Where the Truth Lies

by Where the Truth Lies (retail) (epub)

  ‘I don’t think I can do it.’ Her voice was tentative, hoping he would agree.

  ‘Meet me in there at five o’clock, not a second later,’ he insisted.

  What was she going to do? Then it came to her. Give her mother sandwiches and tea early. Surely her mother wouldn’t be angry.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she answered him.

  ‘Good. For a moment, I thought you deserved punishment, Lesley. You know how much I hate to punish you.’

  ‘I know. I’ll be good, just wait and see the girl in the workshop. She’ll be perfect.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. She hoped she had appeased him, deflected him from his anger at her reluctance to obey.

  Eventually, the answer came. ‘We’ll see.’

  The dial tone echoed in her ear as she held the phone. ‘“We’ll see.” Was that good or bad?’

  At 4.30 she went into the living room to check on her mother. The TV was flickering in the corner with the sound turned down low but the subtitles switched on. Some woman was showing a couple a dreary house in suburbia.

  It would take her 15 minutes to drive to the workshop. She had to start preparing now. He was particular about her clothes and make-up.

  Her mother looked up for a moment from her word-search puzzle. ‘What do you want, Lesley?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother.’

  ‘Then why are you bothering me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  ‘You have become extremely thoughtless recently, Lesley, going out far too much,’

  Lesley laughed nervously. ‘Just meeting friends.’

  ‘You don’t have any friends.’

  Oh but she did, and you know nothing about him. ‘I’ll make your tea now.’

  But she didn’t go straight into the kitchen. First she went upstairs, changing from her uniform into the purple twinset and pearls he liked so much, giving herself a quick spray of Chanel No. 5. Not too much though, he didn’t like it to be strong: it made him sneeze, and if he sneezed he would punish her. She left her face bare otherwise. She would have preferred to have a touch of lipstick and blusher but he liked her face to be bare. More natural, he called it.

  After checking herself in the mirror to see she was perfect, she ran downstairs into the kitchen to make a cheese sandwich. Mother liked cheese sandwiches, but not too much butter and not too much cheese. The kettle had already boiled so she added two PG teabags to the pot – Mother never drank anything else – and poured the hot water in.

  She assembled the plate of sandwiches, cut into triangles, on a tray and added a pot of tea, a jug of milk and two cubes of sugar on the saucer. Then she walked into the living room, placing the tray on the side table next to her mother’s right hand.

  ‘Is it time for Noel already?’

  ‘Not quite, Mother. I thought we would have tea a little earlier tonight.’

  Her mother’s face screwed up into a paroxysm of pain. ‘I don’t want my tea a little earlier. I want it with Noel.’ She pointed to the television with a crooked finger. ‘Does that look like Noel to you?’

  Lesley glanced across at the box in the corner. On it, the couple were being shown around a different house by a jolly plump lady with a plummy voice.

  ‘I thought we would have it a little early tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want it early.’

  The travelling clock beneath its glass dome on the mantelpiece said 4.40. If she drove quickly she could still make it.

  ‘Let’s be different today, have our tea early.’

  Her mother scowled. ‘I don’t want to be different.’ With her crooked hand she pushed the sandwiches off the tray to land on the beige carpet.

  Lesley rushed over to pick them up, placing them back on the plate.

  ‘I’ll make some fresh. She began to pour the tea, placing the milk in the bottom of the cup first just like her mother expected. ‘At least drink your tea. I’ll bring your food when Noel starts.’

  Her mother sulked but accepted the cup and saucer, slowly sipping the tea through wrinkled lips with their smear of scarlet lipstick.

  Four forty-five.

  The sleeping tablets were taking effect. Already her mother’s head was beginning to nod forward to her chest, and the book of search puzzles had slipped onto the floor.

  She took the cup from her mother’s liver-spotted hands and placed it back on the tray. The old witch wouldn’t have anything to eat tonight, but she would never know.

