A voice calling his name in a foreign accent. ‘Thomas Ridpath.’
A nurse, Spanish, he thought, was calling him into to the small clinic where they took blood. He hoped Dracula wasn’t working today. She was the nurse who couldn’t find his veins and always wanted an extra vial ‘for luck’ as she called it. But if he had cancer, he was hardly lucky, was he?
The nurse sat him on the end of a day bed and asked him to roll up his sleeves.
Her hands were warm as they tapped the crook of his arm. ‘Good, nice big veins. We take some blood now, yes?’
‘Take as much as you want, I’ve got plenty.’
‘No, just two vials is enough, yes?’
He loved the way she said yes with a sound like a ‘j’. It had a wonderfully positive feel about it.
She found his vein expertly, allowing the vials to fill and pulled out the needle, putting a cotton ball on the mark and bending his arm backwards.
‘We finished, yes?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Yes, we are. You wait now for doctor.’
Ridpath checked his watch. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long, he had an inquest to attend and an investigation to run.
When he walked back into the waiting room, the young couple had gone. Had they run off in fright or were they in the doctor’s room receiving the good or bad news?
He had his answer five minutes later when they came out. The man had tears in his eyes, but his partner was stoic, her face a mask of nothingness: no emotion, no fear, no reaction.
He remembered that face. He had worn it too when he left the consultation room two years ago. The truth would hit later, Ridpath was sure, and then the panic, fear and terror would wash like a tsunami through her body.
He was sorry for her. And her partner. He knew what they would go through now and he wouldn’t wish that experience on anybody.
‘Mr Thomas Ridpath.’
The Spanish nurse was calling his name again. He knocked on the door of the consulting room. Dr Morris was sitting behind his desk, his body in profile to the door. Ridpath took a seat beside him. The man was staring at his computer.
‘Ah, Mr Ridpath, we’ve called you back today because your last blood test showed a low white blood cell count. An extremely low count. How have you been feeling recently?’
‘Fine, pretty good.’
‘Tired? Feeling sleepy? Lacking energy?’
‘No, I’m sleeping well and seem to have plenty of energy.’
The doctor frowned and checked back with his computer. ‘Been ill recently?’
Ridpath shook his head.
‘More stress at work, perhaps. I see you are a police officer.’
Ridpath paused for a moment. ‘No, same stress as usual. But I’m now a coroner’s officer, so at least I work regular hours,’ he lied.
The doctor frowned again. ‘It’s maybe just a rogue result. It happens occasionally. Or the samples became mislabelled. Anyway, that’s why we’ve retaken your blood. I’ll rush through these blood tests and, with a bit of luck, I’ll ring you with the results by tomorrow evening. Are you sure everything is OK?’
‘Positive, doctor.’
‘Good, thanks for coming in and we’ll chat again once I see the results.’
That was it, he was done.
Ridpath stepped out of the consulting room and began breathing again.
He was under stress, but he did feel fine. It must be a rogue result as the doctor said.
Mustn’t it?
Chapter 55
Dr John Schofield took his seat in the witness box and adjusted the microphone so it was at the same level as his mouth.
Jenny Oldfield administered the oath and, as Margaret Challoner 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,’ asked Mrs Challoner.
‘Dr John Schofield. Forensic Pathologist attached to the Eastern Manchester Regional Health Authority.’
‘You were asked to re-look at the post-mortem performed by a Dr Ahmed on Ms Chen, were you not?’
‘Correct. In fact, Dr Ahmed and myself re-performed the post-mortem together,’ he said in his high, schoolboyish voice.
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
‘It is, but given the shortness of time in this case, we both believed it would save time if we could reach a conclusion together.’
‘And did you reach an agreed conclusion?’
‘We did.’
Mr Challoner paused, expecting him to continue but he didn’t. Eventually, she was forced to ask, ‘Which was?’
‘Wendy Chen was murdered in Wilmslow Removal Centre early in the morning of August 20, between three and four a.m.’
A buzz went around the court. The journalists were scribbling in their notebooks. The jurors stared at each other.
On the family’s table, the interpreter was quickly translating for the mother and father. When she had finished, both stared at the coroner, their mouths open.
Mrs Challoner waited for the hubbub to die down before continuing with her questions for Dr Schofield. ‘How did you form this conclusion, doctor?’
‘As you know, the initial findings by Dr Ahmed in his first post-mortem was the victim had committed suicide. My examination at first seemed to indicate this to be the case. The angle, depth and cut along the victim’s throat all were consistent with killing oneself. However, three things came to my attention which threw doubt on that conclusion.’
‘And they were?’
‘Firstly, there was a bruise on the victim’s right temple consistent with her being struck.’ A picture appeared on the screen of a close-up of Wendy Chen’s head. A gasp from her mother, which was quickly stifled. Dr Schofield continued speaking. ‘Dr Ahmed presumed this had happened as she hit her head when she fell. But, a careful examination of the body’s position, she was lying on the bed, indicated this would have been impossible. The rooms within the Centre are designed to avoid hard edges. There is nothing that could have created the bruise other than another human.’
