Greene donned his own breathing equipment and marched up the stairs to the top-floor flat, followed by his two crew commanders.
A little water was running down the steps but not too much. The stairway itself was well maintained and mercifully clear of any residents’ belongings, except for a bike leaning against a wall on the middle floor. He instructed one of his men to carry it down and away. He hated obstructions of any kind.
They reached the top floor. The corridor had a little smoke damage and a thin veneer of water on the cheap tiles, but other than that, seemed untouched by the fire.
The front door of the flat, however, was a different story. His men had used a fire axe to break in, leaving a heap of wood on the floor and the remnants hanging off the hinges.
Switching on his safety torch, Greene entered the flat. His men had already been through the place once, but he liked to make a final check himself. Experience taught him you could never be too sure.
Inside the entrance to the flat, the ceiling was blackened in places by smoke, but the walls remained relatively untouched, the old Anaglypta wallpaper a dirty shade of cream, as if it hadn’t been changed for years. His light traversed the hall. A door on the left was closed. He pushed through it, hearing the rate of his breathing increase through his face mask.
The torchlight picked out a fridge, a small table, a gas cooker. All seemed to be fine and in working order. There was some smoke damage on the ceiling and water had seeped under the door onto the kitchen floor, but obviously the fire had not started here. The closed kitchen door had kept the fire out.
‘All clear, Norman.’
‘Right, boss.’ His voice sounded tinny through the circuits of the comms.
They both backed out of the kitchen and opened the next door. A bedroom. A made-up bed stood against the far wall and clothes were neatly folded on the floor, but there was no other furniture.
‘This man lived a spartan life, Norm.’
Again there was no fire damage.
‘Can you check out the bathroom, John?’
The crew commander left to go back down the corridor.
Greene closed the door and pointed his torch towards the living room.
This was the area he was not looking forward to seeing. He moved forward cautiously, stepping over a small pile of debris lying on the floor. His breathing sounded heavy in the confined space of the face mask.
The heat increased as he entered the living room. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back. His hands felt clammy in their Tyvek gloves.
The hoses had injected water into the fire through the smashed window. Moonlight shone through it now, adding its shine to the glare of the torch. Greene stood at the entrance, letting his light play over the walls.
A scorch mark seared the far wall next to the window. The curtains were hanging in charred rags from their rails. A burnt-out TV sat in the right-hand corner, the glass of its screen shattered on the floor. A gas fire, its steel frame stark against the mantlepiece, lay on its side. Greene could feel his boots splashing through a couple of inches of water. They would have to clear it soon or it would start to seep through to the flat below.
And then his torch swung round to illuminate the body.
A man was sitting on a chair facing the burnt television, his eyes black holes in their sockets. His body was blackened and scorched with the arms raised in the classic boxer pose and his feet in their charred slippers dangling in the water as if he were paddling.
Greene stared at the corpse.
‘Can we let the medical team in now, boss?’ said Norman through his headset.
‘More use to send in an undertaker,’ Greene whispered under his breath.
‘Boss?’
‘Aye, send them in.’
The fireman moved off to bring up the medical emergency team. For a moment, Greene was left alone in the blackened living room with the dead body, sweat dripping off his forehead onto the glass of his face mask.
He took off his breathing apparatus and immediately inhaled the sweet aroma of burnt flesh mixed with the acrid stench of burnt polystyrene and television circuit boards. His nose detected another smell: the harsh note of petrol or something similar.
He checked for the usual burn marks where a cigarette had dropped from a hand onto the waiting polystyrene foam stuffing of the couch, but couldn’t see anything. Then he checked the TV, but the plugs and wiring looked normal, with no scorch marks on the wall around the socket.
He turned around and stared at the far wall, the one on his left by the entrance.
What was that?
He inched closer, hearing his boots splash through the water.
He could see, beneath a veneer of soot and dirt and condensation, some words sprayed on it.
What did it say?
He wiped a sheen of damp from the surface, uncovering a letter followed by others. The word ‘game’ in bright orange paint gradually appeared.
He took a rag from his pocket and rubbed the rest of the wall. The sentence began to take shape as other words became clear. They covered the whole wall. He took one step back to look at them in their entirety.
‘Oh, shit,’ he said out loud.
Chapter Four
Look at them, running around like rats in a sinking ship. It was too late to save him. It had always been too late.
He stood well back from the main crowd, behind a fat man and his even fatter wife. No point in drawing attention to himself, not now. There was a big crowd in the courtyard, all the residents from the surrounding blocks had come out to see the fun.
An extended ladder revolved and slowly raised itself up to the level of the window of the flat. A spray of water issued from a nozzle on top of the ladder, soaking the interior.
The crowd raised a feeble cheer. A few of the local kids were standing still, mouths wide open, watching the men in black and yellow, with their helmets and heavy boots. He had probably done more for the future recruitment of the fire service than a thousand adverts.
The irony of the whole situation amused him.
On his right, the woman from the neighbouring flat was giving out. ‘They’re going to ruin the flats. Sure won’t the water come right through the ceiling any moment now.’ Her Irish tones cut through the roar of the pumps and the noise of the crowd.
