, and, well, a friendly hug turned into something more. It snowballed from there. We wanted to stop, we tried a couple of times, but we were drawn to each other. Lost souls married to the wrong people.’ Speight looked sad as she dabbed her eyes once more.

  Jones said nothing, feeling awkward.

  ‘Will you have to tell my husband, Sergeant?’

  He closed his notepad and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘No. All I'm interested in is verifying Kevin’s alibi. What you get up to in your own home is none of my business.’

  Speight let out a nervous chuckle. ‘Pity. It might have been easier that way. I’ve known our marriage is over for a long time. It’s just a shame it took this for me to admit it to myself. God, it’ll break his heart.’

  Jones had enough of this conversation. ‘Like I said, that’s your business.’ He stood up. ‘Anyway, I think my twenty minutes are up. I should be going.’

  Moment later, as he was about to step outside, Speight grabbed his arm. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘For your discretion. I really do appreciate it.’

  Jones smiled awkwardly, then turned away and walked down the path.

  35

  It was a bright February morning, cold but mercifully dry. Phillips trod carefully over the icy path, which had been freshly gritted, and could hear a hypnotic drone, muffled but audible, coming from the open door to St Patrick’s Church. The street beyond the gates was lined with cars – she guessed they belonged to those making the noise. As she tentatively stepped inside, she stopped a moment behind the glass doors that had been fitted to insulate the cavernous space from bitter winter winds and the incessant Manchester rain.

  Through the glass, she could see a line of people in the centre aisle, queuing for communion. Those that had already taken it were filing back down the right and left flanks. Standing at the altar was Father Maguire, dressed in full robes and, for the first time, she observed him as a Catholic priest. Gently opening one of the double glass doors, she stepped inside the main body of the church, which was as warm as she remembered, and took a seat on the back pew, where she waited until the service was over.