Where the Truth Lies

by Where the Truth Lies (retail) (epub)

He pulled tighter and tighter, the only effort on his face a slight tightening of the jaw and mouth.

  She looked into his eyes and he smiled at her.

  God, she loved this man.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Seagram house wasn’t what he expected. It was a detached new build, created out of old stone rather than brick and located in the streets close to the centre of Didsbury, one of Manchester’s more expensive neighbourhoods.

  He had called them earlier. Or rather Margaret Challinor had called them, with him listening in on speaker phone. The woman’s voice on the other end was pure Manchester, with the nasal whine made familiar by the Gallaghers.

  He had read through the file. Their daughter had been kidnapped by the Beast on 4 March 2008, just over ten years ago. The body had been found four days later, dumped by the side of a stream in Withington, not far from Didsbury. She had been strangled and tortured and was just 16 years old.

  He rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a woman in a housecoat. Her hair was grey and piled on top of her head in an old-fashioned beehive, like something escaped from the 1960s.

  ‘I’m Tom Ridpath, the coroner’s officer.’

  She opened the door wider, ‘You’d better come in.’

  Having read the file, he didn’t tell her he was a police officer. This family had just spent the last ten years criticizing the police for the investigation into the murder of their daughter. This time, it was better to take cover behind the anonymity of the Coroner’s Office.

  He followed her into a comfortably, and expensively, furnished living room. A man, presumably Mr Seagram, sat in an armchair, reading the Daily Mail. When he walked in the man didn’t acknowledge him, just folded up the newspaper and placed it beside him.

  ‘Can I get you some tea, Mr Ridpath?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thanks.’

  He sat down on the settee and bustled about pulling out the files from his folder and arranging his notepad on his knee.

  The man just watched him all the time, not saying a word.

  Ridpath looked around the room. Everywhere photographs of a young girl stared out from mantelpieces and shelves and ledges. Smiling directly to camera; playing with two friends; one in semi-profile, taken for some school event, dressed in uniform; a candid shot, at age 11 or so, beside the beach, her feet kicking up the seawater towards the camera.

  The girl may have been dead for ten years, but in this room she still lived on.

  Only one photo was different. A young boy on his own, not smiling, just staring straight into the camera, determination etched into the tightness of the jaw.

  The woman returned with a tray, complete with tea and biscuits. She poured Ridpath a cup and handed it to him, giving one to her husband but taking nothing for herself.

  She spoke first, just after Ridpath had taken his first mouthful of tea. ‘I suppose you’re here about the exhumation this morning?’

  He nodded, placing the tea down on the side table next to him. ‘You didn’t send anybody to observe?’

  ‘My son is at work and I couldn’t face it,’ she answered. ‘I want to remember my daughter like this’ – she pointed to the pictures all over the room – ‘not how she was after…’ Her voice trailed off.

  The man opposite still said nothing, just watching and breathing heavily.

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘David, he works for Granada, the TV station. He’s been the one pressing for the review of the case…’

  That explains the management of the press, thought Ridpath.

  ‘He doesn’t believe my daughter was murdered by James Dalbey.’ The woman looked down at her small, fragile hands clasped in her lap. ‘It’s been such a long time…’ she whispered.

  Ridpath took a deep breath; this was going to be difficult. ‘I’m afraid I have some distressing news’ The woman reached over to touch her husband. ‘What is it?’

  He licked his lips. How could he tell somebody their daughter’s body was missing? He looked around the room again, finally focusing on a picture of a young, happy 16-year-old, long blonde hair and beautiful smile, staring into the camera with openness and innocence.

  He took another breath. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you. This morning at six o’clock we opened your daughter’s grave, removing the coffin from it. On opening the coffin in the presence of an undertaker, a senior police officer and a council representative, we found it was empty. I am sorry.’

  ‘What?’ The question was almost whispered.

