Deadly Waters

by OMJ Ryan

  As he reached the Bs in the internal telephone directory, the officer began reading from the list of names on screen. ‘Bailey…Baird…Baldwin…Bannister…here we are…Bovalino. Says here, he’s a Detective Constable with the Major Crimes Unit based at Ashton House. Does that sound like him?’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I guess so. Do you have a picture of him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Just his name rank and direct phone number. But now we know he’s in MCU, let me find out who’s in charge of it over there.’ He began typing again for a few moments, ‘Here we are.’ A look of recognition flashed across his face. ‘Oh wow, it’s her you’re after; Detective Chief Inspector Phillips. I’m surprised you didn’t remember her.’

  Chloe didn’t recognise the name. ‘Why should I?’

  The officer took his phone from his pocket and began typing. ‘DCI Phillips is a bit of a celebrity across Manchester. She was all over the news last year.’ He turned the phone screen to face her and pressed it up against the glass.

  Chloe inspected it closely. She was looking at a Manchester Evening News report that stated Phillips had been shot in the line of duty. It featured a picture of her standing with arms folded outside Ashton House.

  ‘That’s her!’ Chloe’s relief was palpable. ‘Can you put me through to her?’

  The officer chuckled. ‘It’s 2 a.m. love. Somehow I don’t think she’ll be at her desk, do you?’

  His laugh made Chloe even more agitated. ‘Can you at least fucking try?’

  The officer’s expression changed, now grave. ‘Hey, there’s no need for that kind of language. I’m just trying to help.’

  Chloe’s frustration brought tears to her eyes and they rolled down her cheeks. ‘Please, you’ve got to help me. I really need to speak to her.’

  His expression softened again. ‘Come on now, there’s no need to get so upset. I’ll see what I can do.’ He checked the computer screen for a moment before turning back to Chloe. ‘See that phone on the wall over there.’ Chloe looked to where he was pointing. ‘Pick that up and I’ll connect you to DCI Phillips’s direct line, ok?’

  Chloe nodded and followed his instructions. She walked over and picked up the phone, then turned to face him.

  ‘You’ll hear a beep and then it’ll ring through to her extension at Ashton House.’

  Chloe nodded and, as the phone began to ring, she turned her back on the officer. She held her breath, willing Phillips to answer, but to her dismay it eventually went to voicemail. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘She’s not there then? I didn’t think she would be,’ said the officer from behind the screen.

  Chloe turned back to face him. ‘Can you try again, please?’

  ‘It’s no use, love. She’s won’t be there.’

  ‘Please. I really need to talk to her.’

  The officer nodded, and reconnected the call to Phillips’s desk. The same thing happened, but this time, when Chloe heard the woman’s voice stating she had reached the voicemail of DCI Phillips, she plucked up the courage to leave a message. Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she whispered as loud as she dared into the receiver, just in case the officer might be eavesdropping. ‘This is Chloe Barnes. I need to speak to DCI Phillips urgently. I know who killed Candice because they tried to kill me tonight, too. Please, you have to protect me. I’ve lost my mobile so you’ll need to come to my flat. It’s number 12A Princes Gardens, the Belmont estate. Please hurry.’

  She put the phone down and prayed she’d done the right thing trusting a cop. Nothing good had ever come from her previous dealings with the police. Turning, she saw the older officer looking at her with a look of sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Are you ok, love? You look sick.’

  She hadn’t noticed she was shivering violently now.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go tonight, out of the weather?’ he asked.

  Chloe nodded. ‘I have a flat on the Belmont estate.’

  ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘Probably walk, I guess.’

  ‘That’d be a bloody long walk in the sunshine, never mind this kind of weather.’ He fished something out of his pocket and passed it under the gap in the glass. ‘I have a granddaughter about your age. Here, take this.’

  Chloe stared at the twenty-pound note in front of her.

  A warm smile spread across his face. ‘That’ll get you home safely. Make sure you get a hot bath and something to eat before you catch your death.’

  Chloe snatched it away. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him for a moment before turning around and heading for the door.

  ‘Be safe, love,’ he shouted after her, but she pretended not to hear him.