  Lesley would make it up to her tomorrow, buy her favourite Battenberg cake from the grocer’s as a special treat.

  A groan from the girl brought her back to the workshop with its brick walls speckled with blood. She could see the arms were already white as the blood had drained out of them. A pasty white like uncooked dough. Should she release one of the hands? Let the blood flow back into it?

  But he had told her to wait.

  She always obeyed him.

  The girl was groaning loudly now, shaking her arms, twisting her head left and right, struggling against her restraints. Should she give her another injection? Perhaps the girl would injure herself before they started.

  He wouldn’t like that. He didn’t like them to be damaged before they started.

  She heard a noise behind her as the trapdoor swung open.

  He was here. He was finally here.

  She sat at attention, still looking straight at the girl as she had been told. She sensed his presence behind her, feeling the slight movement in the chair as the tips of his fingers brushed the back. Then he was standing beside her.

  ‘You have done well, Lesley. She’s perfect.’

  He was happy. She knew she could look at him now. She turned her head and stared up into the black face. A halo had formed around his head. His eyes stared beatifically down on her, shining out against the black satin of the mask.

  ‘This one deserves something special, I think, don’t you?’ He held up the Black & Decker drill for her to see. ‘Do you want to go first this time?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ridpath spent the rest of the morning at the cemetery.

  Charlie finally called in a forensics team after ringing John Gorman to get his approval. The guv’nor had hummed and hawed before finally saying yes, the clinching argument being the reminder of their fraught relationship with the coroner.

  They sent him Protheroe, one of the better pathologists, as well as Sarah Castle to help with logistics. She didn’t look too pleased at being taken off the woman with the swan tattoo case, but they were short of staff and everybody had to double up these days.

  As soon as she turned up, Charlie Whitworth introduced him. ‘This is Tom Ridpath, the coroner’s officer.’

  ‘You were at the briefing – ex-CID aren’t you?’ she said as she shook his hand.

  Ridpath immediately bristled. ‘Still CID. It’s Detective Inspector Ridpath.’

  She reddened again. She seemed to spend most of her time these days blushing. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘No worries, I’m just on temporary secondment to the coroner.’

  Charlie Whitworth coughed. ‘Well, I’ll be off. You’ll be in good hands with Sarah.’

  Ridpath looked around as the forensics team began to set up their tent to cover the open grave and the bare coffin. ‘Who’s running this investigation? Somebody has to be the SIO?’

  Charlie Whitworth stroked his straggly moustache. ‘It looks like you are, Ridpath. DS Castle will stay here until the forensics have finished, then I need her back on the job.’

  ‘I’m running it?’

  DCI Charlie Whitworth shielded his eyes with his hand and stared off into the distance, looking around the whole of the cemetery and across to the Mersey. ‘I don’t see any other Ridpaths around here, so it must be you. We haven’t got anybody else, and you were still CID the last time I looked. I’ll cover it with the district commander, so don’t cock it up.’ He nodded once and strode quickly over to his car.

  Sar
ah Castle went straight to work, blocking off the scene with tape, creating a perimeter around the exhumation. People were beginning to arrive in the cemetery to lay flowers at the graves of their loved ones. The detective sergeant was polite but firm with them, not allowing anyone near the crime scene.

  Once the area had been cordoned off, Protheroe and his team went to work.

  ‘You touched the coffin lid?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘Bloody idiot. Didn’t they teach you anything on the coroner’s officer course?’

  ‘I haven’t been on the course.’

  Protheroe stared at him through his thick glasses, finally taking them off to get a better look. ‘Don’t I know you? Weren’t you CID?’

  This was becoming tedious. ‘We worked on the tram case together.’ A bunch of kids had thrown bricks through the windscreen of a moving tram and then ran away. Unfortunately, they had given the driver a heart attack.’ Protheroe had lifted a print off one of the bricks and they found it belonged to an eleven year-old boy, Martin Shuttleworth. Not one of the cases Ridpath had enjoyed working on.

