by OMJ Ryan
Phillips took a different approach. ‘Where were you on the night of the 6th of November?’
Bahmani pretended to consider the question for a moment, repeating the date under his breath. ‘What day was that?’
‘A Tuesday.’
‘In that case, I was at home with the wife and kids, and my in-laws.’
‘And they can vouch for that, can they?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said confidently.
‘What about Friday the 13th of November?’
Bahmani didn’t flinch. ‘I was at home with the wife and kids, and my in-laws.’
‘Funny. You didn’t need to think about that one,’ said Phillips
The lopsided grin returned. ‘No. The first one must have jogged my memory.’
At that moment, Phillips’s phone rang. It was Gibson. She diverted the call to voicemail and continued, ‘I’m sure I know what the answer will be, but can you also tell me where you were on Sunday the 9th of December.’
‘Easy. I was at home with the wife and kids…and my in-laws.’
‘You seem to spend a lot of time with your in-laws, Mr Bahmani.’
He guffawed. ‘It’s hard not to. They bloody live in my house.’ He seemed very pleased with his performance so far.
Gibson called again. Phillips knew Bahmani was winning their head-to-head and figured a distraction might be enough for him to drop his guard, so she decided to take the call. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’
‘Be my guest, love,’ Bahamni said, smiling.
Phillips listened for a moment. ‘You’re kidding, where? … Ok. We’re on our way.’
Jones gave Phillips a quizzical look.
‘Bov, turn the car around. We’ve got to go.’ She headed for the door.
The big man stepped outside with Jones on his tail. As Phillips reached the door, she stopped and turned back to Bahmani. ‘Out of interest, where were you last night?’
He took a moment to ponder the question before acting as if he had just remembered. ‘Oh yes, I was at home with the wife and kids, and my in-laws.’
‘Of course you were.’ Phillips nodded before pushing open the door and heading for the car.
When she jumped in the passenger seat, Jones and Bovalino were eager for news. ‘We’ve got another dead girl in the canal.’
‘Another fake drowning?’ asked Jones.
‘Looks like it, only this time they found the body on the other side of town, in Pomona.’
‘Jesus. He’s branching out.’
‘Exactly, Jonesy. And if he’s changing his hunting ground to the wider canal network, it could make catching him almost impossible.’
Bovalino moved the car steadily over the rough terrain towards the main gate as Adders Bahmani opened the door to the Portakabin. He stood watching them, arms folded across his chest. The smile was gone, his eyes now cold, his face unflinching.
Phillips locked eyes with him and held his gaze until he was out of view, before turning her attention back to Bovalino and Jones. ‘That slippery bastard is involved in all this somehow. I can feel it.’
A smile crept across Bovalino’s face. ‘You didn’t fall for his charms then, Guv?’
‘Was it that obvious?’ she replied.
‘Do you want us to check out his alibis, Guv?’ Jones quipped from the back seat.
Phillips didn’t bother to turn around. ‘No. Get the support team to do it. I want us all focused on the new girl. And besides, trying to crack his alibi is a waste of time. Even if he is lying, there’s no way his family would rat on him.’
28
No one in Phillips’s core team had managed to get any sleep in the last forty-eight hours; way too much had happened. Now, huddled together in the incident room, they all looked exhausted and ready to drop.
Phillips pinned photos up on the board of the body that had been found that morning. ‘I know we still can’t prove this victim was murdered, but everything matches the others. So, I think it’s safe to assume she met her fate at the hands of the same guy.’ She turned back to face the team. ‘Entwistle, what do we know about her?’
Entwistle positioned his laptop so the screen faced his colleagues. ‘Ok. Her name is Estelle Henderson. She’s twenty-five and from West Gorton. She was single and lived with her five-year-old son, Lewis. He was found at home today on his own when a uniformed team searched her flat. Apparently the poor kid was crying his eyes out when they go to him. Social services have since taken him into care.’
