Deadly Night: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Jane Phillips Book 7) Read online

  Deadly Night

  A Detective Jane Phillips Novel

  OMJ Ryan

  Published by Inkubator Books

  www.inkubatorbooks.com

  Copyright © 2022 by OMJ Ryan

  OMJ Ryan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-915275-46-2

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-915275-47-9

  DEADLY NIGHT is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Inkubator Books

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Free Crime Thriller

  Acknowledgments

  Also by OMJ Ryan

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  Prologue

  Friday 5th November 1993. 7 p.m.

  As he watched, the number of people gathered around the unlit bonfire grew. Constructed over the past week by the residents of The Crescents from discarded pallets, broken chairs, old doors, and anything else flammable that could be found, the large pile towered fifteen feet into the air. It sat in the middle of the grassed area that surrounded The Crescents, a rundown council estate on the outskirts of Manchester city centre, to honour the British tradition dating back to the seventeenth century – the failed Gunpowder Plot by Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators. In the year 1605, they had attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was indeed a murderous plan, but at the eleventh hour it had been thwarted, resulting in the gang being hung, drawn and quartered for their treachery to the king, suffering unspeakable agony in the process. How fitting then, he thought, that tonight he would deliver his own brand of justice as the effigy of Guy Fawkes burned brightly on the inferno.

  The time for him to make his move approached.

  The sky was black and foreboding, with low-hanging clouds. Excited chatter filled the chilly autumnal air as people made their way towards the scene of the upcoming celebration.

  Pulling up the hood of his thick winter coat, he lowered his head slightly to hide his face, then slipped out of the shadows and made his way along the path towards the next block of dilapidated apartments. With people everywhere, he was just another person in the crowd: anonymous and unremarkable. Exactly what he wanted.

  A few minutes later, he heard the unmistakeable whoosh of the petrol-soaked pallets being set alight. The flames spread across the bonfire in a matter of seconds. Checking his watch, he was pleased to see the organisers were sticking to their published schedule.

  As he reached the bottom of a concrete stairwell that led up to the first- and second-floor apartments, he took a moment to survey the area for any unwanted eyes that may be watching him. But none of the people walking alongside him seemed to have the slightest interest in anything other than the raging bonfire. Confident of his anonymity, he turned away from the procession and took the stairs, slowly and deliberately.

  Archie Boothroyd’s apartment was on the second floor, on the opposite side of the building to the crowd gathered around the fire. It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen tonight to make his move. Everyone’s attention would be elsewhere. The second reason – the fireworks display – was due to start at 7.30 p.m.

  As he took up his position in the shadows at the end of the concrete landing – just opposite Boothroyd’s apartment – he checked his watch; the time approached 7.15 p.m.

  Boothroyd’s front door had been broken down during a recent police raid, and a flimsy-looking makeshift repair had been attempted. It seemed the slightest bit of force applied would open it easily.

  Everything was in place. All he had to do now was wait.

  Wrapping his gloved fingers tightly around the handle of the pistol in his coat pocket, he imagined the look on Boothroyd’s face as he stared down its barrel. It caused his spine to tingle. Archie Boothroyd was finally going to get what was coming to him, the treacherous prick. With his other hand, he tapped the industrial pliers in his left pocket, and smirked. He closed his eyes and waited.

  Sometime later, the digital watch on his left wrist began to beep. It was 7.30 p.m. and time to go to work.

  Releasing the pistol in his pocket, he pulled the black ski mask down over his face. A moment later, the first firework of the organised display soared, whistling, into the night sky before exploding with a loud bang. A second firework followed shortly after. Then the display erupted into life, sounding, to his ears, like machine gun fire.

  There was no time to waste.

  Stepping forward, he pulled the pistol from his pocket and kicked the makeshift front door. As expected, it offered no resistance.

  Rushing inside, he spotted Archie at the end of the small hall, barefoot and dressed in shorts and T-shirt. Shock etched his face. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he shouted, eyes wide. Archie had the physique of a man who spent a lot of time in the boxing gym. In any other circumstances, he would have been no match for Archie, but tonight he’d come prepared.

  Archie raised his hands and began stepping backwards into the small lounge room, his eyes on the pistol. ‘Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it,’ he said as the fireworks continued to explode across the night sky outside.

