Deadly Obsession

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘You make me weak, more like. Keeping me dependent on that muck you’re shoving into my veins.’

  Gabe exhaled loudly. ‘Well, if you’d like me to get the doctor, you only have to say.’

  ‘No. No doctors. They’d have me in a box as soon as look at me.’

  ‘Well, in that case you’re stuck with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been stuck with you your whole bloody life, boy!’ rattled Bert.

  ‘Oh, don’t start all that shit again.’

  ‘I’ll start what I bloody well like. This is my house, and I can say what I want.’

  ‘This is your house? Really? You’ve never mentioned it,’ Gabe said, sarcastically.

  Bert sneered for a long moment before speaking, ‘Did you get my ciggies?’

  Gabe shook his head, then reached into his bag and pulled out four packets of Marlboro Reds. ‘Isn’t it time you quit?’ he said as he placed the cigarettes on his father’s bedside table.

  ‘What would be the point of that? You’ve stopped me drinking, so this is the only vice I have left.’

  Gabe said nothing.

  ‘I’m as good as dead, anyway. I’ll be joining your mother soon enough…’ Bert began coughing, heavily.

  When his father brought up his dead mother, Gabe knew only too well what was coming: a torrent of abuse levelled at him and the Almighty.

  ‘I’ll never understand why God took her from me and left me with you.’

  Gabe bit his lip and stepped up off the bed to remove himself from the direct firing line. It was a well-practiced routine aimed at stopping himself from throttling the old man.

  His father continued, unabated. ‘Imagine it? Detective Sonny’s boy. More interested in books than girls; pathetic and weak!’

  Gabe reached the bottom of his father’s bed and turned to face his tormentor. The years of resentment felt like they would burn a hole in his stomach. ‘I am not weak,’ he said through his clenched jaw.

  Bert scoffed. ‘It’s all you are. All you’ve ever been.’

  Gripping the bed end so tightly his knuckles turned white, Gabe stared at his father.

  ‘Look at you. You look like you’re gonna cry!’ Bert goaded. ‘You’re as weak as piss, boy!’

  Gabe finally snapped. ‘Weak, am I?’ Pulling his phone from his pocket, he opened the photos folder, found what he was looking for, and marched back to his father’s side. He presented him with the image on the screen. ‘If I was so weak, how could I have done this?’

  Bert flinched, then his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the picture in front of him. He stared at the screen for a long moment, then moved his gaze to meet his son’s. ‘What have you done?’

  Gabe could feel his chest swelling as he recalled the events of the previous evening. A shot of adrenaline surged through his body. ‘I killed him,’ he said with pride.

  Bert’s mouth fell open momentarily. ‘You did what?’ he wheezed.

  ‘I killed him.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  Gabe stared his father in the eye, his gaze unflinching. ‘Because I could.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Bert hissed.

  ‘Yeah? Well, who’s fault is that?’

  ‘You can’t blame me for your problems, now.’

  ‘Well, who else is to blame? No one else ever came near this fucking house of horrors!’

  ‘I was a single parent, and I did everything I could to mould you into a man I could be proud of.’

  ‘By belittling me? Beating me?’

  Bert scoffed. ‘Your mother made you soft. You needed toughening up.’

  ‘So I could be like you? An old-school copper who cared more about dead strangers than his own son?’

  ‘I did my duty!’ shouted Bert, as loudly as he could through his ravaged larynx. ‘I was CID. I didn’t get to choose when people were murdered.’

  ‘Oh, spare me the excuses. You were pissed most of the time; you bloody reeked of booze when you did finally come home.’

  Bert turned his face away towards the television.

  Gabe wasn’t finished. In fact – finally – he was just getting started. ‘You may have taken away my power for the last thirty years, but you’d better believe me when I say, I’m taking it back.’

  Bert locked eyes with Gabe once more. ‘Pah! By killing a defenceless old man?’

  ‘All that matters is, I took a life. His age means nothing to me.’

  ‘Well, it will to the police. You’ll get life for this.’

  Gabe smiled, thinking of what was still to come. ‘They’ll have to catch me first.’

