by M J Lee
The streets were quiet, the roads deserted. The only illumination the harsh blues, yellows and reds of neon lights, stark in the rain.
In a few doorways, huddled heaps of clothing with a human being buried deep within sheltered from the downpour. She thought about stopping her car and asking the question she always asked on nights like this.
‘Have you seen my brother? Have you seen Robert Challinor?’
But the answer would always be the same. A shake of the head. Or a quietly spoken ‘Leave me alone.’ Or worse, a shouted ‘Fuck off’, followed by a long drunken rant, rambling on incoherently until she returned to her car and drove away.
But in her heart she still held hope. Hope that one night she would find him. Hope that he would return to her. Hope that she could somehow save him from the life he had chosen.
She turned left at Bridge Street, heading as she always did towards the place she had last seen him. Over the River Irwell, the garish lights of the Lowry Hotel on the right, and straight on, stopping outside the New Bailey car park.
She knew she shouldn’t be here. Ridpath had warned her it wasn’t a safe place for a woman to walk alone at night, but she came anyway.
Out of the car and behind some billboards, looking for the arches beneath the railway. On a patch of derelict ground four homeless people were sitting out in the rain, huddled beneath a makeshift shelter.
As she approached, she saw there were three men and what looked like an old woman. She recognised the woman, she had met her before in this place. Her name was Sally and, although she looked well past sixty, her actual age was thirty-eight.
‘Hello, Sally.’
The woman looked up at her with one eye. Plastic bottles of White Lightning were strewn on the ground around her. One of the men had his arm over her shoulders, his head resting against her body.
‘Wha’ you want?’
The mouth was toothless; pink gums surrounded by wrinkled, tanned lips.
Mrs Challinor knelt down in front of Sally. ‘Do you remember me?’
Sally thought for a long time, nodded her head and then said, ‘No. Who are you?’
‘I’m Robert’s sister. Robert Challinor. Have you seen him?’
Again, Sally thought for a long time before once again saying ‘No.’
This time the man with his arm round her shoulders woke up. ‘Who you? Why you botherin’ my woman? Wha’ you want?’
He swung his arm away from Sally’s shoulders and stood up unsteadily. ‘Leave us alone. Get away, go on, get lost.’
Mrs Challinor moved away quickly. For the second time that night somebody didn’t want to have anything to do with her.
Day Seven
Monday, April 29, 2019
Chapter Forty-Two
Monday morning and Ridpath braved the commute into Police HQ.
He had already made breakfast for the girls. Eve ate hers in complete silence as usual, while Polly stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup.
Before he left, she helped him on with his jacket, adjusted his tie and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, ‘Look after yourself. Remember, don’t get too involved. It’s just a job.’
He had told her all about it last night. They had gone to bed and she’d held him tight all through the night, holding him as if never wanting to let him go.
Thirty minutes later, Ridpath was sitting in front of his boss, taking her through the evidence, Mrs Challinor’s admonition last night ringing in his ears. ‘Don’t let me down, Ridpath.’
Lorraine Caruso sat to one side examining her freshly painted nails, her face looking like she had been chewing on lemons.
‘I’m doing this as a personal favour to Mrs Challinor, Ridpath. I’m not used to subordinates questioning my orders,’ said Claire Trent.
‘Or questioning mine,’ chimed in Caruso.
Ridpath took a deep breath, it was now or never. ‘You were looking for evidence, guv’nor, that the murders were committed by the same man. I believe both Joseph Brennan and Samuel Sykes were killed by having methylated spirits poured over them and then set alight.’
‘A belief is not evidence, Ridpath,’ said Trent.
‘In addition, another John Doe who was burnt to death has been discovered in the moors above Marsden in Yorkshire.’
‘So you’re adding another body to the mix? Anybody who’s died in a fire is now going to be a victim of your serial killer?’ Caruso turned to her boss. ‘Guv’nor, we’ve been through all this once, why are we wasting time going through it again? Ridpath is seeing connections where none exists.’
