Deadly Waters

by OMJ Ryan

  Phillips agreed, and killed the engine before opening the driver’s door. She swung her legs out and took care placing her feet on the icy ground, holding on to the frame of the door as she lifted herself up. To her left, Gibson mirrored her movements, and a moment later they regrouped at the rear of the car, where they opened the boot. Phillips reached inside and pulled out two flashlights, handing one to Gibson. Then, pulling up the panel that covered the spare wheel, she removed a large plastic pouch. Opening it at one end, she pulled out a crowbar. ‘We’re probably gonna need this.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Closing the boot, they switched on their flashlights and moved slowly across the iced dirt track towards the allotment entrance.

  Once they were through the rickety old gate, Gibson swept her heavy torch beam across the ground in front of her. ‘Trisha said it was in the far right-hand corner, next to the fence that runs parallel with the canal.’

  Gibson nodded, and both women took a moment to orientate themselves before the beam of Phillips’s flashlight landed on at a large shed in the general location of where Mountfield’s plot should be. ‘Over there. Let’s check it out.’

  Phillips took the lead, taking careful steps over the slippery ground. ‘I wish I’d thought to put my walking boots on,’ she shouted back towards Gibson, who was tucked in behind her.

  It took a couple of minutes to reach the shed. Inspecting it under the glare of their flashlights, it appeared much larger than its closest neighbours. As they circled its perimeter, they noted there were no windows to speak of, and it appeared that a wide, padlocked door was the only way in or out.

  Gibson trained her flashlight on the heavy-duty padlock. ‘It’s a good job you brought that crowbar, Guv.’

  Phillips slid the metal between the wooden panel and the lock. Using all her strength to pull the bar towards her, it began to yield. After repeating the process a number of times, the screws that held the lock in place were soon exposed. Sweating and breathing heavily from the exertion, Phillips wiped her brow and took a moment to catch her breath.

  ‘Shall I have a go, Guv?’ Gibson asked.

  Phillips nodded, and swapped the crowbar for her own flashlight. A moment later, Gibson used all her weight to finally release the lock.

  ‘Gotcha!’ cried Phillips as the door flung open.

  As she moved forwards and stepped inside, the stench of stale blood was instant and overwhelming, causing her to cover her mouth and nose with her hand.

  Gibson followed her in, with much the same reaction. ‘Jesus, it smells like death. What the hell’s he got in here?’

  Phillips pulled on her latex gloves and handed a pair to her partner. ‘Let’s find out, Gibbo. You take that side, I’ll take this.’

  Examining the walls, Phillips found an array of gardening tools hanging from long nails sticking out from the wooden panels. She began checking for any isolated nails or gaps on the wall that might indicate a missing tool – maybe the murder weapon used on Chloe Barnes. However, on first inspection everything seemed to be in order.

  In the corner in front of her, a heavy-duty plastic bag had been covered by an unopened sack of fertiliser. She moved the fertiliser to one side just enough to allow her to look inside. Holding the flashlight in her right hand, she leaned forwards and pulled the bag apart with her left hand, her heart racing as she expected the worst. Peering inside, though, she found it was filled with nothing more sinister than loose fertiliser. Shit.

  She continued her search. Scanning the floor around her feet, she noted a large metal trunk fitted with another heavy-duty padlock. ‘Pass me the crowbar will you, Gibbo?’

  Gibson handed it over and Phillips made light work of the lock, ripping it off with one pull before dropping the crowbar, which clattered on the floor. Kneeling, she reached inside and pulled out what looked like a woman’s bomber jacket. Inspecting it under the flashlight for a moment, she then handed it Gibson. ‘All of the victims were found without coats or jackets. Do you know if this belonged to any of the girls?’

  Gibson examined it at close quarters, noting the label. ‘I don’t recognise the label, but it seems pretty cheap. I couldn’t say for sure, but it certainly looks like something the girls would wear.’

