Where the Silence Calls

by Where the Silence Calls (retail) (epub)

  It had been a long drive home for Ridpath, accompanied only by the sounds of the Casualeers, the Impressions and Jamo Thomas. There was nothing like a bit of Northern Soul when you were feeling troubled. His fingers tapping the steering wheel as he drove through the industrial wasteland that was Oldham Road, a place where people had once lived and loved and brought up kids, but was now just a desolate corridor of car parks, warehouses, fried chicken joints and traffic lights. Modern England at its worst.

  He had briefed Mrs Challinor on the day’s events before he left Marsden, including the refusal of Claire Trent to get involved.

  ‘Are you certain we are dealing with a serial killer, Ridpath?’

  ‘After seeing the body on the moors, I’m more convinced, Mrs Challinor. But the question is why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why is he killing these people? An unemployed man, a homeless man, and now a John Doe out on the moors.’

  ‘You know that’s not our remit, Ridpath. Our sole concern in the coroner’s office is to find out who the victim was, where they died and how they died. The motivation of the killer is not our concern. That is the police’s problem.’

  ‘And what if the police refuse to recognise it is a problem?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Then we need to make them aware it exists.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that, Mrs Challinor?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure you are going to tell me, Ridpath.’

  ‘By using the only language they understand. The language of evidence. You often mention the Shipman murders in Hyde, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘I do, but what’s it got to do with this case?’

  ‘Shipman was allowed to carry on killing because nobody joined up the dots that elderly women were dying under his care. The hospitals, other doctors, the police, even the undertakers, all missed the signs.’

  ‘And so did all the coroners.’

  ‘Exactly. We need to join up the dots to show Claire Trent and MIT that something is happening. And the only way we can do that is with evidence.’

  ‘OK, so what are the next steps, Ridpath?’

  ‘Three things. First, we need the chemical analysis of the accelerant used. Was it the same one in each case? Second, we need to get the picture of my attacker enhanced and check if any witnesses saw him at the crime scenes in Wythenshawe and Marsden. Third, we need to find out more about the victims, what links them together.’

  ‘It’s too much work for us alone.’

  ‘I know, that’s why we need MIT.’

  ‘Do you want me to call Claire again?

  ‘No, we can’t risk alienating her further unless we have more evidence. Let’s wait for the report on the accelerant first. Have we told the parents of Sam Sykes of his death yet?’

  ‘Jenny has just found their address. I was going to do it tomorrow.’

  ‘Why you? Surely Carol Oates or myself should do it?’

  ‘No, Ridpath. I want to be there. I understand what it’s like to have somebody you love living on the streets.’

  ‘We’ll go together tomorrow morning?’

  ‘It’s Sunday, Ridpath, don’t you want to be with your family?’

  He thought about Polly and Eve for a second. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind as long as it’s just the morning. They don’t ever emerge much before eleven anyway.’

  ‘OK then.’ A pause for a moment. Then she spoke again, a sharpness and determination in her voice. ‘But let me make it clear, Ridpath, the feelings and emotional well-being of these grieving parents is the major concern of the coroner’s office. It is not the needs of your investigation. Am I clear?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ answered Ridpath uncertainly.

  ‘If I feel you are stepping over those limits, I will shut it down.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Challinor.’

  The rain had become much stronger the closer he drove to Manchester, with gusts of wind making it fall almost horizontally.

  Ridpath realised he had been driving on automatic for the last few miles. He was now turning into his own road. This was happening more and more often these days. He suddenly found himself at a destination without remembering how he had driven there. It was as if ten per cent of his mind was driving and the rest working on a problem or simply remembering something that had happened in the past. Was this a function of the tablets he was taking? Or part of the ageing process? Or the metronomic action of the windscreen wipers causing him to go into some sort of dream state?

  Whatever.

  He would ask the doctor next time he went to Christies. He would have to check the calendar when the next one was due. They no longer held the power over him they used to. He remembered being damp with sweat before each one, his pulse racing, his heart pounding. All in dread at hearing the words ‘The cancer has returned’.

  But it had been a year now he had been in remission. He felt great. Long may it bloody continue.

  He parked outside the house and went in.

  Polly sat at the table marking some exercise books. He went over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Have I told you I love you recently?’

  She checked her watch. ‘Not for ten hours, Ridpath. You are definitely failing as a husband.’

  He put his arms around her neck and held her close, inhaling the sweet smell of her.

  ‘I’ve booked the BTS concert in London in June,’ she said. ‘The tickets weren’t cheap, but we’ll make it a family trip, take in a show, some shopping, see the sights. Do the whole tourist bit for a weekend.’

  ‘Good. She’ll love it, but let’s not tell her yet. She’ll start packing immediately and I couldn’t stand being told about BTS every five minutes. I know far too much about them already. How is she?’

  ‘Fine, listening to BTS probably. No point in going out in this weather. It’d drown a dolphin. How was your day?’

  ‘Not great. I think I’m on the trail of a serial killer, Polly.’

  She frowned. ‘Watch your health, OK? I know what you’re like. You become so emotionally involved in your cases any common sense goes out the window. When you get your teeth into something, you won’t let go. Your passion, it’s one of the things I love about you. But be careful this time, I don’t want you to be one of the victims of this man too.’

