Where the Truth Lies

by Where the Truth Lies (retail) (epub)

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ridpath settled into a seat in Harold Lardner’s tiny office. The pathologist had discarded his lab coat and was dressed in a light-blue shirt, matching tie and dark trousers. The salt-and-pepper hair was brushed back off his head and gelled. Outside the post-mortem theatre he didn’t look half as threatening or as powerful. Indeed, to Ridpath, he looked positively benign, like a slightly overweight bank manager.

  Perhaps it was the theatre of the mortuary with its acrid smells, pristine white surfaces, bright spotlights and stainless steel surfaces, all worshipping the way of death. It was like being in some church with the pathologist the high priest, like the Egyptian priests with their pharaohs. Giving the dead eternal life through science.

  Charlie Whitworth had already gone back to headquarters.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have anything to eat, Mr Ridpath?’ The pathologist was picking at a limp salad.

  Ridpath shook his head as he watched the man shovel food into his mouth.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s the about the Alice Seagram case…’

  The pathologist’s head tilted to one side. ‘I remember you. Didn’t they call you Vomit Man?’

  Ridpath scratched his head. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Very little escapes me, Detective Inspector. Part of the job.’

  Ridpath was transported back to his first autopsy in 2009. A child. It had to be child. Four years old, found after the mother had called 999 saying he wasn’t breathing. The plod who’d answered the call found the child was dead when they got there. They also found bruising to the upper arms and torso. The mother said she’d tried to revive her baby, but the sergeant was unconvinced. The coroner ordered a post-mortem performed by Lardner. Ridpath was required to attend. There was something about this man – this alien in his strange costume, calmly talking into a microphone while he cut into the breast bone of a four-year-old with a circular saw – that got to Ridpath. He’d rushed out of the autopsy suite and vomited straight into a rubbish bin.

  He had witnessed many autopsies since then, but the nickname had stuck.

  Vomit Man.

  Now even Lardner remembered. He was tempted to explain but thought better of it. This was a man who cut up dead bodies every day of his life. He was unlikely to understand.

  Lardner looked at his watch. ‘I have two other clients to look into before five this evening, Detective Inspector. I would appreciate it if you would ask your questions as speedily as you can.’

  ‘Of course, Dr Lardner. I’m investigating the disappearance of the body of Alice Seagram. I believe you were the pathologist for the post-mortem?

  ‘I was.’

  ‘The case was reopened recently because the high court found problems with your attribution of time of death.’

  ‘That was one of the reasons for reopening the case as far as I understood it. But there were others. The chain of evidence from the Crime Scene Manager was unreliable, plus the killer had managed to get the family on his side, unlikely though it sounds.’

  Ridpath decided to plough on. Lardner watched him impassively. Behind his head in the bookcase, copies of the Journal of Forensic Pathology, Scientific American, Forensic Magazine and Academic Forensic Pathology were neatly shelved by date and month of publication. ‘Can you tell me about the first post-mortem?’

  ‘It was ten years ago.’

  ‘Whatever you remember.’

  ‘The client was brought in; it wasn’t a particularly busy period so we prepped her immediately. She had been hit once with a hammer, stabbed repeatedly – 34 times if my memory serves me – then her throat was slit. Afterwards, her body was doused in sulphuric acid. We found a ball-peen hammer which matched the indentation on her skull and, of course, the DNA on the handle matched James Dalbey.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a problem with the attribution of the time of death?’

  Lardner breathed out heavily; he had obviously explained this a thousand times before. ‘Time of death is notoriously difficult to decide. It depends on body temperature, the victim’s state of health, where she had been kept, et cetera, et cetera. I performed the first autopsy quickly and called the time of death as between 4 p.m. and 8 p.m. on 7 March. When the police asked me to look again at my findings, I decided the timing was too narrow because of the unusual warmth of the evening.’ He looked down at his hands stretched out against the white paper of his desk blotter and bit his bottom lip. ‘The post mortem wasn’t my best, I rushed it.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Another long sigh. Ridpath could see the doctor’s eyes dancing from side to side as if he were weighing up what he was to say next.

  ‘It was a difficult time for me. My wife was dying of breast cancer. A beautiful, giving woman, taken far too early in life. I was rushing from Christie’s back to the Royal Infirmary to Christie’s again. I made mistakes I shouldn’t have.’ Then he stared at Ridpath, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘But you know all about that, don’t you, Detective Inspector?’

  Ridpath sat there like an escaping prisoner caught in a searchlight. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I think Chief Inspector Whitworth may have mentioned it.’

  ‘So everyone knows about my medical history. It thought it was supposed to be confidential.’

  ‘I trained as a doctor before specializing in pathology. Perhaps he thought I would understand.’

  For a second Ridpath was thrown, then he decided to press on. ‘It’s not about me—’

  ‘I can see I’ve upset you, let’s pretend I never mentioned it.’

  Ridpath ignored the words. Concentrate on the interview. ‘So you altered your time of death attribution?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By doing so, Dalbey became the main suspect.’

  ‘He was always the main suspect. He was discovered with the keys to the lock-up where a woman was imprisoned. Wasn’t it you who arrested him?’

