Deadly Waters

by OMJ Ryan

  ‘What a shit-hole,’ said Gibson, as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘Yeah. It’s so sad that, in a world of so-called abundance, people are forced to live in a place like this. I mean, what kind of future does that poor little girl have to look forward to?’

  ‘Seeing this kind of poverty and neglect is the hardest part of the job for me,’ said Gibson. ‘The only way I stay sane is to remind myself – every single day – there’s only so much we can actually do.’

  Phillips exhaled loudly as she stared at the scene in front of her. She knew Gibson was right, but it didn’t make it any easier. The phone vibrating in her pocket came as a welcome distraction. It was Jones. She turned it to speaker phone so Gibson could hear what was being said.

  ‘You’re on speaker, Jonesy. What you got?’

  ‘As we thought, it looks like Barnes left the station just after 2.30 a.m. and set off across Albert Square. She crossed over Princes Street. We lost her on Clarence Street as there are no cameras on there. But we picked her up again a few minutes later on Booth Street, before she turned left onto Mosley Street. She then walked all the way up to Piccadilly Gardens, where she used the payphone at 2.44 a.m. She waited there for twenty minutes until a guy on a moped turned up and handed her something.’

  ‘Sounds like a drug deal to me,’ said Gibson.

  Phillips agreed. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘She disappeared into one of the shop fronts that are too dark for any visuals, and stayed there until just before 5.30 a.m.,’ Jones continued, ‘at which point she emerged again and jumped on the number 33 bus towards Worsley.’

  Gibbo stood to attention and turned west, pointing towards the Patricroft Recreation Ground, ‘The 33 runs along Liverpool Road. Her quickest route home would’ve been through the park.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Jonesy, can you see if we have any CCTV footage of Liverpool Road, running along the edge of the Patricroft Recreation Ground?’

  ‘Give me a second.’

  Jones went quiet for a moment on the other end of the phone, as the sound of sirens filled the air from the other side of the building. They appeared to be drawing closer.

  ‘Hopefully that’s the ambulance for the girl,’ Gibson muttered.

  Jones returned. ‘I’m afraid not, Guv. There’s no cameras on that stretch of Liverpool Road.’

  ‘Bugger. That’s annoying. We’re gonna have to do it the old-fashioned way in that case. We can assume, at this stage, she was heading home. If she was telling the truth and she is in danger, then we need to find her before the killer does.’

  ‘Unless he already has,’ said Jonesy.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. If you and Bov can get over here ASAP, I’ll organise a uniform crew and dog team. We need to find her.’

  Within an hour, Patricroft Recreation Ground was teeming with uniformed police and two dog teams. With the aid of a dirty T-shirt lifted from the lounge floor of the flat, the dogs soon picked up Chloe Barnes’s scent. Starting at the Liverpool Road bus stop, they followed their noses to a disused public toilet on the far side of the park. The whole area surrounding the building was overgrown with bushes, nettles and tall weeds, and hidden behind a thick privet hedge.

  Standing just two hundred meters away when the dogs started barking, Phillips and Gibson raced to the area, followed by Jones and Bovalino. When they pulled back the bushes, none were prepared for the sight that greeted them.

  Chloe Barnes’s body was laid out on her back, partially covered with thick snow. Her bare feet were exposed, as were most of her legs and torso. Only her bra and knickers remained. Blue from the cold, the right side of her face was caved in. Dried blood and grey matter had congealed in her matted hair, and her right eyeball hung from the socket.

  Gibson turned away and vomited violently onto the snow-covered grass.

  Phillips stood motionless, staring down at the body. ‘She was trying to tell me who the killer was, and it got her killed. I failed her.’

  ‘What could you have done differently?’ said Jones. ‘She called you in the middle of the night, Guv?’

  Phillips didn’t respond, and continued to stare at Barnes’s battered body.

  Bovalino crouched down to take a closer look at the frozen corpse. ‘Whoever our killer is, it looks like he panicked on this one, Guv.’