  Ridpath swallowed. ‘We found the coffin was empty. Your daughter’s body wasn’t inside.’

  The woman’s face went pale. She searched for her husband’s hand, finally clutching at it like one would seize a lifebelt when drowning. ‘Can’t be. There was the funeral, the priest, carrying her into the church…’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true, Mrs Seagram. I was there when the casket was opened. There was nothing inside.’

  The man’s voice when it spoke for the first time was full of malice. ‘This is more incompetence from the police. We wanted our daughter to be exhumed to prove the police got it totally wrong. They arrested an innocent man for her murder. James Dalbey couldn’t have killed her.’

  ‘I understand how you feel at a time like this, Mr Seagram—’

  ‘You understand nothing, sonny. My daughter was murdered, her body thrown out on the street with the rubbish. The police didn’t look for the man who did it. They simply pinned it on an innocent man. And now you’re telling me they’ve lost her body too.’

  Ridpath took another breath. ‘The police didn’t lose the body, Mr Seagram – it was stolen by somebody. And I’m going to find out who did it.’

  ‘Stolen?’ The wife whispered, ‘Who would steal my daughter’s body?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As he walked down the path to the gate, Ridpath could hear the sound of a raised voice from the living room. Mrs Seagram was shouting a stream of abuse, followed by the crash of something breaking against a wall.

  Ridpath rushed back to the door, ready to break it down, but something made him stop for a moment. Inside he could hear the sound of sobbing and a voice speaking – a softer, gentler voice, that of Mr Seagram. ‘It’s all right, love, it will be all right.’

  He listened a few seconds more before walking away, unwilling to intrude on their private grief, desperately reaching for the cigarettes in his inside pocket.

  The interview hadn’t gone well.

  ‘You’re gonna find out who stole her body, are you?’ Mr Seagram had shouted. ‘Why don’t you find out who stole her life?’

  The wife had reached for his arm again, grasping it just above the wrist where a faded tattoo was covered in hair. An army tattoo or one from the navy?

  ‘I need some details of the funeral arrangements in 2008.’ He deliberately spoke to Mrs Seagram. ‘Who was the funeral director?’

  ‘We hired Mr O’Shaughnessy because he’d done such a lovely job with my sister when she died of the cancer.’

  At the mention of the dreaded word, Ridpath looked down at his pad and wrote the words ‘O’Shaughnessy’ followed by ‘CANCER’ in block capitals, underlined. ‘Do you have an address for the funeral director?’

  ‘I’ve got it somewhere. She walked over to a drawer in the sideboard and pulled out a Catholic mass card, edged in black. ‘Here it is’, she said, passing it to him.

  ‘Do you mind if I keep this?’ The address of the director was on the back. On the front, a picture of Alice Seagram was smiling out at him. Beneath the picture in black type:

  A requiem mass for the soul of Alice Seagram will be said at St Ann’s Church, Chester Road, on 21 March 2008, followed by burial at Stretford Cemetery.

  ‘We have plenty more. She was a popular girl, was Alice.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to go through the details with me again.’

  ‘Details?’

  He would have to
be clearer with his words. ‘Of your daughter’s disappearance and her funeral.’

  Mr Seagram spoke quietly. ‘We’ve told this so many times.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just need to hear it in your own words’

  They both looked at each other. Mrs Seagram finally spoke. ‘It was 4 March. Alice had gone out with her friends to a party. We lived in Stretford then, not far from the Quadrant.’

  Ridpath nodded. He knew the area well, close to Old Trafford and the cricket ground.

  ‘She left the party early. She was never a great party girl, much preferred to bury her nose in a book. Anyway, that’s the last anybody saw of her. We went to the police the following day but they did nothing. Thought she was just another runaway. But I told them she wasn’t like that. They didn’t want to listen. Then she was found in Withington on 8 March.’

  ‘Which one of you identified the body?’

