by OMJ Ryan
With Evans out of sight, Jones locked eyes with Phillips. ‘Are you gonna be ok at home on your own?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got more locks than Hawk Green these days.’
‘Are you sure, Guv? You’re more than welcome to stay at ours for a few days. We’ve got the space.’
‘Let me think. Stay at home on my own, or shack up with a couple of hormonal teenagers for the weekend? I know which one sounds the most dangerous.’ She forced a smile.
Jones nodded. ‘Well, call me any time if you feel uneasy.’
Phillips patted him on the arm. ‘Go. I’m fine.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Go.’
‘Ok. See you Monday.’
Phillips watched Jones as he walked out. The room fell silent in his absence. Images of the killer standing at her front door flashed into her mind, and an icy chill ran the length of her spine. Who was the man behind the murders, the architect of this so-called game? She pulled out her phone and called Control for a second time that evening, ordering a patrol to check her house at regular intervals throughout the night and across the weekend. Whoever the Copycat Killer was, and whatever he was planning next, she wasn’t taking any chances this time.
45
Monday, March 16th
Phillips and Carter sat waiting in Chief Constable Fox’s outer office, watched over by her assistant, Ms Blair. In stark contrast to Carter’s assistant, Cook, Blair made no effort to either make conversation or offer a hot drink – or any drink, for that matter. Phillips wasn’t sure if Blair was an inherently cold person, or whether she was under instructions from Fox to act the way she did. Either way, any time spent in this environment made her feel like a naughty child awaiting punishment from the headmaster. Based on her conversation with Carter on her drive into work this morning, a reprimand was no doubt on its way. Not content with spending an hour dressing down Carter on Friday, Fox had clearly decided she needed to vent her spleen further, so had instructed the chief superintendent to bring Phillips to an emergency review meeting as soon as she arrived at HQ that morning. They therefore found themselves huddled together, awaiting their fate.
The phone on Blair’s desk rang just once before she picked it up, listened for a moment, then replaced the handset. ‘You can go in now,’ she said, her voice dispassionate.
Carter cleared his throat as he stood. Phillips followed his lead.
Fox’s office, as chief constable, was the largest in the building, and the cold-coloured walls and lack of any personal touches – aside from the raft of photos of her alongside the great and the good of Manchester – perfectly matched her own austere exterior. ‘Sit, the pair of you,’ she said from behind her large desk, as if talking to children.
Carter and Phillips acquiesced and took seats opposite her.
As ever, Fox was dressed in her black and white uniform, her spectacles perched on the end of her overly tanned nose. Her shoulder-length hair was dyed blonde and, despite the obvious trappings of a six-figure salary, looked cheaply maintained. ‘I understand you had a visitor to your house on Friday night, DCI Phillips?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. A hand-delivered package from the main suspect in the five murders. Another voice message.’
‘I see from the reports that you called in uniform immediately to check the house?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I didn’t feel safe going inside by myself. I didn’t know if he was there or not.’
Fox’s eyes widened. ‘Well, you have changed, haven’t you? Not so long ago, you’d have gone charging in after him, hell bent on getting yourself killed.’
Phillips didn’t react to the obvious dig.
‘So, tell me exactly what the message said.’
Phillips pulled the pen-drive from her pocket and handed it over the desk. ‘You can hear it for yourself.’
Fox inserted the drive and they listened as the message played. When the recording ended, Fox sat back in her chair. ‘Cocky little bastard, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘Any ideas what he means?’
‘When he says “The Angel of Death walks amongst your own kind”, our initial thoughts are that he might be trying to tell us he works for the police, Ma’am.’
Fox rolled her eyes. ‘Oh God, not again. We just about got away with it the last time that happened.’
‘Obviously we don’t know for sure that’s what he’s saying, but it’s a starting point – and would make sense, given his potential knowledge of police procedures and his ability to evade capture on CCTV and ANPR cameras.’