  Out on the street, the snow had at last stopped, but lay deep on the ground. The Town Hall clock lit up opposite reminded her it was 2.30 a.m. Her body was begging for heroin.

  Staring at the money in her hand, she was tempted to jump into one of the two black cabs parked up at the taxi rank on St Peters Street, but there was no point going home without any gear to block out the pain. Shoving the cash into her jacket pocket, she decided to take the short walk to Piccadilly Gardens to score the drugs she craved.

  She would shoot up as soon as possible, then wait for the first bus home at 5.30 a.m.

  32

  Phillips unlocked her office and hung up her coat just before 7.00 a.m. On her way to work this morning, she’d bought a fresh coffee along with a copy of last night’s Manchester Evening News from the garage on the Princess Parkway. She tossed it onto the desk by the phone as she sat down. Taking a long swig from her drink, she reclined in the large leather chair – a legacy from her former boss DCI Brown – spinning it to face the window and the world outside. Her mind fizzed back and forth about whether DC Don Mountfield could be the killer or if it was just a coincidence. But, as she never tired of telling her team, she didn’t believe in them. Plus, there was just too much evidence – albeit circumstantial at this stage – pointing to the fact he was somehow involved in the girls’ deaths.

  A knock on her office door made her jump and spin round. Gibson stood in the doorway. ‘Morning, Guv. You’re in early.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Gibson as she wandered in and took a seat. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Mountfield.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Same here.’

  ‘Do you really think it could be him, Guv?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think if I’m honest, Gibbo. Imagining one of our own as a cold-blooded killer makes me feel sick. But I know from experience that not all coppers live by their oath to protect and serve.’

  ‘Are you referring to Blake?’

  Indeed she was. Two years before, the head of the GMP, Chief Constable Blake, had been involved in a spate of murders that had rocked Manchester and almost cost Phillips her life. He was now serving a life sentence in Hawk Green maximum security prison. ‘Yeah. That bastard has more blood on his hands than a butcher. And if someone that high up can go rogue, then there’s no reason to think a DC couldn’t.’

  Gibson sat forwards in her chair. ‘But it doesn’t make sense, Guv. He’s just a normal bloke, a family man with two daughters. What could drive him to murder four young women?’

  Phillips shrugged. ‘What drives any killer to do it? In the end, it’s not our job to figure out why, but rather how, and when, he killed them.’

  ‘And prove it, of course.’

  Phillips took another swig of coffee. ‘Yeah, that’s the hard bit.’

  Just then, Entwistle walked into the main office and, seeing Phillips and Gibson together, made his way over. ‘Morning. You guys are in early.’

  ‘We could say the same about you,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Yeah. I couldn’t sleep.’

  Phillips smiled. ‘It’s a problem that appears to be catching.’

  Entwistle pointed at the newspaper on Phillips’s desk. ‘Do you mind if I look at the match report from last night’s game, Guv?’

&nbs
p; ‘Be my guest.’ Phillips handed it over, uncovering her desk phone. A red light blinked, indicating she had a voicemail.

  Gibson nodded towards the phone. ‘Looks like you’ve got a message, Guv.’

  Phillips followed her line of sight. ‘Well, that’s a first. No one ever calls me on the landline. They all use my mobile. It's probably some old fart looking for DCI Brown. This used to be his office.’ She leaned forwards and hit play. ‘Let’s see what they want.’

  The girl’s voice on the message was hard to hear, just louder than a whisper. She sounded panicked and edgy. ‘This is Chloe Barnes. I need to speak to DCI Phillips urgently.’

  ‘It’s Chloe Barnes for me.’ Phillips looked surprised as she pressed pause on the tape and turned to Entwistle, who was perched on a low cabinet to the left of her desk, engrossed in the sports pages. ‘How do I turn this up, Entwistle? I can hardly hear it.’

  Entwistle looked up before putting down the paper and wandered over to the machine. He picked it up and fiddled with a button on the side, causing a loud beep. ‘That’s up to maximum volume now. Try that.’