  Jones agreed. ‘Yeah. This is totally out of character for him.’

  The anger and frustration bubbling inside Phillips felt like a living thing now. Struggling to keep her emotions in check, she turned to face the team. ‘If anyone has lost control here, Jonesy, it’s us. Chloe is the fifth girl to die in this case and we’re still no closer to catching the bastard that’s responsible. We’ve gotta get our shit together guys, and fast. We can’t let anyone else die. Do you hear me?’ She was shouting now.

  ‘Yes, Guv,’ said each of the team.

  Phillips marched back towards the car, straight past a pale-looking Gibson, who stood upright before wiping her mouth on a tissue.

  34

  Later that day, the wider team gathered in the incident room for a full briefing. Since her return from the Patricroft Recreation Grounds, Phillips had holed up in her office. Scowling, she’d made it clear visitors were not welcome. Her frustration at their lack of progress had boiled over in the park this morning, and she berated herself for losing control. She shouldn’t have taken it out on the team, but holding Barnes’s terrified little girl in her arms that morning, feeling the fear and pain in her tiny, shaking body, had made this case personal.

  She finished writing up her notes and closed her leather-bound A4 notepad before sitting back in the chair. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself for the team briefing.

  After a couple of minutes, she stood up from her desk and made her way out into the incident room. Since the wider team had been vetted and cleared of any involvement in the deaths, Bovalino, Gibson and Entwistle had returned to working at their usual desks. A host of expectant faces surrounded them, all waiting for an update.

  Walking to the centre of the room, Phillips was in no mood for pleasantries. ‘Right, you lot, listen up. I can confirm that the body we found in the Patricroft Recreation Grounds this morning was that of Chloe Barnes. She’d been savagely beaten about the head which, until we get the full post mortem results, we can assume was the cause of death.’

  Opening the leather-bound pad in her hands, she removed a printout of one of the CCTV images of Chloe Barnes and held it up. ‘This is Barnes, leaving the city-centre police station at 2.30 a.m. this morning, just a few hours before she was found dead.’

  She held up another. ‘And this is her at 2.44 a.m., talking to a man on a moped in Piccadilly Gardens. I want know who this guy is and what was said between them as a priority.’

  Phillips produced a third CCTV picture. ‘And this is Chloe at 5.30 a.m. getting on the number 33 bus to Worsley. Her body was found just five hundred metres from her flat, so we can presume she boarded this bus, intending to travel home to the Belmont estate in Salford.’

  Phillips pinned up a route map of Barnes’s journey from the police station to Piccadilly Gardens. ‘DC Entwistle is sourcing CCTV footage from the bus company as we speak.’ She tapped the map with force. ‘And we already have footage of her walking along Booth Street and Mosely Street, but for about five minutes she went off the grid when she ducked down Clarence, Kennedy and Cooper streets. I want the rest of you to check the CCTV footage from all the shops and businesses along those routes. If she talked to anyone during that part of her journey, I want to know where and when, ok?’

  A couple of routine questions followed, and when everyone seemed satisfied they knew what was expected of them, Phillips called the meeting to a close before signalling for her own team to join her in her office.

  Jones, Bovalino and Gibson followed her in, with Entwistle last in carrying his laptop, ‘Close the door, Entwistle,’ said Phillips as she sat down and faced the team huddled around her des
k. ‘First up, I want to apologise for my outburst this morning. I allowed my frustrations to boil over onto you, and that wasn’t fair.’

  Jones shrugged. ‘It’s understandable, Guv. It was bloody horrific. It affected us all.’

  Bovalino chortled, pointing at Gibbo. ‘Yeah, but some more than others.’

  ‘Piss off,’ replied Gibson, before flashing a sheepish smile. Thankfully it defused the tension.

  A wry grin spread across Phillips’s face. ‘So, how you feeling now?’

  Gibson blushed. ‘Embarrassed to say the least, Guv. That’s never happened to me before. I mean, I’ve seen some awful things in this job, but nothing as brutal as that.’