‘So, what are we doing about it?’
‘Well, Ma’am. As you know, better than most, we have almost seven thousand officers in the force currently. If we take away the females, we’re left with just over four and half thousand. Based on the shoe size and height range identified by forensics – which are both quite small for male police officers – we’re hoping we can narrow it down to just a few hundred.’
‘Which is still a very large number of suspects,’ said Fox.
‘But a lot better than four and half thousand, Ma’am,’ Carter cut in.
Fox pursed her lips as she stared at them both in silence for a long moment. ‘Chief Superintendent Carter tells me you have a picture of the killer’s face, taken from the CCTV in reception.’
Phillips nodded, and fished her phone from her pocket. It took her a few moments to find the image in question. She presented it to Fox. ‘It’s a clear shot of him face on, but we believe he’s wearing a disguise in order to look like Peter Sutcliffe.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed as she inspected the image. ‘God, he really does look like him, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. He’s a dead ringer, if you’ll pardon the pun,’ said Carter. ‘Dr Harris believes it’s all part of the game for him.’
‘Harris? You mean the criminal psych from your old patch?’
‘That’s her. She also thinks we should release the image of him to the press.’
‘Not a chance!’ scoffed Fox. ‘If the public see him looking like Sutcliffe, then the Copycat Killer will become a living, breathing thing. Before we know it, the public will be whipped up into a frenzy and our man will go underground.’
Carter shook his head. ‘Dr Harris doesn’t think so. She believes this man craves attention, hence him reaching out to Jane. If the actual killing was what was driving him, then she believes he would be doing whatever it takes to stay off the radar and continue his spree. The opposite seems to be true: he’s allowed himself to be caught on ANPR – likely to demonstrate that he’s adapted his van so its impervious to the cameras. He risked everything by walking into this building in broad daylight, then sent messages directly to Jane – even turning up at her house. Harris reckons he wants us to know how smart he is. She believes that if we release the image to the press, it could draw him out into the open to see what people are saying about him, maybe even bask in the reflected glory. If that happens, he’s more likely to drop his guard and leave a trace. Hopefully, he’ll make a mistake, and that’s when we’ll have the best chance of catching him. Plus, even with the beard, someone who knows his face well enough may recognise him. Considering where we are, it has to be worth a shot, Ma’am?’
Fox reclined in her seat and linked her fingers together across her abdomen. ‘It feels risky to me. I saw the press conference the other day, and whilst you did well to deflect the question regarding the Copycat Killer, releasing an image that is such an obvious likeness to Sutcliffe will push that theory to the top of agenda.’
Phillips cut in now. ‘As you know, Ma’am, I have a good relationship with Don Townsend at the MEN—’
‘God knows how. The man’s a bloody snake,’ spat Fox.
Phillips continued. ‘The journalist who asked about the copycat theory at the press conference is called Lachlan Sims, and he works for Don. When I spoke to Don the other day, he made it very clear to me that Sims has a raft of research and information on the historical killings of Nilsen, Sutc
liffe and Hardy, etc., and that he’s desperate to connect to our cases. The editor over there is chomping at the bit to splash the copycat theory all over the paper, and keep doing it for as long as it takes us to catch this guy. Because of my leverage with Don, I managed to persuade him to sit on Sims for a while, but he warned me that we only had a few days grace, at best. That was Thursday, and today’s Monday. It’s our view that it’s in our interests to get out in front of it, reduce the noise, and hopefully minimise the impact of Sims and the MEN.’
Fox sat, deep in thought, for a long moment, before eventually sitting forward and resting her elbows on the desk. ‘Ok. Well, it seems like we don’t have much of a choice, does it? Release the photo, but make sure it’s cropped so there’s no chance anyone can recognise the background as Ashton House, ok? We need to at least try and look like we know what we’re doing.’
‘Of course, Ma’am,’ said Carter.
‘I’ll speak to the PR team straight away,’ added Phillips.