  ‘Shine your light over here, will you?’ said Phillips, as she lay her own flashlight on the floor. Rummaging in the box with both hands now, she removed four more jackets, similar in style and size. ‘One for each of the girls.’

  ‘Jesus,’ whispered Gibson.

  ‘Do you have an evidence bag handy?’

  Gibson thrust her left hand deep into her coat pocket, pulled one out and handed it over.

  ‘If we find the girls’ DNA on these, we’ve got him.’

  ‘Fuck. He really did kill them didn’t he, Guv?’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but it’s looking promising.’ Phillips picked up her flashlight once more and stood up. ‘Right, let’s see what else is in here, shall we?’

  Gibson turned and lifted a blanket behind her. She pulled out a large pole.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Looks like a fishing rod, but without the net.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  Gibson passed it over and Phillips held it under the light. She found herself holding a long metal pole, around two metres in length, with a rubber loop on the end. There were two buttons on the handle; one appeared to release more of the rubber loop, while the other contracted it.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen one of those before, Guv, but I can’t recall where,’ said Gibson.

  ‘I recognise it now. It’s an animal control pole. The dog units use them to subdue a suspect’s dog and keep them at a safe distance. Ironically, we used one the other night on Mountfield’s own Husky.’ Phillips moved the end of the pole just inches from Gibson’s face. ‘Take a closer look at that. Does it remind you of anything?’

  Gibson appeared confused. ‘Should it?’

  ‘Look closely.’

  ‘I’m still not seeing anything, Guv.’

  Phillips tapped her finger on the end of the pole, where the rubber loop connected. ‘The end of that pole is the exact shape and size of the bruises we found on backs of the girls’ necks.’

  A look of realisation spread across Gibson’s face. ‘Bloody hell. So that’s how he held them in the water.’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Clever bugger.’

  Gibson let out a heavy breath. ‘All this time, how could I not see what he was up to?’

  Phillips placed a reassuring hand on Gibson’s arm. ‘Killers hiding in plain sight are the hardest catch. He’s fooled everyone, not just you.’

  Gibson nodded sagely, and they both stood in silence for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I step outside, Guv? I could so with some air.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll carry on and see if we can find whatever he used to kill Chloe.’

  With Gibson outside, Phillips scanned the space with her flashlight, looking for anything else unusual, but found nothing. Her frustration building, she began muttering to herself. ‘What are you not seeing, Jane? What are you not seeing?’ Her own words brought to mind her old mentor when she was a young detective, DCI Campbell. At times like this, he would repeat the same words, followed by the mantra: ‘Often, when we’re stuck, it’s because the eyes and ears will only see and hear what we want them to, whereas the nose – the nose can never hide what it smells.’

  Standing in the same position, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose before exhaling loudly, allowing her senses to focus on the foul smell itself. Struggling against nausea, she continued taking deep breaths, trying to locate the source. It was strongest in the centre of the space, but there was nothing near her feet on the concrete floor. Then it dawned on her. Opening her eyes, she arched her head back and scanned the ceiling above. Something resembled a rolled-up towel. It looked like it had been lodged in the apex of the A-frame rafter running across the middle of the shed.
Reaching up, she dislodged it and lifted it down. It felt heavy in her hands. Unwrapping the fabric, she revealed a large metal baseball bat caked in dried blood and small lumps that looked like congealed cottage cheese, but which she suspected were bits of Chloe Barnes’s brain. Her pulse quickened as she carefully placed the blanket on the side and carried the bat out to where Gibson stood staring back towards the car, her breath visible in the cold air.

  ‘Gibbo, check this out.’

  Gibson turned. ‘What it is, Guv?’

  ‘A baseball bat. Looks like the weapon that was used to kill Barnes,’ said Phillips.

  Gibson stared at it. ‘Jesus. Poor Chloe.’

  Phillips cradled the bat in her gloved hands. ‘This could be the final nail in Mountfield’s coffin.’

  Gibson nodded before turning away.

  ‘You ok, Gibbo?’

  ‘Sorry, Guv, I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed.’

