by OMJ Ryan
‘Not at this stage. There’s nowt here, so nothing to nick. I just check in and make sure no one’s fly-tipping or using it as a temporary caravan park, if you know what I mean?’
‘Travellers?’ said Jones.
Macintosh nodded. ‘So far so good on that score.’
‘Well, thank you, Julian,’ said Phillips. ‘You’ve been very helpful, and I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your time. We’d better let you get on.’
Macintosh checked his watch. ‘Yeah, I’m running about an hour behind, now.’
‘Well, if your next client gives you any grief, you point him in my direction,’ said Phillips warmly.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Macintosh with a cheeky wink, then turned and walked back to his van.
Phillips and Jones set off back in the direction of the fire, which the fire crew finally seemed to be getting under control. She pulled out her phone and called Entwistle.
‘Guv?’ he answered.
‘Where are we at with that transit van search?’
‘We’re working through them at the moment, speaking to the owners on the database, but so far there’s nothing of note.’
‘Well, a witness here said he saw a similar-looking van when he arrived on site this morning. Reckons it had some white writing on the side that may have said “…& son”, but he can’t be sure. Still, keep that in mind when you and the team are speaking to the owners.’
‘Will do. I’ll send an email to the guys now,’ said Entwistle.
‘We can’t be sure there’s any connection to the deaths, but we should keep an open mind to it.’
‘Of course, Guv.’
Phillips hung up and turned to Jones. ‘Give Evans a call. We need him to look at what’s left of the fire, as well as the tyre tracks from that van, and get that lane cordoned off urgently. I don’t want anything to disturb those tyre tracks.’
Jones nodded. ‘I’m on it, Guv,’ he said, and headed off in Sergeant Noakes’s direction.
16
Wednesday, February 24th
The following afternoon, Phillips gathered Jones, Bovalino and Entwistle in the Major Crimes conference room to go over the crime scene photos that had been sent over by Evans earlier that morning. As ever, Entwistle had been tasked with looking after the technology for the meeting, and the laptop in front of him projected his screen onto the large-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite. The rest of the team were positioned around the large conference table.
‘Right. We’ve got a hell of a lot of open cases at the minute, so let’s crack on, shall we?’ said Phillips.
Entwistle clicked on the folder from Evans, which opened to reveal a host of photo thumbnails. He selected them all and moved them into a slideshow app, which started automatically a few seconds later.
The first images were of the body and made for grim viewing, the arms and legs bent in the pugilistic pose, a common sight with bodies recovered from fires.
‘Evans reckons the body was an adult male,’ said Phillips. ‘No idea on age or race yet. We’ll have to wait for Chakrabortty and the post mortem for that.’
A close-up of the charred face filled the big screen. ‘Jesus, that’s horrific,’ said Bovalino as he shifted in his seat. ‘Why would someone do that to another person?’
‘I’ve been in Major Crimes for over fifteen years, and I’m still surprised every day by what human beings are capable of,’ said Jones.
The macabre viewing continued for the next thirty minutes as they examined each individual shot in the hope of finding clues as to either the killer or the victim’s identity. When they had looked through all the pictures of the body without success, they moved onto the other elements found in and around the fire.
‘Did Evans identify what the chemical element of the fire was?’ asked Jones.
‘No,’ replied Phillips. ‘He said it was all too badly damaged by the time the fire brigade put it out, and the car tyre that was burnt along with the body didn’t help, either. Again, that should be something Chakrabortty can tell us.’
‘When’s the PM scheduled for?’ asked Entwistle.
‘Not sure, yet. I was planning on calling Tan for an update this morning,’ said Phillips.
The slideshow continued, and myriad images of the remnants of the fire came and went on the screen, including a totally charred Samsung mobile phone. The next image that appeared was of a hotel room key, complete with a partially charred key ring. The name of the hotel was still visible, Palatine, followed by the number 3. Whatever came after could no longer be made out.
