by M J Lee
‘You can’t get involved, Ridpath.’
‘I don’t want to, but Lorraine Caruso is not understanding that the whole case revolves around the picture. Why kill all the people shown in it? Understand why and you can find the killer.’
Mrs Challinor brushed a lock of curly grey hair off her forehead. ‘You don’t understand me, Ridpath. That was an instruction, not a piece of advice. You can’t get involved.’
‘You’re telling me the same as Detective Superintendent Trent?’
She nodded. ‘Claire rang me after she had finished talking to you. She made it clear your continued existence as a police officer was dependent on understanding this instruction.’
‘But he was my friend…’
‘You have to let it go, Ridpath. If you leave GMP, we can’t afford to keep you on here. It’s only because Claire Trent pays your cost that I’m able to employ you.’
He stood up. ‘I get the message, Coroner.’
‘It’s probably the wrong time to ask, Ridpath, but any news about my brother?’
‘I’ll follow up with Ted Jones.’
‘Thank you.’
He turned to go, stopping briefly at the door. ‘Mrs Challinor, whatever happened to being on the side of the victims? Charlie was a victim too.’
Chapter Seventy-Seven
‘What are you going to do, Ridpath?’
They were both lying lengthways on the couch with his arm around her, holding her close, watching the fifth series of Line of Duty on BBC iPlayer. Polly loved it but Ridpath could only see faults in police procedure. What particularly annoyed him was the way every investigation seemed to collapse time, missing the hard slog of collecting evidence and following through lines of enquiry.
‘I think I’m going to leave it, Polly.’
She sat up. ‘Leave the police force, quit your job in the coroner’s office?’
He smiled. ‘Nah, leave the investigation to MIT.’
She pounded his chest, shouting, ‘You bastard, why do you tease me?’
He pulled her to him. ‘Shhh, Eve will hear you. Can’t have her repeating words like “bastard”, can we?’
‘Are you serious? You’re just going to leave it alone?’
‘I can’t see anything else I can do. They’ve both made it clear they don’t want me involved. I’m not stupid, I can take a hint.’
He didn’t tell her that he kept seeing Charlie. The man would pop up at the strangest times, at the edge of his vision, but when he looked round nobody was there. In his dreams, in the deepest part of the night, the last image of Charlie’s eyes kept coming back to him. What would have happened if he had told Charlie about the message on the wall? Would Charlie have been able to tell him something? Would he still be alive?
She reached over to grab her glass of wine. ‘It’s the right decision, Ridpath, for you and for us.’ She took a large sip of Sauvignon Blanc, passing the glass to him to share.
‘I know, but it doesn’t feel good. It feels like I’m letting Charlie down. I keep asking myself what he would do in my place.’
‘And?’
‘He would probably say, “Sod ’em. Do what you want, Ridpath, and sod the bloody lot of ’em”.’
‘That’s what he might say, but he would do something completely different; he would toe the line. He managed to survive twenty-five years in GMP after all.’
He kissed her head. ‘You’re not as daft as you look, Mrs Polly Ridpath.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Ridpath. I’d support you whatever you decided, but I think you’ve made the right decision.’
She nestled back against his body and continued to watch another tense interview between AC10 and a corrupt copper.
He couldn’t help thinking about the case and about Charlie.
Had he missed something? Was there a clue to the killer’s identity which had somehow escaped everybody? What was the meaning of the photograph? Why was everybody dead who had been involved in a five-a-side team way back in 1994? Was there a link to the child sexual abuse cases?
For a few minutes he focused back on the TV. For some reason there was a Mexican standoff with guns between two policemen. How had that happened?
But soon he found himself drifting back to the real-life case. One simple question kept coming back to haunt him again and again.
If they were all dead, who committed the murders?
One Week Later
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath tried to get into the car park near Manchester Crematorium on Barlow Moor Road, but gave up after twenty minutes waiting in the queue and eventually parked illegally on the grass verge next to the road.
There was no likelihood he would get a ticket today. Any copper who had the balls to try would be a pariah for the rest of his time in the force.
Ridpath walked up the road to the yellow-brick temple to the dead that was Manchester Crematorium. Next door was Southern Cemetery, one of the largest urban burial grounds in Europe. A constant reminder death was alive and kicking.
A crowd of black-dressed men and women milled about the entrance waiting for the ceremony to start. He adjusted his black tie, bought from Marks and Sparks that morning, and strode through the gate.
He saw Claire Trent immediately, wearing a very stylish black coat with bright red trim. She was in earnest conversation with DCI Lorraine Caruso. She acknowledged Ridpath’s greeting but Caruso turned away without looking at him.
For once, Ridpath had kept a promise to himself and his wife. He had stayed away from the investigation into the deaths of the football team and of Charlie, concentrating instead on his work as a coroner’s officer. He had even left the liaison with the families to Carol Oates.
It hadn’t stopped him thinking about the case, though. Each night, he lay in bed with Polly snoring gently beside him, going over the details in his mind, re-examining anything and everything to see if he had missed the one snippet of information that would reveal the killer.
Nothing came.
And when he did sleep, Charlie was there, staring at him.