  Phillips placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s understandable. It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘Mountfield is a stone-cold-murderer. Seriously, what kind of a detective am I? How could I not see it?’

  ‘He’s very clever. He fooled everyone in the team, including DCI Atkins.’

  Gibson scoffed. ‘Well he can’t be that clever, can he? I mean, what kind of an idiot wraps the murder weapon in a blanket and sticks it in the roof of his allotment shed?’

  Phillips took a moment to process what she’d just heard. ‘How did you know it was hidden in a blanket in the roof?

  Gibson looked taken aback. ‘Er, that’s where you said you found it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell you any of that. I just showed you the bat.’

  Gibson let out an awkward laugh, but said nothing.

  ‘How did you know it was hidden in a blanket in the roof, Gibbo?’

  Gibson’s whole demeanour seemed to change in an instant. She hunched her body and scanned her surroundings. Holding the heavy flashlight by her side, she took a step closer to Phillips. ‘A lucky guess, I suppose,’ she said, her voice cold and measured, menacing.

  In that moment, an icy chill ran down Phillips’s spine and she stepped backwards. ‘I think I’d better call this lot in.’

  Gibson thrust the flashlight upwards and pointed it directly at Phillips’s face, blinding her for a moment. Acting on instinct, Phillips raised her hands to protect herself. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked at close quarters.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, DCI Phillips,’ Gibson said, lowering the light so Phillips could see her again. Standing just a few feet away, Gibson held what appeared to be a Glock automatic pistol in her extended right hand. ‘Now, give me your phone and turn around.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You’re Mountfield’s accomplice.’

  ‘Give me your phone. Now!’

  Phillips did as she was instructed.

  ‘Turn around.’

  ‘You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this.’

  Gibson laughed as Phillips turned her back. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Thanks to you, DCI Phillips, I can.’

  A split second later, a heavy thud turned Phillips’s world black.

  44

  The overwhelming pain at the base of Phillips’s skull was the first thing she noticed as she regained consciousness. Opening her eyes to blackness, she became aware that she was moving and could hear the rumble of tyres on asphalt. She sensed she was in the boot of a car, with her back to the driver. The small space smelt stale and metallic, and as she reached upwards to touch the smooth plastic lining of the boot’s interior, she realised her hands were locked together in handcuffs. Her legs were bent almost double in front of her and there was little room to move. Something rigid and hard stuck in her back. Fumbling around in the darkness, she located the spot in front of her where the boot locked shut, and began to pull and prod at it in the vain hope she could somehow find a way to leverage it open. But it remained shut.

  Fighting her mounting claustrophobia, she lay still for a moment and closed her eyes as she attempted to calm her rapid pulse and consider her next move. With the car swaying around her, she refused to panic. She knew her best chance of survival relied on her maintaining a clear head and thinking smart. Easier said than done.

  The car turned a corner and picked up speed, the acceleration forcing her forwards as the volume of noise from the tyres increased around her. The road surface was mercifully smooth now, limiting the pain she felt with each bump and dip. She assumed they must be travelling on a motorway or dual carriageway. In her head, she began to pull together the potential escape routes Gibson could have taken from the allotment in Timperley, but without knowing which direction she had taken in the first place, and how long she had been unconscious, she really had no idea where they were.

  Gibson had also removed Phillip’s Apple watch, so she had no idea what time it was, adding to her sense of disorientation. As the car rolled on, she couldn’t be sure how far they had travelled.

  After what felt like an hour, but was likely less, the car slowed and took a series of left and right turns in close succession before once again maintaining a steady course, but at a much slower speed.

  The cabin of the car behind her was suddenly filled with the sound of loud music booming through the built-in surround-sound speakers. The car came to a stop, but the engine continued to idle. Phillips guessed they may have reached a set of traffic lights or a pedestrian crossing, and began banging as loud as she could muster. It was no use, though. No-one came to her rescue, and as soon as the car began to move again, the noise of the stereo vanished too. The same process happened a number of times in close succession, and Phillips soon came to realise that the onset of loud music meant the car was coming to a stop; Gibson was using it to drown out her cries for help. Jesus, that’s smart.