Ridpath realised they were tag-teaming him. He held up his hand, unfolding the index finger. ‘One: Dr Schofield says the two Manchester men were both murdered.’ He pulled out the post-mortem reports and placed them on the table.
Without looking at them, Trent asked, ‘Does the pathologist say they were murdered by the same man?’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘He’s unable to say until more tests come in.’
Caruso smiled at him.
He continued. ‘Two: spray paint cans were found near to all three men, with messages sprayed close to them. For both Sam Sykes and Joseph Brennan the message was “Play the game”.’
‘And the John Doe on the moor?’
‘There was a message there, boss, but the fire destroyed it.’
Caruso suddenly sat up straight. ‘Hang on, there have been fires on the moors recently. Are you saying one man was responsible?’
Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. All I know is they found spray paint on the gorse near the body.’
Trent yawned. ‘Any other evidence, Ridpath?’
‘Three: both Sam Sykes and Joseph Brennan died after being doused with the same accelerant – methylated spirits. West Yorkshire police are waiting on lab tests for their body.’
‘It’s what the alkies drink on the streets and easy to buy if you’re looking for a way to top yourself.’ Caruso talked directly to her boss instead of looking at him.
Ridpath saved his trump card for last. If this didn’t work, he could say goodbye to his job with MIT. The rest of his life would be spent as a coroner’s officer with no hope for promotion or advancement. Worse, without any support from Greater Manchester Police, he might not even survive working for the coroner. Once you were out, there was no going back.
He took another deep breath. ‘Four: at least two of the victims knew each other.’ He pulled out the five-a-side team photos. ‘See, here is Sam Sykes and next to him is Joseph Brennan. The three other boys are Tony Doyle, Tommy Larkin and Harry McHale. The man standing above them is the coach, David Mulkeen. We don’t know who the other man is yet.’ Ridpath touched the cropped arm and shoulder on the left.
Trent leant forward to get a closer look. ‘Are you sure these are the same people?’
‘I think so, the names and rough ages match.’
‘You think so?’ sneered Caruso.
‘Why would two men who were burnt to death within days of each other both have the same photograph unless there was a link?’
‘Circumstantial, not proof.’
Ridpath threw his hands in the air. ‘A bloody massive coincidence, is it? But when you put everything together it adds up to one conclusion. We have a serial killer operating in Manchester who is killing people and then burning the bodies to destroy any evidence.’
Trent narrowed her eyes. ‘If what you say is right, Ridpath, and there is a serial killer, but we haven’t made the link yet, then there should be other victims.’
‘I think you’re right, guv’nor. One of them could be the body found near Marsden yesterday. I’m just waiting for the West Yorkshire pathologist to send through his report and tests to see if the accelerant used was the same as on Sam Sykes and Joseph Brennan, and discover if the victim was killed before being set alight.’
A long intake of breath from Caruso. ‘It’s still a long shot, boss. I just can’t believe somebody is setting fire to people.’ Ri
dpath noticed the change in tone from the DCI.
‘Neither can I, but…’ Trent sat back in her chair, spinning her pen between the tips of her elegantly manicured fingertips. She looked across at Ridpath and then at Caruso before lunging forward quickly to press the intercom on her desk. ‘Chrissy, can you come in here?’
Five seconds later, a middle-aged woman wearing a Manchester City away shirt knocked on the door and entered. ‘Yes, ma’am?’
Trent scribbled the names on a sheet of paper. ‘Can you check these people out for me on the PNC? The first is probably in his sixties now, he’s the adult in this picture. The others belong to the boys. They must be in their late thirties.’
‘No problem, guv’nor. When do you want it?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I’ll get on it right away.’ She left, closing the door behind her.
‘The other thing we need to do is get onto HOLMES and see if—’
‘You buying this guff from Ridpath, guv’nor?’