Ah, but it was a small price to pay for the beauty he had created. Hadn’t one of her own countrymen coined the phrase ‘a terrible beauty is born’?
He checked his watch; time to leave. Everything was right on schedule. Nobody would notice he had gone, they never noticed people like him.
He danced his way through the crowd to the entrance of the courtyard. He took one last look over his shoulder. There were just a few wisps of smoke coming from the interior of the flat now. The fireman had doused his hose and was no longer spraying water into the interior.
Down below, at the foot of the stairs, three men were assembling, all wearing breathing gear. The leader, in a bright white surcoat, vanished into the interior and was followed by the other two.
It wouldn’t be long now. Joe Brennan was dead. It was time to go to the next stage in his plan.
They would all suffer for what they had done.
They all had to suffer.
Day Two
Wednesday, April 24, 2019
Chapter Five
Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath, temporarily assigned to the coroner’s office, was having a very good day.
With the help of his new assistant, Sophia Rahman, he was now up to date with his paperwork, a first for him. The sun was shining on a bright late April morning, the coffee was still hot in his mug and United had won the night before under the new managerial regime of Ole Solskjaer. Anything had to be better than the dark days of Mourinho.
Even better, the hospital had just called to tell him he needed to book another appointment to confirm his cancer was still in remission. The myeloma, a form of bone cancer, had been defeated by a combination of his own bloody
-mindedness, gallons of blood tests, the skill of the doctors at the Christie Hospital and a revolutionary combination therapy. He still needed to take one tablet of Revlimid each day, but that was nothing to hold back the spectre of the cancer.
The day had even started brightly. He had woken early to make his daughter, Eve, some coddled eggs for her breakfast.
‘How are they?’
‘Hmmmph,’ she grunted in reply.
‘That good, huh?’
‘Hmmmph.’
His daughter was definitely not a morning person. But she had finished them along with a large slice of sourdough from Barbakan Deli. It was the most she had ever eaten in the morning; he must have done something right.
His wife, as usual, was running late for school.
‘Where’s my coffee?’
‘In the flask.’
‘Where’re my car keys?’
‘In your bag.’
‘Where’s my top?’
He pointed to the bright purple cardigan draped over her shoulders. ‘You’re wearing it.’
‘Not that one, the thing that goes on the end of the marker.’
Ridpath held it up in his fingers. She snatched it away.
‘Come on, Eve, we have to go. I can’t be late again. I already have two demerits and Mrs Hardacre will be tut-tutting like a gecko.’
‘I didn’t know teachers got demerits too.’
‘They don’t, they get the sack. Come on!’
Eve picked up her school bag, kissed Ridpath and followed her mother out of the door.
Polly ran back, kissed Ridpath herself and said, ‘Can you pick up the dry cleaning? It’s my dress for the NUT conference next week.’
‘No problem.’
‘You’ll be OK to look after Eve if I go?’
‘No problem.’
‘Love you,’ she shouted over her shoulder as she ran out of the door.
‘Love you too,’ he said to the rapidly retreating back.
Then she turned, ran back to him, kissed him on the lips again and said, ‘No, I mean, I really love you. And don’t forget it’s parents’ night this evening at the school. You need to take Eve there by seven. I’ll already be talking to my parents.’
He stroked her black hair. ‘I really love you too, but you’re going to be late and Mrs Hardacre will be counting down the minutes on her Swiss chronometer.’
As if to emphasise the urgency, there was a loud blast from a car horn outside, tooted by courtesy of Eve.
‘Parents’ night, Ridpath.’
Another kiss on the lips before Polly exited for the third time. Ridpath walked to the front door to close it, watching the Toyota Auris signal left before turning right out of their driveway.
Another day had begun with a dose of chaos. And he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
It hadn’t always been like that, though. After the Connolly case a year ago, Ridpath had collapsed at the coroner’s court and found himself in hospital with pneumonia. The doctors were rightly worried because he had only just been pronounced in remission from myeloma, after nine months of chemo and recovery. He had gone back to work desperate to walk straight back into his job as a detective inspector on the Major Incident Team of Greater Manchester Police.
GMP had other ideas, however. He was placed in a supposedly cushy job as a coroner’s officer. Nine to five, no overtime, no weekend working, and no thugs desperate to string your guts along the Mancunian Way.
Well, at least that’s what they thought. Ridpath had seen it as an opportunity to rebuild his reputation as a detective after having being off sick for such a long time, throwing himself into the casework to the detriment of his health and his marriage.
Polly had left him, taking Eve with her. Lying there in hospital staring at the ceiling, he realised he couldn’t continue behaving like a bloody idiot. And he couldn’t live without either of them.
It had taken him six months to convince Polly to return, but he had done it. Firstly, by looking after himself: eating well, giving up the booze, building up his strength. He had also rediscovered his love of the countryside around Manchester, driving out to walk in the Peak District and later further north in Pendle Hill and the Lakes. It was on these long walks that he rediscovered himself too.
He wasn’t going to be defined by an illness any more. He wasn’t going to be a man in remission. He wasn’t going to be hamstrung by the political games of GMP.