  ‘I did,’ said Mr Seagram, ‘but they wouldn’t let me see her face.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Said she wasn’t fit to be seen. My beautiful daughter, not ‘fit to be seen’. His voice rose and then he took two deep breaths, regaining control. ‘Her face was covered by a plastic sheet when I saw her in the mortuary.’

  ‘Then how did you know…’ Ridpath never finished his sentence.

  ‘She lost a toe on her left foot when she was child. They let me see the left foot.’

  For a moment, Ridpath thought about this own daughter. What would he do if he had to identify her body in some cold, sterile mortuary? Even worse, what if she had to identify his body? The thought sent a tsunami of fear down his spine.

  Mustn’t think like that.

  .Must keep focused.

  ‘So you appointed an undertaker to take care of the burial?’

  Mrs Seagram answered. ‘My daughter’s body was released back to us after the pathologist had finished with her on March 18th. She was buried on the 21st.’

  ‘And you arranged the funeral with Mr O’Shaughnessy?’

  ‘Of course we bloody did. Who else was going to do it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Seagram. I’m just trying to make the details of the funeral clear in my own mind.’

  ‘Our son arranged it,’ Mrs Seagram whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.’

  She swallowed and spoke louder. ‘We were too distraught. He handled everything. I don’t know what we would have done without David.’

  ‘Do you have his number? I may need to ask him a few questions.’

  She passed him her mobile phone with her son’s name displayed on the screen. He always answers this one.’

  Ridpath closed his notepad and put his pen back inside his jacket pocket. ‘I think I have enough for the moment, Mr and Mrs Seagram.’ He stood up. ‘If you need anything please contact me at the Coroner’s Office. I’m afraid I don’t have a card to give you yet – I’ve just started.

  ‘So now they’re sending us boys barely out of their pants,’ sneered Mr Seagram.

  Ridpath stared at him. ‘I’m a detective inspector in the Manchester Police with ten years’ experience.’

  The man stared back. ‘So let me get this right. They’ve sent another copper to investigate the disappearance of my daughter’s body, ten years after one of his mates botched the investigation?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You couldn’t make it up if you tried.’

  ‘I will not cover anything up, Mr Seagram, I give you my word.’

  The only answer was a loud snort from the man.

  ‘I think I’d better show you out, Mr Ridpath.’ The woman touched his arm.

  ‘Thank you for your time. I will keep you informed of any progress.’

  As Ridpath opened the door to leave the room, he turned back. ‘One last question: how can you be so sure James Dalbey didn’t murder your daughter?’

  It was Mrs Seagram who answered. ‘Because we were with him at the time he was supposed to have committed the—’ She stopped speaking, unable to say the words.

  Her husband continued speaking. ‘He was with us in our house when they said he did it. That clear enough for you?’

  She led him out into the hallway and opened the door. Just before he left, she leant in closer, whispering. ‘You will find her, Mr Ridpath. You will find my daughter, won’t you? Her soul, it can’t be lost.’

  Then she closed the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After a short drive back to Stockfield, Ridpath parked in front of the Coroner’s Office, feeding the parking machine with pound coins before going in. At least the council was making money off him.

  It was close to eight o’clock and the April sun had already set. Lights burned brightly through the windows of the Victorian building despite the late hour.

  Jenny Oldfield wasn’t on reception again so he walked straight through. Margaret Challinor was in her office.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘As well as could be expected when you’re telling an old couple the body of their daughter has gone missing from its grave.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  He sat down in front of her desk. ‘They don’t believe James Dalbey killed their daughter.’

  ‘They have good reason not to.’

  ‘What do you mean? I caught the man, in the lock-up, his fifth victim manacled to the wall.’ He then told her the story of his first day on the job, the chase and his fight with Dalbey. ‘It was sheer luck. If he hadn’t hit Sergeant Mungovan during a routine traffic stop, we wouldn’t have caught him.’

  ‘So you’re convinced of his guilt?’

