by OMJ Ryan
Bert closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘Do you want to know what I’ve done with it?’
Bert didn’t answer. His eyes remained shut.
Gabe continued. ‘Sean Hamilton’s body is now nothing more than a pile of ashes.’
Bert’s eyes opened now. ‘Ashes? How did you do that?’
‘I burnt it on a fire.’
‘Where?’
‘Some wasteland where they’re looking to build houses,’ Gabe said.
‘What did you use to burn it?
‘Petrol, of course.’
‘What else?’ asked Bert.
‘A car tyre, to hide the smell.’ Gabe beamed with pride.
‘Is that all?’ Bert scoffed.
Gabe felt his stomach tighten. How could his father mock him after what he’d done? ‘What do you mean, “Is that all?” What else were you expecting?’
Bert chuckled through his rattling larynx, which caused him to cough up a large ball of phlegm.
‘What’s so funny?’ Gabe demanded.
Bert took a moment to clear his throat into an old tissue. ‘Did you stay with the fire until it went out?’
‘No, of course not. That could take hours. And besides, I had to get away – a security guard turned up at the other end of the site.’
Bert shook his head. ‘Have you ever tried to burn a body before?’
‘No! Have you?’
The old man’s chest rattled with laughter again, which only added to Gabe’s hatred for him.
Bert continued. ‘No, but I’ve seen many people who tried. And unless you stick them in an oven at over a thousand degrees C – like you’d get in a crematorium – there’s no bloody way that body will ever turn into a pile of ash. Far from it.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, you bloody simpleton, that the body you so readily left behind for the security guard to stumble across will most likely be a curled-up mess of charred flesh. But – and here’s the important bit – there’ll still be plenty of stuff left for the cops to identify the body, like his teeth, piercings, jewellery even.’
‘Jewellery wouldn’t survive a fire. It would melt in the heat,’ insisted Gabe.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
Gabe clenched his fists by his side as he attempted to control his anger. ‘Well, there’s nothing left they can use to trace me, and that’s what’s important.’
Bert closed his eyes and shook his head once more. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure, boy. Even the smartest of killers have been convicted on evidence pulled from fires.’
‘Well, I’ll just have to go back and check to make sure, won’t I?’
Bert let out another wheezy cackle. ‘If you do that, then you bloody will get arrested! It’s most likely a crime scene. You can’t just walk up to it and start sifting through the remains. Plus, if it is a crime scene, SOCO will have been all over it with a fine-toothed comb by now, anyway. If that’s the case, you can bet your bottom dollar they’ve already found anything and everything you left behind.’
Gabe knew that what his father was saying was correct, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. He cursed himself for not thinking through the disposal of Sean’s body in more detail, and he vowed to be more diligent next time. At least that way, his father would have no recourse to mock him again.
Bert winced with pain. ‘Get me a shot of morphine,’ he said curtly. ‘Quickly, boy!’
Reluctantly, Gabe moved across to the chest of drawers at the end of the bed and opened the top drawer, staring down at the myriad syringes and bottles of morphine in front of him. For a moment he considered just how easy it would be to give his father an extra-large dose and be rid of his cruel taunts and jibes forever. But doing that would likely come back to him, as well as take away the pleasure of seeing Bert’s mounting horror as the body count grew and his precious reputation as a heroic copper was systematically destroyed, forever.
‘My morphine, boy!’
Bert’s rattling voice crystallised Gabe’s focus, and he picked up a syringe and one of the small vials. Moving back to the side of the bed, he plunged the needle into the catheter attached to his father’s hand and released the morphine into his system. A few seconds later, the old man’s head lopped to the side and his mouth fell open. The man was in a deep sleep.
19
Thursday, February 25th
Phillips sat in the car and waited for her brother to arrive for Michael Yates’s funeral service at St John’s Church in Didsbury, just a short walk from where her former mentor had lived for most of his adult life. She was early, so sat in silence, sipping a hot coffee. The time was approaching 11 a.m.