Fox removed her glasses and allowed them to hang on the cord around her neck. ‘I don’t need to remind you both just how important the right result on this case is to your department. With budget cuts and pressure on resourcing, merging units going forward is not out of the question. We’ve got five bodies and very little else right now. For MCU to remain an elite team, I’m expecting that to change very quickly. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Phillips and Carter in unison.
‘Good. Phillips, you can go. Chief Superintendent, you can stay. I’m not finished with you yet.’
Phillips wasted no time in getting away from Fox’s lair, keen to put as much distance as possible between her and the chief constable. She felt for Carter, who she’d left behind in the line of fire, but at the same time was grateful it wasn’t her sat in that hotseat anymore.
When she felt she was far enough away and sure there was no one around, she slipped into an empty meeting room and pulled out her phone to make a call. A deal was a deal, and she had a promise to keep.
He answered promptly. ‘Jane. Have you got something for me?’
‘Off the record?’
‘Off the record.’
‘Ok. We’re about to go public with an image of our main suspect.’
‘Really?’
‘I told you I’d make sure you got the exclusive, so I’m sending it over to you first.’
‘You said you’re going public. So who else is getting it?’ asked Townsend.
‘It’ll be sent out to all media in the next hour.’
‘That’s hardly an exclusive, Jane.’
‘Well, it’s the best I can offer. At least you’ve got a head start on everyone else.’
‘I suppose that’s something.’
‘And there’s one more thing, Don.’
‘Of course there is.’ Townsend’s tone was sardonic.
‘In the picture, the suspect appears to be the double of Peter Sutcliffe. We’re convinced it’s a disguise and not what he really looks like, but I need Sims to be responsible with the information. I know he’s hell-bent on making as much noise as possible, but that could cost lives. Please, Don. Think of the victims’ families.’
Townsend said nothing for a moment before exhaling loudly. ‘I’ll do what I can, Jane – which, based on the editor’s hard-on for this story, probably isn’t much. I'm afraid I can’t offer any more than that.’
‘Thanks, Don. I know you’ll do what you can.’ Phillips rang off and stepped back out into the corridor. Checking her watch, she could see it was 10.20 a.m. Despite Townsend’s best efforts, she knew in her gut he would be fighting a losing battle. The story was just too explosive for Sims and the editor to resist. By midday, the only thing anyone in Manchester would be talking about would be the Copycat Killer.
46
‘I’ve pulled that report together that you asked for, Ma’am.’ PC Lawford stood in the doorway to Phillips’s office, a bulging Manila folder in her hands.
Phillips beckoned her in.
Lawford took a seat, placed the folder on the desk and opened it, then began passing across separated bundles of printouts. ‘Pretty much every media outlet has run the picture of the suspect, with at least five hundred words on the story,’ she said.
‘That’s got to be some kind of record, especially considering we only released the photo three hours ago. How many of them reference the Copycat Killer?’
‘A handful of the online blogs and sites, but the majority of the traditional media have just focused on the Peter Sutcliffe likeness. The MEN, on the other hand…’ Lawford paused as she pulled out a thick wad of paper, which she proffered to Phillips. ‘...they’ve gone for it big time.’
Phillips’s heart jumped as she gazed down at a colour copy of the front page of the paper. A huge picture of the suspect took up almost the entire page, positioned underneath the massive headline: COPYCAT KILLER PROWLING OUR STREETS. The next few pages of the file contained further copies of stories that had been lifted from the paper. Historical mugshots of Steve Wright, Denis Nilsen and Trevor Hardy stared back at her. Their individual crimes, number of victims and prison sentences were listed below each image.
‘That stupid little fucker!’ Phillips raged.
Lawford shifted in her seat and glanced down at the floor.
Phillips continued. ‘To them, it’s just a sensational story to drive hits – bloody click-bait – but to us it could mean the difference between catching him or finding his next victim slaughtered and mutilated.’
Entwistle knocked on the open door.
