‘Sophia is just putting the notes together for you to review this evening. We’ll call Dr Schofield to the stand first—’
‘Oh, why?’
‘He has a backlog of cases and can only spare us the morning. Followed by Brennan’s GP, Dr Marshall, then Dave Greene and finally the fire investigator, Terry Dolan.’
‘Good. Our job is to establish the who, what and how of the case. We’ll leave it to the police to discover the why and the perpetrator. Even though it sounds like they are no nearer to bringing somebody to trial than they were a week ago.’ She touched her grey hair, always a sign she was about to change the subject. ‘How’s Sophia working out?’
‘Fine. Best thing I ever did was hiring her. After a rocky start, she and our pathologist seem to have bonded over haematology. And thank you for the recommendation. Her biomedical and organisational skills are becoming indispensable.’
‘Bureaucracy isn’t your forte, Ridpath.’
He smiled. ‘That’s an understatement, Mrs Challinor.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘I’ll see how she’s getting on.’
‘Ridpath, I know it hurt, but it was the right thing to do.’
‘Taking me off the case?’
Mrs Challinor nodded.
‘I know, but there’s still an emptiness there that won’t be filled until they find the man who did it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What I don’t understand is why. What would drive anybody to set fire to another human being?’
‘Pain, Ridpath, immense pain.’ She reddened and looked down. ‘Have you heard anything about my brother?’
‘Ted Jones has put the word out. People living on the streets are always hard to find. As you can imagine, the last thing any of them want to do is talk to the police. As soon as they hear anybody asking questions, they lose themselves in the underworld or they move on. I’m sure we’ll find him soon, though.’
‘Thank you, Ridpath.’
He gestured towards the door again, both of them slightly embarrassed by their sudden closeness. ‘I’ll check on Sophia.’
Mrs Challinor nodded once and opened a file on her desk. ‘Thank you, Ridpath,’ was all she said as he left her office.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Lying in bed that night, Ridpath couldn’t fall asleep. Images of Charlie’s body kept leaping into his mind.
The St Christopher medallion sitting on the scorched skin.
The handcuffs encircling the blackened wrists.
The mouth twisted into a rictus grin of sheer pain.
What remained of the hair smouldering on a blistered, charred scalp.
And Charlie himself disturbing his dreams when he did nod off. Always asking him questions. Questions Ridpath couldn’t answer.
‘Who did it?’
‘Why did they do it?’
‘What are you doing?’
Finally Polly woke up too. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, just can’t sleep.’
‘Thinking of the case tomorrow?’
He checked the alarm clock beside the bed: 3:40 a.m. ‘No, thinking of the case today. You go back to sleep. I’ll go and make myself a coffee. What does Eve want for breakfast?’
‘Eggs, I think. She needs the protein. A growing girl.’
‘No problem. Coddled eggs it is. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you before I go.’
‘Ridpath, you did your best. Nobody could have done more.’
‘Aye, but was it good enough? Charlie’s killer is still out there and I’m organising inquests and filling in forms rather than pounding the streets to find him.’
Polly put her hand in his. ‘You did your best.’
He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go back to sleep.’
Ridpath padded downstairs as quietly as he could, switching on the light in the kitchen. He made himself a coffee, choosing the strongest espresso capsule they had for the machine. ‘This should keep me going,’ he said out loud to fill the silence.
Then he sat down at the table and mentally went through the case from the beginning, exploring every detail, re-examining everything he knew and everything he could remember.
As dawn’s grey light seeped over the city, he was no closer to an answer. He had written down a few more lines of enquiry to suggest during the review on Friday.
Did we ever find the tramp on the CCTV coming out of the building site?
Was anyone else involved in the five-a-side team but not in the picture?
Why was Sam Sykes the only one who had his throat cut rather than being struck with a blunt instrument?
Had they checked the CCTV between Charlie’s house and Bruton Place? Did it show more than one person in the car?
What happened to the psychotherapist’s phone?
He looked down at his notes again. They were just areas to follow up rather than new lines of enquiry. And he was sure Claire Trent and Lorraine Caruso had already covered them.
He slumped back in the chair, exhausted. ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ was all he managed to whisper.
Outside, the quiet of the early morning was broken by the sounds of a magpie cawing from a nearby tree.
To Ridpath, it sounded like the silence was calling.
Thursday, May 9, 2019
Chapter Eighty-Three
The witnesses and a solicitor arrived at the first-floor courtroom one by one. First there was Dave Greene, dressed in a suit and tie. Ridpath realised it was the only time he had seen the fire officer in civilian clothes. Normally he was wearing his helmet and heavy-duty gear. Somehow, he looked more human, more frail, less of a superman in a suit.
‘Hello, Dave, I think the coroner is going to call you to the witness stand after the pathologist. Have you attended a coroner’s court before?’
‘Only once.’
‘Just remember, it’s not adversarial like a criminal court. All the coroner is seeking is the truth. Who died, when they died and how they died. If you sit over there, you won’t have far to walk to the witness stand.’ Ridpath pointed him in the direction of a chair behind a velvet rope.