  Whitworth had been talking. When? Not today; he had been with them both all the time.

  The doctor looked at his watch again.

  Ridpath realized he had just one more question to ask. ‘Could I see the notes from the post mortem?’

  ‘Of course, it’s on file somewhere. I’ll get my secretary to send it over to you.’

  ‘The transcript as well as the written notes, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ridpath stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for giving me your time, Doctor.’

  Lardner stood up as well. ‘I hope you find the missing body.’

  ‘I hope so too. I’m just going down to the mortuary to interview the attendants.’

  The doctor scratched his head. ‘I don’t think there are many left from 2008. Nobody likes spending time with dead people.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Eleanor Norris can just sod off – I’m not doing it any more. He felt his feet pounding into Ford Lane, jarring his knees. It’s just not on. How many other people have to work Saturdays? This was his third weekend in a row spoilt because she wanted to impress the team from London with her proactive approach to the account.

  Bollocks.

  He ran past the allotments, smelling the aroma of freshly turned earth. A group of men were looking after their patches, preparing the ground for planting the summer veg. One old fool was leaning on a spade, wearing a soft hat that had last seen the inside of a washing machine sometime in 1943.

  The red-faced tosser waved at him. He increased his pace, ignoring the old man.

  How was he ever going to get his miles up for the Manchester Marathon if he had to work every bloody weekend? It’s not like the work for the account was urgent or anything.

  Up over Simon’s Bridge, glancing down at the dark waters of the Mersey as it flowed beneath his feet.

  He turned right, following the bend of the river as it came back on itself. Legs feeling good. Arms pumping nicely, slight pain in the right shoulder but he could ignore it. Breathing easy.


  God, he loved running. He knew this route so well he could run it in his sleep. He liked the different textures of road, grass, gravel and cinder beneath his feet on this circuit. His mind drifted off as he ran; it always did. It was almost as if his body took the route, while his mind soared free.

  He followed the river as it wound between the golf courses – a water trap to end all water traps. He wondered how many balls ended up in Liverpool because some fat fart from Didsbury was so hopeless at golf he shanked his drives into the Mersey.

  He ran under the M60. Above, the cars raced to God knows where. So much rushing here and there, too little time to smell the roses. Story of his life, especially since the Witch had taken over. Well he wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. Martin Sharples didn’t need the money or the hassle – she could stuff her stupid job up her not inconsiderable jacksie.

  His anger was driving him forward now, his feet racing over Ford Lane and up the hill to the ancient church. Probably been sat there for years, that church. Perched on its outcrop of rock, watching the comings and goings on the river for donkey’s years, while the city grew up around it and the quiet village of Northenden was swallowed by the whale that was Manchester.

  Left down Boat Lane and straight across the car park at the bottom. Not far now, legs feeling great, body relaxed. Another 10k in the bag and the marathon only six weeks away. He wanted to beat his best time this year: 3 hours 30 was the goal, should be able to do it with a bit of luck.

  Up over the green bridge, feet echoing on the wooden boards as he crossed the river again to turn left past the weir.

  He’d beat his time if she let him. For a moment, the image of her face close to his, his fist going back and smashing into the red-painted lips, and then again into the retroussé nose. And again. And again.

  His eyes caught something in the water next to the sandbank below the weir.

  What was that?

  A dark, sodden lump. Clothes? More rubbish?

  He slowed down, allowing his eyes to focus. The lump began to form into a recognizable shape. An arm. A leg bent at a crazy angle. Long hair flowing in the water.

  The body bobbed up and down in time with the current from the weir.

  A body?

  What was a body doing here?

  Should he call 999? He looked all around him.

  Nobody.

  Off in the distance, two middle-aged men were playing a round of golf, just putting on the green. In front of him, the river flowed on ceaselessly to the sea as it had always done.

  Martin Sharples was running on the spot.

  Should he ring 999?

  But if he did he would be late back to the office after lunch. The witch would be on his case, complaining like a banshee.

  Sod it, somebody else can report it.

  He looked up. Movement at a window in the flats next to the river. His eyes met those of a young woman carrying a baby over her right shoulder. She came out onto the balcony and shouted something at him.

  Silly tart. Sod it, she can report the body, not him.

  He pulled his hood down over his eyes and started to run towards Palatine Road, moving as quickly as he could. Got to get away from here. The woman was dead anyway; what did it matter if she lay in the water for another ten minutes?

  His work was important. That artwork for the Persil account had to be ready this afternoon.

  Behind him the woman lay with her hands on the sandbank and her legs sticking out into the water as if she were trying to crawl out of the river to safety.

  She had already been dead for 18 hours.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The senior mortuary attendant was a big, beefy man with a handshake like a vice. His face had the healthy sheen of a man who loved the Manchester diet: fish and chips, meat pies and plates of curry washed down by five pints of cask ale. A roll of fat peeped out above the purple turtleneck sweater beneath his lab coat.

  ‘So you’re the new coroner’s officer? My name’s Brown – Don Brown. The pathologist said you wanted to talk about Alice Seagram?’

  ‘You’ve heard about the case?’

