by OMJ Ryan
‘He never said anything to me about that, but it may have slipped his mind. Let me check the logs.’ Goodwin moved into the reception area and sat down at the spare computer. She took a moment to log on, then a minute or so to find what she was looking for. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing in here about a Cedar Pines visit on that night. Are you sure it was him?’
‘According to Diane Kirby, yes.’
‘Do you know if Dr Anderson visited Cedar Pines on any other occasions?’ asked Jones.
‘Off the top of my head, no. But I’m pretty sure he will have done at some point. There’s thirty residents living in the home, and they are all registered with this practice. If either Dr Singh or I wasn’t around and he was on duty, then he would have been the first port of call.’
Jones continued. ‘And what about Michael Yates? Did Anderson ever treat him?’
‘Well, the same applies. If we weren’t available and Mr Yates needed attention, then he would have seen him, yes.’
Phillips and Jones glanced at each other. The pieces were starting to fall into place.
‘Have you noticed anything different about his behaviour lately?’ asked Phillips.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, was he moody, agitated, aggressive, hyper, even?’
‘Dr Anderson, aggressive?’ Goodwin scoffed. ‘That man wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I’m lucky to get a hello out of him most days. Not that I mind, though. He’s a very good doctor, and the patients seem to like him. Plus, I’ve rarely seen any doctor who can manage their appointments schedule as efficiently as he can.’
‘I know you say he was quiet, but did he ever talk about his home life?’ Phillips asked.
‘Not really. I mean, I know he’s married and they recently had a baby, but other than, not much else.’
Phillips nodded. ‘We’re going to need his address and mobile number.’
‘Of course. I can get them for you now,’ said Goodwin as she tapped into the computer. ‘Here it is.’ A moment later, Goodwin scribbled the details on a Post-it Note, then passed it across the reception desk.
‘And because of the sensitive nature of the case, we’d appreciate it if you’d keep this conversation confidential for now,’
‘I understand, Chief Inspector.’
‘Thank you, Dr Goodwin.’ Phillips turned and headed for the door.
48
Phillips led the way with Jones tucked in behind as they walked up the short garden path to Anderson’s home, a well-appointed semi-detached property in the leafy suburb of Finney Green, just a stone’s throw from the highly desirable South Manchester village of Wilmslow. She pressed the ornate metal doorbell fixed to the side of what looked like a recently fitted modern door, praying Anderson was inside. When there was no answer, she tried again with the same result.
‘Check the back,’ she told Jones, as she stepped into the front garden to look through the large bay window.
Inside, she could see from the lounge right through to the kitchen at the opposite side of the house. Everything appeared in order, so she made her way back to the front door.
Jones reappeared from the path at side of the house. ‘No sign of anyone at the back, Guv.’
Phillips bit her lip as she considered her next move.
‘Shall we get uniform to sit on the house?’
A muffled noise from within the house caught Phillips’s attention. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘There it is again,’ said Phillips.
‘I can’t hear anything, Guv.’
Phillips moved to the front door and crouched as she peered through the letterbox. Annoyingly, there was a wind-break flap on the other side that obscured her view. ‘Pass me your pen, will you?’
Jones obliged.
Gripping the pen between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, she lifted the flap, just a little at first, but with a slight adjustment she managed to open it fully. ‘Oh my God!’ she said as she stared at the prostrate body of a woman lying motionless in the hallway. ‘We need to get inside, now. There’s a body in there!’
‘Follow me,’ said Jones as he headed for the side of the house once again. ‘There’s a glass-panelled door at the back.’
A moment later, Jones grabbed a heavy terracotta plant pot from the patio, spun, and hurled it through the glass, which shattered noisily. Next, he reached through and released the latch.
Phillips rushed inside and along to the hallway, Jones in tow. A second later, she knelt next to the woman and checked her neck for a pulse. ‘She’s dead.’
Jones exhaled loudly. ‘Jesus, Guv.’
The sound of a dog barking incessantly, along with high-pitched muffled cries, filled the air. They were coming from upstairs. ‘That’s what I heard outside.’
‘What if he’s still in the house?’ Jones whispered.
The same thought had occurred to her, and she swallowed hard as her adrenaline spiked. ‘Stay close. Any sudden movement, get the hell out of the way.’
Jones nodded, and tucked in behind as Phillips padded slowly up the stairs.
A moment later, they reached the landing. The dog’s deafening barking, mixed in with the faint cries, came from behind the closed door to the front bedroom. Resisting the urge to rush along the landing and charge in, she gave Jones silent instructions to check the bathroom behind him at the top of the stairs while she opened the door to the second bedroom on her left. Both were empty, so they continued down the hall to stop outside the front bedroom. The dog was going ballistic on the other side, barking and scratching at the door.
‘I bloody hate dogs,’ Jones whispered.
‘Me too,’ said Phillips, before taking a long breath. Gripping the door handle, she silently mouthed, ‘One, two, three’, then swung the door open. A black dog rushed towards them, causing Phillips to jump with fright. It growled and clamped down onto her trouser leg.
Jones was on it in a flash and yanked the dog away. ‘It’s all right, mate, it’s all right,’ he repeated as he tried to calm the animal.