  He bit her ear.

  ‘Ouch, that hurt.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve bitten off more than I can chew…’

  ‘With me? Of course you have, Ridpath, haven’t you realised that yet?’

  Day Six

  Sunday, April 28, 2019

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Sykes home was on a quiet, tree-lined street in Bowden, not far from Altrincham town centre.

  ‘Worth a bob or two, these people.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Ridpath. Perhaps they bought the property long before the surge in house prices in the late Nineties.’

  ‘True, but not a bad place to live. And certainly not a place I could afford.’

  They pressed the bell on the outside gate. Instantly a dog started yapping from inside the detached house.

  ‘Best alarm system known to man – a little dog who thinks he’s a Rottweiler.’

  The door opened and an old woman appeared, shoving a little Lhasa apso back with her foot. ‘Stay there, Stewart, be a good boy, stay inside.’

  The dog, of course, ignored her commands and tried his best to get out into the garden.

  Eventually she closed the door and limped down to the gate. ‘Hello, how can I help you?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. I’m Margaret Challinor, from the coroner’s office. I believe my office manager, Jenny Oldfield, rang you yesterday to tell you we were coming.’

  ‘But she didn’t say why. I did ask, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘We prefer to tell people in person, Mrs Sykes.’

  There was a pause as the information registered. ‘It’s about Samuel, isn’t it?’ For a moment her chest sagged
and her legs began to give way. She grabbed the stone gate post for support. ‘I always dreaded this day…’

  ‘It is about Samuel. Can we come in?’

  She opened the gate and they walked together to the front door. ‘Father will be upset. We haven’t seen Samuel for three years now. He used to come back but not any more. He never comes back any more…’

  Her voice trailed off as she opened the front door and the dog began yapping again. ‘Don’t worry about Stewart, he makes a noise but he hasn’t bitten anybody for ages. You wait here while I put him in the kitchen.’

  They were left in the hall as Mrs Sykes herded the reluctant dog backwards.

  Ridpath looked around. The wallpaper was faded and the carpet looked like it was a relic from the Fifties. An old dresser stood in the hallway with a sad bunch of plastic flowers sitting in a Coalport vase.

  ‘Looks like we stepped back in time,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘Some people don’t want to be modern, they can’t abide change…’

  ‘Or they can’t afford it. Asset rich and cash poor.’

  ‘That’s a withering assessment, Ridpath.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Challinor, the policeman inside me is always there. You can tell a lot about people from their houses.’

  Just as Ridpath finished speaking, Mrs Sykes returned. ‘There, that’s him sorted. He won’t be happy and he’ll sulk for the rest of the day, but at least we can talk in peace. Please come this way.’

  She showed them into a large lounge. An old man was sitting in an armchair at the far side, close to a gas fire. Near him a television was on with the sound turned down. The rest of the room had photographs and pictures on the walls, along with a row of flying ducks and wallpaper beginning to yellow with age. The whole room had an air of fustiness, as if the windows hadn’t been opened for decades.

  ‘This is Father – Mr Sykes.’

  Mrs Challinor stepped into the room. ‘Good morning, Mr Sykes, sorry to disturb you.’

  The old man ignored her, continuing to stare at the flickering television. Even this was an older model, not even a flat screen, Ridpath noticed.

  ‘Father has been diagnosed with dementia. Sometimes he’s with us and sometimes he isn’t. Today he isn’t,’ said Mrs Sykes. She glanced at the television screen. ‘Sorry, I can’t turn it off. He gets upset if I do.’

  ‘Not a problem, Mrs Sykes, but we’d like to talk to your husband as well, if we can.’

  The woman frowned. ‘But Father is my husband. We’ve been married forty-one years in May.’

  ‘But you both…’

  ‘He was much older when we married. I was a fresh young thing of twenty when we tied the knot. Anthony was just past forty, but then age didn’t matter. Please sit down.’

  Mrs Challinor and Ridpath sat on an old couch that immediately sagged under their weight. They shifted forwards to perch on the frame.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr and Mrs Sykes.’ Mrs Challinor glanced in the direction of the old man. He was still staring at the television. ‘I’m afraid we have to report the death of your son, Samuel.’

  The woman looked down. Ridpath could see her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘When did he die?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  A swallow and tears began to appear in her eyes. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘The details are not good, Mrs Sykes. You know he was living on the streets?’

  She nodded. ‘We tried to help but it was no good…’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘I know, sometimes people don’t want to be helped.’

  A clock ticked loudly on the mantlepiece. The dog had stopped yapping. The television hummed in the corner. Ridpath wished he were anywhere but here right now. He had received training on how to break bad news to a grieving relative, but hated doing it. For some reason it never got easier.

  The woman looked up and said softly, ‘How did he die?’

  ‘We believe the cause of death was the inhalation of smoke.’

  ‘Inhaling smoke?’ The woman looked at both of them.

  ‘I’m afraid there is no easy way to tell you this, Mrs Sykes. Your son burnt to death.’