  Phillips pressed play and the message continued. ‘I know the person who killed Candice because they tried to kill me too. Please, you have to protect me. I’ve lost my mobile so you’ll need to come to my flat. It’s number 12A Princes Gardens, the Belmont estate. Please hurry’.

  The room fell silent for a moment as they processed what they’d just heard. Phillips was the first to speak. ‘Jesus. Gibbo, you know her. Do you think she could be telling the truth?’

  ‘God knows, Guv. She’s off her face on drugs most of the time.’

  Phillips hit rewind, and they listened to the message again. When it finished, she deferred to Entwistle’s expertise once more. ‘How can we find out what time this call came in?’

  He picked up the receiver. ‘Should be easy enough.’ Pushing buttons on the keypad, he listened for a moment before nodding. ‘The message bank says it was logged at 2.26 a.m. this morning.’

  ‘Can you find out where the call came from?’ said Phillips

  Entwistle pressed more buttons and began reading a number out. ‘0161 299 1000.’

  Phillips wrote it down on the pad in front of her.

  ‘That number sounds familiar. Where do I know it from?’ said Gibson.

  ‘I’ve heard it before too,’ Entwistle agreed.

  Phillips took the phone back and dialled the number. Her eyes widened when it was answered. ‘This is DCI Phillips from MCU at Ashton House. I was called from this number at around 2.30 this morning. Do you know who connected the caller?’

  She waited for a response, then hung up the phone. Entwistle and Gibson stared at her.

  ‘Looks like Chloe Barnes walked into the city-centre station last night and called me from there.’

  Gibson looked shocked. ‘As in the police station?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Jesus, she must have been scared. She’d never set foot in a cop-shop of her own volition,’ said Gibson.

  Phillips checked her watch. ‘It’s 7.30 a.m. now, so I’m guessing she’ll be back home. Come on, let’s pay her a visit. See if there’s any truth in what she’s saying.’

  As Phillips and Gibson made their way towards the main office door, Entwistle walked over to his desk, where he removed his coat before hanging it on the back of his chair.

  Opening the door, Phillips stopped and looked over at him. ‘You not coming, Entwistle?’

  He looked surprised. ‘You want me to?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s just that normally, when you get a breakthrough, you ask me to stay in the office and “dig into something”.’

  ‘Well, if you’d prefer to stay here and “dig into something”?’ said Phillips.

  ‘No, no. Not at all, Guv.’

  ‘Well then, stop arsing about and let’s get going.’

  Entwistle jumped to attention and pulled his coat back on. ‘Yes Guv!’

  33

  The door to Chloe Barnes’s apartment was locked up tight, but as they stood on the exposed walkway outside, Phillips and the team could hear the cries of a small child emanating from within. Phillips pressed the bell for a long moment in the hope Barnes was asleep inside, but when there was no answer, she feared the worst.

  The door to the flat next door opened and a lady, probably in her sixties, peered out, a sneering expression on her face. ‘That kid’s been crying like that for most of the night. It’s kept me awake all night.’

  Phillips turned to face the woman. ‘Do you know if Miss Barnes is inside?’

  ‘Wouldn’t matter if she is,’ she scoffed. ‘She’s off her head most of the time. That kid gets no attention whether she’s in the flat or not. She cries day and night. It’s a bloody nightmare. I’ve asked the council to move me to another flat, but they said I’m not a priority. Can you believe that? And me a pensioner ’n’ all. Five times I’ve been up to the council—’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare key, do you?’ Gibson cut the woman off.

  ‘Me? Why the bloody hell would I want a key to a junkie’s flat?’

  Gibson persevered. ‘Well, do you have any idea what time Miss Barnes left here last night?’

  The woman sneered again. ‘No I bloody don’t. I’ve got better things to do that keep a track of what that silly bitch is up to.’

  Phillips suspected the opposite was actually true. Still, they were getting nowhere. Their priority right now had to be to get inside the flat and ensure the child was safe. Then see if they could locate Chloe.

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,’ Phillips lied. The woman finally took the hint and closed her front door.

  Luckily, Chloe’s door had received a makeshift repair recently. Where there was once a glass panel above the door handle, a fibre-board wooden panel had been crudely attached.

