by M J Lee
‘As a dodo, Dispatch,’ he finally answered.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Er, Ridpath, they’ve just called us for the meeting.’
Ridpath shook his head. Sophia was standing next to him, nudging his shoulder.
‘Sure, just coming.’ He picked up his coffee and followed Sophia into the meeting room. It was their regular work-in-progress meeting to catch up with the ongoing cases. Mrs Challinor was already there, sitting at the head of the table.
‘So glad you could join us, Ridpath. Shall we begin?’
He could feel his face warming. That was the second time it had happened. What was it about him and meetings?
Jenny Oldfield was handing out the work-in-progress sheets. This afternoon she was wearing bright green eyeshadow and a purple gingham dress. Everybody else was dressed in various shades of black and grey.
‘Can we be quick today? I have to leave early this afternoon.’ Carol Oates, on Jenny’s left, had her blonde hair up in a tight chignon, the colour offsetting the deep black of her jacket.
‘Oh?’ said Mrs Challinor, one eyebrow raised.
‘I have a meeting in town.’ That was it, no other explanation.
‘We will try to accommodate you, but we must treat these work-in-progress meetings with the respect they deserve.’
‘I just—’ began Carol Oates, before being interrupted by Mrs Challinor.
‘Are you OK for time, David?’
David Smail was a part-time coroner from Derbyshire. It was one of the stranger aspects of the coronial system that coroners from different districts often worked in other districts part-time, being paid extra. Margaret Challinor helped out in Central Manchester.
Although Ridpath often wondered, if they were working full-time elsewhere, how did they find the time? It was like an inspector from GMP working for Cheshire Police on his days off.
‘I’m fine today. No problems.’
‘And Ridpath, Jenny tells me you are finally up to date with your paperwork?’
‘All thanks to Sophia.’ His new assistant looked down at the table, carefully avoiding the eyes looking at her.
‘Good, let’s get started. The Murphy case. You’re handling that, Carol?’
‘The inquest is set for May 4. Should be no problem. An open and shut case of suicide.’
‘You concur, Ridpath?’
‘I’ve looked into it. The pilot had just split up with his wife, developed a gambling problem and was about to lose his job with the airline. There were no suspicious circumstances in his death.’
‘The family have been notified of the inquest?’
‘They will be attending with their solicitors, Dean and Bramham,’ said Sophia, speaking for the first time.
‘Those ambulance chasers. Make sure everything is buttoned up, Carol.’
‘Will do.’
‘Moving along. Treasure Trove. A metal detectorist, Scott Bevan, found a hoard of gold coins in a field between the Mersey and Chester Road. David, you’re handling the hearing?’
‘Yes, Margaret. It seems all above board. The trove was reported to the archaeological officer for Greater Manchester and a dig is being planned in the area for next year.’
‘Keep an eye on this one, the press are onto it. Usual gold fever.’
The meeting continued in the same vein for the next couple of hours. The progress of existing cases was monitored, and decisions made on which deaths needed to be investigated and which could be disregarded.
Just before the meeting came to a close, Jenny’s assistant entered the room and gave her a sheet of paper. Jenny scanned it and passed it on to Mrs Challinor.
‘Something’s just come in, Ridpath. One for you perhaps?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘Now that I’m up to date with the paperwork, I can get on with my real job.’
‘Your real job is to be up to date with the paperwork and your investigations,’ said Mrs Challinor.
Ridpath stayed silent. He’d just been effectively admonished, but he knew she was right. If they weren’t on top of the minutiae of the coroner’s office, grieving families would suffer. Much as he hated the bureaucracy of death, it was part of his job. Luckily, Sophia was very good at it.
His thoughts were interrupted by Carol Oates. ‘How is Claire Trent these days?’
Why was Carol asking him about the head of MIT? Why was she suddenly interested in his other boss?
‘Fine, I think, busy as usual. I was there earlier today, and the team seems stretched. There’s been a couple of armed robberies – a post office and a pawn shop – plus a stabbing in Bolton town centre between drug gangs. And they’re deeply involved in the county lines investigations. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. Just curious,’ she answered, pushing a stray hair that had escaped from her chignon behind her ear.
Before he could ask her another question, Mrs Challinor closed her file and stood up. ‘Right, we’re finished for today. Looks like you’re going to make your meeting, Carol.’
Carol Oates smiled but said nothing.
‘Ridpath, could you come to my office for a minute?’
‘Of course, Mrs Challinor.’
As Carol Oates left the room, Ridpath could only stare after her. What was she up to?
Chapter Nineteen
Detective Sergeant Ted Jones knelt down beside the blackened body. He was wearing bright blue evidence gloves he kept in the car.
‘Not a nice way to die.’
Jones glanced up at Sergeant Bohannon. ‘Bunsens never are, John.’
The mortuary boys were hovering at the entrance ready to take the corpse away. Next to them, PC Bruce Connor was making sure the small crowd that had gathered stayed well back.
‘Bunsens?’ Bohannon asked.
‘Bunsen burners. Like in the old school chemistry labs.’ Jones shrugged. ‘Dunno who started calling them that.’
‘Subtle,’ said Bohannon under his breath.