He shook his head. Must stop thinking about it.
Beside the door of the chapel stood John Gorman, the former head of MIT, now retired after Ridpath had pointed out the mistakes he made during the Beast of Manchester investigation. He was surrounded by the MIT old school. Coppers Ridpath had worked with and respected when he was one of the up-and-coming lads, one of the bright boys. John Gorman pointedly looked in the opposite direction when he saw Ridpath approaching.
On the right, held back by a hastily erected orange barrier, was a phalanx of reporters and photographers. He supposed this funeral was still news.
Next to them, Ridpath recognised some well-known Manchester villains come to show their respects. A strange world, Manchester. On any other day the crowd here would have been trying to kill each other. But today, at the funeral of a respected copper, it was as if the crematorium was a no man’s land in the eternal battle between good and evil in the city.
The only people absent were the top brass. They had been told in no uncertain terms they were not welcome at the funeral and there were to be no uniformed police present.
In the centre, the woman who had given them their orders was wearing a black veil over her face and was supported on either side by her son and daughter. Maureen Whitworth looked frail but Ridpath could see a core of steel there. She was going to get through today, whatever happened.
He walked over to one of his old mates who was standing all alone. ‘Hello, Dave, sad day.’
‘Didn’t ever think it would end like this.’
‘Nobody ever imagined…’ Ridpath didn’t finish his sentence.
Dave Hardy shook his head. ‘I always thought he was indestructible and they’d have to carry him kicking and screaming out of his office when he was ninety, still looking for one last nutter to put away.’
‘How’re you d
oing, Dave?’
‘I’m good, got my transfer out of MIT, couldn’t stand working for Claire bloody Trent, and have now got a cushy number with force liaison. Regular hours, regular pay and a regular retirement in two years.’ He looked up at Ridpath with bright eyes. ‘I thought you’d have moved back into MIT by now.’
‘Still with the coroner, and working for Claire Trent too, but we manage. For me, it’s like doing old policing with none of the bullshit.’
Dave Hardy nodded towards Claire Trent. ‘I heard they bolloxed the case. Thought Charlie was a suspect only to discover he had alibis for two of the killings. He was getting drunk with a detective super and a former chief constable.’
‘Alibis don’t come any better than that.’
‘You don’t say. All the other lines of enquiry have turned up blanks too. Both are heading for the chopping block.’
‘Not Claire Trent, she’ll survive. DCI Caruso on the other hand…’ Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. Despite his disagreements with her, he didn’t want to see Caruso fail. It was far more important to catch the killer than for him to see himself vindicated.
The undertaker approached John Gorman and the men around him and led them to the back of the hearse. They began to slide the oak coffin out through the rear door, stooping down to place it on their shoulders and march solemnly into the Old Chapel. A wreath of flowers with the single word ‘Charlie’ created out of white roses lay on top.
Organ music began to play. Ridpath recognised it as ‘I Love You Because’ by Jim Reeves. Had Charlie chosen this music? Was he having a last laugh at all the people assembled for his funeral?
Probably, knowing Charlie.
Ridpath followed the coffin and all the other mourners as they filed into the chapel.
It was time to say goodbye.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Ex-Detective Superintendent John Gorman walked up to the pulpit, his head down.
The wooden pews were full of a sea of black-clad men and women. Ridpath and Dave Hardy had secreted themselves on the far left, out of the way.
Ridpath noticed the swagger with which Gorman had dominated the Major Incident Team for so many years had gone, to be replaced with a diffidence, an uncertainty. He looked older now, more frail, as if retirement had sapped his strength. He was a small man so he adjusted the microphone downwards. His trembling hand placed a single sheet of paper on the lectern and he coughed once to clear his throat.
The Old Chapel of Manchester Crematorium was small. The coffin lay on a conveyor belt in the centre of the far wall, surrounded by curtains the colour of blood. Above the coffin, a stained-glass rose window allowed light to enter from outside. Light which, through accident or design, illuminated Charlie Whitworth’s family on the front row.
John Gorman coughed again and began speaking. ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Charlie Whitworth. A man, a copper, my friend.’
At the last word, Gorman sucked in air through his teeth. ‘I knew Charlie for over twenty years. He graduated from the police training college in Edgeley Park two years after me. We struck up a firm friendship when we were both based in Moss Side in the 1990s. And anybody who knew the area then knows the coppers used to go around in threes for safety.’
Dave Hardy leant over to Ridpath and whispered, ‘If they ever left the station…’
‘This was the era of Gunchester, of course, a time of great stress for most coppers, but not for Charlie. He quickly built up a rapport with the locals and by the time he left, after completing his detective exams, I can truly say he was missed by the people of the area. He wasn’t missed by the thugs and low-lifes, though – they were happy to see him go.’
‘I bet he was missed by the shebeens too,’ Dave whispered.
‘When the Major Incident Teams were created and I was asked to lead them…’
‘Is this about Charlie or John Gorman? He always was full of himself.’ Dave Hardy’s running commentary continued under his breath.