  Entwistle was dispatched to the car to retrieve a tyre wrench and, returning a few minutes later, handed it to Phillips. Expertly wedging the heavy piece of metal into a gap between the door and board, she yanked it back in one rapid movement. A loud crack followed as the wooden panel splintered and bulged away from the door. She repeated the process a couple of times before the panel gave way, leaving a hole big enough to fit a hand through. Phillips reached through and unlocked the latch from the inside. The weight of her body caused the door to open inwards as she did so, and the sound of the crying child was amplified.

  Stepping inside, she gestured for Gibson and Entwistle to follow her along the narrow hallway towards the source of the crying. Pushing open the door facing her, her heart sank as she came face to face with a toddler standing in a cot and facing the door, her hands grasping the side. The child’s eyes were filled with fear, and red and swollen from crying, and her tiny face was filthy. Phillips rushed across the room and instinctively swept the little girl up in her arms, holding her tightly as she turned to face Gibson and Entwistle.

  ‘There, there, sweetheart, it’s all right. You’re safe now,’ soothed Phillips.

  ‘We’ll check the rest of the flat for Barnes,’ said Gibson, turning quickly and leaving the room, flanked by Entwistle.

  Phillips cuddled the little girl and rocked back and forth, trying to stop her crying. The poor child was soaking wet and stank of stale urine and faeces. Scanning the filthy room, anger boiled in the pit of her stomach. How could anyone leave a child alone overnight? Let alone in squalor like this?

  Gibson returned. ‘There’s no sign of her, Guv.’

  Phillips was doing her best to soothe the child whilst trying to figure out their next move as Entwistle stepped back into the room. He walked over and placed a pacifier in the little girl’s mouth. ‘I found this in the lounge. Don’t worry, I’ve given it a thorough clean.’ Gently leaning forwards, he began chatting to the little girl. Mercifully she responded, and stopped crying.

  ‘You’re a natural, Entwistle,’ said Gibson.

  ‘I’m the eldest of five k
ids, so I’ve had lots of practice. My youngest sister Clara was an accident, and she’s just a little older.’

  Phillips stepped towards Entwistle. ‘Can you take her?’

  ‘Sure.’ Entwistle handled the child like a precious package and grinned as she placed her head on his shoulder and cuddled into him.

  Phillips watched him soothe the child and smiled. ‘Who’d have thought it, hey? Entwistle, an expert in childcare.’

  Entwistle smiled and held the little girl against his chest. ‘I’ll see if I can find some fresh nappies and dry clothes for her. Then I’ll call an ambulance to get her checked over.’

  Phillips touched him on the arm. ‘Thank you. Whilst you’re doing that, we’ll see if we can track down Barnes. Gibbo, come with me.’

  They moved into the squalid living room, which was filled with dirty clothes strewn across the floor and overflowing ashtrays. A small plastic table covered in drug paraphernalia had been placed in front of the couch.

  Phillips put a call in to Jones to update him. She wanted to check CCTV footage outside the city-centre station from last night. She hoped they could pick up Barnes’s trail when she left at 2.30. Jones promised that he and Bovalino would get onto it right away, and call back as soon as they had anything worth sharing. As she ended the call, Phillips was aware of the foul stench emanating from the open bin in the corner of the room and began to feel nauseous. ‘I need some air.’ She moved briskly to the door and stepped outside.

  The Belmont estate was like many other council estates across Manchester with high-rise blocks. Built in the sixties to replace the post-war slums, they had promised a new way of life for their wide-eyed tenants, each hopeful of a fresh start filled with opportunity. However, their dreams soon turned to nightmares as poor construction and planning, coupled with unsuitable materials, meant the homes had quickly deteriorated. Sadly, over the decades that followed, they became crime-riddled breeding grounds for drug-dealing gangs, violent crime and sexual assaults. Standing on the exposed walkway that ran in front of Chloe Barnes’s tenth-floor flat, looking out at the boarded-up doors and windows of many of the properties – most covered in graffiti – Phillips was reminded why crime had reached epidemic levels across the UK. How could the people living in this kind of environment be expected to abide by the rules of society when, to all intents and purposes, society had all but denied their existence?