‘Looks like he was drinking the meths and decided to light a spliff to give himself a bit more buzz. And poof, bonfire night in the middle of April. Where’s the witness?’
‘Over there. You won’t get much out her. Heard nothing. Saw nothing. Smelled burning so she came in to take a look.’
‘The gate was open?’
Bohannon nodded. ‘A few roaches and a sleeping bag in the corner. Looks like it was one of his regular places to doss down.’
‘Any ID?’
‘On somebody like him? I doubt it.’
Tentatively, Jones lifted the burnt fabric of a coat with his fingertips. Flakes of blackened skin fell from the scorched face. His hand jerked back. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s got any,’ he said quickly.
He stood up and took one last look at the corpse, still with the roasted spliff between its fingers. ‘You completed the incident report?’
Bohannon handed it over. Jones scanned it quickly. ‘Looks good. I’d better have a quick chat with the witness, you know the boss is going to check.’
‘He always does.’
Jones stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered through the gate to where Cathy Newman was sipping a Costa coffee, standing next to a PCSO. He took out his notebook, still wearing the bright blue gloves. ‘You discovered the body?’
Cathy nodded. ‘When can I go? I’m late back for work.’
Jones ignored the question. ‘Did you see anybody else in the vicinity?’
‘What? In there?’ She pointed to the building site. ‘No, just him.’
‘Why did you go in?’
‘I work in the local betting shop and thought I’d come down here for a quick ciggie. Anyway, as I got close, I smelled something…’
‘What was it?’
Cathy reddened and then looked down.
Ted Jones asked again. ‘What was it?’
‘Well, it smelled like Sunday dinner. You know, a roast…’ She stopped speaking once again.
‘So you went inside the building site.’
&n
bsp; She nodded. ‘I thought it smelled so good. Reminded me of my mum’s cooking. But then I went in and saw—’ She looked down again and began to cry.
The PCSO put his arm around Cathy’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, love, let it all out.’
When she had calmed down a little, Jones continued. ‘Did you see anybody else around here?’
Cathy shook her head. ‘Just him. Lying there. There was still blue flames coming from the body.’ She sobbed loudly.
‘Thanks for your help. Clive here will take you home.’ Jones nodded at the PCSO.
Cathy suddenly looked up as if remembering something. ‘I did bump into somebody in the alley.’
‘Who?’
‘Another homeless man. He was in a hurry.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really, well, they all look the same, don’t they? And I never really looked at him.’
‘Was he coming out of the building site?’
‘No, I told you. It was at the end of the alley.’
‘I think I saw somebody hanging round the alley earlier too,’ interrupted the PCSO.
‘Did you know him, Clive?’
‘Didn’t really look, I’m afraid. A lot of the homeless hang around here. Plenty of quiet places to smoke or shoot up in.’
Jones rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘Listen, when can I go back to work?’
‘You’ve given us your name, address and telephone number?’
‘Twice already.’
‘OK, you can leave now. We may need to contact you later.’
‘Why?’
‘Just to tidy up any loose ends. My boss is a bit of a stickler for doing stuff by the book.’
‘One of those.’
‘Aye, they’re in the police too.’
‘They’re bloody everywhere.’
‘Clive will walk you back if you want.’
‘Nah, I’m OK. It’s the betting shop just down the road.’ She smiled, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘Something to tell the punters, I guess.’
Jones turned away and nodded to the mortuary attendants. ‘You can take him away.’
‘Any name?’
‘Couldn’t find any ID. If you find anything, let me know.’
‘Will do. We’ll put him down as a John Doe.’
Sergeant Bohannon joined the group. ‘We’re done, Ted?’
‘Aye, John. Make sure a copy of the incident report goes to my boss in Manchester Central. And don’t forget the coroner.’
‘No problem. Not bothering with a post-mortem?’
‘No point. Just another tramp who died on the streets. Meths in one hand and a spliff in the other.’
‘There’ll be a lot more by the end of the year with all the Spice that’s around.’
‘Just hope I’m not on call next time. I’m off back to the nick, John. Don’t forget the incident report or my boss will be kicking my bollocks from here to the Etihad.’
‘Knowing you, Ted, you’d enjoy it.’
‘He bloody would, that’s for sure.’
Jones strolled to his old Audi parked behind the police squad car. He had three other cases to follow up before his shift ended and nobody was going to complete the paperwork for him.
He took one last look at the scene.
He hated bunsens. Left an awful smell on his clothes. Now he’d have to get them dry-cleaned. More bloody expense that he couldn’t claim back.
He shook his head, muttering to himself as he climbed into the car and switched on the radio. An announcer was reading the news.
‘More fires have been reported on the moors above Marsden, spreading as far as Buckstones Reservoir. Firefighters are hoping the forecast rains come soon—’
He switched it off. ‘More bloody fires,’ he said out loud, ‘seems like they’re everywhere these days.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Must be that bloody global warming they’re always banging on about.’ He picked up the Airwave. ‘This is Ted Jones, on the way back to the nick, Dispatch. The John Doe looks like an accidental death and the body has been sent to the mortuary.’
