Deadly Silence

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘So, can you describe this man?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. He’s a tall fella, looks arty, kinda like a musician. Started working there a couple of months back.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Logan took time to answer, as if sifting through his patchy memory. ‘Fuck, I’ve forgotten.’

  Phillips was losing patience, or at least that’s what she wanted Logan to think. ‘Come on, Matt. If this guy is real, he has to have a name. For your own sake, it’s very important you remember.’

  Logan closed his eyes and screwed up his face, ‘I think it was something like Kevin, or Nigel, or Trevor…’

  ‘Kevin? Was it Kevin McNulty.’

  Logan didn’t respond.

  Phillips pressed him again. ‘Matt, was it Kevin McNulty?’

  Logan looked back to Phillips, his face forlorn. ‘I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘But you’re sure he could have been called Kevin?’

  Entwistle walked back into the room, assuming his position at the end of the bed.

  ‘I can’t be a hundred per cent sure. I just recall it was one of those names people used to take the piss out of back in the day. You know, with women in the eighties, you got lots of Sharons and Traceys, Well, his name was like that for a guy…like a Kevin or Nigel or Trevor.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t remember which one it was?’

  Logan shook his head and Phillips believed him. She glanced at Entwistle, who gently tapped his watch. Time was running out.

  She pressed on. ‘Ok, so where were you the night before last?’

  ‘Er, it’s all a bit blurry, but two nights ago I think I was with Mitchy and his sister Dannielle.’

  ‘And they’ll vouch for you, will they?’

  Logan nodded enthusiastically. ‘Damn right they will.’

  Phillips turned to Entwistle. ‘Make sure you talk to them today.’

  He made a note in his pad.

  ‘And pass me your phone, will you?’ She held out her hand and Entwistle duly obliged.

  ‘Ok, Matt, I want you to look at this for me.’ Phillips handed him the Lourdes picture on Entwistle’s mobile. ‘Do you remember seeing this picture before?’

  He nodded. ‘You lot already showed it to me.’

  ‘Can you identify each of the people in the shot?’

  Logan looked closely at the picture, tapping a grubby finger on the screen in time with each name. ‘That’s Mrs Clarke, that’s me, Susan Gillespie, Deidre McNulty, Thomas Dempsey and—’ He stopped at Father Donnelly for a moment. ‘You know who that is.’

  Phillips handed him the travel manifest. ‘This document states how many people travelled on that trip to Lourdes. As you can see, it says there were seven people on the minibus.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘How many people are in that picture, Matt?’

  Logan counted them slowly. ‘Six.’

  ‘Yet there’s seven people listed here.’ Phillips tapped the manifesto. ‘We know Ricky Murray pulled out the night before the trip, so someone went in his place. Someone who we think took that picture.’

  Logan swallowed hard.

  ‘I don’t believe you killed these people, Matt, and I don’t think you attacked me either. But I do strongly sense all four murders are connected to that trip. Everyone who went on it has been accounted for, except one. I believe they’re the key to finding the killer. Who was it, Matt? Who went to Lourdes instead of Ricky?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t, Matt?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Come on, Matt. Help us out here. We’re trying to stop a killer.’ Phillips was losing her patience for real now.

  Logan folded his arms, a look of defiance on his face, ‘After I got sent down for the third time, none of my family and friends gave a flying fuck about me. They left me to rot in there. But one person didn’t abandon me. They visited me every couple of weeks, brought me treats, listened to my problems. They really looked out for me. And when I got out, they helped me get into the hostel, helped out with money, drink and cigarettes. They’re the reason I’m still alive. That’s why I can’t, and won’t, say. If they’ve done something they shouldn’t have, then that’s down to them and their own conscience. I owe them, and I’m not a grass.’

  Phillips struggled to keep her temper in check. ‘Matt, do you understand that we have enough evidence to send you to prison for the rest of your life, and a DCI who is hell-bent on putting you there? Helping us find that missing person is your only hope of proving you didn’t kill those people.’