‘What is it?’ snapped Phillips.
Entwistle raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Guv, but I’ve got something on the van I think you need to see.’
‘Show me.’
Entwistle quickly took the seat next to Lawford. ‘I’ve been going through the reported sightings, most of which have absolutely no value, and then I found this.’ He handed across a report that had been processed the previous evening. ‘I recognised the road mentioned – Harper Way – but I couldn’t think why. So I googled it, and realised it runs adjacent to Hollingworth Road.’
Phillips frowned. ‘What’s the relevance?’
‘Hollingworth Road is where the Cedar Pines Care Home is located. It looks like the van was spotted in that vicinity the night Yates was killed.’
‘Did the witness see the driver?’
‘No, he said it was too dark. But there’s more…’
Phillips moved to the edge of her chair. ‘Go on.’
‘Well. I called the care home again this morning and spoke to the manager, Diana Kirby. I asked to see their staff and treatment logs for that evening. She sent them over a couple of hours ago, and I’ve been working my way through them. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, but then I noticed that another resident had been taken to hospital in an ambulance the night Yates died. I called Kirby back and asked who had made the call to the emergency services that night, as it wasn’t in the log. Kirby didn’t know, but said she’d find out. Anyway, she called me back about ten minutes ago and said it wasn’t any of her staff – it was an on-call doctor. His visit should have been written up in the log, but because the patient was taken away in an ambulance, he got mixed up in all that paperwork.’
‘So, do we know the doctor’s name?’ asked Phillips.
Entwistle locked eyes with Phillips. ‘Dr Anderson. The same guy who prescribed Sean Hamilton’s medication.’
A spike of adrenaline shot through Phillips’s body. ‘Bloody hell!’ she said, jumping up from her chair and rushing into the incident room. ‘Jonesy. Come with me.’
Jones looked taken aback. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to Manchester Central Surgery. I think we’ve finally got a breakthrough.'
47
The receptionist at the surgery frowned. ‘Dr Anderson? I’m afraid we don’t have a Doctor Anderson.’
Phillips was in no mood for
games. ‘He’s a locum. I spoke to him here myself just a couple of weeks ago.’
The receptionist’s face softened. ‘Ah right, I see. I only started last week. That’s why it didn’t register. He mustn’t have been in recently.’
Phillips’s frustration was building. ‘Well, in that case, we need to speak to Dr Goodwin urgently.’
‘I’m afraid she’s with patients at the moment.’
‘I don’t give a shit who she’s with. Bloody well interrupt her!’ growled Phillips.
At that moment, Phillips spotted Dr Goodwin out of the corner of her eye as she walked to the edge of the waiting area. It appeared she was about to announce her next patient, then spotted them. Her agitated expression suggested she was less than happy to see Phillips and Jones.
She marched over. ‘Can I help?’
‘We need to speak to Dr Anderson urgently,’ said Phillips, louder than necessary, drawing attention from the waiting patients.
Goodwin pulled them to one side, away from prying eyes and ears. ‘He’s not in today. In fact, he’s not been in for over a week. The agency we book him through said he was taking some time off.’
‘Did they say why?’
Goodwin shrugged. ‘Personal reasons, or something to that effect. Can I ask what this is about?’
‘We think he might have information that could help us identify a suspect in a serious crime,’ said Phillips, playing down his importance.
‘When did you last see him?’ asked Jones.
Goodwin took a moment to think before answering. ‘His last shift was probably the day you guys spoke to him here. I tried to book him in for a few days the following week, but that’s when the agency told me he was out of action for a while.’
‘Were you aware that Dr Anderson treated a patient at Cedar Pines the night Michael Yates was poisoned?’
Goodwin did a double take. ‘Really? Says who?’
‘The manager, Diane Kirby. Apparently he was called out to visit Arthur Mayhew around 10 p.m. He called an ambulance and had Mayhew admitted to the MRI soon after.’