Her phone began to ring through the in-car system. It was Jones.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning, Guv. Are you free to talk?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got a couple of minutes before I need to go in. The coffin’s not arrived yet. What’s up?’
‘I’ve just got off the phone to Sean’s Hamilton’s older sister, Louise.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Badly, as expected. She initially told me she’d not spoken to Sean since Saturday morning, which wasn’t like him at all. So once I mentioned that we’d found a body linked to Sean’s hotel room, she broke down. Kept saying that her little brother was dead, that it had to be him.’
‘Sounds like a tough call to make,’ said Phillips.
‘I’ve gotta be honest, it was.’
‘Did she know why Sean was in Manchester?’
‘She did, and that in itself is quite sad, as well.’
‘Go on.’
‘It seems Sean had recently come out to his parents, and it didn’t go well. In fact, his father – a religious guy by all accounts – threw him out of the house and told him never to come back.’
‘This is the twenty-first century, for pity’s sake! The poor kid.’
‘According to his sister, Sean decided Manchester was somewhere he could be openly gay, so he moved down a couple of weeks ago, hoping to start a new life.’
Phillips stayed silent as images of the charred remains they’d found on the tyre fire flashed into her mind’s eye.
Jones continued. ‘She asked if she could see the body, to make sure it’s Sean, but I explained that wouldn’t be possible due to the injuries.’
‘Did you get the details of his dentist?’
‘I did, Guv. I’m calling them next, see if we can get Sean’s records over to Chakrabortty ASAP.’
‘Ok, Jonesy. Sorry you had to start your day with a call like that, and I appreciate the update.’
‘It’s all part of the job, Guv.’
At that moment, Phillips spotted the black hearse up ahead, crawling slowly down the road towards the church. ‘I’m gonna have to go, Jonesy. Looks like it’s about to start.’
‘I’ll see you later, boss.’
Phillips hung up and placed her coffee cup in the central console before straightening her ponytail in the rearview mirror. There was a tap at her window; her brother Damien.
‘You’re cutting it fine, aren’t you?’ she said as she jumped out.
‘Sorry, sis. You know me.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, you’ll be late for your own funeral one day.’
‘I bloody hope so!’ chuckled Damien.
Once inside – given the fact Yates had had little or no visitors during his time in the care home – the church was surprisingly full. However, considering most of those in attendance were likely in their late seventies or eighties, Phillips reasoned that for many of them, it was simply something to do and somewhere warm to have a chat with their fellow parishioners.
The priest giving the service was an elderly man himself. He appeared uncomfortable with eye contact, having delivered most of the proceedings with his eyes shut, and showed little understanding of how to use a microphone without causing it to distort and feedback.
After an unnecessarily long service due to
the painfully long eulogy, Phillips and Damien made the short car journey to the crematorium in Chorlton, where they could say a final goodbye to Mr Yates.
Inside the main crematorium building, they found themselves amongst just a handful of mourners, none of which Phillips recognised from their school days. The old priest from St John’s reappeared and, sadly, picked up where he had left off at the church, delivering yet another verbose blessing to no one in particular. At length, the priest finished and disappeared through a door marked private, and Frank Sinatra’s My Way began to seep at a low level through the speakers on the walls. Listening to the lyrics brought a smile to Phillips’s face, and she turned to see Damien smiling too. ‘That’s so Mr Yates.’
‘Yeah, it is. Shall we go, sis?’ asked Damien.
Phillips nodded, and followed as he stepped up and headed towards the coffin where, in turn, they each touched the lid and said their own silent farewell.
A moment later, as they stepped outside into the cold winter air, Phillips linked her arm through Damien’s and drew him in close. He was tall at over six feet two, and well-built with broad shoulders. Just as she had as a child, she felt safe holding onto her big brother.
‘It’s hard to think anyone would want to kill Mr Yates,’ said Damien as they continued walking towards the car.