  ‘I remember you. Detective Sergeant Ridley, isn’t it?

  Protheroe was famous throughout the force for never remembering names or faces. He had once asked the chief constable who he was and why he was cluttering up his crime scene.

  ‘Actually, the name is Ridpath. Detective Inspector Ridpath.’

  ‘Well then, Detective Inspector Ridley, you should have known better than to contaminate a scene. Did you wear gloves?’

  Ridpath showed his pink-gloved hands.

  ‘Good.’ He turned to one of his team. ‘Steve, can you bag these gloves for me? And while you’re at it, better take his shoes too. You don’t know where Ridley’s been.’

  ‘Will do,’ was the curt answer.

  ‘But I don’t have anything else to wear.’

  Protheroe stared at his feet. ‘Size 9, I would say. You can borrow a pair of wellies from the van. Give them back, mind. Wellies don’t grow on trees.’

  Ridpath felt the technician lift and bag his hand.

  ‘What about the chief inspector – did he go anywhere near the coffin?

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘No, he stayed away. Didn’t come anywhere near.’

  ‘Smart man. No wonder he’s a chief rinspector. Now where’s my coffin?’

  Protheroe trudged towards the open grave, leaving Ridpath to be molested by the white-suited technician.

  ‘Do you really need to take my shoes?’

  ‘If the boss says we do, we do.’

  His brand new brogues were placed in a brown paper bag, numbered and identified. Ridpath was issued with a receipt and a pair of purple wellies, size 9. ‘I know, I know, bring them back.’

  ‘Actually, you can keep these. I wore them on a case up on Saddleworth Moor. They’re starting to leak.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Ridpath stood up and squelched down towards the gravediggers’ hut. He’d only gone three steps when Mr Health and Safety sidled up to him. ‘I’m going to have to file a report, you know. I did warn you not to open the coffin lid. And you weren’t wearing a suit. A grave offence, that is. I’ll put it all down in my report.’

  ‘Send me a copy, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Mrs Challinor will get one too.’

  ‘Lucky for her.’ Ridpath noticed the technician placing his bagged shoes and gloves in the white SOC van. He waved to them. ‘You need to take this man’s shoes too.’

  The technician ran across. ‘You stood near the grave, did you?’ A Welsh accent. Ridpath could almost hear the word ‘boyo’ at the end of the sentence.

  ‘Not for long, I was—’

  ‘Better give me your shoes then.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘And he touched the coffin.’

  ‘Did he? Well, I’ll have to take the gloves too. Don’t want to miss anything. Old Protheroe’s a stickler for the rules at a crime scene.’

  Ridpath turned away and squelched down the path to the gravediggers’ hut, a smile creeping across his face.

  He knocked on the door and walked straight in without waiting for a response. The two gravediggers were sitting around a rickety wooden table in their stockinged feet, drinking mugs of tea. The undertaker and his assistant were standing with their arms crossed, not saying anything.

  ‘I see they’ve already been here.’

  ‘Aye, took us boots. Can’t work with no boots.’ The elder gravedigger spoke through his thick moustache. It was as if the words were filtered through the ginger and white hair.

  He looked at the undertaker’s feet. They were shod in highly polished black patent leather, with no decoration.

  ‘I always carry a spare pair, just in case. Can’t bury a customer in dirty shoes.’

  ‘Can’t have the corpse complaining, can we?’ said Ridpath.

  Albert Ronson sniffed. ‘It’s a customer, not a corpse,’ he said drily.

  ‘Well, I need to take your statements,’ said Ridpath.

  The undertaker stared at him. ‘But you were there with us, you saw everything we did.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, still have to do it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now is as good a time as any, while it’s still fresh.’

  The undertaker looked at his watch. ‘I have an embalming at twelve.’

  ‘Is that before or after lunch?’

  The undertaker’s mouth remained pursed, as if he had been sucking a particularly sour lemon. ‘During, actually,’ he finally answered.

  Ridpath’s eyes screwed up, trying to understand.

