by M J Lee
Him, he went to two places.
He delved into the world of books, educating himself in a way which had been impossible when he wasn’t incarcerated. A world where he could discover knowledge; it was all written down somewhere. All you had to do was know where to look.
The second place he went into was his own mind. Just like now.
He felt comfortable there. A place of solitude.
Not lonely just alone.
Away from the voice. Away from the nightmares. Away from the memories.
Just him.
Alone.
Occasionally though the world intruded.
As he lay there, he listened to the world outside. The regular beeping of the machine. The snuffles of the man next door. The soft tread of cushioned feet on the lino floor. The whispered conversations.
Some of them actually spoke to him. He could hear their voices but he didn’t respond.
His mind wouldn’t let him.
At times like this, he comforted himself everything was going according to plan.
They would turn up soon.
It was in the plan.
Chapter 56
The next morning Ridpath was up early and out of the house while Polly and Eve were still busy with their dreams.
He checked in on both of them before he left. Polly was gripping her pillow tightly as if hanging onto a life raft in a raging sea. Eve was the exact opposite; the bed clothes thrown off, her pyjamas creased, head at an awkward angle and her body stretched out diagonally over the bed.
He thought about waking them to ask if they wanted something for breakfast but decided against it. He brewed a pot of coffee for Polly when she woke and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could before he left.
He had arranged to meet Emily at a Costa in Didsbury before they visited the Seagram’s after nine a.m.
She was already waiting for him when he arrived, two lattes sitting in front of her. ‘Morning, Ridpath.’
‘You’re early,’ he mumbled.
‘Couldn’t sleep. Too much going on in my head.’
He knew what she meant, he hadn’t had the best night’s sleep himself. Too many questions rushing round his brain like headless chickens on speed. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Nah, the only thing I can face in the morning is a ciggie, food is number thirty-six on my list of priorities.’
As she spoke, Ridpath realised he knew nothing about his Detective Sergeant. Where was she born? Why did she join the police? Was she in a relationship? What did she want out of life?
Did it matter? She was a good, efficient copper who did her job with the minimum of fuss. He thought back to Turnbull’s questioning of him last night like he was some petty thief banged up in one of the interview rooms. It was just an exercise in power and control.
If he grilled her this morning like he had been questioned last night, was he any better than Turnbull?
‘Sure you don’t want anything?’
‘Positive. Caffeine is perfect.’
He went off to get himself a sticky bun and when he returned she surprised him by saying. ‘I just realised you know nothing about me.’
‘You don’t need to tell me.’
‘I’m going to anyway. I grew up outside Preston, and moved to Manchester when I went to uni. Mum and dad still live there. Dad’s a draughtsman for BAE and mum’s a nursery nurse. I studied English at Manchester, don’t know why, it seemed a good idea at the time. But when you’ve just read another Canterbury Tale for the nth time, followed by a slew of instantly forgettable Restoration comedies, you realise English should be read and enjoyed not studied. I got my degree through luck rather than hard work and I looked for a job. Ended up applying for the Force’s fast track scheme and here I am.’
It was a potted history that left out a lot of details. In fact, the detective in Ridpath knew what she left out was far more important than anything she had told him.
‘So you’ve heard about me, what about you?’
‘No university, joined the police because I was bored and they paid well at that time. I realised on the second day of training that I loved it and, on the third day, I was actually quite good. After three years on the beat, passed my detective exams and ended at MIT under Charlie Whitworth.’
‘The one and only.’
Ridpath nodded. ‘He was a great boss and I learnt lots from him, but he was a bit old school.’
‘The word on the street was he was born before the dinosaurs.’
Ridpath chuckled. ‘That would probably be too late. Loved the work and moved up pretty quickly, even though I wasn’t one of you fast trackers, to Detective Inspector, then…’ Ridpath paused for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘…then I discovered I had myeloma. I went through chemo and a bone marrow transplant, six months of hell, and I finally beat it. Re-joined the Force and was posted to the coroner as her officer.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude but it’s a bit of a come-down from being a DI with MIT, isn’t it? Usually reserved for those reaching down to put their slippers on.’
‘I suppose it is. But I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Mrs Challinor has been great to work for; committed, honest and passionate about her job. It’s given me a whole new perspective on policing. It’s not only about catching the perps but also about the victims. The sort of people we’re going to see today.’
Emily Parkinson gazed at him shrewdly. ‘Word is you’re coming back to run one of the teams?’
‘There seems to be a lot of words floating around in the air. Enough for a bloody dictionary.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Here’s another few words for you: Drink your coffee, it’s time to see the Seagrams.’
‘That’s a sentence not a few words.’
Ridpath stood up. ‘You can’t put anything past an English graduate, can you? I’ve got an idea to make your English degree useful.’
‘What’s that?’
‘How about you take all the notes today, then you can put all the sentences together in coherent English, with no spelling or grammar mistakes, for the typed report.’
‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you about myself.’
‘First rule of being a detective. Never let the bastards know anything about you.’
‘Does that include my superiors?’
