by OMJ Ryan
‘How did he seem in himself?’ asked Phillips.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well. Was he happy, down, scared?’
Anderson shrugged. ‘Normal, I guess. Nothing stood out. Well, at least it didn’t to me, but then I wasn’t looking. That’s one of the challenges of being a locum—I don’t get to know the patients, so I have no real reference point regarding their state of mind unless something is very obviously upsetting them.’
Phillips could feel her frustration building in her gut. Her only lead was turning out to be a dead end. ‘Did he say anything at all that might help us?’
Anderson frowned. ‘Help you with what exactly? What has he done?’
‘He’s dead,’ said Phillips flatly.
‘Dead?’ Anderson recoiled. ‘How?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Oh my God. When?’
‘About a week after visiting here.’
Anderson shook his head. ‘That’s terrible.’
Phillips continued. ‘So, if there’s anything you can think of that might help us trace his movements in that week, it’d really help.’
‘I’m sorry, but he never really said much at all. I didn’t even need to examine him. He must have only been in here for the time it took me to ring Glasgow, then issue his script.’
‘I see,’ said Phillips, barely able to hide her frustration. She pulled a business card from her coat pocket and passed it across. ‘Well, if anything comes back to you, give me a call, day or night, ok?’
‘I will, of course.’
‘Well, we better let you get back to your patients.’ Phillips stood, and Jones followed suit. ‘Thank you for your time, doctor.’
Anderson nodded. ‘Sorry I wasn’t more help.’
Outside, Phillips and Jones walked at pace back to the car.
‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time,’ growled Phillips.
‘What is it they say about witnesses, Guv? No memory and bad eyesight.’
Phillips pulled out her phone and called Entwistle.
‘Hi, Guv.’
‘Do me a favour, will you?’ said Phillips. ‘Go through Galloway’s and Hamilton’s social media. See if you can find any posts or messages that might give us an idea of who they met in the days leading up to the nights they died.’
‘I’ll get straight onto it.’
‘Thanks,’ Phillips ended the call.
‘So we’re no further forward?’ said Jones.
‘No, we’re not, and I’ve got a horrible feeling our killer – or killers – is already stalking their next victim.’
24
Tuesday, March 2nd
Just over an hour ago, Phillips had taken the call from Jones that she had been dreading; uniformed police had reported another dead body. Initial information suggested the victim was a young woman who had been found on a building site in Moston, approximately six miles north-east of the city centre, partially covered by building materials. As the time approached 9 a.m., she passed through the metal gates of the site and parked the car up in front of a row of Portakabins.
Jones was waiting alongside Bovalino as she stepped out of the driver’s seat. ‘Morning, Guv,’ Jones said, pulling his collar up as protection against the raging wind blowing across the site. Bov, as usual, wore his fur-lined puffer jacket and seemed impervious to the cold.
‘Morning.’ Phillips wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck. ‘Is it as bad as you described on the phone, Jonesy?’
‘Worse, Guv. Much worse.’
Phillips felt her brow furrow. ‘Why?’
‘Whoever did it bit a chunk out of her.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Phillips as she moved to the rear of the car and opened the boot. She pulled out her Wellington boots and slipped them on, along with a pair of latex gloves. ‘Show me.’
Jones took the lead, with Phillips tucked in behind and Bovalino bringing up the rear, as they made their way over the uneven, muddy ground. It didn’t take long to reach an area that had already been taped off by uniformed officers. Jones lifted the tape so Phillips could step under, then he and Bov followed her through. The dead girl lay on her back, her wide, almost black eyes staring into space. She had no coat, and her white, blood-stained blouse was unbuttoned down to her navel. Her skirt was pulled up around her thighs, but her knickers remained intact.
‘He hit her on the back of the head with something blunt and heavy, by all accounts, Guv,’ said Jones, leaning forward and pointing at the back of the woman’s skull.
It was hard to see the damage from her position, so Phillips squatted down to get a better look. Fragments of pink, bloody brain hung loosely from a large hole in the back of her head. ‘Jesus, that’s brutal,’ she mumbled.
‘That’s not the worst of it,’ said Bovalino as he stepped forward and, using a gloved finger, carefully pulled the blouse aside to reveal the girl’s right breast. ‘He bit her nipple clean off.’
A spike of adrenaline surged through Phillips’s body as the words landed. She has seen this exact thing before in a case from the seventies. ‘The Beast of Manchester,’ she said as she stared at the open wound, which had partially frozen overnight.
‘You what, Guv?’ asked Jones.
Phillips stood. ‘I’ve seen similar mutilation before, in the case of Trevor Hardy. He killed three women around this area of Manchester in the mid-seventies. Raped them, then battered them to death and mutilated the bodies, biting the nipple off one of the victims. The press nicknamed him “The Beast of Manchester”.’
Bovalino’s eyes widened. ‘Another copycat killer?’
‘Another killer? I’d seriously doubt it, but another copycat murder? It certainly looks that way.’ Phillips removed her glasses and rubbed her face with one hand as she shook her head. ‘Oh God. This is getting out of control.’
Jones and Bovalino stared at her with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.