Entwistle switched from the slideshow momentarily, pulled up Google in his web browser, then typed in Palatine Hotel, Manchester. A second later, an image of the front of the hotel filled the screen.
‘I know that place,’ said Bovalino. ‘It’s just outside the city centre as you head out of Rusholme. The guests are mainly DSS bed and breakfast. It’s dirt cheap and full of asylum seekers.’
‘Well, that’s where we need to look next,’ said Phillips.
‘I’ll go,’ offered Bov. ‘I’ve seen enough pictures of dead bodies for one day.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jones. ‘I could do with a change of scene, too.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Do we have any more images from Evans to go through?’
Entwistle flipped the screen back to the slideshow. ‘Looks like that was the last one, Guv.’
‘Ok. In that case, print a copy of the room key off for Jones and Bov, will you? They’ll need it to show the hotel,’ Phillips said.
Entwistle nodded. ‘It’s coming out now.’
Phillips stood. ‘Right. Whilst you’re doing that, I’m gonna speak to Evans about the tyre tracks. See where he’s at with those.’ With that, she left the conference room and headed back to her office.
A few minutes later, Phillips was sitting at her desk, phone in hand ready to call Evans, when Entwistle knocked on her door.
'You got a minute, Guv?’
‘Sure.’ Phillips placed her phone down. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘The tyre in the fire.’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you remember Denis Nilsen?’
‘The Muswell Hill killer?’
Entwistle nodded. ‘I studied him as part of my degree. When we were discussing the fire in there, it occurred to me that Nilsen also used car tyres when he was disposing of his victims, young men he’d picked up in gay bars. In his confession, he admitted strangling them unconscious in his flat before drowning them in the bath or a bucket.’
‘I remember he strangled them, but I’d forgotten he drowned them at the end,’ said Phillips.
Entwistle continued. ‘Yeah, and when he was done with the bodies, he’d burn them with a tyre; claimed it was to disguise the smell of the burning flesh. In the same way the cruciform position of Gillian Galloway’s body resembled what Steve Wright did with his victims, the disposal of our burnt body has a lot of similarities with Nilsen’s crimes.’
Phillips’s brow furrowed. ‘You think this latest murder could be another copycat?’
‘Maybe, maybe not, but I thought it was worth flagging.’
Phillips considered the information for a long moment, then began typing into her laptop in search of Nilsen’s criminal history. When she found what she was looking for, she began reading aloud. ‘“In late 1980, Nilsen removed and dissected the bodies of each victim killed since December 1979 and burned them upon a communal bonfire he had constructed on waste ground behind his flat. To disguise the smell of the burning flesh of the six dissected bodies placed upon this pyre, Nilsen crowned the bonfire with an old car tyre”. Bloody hell, they’re almost identical.’
‘I know, right? At first I thought it could just be a coincidence…’
Phillips raised an eyebrow.
‘…but you’re always telling us you don’t believe in them.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Phillips picked up her mobile and rang Chakrabortty.
‘Jane. You’re lucky you caught me, I’m about to start my next PM.’
‘When is the burnt body scheduled, Tan?’
‘Based on the backlog, probably not ’til next week, now.’
‘No chance of bumping me up the queue?’
Chakrabortty let out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. With Ashworth still out with the flu, we’re stacked.’
‘Anything you can do to expedite it would really help me out.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You’re a star. Just do me a favour, will you? If you find water in the lungs, I need to know immediately.’
‘Water? Are you saying you think the victim drowned before being burnt?’
‘It’s a theory. A long shot, but something I need to know one way or the other, as soon as possible.’
‘Sure, Jane. If I find anything like that, I’ll call you.’
‘Immediately?’
‘Yes. Immediately.’
'Thanks, Tan.’ Phillips hung up and locked eyes with Entwistle. ‘I hope to God you’re wrong.’
‘Me too, Guv,’ Entwistle stood. ‘I’d best get back to tracking down that transit van.’