  The big man shrugged. ’It was on the news. Let’s go through to the bereavement centre.’

  ‘Won’t someone be in there?’

  ‘Not now. It’s not visiting time.’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘You have a visiting time? I thought this was a mortuary?’

  He pushed open a door. ‘You’d be surprised the number of families who want to see their relatives lying in a white box.

  ‘Checking they are really dead?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Ridpath was led into a room off to the left which looked as though it had been designed by a colour-blind decorator. Various garish shades of pink, purple and green assaulted his eyes. A few out-of-date magazines lay scattered on a table. In the corner, a child’s play area was an incongruous addition.

  ‘We’ve had kids as young as five here, brought by the parents to say goodbye to grandma.’ He shrugged again, ‘Can’t say anything though. Just keep schtum, that’s my job.’

  Ridpath looked around the bereavement room. What were they thinking?

  ‘This was supposed to be “restful” according to the woman who designed it. Me, I come in here when I want to get away from the white walls downstairs.’

  They sat facing each other on two of the most uncomfortable armchairs known to man.

  ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of the body of Alice Seagram—’ began Ridpath.

  ‘Don’t ask me where she’s gone. None of my clients get up and walk out of here.’

  Ridpath counted to three in his head. ‘Were you working here in 2008?’

  ‘No, didn’t start till 2010. Not many people last long in the mortuary. We’ve got high turnover. It’s the pay, you see. And some people don’t like working with the dead. Me, I don’t mind them, they don’t give me no trouble. Not like the visitors.’

  ‘Is there anybody who was working here in 2008?’

  ‘Nah – as I said, we’ve got high turnover.’

  Ridpath made a note in his book to contact HR and see if he could get the address of anybody who was here. He looked back up at Don Brown. ‘Now, could you take me through the procedure in a mortuary?’

  ‘Hasn’t changed for donkey’s years.’

  This was like pulling teeth. ‘Just take me through it, will you?’

  The man nodded his head slowly. ‘We have about 3,000 clients a year from the hospital, Manchester Royal, and the surrounding area.’

  ‘Do you take clients from the pathologist?’

  ‘Of course – likes cutting them up, does that one. He puts them back together, but not so as a relative can see them.’

  ‘So after the pathologist has finished his post-mortem, they come down here?’

  ‘Not on their own – somebody brings them down.’

  Ridpath counted to three again. ‘And after that?’

  ‘They stay here until you give me a form to release them back to the relative.’

  ‘I give you a form?’

  ‘Or someone like you. The coroner’s officer has to decide when a body can be returned to a family for burial.’

  ‘So you receive the form, what do you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Welllll…to tell you the truth, I file it.’

  ‘1…2…3. ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘I usually get a call from the family’s undertaker to arrange a time for pickup. The undertaker or one of his oppos comes down and signs a form to take the body away.’

  ‘A lot of forms.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it, mate. I can’t scratch my arse without signing a form in triplicate.’

  ‘So where do you keep these forms?’

  ‘In the book.’

  ‘Can I take a look at the form for Alice Seagram?’

  ‘It’ll be in the 2008 file. You’ll have to come round the back with me.’

  They walked out of the berea
vement room and through a pair of double doors into the back area of the mortuary. Along the green painted walls a row of gurneys sat with khaki body bags resting on each one.’

  ‘We’re a bit backed up at the moment. There’s a new heart surgeon.’

  Ridpath made a mental note never to have heart surgery at Manchester Royal Infirmary.

  ‘But don’t worry, we’ll have them all resting comfortably in the meat lockers by this afternoon.’

  They turned a corner and entered a room with the words ‘Mortuary Manager’ stencilled on the glass. ‘He’s away at the moment on a course for bereavement counselling. I did it last year. Teaches you empathy, it does. Some people can’t handle death. Me, I think it’s just a part of life, you know what I mean?

  He opened a cabinet and searched through the files. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Your system seems to be efficient.’

  ‘Aye, it’s all filed under the year. Pretty easy.’

  He brought a large file out. ‘Here we go. There were 2,894 clients in 2008. It’s filed by entry date. When was the client admitted to the mortuary?’

  ‘Around 8 or 9 March, I think, and released to the family on 18 March.’

  He flicked through the file and stopped. He went backwards and forwards a few times before saying: ‘Strange, no Alice Seagram here. Are you sure you have the right dates?’

  ‘Positive.’

  He went to the end of the file. ‘We put the orphans here. He flicked through six forms, clipped together. ‘No Alice Seagram. Weird, it must be here somewhere. Perhaps it’s under a different date? He flicked through the rest of the book. ‘Still can’t see it. But not to worry…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we only have the copy. You’ll have the original, won’t you?’

  ‘At the coroner’s office?’

  ‘Where else?’

  More documents missing. Something was really starting to stink about this case. Ridpath glanced up at a clock on the wall.

  ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

  It was 1 p.m. already. He was supposed to be in a press conference at 2 p.m. with Margaret Challinor. He stuck out his hand. ‘Listen, I have to rush off. Can you do me a favour? Can you keep looking for the form in case it’s been misfiled?’