by OMJ Ryan
Taking adjacent seats, Brown and Phillips sat down opposite her.
Fox’s smile remained intact. ‘So, where are we at with the Cheadle murders?’
Clearly nervous, Brown stuttered slightly as he spoke. ‘W-well, ma’am, we’ve confirmed the fourth murder was likely the work of the same killer as the previous three.’
Fox’s smile began to slip. ‘You’ve confirmed, or it’s likely? Which is it?’
‘Well, ma’am, without forensics, it’s impossible to say with complete certainty, but we’re very confident we’re looking at the same person for all four murders.’
Fox tapped her pen on her teeth while she stared at Brown. ‘Very confident? Well, that’s an improvement.’
Phillips almost felt sorry for him as she watched Brown shrink in Fox’s presence, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before he threw her to the lions – or in this case, the Fox.
‘And what about the suspects we interviewed last week. Where are we at with them?’
‘We’re pretty certain Logan is our man,’ said Brown.
Fox sat back in her high-backed leather chair. ‘Really? That’s good news. When are you planning on charging him?’
‘Well, typically the CPS want more than we’ve presented on him at the moment.’
Phillips listened as Brown began to shift blame to yet more people connected to the case.
‘If I may, ma’am,’ she cut in, ‘the CPS need more evidence because Logan has an alibi for murder one, and as yet there’s no forensic evidence to link him to any of the other crime scenes.’
Brown shot her a murderous look.
Fox appeared confused. ‘So how he is our number one suspect, then?’
Phillips opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by Brown. ‘Ma’am, he knew all the victims intimately. He has form for burglary and has experience working with chemical compounds. He was also seen getting onto a tram headed for East Didsbury ninety minutes prior to the fourth murder, which took place just five hundred metres from the tram station. The same station where he was spotted on CCTV an hour before Ricky Murray was killed.’
Phillips wasn’t giving up. ‘But we can’t be sure it was actually Logan, sir.’
‘And we can’t be sure it wasn’t either!’ Brown said without looking at her.
‘So what about his alibi? How reliable is it?’ asked Fox.
Brown scoffed. ‘He has two: one a junkie called David Mitchell. The other is Mitchell’s sister, Dannielle Tierney. Wife of Jason Tierney.’
Fox raised an eyebrow. ‘The bank robber?’
‘The same. She’s a born liar and hates the police. She’d say anything to piss us off.’
Fox folded her arms and pressed her head into the soft leather. ‘I remember her from Tierney’s trial. Shouting about injustice in front of the press pack when he was sent down. A vile creature. You’re right not to trust her. What about the other two you had in – the brother and the husband?’
Phillips was impressed Fox had retained so much detail about the investigation. Then again, Brown was rarely out of her office, briefing her on every tiny development as soon as they came up.
‘Nothing of note, Ma’am. The brother stands to inherit Susan Gillespie’s estate and Kevin McNulty was having an affair. Good motives for each, but both have water-tight alibis. Plus, neither fits the profile.’
What profile? thought Phillips. Brown hadn’t provided any form of profile, which really could be helpful in identifying their killer.
‘So, Logan’s our only candidate for it at the moment?’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Brown.
‘What about the chap who had the near miss in Fallowfield. Has he seen anything else?’
‘Dempsey? Nothing ma’am. Uniform have been checking in on him each evening and have had nothing significant to report, other than he was having panic attacks and had been signed off work.’
Fox appeared deep in thought for a moment. ‘Ok. So how confident are you that you can get a case in front of the CPS that will put Logan away?’
‘Very,’ said Brown.
‘With respect, ma’am, I’m not so sure.’
‘You never bloody are, are you Phillips?’ sneered Brown.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Brown turned to face Phillips, his eyes almost feral. ‘It means, Inspector, that we have a suspect who is known to the victims, explaining why at least two of them may have let him in. He’s a convicted burglar, so knows how to get into the houses of those that didn’t, and has experience of working with chemical compounds. He’s also a junkie caught on CCTV in the vicinity of the fourth victim’s home at the time of the murder. Yet, even with all that, you still refuse to believe that Logan could be the killer.’
Fox’s gaze shifted to Phillips. ‘DCI Brown makes a compelling argument, Jane.’
Phillips could feel the investigation slipping away into Brown’s incompetent hands and felt sick to her stomach. ‘With respect, ma’am, we have no concrete evidence that puts Logan at any of the murder scenes.’
Brown immediately cut in. ‘And whose fault is that? You and your detectives have been on this case for almost two weeks and we’re no further than when I walked into Gillespie’s lounge room that first morning.’
‘You’re the SIO on this, not me.’
‘Exactly, and for good reason.’
Fox raised her arms to break up the fight, her voice measured yet authoritative. ‘The fact of the matter is, we need a result on this quickly, especially as the latest development suggests his next victim could be any one of two hundred St Patrick’s parishioners. The eyes of the world are on us, and we appear no further ahead in this investigation than we claimed to be at your press conference. In fact, some might say we’ve gone backwards. That’s not good for any of our ambitions within the force. DCI Brown, I’m inclined to agree with you that Logan looks like a good fit. I think the entire focus of the investigation should be on finding the evidence to charge him.’