The sight that greeted Phillips broke her heart: a little baby boy, dressed in a powder-blue sleepsuit, lay in his cot screaming his lungs out, his face red and swollen. She rushed towards him and scooped him up as Jones carried the dog out of the room.
‘There, there. Ssh, you’re ok. Ssh, everything’s ok,’ she whispered, gently rocking from side to side even as she knew the exact opposite was true, what with the little lad’s mother dead, and his father their prime suspect in several murder cases. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and called Entwistle.
‘We’re at Anderson’s house. We’ve discovered a deceased female and an abandoned baby. I need an ambulance and forensics down here immediately.’
‘I’ll get straight onto them,’ said Entwistle.
‘Oh, and I also need a dog handler. Jones is currently downstairs trying to restrain what looks like a manic cockapoo.’
‘On it, Guv.’
Whilst the various teams and services descended on the house and took care of the baby and dog, Phillips and Jones gloved up and joined Andy Evans and his team as they searched for clues as to what had killed the woman. Based on a joint bank account statement pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, along with framed photos scattered around the house, there was no doubting the woman was Jodie Anderson. And, according to a healthcare worker's report – also attached to the corkboard – the baby’s name was Noah, and he was three months old.
After working in separate rooms for a time, Phillips and Jones reconvened in the kitchen.
‘Do you think he did it?’ asked Jones.
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but it looks likely.’
‘If he is the Copycat Killer, then who's this one supposed to be emulating?’
Phillips shook her head. ‘I have no idea, and to be honest, right now I don’t care. I just want find Anderson before he kills again.’
Jones let out a frustrated brea
th. ‘So where the bloody hell is he?’
Phillips didn’t reply, her attention drawn to a grainy old photo stuck to the fridge door. She stepped forwards and removed it. ‘Who’s this guy with Anderson?’
Jones took a closer look. ‘No idea.’
Phillips turned it over to find writing on the back, written by the same hand as on the envelopes containing the audio messages. ‘“Dad’s first farmer’s market, 1999”.’ She flipped it back again and scrutinised the photo further, before tapping the far edge of the image. ‘Can you see that?’
Jones took it from her.
‘Does that look like the rear bumper of an old green van to you?’
Jones’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s not much there to see, but now you mention it, I think it does.’
Phillips called Entwistle once more.
‘I need you to find me the name and address of Anderson’s father, quick as you can.’
‘Give me ten minutes,’ said Entwistle and rang off.
49
Phillips keyed Anderson’s father’s address into the car’s Sat Nav, which suggested the journey time from Finney Green to Styal would be less than ten minutes. Thanks to the wonder that was Google Maps, she was able to source an aerial shot of the old farmhouse and surrounding land, which she shared with Jones. After a brief discussion regarding the available options – recalling a similarly remote location just six months earlier, when Jones had almost lost his right arm chasing down a murder suspect – they decided they should call in the Tactical Firearms Unit for support. There was no guarantee Anderson was there, of course, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Luckily, there was a mobile TFU stationed at Manchester Airport, which meant they would be on scene within quarter of an hour.
As they made their way to Styal, Phillips called Entwistle.
‘Any luck with Anderson, Guv?’ he said, his voice booming through the car’s speakers.
‘He wasn’t at home, but we got a lead on the van. We’re about to check out his father’s address in Styal.’
‘Do you want me to call in TFU?’
‘Already done.’
‘What about a warrant to search the house?’
‘Thanks, but because we suspect Anderson is involved in the deaths of at least five people. We don’t need one based on the imminent threat to life.’
‘Fair enough.’
Phillips continued. ‘But I do need a full background on Dr Anderson and his father, Albert Anderson. Apparently he was a CID detective, went by the name of Detective Sonny. And see if either of them holds a firearms license as a matter of urgency.’
‘I’ll do that right now,’ he said, and hung up.
A couple of minutes later, Jones guided the squad car down the bumpy dirt track leading from the main road towards the farmhouse. He stopped just outside the gate to the property. About five hundred yards farther up the track stood the farmhouse, which, to all intents and purposes, looked empty, derelict even. There was no sign of a van, but with a host of outbuildings surrounding the main house, Phillips reasoned it could easily be hidden in any one of them.
As they waited for the TFU to arrive, Entwistle called back.
‘Any joy?’ asked Phillips.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that neither of them has any record of owning firearms—’
‘Doesn’t mean they don’t have them, though,’ Jones cut in.
Entwistle continued. ‘I’ve only been able to do a top-line check at the moment, but I can tell you Dr Anderson’s full name is Gabriel George Anderson. Date of birth is 29th of September, 1977. He studied medicine at Leeds University, and qualified as a doctor from Manchester Royal Infirmary in 2000. He’s been a GP ever since.’
‘Any history of violence or mental health issues?’ asked Phillips.
‘No record of violence, but all medical records are confidential, so without a Section 23, I can’t get access to any information on that one.’
‘What about the father?’
‘You were right, Guv. Albert Anderson was a decorated detective sergeant in GMP CID for over thirty-five years. He retired in 1999, aged fifty, with a full pension.’