  Logan shook his head firmly. ‘I’ve told you, I’m not a grass.’

  Phillips became increasingly incensed listening to his ‘code of the street’ bullshit. ‘Jesus, Matt, you could be going down for four murders you didn’t commit, while the real killer walks away scot-free. Don’t you care what happens to you?’

  Logan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve had enough of life on the streets. I’m better off in prison. At least I’ll get respect there for murder.’

  ‘Come on, Matt, that bollocks. Nobody wants to go to prison. Tell us, who was the seventh person on that trip?’

  Logan fixed her with a steely glare, his voice measured now. ‘The document must be wrong. There were only six of us on that minibus, and six of us on that trip.’

  ‘So you’re sticking to that story?’

  ‘Yes I am.’

  Phillips sighed, exasperated. ‘Right, have it your way, but you’re making a big mistake. Entwistle, get that nurse back in and get him discharged. Time for him to face whatever Brown has in store for him.’

  Entwistle hurried out of the room.

  ‘You’re going to regret this, Matt.’

  Logan looked at Phillips with sad eyes. ‘So? What’s new, Inspector?’

  49

  The cold morning air felt good against her face, despite her still tender wounds. The sun was shining, but the walkways outside the Manchester Royal Infirmary had still been given a liberal covering of salt to melt away any hidden ice patches. It was a relief to be discharged. Phillips had never liked hospitals, and after spending months in the MRI recovering from a gunshot wound, she had vowed to do everything she could to stay away from them. That was before someone had tried to strangle her in her own home.

  With Logan staying silent on the identity of the photographer, and now en route to Ashton House, she needed answers quickly before Brown sent the wrong man down. She was tempted to bring in Father Maguire for questioning, considering he’d potentially lied about who had replaced Ricky on the Lourdes trip, but she wanted all the facts before she played that card, and she had a good idea where she could get them.

  Pulling out her phone, she selected Jonesy from her favourites and hit dial. Phillips had briefed Jones the previous night on their plans to talk to Logan.

  He answered in a just a few moments. ‘Guv. Everything ok?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Glad to be out, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How did it go this morning?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Not great. He’s staying quiet on the identity of the photographer. Says whoever it is, he owes them and he’s not a grass. Usual criminal brotherhood bullshit.’

  ‘That’s crazy. Brown has enough to put him away for good. He’ll die in prison.’

  ‘I told him that but he’s not having it. Says he’d rather do time than let this person down. Plus, he says he's had enough of living on the streets and actually wants to go back inside.’

  ‘Jesus. How messed up does your life have to be to want that?’

  ‘I know. Poor sod.’

  ‘So, what next, Guv?’

  ‘We need to identify the photographer before Brown pins all four murders on him. Which, with the evidence and Logan’s desire to go back to prison, won’t take long. So, the clock is ticking. Where are you and Bov?’

  ‘Ashton House.’

  ‘Ok. we need to talk to Father Maguire and find out what he really knows.
Can you pick me up?’

  ‘Sure, from the MRI?’

  ‘No. Thomas Dempsey’s place. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here and it makes sense to get as much info as possible before confronting Maguire.’

  ‘Gotcha. Bov’s got some paperwork to finish up, but we should be with you by ten. That okay?’

  Phillips checked her watch; it was 8.50 a.m. ‘Yeah, that works. I’ll see you then.’

  50

  Phillips stood under the small porch and knocked on Dempsey’s front door. Uniform had reported he’d become somewhat of a recluse in the last week, having been signed off from work with anxiety and panic attacks. After her own troubles over the last twelve months, she could empathise.

  He took a few moments to open the door on the chain. ‘Hello?’ he said, peering out of the darkened hall.

  ‘Hi, Tom, it’s Detective Inspector Phillips. Can I come in for a minute?’

