Deadly Waters

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘And what time did she leave for work last night?’ said Phillips as Jones took out his notepad.

  Webster didn’t hesitate. ‘Same as always, eight o’clock for a 9 p.m. start. She came here at seven forty-five, dropped off Ajay, then left to catch the bus.’

  ‘Can I ask what she was wearing last night?’

  It was Webster’s turn to looked confused. ‘Her normal work clothes – jeans and a T-shirt.’

  ‘And was she wearing a coat?’

  Webster stared back at Phillips, his expression incredulous. 'Of course she was. It was bloody freezing last night. Why is that important?’

  Phillips dodged his question for the time being; this discrepancy was significant. ‘And did she take a change of clothes with her?’

  ‘No. Work provides overalls and hairnets. She had her purse and that was it. Why are you asking about what she was wearing? What do her clothes have to do with anything?’

  Phillips wrestled with telling Webster how his daughter had been found wearing a revealing clubbing outfit, but as Anya continued to sob into his chest, she decided it was information neither of them needed to hear right now.

  Jones changed the subject. ‘Did she have any reason to be in Miles Platting last night?’

  Webster shook his head. ‘None. To be honest, she wouldn’t even know where it is. She rarely strayed far from Stretford. Shanny was a real home girl.’

  Jones made a note and Phillips took the lead again. ‘How was she fixed for money?’

  The strain was starting to show on Webster’s face. ‘A black single parent earning a basic wage. Hardly a recipe for financial success is it?’ he said, his voice curt.

  ‘And how was she in herself of late? Was she showing any signs of stress, or low mood?’

  ‘She wasn’t very well. The last few months she seemed to have a constant cold and a wicked cough. I kept telling her to go to the doctors to get it sorted, but whenever I did, she’d blow up at me, telling me to leave her alone.’

  ‘And was that normal, her blowing up like that?’

  ‘Recently, yes…’

  Anya continued to sob, and Webster appeared close to breaking down himself, biting his lip as his chest heaved. ‘But she wasn’t always like that.’

  Phillips nodded.

  ‘How did she die, Inspector?’ Webster asked, regaining his composure.

  ‘I’m afraid we won’t know until the post mortem, but at this stage it looks like she drowned. I’m so sorry, Mr Webster. I really am.’

  ‘How am I going to tell Ajay his mummy is dead?’ he mumbled.

  Phillips had been in this situation enough times to know when to quit. The Websters needed to be left in peace to come to terms with what they had just heard, and to grieve for their daughter. She glanced at Jones, who nodded back. He always seemed to know what she was thinking.

  ‘Mr Webster, we will need someone to identify Chantelle in the next few days. It’s not something any parent should have to do, but the sooner we can make the official ID, the sooner this will all be over.’ She passed him her card. ‘Call that number when you’re ready, and I’ll make the arrangements for you to see her in the Chapel of Rest at the MRI.’

  Phillips and Jones stood up and took their leave. As they pulled open the lounge door, Phillips glanced back and saw tears streaming down Richard Webster’s cheeks. Her heart went out to him.

  His eyes locked on hers. ‘Did she suffer, Inspector?’ His voice was low, barely audible.

  ‘At this stage we can’t say for sure, but I hope not, Mr Webster. I really do.’

  3

  The child – Fletch, as it is known – covers its ears and cowers behind the small threadbare sofa, trying to hide from the violence and block out the shouts. But it’s no use. The mother falls hard, face first on the floor, directly in front of the child, and lets out a guttural moan. The man is immediately upon the mother, grabbing her dirty matted hair in his large fingers, which are covered in golden rings. He pulls her up from the floor. Blood pours from her nose. ‘Bitch, whore, slut!’ is the soundtrack to the attack. Yet another vicious attack.