  ‘On your knees!’ he shouted, and trained the gun on Archie’s forehead. ‘Do it! Do it, now!’

  Archie appeared reluctant to follow the order at first, then slowly dropped to the floor, hands still raised.

  ‘Not such a big man now, are you?’ His pulse quickened as he clutched the pistol and stared down at his nemesis.

  ‘Show me your face,’ Archie demanded.

  ‘Shut the fuck up. I’m giving the orders now,’ he spat back, and slammed the pistol’s muzzle onto the bridge of Archie’s nose. Archie cried out as bloo
d began to pour from his nostrils.

  He glanced at his watch; it was 7.36 p.m. He had only a few minutes left before the fireworks ended. The gun in his hand shook as the enormity of what he was about to do finally hit him.

  Archie winced in pain as he wiped blood from his nose with his left hand. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘Revenge. That’s what I want.’

  Boothroyd straightened and stared at him. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  He ignored the question and, as the fireworks came to a crescendo outside, thrust the pistol into Archie’s eye socket. ‘An eye for an eye, Archie!’ he shouted, then pulled the trigger.

  Boothroyd’s head recoiled as fragments of skull and brain splattered on the wall opposite. A split second later, his lifeless body slumped to the ground in a heap. Blood soon pooled onto the grubby grey carpet, around the remains of his head. The room fell silent. The fireworks display came to an end, then the crowd began to applaud.

  His heart pounded. He struggled to control his breathing as he took a moment to survey the macabre scene at his feet. He wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline or hysteria, but he couldn’t stop the smile of satisfaction that spread across his face. He felt giddy and lightheaded. Giggling to himself, he reached for the pliers in his coat pocket before kneeling down and locking them onto one of Archie’s front teeth. ‘A tooth for a tooth, you bastard,’ he whispered, then yanked and pulled with all his might until the tooth finally came free.

  Holding it up to the light, he examined the bloody roots before allowing it to drop into the palm of his gloved hand. A second later, he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, along with the pistol and pliers.

  Pulling off the ski mask, he took one last look at Archie Boothroyd’s crumpled body. He resisted the temptation to spit on the corpse. Leave nothing behind, he reminded himself as he retraced his steps back to the front door. Closing it softly behind him, he checked left and right. No one had seen him. He moved gingerly along the concrete landing and back down to the stairs. A moment later, with little fuss, he joined the bustling crowd of spectators making their way home.

  With his hood pulled up over his head, he weaved through the sea of people, careful to maintain a steady pace despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins. As he glanced at the faces around him, he wondered how long it would be before anyone realised what had happened. Who would be the first person to discover Boothroyd’s body? In truth, it didn’t matter. The job was done.

  In time, there would be ramifications, but no one would ever come looking for him. Why would they?

  The adrenaline started to wane, causing his mouth to dry. He found himself craving an ice-cold beer. Why not? he thought. The plan had worked like a charm. Boothroyd was dead, and revenge was indeed sweet.

  1

  Sunday 4th July, 10.25 p.m. - Present day

  DCI Jane Phillips took a seat next to Adam on the L-shaped grey sofa in the lounge. It was a balmy Sunday night, and she would have loved a glass of wine with dinner, but it wasn’t possible due to her being the on-call senior investigating officer for the Major Crimes Unit of the Greater Manchester Police. Working weekends hadn’t bothered her before Adam came into her life less than a year earlier. Nowadays, though, she hated waiting for the phone to ring, and resenting having to leave Adam at home when it did. As luck would have it, there had been no calls so far, no fresh crime scenes to view. Still, being the ultimate professional she was, she had remained on high alert since leaving the office on Friday night.

  Cradling her hot cup of tea, she bent her legs back beside her on the sofa and settled down to watch the local news programme that always followed the national bulletin. It was only ten minutes long and focused predominantly on Greater Manchester events. Each time she watched it, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the local news anchors, squashed onto their flimsy-looking sets compared to the lavish surroundings enjoyed by their national counterparts.

  Adam, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, moved to lie down on the seat, stretching his bare legs out so they rested on Phillips’s knees. Instinctively, she dropped one of her hands onto his perfectly formed ankles and gently rubbed his soft, tanned skin.

  ‘That’s nice,’ he murmured as he closed his eyes. ‘Being on my feet all day every day is taking its toll on my trotters.’