‘Jesus. That’s exactly the same as Chloe Barnes’s daughter,’ said Gibson.
Jones was incensed. ‘What planet are these women on, leaving their kids at home alone? I mean, what kind of parent does that to a five-year-old?’
Gibson looked sad. ‘They’re desperate for money to buy drugs. We see it time and time again in SCT. Feeding their habit is more important to them than feeding their kids. It’s heart-breaking.’
Phillips shook her head in disbelief and took a seat at the spare desk. ‘It really is.’ She fell silent and zoned out, allowing her thoughts to crystallise.
The team sat in silence for a moment before Bovalino jabbed his elbow into Jones’s ribs. ‘She’s got the look again.’
Jones looked over at Phillips and a grin spread across his face, drawing a confused expression from Gibson. ‘What look?’
‘When the Guv is putting something together in her head, she gets the thousand-yard stare,’ Bovalino explained, pointing at Phillips,
Gibson followed his finger just as Phillips turned her attention back to the team. ‘Something quite disturbing has just occurred to me. If I’m right, the unthinkable could be happening.’
‘What is it, Guv?’ said Jones.
‘I really hope I’m wrong on this one,’ said Phillips. ‘Based on Evans’s estimate of the time of death, we believe Henderson was killed between 10 p.m. and midnight last night, right?’
Jones nodded. ‘Right.’
‘Well. Is it a coincidence that our victim was abducted and murdered at the exact same time an MCU surveillance operation was in play, on the complete opposite side of town?’
Bovalino grinned. ‘You don’t believe in coincidences, Guv.’
‘No I don’t, Bov.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Gibson
‘I’m saying that either our killer is the luckiest man on the planet, or he had insight into our operation last night.’
Gibson looked incredulous. ‘Jesus. You think the killer is someone on the force?’
Phillips took her time before nodding. ‘Either that, or connected in some way. How else would they have known to move their hunting ground across town on the very night we were on surveillance in Ancoats?’
The room fell silent as everyone absorbed Phillips’s theory.
Jones shook his head. ‘Look, we know better than anyone that there are bent coppers in the world. But police officers kidnapping and drowning street-walkers? I’m sorry, but I’m not buying that.’
Phillips shuddered at the implications. ‘I understand that, Jonesy, and I hate to do this, but I want background on each member of the wider team. That’s the first place to start. Divvy the group up between you and let’s see if there’s anything suspicious on any of them, including that young copper who discovered two of the girls.’
The team nodded in turn.
Phillips stood and looked at her watch. ‘Right. We’ve been awake for almost two days straight now. I suggest we get some sleep. That way we can be back at our desks first thing tomorrow morning. If we are looking for one of our own, we must be very careful. Catching someone this clever and hiding in plain sight will take fresh eyes.’
29
Phillips let the exit door to the morgue close gently behind her. The automatic lock clicked into place. She stood for a moment in the quiet corridor in the basement of the Manchester Royal Infirmary. The silence was deafening, in stark contrast to the noise of her mind, which whirred with questions. Estelle Henderson’s post
mortem had produced the exact same results as the previous three deaths: death by drowning. ‘What are you missing, Jane?’ she whispered to the empty space before walking back to the car.
Opting against using the elevator, she pushed open the thick fire door that lead to the stairs. She took them two at a time up to the ground floor, then exited out onto a rainy Oxford Road. Pulling her collar up against the weather, she walked at pace back to the car park before paying for her ticket and taking the elevator to the sixth floor. Earlier, when she had parked up, she had been so focused on the case and the constant questions running through her mind that she’d forgotten to make a mental note of her car’s location, so it took a few minutes to find it.
Finally, as she jumped in the driver’s seat, she repeated her question. ‘What are you missing here, Jane?’ When she fired the ignition, the radio burst into life and the tail end of Elton John’s ‘Step Into Christmas’ filled the car. She normally enjoyed the festive season, but with four unexplained deaths weighing on her shoulders, this year it didn’t feel right. Putting the car in gear, she moved out of the parking space and headed for the exit.