  The man is not Fletch’s father, of course. He’s just one in a succession of violent, brutal men who believe Fletch’s mother is an object to be owned and sold as they see fit. She’s a hooker with a drug addiction so advanced, she’s long since lost any sense of love or care for anything in the world aside from heroin. The shouts and screams continue as furniture is displaced and broken across the tiny bedsit. A door slams, and silence descends.

  It’s not over. Fletch knows this is just the beginning.

  The same way as all the other times, the mother begins to sob, and Fletch braces for what’s to come. The mother clambers to her feet and pulls the leather belt from her disgusting, piss-stained jeans.

  ‘This is all your fault, you little shit!’ screams the mother as she wraps the belt around her hand, the heavy buckle swinging in the air as she walks forwards. ‘He did this because of you.’

  Fletch’s eyes close in silent prayer; please let it to be over quickly.

  The beating begins.

  4

  The door to the morgue buzzed open and Phillips and Jones stepped inside the cool, clinical space. After signing in at reception, Jones took a chair but Phillips remained standing, glancing through various social media apps on her phone – more out of habit than design – as they waited for the chief pathologist.

  Doctor Tan Chakrabortty appeared in full scrubs a few minutes later. ‘Guys, sorry to keep you. It’s been a very busy morning.’

  Phillips looked up from her phone before placing it in her coat pocket. ‘Wow, you’re looking well,’ she said, scanning the doctor up and down. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  Chakrabortty blushed. ‘Running the New York Marathon can do that to you.’

  Jones had a soft spot for the doctor, and Phillips smiled to herself as he took the opportunity to trace his eyes over her long Indian limbs encased in green scrubs. ‘How did you do?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘A PB of three hours, so pretty pleased with myself. I had hoped to go sub-three, but the conditions weren’t great and my right hip started to play up over the last couple of miles. Still, I’m hoping to break three hours in the London Marathon in April.’

  Jones chuckled harder than was necessary. ‘I struggle to run a bath, never mind twenty-six miles.’

  Chakrabortty produced a polite smile and Phillips rolled her eyes. It was a good job Jones was married.

  ‘Shall we go through and take a look at your canal body?’ said Chakrabortty.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Phillips, signalling for Jones to follow the doctor down the corridor.

  Inside the examination room, Chantelle Webster lay on a large metal table. Her body was covered in a light green surgical sheet, her shoulders, head and feet visible. As ever, the room was spotless, housing a collection of sparkling metal tools laid out on rolling tables. The strong aroma of cleaning agents and embalming fluids filled the air, causing a small wave of nausea to pass through Phillips. As much as she loved Tan, she hated this place and what she had seen here over the last fifteen years.

  Chakrabortty walked round to the far side of the table and pulled on first a pair of latex gloves, then a surgeon’s mask. She pulled back the green sheet to expose Webster’s large breasts and bloated torso. Next, she picked up a large scalpel and pressed it against Webster’s chest, ready to make an incision. Her large brown eyes fixed on them both for a moment. ‘I’d better warn you. We can assume she swallowed a lot of canal water and, as you can see from her bulging gut, there are a lot of gases inside her stomach. It’s fair to say, this one is going to smell.’

  Phillips swallowed hard and Jones nodded.

  They waited for the inevitable as she made the incision. Chakrabortty hadn’t lied. The stench was ungodly. A sudden wave of nausea washed over Phillips and for a moment she thought she would vomit. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and fought back the bile r
ising in her throat. She exhaled and swallowed hard, and it began to subside. Next to her, though, rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes, Jones was doing his best to appear stoic. However, his milky white complexion appeared a shade greener than usual. Chakrabortty of course seemed unfazed.

  The post mortem took just an hour and a half. As Chakrabortty moved through the various stages of the examination, she was careful to point out anything of interest.

  The reality was, there was little evidence to suggest anything other than a drowning. Webster’s head was free from abrasions or any sign of trauma, which indicated she was conscious when she went into the water. Her fingernails were painted and intact – if not quite up to the standard of a professional manicure.

