Deadly Obsession

by OMJ Ryan

  The sight that greeted her made her blood run cold; a ravaged corpse lay on a bed in the centre of the room, maggots and flies feasting on what little flesh remained. A raft of cannulas was attached to the skeletal wrists, and a hissing oxygen tube was inserted into what had been the person’s nose. A TV blared from atop a chest of drawers facing the bed, packets of unopened cigarettes piled high next to it.

  ‘My God,’ whispered Matthews, lowering his gun.

  Jones stepped out from behind Phillips to get a better look, his hand covering his mouth. Without warning, he turned away and vomited.

  Phillips gave him a minute to compose himself.

  ‘Jesus, Guv!’ he said finally, wiping his mouth.

  ‘I think we might have found Bert Anderson,’ she said, stepping as close to the body as her senses would allow.

  ‘How long’s he been dead?’ asked Matthews.

  ‘I dunno, but long enough to become maggot food.’

  ‘I need some air,’ said Jones, and rushed from the room.

  Phillips followed him out, along with Matthews and his men.

  Once outside, she called Andy Evans and ordered a full forensic sweep of the house.

  When she was confident Jones was ready to get to work again, she sent him off in search of the van whilst she headed back into the house to search for clues as to Gabe Anderson’s whereabouts.

  For the next thirty minutes – whilst trying to ignore the foul smell and breathing through her mouth – she searched every cupboard and drawer she could find.

  Jones reappeared. ‘There’s tyre tracks heading away from one of the outhouses, Guv. They look fresh, and I’m pretty sure they’re a match for those we found at the crime scenes. I followed them for about half a mile down an old track that loops back round to the main road. Looking back down the hill, there’s no way we could have seen him from the gate. I think we just missed him.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Phillips, her frustration boiling over.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Jones.

  Phillips handed over a pile of old photographs she’d found in one of the drawers.

  ‘It looks like the van,’ said Jones, as he inspected the top photo at the top of the stack. ‘A bit newer there, though.’

  ‘Yeah, the timestamp says it was taken in 2001. Look at the logo on the side.’

  ‘Anderson’s Produce.’

  ‘Which explains the writing we thought we saw on the side of the van. It wasn’t “And Son”, it was Anderson.’

  Jones stared at the photo as Phillips opened another drawer.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said, lifting out a large sports rucksack. ‘It’s heavy,’ she added, and carried it to the kitchen table. Carefully, she unzipped the bag, pulled out a laptop and placed it on the table before switching it on. Frustratingly, it was password-protected. ‘Call Entwistle. I want to see what’s on this ASAP.’

  Jones nodded and fished out his phone.

  Phillips emptied the remaining contents onto the table. ‘Look at this,’ she said, holding a small digital recording device in her hand. She pressed play, and the familiar, distorted tones of the killer filled the air. ‘Hello, Jane. You must be feeling real stupid by now. First you walk right past me at work, and now you’ve missed me at home—’

  She’d heard enough. ‘Well, there’s no doubt about it. Anderson’s our killer,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Jones looked up from the laptop. ‘I can’t get into this remotely, Guv. Entwistle says I’ll need to take it back to base so he can have a go at it.’

  Phillips nodded absentmindedly, then pulled out her phone.

  ‘You ok, boss?’

  ‘I need to call Carter. If Anderson knows we’re onto him, he’s got about an hour’s head start.’ Phillips marched outside. A moment later, the call connected.

  ‘Jane. Tell me you’ve got good news,’ said Carter, sounding defeated.

  ‘I wish I did, sir.’

  50

  It was going to be a long night. Whilst Jones and Bovalino grabbed some sandwiches for the team from the canteen, Phillips pulled up a chair next to Entwistle, who made light work of cracking the password on the laptop. Once inside, he began scouring the drives for anything that might help them locate Anderson. After about ten minutes of digging around, something caught his attention.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said.

  Phillips leaned forward and inspected the Excel spreadsheet on the screen. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the patient database for Manchester Central Surgery, including their home addresses and phone numbers.’