  Eventually the terrain changed to what Phillips suspected was either gravel or a dirt track, and they continued at a slow pace for a few minutes before coming to a complete stop. This time, though, there was no music, and the engine was soon switched off. A moment later, Phillips heard the driver’s door open and then close with a loud thud. Waiting in the silent darkness, she readied herself for whatever lay ahead, attempting to stave off the overwhelming panic that began to creep through her body.

  As the boot released upwards in front of her, she prepared to fight, but to her surprise she found herself staring up at the clear night sky, the world around her deadly silent. Cautious, she lifted herself up on her aching limbs and peered out of the boot. The glare of Gibson’s powerful flashlight blinded her.

  ‘Climb out of the car slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.’ Gibson’s voice was measured.

  Phillips did as ordered and lifted herself up and over the rim of the boot, throwing her stiff legs out and placing her feet onto the rough ground below.

  ‘Stand up,’ shouted Gibson, and Phillips obeyed. The flashlight still blinded her. ‘Now step forwards and get on your knees.’

  Phillips hesitated.

  ‘On your knees, now,’ growled Gibson.

  The car was parked on a dirt track near to some trees. As Phillips knelt, the sharp edges of the frozen ground dug painfully into her kneecaps.

  Gibson stepped carefully past Phillips and pulled the now-retracted animal control pole from the boot – that must be what had stuck in her back. Slinging the carrying strap over her shoulder, she moved back in front of Phillips.

  Up close now, without the flashlight blinding her vision, Phillips could see Gibson’s face. She appeared possessed by rage and hatred, and Phillips was shocked; her features were hard and sharp, her eyes as black as the night.

  ‘Stand up,’ said Gibson, waving the gun upwards.

  Phillips did as directed. She knew that to have any chance of survival, she had to try and humanise herself and get inside Gibson’s head. ‘Where are we Gibbo?’

  ‘Not far from Lymm Golf Club.’

 
; ‘Lymm? Why did you bring me all the way out here?’

  Gibson laughed. ‘Because it’s quiet. There’s isn’t another human being for miles.’ The flashlight returned to Phillips’s face. ‘Now, turn around and follow the track towards the water. My torch will guide you. And don’t try anything funny or I will shoot you. Unlike Frank Fairchild, I won’t miss.’

  45

  Phillips’s mind raced as she walked with some difficulty across the rough terrain, down the dark track towards the Manchester Ship Canal running parallel to the perimeter of Lymm Golf Club. Unlike the city-centre canals, this stretch of water was wide and deep enough to carry frigates. Opened in 1894, its primary purpose had been to carry cargo from Eastham in Merseyside, all the way into Salford Quays in Manchester. If Gibson forced her into the water here, the strong currents would make her chances of survival almost zero. She had to try and stop that happening.

  As they approached the water, Phillips could hear the waves, kicked up by the winter wind, lapping against the bank. A moment later, she caught a glimpse of the moonlight dancing across the surface of the canal through the trees, and as they stepped out of the thick line of trees, she came face to face with the vast expanse of water.

  Gibson jabbed Phillips in the back with the gun. ‘That way.’ She nudged the gun towards a patch of ground at least four feet up from the water’s edge.

  Phillips reluctantly moved over to it as Gibson dropped something to the ground nearby.

  ‘Turn around.’

  As she followed the instructions, she was again blinded by the flashlight.

  Gibson lowered the torch, but the afterglow clouded Phillips’s vision. A moment later, she felt her handcuffs being unlocked. Then Gibson moved to a safe distance before Phillips could react, flashlight in hand.

  Phillips raised her hands in surrender. ‘Please, Gibbo, drop the flashlight, will you? I can’t see a thing. I promise I won’t try anything stupid.’

  Gibson agreed and released Phillips from the grip of the light.