  Phillips nodded sympathetically. ‘I have to admit, the eye-ball hanging out of its socket was a first for me too.’ She turned to Entwistle. ‘How you getting on with the bus CCTV?’

  ‘Still waiting, Guv. The bus company’s IT department is archaic to say the least, but they’ve assured me I’ll have it before the end of the day.’

  ‘I want eyes on it as soon as it lands. We may be able to see if anyone was waiting for her when she got off.’

  ‘Of course, Guv. But in the meantime, I’ve spotted something else that I think is significant.’

  Phillips looked intrigued as Entwistle opened his laptop and placed it in front of her.

  ‘Last night’s ANPR footage from Liverpool Road by the Patricroft Recreation Grounds. I was looking for a blue Ford Mondeo like that spotted around the other crime scenes. I looked through from midnight last night to 7.00 a.m. this morning but drew a blank. So, I decided to go back through again, this time looking for any cars of a similar style and size.’ He tapped the screen. ‘This nondescript silver Vauxhall Insignia was captured at 5.40 a.m. this morning. On any normal day, blink and you’d miss it, but when I ran the plates, it turns out they’re actually from a Nissan Micra that has been officially registered as off the road—’

  ‘By Adders Scrap Metal Merchants by any chance?’ Gibson cut across him.

  Entwistle appeared disappointed now. ‘I’m afraid not. No. This car was registered to a place out in Oldham…’ He cast an eye over his notes. ‘…er, a JK Hughes Scrap Ltd.’

  ‘Any connection to Adders?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Nothing yet, but I’ve not had that much time to look into them. That’s next on my list.’

  ‘And what about Mountfield? Did you get anything on him, Jonesy?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘No, Guv. On paper he’s clean.’

  Phillips pointed to Entwistle’s laptop. ‘Do you recognise that silver Vauxhall car, Gibbo? Could it be one of SCT’s?’

  Gibson asked Entwistle to run the video again, then once more. She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells, Guv. Sorry.’

  ‘Bugger.’ The room fell silent for a moment as Phillips contemplated their next move. ‘Ok, here’s what we’ll do. Jonesy and Bov, you get over to JK Hughes in Oldham, see if you can find out how they make their money.’

  The two men nodded.

  ‘Entwistle, find out where Don Mountfield spent last night and if SCT have been using a silver Insignia. Maybe it’s a recent addition since Gibbo moved over to our team.’

  ‘Will do, Guv.’

  ‘Gibbo, you’ve got the short straw. You’re working late tonight with me. I think it’s time you introduce me to some of the girls up in Cheetham Hill. Let’s see if there’s any truth in the rumours about Mountfield using his warrant card to get free sex. But before we hit the streets, let’s go and visit the bus driver. See if he saw anything unusual when Barnes got off’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ said Gibson.

  Phillips dismissed the team, but held Entwistle back for a moment. ‘Any update on Zoe Barnes?’

  ‘I spoke to the doctor at Wythenshawe Hospital about an hour ago, Guv. They’ve admitted her to the children’s ward with dehydration, malnutrition and impetigo, which they suspect she’ll have picked up from all the bacteria in the flat. The good news is, she’ll make a full recovery. Social services have already found her a home with foster parents.’

  ‘Wow, that was quick.’

  ‘Yeah. Thankfully she’s going back to a family she lived with last year. Before she was given back to Chloe.’

  ‘That’s really good news. Really good.’ Phillips patted him on the shoulder. ‘And well done, Entwistle, you really stepped up to the plate for that little girl today.’

  ‘It’s hard to do anything else, Guv. The poor thing didn’t choose a junkie for a mother, did she?’

  Phillips nodded gently and turned around to face the window as Entwistle left the room. Staring out onto the car park, images of that frightened little child’s face played on a loop in her mind, and a mix of emotions enveloped her: pain, sorrow, anger and hope. Hope that little Zoe Barnes would finally receive the love and security every child deserved in life. Swallowing away the lump in her throat, she wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. It was no time for tears. She had a killer to catch.