‘We need Evans and the team here ASAP,’ she said finally, as she replaced her glasses.
‘They’re already on their way,’ said Jones.
Phillips nodded and scanned the site for a moment. ‘Ok. So, who called in uniform?’
‘The site manager, Ben Dench.’ Jones thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets for warmth. ‘He opened up just after seven and noticed the pile of building materials had been moved from their usual location next to the offices. He came to inspect them, and spotted her feet sticking out.’
‘Did he touch the body or the materials?’
‘Reckons not,’ said Jones.
‘Well, we’ll need his prints just in case. Have you spoken to him yet?’
‘No. We thought we’d wait for you.’ Jones nodded in the direction of the site huts. ‘He’s in the main Portakabin.’
‘Right. Well, let’s see what he has to say.’ Phillips ducked under the tape and set off towards the temporary office.
Dench looked up from his desk as Phillips entered a few minutes later, with Jones and Bovalino in tow. She placed him in his late fifties, a portly man with a ruddy complexion and thick grey hair. The office was mercifully warm, the unmistakable smell of gas heaters hanging in the air.
‘Mr Dench? I’m DCI Phillips. Can I have a word?’
Dench nodded and offered her one of the two plastic chairs opposite his desk. She took it, and Jones sat down in the chair next to her. Bovalino remained standing.
At that moment, Jones’s phone rang. He fished it from his coat pocket. ‘Do you mind if I take this, Guv? It’s Evans.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Phillips.
Jones answered it and listened for a moment. ‘Ok, I’ll come out now,’ he said eventually, then finished the call. ‘SOCO have arrived.’
‘You and Bov can go and brief them. I can deal with this,’ said Phillips.
Jones nodded, stood, and left in a hurry, along with his partner.
As the door closed behind them, Phillips offered Dench a thin smile. ‘Our Scene of Crimes officers are here,�
� she explained. ‘They’ll need to examine the body and the area around it for any forensic evidence.’
Dench’s brow furrowed. ‘What does that mean for the site?’
‘I’m afraid you’re shut down until they’ve finished.’
‘How long will that take?’
Phillips shrugged. ‘It really depends on what they find; a day, a week? It’s hard to say for sure.’
A grave look spread across Dench’s face. ‘I’ll need to call all my sub-contractors and tell them not to come in—and my boss. He won’t be happy about this. We’re already way behind schedule.’
Phillips didn’t respond. She couldn’t care less about his deadlines. She had much more pressing matters of her own to deal with. ‘Who has access to the site overnight?’
‘Just me and my assistant, George. We’re the only ones with keys.’
‘My sergeant said that you locked up last night?’
‘That’s right. George is on holiday in Florida at the moment. He’s taken the kids to Disney World, the lucky bugger.’
‘George who?’
‘Darby.’
‘And what time did you leave last night?’ asked Phillips.
‘Well, it gets dark about half four at the moment, so the lads will have left around then. I normally stay on for another hour or so, finishing up paperwork and catching up on emails. So I’m usually away between half-five and six.’
‘Did you notice anyone hanging around by the gates when you locked up?’
Dench shook his head. ‘Can’t say I did, no.’
‘I see from the signs on the gate that your site is monitored by a security firm. Would they have been on site last night?’
‘They’ll have parked up and checked through the gates a couple of times, but they only come on site if they see anything out of place. If that happens, then they’re required to call me for permission. So I’d have known about it if they’d seen anything, and I didn’t get any calls last night.’
‘My sergeant mentioned you saw the building materials were out of place this morning, and that’s what drew your attention to the body?’
‘That’s right,’ said Dench.
‘So were the gates still locked when you arrived?’
‘Yes. I opened them myself, just after seven.’
Phillips took a moment to process the information. ‘If the person who did this didn’t have a key to the gate, how would they get a body onto the site?’
Dench shook his head. ‘I have no idea, unless there’s an issue with some of the fencing.’
‘Have you checked it this morning?’
‘No. I haven’t had a chance. I called you lot as soon as I found her.’
‘And what were you doing last night after work, Mr Dench?’
Dench flinched. ‘Me?’
Phillips nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Er, well, I was at home. Same as every night.’
‘And can someone vouch for you?’ Phillips studied his face, looking for signs he was lying.
‘Yeah, my wife and son. Mind you, my boy's only a baby, so I’m not sure his testimony would stand up in court.’ Dench chortled nervously.
He seemed genuine enough, thought Phillips. She changed tack. ‘Did you touch the body at all?’
Dench shook his head vigorously. ‘No. No. As soon as I saw that lassie’s feet sticking out, I came straight in here and called you.’
Phillips nodded. ‘Well, we need to take your prints in any case. Purely for elimination purposes, you understand.’
Dench swallowed hard. His mouth opened, but no words were forthcoming.
Phillips allowed the silence to linger for longer than was comfortable. ‘Is there something wrong, Mr Dench?’
‘Erm… well, look…I may have touched her.’
‘I see. And why would you do that?’