  Dempsey looked out onto the street before unlocking the chain and opening the door fully. ‘Have you caught him yet?’

  ‘No, Tom. Could we perhaps talk inside?’

  He nodded, guiding her through to the living room, where he took a seat on the armchair while Phillips took the adjacent sofa.

  ‘How you holding up?’ she asked

  ‘Good days and bad days, to be honest,’ he said with a thin smile.

  ‘I understand you’ve been signed off work?’

  ‘Yeah, I keep having panic attacks when I go outside. Not great for a postman.’

  Phillips’s heart went out to him and she found herself placing a comforting hand on his knee, ‘I know these days everyone says it, but I do know how you feel. I went through the same thing myself after a major trauma last year.’

  Dempsey appeared close to tears, his dark eyes searching hers. ‘Does it get better, Inspector?’

  ‘In time, yes. But it might be worth talking to someone. You know, professional help?’

  Dempsey wiped a lone tear from his cheek. ‘Therapy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t afford therapy on my wages, Inspector.’

  ‘What about work? A lot of companies offer confidential support to their employees.’

  ‘Really? I’m not sure the Post Office does.’

  ‘Or you can always get it on the NHS.’

  Dempsey scoffed. ‘Yeah, in about a year. The waiting lists are huge for that kind of thing.’

  Phillips sensed he really wasn’t keen. ‘Whichever route you take, Tom, it can’t hurt to look into it, can it?’

  Dempsey nodded without conviction. He changed the subject. ‘What happened to your face?’

  Phillips instinctively touched her temple around one of the cuts. ‘Our mutual friend broke into my house and decided to use me as a punching bag a few nights ago.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Why the hell would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light on it for me.’

  Dempsey looked confused ‘Me? How can I help?’

  Phillips pulled out her phone and placed it in front of him.

  ‘You recognise that picture, don’t you?’

  Dempsey retrieved his glasses from the top of the fireplace before returning to his seat and picking up the phone. ‘It’s the Lourdes trip. Your colleagues showed it to me when they first paid me a visit.’

  ‘Do you recognise the people in the photo?’

  Dempsey nodded and reeled off their names in order.

  ‘Do you remember Ricky Murray?’

  ‘Little Ricky? Yeah, I do. I heard about him on the news the other night. I still can’t believe he’s dead.’

  ‘Did he go on that trip to France with you?’

  Dempsey paused briefly, deep in thought. ‘No, but I’m pretty sure he was supposed to. I have a vague memory of him pulling out at the last minute. I think he got sick or something.’

  ‘Did anyone else take his place?’

  Dempsey shrugged. ‘I assume so.’

  ‘But you can’t say for sure?’

  ‘Not really. I’d have been about eleven at the time. All I cared about was going on holiday to France. I wasn’t really paying attention to who might have come in at the last minute.’

  ‘I guess not. Look, I know I’m going back a long time, but do you remember who took this photo, Tom?’

  Dempsey examined it again. ‘I do. It was Seamus Maguire, although you probably know him as Father Maguire.’

  ‘From St Patricks?’

  ‘That’s the one. He was a young seminarian – you know, like a priest in training. He’d have been a teenager, or maybe in his early twenties, at the time.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was him?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I only went on one trip abroad with the church, and he was definitely on it.’

  So Maguire had been lying the whole time.

  ‘Do you know anything about allegations of abuse made against a priest from St Patrick’s?’

  Dempsey shifted in his seat uncomfortably, then nodded.

  ‘Could you tell me about them?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, but I’m sure it started on that trip to France.’

  Phillips looked down at her notes. ‘You told DS Jones and DC Bovalino that you suspected Father Donnelly had been inappropriate with Matt Logan, that he’d potentially kissed his genitals.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Besides Logan’s conversations with you about this, was there anything else that lead you to think he was telling the truth about Donnelly?’

  Dempsey stared at the floor for a long moment before answering. ‘It might be nothing…’

  ‘What might be?’