He was going to be Thomas Ridpath – a great husband, a better father and a bloody good copper. Easier said than done, but so far he had managed pretty well.
He was helped by two things. Polly had sat down with his two bosses, Claire Trent of the GMP, and Margaret Challinor, the Head Coroner for East Manchester. Together, they had worked out a plan which would ensure Ridpath took care of himself.
Three women looking after him. He was a lucky man.
It was the marriage counsellor, though, who finally brought them back together.
Polly had suggested it to help them iron out their differences. Ridpath thought it was a waste of time but didn’t say so, agreeing to attend the sessions.
Polly researched where to go and one evening in October he turned up to meet her at the door to an old Sixties office block.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Poll? I mean talking about our problems with a stranger…’
‘Listen, Ridpath, if we are going to save this marriage, we have to do something radical. Otherwise, even if we got back together it just wouldn’t last. I’m not going to allow Eve or myself to go through all that again. But if you don’t want to do it, I’m fine…’
Ridpath was enough of a detective to know when a woman said she was fine, she wasn’t.
‘No, we’re here now, let’s go in,’ he answered. ‘Anything that helps us understand each other, helps with our marriage, I’m for it.’ It was the politically correct answer as well as being true.
She nodded, happy with his words, and began to climb the stairs.
As soon as he entered the consultation room, Ridpath knew it was a mistake. Inspirational posters lined the walls.
‘An apple a day keeps the marriage counsellor away.’
‘There is always a “we” in wedding.’
‘Love is an ideal thing, a marriage a real thing.’
‘It takes three to make love: you, your spouse and God.’
The last one inevitably flooded Ridpath’s mind with a terrible image. Himself, God and Polly all on the same bed, smoking a cigarette after a particularly energetic afternoon.
He shook his head to get rid of the image and stared at Polly.
Her mouth was wide open.
‘Good evening, you must be Mr and Mrs Ridpath.’ A woman appeared from nowhere, drying her hands on a thin cloth. She was dressed in a pink twinset, with mauve-grey hair, and a rope of pearls strangling her neck. ‘If you’d care to sit down on the couch in front of me, we’ll begin.’
Polly and Ridpath sank into a well-used couch from IKEA.
She pulled out a file. ‘Now, I’ve read the questionnaire you both completed independently. I see you’re a policeman, Mr Ridpath,’ she said and smiled. ‘And you are a primary school teacher, Mrs Ridpath.’ A sniff this time followed by a smile. ‘My name is Mrs Ransome…’
Ridpath could sense the hackles rising at the back of Polly’s neck. He forced himself to stare straight ahead at the marriage guidance counsellor as his wife leant forward and said quietly, ‘I use the name Polly Lam. I didn’t take Ridpath’s name when we married.’
Mrs Ransome smiled again. A smile painted on with a mop. ‘I’m seeing that more and more these days. It’s the modern way, I suppose.’
‘Seeing what?’
It was starting to kick off. Ridpath kept staring straight ahead, like a mannequin in a department store.
‘Wives not taking their husband’s surname. It wasn’t very common in my day.’ She sniffed once again.
But once Polly got her teeth into something, sh
e very rarely let go. His Chinese dragon, Ridpath called her. It was one of the many things he loved about her.
‘It’s because women don’t want to be seen as property these days. We’re not mere chattels of our husbands.’
Another sniff. ‘Shall we move on?’ She glanced at the clock above their heads. ‘We only have an hour, and there is such a lot of ground to cover in the first session.’
First session? There were going to be more?
‘So, Mrs Ridpath. I see you have highlighted two areas in the box under “areas of disagreement”. Could you explain those?’
Polly coughed and began speaking. ‘There are two areas where we disagree—’
‘I’m sorry for interrupting, but could you speak to your husband? It’s him you have to talk to, not me…’
Polly stared at Mrs Ransome, who made a little twirling sign with her fingers.
Polly swallowed and turned to face Ridpath. ‘There are two areas where we disagree—’
A cough from opposite. ‘Sorry for interrupting again, but you don’t disagree, do you? This is how you feel about the marriage, isn’t it, Mrs… Polly?’
Polly closed her eyes and began again. ‘There are two areas where I have an issue. Your obsession with your job. And your inability to look after your own health—’
‘So, let me get this right,’ Mrs Ransome interrupted again. ‘Your husband is a serving police officer, doing a difficult job. He’s in remission from cancer, and you have threatened to divorce him unless he quits his job. Have I got this right?’ She smiled again. ‘Would you consider yourself a supportive wife, Mrs… Polly?’
Ridpath could see Polly’s eyes flare for a moment and she clenched her jaw. Not a good sign. He waited for the inevitable outburst, but it didn’t come.
Instead, a calm voice answered. ‘Of course I will always support him, Mrs Ransome, I’m his wife. But it is more important he supports himself. We have a young daughter who loves her father and wants him to be there to help guide her through the obstacles she will encounter in life. She doesn’t want a block of stone with his name on it she visits every other Sunday.’
Where the Silence Calls Page 2