  Plus, there were no marks on her knees, wrists or elbows, meaning it was unlikely she had tried to climb out. As expected, her lungs were full of dirty canal water, indicating she had drowned. She had traces of a spermicidal lubricant in her vagina, likely from a condom used in the twenty-four hours prior to her death, but with no bruising or trauma in the pelvic area, there was no suggestion of sexual assault. She also had large traces of heroin in her bloodstream.

  As Chakrabortty wrapped up, Phillips summed up the exam. ‘So, it looks like she was conscious when she went in, but made no effort to get out?’

  Chakrabortty nodded and pulled down her surgical mask to reveal her handsome face. ‘Her shoes are unmarked around the toes too. The walls of those canals are vertical and slippery. If she had tried to climb out, they’d be scuffed and covered in moss, mud and grime at the front. Instead, there are marks around the sides and instep, with traces of water reeds and metal from a shopping trolley submerged where she was found. All consistent with treading water.’

  ‘So, what are we saying? It’s suicide?’

  Chakrabortty said nothing for a moment, pursing her lips. ‘Everything points to it, but that’s down to the coroner and her team, not me.’

  ‘What about the bruise on the neck?’

  ‘I agree it’s unusual, particularly as its almost a perfect circle, but there’s nothing to connect it to her being in the water or her drowning.’

  Jones looked puzzled. ‘But who gets dressed up to kill themselves? And why not just take a shit-load of heroin if you want to be dead. That’s got to be easier than travelling across the city on a bus – in one of the coldest Decembers in history – before walking down to the water and throwing yourself in?’

  ‘He makes a good point, Tan,’ said Phillips.

  Chakrabortty shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know what else to tell you both. I can only present the evidence as I find it. From what I’ve seen, she was conscious when she went into the water and made no effort to get out – not that that would have made much of a difference. In those temperatures, once her body was submerged, there was little chance she could survive the onset of cold water shock.’

  ‘Evans mentioned that when we fished her out,’ Phillips said. ‘Is it true it can kill someone in minutes?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. And it can affect even the strongest of swimmers.’

  Phillips ran her hand through her hair. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me at all.’

  ‘Or me,’ added Jones.

  ‘And you’re sure the bruise had nothing to do with her death?’

  ‘As sure as I can be, Jane. Sorry guys, but in my professional opinion, Chantelle Webster drowned.’ Chakrabortty began to pull off her latex gloves. ‘And like I said, whether it was suicide, accidental or death by misadventure, well, that’s down to the Coroner. My work here is done.’

  5

  The McVitie’s biscuit factory had been a significant employer in Manchester since the Stockport production facility first opened in 1914. Established to cope with the demand of supplying the troops fighting in Europe during the First World War, the site was now a mixture of architectural styles and four times the size of the flagship redbrick building.

  Bovalino pulled the squad car across Wellington Road North and up to the red and white barrier, where a smart uniformed security officer greeted Jones and him with a smile in spite of the freezing temperatures. Following his directions, they parked up in the visitors’ bay and headed inside to the reception, both eager to get out of the cold.

  The middle-aged receptionist’s smile matched that of the security guard. She chatted happily as she signed them in, explaining it would take ten minutes for Jon Springwood, Chantelle Webster’s boss, to walk across from the factory floor. She organised hot tea whilst they took a seat in the reception area, along with a plate filled with chocolate hobnobs, one of McVitie’s’ signature biscuits and a staple in the squad room at Ashton House.

  Jones dunked his thick biscuit into his steaming cup. ‘It’s not often we’re made to feel so welcome.’

  ‘I could get used to this,’ agreed Bovalino through a mouthful of biscuit. He leaned forwards and grabbed another, as if scared someone might whisk them away.

  They continued eating in silence for a moment and finished their tea.

  A door marked ‘Staff Only’ opened and a man in a blue overall and white hat stepped through. He spoke briefly to the receptionist, who pointed in their direction. He crossed the reception area towards them, rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘Are you gents from the police?’ His accent was thick Mancunian.