  The woman’s eyes registered shock and her hand went up to cover her mouth. ‘My poor Samuel,’ she mumbled.

  Mrs Challinor continued speaking. ‘We are still investigating how he died as we haven’t yet ascertained whether this was an accident or something else.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘There are some inconsistencies in your son’s death, Mrs Sykes.’ Ridpath spoke for the first time. Mrs Challinor glanced across at him. ‘We believe your son may have been murdered.’

  The old man continued to stare at the television, not moving his head.

  ‘Murdered. My poor Samuel was murdered?’

  Ridpath glanced at Mrs Challinor. ‘We believe it’s a possibility and that’s why we would like you to tell us about him.’

  ‘Tell you about him?’ Mrs Sykes repeated the question as if she was trying to understand what was happening.

  ‘For instance, what he was like as a child. Let’s start there.’

  The woman smiled, her eyes moving upwards and to the right as she recalled her son’s early years. ‘He was a beautiful boy, blonde hair, bright green eyes, an easy-going, active boy. He was our only child, I couldn’t have any more after him. We tried for a girl, but it just never happened, did it, Father?’ She touched the old man’s arm.

  For the first time he looked away from the TV, then down at his arm before focussing on his wife. ‘Is it time for tea yet?’ he asked in a strange, childlike voice.

  ‘Not yet, Father. Soon, it will be time for tea soon.’

  The old man nodded once and turned back to stare at the television again.

  ‘They loved each other did Father and Sam. Played football together, went fishing together, played tennis together.’ She paused. ‘Then it all changed, we don’t know why. He became quiet and withdrawn, wouldn’t speak to us and wouldn’t do anything with Father any more. Used to stay in his room all day.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘When he was thirteen. It was not good afterwards. His schooling suffered and he started missing days…’

  ‘Not attending school?’ asked Mrs Challinor.

  The woman nodded. ‘Then he was arrested for shoplifting. Father had to take time off work to go down to the police station to bail him out. He never said thank you or anything.’ She began to cry, tears dripping softly down her face.

  ‘Then what happened?’ Ridpath probed.

  The woman sat up straight and took a deep breath. ‘He left school, and soon after, he moved out. We found out later he had stolen money from us by forging Father’s signature on a cheque. We think he went travelling to India, Thailand, that sort of thing. We didn’t see him or hear from him for five years until he turned up on our doorstep one morning.’ A long pause. ‘A bit like both of you.’ Another pause. ‘After that, it was periods of staying with us and then vanishing. Staying here again. Stealing money. Vanishing. Stealing things to sell and vanishing again. We realised pretty quickly he was using drugs. Tried to stop him and help him stop. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.’

  Once again, her head went down and she started to sob. The husband noticed his wife was crying, reached into his pocket to bring out a handkerchief and placed it gently on her lap, before returning to watch his television again.

  ‘I think we’ve asked enough questions for now, Ridpath, Mrs Sykes is obviously upset,’ said Mrs Challinor.

  She looked up. ‘No, I have to talk about him. If I don’t he’ll be forgotten, nobody will remember him.’

  ‘We will remember,’ said Ridpath. ‘It’s our job to find out what happened and remember him.’

  ‘Thank you. I want to help.’

  Ridpath glanced across at Mrs Challinor, receiving a quick nod. ‘Please continue, Mrs Sykes?’

  ‘Samuel came back once more. But this tim
e, Father had had enough. He made Samuel promise he would stay and seek treatment. We would give him money to help him off the drugs, help him get well again.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He tried for three days. Tried really hard, but I suppose it was too much. We woke up one morning and found he had stolen the car.’

  ‘Did you report it?’ asked Mrs Challinor.

  Mrs Sykes shook her head. ‘We couldn’t report our own son, could we?’

  Mrs Challinor’s head went down and she stared at the old carpet.

  ‘And next we heard he was in prison for burglary. In and out of prison for the next ten years. We visited him the first couple of times, but after…’ Once again, her voice trailed off.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Three years ago in Strangeways. He had been living on the streets, he told us. He was thin and dishevelled and he looked old, so old.’ Then she took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t see my little boy any more. He had vanished…’

  Then she began sobbing quietly once more, her shoulders heaving.

  Her husband noticed as if seeing her for the first time. He held his arms out to hold her and said, ‘Don’t cry, little bird, it’ll soon be over, don’t cry.’

  ‘I think we’ve asked Mrs Sykes enough now, Ridpath. It’s time we should leave.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s time, Ridpath,’ she said firmly. Turning back to Mrs Sykes, her voice became softer. ‘Is there anybody you could call to come and sit with you?’

  Mrs Sykes shook her head. ‘My sister lives down south. She always said this would happen one day.’

  ‘Would you mind if I came back this afternoon? Sometimes it helps to have somebody to talk to.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I’d like to, if you’d have me. Just for a chat.’

  Mrs Sykes nodded. ‘That would be good. Sometimes it’s not so easy with Father.’

  ‘I know. I’ll come at five, OK?’

  The woman nodded once again.

  Mrs Challinor stood up. ‘We need to go back to the coroner’s office now.’

  Ridpath stood up too, realising he could ask no more questions today.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’