  ‘Is that something a locum doctor would normally have access to?’ said Phillips.

  ‘I’m not sure. Let me check something…’ Entwistle tapped the keyboard, and a second later, the screen changed. ‘Well, look at that.’

  Phillips hated Excel – almost as much as she hated people not getting straight to the point. ‘What?’ she said, barely able to hide her mounting impatience.

  ‘Yates, Hamilton and Marsh are all on the patient database.’

  ‘Which would likely explain his connection to them, and probably why Marsh was happy to get into the van that night.’

  ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

  Phillips tapped her pen against her teeth. ‘Because who is the one person people trust above all others?’

  ‘Their doctor,’ said Entwistle.

  Phillips continued. ‘We know Szymańska worked at the care home, but how does Gillian Galloway fit into it?’

  ‘I’ll keep looking,’ said Entwistle.

  Phillips patted him on the shoulder as she stood and made her way over to her office. Unlocking the door, she moved across the darkened room, dropped into her chair, and closed her eyes for a moment. She felt overwhelmingly frustrated; they had come so close to catching Anderson and now he could be anywhere. Her eyes remained closed for a few minutes as she replayed the events of the day in her mind’s eye.

  ‘I’ve found something,’ said Entwistle, rousing her from her thoughts.

  Phillips opened her eyes and switched on the desk lamp as Entwistle placed the laptop in front of her. ‘Remember Gillian Galloway went on a date the night she died? The guy who the landlord said looked like a Thunderbird and carried her out of the pub?’

  ‘Yeah, his name was Conrad Eve, wasn’t it?’

  Entwistle tapped the laptop keyboard, and the familiar Tinder photo of the man on the beach appeared on the screen. ‘Meet Conrad,’ he said. ‘Based on their messages to each other, Anderson was posing as Conrad, and he was definitely the guy she met in the pub that night.’

  Phillips stared at the image of the gorgeous, tanned young man. ‘God. She must have been disappointed when Anderson showed up. I mean, he looks absolutely nothing like that fella. I’d have run out the door if it was me.’

  ‘Galloway’s flatmate said she was a kind soul. Maybe she took pity on him,’ said Entwistle.

  ‘And in return he spiked her drink and strangled her,’ replied Phillips. ‘The poor thing.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a voicemail, Guv,’ said Entwistle pointing at the flashing light on the desk phone console.

  ‘Oh, God. The only person that uses that is Fox, which usually means I’m in for a bollocking.’ Phillips huffed as she pressed the message button.

  ‘Hello, Jane.’ It was Anderson’s voice, this time without any effects, the accent all his own. ‘You were so close, Jane. So, so close. In fact, if it wasn’t for your boys in blue and their sirens blaring across the Cheshire countryside, I’d probably be sitting in one of your cells right now. I must remember to thank the firearms boys when I see them next.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not sure how you found my hide-out, but Bert was right: you are a smart girl, Jane. And a much better detective than he ever was, the drunken old fool. Anyway, I expect he’s told you everything he knows by now, but I can assure you, it won’t help; I’m still one step ahead of you. You see, dear old Bert only knows the basics of
my plan, and he has absolutely no idea what’s coming next. But don’t worry. You will, soon enough. If you want to find me, all you need to do is solve the clue that I gave you. Think hard, Jane, because the answers you seek are right in front of you, literally staring you in the face.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When this is all over, I’m looking forward to meeting you, Detective Chief Inspector. I really am.’ The message ended.

  Phillips’s brow furrowed as she considered his words. ‘What did he mean when he said his dad would have told us everything by now? Evans reckons if that body belongs to Bert Anderson, he’s been dead for over a month.’

  At that moment, Jones and Bov walked back into the incident room carrying food.

  ‘In here, guys,’ Phillips shouted.

  As both men stepped inside her office, Phillips replayed the message.

  When it finished, Jones’s immediate reaction was the same hers. ‘His dad’s told us everything? His dad’s bloody maggot food!’