  Phillips chuckled at his description of his feet as she looked at his handsome face, filled with contentment. ‘At least you get to wear trainers to work, babe. Not something I can see happening in my world.’

  Adam was a senior emergency room doctor in the A&E department of the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, just under an hour’s drive from Manchester. As he worked shifts, often through the night, and on weekends, whatever time they got to spend together was all the more precious.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Phillips.

  Adam opened his eyes and looked at the TV. The news reporter stood with her back to a large fireworks display in full flow. The text banner placed her in Alexandra Park, a mile from the city centre in the suburb of Moss Side.

  ‘I don’t get it. Since when did we start celebrating the fourth of July in England?’ asked Phillips.

  ‘Since people realised they could make money from it,’ Adam replied.

  ‘But it’s utter nonsense. Why would we, the English, celebrate having our arses kicked in the War of Independence?’

  Adam smirked. ‘Because we Brits have a morbid fascination with all things American. Plus, we have selective memories. If celebrating losing a war a couple hundred years ago gives us an excuse to dress up, get drunk and eat loads of rich food, then we’ll gladly do it. Not to mention the fireworks; everyone loves fireworks,’ he added playfully.

  ‘I don’t,’ Phillips took a sip of her tea. ‘They sound far too much like gun shots to me, and I’ve had enough of guns to last me a lifetime.’

  ‘To be fair, I’m glad I’m not on shift tonight. The fourth of July is always crazy busy with people covered in burns from cheap or badly managed firework displays. In fact, I take it back. No one in A&E departments likes fireworks.’

  The local news done, Phillips switched off the TV and dropped the remote onto the sofa, only just missing Floss, her blonde Ragdoll cat, who had suddenly appeared from nowhere in search of some attention. Drawing the animal into her arms, Phillips began to stroke her. Soon, the rhythmic sound of purring filled the air. Phillips yawned suddenly. ‘I don’t want to tempt fate, but I think I might go to bed.’

  Adam checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s just over an hour till midnight. I’m sure you won’t be called out before then.’

  Phillips nodded, without conviction, and turned her attention back to Floss, stroking her thick blonde coat with relish.

  ‘Janey?’ said Adam, his tone unusually hesitant.

  Phillips turned her head to face him.

  ‘Have you thought anymore about us moving in together?’

  Before she could check herself, she let out a frustrated sigh and closed her eyes.

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Adam sharply, pulling his legs away and sitting upright.

  ‘Please, Adam, let’s not have this conversation now. It’s late and I’m tired.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Adam shot back. ‘I’m tired of living out of a suitcase when I’m here, and tired of wasting money on a flat I hardly ever use. With our shift patterns, it’s hard enough to see each other as it is. At least if we moved in together, we’d be able see each other every day.’

  ‘Yeah. In passing, maybe,’ Phillips replied.

  Adam shook his head. ‘I just don’t get it, Jane. Why are you so against us living together?’

  ‘I’m not. I just don’t want to talk about it right now. Is that such a big deal?’

  Just then, Phillips’s mobile began to vibrate on the chair next to her. She picked it up. ‘It’s Jonesy. I have to take it.’

  Adam stared at her without saying a word, then stood and headed for the kitchen.

  Phillips watc
hed him leave as she accepted the call. ‘Jonesy. What’s up?’

  ‘Sorry, Guv. I know we’re due off shift at midnight, but I think you’ll want to see this one.’ DS Jones was her second in command at Major Crimes.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m out in Alderley Edge. Two men broke in and murdered the homeowner, Paul Bradley.’

  ‘As in the gangster, Paul Bradley?’

  ‘Theoretically that’s never proven, boss, but yeah, that Paul Bradley.’

  Phillips got up off the sofa in a flash. ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘And be prepared, Guv. It looks like shit got a bit weird.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll explain it all when you get here.’

  Phillips ended the call and made her way upstairs. Five minutes later, having swapped her jogging bottoms and T-shirt for her customary black pants, white shirt and charcoal suit jacket, she slipped on black boots, then pulled her dark hair into a ponytail and headed downstairs in search of Adam. She found him in the kitchen watching the smaller TV, drinking a bottle of beer. ‘Looks like I spoke too soon. A case has come in and I’ve got to get over to Alderley Edge.’