The next to arrive was Terry Dolan, sporting a jacket, jeans and an open-necked shirt.
‘You’ll have done a few of these, Terry,’ Ridpath greeted him.
‘Not that many,’ he answered, scratching his bald head.
Ridpath checked outside the window. It was drizzling as usual. The sort of rain that seeped into every pore, leaving the soul damp and miserable. ‘Sit next to Dave, you’ll be called after him.’
‘Right-o.’
A pair of black-garbed solicitors representing the family came next, followed by Claire Trent and Lorraine Caruso. ‘How long is this going to last, Ridpath?’ asked the detective superintendent.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, but it should be finished before lunch. Just five witnesses.’
‘Good, I have to brief the mayor at two this afternoon.’ She glanced at Caruso. ‘The shit has hit the fan. You saw the funeral pictures in The Times this morning?’
Ridpath shook his head.
‘The case has been picked up by the national newspapers. The tabloids are having a field day and even the quality papers have joined in.’
‘I’m sure the mayor is happy.’
‘As happy as any politician who sees his name attached to a negative story.’
Ridpath raised his eyebrows. ‘That happy?’ Then he put the boot in. ‘The coroner may need to call you.’
She looked surprised. ‘Oh?’
‘I don’t think she will, but before she decides the verdict, she may want a statement on the progress of the investigation.’
Trent nodded, glancing once more at Caruso. ‘Seems like everybody wants to know the status of the investigation, including me.’
They moved off to sit at the back of the court.
As if on cue, four reporters entered the courtroom, all chattering loudly, accompanied by a PCSO in uniform. Ridpath gestured towards them. ‘Press, over there.’
They all sat down in
their reserved seats, still chattering away.
He took hold of the PCSO’s arm. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
The man looked flustered. ‘I just thought I’d stop by to see the inquest.’
Ridpath raised his eyebrows.
‘I was there that night,’ he stammered, ‘the night the flat caught fire and Joe Brennan was burnt, helping with the crowd.’
‘Your name is…?’
‘Clive Tennant. Can’t stay long, though, my shift starts at noon.’
‘OK, Mr Tennant, you can sit close to the door in case you need to leave.’
Dr Marshall was waiting at the door. ‘Will this take a long time?’
Why did everybody want to rush this inquest? ‘Should be finished before lunchtime, I think. The coroner will call you last for an opinion on his state of mind.’
‘But I hardly knew him.’
‘You were his doctor…’
The man rubbed his nose before answering. ‘I hadn’t seen him for three years.’
Ridpath noticed the telltale giveaway that somebody was lying and decided to risk a stab in the dark. ‘That’s not strictly true, is it, Doctor?’
The man looked down at his feet. ‘He rang me six months ago and asked for a referral to a psychiatrist, but the NHS ones were all booked up for months…’
‘So you referred him to your friend, Alistair Ransome?’
‘Something like that.’ He then looked up and stared at Ridpath. ‘But you can’t prove anything.’
The wrong answer. ‘I’m sure the coroner will ask about it now. And I’d just like to take this opportunity to remind you the penalties for perjury apply in a coroner’s court as much as they do in the rest of the judicial system. You can sit over there, next to the other witnesses.’
The doctor sidled away, sitting by himself, away from the others.
The last to arrive were Dr Schofield and Detective Constable Ron Pleasance. The pathologist was carrying a large medical bag and looking flustered. ‘I hope I’m not late, Ridpath,’ he said in his high-pitched voice.
‘It’s OK, we’re just about to start. Are you prepared?’
‘As I’ll ever be. I just hope Mrs Challinor doesn’t ask me to explain everything in layman’s language again. It’s so imprecise.’
Ridpath looked over the court. ‘I’m sure she will.’
‘Damn, I’d better check my notes.’ He paused for a second. ‘You haven’t seen Sophia this morning?’
‘She’s in the office. Do you want to talk to her?’
‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly, blushing slightly, ‘I was just wondering if she would be here. I’d better go and check my notes.’
‘How is Inspector Wharton treating you, Ron?’
‘Same as usual. Like a piece of shit he found on the sole of his shoe. His bromance with me didn’t last long once the Brennan death was reclassified as murder.’
‘Not your fault, Ron. You did everything right.’
‘Tell that to Wharton. The only saving grace was MIT taking the case off his books. He still hasn’t forgiven me, though.’
‘He’s an arsehole, remember that, but if you can survive him, you can survive anything GMP can throw at you.’
‘Why do I not find your words encouraging, Ridpath? And sorry for what I said about Charlie Whitworth. I read about the funeral this morning in the papers. Not a great way to die.’
‘None of them are, Ron.’
More reporters drifted in, accompanied by a few members of the public alerted to the case by the interest from the tabloids. Ron Pleasance went and sat down next to the doctor.