‘We need to check it out, Lorraine. It’s too much of a coincidence. Two people, possibly three, all being murdered with their bodies burnt afterwards. It could happen. But this,’ she tapped the printout of the picture, ‘this is the kicker. Two of the victims appearing in the same photo? The deaths must be related.’ She stood up. ‘We need to get onto HOLMES and cross reference any other deaths by burning recently.’
Ridpath raised his hand slowly. ‘I have a confession, guv’nor.’
Trent’s eyes narrowed again. ‘What?’
‘I already briefed Rob Johnson. He’s working on it.’
‘You did what?’ erupted Caruso. ‘You were given specific instructions, Detective Inspector, to drop this line of enquiry until compelling evidence came forward. Do you remember the conversation on Saturday?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘But I thought the evidence was already compelling.’
‘That’s no excuse for ignoring the chain of command. You may have forgotten, Ridpath, but you report to me and I won’t put up with your bloody maverick behaviour.’
Trent was quiet for a moment before speaking. ‘We’ll discuss this later. In the meantime, we’d better discover what HOLMES has found.’
Chapter Forty-Three
‘This has been a fascinating exercise for HOLMES…’
‘Let’s have less of the self-congratulation, Rob, and just tell us what came up.’
But Rob Johnson wanted to build the suspense a little while longer. ‘The key to using the system is the setting of the parameters you want it to search for. Most coppers don’t use standardised language. A “slash” for a detective inspector in Liverpool might just be a “cut” for a constable in Cumbria. So the job is to create the standards and the facts so the programme can look for and discover links.’ He chuckled. ‘If you put rubbish in, you get rubbish out.’
‘Can you just get on with it, Rob,’ said Lorraine Caruso.
‘Hold your horses. If you don’t understand what it can do, how can you interpret the findings? Right? So shall I continue?’
Detective Superintendent Claire Trent nodded.
‘Now, most times we just input the data from a victim: age, height, personal description and so on. Then we add lines identifying the nature of each crime. HOLMES then collates all the information, suggests possible links and identifies new lines of enquiry linking possible victims.’ All the time he was speaking, Johnson was tapping away at his computer. A graphical interface appeared, followed by lines linking various victims. ‘But in this case we didn’t know who the victims were. Or even whether they were victims at all. Right?’
He looked across for confirmation from Trent and Caruso but received only blank stares.
‘So when DI Ridpath briefed me…’
A glance that could kill from DCI Caruso to Ridpath.
‘…I tried something different. I set HOLMES to look for parameters of all deaths reported to the police in the north of England for the last three months. I reasoned most deaths of the type Ridpath was looking for would be reported to the police.’
Caruso rolled her eyes extravagantly.
Johnson ignored her. ‘What came up were twelve deaths by burning in the last three months for the area north of Birmingham up to Scotland.’
‘You didn’t do the whole of England?’
‘I was briefed to just do the north.’
‘Most killers have a limited range of operation. They tend to be either commuters moving in one direction from the site of the murder to home. Or marauders travelling out from the home in multiple directions searching for their victims. Serial killers are invariably the latter.’
‘Thank you for those words from the Hendon Training Manual 2006, DI Ridpath,’ Caruso said sarcastically. ‘We’ve all been on the bloody course too, you know.’
‘I then set HOLMES to search for the parameters of spray cans, orange message, burning, and accelerants, turning it into a search engine. Best keep it simple for the moment, hey?’
‘Woe betide we do anything “complicated” like detective work.’ Lorraine used her fingers to form quotation marks.
‘Give it a rest, both of you. That’s an order. As a senior officer, you should know better, Lorraine.’ Trent’s voice had a hint of steel and warning behind it. ‘Carry on, Rob.’
He pressed a key on the computer and a different graphical interface appeared. ‘I ruled out four of the deaths because they were definitely accidents. Three others were confirmed as suicides and one more in Newcastle was a fire-eater whose act went wrong, so I crossed him off too. That left four deaths, and guess what?’