Another buzz travelled round the courtroom, which was quickly silenced by a glare from Mrs Challoner.
‘The second inconsistency occurred when I noticed a mark just above the breast of the victim…’
‘A mark?’
Another picture appeared on the screens around the court. It was a close-up of human skin. ‘Actually, two marks, side by side. I believe the storage of the body had helped them to become more prominent and explains why Dr Ahmed missed them on his first examination.’
‘What made these marks, doctor?’
‘I believe it was a Taser, or stun gun. I have checked the research abstracts and files of the University of Tennessee Anthropological Research Facility in America, commonly and erroneously called the Body Farm, and it would appear from their tests the likely candidate as a weapon is Taser, a Raysun X1, made in Taiwan, to be precise.’
The image of a Taser flashed onto the televisions.
‘Let me get this correct, doctor. You are saying Wendy Chen was tasered before she was murdered?’
‘Correct, Coroner.’
‘And does Dr Ahmed agree with your findings?’
The other pathologist rose from his position in the area reserved for witnesses. ‘I concur, Coroner, there can be no other explanation. I am sorry I missed these marks in my original post-mortem.’
‘Are Tasers or stun guns part of the Centre’s equipment?’
‘A question you should ask them, not myself.’
‘Oh, I will, doctor.’ Mrs Challoner wrote a note for herself. ‘You said there were three findings…’
‘The third inconsistency came from the investigation carried out by your officer, Coroner, DI Ridpath. The cut on the throat ran from the left, just below the ear and went across, cutting the artery and ended at the Adam’s apple. Perfectly consistent with a suicide. Invariably, the victim either blacks out throug
h pain or loss of oxygen to the brain before the throat can be completely severed.’ He demonstrated on himself. ‘However, as it started on the left, the perpetrator had to be right-handed. The family have informed us Wendy Chen was left-handed. Hence, suicide was impossible.’
‘Do you concur, Dr Ahmed?’
‘The doctor stood at the back of the court. ‘I do, Coroner. This information was unavailable to me when I performed my post-mortem.’
The coroner shifted her gaze back to the young pathologist sitting in the witness box. ‘So your conclusion, Dr Schofield, is that Wendy Chen was murdered?’
‘Correct.’
‘But how could such a murder occur in a secure facility like Wilmslow Immigrant Removal Centre where everybody was locked up?’
‘With all due respect, Coroner, that is your job to discover, not mine.’
Chapter 56
Sitting at the back of the court, Tony Osborne could hear the pathologist’s testimony clearly.
His knee was trembling and his right hand shaking. He put it in his trouser pocket to keep it from view.
Next to him, Joe Cummings leant over and whispered. ‘She was murdered. That’s why the door was open. I thought I closed it.’
Tony Osborne didn’t reply.
This little mess is going to cost the bastard a pretty packet. He told me he was only going to have a chat with her, not finish her off. I thought she committed suicide after he visited her. Bastard.
In front of him, Dr Ahmed was called to give testimony. Osborne listened carefully. The doctor was agreeing with everything the pathologist had just said. It sounded like both of them had reached exactly the same conclusion.
His leg started bouncing of its own accord again.
Calm down, take three deep breaths. Just say the words the company told you to say and get out of here. Tomorrow you are going to be a long way away from the grey skies of Manchester.
Just get through today, that’s all he had to do.
Get through today.
Chapter 57
Yang May Feng snatched some clothes off a hanger and threw them into an open suitcase on her bed. She didn’t know where she was going, but she just had to get out of Manchester.
She had spent all night worrying, lying in bed awake, working out what to do.
Was he outside waiting for her? If she went to the club again, would he be there? Was he watching now?
She wished Wendy was there. Wendy always knew what to do. She was the bright one, perhaps too bright. Hadn’t she decided the only way to get out of their debts was to shop the people who had smuggled them into the country to the police? But look what had happened. Her intelligence had left her dead on the floor of one of their prisons.
When dawn fought its way through the grey Manchester skies, she knew what she was going to do.
She would go to London.
She could hide in the big city; find somewhere to stay in Soho and just vanish into the back alleys and lanes of Chinatown.
Nobody would know she was there. Nobody would follow her. She could just live her life. Work would be easy to find too. There were always waitress jobs going in Soho: cash in hand and no questions asked. She wasn’t going to work the clubs any more – far too dangerous. And, if he ever came looking for her, they would be the first place he would look.
Now it was time to go. She’d get the train to London; in just two hours she could be away from here.
Away from him.
She closed the suitcase. Perhaps she could return later to get the rest of her clothes before the businessman made another visit and discovered his flat had been used.
She fastened the latches and rolled the suitcase into the living room. This had been her prison. She had become used to the four walls surrounding her, the kitchen where she cooked her instant noodles and the bathroom, where she threw up with fear.
But it was time to go now. After seeing him the other night she couldn’t go back to the club any more.
The weight of the bulging purse in her coat pocket gave her a feeling of security. At least this would give her some money to help her start her new life. Better she should have it than Liang and his grasping boss.