‘OK, Ted, the boss is looking for you.’
‘What’s he want now?’
‘Another burglary in the Northern Quarter. He wants you to look into it.’
‘OK, give me the address, Dispatch, and can you do me a favour?’
‘Sure, Ted.’
‘Save me some of the roast pork from the canteen. I’m starving…’
Chapter Twenty
‘Sit down, please.’ Mrs Challinor pointed to the chair in front of her desk.
Ridpath wondered what he had done wrong this time. Were the forms wrong? Had he forgotten to inform a family of an inquest? Was Mrs Challinor going to send him back to MIT?
If she was, he could live with that. He missed the camaraderie of the police force: all working together to solve a case and put the perp away. But after today’s meeting, he didn’t know if he still had a job there with all the changes Claire Trent had introduced since Charlie Whitworth’s accident.
He made a mental note to visit his old boss. He was now in a wheelchair and housebound following the accident during the Connolly case. Officially, he was still on sick leave, but there was no way he was going back to GMP, even in a desk job.
Mrs Challinor coughed. ‘You’re miles away, Ridpath.’
‘Thinking about Charlie Whitworth.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not good, last time I saw him.’
‘The accident?’
‘Not handling it well.’
She nodded once. Ridpath knew she would get to the point now. Mrs Challinor was not one for small talk.
‘I need you to do something for me.’ She pushed the paper Jenny Oldfield had given her across the table. ‘That case I mentioned. A body in central Manchester. Can you get on it straight away?’
The paper was from the Central Manchester coroner. On it was the notice of death with a sketchy police report. ‘I thought this wasn’t our patch.’
‘We’re helping out. They’re stretched because of the inquests into the Arena bombings.’
There were few details. A death near Piccadilly, the victim a middle-aged man burnt to death.
‘The bunsen?’
‘What?’
‘Bunsen burner. People who set themselves alight. Usually homeless living on the streets.’
Mrs Challinor looked appalled. ‘That’s horrible, Ridpath.’
‘Gallows humour. Sorry, shouldn’t have used it.’
‘These are people, not just bodies or victims or bits of flesh on a mortuary slab. Always remember that, Ridpath.’
Even Ridpath knew he had crossed a line. ‘Sorry, it won’t happen again.’
Mrs Challinor mumbled something under her breath and then spoke directly to him. ‘Look into it, will you? Make it a priority.’
‘Really? These accidents happen all the time on the streets. A homeless man gets drunk and falls asleep with a fag in his hand. Or he gets out of it and forgets he’s got a bottle of spirits close by…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, merely shrugged his shoulders.
Mrs Challinor’s jaw was clenched. ‘I’d still like you to look into it.’
‘But the workload is pretty horrendous at the moment. I’ll get on it just as soon as I’m free.’
‘I’d like you to look into it now, this evening.’ The order was polite but it was still an order.
‘This evening? But it’s nearly four already. It’ll be dark in an hour or two.’
Mrs Challinor held up two fingers. ‘Two reasons. David Smail told me about a similar case in Bakewell a couple of days ago.’
‘Out in the Peak District?’
She nodded.
‘Can’t be many homeless out there.’
‘You’d be surprised. These days, there are homeless everywhere.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Same as this man. Burnt to death. You know I’m a
stickler for deaths where we see the same pattern recurring.’
Mrs Challinor still felt guilt over the Harold Shipman case, even though it wasn’t her area at that time. The doctor had managed to kill over two hundred people, mainly older women, without anybody realising and with no red flags being raised in the coroner’s office. She was determined that nothing like that would ever happen again.
‘And the second reason?’
Mrs Challinor pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. Her head came down and she spoke softly. ‘It’s personal.’
‘Meaning?’
Her head whipped up and she stared straight at him. ‘It’s my younger brother – he’s living on the streets.’
Ridpath’s mouth fell open. ‘You have a family member living on the streets?’
She nodded slowly.
‘But… but you don’t look the type…’
‘And what type is that, Ridpath?’
He felt himself redden. ‘I mean, these people usually come from broken homes or have suffered abuse or…’
‘And I’m a typical middle-class woman with a good job, and these sort of things never happen to people like me?’
‘No, I don’t…’
‘My brother was fine till about five years ago, then his wife left him. He went on the bottle, lost his job and his house, the kids didn’t want to see him and he sort of spiralled down from there.’
Ridpath felt like an idiot. ‘I’m sorry. Do you know where he is?’
‘Last reports were in the centre of Manchester.’
‘Couldn’t you help him?’
‘I tried, but people have to want to be helped. He spent three months inside Strangeways for petty larceny and managed to pick up a Spice habit as well as a criminal record.’
‘Not good. Do you want me to find him?’
She shook her head. ‘No point, he doesn’t want to see me anyway.’ Then she paused for a moment. ‘You see, I was the person who turned him in. He stole from me. I thought prison would be a short, sharp shock, turn him around…’
‘Most prisoners come out worse than when they went in. If they didn’t have a drug habit before prison, they will have afterwards.’
‘So you see, it’s personal, Ridpath. I want to find out if anything is happening to these people. Two similar cases are two too many as far as I am concerned.’