‘What?’ said Ridpath.
‘They’ve all occurred in the last week.’ He pressed a button and links appeared between four icons. A Thomas Larkin on April 22, a Joseph Brennan on April 23, and Samuel Sykes on April 24…’
All three detectives looked at each other at the mention of the name Thomas Larkin.
‘…and one more last night. A John Doe found burnt to death with a spray can next to the body on the moors above Marsden. But this one could have been an accident. I’ve asked West Yorks for more information.’
Trent shook her head. ‘You’re telling me there have been four deaths from burning in the last week and we knew nothing about them?’
Johnson smiled. ‘I’m not telling you nowt, guv’nor, HOLMES is.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Rob.’
Ridpath leant closer to the computer. ‘What was that about a Thomas Larkin?’
Johnson clicked the icon. ‘Thomas Larkin found on the roof of the registry office in Bakewell, Derbyshire. Cause of death: immolation. Age thirty-eight. Orange spray paint can found near body. Incomplete message on the wall above his head. Presence of accelerants unknown at this point in time. I could follow up and find out more if you want.’
‘No, Lorraine is going to do it.’ Trent turned to her DCI. ‘Get onto Derbyshire police and find out all you can about the death. On second thoughts, drive over to Bakewell and check it out yourself. Find the pathologist and get a post-mortem performed immediately if one hasn’t been done already.’
She looked at Ridpath. ‘I want you to follow up on the Marsden death. We need to find out more and quickly.’
‘Will do, guv’nor,’ he replied.
‘Rob, I want you to expand the search to include the whole of England. Find out if there have been any more deaths recently.’
‘No problem, boss.’
A knock on the door. Chrissy Wright walked in. ‘I thought you’d want to see the search results for the names you gave me, boss. That bloke, David Mulkeen, you asked me to check up on. Well, six months ago he was interviewed as part of Operation Hydrant, the investigation into child sexual abuse. Apparently, he used to run kids’ football teams…’
Chapter Forty-Four
Dave Mulkeen was used to staying in the shadows, avoiding people’s stares, keeping his head down.
It was the only way to live now.
Here he was
new, nobody was aware he existed. The rented flat was under an assumed name, the rent paid a year advance so he would never have to see the landlord.
Bakewell was one of those towns where everybody kept themselves to themselves. They were friendly enough in a stand-offish sort of way, but that was why he had chosen to live here. Nobody was going to bother him or even ask who he was.
Tommy Larkin lived here, another reason why he came to this town. But Tommy didn’t want anything to do with him any more. Not after the trial. At least Tommy hadn’t ratted on him like some of the other boys.
Seeing those faces again after all these years had brought back memories. Of good times and bad. Mostly good, though, for him.
A time of innocence and the taking of innocence.
He parked up at the large car park next to the River Wye, as he always did. A beautiful place near the town centre; a soft trilling river running over rocks. Ducks paddling along the banks. A couple eating an ice cream, the man with his trousers rolled up to his knees and his bare white feet rediscovering the sun after a long, cold winter. He stood on the bridge for a while, looking down into the water.
The bridge had padlocks attached to it by lovers. An affectation on Bakewell’s part, he thought, imitating the famous bridge in Paris. He’d thought about running away to live in Europe, hiding in the anonymity of a foreign country. But he didn’t speak any languages other than English and somehow he never felt at home in any other place than England.
Finally, he decided to hide in the peace and quiet of a country market town. Nobody knew him here and nobody cared.
He glanced up at the sky. Ominous grey clouds were scurrying over the hills and into the valley. He would have to be quick today.
He hurried across the bridge and strode quickly into the local Co-op. He tried to avoid going out too much, spending most of his time at home with his telly and his memories.
It was strange how much he could remember when he thought about it. The police had asked him to remember too, but he was too smart for them. ‘I can’t remember’ always being the safest answer to any question.