‘Yeah, it really is.’
‘Are you any closer to finding out what happened to him?’
‘No,’ said Phillips with a sigh. ‘No, I’m not.’
They walked in silence for a moment.
‘It’s no way to end up, is it?’ said Damien. ‘Alone with no one to give a shit.’
Phillips’s chin dropped to her chest. ‘No, it isn’t. He deserved more than that. He really was a great man, and like the song said, “he did it his way”.’
‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, I did,’ said Phillips. ‘But not in any kind of romantic way or anything like that. I mean, I had crushes on some of the teachers at school, but never on Mr Yates. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was gay.’
‘That was the rumour going round the sixth form common room,’ said Damien.
Phillips continued. ‘No, with him I had a total sense of respect and a genuine fondness. In fact, without his advice and support, I’d never have had the guts to go against Mum’s wishes and join the police.’
Damien nodded. ‘It’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it? To be like Dad.’
Phillips took a moment to answer. ‘It used to be.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve been a copper for over twenty years now, and in that time, I’ve sacrificed a lot for my career.’
‘Like what, specifically?’ asked Damien.
‘Like a family.’
Her brother scoffed. ‘Janey, being a parent isn’t always everything it’s cracked up to be, believe me. The lack of sleep, the tantrums, the mess everywhere…and that’s just Grace.’
Phillips chuckled. Grace, her sixteen-year-old niece, was currently proving to be a handful for her parents. ‘Yeah, but Charlie’s still at that fun age, isn’t he?’ she said, referring to her five-year-old nephew.
‘True, but Charlie wasn’t planned. He was the result of our first night of freedom in years – and too many mojitos. Trust me, having a sixteen- and a five-year-old in the same house is no picnic.’
‘Look, don’t get me wrong,’ Phillips countered. ‘I’m not desperate to be a mum or anything, but seeing Mr Yates end up in a care home with no one to visit him, and just a handful of people at his funeral – even after dedicating his whole life to the service of others – well, it runs a little close to home for my liking. Do you know what I mean?’
Damien pulled his arm close to his body, squeezing Phillips’s arm affectionately. ‘I hear what you’re saying, sis, but you’re not Yates. You’re our Janey, and there’ll be no shortage of people at your funeral.’
‘Yeah, they’ll bus in the inmates from Hawk Green Prison, just to make sure I’m dead,’ joked Phillips.
They reached Phillips’s car and stopped.
‘You should come over for dinner soon,’ said Damien. ‘The kids would love to see you, and so would Vanessa.’
Phillips smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
‘And you need to go and see Mum and Dad.’
Phillips felt her eyes roll.
‘I know, I know, but Mum’s always asking after you when she’s round at ours, which at the moment seems like every second day.’
‘Well, you were the one that wanted free childcare,’ said Phillips.
Damien scoffed. ‘I may not be paying her cash, but I’m certainly paying the price for grannie daycare.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘I really appreciate the help, I do, but you know what she’s like: “Do this…don’t do that…you’re too soft on Grace…you’re too hard on Charlie…”.’
Phillips nodded. ‘She always did prefer boys.’
‘Seriously, Janey, she’s driving me mad. I honestly don’t know how Dad copes.’
‘He copes because he’s deaf in one ear,’ chuckled Phillips, ‘and he always makes sure that that’s the ear closest to Mum’s mouth.’
Damien chuckled along. ‘Seriously, though, go and see them. I think it’d do you good.’
Phillips exhaled loudly. ‘I will, I promise. I just need to get a few cases off my desk.’
‘You always need a few cases off your desk, Jane, and therein lies the problem.’
Phillips said nothing for a moment as she considered her brother’s words. He was right, of course, but she was in no mood to start that age-old debate again. She decided to change the subject. ‘Can I give you a lift to the hospital?’
Damien shook his head. ‘No need. I can walk up to the Parkway and get a bus. With the bus lanes, I’ll be there in half the time it’ll take you.’