Phillips drove the first few miles on autopilot as she ran the facts of the case over in her mind: four identical deaths, four prostitutes – all drug addicts – and each of them single mothers living alone. Why were they being targeted? Her mind soon wandered to her latest theory – that the killer was actually a police officer – and she wondered if the team had found anything whilst she’d been away. Based on the lack of contact since she had left earlier, she assumed they had yet to make a breakthrough.
As she pulled the car onto Oldham Road, her attention was drawn back to the radio and a promotional trailer for the radio station’s breakfast show. It featured a cast of bland presenters attempting to sound interesting. ‘Seriously, who cares?’ she said, annoyed, and leaned over to switch stations. The next channel was no better and she continued to flick through until a commercial playing on one of the stations caught her attention. The loud booming male voiceover filling the car.
‘Have you suffered long-term sickness at work? Do you worry about paying the bills if it happened to you? If the answer’s yes, then you need to call the friendly team at Robbins and Co Insurance on 0800—’
The commercial brought DC Mountfield and his sickness during the operation to mind. She switched off the radio and drove in silence for a moment. Mountfield’s sickness had seen him removed from the surveillance team the night Henderson was killed. When Gibson had spoken to the uniformed team sent to pick him up, they’d reported he was nowhere to be found. Could he have faked it to get out of the op? It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. He knew the full details of the operation, and if he had kept his police radio switched on, he’d also have known the exact location of the team at all times. Plus, as a detective, he would know how to avoid ANPR cameras. ‘Jesus, could Mountfield be our killer?’ she said out loud.
She hit the accelerator and the rest of the journey passed in a blur. Soon she pulled into the Ashton House Police Headquarters’ car park and raced upstairs to her office.
Since they now had concerns that someone in the wider team could be involved in the deaths, Jones, Bovalino, Entwistle and Gibson had set themselves up in the meeting room at the end of the office and closed the blinds. Phillips wasted no time joining them. Her abrupt entrance caused the team to look up from their computer screens with expectant looks on their faces.
‘Entwistle, I need you to come to my office. Bring your laptop.’
Jones locked eyes with Phillips and his brow furrowed. ‘Is everything ok, Guv? Did something happen at the post mortem?’
Phillips already had one foot out of the room. ‘Everything’s fine, Jonesy. I just need Entwistle for something. I’ll explain later.’
She walked briskly back to her office, unlocked it and stepped inside. Entwistle followed her a moment later.
‘What’s up, Guv?’
She walked around her desk and removed her coat. ‘I need you to search the police motor vehicle records. I want to know what cars are allocated to the Sex Crimes and Trafficking squad. Can you do that?’
‘Not with this.’ Entwistle pointed to his laptop. ‘We’re not connected to their network. I could always ask them for temporary access, though.’
‘And how long would that take?’
‘Knowing IT, a couple of days.’
‘That’s too long. I need that information now.’
Entwistle looked puzzled. ‘What’s this about, Guv?’
Phillips dropped into her chair and ran her hand through her hair. ‘I don’t want to say just yet. Not until I get more proof. But I really need to know what cars are being used by SCT. Do you know anyone down in vehicles?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t, Guv.’
Phillips said nothing for a minute as she considered her next move. A moment later, she stood and walked back round her desk. Placing her hand on Entwistle’s shoulder, she began steering him out of her office towards the corridor. ‘I think it’s about time you made friends with the vehicle team. Get yourself down there and get me that information ASAP.’
‘But what if they won’t give it to me? I’m only a DC.’
Phillips smiled thinly. ‘Well, you’d just better make sure they do, Entwistle, hadn’t you?’
He nodded as he opened the door to the corridor.
Phillips shouted after him, ‘And Entwistle, you speak to no one about this but me. Got that?’
‘Got it, Guv.’