She stopped for a moment, remembering the long journey from Shanghai to here. A flight from China to Budapest, then a long drive in the back of a lorry, thirty-seven hours from Belgrade to somewhere in Belgium, she didn’t know where.
Herself and Wendy holding hands throughout the journey, trying to give each other comfort. The rest of the Chinese passengers silent, just staring into mid-air as the lorry lurched from side to side.
Each mile of the journey she continually reminded herself why they were doing this. For her, it was easy. Leaving China and going to Britain was the only way to escape her marriage to a man who beat her. She was running away from China but Wendy was running to somebody.
Her boyfriend.
Listening to Wendy, she never understood the attraction of the older Englishman. Neither did Wendy, but still she went back, attracted like a moth to a flame.
In Belgium, the terrible men who had made them jump in the back of a container and closed the doors, sealing out the light. Sitting there in the dark, with 40 other people, Wendy beside her whispering to her to stay strong.
Her friend was always the strongest, the one who took care of everyone.
The cold. The hunger. The noise of the lorry as it accelerated. More cold. Voices outside the container. The air stagnant and putrid with the smell of piss from the bucket in the corner. Taking it in turns to use their phones for light until the batteries died and they just sat in the dark.
And then they arrived just outside Manchester. The morning was cold and the men just opened the doors and told them to run. Luckily, Wendy’s boyfriend was waiting for them and he took them back to his small flat. They stayed there for a week, just sleeping and eating, happy to be back in the city.
How it had changed. Wendy was dead and she was scared in case he came to kill her too.
She had to run, to get away from here.
‘Going somewhere, May Feng?’
She stared at the kitchen. He was standing in the entrance. How did he get in?
‘I… I…’
He put his arms out as he walked towards her. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.’
She stood in the centre of the room, paralysed by his voice, her suitcase at her feet.
‘But you do realise I couldn’t risk them knowing about Wendy and I. You do understand, don’t you? It would’ve destroyed everything.’
She opened her mouth to scream but he pulled out a gun from his pocket and fired at her. She expected to hear the explosion of a bullet. To feel the metal explode into her skin and shatter her bones.
Instead two metal wires snaked out from the front of the gun and buried themselves in her chest. A sharp pain shot through her body, followed by a jolt of energy surging into her bones, collapsing her to the floor.
She was still semi-conscious as she watched his feet come closer to her face and a hand grab the back of her neck, while another forced a damp pad against her mouth.
She tried to struggle, to push his hand away, kicking out with her feet, but he was too strong… too strong.
She found herself falling, falling, losing consciousness but still held by powerful arms.
As she fought to stay awake, the last words she remembered hearing were, ‘Wendy’s gone now, May Feng. What a shame, I do miss her.’ A rough hand stroked her face and her hair. ‘You need somebody to look after you. Such a pretty little sparrow deserves to be taken care of.’
Chapter 58
The coroner was already interviewing Joe Cummings when Ridpath slid silently through the doors at the back of the court. He caught Jenny Oldfield’s eye but the Mrs Challoner was so intent on interviewing her witness she didn’t notice him.
‘And what did you see, Mr Cummings?’
Mrs Challoner leant forward to hear the witness better. All seven of the j
urors at the inquest matched her body language, straining to hear the answer.
‘I saw a body lying on the bed.’
‘Could you speak up please? It’s important the jurors and everybody else at the coroner’s inquest can hear your answers. Could you increase the volume on the microphone, Jenny?’
The court bailiff, Jenny Oldfield, adjusted the volume at a machine on the wall. A screech of feedback echoed through the East Manchester Coroner’s Court.
‘That’s as loud as it will go, Mrs Challoner.’
‘Very well, you will have to speak up, Mr Cummings.’
The witness leant in close to the microphone. ‘I saw a body on the bed.’
‘Good, we can all hear you now.’
Even Detective Ridpath standing at the rear of the court near the entrance doors could hear him. Ridpath peered at the clock. 11.35. He hoped Mrs Challoner finished early today. He needed to get back to HQ as soon as possible, otherwise Claire Trent would be demanding to know where he was. His left arm ached slightly from when the nurse had taken blood. Perhaps she wasn’t as gentle as he thought.
‘A body? Whose body?’ asked Mrs Challoner.
Ridpath’s attention was drawn back to the tall, thin, tattooed man answering the coroner’s questions while sitting upright on a chair in the witness box. Joe Cummings appeared different from the time Ridpath had interviewed him. Now, he was clean-shaven and dressed in his Sunday best, looking like one of those Mormon missionaries.
‘The body of one of the inmates… I mean one of the detainees,’ he quickly corrected himself. ‘There was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the bed, all over her clothes…’
‘So what did you do next?’
Mrs Challoner was gently coaxing the story out of him. Ridpath could see the fear in his face as he relived it again, his eyes dancing upwards and to the right. This man would never forget what he had seen.
‘I pressed the alarm button on my walkie-talkie.’
‘It linked back to the control room?’
Joe Cummings nodded.
‘You will have to answer for the record, Mr Cummings.’
Where the Innocent Die Page 18