  Jones stood, followed by Bovalino, his mouth still full of his fourth biscuit. ‘Detective Sergeant Jones and Detective Constable Bovalino, Manchester’s Major Crimes Unit,’ Jones said. They produced their credentials. ‘Are you Jon Springwood?’

  The man nodded. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to you about Chantelle Webster,’ said Jones.

  ‘Jesus. That lunatic. What’s she done now?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Bovalino.

  Springwood looked shocked and blushed. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry to hear that. Did she finally OD then?’

  Looking over Springwood’s shoulder, Jones noted the receptionist was listening with avid attention. ‘Is there somewhere we could speak in private, Mr Springwood?’

  ‘Of course, and please call me Jon. We can go through to one of the offices; just give me a second to find out which ones are free.’ He turned and walked back to speak to the receptionist.

  Returning a moment later, he ushered them through a door off the reception area marked ‘Administration Team’ and guided them along a narrow corridor towards a room marked ‘Conference One’. He led the way into the semi-darkened room with small frosted windows. As he flicked a sequence of switches, the room flooded with artificial light. Despite the fluorescent glow from the overhead bulbs, it felt cold and damp as if unused for some time. Springwood pointed towards the large conference table and, as Jones and Bovalino took seats together, pulled out a chair opposite them before removing his hat and placing it on the table in front of him.

  Bovalino pulled out his notepad, ready to make notes, as Jones started the interview. ‘You asked if she had OD’d. Why would you say that?’

  Embarrassment flashed across Springwood’s now-forlorn face. ‘Look. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but she was a junkie, wasn’t she?’

  ‘And do you know that for certain or are you just speculating?’ asked Jones.

  ‘One hundred per cent certain.’ Springwood appeared more confident now. ‘I caught her smoking heroin in one of the empty wagons out the back. That’s why she got the sack.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Springwood took a moment to answer. ‘Must have been about October, I reckon. I’m sure it was around the time the clocks change.’

  ‘And why does that stick in your memory?’

  ‘Because she was an hour late one Sunday and blamed it on the clocks going back. I pulled her into the office for that, and she was fired not long afterwards.’

  ‘And was she late a lot?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Not at first, but since the end of the summer it had become a frequent issue. I was in the mid
dle of a disciplinary process with her. I had just implemented a performance review programme. The HR team made us go through it with the troublesome staff so we could exit them through the proper legal channels. So I was monitoring her activity when one day I spotted she’d gone missing from the factory floor outside of a scheduled break. When I went looking for her, I found her huddled in the back of one of the lorries. She was smoking heroin from a piece of foil. I sacked her on the spot, and I’ve not seen her since.’

  Jones took a moment to process the information. ‘You mentioned her timekeeping wasn’t always an issue. What do you think changed?’

  ‘She did, Sergeant. Not sure why. She used to be one of my best workers, and then she started to drift – if you know what I mean? At one point I even had her earmarked for promotion. When I found out I was moving to the day shift, I put her forward to succeed me as overnight supervisor.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘She started turning up late night after night, and she looked like shit. Sometimes she smelt that way too. One night I had to send her home because she smelt like she’d run a marathon and hadn’t bothered to shower. We can’t have bad hygiene around food.’

  Jones nodded. ‘What was her role at the factory?’

  ‘She was a packer. Like I said, a good worker until a few months back, but then she went downhill pretty rapid. I suspected it might have something to do with drugs, based on her deteriorating appearance and demeanour. When she first started, she was fresh-faced and the life and soul of the team. Always cracking jokes and singing. She had a wonderful voice and would sing along to the radio all night. But by the end of her time with us, she was all washed out and her skin was full of acne. Her eyes were always bloodshot, and her singing had long since become silence. It was all I could do to get her to speak some nights.’

  Jones changed tack now. ‘Was Chantelle close to anyone at the factory?’