  ‘They’ll catch you, boy. You’ll never get away with this.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Gabe chuckled. ‘Just you watch me, because I’m like nothing they’ve ever seen.’

  Bert shook his head in disgust. ‘I hate to break it to you, boy, but killing pensioners is nothing new in this town. Harold Shipman got there before you. Murdered over two hundred of them, and he was a pathetic excuse for a man. Just like you!’

  Gabe swallowed his anger down. ‘I’m nothing like Shipman,’ he said calmly. ‘His arrogance meant he got sloppy. I’m too clever for that.’

  Bert let out a loud cackle. ‘And so said every other lifer in Hawk Green Prison. They’ll catch you, boy. And when they do, I’ll be cheering them on.’

  Gabe strode back to his father’s side and leaned in close. When he spoke, his voice a sinister whisper. ‘That’s assuming you’ll be here to see it.’

  Bert’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. His breathing laboured. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gabe, straightening. ‘I’m not going to kill you, dear Daddy. That would be letting you off the hook. No. I’m going to make you suffer. You’re going to watch me – your pathetic, weak son – ruin the only thing you truly ever cared about.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Gabe flashed a smile. ‘Your good name and your legacy as a copper. By the time I’m finished, no one will remember you as a decorated police officer. Instead, you’ll only ever be known as one thing…the man who spawned Manchester’s greatest-ever serial killer!’

  6

  Friday, February 5th

  Phillips took the stairs from the ground floor down to the basement, towards the mortuary where the newly married chief pathologist, Dr Tanvi Chakrabortty, was located. A few minutes later, she was buzzed through the secure door and wandered into the silent reception area. By now, she knew to wait until she was attended to.

  It wasn’t long before Chakrabortty’s tall, slender frame appeared wearing freshly pressed green surgical scrubs, her straight, jet-black hair tied up in a ponytail. Her brown skin was darker than normal, thanks to her recent trip to the Maldives.

  ‘Good morning Mrs Leonard,’ Phillips said theatrically. ‘How was the honeymoon?’

  Chakrabortty smiled. ‘It was wonderful, Jane. Three weeks in heaven on earth. And I’m keeping my own name, so less of the Mrs Leonard nonsense.’

  Phillips raised her hands in mock defeat. ‘Sorry. Dr Chakrabortty it is.’

  ‘Tan will do, thank you very much.’

  Phillips chortled. ‘So, how did you get on with the Yates post mortem?’

  Chakrabortty signalled for Phillips to follow her, and they headed for her office. A minute later, she took a seat at her desk and Phillips took the chair opposite.

  Chakrabortty passed over an iPad. ‘Evans’s assumption was correct. Yates was poisoned.’

  Phillips scanned down, through the report. ‘What with?’

  ‘Strychnine. A large dose was administered directly into his cannula.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Phillips. ‘So, he was murdered?’

  ‘Looks that way. Unless he somehow administered it himself, which is highly unlikely.’

  ‘Strychnine’s not used in medicine, is it?’

  Chakrabortty shook her head. ‘God, no. It’s absolutely lethal and has zero medicinal properties.’


  Phillips found herself staring at the image on the screen, of Michael Yates’s body prostrate on the examination table. Rigor mortis had still not passed, and mercifully the lower half of his body was covered with a green sheet, but it was still difficult for her to see the man she had once admired so much in such a twisted, emaciated state. ‘He was my teacher at school,’ she heard herself saying out loud, before lifting her gaze to meet Chakrabortty’s.

  The doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘You knew him?’

  Phillips nodded. ‘He was a big influence on my life when Mum and Dad moved us back from Hong Kong. My A-level tutor.’

  Chakrabortty’s face softened. ‘God. I’m sorry, Jane. If I’d have known, I’d have warned you about the images.’

  Phillips forced a thin smile. ‘It’s ok. I saw it in the flesh at the care home. Plus, it was a long time ago. It’s just hard to believe it’s the same guy. The Mr Yates I knew was so full of life, funny and charming. He was the cool teacher everyone wanted to impress.’ Phillips returned her gaze to the iPad screen. ‘Which is why it’s so sad to know he died alone, and like this. Would it have been painful, Tan?’

