by OMJ Ryan
‘Lachlan Sims.’
‘And where are you from?’
‘The Manchester Evening News.’
‘How long have you been a journalist?’
‘Just over six months.’
‘I see,’ said Carter, nodding, as if that explained the young man’s outlandish question. ‘Well, as the more seasoned professionals in the room will know, in cases such as this, wild theories – without proper factual basis – may sell papers, but only serve to stir up the public and hamper our investigations. So I would urge you to be a little bit more responsible from a journalistic point of view when reporting this briefing. There is absolutely no evidence to support such a theory. My team and I are focused on uncovering the facts and using all our expertise and experience to deliver justice for the victims and ensure the people of Greater Manchester feel protected. Now, if there’s no more questions, we’ll finish there.’
Dudley’s experience of managing such briefings was evident to see. He was on his feet in a flash, utilising his well-practiced closing statement. ‘Thank you very much, everyone, for coming this afternoon. Any further questions should be directed to my team via email. For those of you that don’t already have it, please take one of the PR team contact cards on your way out.’
Carter’s eyes met Phillips’s as he stood up from the chair. They both knew enough to mask any reaction or emotion to the questions until they were out of sight and earshot of the press pack. Carter led the way back to the so-called Green Room and closed the door behind them.
‘Fuck!’ he growled, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard. ‘I thought Townsend was gonna sit on Sims?’
‘He was! At least, that’s what he bloody well said to me,’ Phillips replied.
‘He caught me off guard, the little shit.’ Carter rubbed his face with his hands, causing it to redden. ‘Fox is gonna go fucking mental when she sees this.’
‘If she hasn’t already seen it, sir.’
At that moment, Carter’s phone began to ring. Pulling it from his pocket, he groaned, then closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged. Opening them again, he presented the screen to Phillips. Fox.
He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, then answered. ‘Good afternoon, Ma’am…’
Despite the phone being pressed against Carter’s ear, Phillips could hear the expletives as if Fox was in the room with them. Making her silent excuses, she opened the door and left Carter to it.
40
‘What do you think about that then, hey?’ said Gabe, barely able to hide his glee as he switched off the TV coverage of the live press conference.
‘They’re on to you boy,’ Bert rasped, struggling for breath. ‘Now they have the van…it’s only a matter of time…,’
‘What? Your manky old transit van caught on CCTV? They’ve got nothing. They even think the writing says “& Son”, which you and I both know isn’t what’s written on it.’
‘Mark my words…that woman detective is smarter than you’ll ever be.’
‘Really? Did you see the shock on her face when that journalist asked her about the Copycat Killer? She almost shit her pants.’
‘So, I’m guessing you put him up to that?’
A satisfied smile spread across Gabe’s face. ‘Yes, but he came up with the nickname all by himself. I like it, though. “The Copycat Killer”? It has a real ring to it, don’t you think?’
Bert closed his eyes and turned his head away.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
‘Just let me die,’ whispered Bert.
‘And have you miss out on all the fun of my big reveal? Not a chance, old man. You’re gonna watch on, from that rancid bed of yours, as I become a worldwide news story, part of modern-day history. And you, you horrible, evil, vicious old bastard, will go to your grave in unedifying shame.’
Bert opened his eyes and turned to face him.
‘Damned for eternity,’ said Gabe, checking his watch. ‘But before I do that, I haven’t finished with Peter Sutcliffe’s legacy just yet, and I need to get my skates on. I have a few more surprises for DCI Phillips and her cronies. Seriously, you’re gonna love what’s coming next.’
Bert locked eyes with him, his breathing shallow. He beckoned Gabe forwards, then drew him in close.
‘What?’
Bert was struggling to speak between breaths. ‘I’ll… I’ll…’
‘You’ll what?’
‘I’ll see you in hell!’
41
Back in her office, Phillips closed the door and dialled Don Townsend’s number.
He answered promptly. ‘I’ve been expecting your call. I saw the presser.’
‘What the fuck was that all about, Don? You told me Sims was under control.’
‘I thought he was, Jane, but the little shit went off-piste.’
‘I hope you tore him a new arsehole?’
‘Well, I was just about to when he came back to the office, but the editor beat me to him and had a very different view; loves the sound of the Copycat Killer and wants to know everything Sims has on the guy.’
‘That story cannot happen, Don.’
‘What are you not telling me, Jane?’
Phillips paused for a moment and contemplated coming clean with Townsend, something she would never have done in the past. But their relationship had changed. When the love of his life had been found hanged last year at someone else’s hand, it was Phillips and her team who had found Vicky’s killer and put him away for life. Since then, she and Townsend had developed a mutual respect for each other, but that still didn’t mean she could trust him with the facts of this case. ‘If I thought it would help, Don, I’d tell you, but it’s just too complicated at the moment to explain. Please, I need some time – just a few days, even – to deal with the fallout from the press conference so I can track that van. If the Copycat Killer angle comes out now, it’ll overshadow everything and stir up a public shit storm I won’t be able to control. Please, Don.’