‘…The only person I wanted as my number two was Charlie. I couldn’t trust anybody else to do the job…’
‘Or to do your dirty work.’ Dave Hardy spat the words out a little louder than he should have done. Unfortunately, this coincided with a moment of silence as John Gorman paused in his speech.
A few of the mourners on the bench in front turned round to stare at Ridpath as Dave Hardy kept his head down. For a second Gorman stopped and glared at him before continuing.
‘…The Gooch Gang case, the Highland Road murders, the Post Office robberies, the Feelan killing, the Canal Street rapes, all were solved, and solved quickly by Charlie and his team under my guidance.’
Ridpath noticed he didn’t mention the one case which had led to his retirement. The Beast of Manchester.
‘…Charlie was that rare thing in this world. A copper who never gave up, one who doggedly pursued his man, or woman, till the very end. A copper’s copper. His dedication meant he was eventually injured in the line of duty, an injury which would have meant spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair or hobbling around on a walking stick. Not something Charlie would have enjoyed.’ He paused for a second and looked at Charlie’s family in the front row. ‘He died last week, killed by a brutal murderer. A murder that must not go unsolved by Greater Manchester Police…’
Ridpath glanced across at Claire Trent. She had her head down and wasn’t looking at Gorman.
‘…The reputation of the police force and justice is at stake. Charlie Whitworth’s killer must be found and found fast.’
‘He’s really sticking the boot in,’ whispered Dave Hardy.
A loud ‘shush’ from the pew in front.
After this exhortation, Gorman softened his tone. ‘Charlie Whitworth will be missed. By his wife Maureen, his daughter Angela, and his son Charlie Junior. But most of all, Charlie will be missed by the people of Manchester. He dedicated his life to preserving the peace of this city and now he deserves to rest in peace. Thank you.’
The ex-detective superintendent left the pulpit and, after a few desultory words from one of the local vicars, the Smiths’ ‘Shoplifters of the World Unite’ blared out from the speakers.
Ridpath smiled. Charlie had chosen the music. Only he would have the balls to make fun of everybody at his own funeral. As Morrissey’s voice belted out the chorus, the curtains parted and the doors opened in the back. Slowly the coffin began its last journey into the heart of the crematorium.
‘Bye, Charlie,’ Ridpath whispered.
Chapter Eighty
Ten minutes later and Ridpath was outside the crematorium, smoking. It was his first cigarette for nearly six months and it tasted rank. He had cadged one from Dave Hardy.
‘I thought you’d given up.’
‘I have, but after the funeral I need the reassurance of tobacco.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Dave lit both their fags. ‘You coming to the pub? A lot of the old team will be there, having one last drink on Charlie. Not that he paid for many when he was alive. You didn’t often see Charlie’s wallet.’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘Can’t face it. And anyway, I have work to do back at Stockfield.’
‘The coroner driving you hard?’
‘She’s OK. We have an inquest tomorrow on one of the victims.’
‘Fair enough.’ He stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out with his heel. ‘I’m off. See you around, Ridpath.’
As soon as Dave left, Ridpath was approached by Claire Trent. ‘Morning, Ridpath, a sad occasion.’
‘It is, ma’am,’ he answered stiffly.
‘Is the inquest on Joseph Brennan tomorrow?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘It starts at 9.30 a.m. Should be finished by noon, though. In the absence of any new information, it’s simply to facilitate the release of the body to the family.’
‘What will the verdict be?’
‘You’ll have to ask the coroner, she’s the one who will make the decision. But my bet is either murder
by persons unknown or an open verdict. Either way, it leaves the investigation free to continue. Will you be there?’
‘Yes. I’ve promised the coroner. I’m sure the vampires of the press will be too, so I’ll have to face more questions. Or give them more blood, whichever is easier.’
‘I’ll make sure they keep a seat for you.’
Trent looked down at her feet. ‘Ridpath, we’re having a review of the case at Police HQ with the chief constable on Friday, the day after the inquest. Could you attend?’
Ridpath couldn’t resist. ‘Are you sure you want me there?’
Trent looked up at him. ‘Don’t rub my nose in it, Detective Inspector. Make sure you’re there. Eleven a.m. on the sixth floor.’
She then strode back to a waiting Lorraine Caruso.
Ridpath smiled to himself. What goes around, comes around.
He glanced up at the clock.
Time to get back to work. He turned once more towards the chapel and made the sign of the cross, whispering ‘Bye, Charlie. I hope you enjoy your time in heaven or hell, wherever you end up.’
Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.
Chapter Eighty-One
‘How was the funeral?’
Ridpath frowned. ‘Like all funerals. Sad and bewildering.’
Margaret Challinor sat back in her chair. ‘I’m not my best at them either. I never know what to say to people. I find I end up talking about the weather. Terribly English, I suppose.’
‘It was a funeral full of coppers. We talked about work.’
‘Still nothing on the murders?’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘Claire Trent is holding a review of the case on Friday. She’s invited me.’
‘You’re pleased?’
‘Not really. It means they have nothing. I’d much prefer we’d arrested and charged somebody. It gives me no pleasure to see us floundering around, desperately looking for a way to solve the case.’
Mrs Challinor changed the subject. ‘Are we ready for tomorrow?’