‘But what if it’s not Logan?’ Phillips protested.
‘As I said, Inspector Phillips, I think a swift conclusion to this case will be best for all of us.’
Phillips knew she was beaten. ‘Of course, ma’am.’ The words stuck in her throat.
Fox’s smile widened farther, and when she spoke again, her tone was motherly, just short of condescending. ‘I know all about your purist methods, Jane, and I’ll admit they have been very effective in the past. But perhaps, in the modern world of policing, that’s where they must remain – in the past. As you pointed out, DCI Brown is the SIO on this case. Whether you agree with him or not, he must have your full support as well was that of the team. Do I make myself clear?’
Phillips gritted her teeth. ‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Thank you, ma’am’ said Brown triumphantly.
Fox’s smile vanished instantly. ‘Right, I have a report to finish for the Chief Constable.’ Returning her glasses to the end of her nose, she retrieved the file. ‘Dismissed,’ she said without looking up.
Phillips rose to her feet and hurried out of the office. She couldn’t bear to look at Brown, let alone speak to him.
As she stormed down the corridor he called after her. ‘Where are you going Inspector?’
‘Out!’ she shouted over her shoulder before ducking down the stairs and out into the car park.
She had to get away, and she needed a drink.
40
The patrol car pulled away after their early evening check of Thomas Dempsey. Watching, he allowed himself a smile as the vehicle turned left and drove quickly out of sight. People love routine, he thought. If only they knew it was their addictive desire to do the same things at the same time, every single day, that had allowed him to execute his plans undetected. Despite their best efforts, the Greater Manchester Police were still without a name on the charge sheet for the four murders. And tonight, if everything went according to plan, he would deal with victim number five – the wildcard.
>
He called it that as it wasn’t part of the original plan, and despite chastising himself for going off piste with Ricky Murray, he had come to the conclusion that an additional victim would be of benefit at this stage of the game. It was a risk, of course he knew that, but one he believed was worth taking. Besides, he reasoned, any risk was mitigated by his own brilliance and unrivalled ability to hide in plain sight.
Circumstances had changed. Phillips and her crew had begun pulling the pieces together, making connections faster than he had anticipated, and it was time to throw in a curve-ball. Something that would send shockwaves through the team and buy him time to complete his mission before leaving this place forever.
He had enjoyed the hour-long walk to tonight’s location. Moving quietly through the dark, cold streets of Manchester, he had taken in the world around him. Watched people living out their lives behind closed curtains, no doubt glued to their televisions, with no idea that the ‘Cheadle Murderer’ was outside their window, prowling their street.
He arrived at his destination and deftly climbed over the ten-foot-high wall, dropping silently into the flower bed below.
The hairs at the back of his neck tingled as he stared at the large French doors to the rear of the house. Unlike those of his other victims, this residence had been fitted with a sophisticated network of security lights. If anything crossed within three metres of their sensors, the garden lit up like a football stadium – something he’d learned whilst watching the house the previous night. Thankfully, in a neighbourhood filled with wandering cats and hungry foxes, he’d had plenty of opportunities during his time in the shadows to assess their sensitivity, range and timing. He’d identified a blind spot running down the edge of the path that led to his current position, standing on the rock-hard, frozen flower bed in the far corner of the garden, cloaked in darkness.
As he listened to the commuters returning home around him, he smiled contentedly and settled in. Everything he needed lay carefully packed in the rucksack between his feet. Cupping his latex-gloved hands together over his mouth, he gently blew on them in an effort to keep warm, his eyes locked on the house and its occupant, clearly visible through the glass doors up ahead.
‘Tick-tock, tick-tock,’ he giggled to himself.
41
When she finally made it home, Phillips was past the point of hunger.
Earlier, bumping into Jones as she stormed across the car park, she had shared the events of her delightful day with Brown – including Ricky Murray’s post mortem, the lynching in Fox’s office plus her unquenching thirst for the blood of their totally incompetent DCI. Thankfully for her sake, Jones had suggested that, rather than act on those urges, they should head off for a drink in her local. It was the first sensible thing she’d heard all day. A couple of glasses in, Jones had called Bovalino and asked him to join them, but he had declined, citing his urgent preparation of the family rally car for an upcoming race that weekend. Entwistle had purposefully not been invited. As much as he was proving useful, and was growing on them both personally, he was still too new for the kind of anti-Brown chat that had dominated their conversation for the last two hours.
Finally, when they’d grown weary of examining Brown’s long list of failings as both a copper and a human being, Jones had done the sensible thing and taken a taxi home. Phillips however was not finished. After leaving the pub, she had dropped into the uber-trendy independent grocery store at the end of her street – owned and operated by a couple of ‘reformed’ investment bankers – to pick up a couple more bottles of white wine. She regularly paid a premium for the privilege of knowing her wine was organic and fair-trade, but, in truth, it was close to home and easier than going anywhere else.
Making her way into the kitchen, she fed the cat and deposited one of the bottles in the fridge, then carried the second into the living room and poured herself a large glass. Switching on the TV, she took a long mouthful, savouring the crisp edge to the flavour, and relaxed back into the sofa.