‘If I could, I would,’ said Townsend, ‘but the editor’s salivating. He has an exclusive and he wants to run with it before anyone else picks up on it.’
Phillips rubbed her forehead with her fingers. ‘I didn’t want to do this, Don, but you owe me. We both know that.’
Townsend remained silent on the end of the phone.
‘Think about how you felt when I was chasing after Zhang Shing. What he did to Jonesy, what he nearly did to me. Well, there’s a guy out there who makes Shing look like a boy scout, and he won’t stop unless I catch him. He’s killed four that we know of so far, maybe even five—’
‘So you are looking for a serial killer?’
‘Yes,’ Phillips said, reluctantly. ‘And in the last month I’ve had to sit down with four of the victims’ families and friends and tell them their loved ones have been murdered. Just like I had to with you when Vicky was killed. I know the exclusive is important, Don, but so is catching this guy before he kills again.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Phillips could hear Townsend’s heavy breathing. ‘Ok, Jane. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’
Phillips let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Don.’
‘But I want the exclusive on anything you can tell me about the case, as soon as it’s available.’
‘Deal.’
‘Well, you’d better get your arse in gear, Jane, because Sims is not going to let this go and neither is the editor. Whatever time I can buy you will be short.’
‘Don’t worry, I hear you.’
‘Right. Wish me luck,’ said Townsend, then hung up.
Phillips blew her lips and stared out across the incident room. Even with the door closed, she could hear the phones ringing off the hook outside. This always happened after a TV appeal, as every attention-seeking wannabe and do-gooder in the city called in with ‘information.’ Almost every call led to a dead end, but each one needed to be dealt with and processed correctly, as
vital clues could come from anyone. Jones caught her eye and gestured that he needed to see her. She nodded, and watched as he approached.
He opened the door. ‘You ok, Guv?’
‘Yeah, but Carter’s taken a bit of a beating from Fox.’
‘For what it’s worth, I thought he handled himself really, well. Especially the copycat question. I believed him.’
‘Yeah, but the problem is, the journalist in question didn’t. I’ve just spoken to Townsend, who’s agreed to muzzle him for as long as he can, but it seems the editor of the MEN loves the copycat angle and wants to make a big splash with it.’
‘Jesus, that’s all we need. If the killer sees that, he could go underground.’
‘Exactly,’ said Phillips. ‘And then we’ll never find him.’
The room fell silent for a moment.
‘Well, if it helps, Bov and I have a couple of promising leads on the van. One woman reckons she saw it near Dunham Massey the night Galloway died, and another guy says he’s seen it driving around near Brammall. They both seem pretty genuine and very certain, so we’re gonna head out and see if there’s anything in them.’
‘Great. Keep me posted. And close the door on the way out, will you?’
Jones obliged and headed back out to the incident room.
Phillips spent the next few hours in her office, going over the case files for each of the murders, looking for any details they may have overlooked. The last file belonged to Michael Yates, and as she stared down at the crime scene photos of his twisted body, her overwhelming sense of failure returned. She had promised to catch his killer, but she was still no further forward than the day he died.
Her hangover had not yet receded, and she suddenly felt tired, her head foggy. Checking her watch, she saw it was approaching five o’clock. Having been camped at her desk for almost three hours, she decided to get some fresh air.
Once outside, she made her way to a spot she used regularly as a place to think. Out of sight of the main office block, she took shelter from the wind. Spring was on its way and the nights were getting lighter after a bleak winter. The setting sun cast a stunning orange hue across the horizon.
Taking a few deep breaths, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to quieten. ‘What are you missing, Jane?’ she whispered to herself, as images of the five victims appeared in her mind’s eye and she recalled the sad conversations with their families. Trying her best to block it all out, she breathed deeply for a few minutes in the hope it would bring clarity to her thinking. But it was no use. Her head was fried. Suddenly feeling cold, she decided to head back inside and see if there had been any further updates on the TV appeal. Walking back round the corner, she made her way across the car park to the main entrance before stopping and standing for a moment as the revolving door dispensed a uniformed courier. She nodded as he stepped out, then took his place in the door. Striding across the large double-height reception area, Sonia, behind the desk, called out to her. ‘DCI Phillips? I have a package for you.’
Phillips walked over and collected the small padded envelope, then took the stairs up to the third floor. As she stepped into the MCU offices, she was hit by a wall of sound as phones rang, the wider team doing their best to keep up with the influx of information. Heading into her office, she closed the door and inspected the package. Her name had been handwritten on the front, but there were no sender’s details. She pulled it open and peered inside, then pulled out the small pen drive contained within and held it in the palm of her hand for a moment. ‘What’s this?’ she mumbled as she took a seat and plugged it into her laptop. The portable disk icon appeared on screen in her list of drives, but was greyed out. Clicking on it furiously, nothing happened. She shouted for Entwistle, who appeared at the door a moment later.
‘What’s up, Guv?’
‘Can you have a look at this? I can’t access this pen drive.’
Entwistle moved to where he could see the screen. ‘Looks like it’s locked,’ he said, then ejected the drive. He fiddled with it for a brief moment, then reinserted it. ‘It should work now,’ he added, and clicked on it again.