  Phillips turned to Entwistle. ‘Can you trace the call?’

  ‘Depends if it came through the switchboard or direct to your extension,’ Entwistle picked up the handset and dialled 1471. They were in luck. ‘He dialled you directly,’ he said as he wrote down the mobile number used to make the call. ‘I’ll get a trace on it right away.’ He left the room.

  Picking up her own mobile, Phillips called Dr Harris.

  ‘Hi Jane. I hear you’ve identified the killer. Congratulations.’

  Phillips was in no mood for faint praise. Until Anderson was in custody, they’d achieved nothing. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re still in the building, are you?’

  ‘I am. I was just finishing up with the chief super.’

  ‘Would you mind popping down to my office. I have something I’d like your take on.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll come down now.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Phillips hung up.

  Bovalino must have overheard what the doctor had said. ‘Been shagging Dirty Harry, has she?’ he joked.

  ‘Who told you that?’ said Phillips curtly.

  The big Italian raised his hands in defence. ‘It was just a joke, Guv.’

  ‘Well, we can do without shitty rumours like that going round the station, and this is no time for fucking about, Bov.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He looked like a chastised schoolboy.

  Phillips shook her head and blew her lips. ‘No, mate. It’s me that should be sorry. I’m just so bloody frustrated at how close we came to catching this bastard, and I’m taking it out on you.’

  Bovalino offered a coy smile and handed her a cheese sandwich. ‘Peace offering?’

  Phillips grabbed the packet. ‘You spoil me sometimes,’ she said with a chuckle.

  ‘It’s the Latin blood in me, Guv,’ he replied, before demolishing half of his own baguette in one bite.

  Harris examined the photos of the body at the farmhouse. ‘It looks reminiscent of an old field hospital.’

  ‘The SOCO team found vials of morphine, as well as a bunch of empty oxygen tanks,’ confirmed Jones.

  ‘As he’s a practising doctor, he could well have been treating his father at home,’ Harris said.

  ‘I get that might have been happening at some point, but why did he say his father was likely to tell us everything when his body has been rotting in the cellar for weeks?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘Two options, as I see it. The first, he’s continuing the game, speaking metaphorically and suggesting his father’s body would somehow explain his crimes—’

  ‘And the second?’ pressed Phillips.

  ‘He’s suffering from schizophrenia or similar mental health issues and he believes his father is somehow still alive. As was the case with Graham Young and Peter Sutcliffe, schizophrenia is a common trait amongst vicious killers, and it’s often the voices they hear that urge them to murder.’

  Jones folded his arms across his chest. ‘I understand that some people hear voices, Doc, but nobody on earth could believe that the body in that bed was still a living, breathing thing. I mean, the stench was ungodly, and there were literally millions of flies down there, not to mention maggots had eaten the eyeballs and tongue down to virtually nothing.’

  ‘Sergeant, the brain is the most powerful organ in the human body,’ said Harris, firmly. ‘People suffering from a condition such as schizophrenia live in an alternate reality. If Anderson believes his father is still alive, then where you and I would see a skeletal corpse, he sees his father exactly as he was when alive. They’ll have conversations that appear real, but are likely just echoes of memories, replaying within his own mind. In fact, if he was treating his father, then his death could have been the event that triggered the delusions. Trauma is a common root cause for schizophrenic behaviour.’

  ‘Ok, so what next?’ said Phillips. ‘What does he mean about “we’ll know soon enough?”’

  ‘As we’ve seen, Anderson loves to play games,’ said Harris. ‘He’s enjoying the challenge of staying one step ahead of you, Jane, and he’s made the game personal now. It’s about you and him and who comes out on top. I know you’re worried he’ll go to ground, but I suspect the opposite is actually true and that he plans to kill again – and very soon. Considering he knows you’re onto him, I’d say he’ll take his next victim within the next twenty-four hours.’