‘Who do you think I was talking about?’
Chapter 57
The house was exactly how Ridpath remembered it. Still as neat as a new bed sheet, with the lawn beautifully manicured and the borders freshly dug.
Ridpath pressed the bell and stepped back.
The door was answered almost immediately by Mrs Seagram. She had aged considerably over the two years since Ridpath had last seen her. The same energy was still there but it was now clothed in skin that had wrinkled and a back which had begun to bow.
‘I wondered when you lot would turn up.’
Ridpath raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Mrs Seagram reached behind her and showed them a morning newspaper. A blaring headline touted, ‘THE RETURN OF THE BEAST OF MANCHESTER???’
Ridpath stared at the three question marks. Subtlety was not the Sun’s strength.
‘You’d better come in rather than standin’ there like last week’s wet washin’.’ The accent was strongly from Manchester with the lack of ‘g’s and the whine that nestled between the words. ‘Neighbours will start to talk.’
They were shown into the same living room Ridpath had seen before. Pictures of Alice Seagram were still everywhere; in school uniform, laughing with friends, as a young girl, in a school photo. Unusually, the Seagrams had been instrumental in getting the government to reconsider the conviction of James Dalbey for the murder of their daughter. It was their persistence which led to the case being re-opened.
There was one picture of Mr Seagram in the centre of the mantlepiece. Ridpath remembered him as a man full of anger at the death of his daughter. ‘Where is your husband?’
‘H
e passed away eighteen months ago. Three months after we reburied Alice and just after James was released. We were married for thirty-seven years, met at a dance. He was dolled up in his uniform and I was on the prowl.’
‘Uniform?’
‘He was in the REME, an armourer, served in Northern Ireland, Cyprus, and the first Gulf War. A good man… but you lot killed him.’ She stared out of the window. ‘He had nothing left to live for,’ she added quietly.
‘Please accept my deepest condolences, Mrs Seagram, on the loss of your husband.’
‘Aye, you’re a bit late, Mr Ridpath.’
She remembered his name. ‘I’m truly sorry. I should have checked the situation before coming here. My apologies.’ He pointed to Emily. ‘This is my colleague, DS Parkinson.’
‘Are you still with the coroner?’
He nodded.
‘Send my regards to Mrs Challinor. She was the only decent person in this whole mess. Without her…’ The woman’s voice began to break up and tears formed in her eyes. Emily Parkinson pulled a clean and pressed handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to Mrs Seagram.
Ridpath was always jealous of people who managed to have clean fabric handkerchiefs available. The most he ever carried was a miniature packet of Kleenex.
‘Thank you, love,’ Mrs Seagram whispered.
Ridpath decided to press on, to get this interview over as quickly as possible. ‘Now you may wonder why we’re here?’
‘It had crossed my mind. You do seem to turn up when there’s trouble, Mr Ridpath.’
‘I need to ask if you have seen James Dalbey since his release from prison?’
She nodded her head slowly. ‘Only once. He came to see us just after he got out. To thank us for everything we did on his behalf. He was always a nice, kind boy was James.’
‘What was the exact date, do you remember?’ Emily asked.
‘Must have been the month after my husband died. We were still in mourning. So it will have been August 2018.’
Parkinson scribbled the answer in her pad. ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
She shook her head. ‘Why would I?’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘You just said “us”. “He came to see us after his release”.’
‘Myself and my son, Tony.’
There were no pictures to be seen of Tony anywhere. ‘Where is he? Can we speak to him too?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ridpath frowned. ‘You don’t know?’
‘He vanished about six months ago. Since his father died he’s had some problems with drink, lost his job.’
Ridpath remembered an aggressive well-dressed and cultured man, even angrier than his father. ‘He doesn’t work with the television studios any more?’
‘They sacked him. Turned up drunk too often. There were drugs involved too.’
‘You haven’t seen him for six months?’
‘Roughly that. He came to see me and asked for money. I didn’t have any so he took my husband’s laptop. I haven’t seen him since.’ The woman pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. ‘You see, I lost my whole family since our daughter was murdered. Alice, Harry, and now Tony. We were victims too but everybody forgets that after they caught Harold Lardner. You lot thought you’d finally brought him to justice. But where was the justice for my family? Where was the justice for me? I lost everything I loved…’ Her voice trailed off.
Ridpath glanced at DS Parkinson. Nothing would be gained from interviewing this woman any further. ‘I am truly sorry, Mrs Seagram. If there is anything I can do, anything, please let me know.’ He passed over his card.
The woman looked up for a moment. ‘There is something you can do, Mr Ridpath.’
‘Anything, Mrs Seagram.’
‘Bring back my family.’
Chapter 58
He liked the dark.
Even as a child he had found comfort there: he wasn’t scared.
One day his mother had caught him sitting alone in his bedroom, the curtains drawn. He must have been about six years old.
‘You shouldn’t sit here all alone in the dark.’
‘But I like it, Mum.’