  Chakrabortty bit her bottom lip, then nodded gently. ‘I’m sorry to say so, yes.’

  ‘Was it at least quick?’

  ‘Not quick enough, I’m afraid. With strychnine poisoning, death comes from asphyxiation caused by paralysis of the neural pathways that control breathing – or by exhaustion from the convulsions it inflicts. Most people usually die within two to three hours of exposure.’

  Phillips laid the iPad down on the desk in front of her. ‘Poor, bugger.’

  ‘That said, I can say with some certainty that even without the strychnine in his system, he would likely have been dead within twelve months, due to chronic heart failure.’

  ‘His GP did say he had issues with his heart.’

  Chakrabortty nodded. ‘Plus his lungs were packing up, due to what appears to be a lifetime of smoking. He had the onset of emphysema.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘I’d say between 1 and 2 a.m.’

  Phillips said nothing for a moment as she processed the information. ‘If he was so poorly, could it have been a mercy killing?’

  ‘With strychnine? No way. As I said before, it’s hardly a comfortable way to go, is it? Now if it was morphine, I could see that, but strychnine? Not a chance,’ said Chakrabortty.

  ‘But what if whoever killed him couldn’t get hold of morphine? If they felt strongly enough, maybe someone could justify two to three hours of pain to relieve Yates of twelve months stuck dying in that place?’

  Chakrabortty blew her lips. ‘That’s for you to decide, Jane, but in my view, anyone looking to euthanize another human being they cared anything for would never use something as toxic as strychnine. It really is a horrible way to die.’

  Phillips felt her face and shoulders sag as her mind pictured Michael Yates’s last hours alive. Chakrabortty obviously noticed. ‘Sorry, Jane. That was insensitive of me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Phillips waved her away. ‘Whether I knew him or not, I need all the facts and unpleasant details. This can be no different to any other murder I investigate.’

  The pair sat in silence for a long moment. Chakrabortty finally broke the deadlock as she pulled her laptop across the desk and began typing. ‘I’m emailing my report over to you now.’

  ‘Thanks, Tan.’ Phillips exhaled loudly. ‘Right. Is there anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Those are the main headlines.’

  Phillips stood. ‘I’ll be getting back, then.’

  Chakrabortty followed her out. ‘So, how’s life after Fox, then?’ she asked as they walked side by side down the corridor.

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, now she’s chief constable, I am still kind of working for her, but day to day, I must say, it’s much easier under Carter. He’s a totally different animal altogether.’

  ‘I’ve heard good things about the new chief super,’ said Chakrabortty. ‘He’s from the North East, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s a Geordie and a massive Newcastle United fan,’ said Phillips as they reached the door.

  Chakrabortty smiled. ‘Well, we won’t hold that against him.’

  Phillips returned her smile. ‘Thanks Tan, and sorry for getting a bit choked in there.’

  ‘You’re only human, Jane. As much as it’s my job to examine dead bodies every day, even I get upset with some cases. So cut yourself some slack, hey?’

  Phillips patted her on the arm and nodded. ‘I will, Tan,’ she said, as she opened the exit door, then stepped through.

  Ten minutes later, the barrier to the car park lifted and she edged the squad car out into the midmorning traffic and back towards Ashton House.

  Thirty minutes later, Phillips walked into the MCU office. Jones was sat alone at one of four desks positioned in the middle of the room. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

  Jones looked up from his computer as she dropped into the chair opposite him. ‘Bov and Entwistle have gone to the canteen to get a bacon roll each. Their “second breakfasts”, they called it.’

  ‘Entwistle’s having a second breakfast? That’s not like him. For Bov, that’s standard, but Entwistle?’

  ‘Apparently he’s doing a triathlon next month and needs the calories,’ said Jones.

  Phillips exhaled loudly. ‘I really don’t know where he gets the energy.’