Phillips feigned shock. ‘Dr Damien Phillips is getting a bus? Are you feeling all right?’ she pressed her fingers to his forehead, pretending to take his temperature.
‘Ha, ha, very funny.’
Phillips pulled him into a tight hug for a long moment before stepping back and rubbing his arms affectionately. ‘Give my love to the kids and Vanessa, won’t you?’
‘No, I won’t, actually. You can do that yourself when you come round for dinner,’ said Damien, playfully.
A smile spread across Phillips’s face and she raised her arms in surrender. ‘Ok, ok, I get the hint.’
Damien leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Look after yourself, sis, and be safe, ok?’
‘I will,’ said Phillips.
‘Right, well, I’d better get to that bus. Those patients won’t get better on their own,’ said Damien as he set off walking towards Princess Parkway, just five hundred yards farther up the road.
Phillips watched him for a long moment before turning back to face the large, imposing crematorium building. Smoke had begun to rise into the morning sky. ‘Goodbye, Mr Yates,’ she said softly as she turned back to her car. ‘I’m going to find the bastard that did this to you,’ she added as she opened the driver’s door and got in. ‘No matter how long it takes.’
20
Friday, February 26th
Just after 1 p.m., the team gathered in the MCU’s private meeting room to go over their findings, so far, on the burnt body case. Entwistle was once again at the controls of all things tech, with his laptop screen projected onto the wall opposite. Bovalino had just returned from the canteen with hot drinks and a selection of sandwiches, which each of them now tucked in to.
Phillips swallowed a mouthful of cheese and tomato before she spoke. ‘So, to recap where we are: after Jones’s conversation with Louise Hamilton, we now think it’s likely that the body in the fire belongs to her brother, Sean. After being disowned by his father when he admitted he was gay, Sean decided to come Manchester to start his new life as an openly gay man. He booked and paid in advance for a two-week stay in the Pala
tine Hotel in Rusholme.’
‘Aka, a bit of a shit hole,’ interjected Bovalino through a mouthful of food.
‘Quite,’ Phillips continued. ‘We’re still waiting on the results of the post mortem, but there was enough evidence at the scene to suggest that the manner in which his body was disposed of carried the hallmarks of Denis Nilsen, aka the Muswell Hill Killer.’
‘Have you mentioned that to Carter yet?’ asked Jones. ‘The fact it could also be a copycat?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘Naturally conceded, but he wants to wait until Chakrabortty comes back with the PM results before he takes that theory to Fox.’
‘God only knows what the iron lady will say when she finds out about it,’ said Bovalino.
‘Yeah, well, that’s not our issue anymore,’ replied Phillips. ‘Thankfully that’s down to Carter these days.’
‘Her head will explode if this gets out to the press.’ said the big Italian. ‘Rather him than me.’
‘Rather him than any of us,’ said Entwistle.
Phillips leant forwards on the desk. ‘Well, it’s a good job it’s not getting out to the press anytime soon. This theory stays between us and Carter for now. No one else in the wider team can know. Understood?’
Each of the team nodded in unison.
‘Based on what Sean Hamilton’s sister said,’ Phillips continued, ‘we believe his stomping ground was in and around the village, and he’d been out there as recently as Friday evening. Entwistle, you were in charge of checking CCTV in that area. What did you find?’
Entwistle activated the screen on his laptop and double-clicked a window so it filled the wall opposite. He narrated the scene as the silent video footage played. ‘This is Sean Hamilton on Friday night, walking down Canal Street at 10 p.m. towards Venus Bar, where he queues for fifteen minutes before gaining entry.’ Entwistle opened another video. ‘And this is him leaving, alone, at 2 a.m., where he heads towards Portland Street.’ Switching to yet another window, he continued. ‘We pick him up at Piccadilly Gardens ten minutes later, where he waits for another twenty minutes, then boards the 147 night-bus home.’