She bustled in, pulling open the curtains, letting the yellow light of the street lamps outside their house flood into his bedroom. ‘It’s not natural sitting in the dark.’
‘It’s safer in the dark.’
‘Don’t be silly, son. Now get beneath the covers, it’s time for bed.’
Outside in the sitting room, he could hear a man’s heavy feet clumping around. Who was it this time? He would never know, they would be gone by morning, vanishing as if they had never existed, never to return.
His mum often left him alone at weekends. Not her fault, she had to go to work and there was nobody to look after him.
The words as she left for work in the morning were always the same. ‘Don’t answer the door. Don’t go out. Don’t leave the house. There’s a sandwich and some fruit in the fridge. I’ll be back before seven.’
Sometimes she did come back and sometimes she didn’t.
He didn’t mind though because as soon as she left, he was in the cupboard under the stairs, the door closed, the safety of the dark swallowing him whole.
He stayed there all day.
His friend was the dark, he didn’t have many others.
A hand touching his brow, forced his mind to drift closer to the surface.
Somebody was speaking to him. Was she singing? She had a rotten singing voice but he could hear the melody clearly.
Let it be.
Well he wasn’t going to do that. The plan must have been moving forward now. He had spent months creating it, going over each and every detail until every eventuality was covered, every base checked, every possible action or reaction war-gamed.
The plan was perfect.
Why was she telling him to let it be?
He was aware of a shadow over his head. The woman had stopped singing now. What was she doing?
A click of something being turned and a tidal wave of immense peace suffused his body and he drifted back down to the bottom of the well.
His memories were waiting for him there, calling him to come and play with them.
He’d done his job.
The plan was perfect.
Chapter 59
Ridpath and Emily Parkinson were sitting in a meeting room at Ashworth Hospital in Maghull near Liverpool. It was like any other hospital meeting room; posters advising against the spread of disease, furniture bought in some government job lot, green painted walls.
Except here, the furniture was bolted to the floor, some posters advised against ever being alone with patients and the green paint reminded Ridpath of a prison.
Despite the outside appearance of a hospital, Ashworth was in actuality a prison. Along with Rampton and Broadmoor, it was one of only three high security psychiatric hospitals in England, housing just over 200 of the most dangerous, and most disturbed, prisoners. Its inmates included Ian Brady, the Moors Murderer, Dale Cregan who gunned down two female police officers in Manchester, spree killer Robert Sartin, bank robber, turned film star, Charles Salvador and, of course, Harold Lardner, the Beast of Manchester.
It had taken them both less than an hour to drive here from Manchester but it felt like a different world. They had been finger-printed, had their credentials checked three times, passed through two metal detectors and finally been escorted to this room and told to wait.
A key turning in the lock forced them to look up. The door slowly opened and a man dressed like a hospital orderly but with the voice of a prison guard announced. ‘All clear. You can go in now Mr Lardner.’
There was a pause before an elderly man shuffled in. ‘Thank you, Derek, you can leave us now.’
‘You know that’s not possible, Mr Lardner.’
He stayed where he was in the room as another guard closed the door.
‘You can’t get the staff these days.’ The eyes looked up at Ridpat
h. ‘I see you’ve brought somebody with you, aren’t you going to introduce us?’
As Lardner moved to lift his arm to shake hands, the guard stepped forward. ‘There will be no contact with the patient.’
Lardner put his hand down. ‘They call me a patient but I’m actually a prisoner.’
Ridpath spoke for the first time. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Parkinson.’
Emily nodded but didn’t get up.
Lardner smiled. ‘Detective sergeants are getting younger, aren’t they? What are you Emily, twenty-eight? No, I’m wrong, twenty-seven. But it is a pleasure to meet you. We don’t see many women in here and those that do visit, could probably spend more time with their razors, if you understand my drift. Do you mind?’
He pointed to the chair and sat down. ‘Now to what do I owe this pleasure? Not that I have anything else more important to do. Today was the reading club. The doctors here are keen on reading clubs. Dostoevsky was their choice this week. Crime and Punishment—’ He rolled his eyes, ‘—They do lack subtlety. I asked them to bring in a few cadavers for me to dissect. I do miss cutting up my bodies. But for some reason, they said no. I had to join a reading club instead. It’s not the same, is it? Words rather than actions.’
‘We’re here about the letter you wrote to the coroner.’
‘How is Mrs Challinor? Still trying to set the world to rights? I do so miss my interactions with her. I must admit she became a little devious towards the end. Trapping me to give evidence in an inquest was a cruel trick. Or was it your idea, Ridpath? Are you the one who loves deceptions and tricks?’
‘About the letter you wrote…’
‘Trying to stay on track? I do like a man who stays on the straight and narrow, don’t you Emily? I can call you Emily, can I? I do like to be on first-name terms with my friends.’
DS Parkinson glared across at Ridpath.
‘Ah, you’re wondering how I know your Christian name?’ He pointed back to the guard holding his clipboard. ‘Sometimes, Derek is a little careless about security. He lets me read his notes over his shoulder.’
The guard blushed.