  At that moment, the office door opened behind her and chatter filtered into the room. Phillips swivelled in the chair to see the remaining members of her core team, DCs Bovalino and Entwistle, making their way in, each with a sandwich in one hand and a hot drink in the other. The two men could not be more different in size and shape; at six-foot-four and nineteen stone of muscle, Bovalino was unusually tall and wide for a man of Italian descent, but still boasted the trademark swarthy skin and dark hair of his lineage. Entwistle, on the other hand, although also over six feet tall, was slim and athletic, his mixed-race features chiselled and always smooth-shaven and moisturised.

  Phillips spied their quarry. ‘Anything for a hungry DCI in that lot?’

  Both men looked at their food and drink, then back at Phillips.

  ‘No. Sorry, Guv,’ said Bovalino. ‘I can go back and get you something if you like?’

  Phillips smiled. ‘You would, too, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Anything for the boss,’ replied the big Italian.

  ‘Brown nose! Brown nose!’ teased Jones.

  ‘Piss off, Jonesy,’ said Bovalino with a grin.

  Phillips let them both off the hook. ‘I’m fine. I’ll get something in a minute. For now, I want to talk to you about Yates.’

  Both men took seats at their desks and for the next few minutes, whilst they devoured their sandwiches, Phillips brought them up to speed on the results of the post mortem.

  When she was finished, Jones was the first to speak. ‘So, Evans was right and we’re looking for an old-school poisoner?’

  ‘It’s all a bit Victorian, isn’t it?’ said Bov.

  Phillips placed her palms flat on the desk in front of her. ‘It’s certainly not something I’ve ever come across in twenty years of policing.’

  Entwistle finished his sandwich and threw the wrapper in the waste bin. ‘Jones mentioned you knew the victim, Guv.’

  Phillips raised an eyebrow and glanced at her second in command. ‘Did he, now?’

  Jones blushed slightly. ‘It just sort of came out, Guv.’

  Phillips turned back to Entwistle. ‘Yes, I knew Michael Yates – or Mr Yates – when he taught me in sixth form. He was a good guy. In fact, I can’t quite believe the brilliant man I knew ended up alone in a care home.’

  Bovalino shuddered. ‘If I ever get like that, take me to the bottom of the garden and shoot me, will you?’

  ‘There’ll be a queue, mate,’ chuckled Jones.

  The big man responded with a playful V-sign.

  Phillips continu
ed. ‘So, what can you tell me about the last thirty years of Yates’s life?’

  Bovalino opened his notepad. ‘I’ve spoken to the headmistress at the school—’

  ‘What was her name?’ Phillips cut him off.

  Bovalino glanced at his notes. ‘Mrs Braithwaite. Was she one of your teachers?’

  Phillips shook her head. ‘No. Must’ve joined after my time.’

  He continued. ‘Anyway, Yates took early retirement at fifty-five based on health grounds. Seems he had a heart condition that became very serious a few years after he stepped down. According to the headmistress, Yates hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from the school, but she had heard from one of the parents that he was unable to live at home because of his issues. Soon after, he was placed into care by social services.'

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Just that he was resolutely single and was rumoured to have left everything in his will to the South Manchester Dogs’ Home.’

  ‘According to whom?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Another one of the parents. At least, that’s what the headmistress said.’

  Phillips rolled her eyes. ‘That sounds exactly like the gossipy old biddies that live in Didsbury. My mother included.’

  ‘Is that the lot?’

  ‘So far, Guv, but I’ll keep digging,’ said Bovalino.

  ‘Do. And take a proper look at his will, will you? Let’s see if anyone stood to inherit from his estate – or if it was changed recently. You’re looking for anything unusual. You know the drill.’

  Bovalino nodded.

  Phillips turned to Entwistle. ‘And what about Dr Goodwin’s alibi?’

  ‘Solid as a rock. There’s even video on the society’s Facebook page of her and Dr Singh presenting at the dinner. Stood on stage in front of a hundred guests.’

  ‘Anything in her background of note?’

  ‘No, Guv. It seems she’s a pillar of the community.’

  Phillips scoffed and folded her arms against her torso. ‘And so was Harold Shipman. Let’s not forget he was lauded by his community right up until they realised he’d murdered over two hundred and fifty of his patients. So, no matter how saintly Goodwin might appear, keep an open mind. Ok?’