As the clock ticked over to 10.00 a.m., the door at the rear of the court opened and Mrs Challinor entered.
A hush descended – even the reporters stopped chatting – as she took her place behind the coroner’s desk.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Mrs Challinor was dressed in a formal black suit, and Ridpath noticed her grey hair had been tied back into a bun, the curls encased in a net. She began to speak in a voice commanding silence. ‘Today we open the inquest into the death of Joseph Brennan.’ She pointed to the empty jury box on her left. ‘There will be no jury present at this inquest.’ A quick glance down at the papers in front of her. ‘Representing the family is Mr Rupert Stead.’
The solicitor stood up and bowed his head once.
‘Is the family present, Mr Stead?’
‘They are not, ma’am.’
‘They have appointed you to represent their interests?’
‘They have, ma’am.’ He bowed once again and sat down.
‘A gentle reminder to all those present, including the ladies and gentlemen of the press I see before me.’ She gestured towards the group on her right. ‘This is not a court of law. I will ask each witness questions as I see fit. The legal representatives of the family will then have the opportunity to question the witnesses when I have finished. As the pathologist has an urgent appointment we will take the unusual step of calling him first. Jenny…’
The office manager stepped forward.
‘Please call the first witness, Dr Eugene John Schofield.’
Did Ridpath see a small smile cross the coroner’s face as she pronounced the pathologist’s full name?
The man strode to the witness box and took the oath on a Bible held by Jenny Oldfield. As Margaret Challinor began questioning him, he ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar, as if giving himself more room to breathe.
‘Please state your name and occupation.’
‘Dr John Schofield. Forensic pathologist attached to the Western Manchester Regional Health Authority.’
‘You were called to an incident on April 24 of this year, were you not?’
‘I was. A fire on the top floor of a building at Stockfield Road in Wythenshawe.’
‘And what did you find? Please explain your findings in layman’s terms.’
The doctor glanced over at Ridpath. ‘A deceased male, aged between thirty-five and forty years. He had suffered fourth-degree burns over ninety per cent of his body.’
‘Did these burns cause his death?’
‘I thought so at the time, but when I performed the post-mortem on him, I reached a different conclusion.’
‘And what was it?’
‘He had actually died from three blows to the head from a blunt instrument, a ball peen hammer or something similar. The blows struck the junction between the occipital, parietal and temporal regions of the skull.’
‘Could you show us where on your own skull, Doctor?’
‘Around here, just behind the right ear.’
‘Thank you. And did you ascertain the time of death?’
‘It is notoriously difficult to give an exact time of death for any fire victim, but in this case he died at least eight hours before the onset of the fire.’
‘We will hear from the incident commander, Mr Greene, about the timing of the fire later. But you seem to be suggesting he died before the fire started?’
‘I am stating exactly that, Coroner. At least eight hours before the fire began. In my professional opinion, the fire was started to cover up the crime, not to kill the deceased. He had already been dead long before it started.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. And did you manage to make a positive identification of the deceased?’
‘We did. No DNA of Mr Brennan was on the national database and unfortunately, the fire had resulted in sloughing of the skin around the fingertips, removing the possibility of fingerprint identification. However, despite the fire having a deleterious effect on the skull, face and body, the forensic team managed to find a dental bridge that had fallen out of the mouth. When we compared this to Mr Brennan’s dental records, we discovered a match.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Any questions from the family?’
Mr Stead stood up. ‘None, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Dr Schofield, you are excused. Jenny, can you please call the incident commander, Mr David Greene?’
‘That’s very quick, Mr Greene, you are to be congratulated.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Luckily, the fire was in its early stages. We immediately evacuated the rest of the building and I evaluated the risks of the operation, deciding we would go into Offensive Oscar mode.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we will proactively fight the fire. I rationalised it had not spread to the roof yet, so there was little danger to my men. Plus if we could put it out quickly, we could restrict the fire to the living room of the flat.’
‘And that is what you did?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It took us about fifteen minutes to put it out.’
‘And then you entered the flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘The body of a man sitting in a chair facing a burnt-out television. I informed the police and they called their station requesting an investigative and forensic team.’
‘Thank you, Mr Greene. Have you anything more to add?’
‘Just one thing, ma’am. The fire hadn’t taken hold when we arrived on the scene. It was almost as if we were called before it started.’
‘Thank you, Mr Greene, we will hear from the fire investigator later on this theory. Any questions, Mr Stead?’
‘None, ma’am.’
She checked her watch. ‘This would seem to be a good time to take a ten-minute break. We will return at 11.15 precisely.’
Mrs Challinor stood up and exited through the same door she had entered. Ridpath looked around. Dr Schofield had already gone and Dave Greene was sitting at the back of the court. Ron Pleasance was the next witness up and he was looking a little nervous. Only Terry Dolan seemed relaxed and confident.
The reporters had resumed their gossiping, laughing at each other’s jokes and generally making noise.
Claire Trent approached him. ‘Are we on time, Ridpath?’
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