An audio bar opened on the screen and began playing automatically. What Phillips heard made her blood run cold.
‘I'm Jack. I see you are still having no luck catching me.’ The voice on the audio was distorted, but unmistakably North East. ‘I have the greatest respect for you, Jane, but Lord! You are no nearer to catching me now than you were five weeks ago when I started with old Mr Yates. I reckon your boys are letting you down, Jane. They can't be much good, can they? You’re having no luck finding me, are you?’
Phillips paused the audio and stared, wide-eyed, at Entwistle. ‘It sounds exactly the same as the guy who pretended to be Peter Sutcliffe back in the eighties. The hoaxer. What was his name?’
‘Wearside Jack,’ said Entwistle.
Phillips pressed play again.
‘I hear you’re the best detective there is, that if anyone can catch me, it’s you, Jane. Well, if that’s the case, you need to look a little closer to home. That way, you may find that what you’ve been looking for is right under your nose. Good luck, Jane. I’m looking forward to seeing how good you really are.’
The audio ended.
‘Do you think that’s really him, Guv, or just some nutter getting in on the drama?’
Phillips shook her head. ‘It’s him, I’m sure of it. No-one outside of this team, with the exception of Fox, knows that Yates is connected to the other four murders. It has to be him.’
‘What do you think he meant about “looking closer to home?”.’
‘No idea,’ she said, then pressed play again.
For the next ten minutes they played the audio file on repeat, trying desperately to decipher what it meant, but struggled to make sense of the message. Dropping her head into her hands in frustration, the padded envelope caught her eye and, in particular, the handwriting – a messy, almost frenzied scrawl. Then it hit her. ‘It was hand delivered,’ she said, jumping up from the chair and grabbing Entwistle by the shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ she added as she dragged him out of the office.
‘Sonia, who delivered this package?’ said Phillips.
The urgency of Phillip’s tone seemed to catch the receptionist off guard. ‘Erm, I don’t know, Ma’am. I didn’t really pay much attention.’
Phillips felt her jaw clench as she attempted to hide her frustration. ‘Think, Sonia. It’s important.’
Sonia was well and truly flustered. ‘I’m not sure. I think he had a hat on, a beard or a moustache, maybe.’
‘What about his accent? Did you notice where he was from?’
‘No. I don’t think he spoke.’
‘Damn it!’ Phillips growled.
Tears welled in Sonia’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. I just see so many faces each day.’
Phillips realised she was taking her frustrations out on someone who didn’t deserve them. It wasn’t Sonia’s fault the killer was now openly mocking their lack of progress on the case. ‘Listen. I’m the one who should be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
Sonia flashed a soft smile and wiped a single tear from her cheek.
‘Can you remember when it was delivered?’ asked Phillips.
‘Not long before I gave it to you.’
‘Which was just after five, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so, yes,’ said Sonia.
‘We can check for sure on the CCTV, Guv,’ suggested Entwistle.
‘Good idea,’ said Phillips. In no mood to hang around, she marched off in the direction of the security team’s office.
It didn’t take long to find the footage they were looking for and, having dismissed the security manager, Phillips and Entwistle watched alone as the video played on the screen in front of them. According to the timestamp, at just after 5 p.m. a man wearing glasses and a brown uniform, complete with baseball cap, entered Ashton House through the revolving door, where he proceeded to the reception desk
carrying the small padded envelope.
‘I’m sure that’s the guy I saw coming out of the door when I was coming back in,’ said Phillips.
The video continued. As Sonia had suggested, the man appeared not to speak as he handed the envelope over, then swiftly turned and made his way back to the door. Phillips paused the feed, capturing the man’s face on screen. ‘Look at that – the beard. He’s a dead ringer for Peter Sutcliffe.’
‘God, he is, isn’t he?’ said Entwistle.
Phillips allowed the feed to play once more. Just moments before the man reached the main door, he glanced up, looked straight into the camera, and offered a wicked grin.
‘Holy shit,’ Phillips muttered.
A split second later, Phillips appeared on screen as she walked into reception and over to the desk to speak to Sonia, before taking the package and heading upstairs.
Phillips clasped her hands to the side of her head. ‘The killer was right under my nose… and I missed him!’
42
Friday, March 12th
First thing the next morning, Phillips gathered the core team in the conference room, along with Dr Harris. She played them the audio file from the killer, followed by a YouTube clip from a Ripper documentary that contained the original message recorded by the man dubbed Wearside Jack.
‘The first part is identical,’ said Phillips. ‘The second bit is his own words.’
Bovalino blew his lips and linked his fingers on top of his head. ‘He must have some balls, mind. He took a huge risk walking in here with that package.’
‘He’s ramping up the game now, bringing it to your door,’ said Harris.
‘Why now? Why take the risk when so far he’s revealed so little of himself?’ asked Phillips.
‘Like I said before, he’s showing you just how clever he is,’ said Harris. ‘So clever, in fact, that he – the most wanted man in the country right now – can wander into the headquarters of the Greater Manchester Police, and when he’s done, walk straight back out again.’