  The undertaker helped him. ‘Tuna sandwiches, no lettuce, plenty of mayo. I find the flavour goes well with the smell of embalming fluid.’

  There was no answer to that. ‘I’ll interview you two first then.’

  He took the undertaker and his assistant aside and ensured they described the morning’s events in their own words, writing it down in his neat capital letters. The undertaker read it through and signed it at the bottom.

  ‘I’ll get it typed up and you can come in to sign your statement properly.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Look, if you are called to give evidence at least you will have this to fall back on.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Is there going to be an inquest?’

  Ridpath shrugged his shoulders, ‘Who knows? It’s for the coroner to decide.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about Mrs Challinor. She’s not going to be to be happy about this.’

  Ridpath had forgotten about Mrs Challinor too. ‘Thanks, we’re finished now. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’ He held up the witness statement.

  The undertaker and his assistant said goodbye to the two gravediggers and placed their top hats on their heads, adopting a look of funereal calm, before leaving the hut.

  ‘Our turn now?’ the elder gravedigger asked.

  Ridpath held up his hand. ‘Give me a sec.’

  He stepped outside and watched the undertaker climb into his van without taking off his hat. He took his mobile phone from his jacket and rang the Coroner’s Office.

  ‘Jenny Oldfield speaking.’

  ‘I need to speak to Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s in court at the moment. Can I take a message?’

  At least she sounded efficient. ‘It’s Tom Ridpath—’

  ‘The new officer?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Correct—’

  Before he had time to speak, she was already talking. ‘I’m so looking forward to meeting you, Carol said you came in yesterday but I missed you, what a shame. She was soooooo complimentary. It’s going to be great working with a real police officer.’

  He got the impression the office manager was a woman in her mid-forties, but this voice sounded like that of a young girl. An extremely naive young girl. What could he say? ‘Thanks. Could you ask Mrs Challinor to call me back on the mobile as soon as she can? There’s a problem
…’

  ‘Doesn’t sound good. Will do. She’ll be out as soon as she’s finished the Lorry inquest.’

  ‘Bye, Jenny.’ He switched off the phone before she could say anything else.

  The gravediggers were waiting for him in the hut with fresh mugs of tea in their hands. They didn’t offer him one. ‘Right, let’s get started. You are?’ He pointed to the elder gravedigger.

  ‘Ned Thomas. And this here’s my son, Jasper.’

  A father and son grave digging team? It’s one way to keep jobs in the family. ‘How long have you been working in the cemetery?’

  The father answered for both of them. ‘Bin here 42 years myself. Jasper here’s done 10.’

  ‘Eleven, dad,’ the younger man answered laconically before taking a long swallow of tea.

  ‘So you must have dug her grave in 2008?’

  The father took a long draught from his pint-sized, tannin-stained mug. ‘Probably.’ Both father and son were men of few words but gallons of tea.

  ‘Well, did you or didn’t you?’

  ‘Probably we did. But maybe we didn’t.’

  Ridpath waited for him to explain, but he didn’t, just taking gulps of tea. Finally, he gave in and asked. ‘Could you explain?’

  The younger man answered. ‘Well, back in 2008, there was another gravedigger, Alf Basset. He dug graves too.’

  Well, he would – he was a gravedigger, thought Ridpath.

  Before he could ask the next question, the younger man continued. ‘But his rheumatism was giving him gyp by then so it was probably us. Couldn’t do much digging by then, could Alf. Retired in 2009, he did.’

  ‘No, 2008,’ said the father.

  The son counted slowly on his fingers. ‘Aye, you’re probably right, Dad. Our Daniel is ten now and he wasn’t born when Alf retired.’

  ‘That’s what I said: 2008.’ The father took another long slurp of tea from his bottomless mug.

  ‘Probably us what dug it,’ the son finally said.

  ‘Good, I’m glad we’ve got it sorted.’ Ridpath realized it was useless asking them the next question but he had to try. ‘Do you remember digging the grave?’