Phillips watched him as he headed back to his desk, her guts churning with anticipation. If her DC was right about the link to Nilsen, then they were dealing with something she’d never encountered before: two murders that copycatted two different historical killers.
17
When partnered together, Jones had no choice but to let Bovalino drive. As an amateur rally driver in his spare time, the big Italian had a love of cars – as well as driving them at a terrifying pace – beyond the scope of most people. Little brought him as much joy as being involved in a high-speed police pursuit, but sadly for him, the work of a detective rarely required such a thing. Still, Bov never failed to test whatever car he was driving to its limits, whenever possible. Thankfully for Jones, this evening’s journey from Ashton House in Failsworth to Rusholme, just outside the city limits, had been very uneventful. The early evening traffic had ensured their journey had taken almost twice as long as the twenty-five minutes suggested by the car’s Sat Nav.
As they arrived at the Palatine Hotel, Bovalino pulled the squad car off the main drag and into the car park positioned directly in front of the four-storey red-brick Victorian building. All but one of the eight parking bays was empty, the sole car a gold-coloured, dilapidated E-class Mercedes Benz parked up in a disabled bay, both front tyres completely flat.
Jones pulled the printout of the charred room key from his jacket pocket and checked it was all in order. Satisfied, he opened the passenger door and got out. Bovalino followed him, and a moment later they climbed the steps up to the imposing double front doors. The building itself was in a state of disrepair. Large single-glazed metal windows gave the structure a dramatic air, but on closer inspection, everything needed repainting or, better still, replacing.
‘Bit of a shit hole, isn’t it?’ said Bov, as they reached the front door.
Jones chuckled. ‘You ever thought of a job in advertising? “Come to the Palatine Hotel… it’s a bit of a shit hole!”’
Bovalino laughed too, as Jones took the lead and stepped through the front door.
Inside, they found themselves in a narrow hallway with a long staircase running up the righthand side. The unmistakable smell of damp filled the air, and Jones noted the nicotine-stained wood-chip wallpaper was peeling back from the walls where it connected with the ceiling. The threadbare carpet that ran the length of the hallway had also seen better days.
On the wall to their left was a doorbell with a sticker underneath that read ‘Press for assistance’. Jones followed the instruction, then waited for at least a minute. When no one appeared. Jones pressed it again, over and over this time, until finally a door at the end of the hallway opened. A young woman, who appeared harassed, came into view.
‘What you want?’ she asked, sounding more than a little irritated – exacerbated by her Eastern European accent.
‘Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Bovalino,’ Jones held out his ID. ‘We’d like to speak to the manager, please.’
The woman walked towards them and inspected their credentials closely for a moment. ‘I am manager. What you want?’
She was unusually tall for a woman, her long limbs covered in close-fitting, cheap-looking clothes. Tightly curled, shoulder-length bleached blonde hair framed her angular face, a stark contrast to her thick, dark eyebrows.
‘I didn’t get your name?’ said Jones.
‘Olga.’
‘Olga, what?’
‘Svoboda.’
Jones presented her with the photo of the charred key fob retrieved from the fire. ‘Is this one of yours?’
Svoboda’s eyes narrowed as she inspected the image, then nodded. ‘I think so. Where you get this?’
‘It was found in a rubbish fire yesterday. We’re looking for one of your residents who might have misplaced it.’
Svoboda stared at the image again. ‘That looks like a third-floor key. Wait here.’ She turned on her heels and headed back through the door from which she’d first appeared. A moment later, she was back. ‘All keys on floor three are out.’
‘And what does that mean?’ asked Jones.
Svoboda shrugged nonchalantly, ‘The residents have them.’
‘Can you tell us who’s staying in the rooms on that floor?’ asked Bovalino.
‘Three-one is Mr Abebe. I saw him leave about an hour ago. Three-two is Mrs Balodis and her daughter.’
‘And the other?’