  ‘One hundred and ten per cent.’

  ‘The high court is less sure.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She sighed and sat back in her chair. ‘The evidence against Dalbey for the murder of Alice Seagram was badly handled.’

  ‘He was guilty. They found the DNA of at least five women in the lock-up.’

  ‘But they could only identify one of the victims, Alice Seagram. They never found the bodies of the others. So he was only charged with one count of murder and one count of false imprisonment.’

  ‘The woman I found?’

  ‘She was added to the charge sheet but no others were brought against him.’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘Why are the Seagrams saying he was with them when their daughter was killed?’

  ‘Because the initial post-mortem stated she died between 4 p.m. and 8 p.m. on 7 March.’

  ‘Initial post-mortem?’

  ‘Two were performed in this case, by the same pathologist, Harold Lardner.’

  ‘That’s not so common, is it?’

  ‘It gets worse. The second post-mortem extended the time of death considerably, extending it until midnight on 7 March.’

  ‘I remember now. The judge and jury were shocked at the cold-bloodedness of Dalbey. Going from the family home to torturing and murdering their daughter that same night.’

  She brushed a long strand of grey hair behind her ear. ‘He was painted as an evil, vicious man by the prosecuting barrister. The defence, on the other hand, was less accomplished at protecting him.’

  ‘But most murders are committed by friends, husbands, lovers or acquaintances of the victim. It’s the first place police look.’

  ‘So when you caught Dalbey in the garage and they discovered he knew Alice Seagram and, even worse, he ate a meal with the family on the night she disappeared, they thought they had caught the Beast.’

  ‘But they had. I caught him.’

  ‘The problem was, they had a post-mortem report giving a time of death when he was still in the victm’s house.’

  Ridpath sighed. ‘Times of death are notoriously difficult to pinpoint precisely.’

  ‘Hence a second autopsy. By widening the possible time of death, Dalbey comes into the frame for the murder.’

  ‘Shouldn’t they have used a different pathologist?’

  She shrugged her el
egant shoulders. ‘Apparently none was available.’

  ‘So you think the police put pressure on Harold Lardner?’

  ‘I think nothing, Ridpath, and neither must you. Our job is to find out the truth, not chase a conviction. How did Alice Seagram die? When did she die? Did the pathologist act correctly at all times?’

  ‘But by asking those questions, you bring into doubt the police investigation.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve been asked to do by the high court and it’s a job we will perform to the best of our ability, despite our personal views. Understand?’

  The heavy emphasis on the ‘we’ made it perfectly clear what his answer ought to be.

  She sat forward. He was suddenly aware of the energy in the woman and her immense drive. He wouldn’t like to get in her way when she wanted something to happen.

  ‘It seems to me we have two jobs. The first, as ordered by the high court, it to reinvestigate the circumstances of the death of Alice Seagram. I’ve already opened an inquest and postponed it until 7 April. We were to have performed another post-mortem but…’ She didn’t finish her sentence.

  ‘After ten years, a new post-mortem wouldn’t give you any information on time of death.’

  ‘It would have allowed us to check on the work of Harold Lardner, plus, with the scientific advances in testing, we may have been able to find trace elements of DNA which would prove, or disprove, the involvement of James Dalbey in her murder.’

  ‘It would have been a long shot.’

  ‘But it had to be done. And now, with no body, we have nothing. It won’t stop us proceeding though. I’ll check the details of the post-mortem. In this case, of the two post-mortems. Were the findings evidentially-based? Was the pathologist correct in his conclusions? What was the evidence pointing to James Dalbey as the killer?’

  Ridpath raised an eyebrow. ‘As a coroner, you are competent to do that?’

  ‘No, I will ask an outside pathologist to examine the reports. But after the Shipman case, I felt it was no longer enough for me to have a law degree to do my job. I added a forensic science degree to my list of qualifications. As a coroner I felt it was my duty to know more about the latest advances.’