Almost two years ago now, Phillips had been shot in the line of duty, leading to many months’ convalescence in Wythenshawe Hospital. Her treatment had involved a series of painful operations as well as therapy sessions to help her deal with the mental trauma. In the months leading up to her return to work, she had been in constant contact with the Greater Manchester Police’s HR team as they monitored her progress. During that time, she had grown close to one member of the team, Sandra Roden.
Roden sat alone at her desk in the small open-plan office when Phillips walked in. ‘Knock knock.’
Roden looked up from her computer screen and smiled. ‘Hello stranger. What brings you down here? Is everything ok?’
Phillips took a seat opposite her. ‘Everything’s fine, Sandra. I’m enjoying being back as DCI and the team are doing really well. Life’s good.’
‘That’s great. I’m pleased to hear that.’
Phillips scanned the three empty desks. ‘So where is everybody?’
‘On an IPD training course over in Media City. They’ve left me holding the fort.’
‘Didn’t you fancy doing the course yourself, then?’
Roden shook her head. ‘Not really. Since I had the kids, I’m only here three days a week, so it hardly seems worth the effort.’
‘Fair enough. I guess you have different priorities now.’
‘Indeed I do.’ Roden sat back in her chair and folded her arms, a lopsided grin spreading across her face. ‘So now you’ve ensured we’re not going to be disturbed, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Jane.’
Phillips chuckled. ‘Am I that obvious?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
In spite of the empty room, Phillips leaned forwards. ‘I need a favour.’ She spoke in a whisper.
Roden laughed. ‘That much I guessed.’
‘Can you check a sickness record for me?’
‘That really depends on who it’s for.’
‘Don Mountfield from Sex Crimes.’
‘And what’s his rank?’
‘DC.’
Roden eyed Phillips with suspicion. ‘Does DCI Atkins know you’re looking at his team’s sickness records?’
‘Strictly speaking, no, but it’s important, and I won’t share them with anyone else…’
Roden put her hands up in mock surrender. ‘Don’t tell me anymore. I don’t want to know.’
‘Look, Sandra, I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I wouldn’t a
sk unless it was very important. Please.’
Roden said nothing for a moment as she decided what to do. Phillips flashed a warm smile and held her breath.
Roden relented. ‘Ok, as it’s you. But I have two conditions.’
‘Name them.’
‘Well firstly, you didn’t get them from me. If anyone asks, I’ll deny everything.’
‘Agreed.’
‘And secondly, you destroy them when you’ve looked at them. Because if you do find something you may need for a case, you’ll have to come back through the proper channels, ok?’
Phillips placed her fingers over her heart. ‘I promise, Sandra. If I find anything, I’ll do it by the book from that point on.’
Roden smiled as she began pulling up the records on her PC. ‘It’s a good job I like you. I don’t do this sort of thing for everyone, you know.’
Half an hour later, Phillips was back in her office cross-checking Mountfield’s sickness records against the dates of the four murders. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She already knew he was taken sick the night of Henderson’s murder, but to her amazement, he had also been on annual leave on each of the nights Roberts, Webster and Adams had been killed. ‘Fuck, it’s Mountfield.’
‘What is Mountfield?’ asked Entwistle as he entered the room.
Startled, Phillips instinctively closed the files on her desk and coughed nervously, ‘Any luck on the SCT vehicles?’
Entwistle grinned. ‘Yes, Guv. I got chatting to the bloke in charge, Dennis, and it turns out he went to school with my older sister and he—’
‘So what did you find?’ she interrupted. She wasn’t interested in Dennis’s life story,
Entwistle looked down at the sheet in his hand. ‘Well, according to Dennis, they change vehicles every twelve months—’
Phillips lost her patience. ‘Jesus Christ, Entwistle! What cars have they been driving?
Entwistle appeared a little affronted. ‘I was getting to that. Er, one Vauxhall Astra, two Vauxhall Insignias and three Ford Mondeos.’
Phillips’s heart rate quickened. ‘Do we know what colour the Mondeos were?’