‘Young guy. Mr Hamilton. Moved in last week. Paid two weeks in advance.’
‘Have you seen him today?’ asked Bov.
Svoboda shook her head. ‘Not seen him since the weekend.’
Jones shot Bov a look. ‘Is that normal?’
‘Is what normal?’
‘Not seeing a guest for days?’
Svoboda scoffed. ‘I am not their mother. They pay rent, they do what they want.’
‘We’re going to need to see inside room three-three, please?’ said Jones.
‘You have warrant?’
Jones sighed, already beginning to lose patience. ‘No, love. We don’t, but we can get one, along with a small army of uniformed police with flashing lights and sirens to help turn this place upside down. If you’d prefer that option?’
A snarl appeared on the Svoboda’s lips. It was evident she had no affection for the police. ‘Wait here. I get key.’ She disappeared once again into the back room, returning soon after, a bunch of keys jangling in her hand. ‘Follow me,’ she said as she headed upstairs.
A few minutes later, they arrived on the cramped, dingy third floor landing, where they were presented with three dark brown, windowless doors. Each was emblazoned with a number, 3/1, 3/2, 3/3. Svoboda knocked loudly on door 3/3. With no answer forthcoming, she unlocked it and stepped to the side.
‘Thank you,’ said Jones. ‘We’ll let you get back to work.’
Svoboda needed no encouragement, disappearing back down the stairs in a flash.
Jones stepped inside to find it empty. Bovalino followed him in.
The room was small and unusually clean compared to the rest of the hotel. A petite suitcase stood upright next to the dilapidated single wardrobe. Looking inside the wardrobe, Jones found a few well-pressed T-shirts, jumpers and jeans hanging on a variety of coloured wire hangers. Sat on the bedside table was what appeared to be a self-help book entitled, Live Your Truth! On face value, everything seemed to be in place. Nothing of note stood out, and after checking all drawers and the suitcase, they could find no trace of Hamilton.
Jones blew his lips. ‘Well, mate, it looks like Hamilton could well be our key owner.’
‘As well as the body in the fire?’
‘Either that, or the person that put it there. Let’s see if we can find out a bit more about him from Mrs Happy downsta
irs, shall we?’
Bovalino grinned. ‘I think I’ll leave that one to you.’
As they returned to the ground floor, Bovalino waited by the front door and Jones made his way through to the back room. Sitting behind an old desk, Svoboda appeared startled as he opened the door to the small office.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he lied. 'I’m hoping you might have a bit more information on Mr Hamilton.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well. Did he leave any ID when he checked in?’
Svoboda begrudgingly opened a large ledger on the desk and rummaged through the back pages before pulling out a sheet. ‘He gave me this.’ She handed over a black and white copy of a photo driving licence.
‘Can I take it?’ asked Jones.
The woman nodded.
‘Did he leave anything else? Credit card details or a home address, perhaps?’
‘He paid cash, up front.’
‘I see.’ Jones handed her his business card. ‘If, by chance, Mr Hamilton comes back to the hotel, can you ask him to call me, please?’
Svoboda stared at the card but said nothing.
‘Well, I’d better be going,’ said Jones. ‘You have yourself a happy day,’ he added sarcastically as he left the office.
‘If you see him first, tell him he owes me new key!’ Svoboda shouted as the door closed behind him.
Jones ignored her as he strode back towards his partner.
Whether Hamilton was the body in the fire or the person who put it there, Jones was sure of one thing: providing his landlady with a new key to his poxy room was the least of his worries.
18
Bert was asleep as Gabe entered his father’s quiet room, the only sound the hiss of the oxygen running into the tubes positioned in Bert’s nose. He noted the clock on the side of the bed, it was just after 11 p.m. Gabe looked at his father’s withered body for a long moment before coughing loudly. The noise was enough to wake Bert from his slumber, blinking his eyes into focus.
‘What do you want?’ the old man wheezed.
‘To let you know it’s done. I got rid of the body.’