  ‘I’m really not sure I should say this. It was a long time ago and I may be remembering it wrong.’ Dempsey appeared even more anxious than before.

  ‘Please, Tom, tell me. It could be important.’

  ‘I'm sure it was totally innocent, but each night Donnelly would send Seamus, I mean Father Maguire, to collect Matt at bedtime, when we were all in our pyjamas, and take him to his room.’

  ‘Donnelly’s room?’

  ‘Yeah. Matt would be gone about an hour and come back crying and upset. We used to ask him what was wrong, what had happened, but all he would say was that he was a sinner and God was punishing him.’

  ‘And did you see any signs that Donnelly might be abusing any of the other kids?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but he always seemed to single Ricky out for special attention as well.’

  ‘What do you mean by special attention?’

  ‘You know, private meetings in the vestry. Father Donnelly would insist on giving him confession in the church house as opposed to the confessionals in the main church. He told Ricky he was special in God's eyes.’

  ‘Did he ever abuse you, Thomas?’

  Dempsey shook his head vigorously. ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘And what about Maguire? Was he abusing any of the children?’

  Dempsey’s brow furrowed. ‘I couldn’t say for sure, but he definitely brought Matt to Father Donnelly when the two were living in the same house at the time.’

  ‘Is there any way to prove Maguire was involved?’

  Dempsey laughed. ‘I doubt it. The Catholic Church covers their tracks very well when it comes to child abuse, Inspector.’

  At that moment, Phillips felt a trickle of liquid run down her right nostril and onto her upper lip. Touching her finger to it, she saw blood on the tip. ‘Oh shit. Could I get a tissue?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dempsey looked a little panicked at the sight of blood. He jumped up and rushed out of the room, returning a moment later with a large kitchen roll in his hand.

  ‘Thank you.’ Phillips smiled awkwardly and pulled off a couple of pieces, placing one against her nose. ‘The doctor warned me this could happen while it’s healing.’

  She tilted her head back and pressed the towel against her nose, as hard as she could stand, to try and stem
the bleeding. After a couple of minutes, it finally stopped.

  ‘Would you mind if I clean up a little?’ Her fingers and face were now covered in dry blood.

  ‘No, no, not at all. Please come this way.’

  She followed him into the narrow hallway.

  ‘The toilet is upstairs on the landing, straight in front of you. You can’t miss it.’

  Phillips thanked him and followed his directions. Once in the bathroom, she washed her hands and face, watching the bloody water circle around the basin before disappearing down the plughole. Grabbing a towel off the radiator, she dabbed it gently against her swollen nose…and was struck by a very familiar smell. She inhaled again, and stared at her battered reflection in the mirror. It couldn’t be? Unlocking the bathroom door, she stood at the top of the stairs and listened to the sound of Dempsey in the kitchen below. She heard plates clattering, and guessed he was filling the dishwasher.

  The small landing had two rooms running off it; the front and back bedrooms. Treading lightly, she peered into the back room, which was sparsely furnished and almost military-tidy. It smelt stale and unused. Closing the door again, she could still hear Dempsey moving about downstairs as she made for the front bedroom.

  Cautiously, she stepped inside. This was obviously Dempsey’s bedroom, and although still lacking in the softer touches, it at least had a few pictures on the walls and a photograph of a white-haired elderly woman in a frame next to the bed. A small desk and chair housed a laptop to the side of a large mirrored wardrobe opposite her, reflecting into the room. Moving quietly, she followed her instincts and opened the wardrobe, revealing a hanger rail with pristinely pressed shirts and a number of branded postman uniforms.

  On the shelf above was a selection of grooming products, including beard oil and hair wax. Standing next to them was a distinctive silver and chrome bottle of aftershave: Guilty by Gucci. She pulled off the top and took a sniff. There was no mistaking it. Coincidence? Almost twenty years of policing had taught her there was rarely any such thing as a coincidence.