‘That was just before I joined. That explains why I’ve never heard of him,’ said Phillips.
‘Bert’s registered on the electoral role as living at 35 Old Styal Lane, Wilmslow. He’s been there for over forty years.’
‘Anything else?’
‘That’s all I’ve got at the moment, Guv.’
‘Ok. Well, keep looking.’
‘Will do.’
Just then, the whoop of police sirens filled the air. ‘We’d better go, sounds like the cavalry have arrived,’ said Phillips, and ended the call. Glancing in the wing mirror, she could see the flashing lights of the TFU’s BMW X5. ‘Jesus, they don’t do things discreetly, do they?’
‘Well, if the Andersons didn’t know we were coming, they do now,’ said Jones, curtly.
Sergeant Roy Matthews, leader of the TFU, knocked loudly and repeatedly on both the front and back doors of the property. When there was, at length, no response, Phillips gave Matthews the green light to break the door down. Using a hand-held metal battering ram, the TFU boys made light work of the front door, then rushed inside shouting “Armed police!”, their MP5 semi-automatic machine guns ready, the extended stocks pulled hard into their shoulders in case of attack. Butterflies churned in Phillips’s stomach as she waited to find out what was going on.
A few minutes later, Matthews returned to the front door. ‘It’s all clear, Ma’am. No sign of anyone here, but there’s an ungodly smell in one of the rooms.’ He beckoned her in. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
Phillips stepped inside, Jones just behind, and followed Matthews through the dilapidated kitchen. Every surface was covered in empty food cans, takeaway cartons, and filthy plates and cups. As they reached the door on the far side of the room, the stench hit them.
‘Jesus!’ said Jones, clamping a hand over his nose and mouth.
Phillips was forced to turn away as she retched, fighting off the urge to vomit.
‘I told you it was bad,’ said Matthews.
‘God. You weren’t kidding,’ replied Phillips, coughing hard. ‘Where’s it coming from?’
Matthews pointed into the room ahead. ‘It’s strongest just over by the window.’
Phillips breathed through her mouth as she pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves. Then, covering her nose and mouth, she moved carefully across the room, stopping just in front a large rug that has been placed on the floor below the window. The room fell silent for a moment as she tried to pinpoint the exact source of the vile stench. ‘Can you hear that?’ she whispered.
‘Hear what?’ asked Jones.
Matthews appeared puzzled.
‘That low, humming noise,’ said Phillips.
Jones’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t hear anything, Guv.’
Phillips remained silent as she beckoned him over.
Jones moved next to her, and his eyes widened. ‘Oh, yeah. I can hear it now.’
‘It’s coming from under the floor.’ Phillips took a knee and pulled back the rug, revealing a large hatch cut into the floorboards, with a recessed handle.
She glanced up at Jones, then at Matthews, whose eyes were fixed on the hatch. ‘Have you got a torch?’
Matthews nodded, and pulled it from his belt before switching it on and handing it over.
Jones swallowed hard. ‘What the hell’s down there?’
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’
Phillips exhaled loudly, then turned the hatch with a heavy click. It felt surprisingly light in her hand. ‘Are we ready?’ she whispered.
Jones nodded.
Matthews readied his MP5.
Yanking it open, she immediately jumped back in horror as thousands of flies rushed from the darkness below, the buzzing almost deafening as they swarmed around the room. Each of them attempted in vain to swat away the flies, but there were j
ust too many. Beating a retreat, they ran from the house back out into the yard.
Phillips and Jones gulped in fresh air once outside, whilst Matthews regrouped with his men before retrieving gas masks from the X5 and heading back into the house. A minute or so later, every window in the place had been opened. The flies poured out like plumes of black smoke escaping a burning building.
When the flow of flies had slowed to a trickle, Phillips and Jones returned to the open hatch. In the torch light, a set of steep wooden steps was now visible. She could hear voices coming from below.
Jones gazed down into the hole. ‘Should we send Matthews in first?’
‘No chance. I wanna see what’s down there for myself,’ said Phillips, and placed her foot on the top step.
‘Seriously, Guv. I think we should leave it to Matthews and his team. I’m not getting hurt again,’ he said, unconsciously rubbing his right arm where he’d been hit with a machete just six months ago.
Phillips paused. She could see genuine fear in his eyes. She relented. ‘Ok. Call him in.’
A few minutes later, Matthews and his men had descended into the darkness, with Phillips and Jones falling in behind. As they reached the bottom, the stench became unbearable. Phillips could hear the buzz of more flies, along with voices and music. Arcing the torchlight across the wall closest to him, Matthews found a light switch and flicked it on, illuminating the space. They were in a small room. A battered old door was ahead of them, paint peeling from its surface. Phillips’s heart pounded in her chest as Matthews stepped closer. The low hum of flies came from the far side, and the voices were louder than ever, yet somehow distant. The TFU boys made ready with their MP5s once more as Matthews took a deep breath, braced, then grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. Another swarm of flies rushed out. Phillips covered her face and ducked as she attempted to get out of their path. She held her breath for as long as she could before exhaling loudly and uncovering her face.