  Phillips rubbed her temples hard with her fingers as she tried in vain to fend off a crippling headache. ‘Where are we at with the Crossbow Cannibal theory? Any luck with crossbow societies?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to all of them in the North West, and there’s been no new members join in the last twelve months.’ said Bovalino. ‘It’s quite a niche sport, I’m afraid, and no one stood out as being different or potentially unhinged.’

  Phillips tapped her clenched fist against her mouth. ‘Check them again, and this time you’re looking for anyone that resembles Anderson.’

  ‘On it, Guv.’

  ‘The trace has come back on the phone used by Anderson,’ Entwistle cut in.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s an unregistered number, and the phone last connected to the mast at the airport at around 4 p.m.’

  ‘When we were at the farmhouse,’ said Jones.

  Entwistle continued. ‘The call could’ve come from anywhere within a five-mile radius of the mast. It was switched off after the call was made, and it’s not been switched back on since.’

  Frustration gnawed at every cell in Phillips’s body. How could they have come so close to catching Anderson and still have no idea where he was or what he was planning next? She checked her watch: 8.03 p.m. ‘I want all of us to go back through the five cases with a fine-toothed comb. Now we know it’s Anderson, there must be something in one of them that is the key to catching him.’

  Each of the men nodded.

  ‘Would you like me to stay and help?’ asked Harris.

  Phillips smiled. ‘We could be here all night, Doc.’

  ‘Fine by me. Beats going back to that hotel on my own.’

  ‘In that case…’ said Phillips, handing her the Michael Yates file, ‘...see what you can find in that lot.’

  51

  ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ said Don Townsend across the open-plan office.

  Lachlan Sims, the only other person in the room, looked up from his laptop a few desks away. ‘Loving what?’

  ‘The thrill of the hunt for the Copycat Killer. Great name, by the way.’

  Sims smiled. ‘Thank you. It was an open goal, to be fair.’

  Townsend reclined in his chair. ‘So, what’s the plan now? Where are you taking your readers next?’

  Sims sat forwards, bristling with excitement. ‘I’ve just scheduled a poll asking the readers how safe they feel in Manchester right now, and how effective they think the police are. It’s a little bit of karma for Chief Superintendent Carter for embarrassing me at the press conference the other day,
suggesting I was too inexperienced to write proper stories.’

  ‘Don’t mess with Lachlan Sims,’ chuckled Townsend.

  Sims grinned. ‘Honestly, with the historical link to the previous serial killers, this story is a goldmine. There’s so much backstory on those guys. My plan is to run a piece each day this week, comparing each recent murder with its infamous counterpart. A contact of mine at the MRI said the Polish girl’s breast was bitten clean off, which is a carbon copy of Terry Hardy, aka the Beast of Manchester. I mean, seriously, this stuff writes itself.’

  Townsend smiled. ‘Oh, to be young and enthusiastic,’ he quipped.

  Just then, Sims’s mobile began to ring; the number withheld. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lachlan Sims,’ said the voice at the other end.

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘You don’t recognise me? I’m disappointed, Lachlan.’

  ‘Er, well, I speak to a lot of people every day.’

  Townsend watched Sims, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘Maybe, but I’m the only one who knows the identity of the Copycat Killer.’

  Sims’s pulse quickened. ‘The Copycat Killer, you say?’ He said it loud deliberately, for Townsend’s benefit.

  Townsend sat forwards, his full attention now on Sims.

  ‘I’d love to hear more about the Copycat Killer,’ said Sims.

  ‘I know you would. I want to meet.’

  ‘Meet? What for?’

  ‘You want to know who he is, don’t you?’

  Sims’s swallowed hard. ‘Yes, of course.’ His imagination was running wild. He could see the intoxicating headlines in his mind’s eye, along with record sales for the paper, millions of hits online, notoriety within the industry; a book deal even, and all before his twenty-fifth birthday. He tried his best to play it cool, but his voice betrayed his excitement. ‘But tell me, if you really do know who he is, why not just go to the police and help them catch him?’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? They’ll try to bury what I know, whereas you’ll do the exact opposite.’

  ‘Ok, so why meet? Why can’t you tell me over the phone?’