‘Well. I wasn’t sure if she was real, or a dummy or something,’ said Dench. ‘You know, like a practical joke from one of the lads. So I moved a couple of the boards covering her to one side and pulled at her foot.’
‘So why lie and say you hadn’t touched her?’
Dench rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I dunno. When your sergeant asked me, I guess I panicked. I thought I might get into trouble.’
‘Not as much trouble as lying to the police during a murder investigation, Mr Dench.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.’
Phillips held his gaze for a long moment, then stood. She’d heard enough for now. ‘Like I say, one of the team will take your prints. In the meantime, you’d better get onto your contractors and close the site. No one comes in or out without our approval.’
Once outside, she retraced her steps to the location of the body, where the SOCO team had begun erecting their protective white tent. Jones and Bovalino were deep in conversation with Senior CSI Andy Evans, who had his back to her as she approached.
‘Any ideas what caused the damage to her skull and how long she’s been here?’ Phillips said, interrupting their conversation.
Evans, dressed in his customary white overalls, spun round to face her. ‘Steady on, Jane, I’ve only been here ten minutes,’ he said.
Phillips was in no mood for levity. ‘I'm not looking for details at this stage, Andy, just some idea of what happened and when.’
Evans blew his lips and shrugged. ‘Well, from what I’ve seen so far, she suffered blunt force trauma to the head, something flat and heavy—’
‘Like a breeze block, maybe?’ Phillips cut in.
‘Potentially, yes, especially given the surroundings. And based on the rigor, I’d say she’s been dead approximately twelve hours, although the temperature overnight will have contributed to that as well.’
‘The site manager wants to know how long he has to shut the operation down for. Any thoughts?’ asked Phillips.
‘At this stage, all I can say is it will take as long as it takes.’
‘Fair enough. Just keep us posted.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’ll need to take his prints. He’s changed his initial story and said he did touch the body.’
Jones let out an ironic chuckle. ‘Of course he bloody did.’
Phillips continued. ‘Says he wasn’t sure the body was real or a practical joke from the lads on site, so he pulled her foot to see if it was a dummy.’
‘Dickhead,’ mumbled Jones under his breath.
‘Yep,’ added Phillips. ‘Let’s make sure that’s all he touched, ok?’
Evans nodded, and pulled on his protective mask as he turned back to face the body.
Phillips focused her attention on Jones and Bovalino. ‘Dench reckons the gate was locked when he left last night, and stayed that way until he turned up again this morning. There are only two sets of keys to the site and the other belongs to his deputy, who’s supposed to be in Florida. His name’s George Darby. Bov, check him out and see if he is where he’s supposed to be.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Bovalino.
Phillips continued. ‘So if he’s saying the killer didn’t come in through the gate, then he must have found another way onto the site. Let’s check the perimeter fences, see if there’s any signs of entry.’ With that, she pulled her collar up against the bitter wind and set off towards the boundary.
Fifteen minutes later, they found what they were looking for in the far corner of the site. The temporary metal fencing that surrounded the building work had been forced open at one of the links. A heavy metal bracket that held the two fence pieces together had been shorn in half and, based on the precision of the cut, the culprit had likely used some kind of automatic machinery. Phillips bent down, picked up one half of the broken bracket, and inspected it. ‘Whoever did this wasn’t taking any chances.’
‘Looks like it was well planned again, Guv,’ said Jones.
Phillips turned and stared back at the site. They were at least a hundred yards from where the body had been found, their view of the location obscured by the partia
lly built walls of a number of houses standing between them and the main entrance on the opposite side of the site. She stared at the ground for a long moment. ‘There’s no drag marks in the mud, and only one set of footprints.’
‘Which means he probably carried the body,’ said Bovalino.
Jones nodded. ‘She didn’t look particularly heavy to me, but that’s still a long way to carry a dead weight.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Phillips’s mind raced. The time between murders was getting shorter with each kill, a classic trait of a serial killer growing in confidence. Her gut was rarely wrong, and right now it was screaming at her; whoever was committing these murders was just getting started.
25
Approaching midday, Wednesday, March 3rd
Phillips stood in the incident room in front of the three large whiteboards secured to the wall, studying the evidence they had gathered so far. Various high-res images of the bodies of Gillian Galloway, Sean Hamilton and their latest victim were fixed against the plastic alongside grainy images of their potential historical counterparts. So far, the only link between any of the modern-day victims was the Ford transit van, which had left its mark near where Galloway and Hamilton had been dumped. Evans and the team had taken myriad casts of tyre tracks from the building site and surrounding area, and his team was working their way through them for a potential match at that very moment. They were also still examining the building site where the latest victim had been found, much to the irritation of Ben Dench.
‘What you thinking, Guv?’ asked Entwistle.
Phillips turned to face him, Jones and Bovalino, each busily working at their desks. ‘Are we chasing one, two or three killers? A team, even?’
Jones folded his arms and leant back in his chair. ‘Serial killers normally work alone, don’t they?’
‘Do you see anything normal in these cases?’ she shot back.
Jones shrugged. ‘Fair point.’
‘Plus, let's not forget, some of the most vicious killers in British history worked in pairs, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady…Fred and Rosemary West.’