‘Why do I do it, Floss? Why do I allow myself to work for such an incompetent wanker like Brown? Why?’
If Floss was listening, she didn’t show it, instead purring loudly as she stuffed her face in her food bowl, never once looking up.
Phillips smiled. ‘Oh, to be a cat.’
Browsing through the endless TV channels, she eventually landed on back-to-back re-runs of Seinfeld, then put her feet up on the sofa and lay back. A moment later, Floss jumped up onto her lap, kneading her paws up and down methodically, preparing the ‘ground’ where she intended to make her bed.
Soon, they were both fast asleep.
Phillips’s heart jumped in her chest as she came awake with a start. Floss leaped from her lap and scurried over to the armchair on the other side of the room.
Sweat covered the back of Phillips’s neck and she put her hand to the bullet wound in her chest, which was throbbing. For a moment she was back in that house, on the floor with the gun pointing directly at her. She could almost hear the blood coursing through her veins as she took a moment to orientate herself, trying to locate the noise that had woken her. Right on cue, there it was again.
She shook her head and chuckled. The Cheadle murders had clearly set her on edge. ‘The front door. Is that all it was?’
She got up and walked out into the hallway. Ahead, she saw a large figure through the mottled-glass panel in the top half of the ornate front door. He appeared to be staring straight at her. Instantly, adrenaline surged through her body as panic started to fill every pore of her skin.
‘Who is it?’ She tried her best to sound calm when the opposite was true.
The person responded, but the voice was muffled and she couldn’t make it out.
‘Sorry, who is it?’ she repeated, chastising herself for not having a spyhole fitted in the door.
The man knocked again just as Phillips engaged the chain. Taking a deep breath, she opened it a fraction, casting her eyes over a heavy-set man wearing a black anorak. He had turned away from her towards the street, and his face was hidden by the hood.
‘Hello?’ she said tentatively, her tongue clicking in her bone-dry mouth.
The man turned around, his face still cast in shadow. ‘Hello Jane.’ His voice was deep and low as he pulled his hood down. ‘Have you missed me?’
Her heart jumped into her mouth. ‘Marty? Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!’ Her relief was palpable.
‘Sorry, Jane,’ Marty Michaels said with a cheeky grin.
‘Marty, it’s late. What are you doing here?’
‘You invited me.’
‘I did? When?’
‘The other day. When you replied to my text about not taking you out to the theatre. You said I should come over one night after work.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean tonight.’
‘Oh…right. I figured it was an open invitation. I was just on my way home from the studio and thought I’d see how you were.’
Phillips opened the door fully and headed back to the kitchen, shouting back at him without turning, ‘You wanna drink?’
He stepped inside. ‘Coffee please,’ he called after her.
Since being thrown together just over six months ago during the murder investigation that had almost cost Phillips her life, she and the outspoken radio – and now TV – host, Marty Michaels, had become friends. Not the type of friend you see every week, but on occasion, often when she was feeling anxious about the events that had almost killed her.
As Phillips prepared his drink, she noted how well Marty looked. He’d lost a tonne of weight since she first met him, and since cutting back on the booze, his skin appeared to glow. He’d even managed to tidy up his trademark dishevelled hair, in part due to his new-found career in front of the camera.
‘You’re looking well, Marty,’ she commented.
‘Thank you. It’s amazing what giving up the early mornings does for your mental and physical health. Now I’m out of it, I can see I was living
on the edge of burnout for almost twenty years.’
Phillips passed him his coffee and headed through to the lounge room, taking a seat on the couch. Marty followed and sat down in the armchair opposite.
‘So, what was all that about then?’ he asked, looking at her curiously.
‘What was what about?’
‘At the front door. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.’
Phillips took a gulp of wine before answering, ‘It’s nothing. Just these Cheadle murders have got me on edge. You know how it is.’
‘Do I?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do I really have any idea what’s going on in your head, Jane? Does anyone?’
‘I told you. It’s just work stuff. It’s a stressful job. You know that.’
Marty stared at her for a moment without saying anything, which made her feel even more uncomfortable. She knew what he was doing.
‘Cut it out,’ she warned.
‘What?’
‘Trying to read me, assessing my non-verbal cues. I know you too well, Marty. And I know how to do that shit far better than you. It’s my job, after all.’
Marty smiled and raised a hand. ‘Guilty as charged!’
Phillips changed the subject. ‘I saw your new TV show the other day.’
Marty sat forwards in his chair. ‘Really? What did you think?’
‘Well, I didn’t actually watch the show, but I did see the advert for it. I’m recording it. How’s the ratings?’
‘Really good. The first couple have gone down very well with both the audiences and guests. The network bosses are talking about commissioning a second series already, which is brilliant.’
‘So you’re well and truly back in the big time, then?’
Marty took a sip from his coffee. ‘Looks that way,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘Good for you.’ Phillips took another swig of wine as a wave of anger washed over her without warning. She fought to keep it under wraps, but try as she might, she couldn’t help thinking how he’d fared far better than she had since their shared ordeal.