  35

  Jones and Bovalino’s visit to JK Hughes Scrap Ltd provided nothing that might connect Mountfield – or anyone else, for that matter – to the murders. The owner, Mr Hughes, was an elderly man who ran his small operation in Stockport alone. He couldn’t have been a day under seventy-five, and if his physical frailty was anything to go by, it was unlikely he had the strength to overpower a small animal, let alone a young woman. The yard was run down and in disrepair. What little fencing remained was on its last legs, making it easy for anyone to enter the site after dark and remove number plates from the cars littered around. Hardly a slam-dunk for the prosecution, and the Nissan Micra that had provided the plates for the silver Insignia was just a shell; the wheels, engine, doors and windows had long since been removed.

  Phillips and Gibson’s interview with the bus driver fared no better either. He did remember Barnes getting on and off – mainly due to her lack of footwear on a snowy morning. However – by his own admission as a regular driver through the Belmont estate – he paid no attention to the ‘weird and wonderful people’ on that part of his route. He recalled she had sat downstairs towards the rear of the vehicle and kept herself to herself for the duration of the journey before finally alighting on Liverpool Road next to the recreation grounds. If anyone had been waiting for her there, he hadn’t noticed.

  Growing more frustrated with every dead end they hit, the next challenge was to speak to some of Chloe’s friends on the street. The hope was that one of them would remember the last person or car to pick her up last night – but with pretty much every girl feeding a daily heroin or crack habit, Phillips knew the chances were slim. Still, they had to try.

  At least Entwistle had provided a breakthrough, discovering that Don Mountfield had been involved in a number of surveillance operations in the last twelve months focused on Adders Scrap Metal. Although it proved nothing concrete at this stage, it at least connected him to the source of the fake plates and, with nothing else to go on, it was at least something.

  On the ten-minute return journey from the bus depot to Ashton House, Phillips had suggested that Gibson take the lead when questioning the girls. The fact that she already knew most of them would make it easier and quicker to get a much-needed result.

  Later that night, when they arrived in Cheetham Hill, Gibson made a point of parking the unmarked squad car away from the main drag where the girls plied their trade. She believed moving around on foot was less likely to spook them, making it easier to garner information from them.

  It was just past 10 p.m. when they got out of the car. It was bitterly cold as they walked up the hill on Pimblet Street. For Phillips, the icy chill brought Chloe Barnes’s body to mind, lying in the snow, half naked and frozen. She shuddered and pulled her collar up against the biting wind; how could the girls function in this kind of weather, wearing next to nothing?

  They walked for about five minutes, passing a number of working girls as they did. Rather than making general enquirie
s, because time was short, Gibson had decided to focus on tracking down a couple of girls she knew who were close to Chloe. Eventually, as they turned onto Empire Street, she signalled that she’d found someone they should talk to. As they moved closer, the girl in question stepped towards them and adopted her best sultry pose in an attempt to get their attention. Evidently she believed Phillips and Gibson were potential customers, but as they moved closer to her, her body language changed. She had recognised Gibson.

  ‘Oh shit, what do you want?’ she said.

  Gibson offered her a cigarette, which she grabbed and lit in one fluid motion. ‘Come on, Trudy, that’s no way to speak to an officer of the law.’

  Trudy was a tall, wiry girl with blue-dyed hair. She was dressed in a miniskirt that accentuated her long pale legs, which ran into impossibly high heels. As she moved, she resembled a baby giraffe taking its first steps. A cheap-looking fake-fur coat was her only protection against the sub-zero temperatures.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Gibson

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Trudy replied sulkily.

  ‘Cut the crap, Trudy. We’re not here to nick you. We just want to talk to you about Chloe Barnes.’

  Trudy blew out a large plume of smoke. ‘Why, what’s she done now?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Gibson.

  Shock spread across Trudy’s face. ‘Jesus Christ. When?’

  ‘Early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Did she OD?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid she was beaten to death just a few hundred metres from her flat.’