When the Past Kills

by M J Lee

  She rushed off out of the small ward. Ridpath was left alone with Dalbey, the only sounds the constant beeping of the machine and the pump of the ventilator feeding oxygen into the tube in the man’s throat.

  ‘I know it’s you, Dalbey,’ Ridpath said out loud. ‘I know you’re involved somehow. But if you didn’t kill Brian Conway, who did?’

  There was a brief flicker of Dalbey’s eyelids.

  Could the man hear him? Ridpath was about to speak again when the nurse re-joined him quietly.

  ‘Is this the man you were looking for?’ She moved past Ridpath to check on Dalbey lying in his bed.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I think it’s time you left. You can take off your PPE in the same room.’

  Ridpath walked out of the ward, taking one last look at James Dalbey lying in his bed, hooked up to a machine keeping him alive.

  If Dalbey wasn’t the man in the wolf mask, who was?

  Chapter 78

  Voices close to his head.

  From the bottom of his well, he strained to hear what they said, imagining himself drifting upwards to get as close as he could.

  One voice he recognised. The African nurse who had admitted him all that time ago. What was her name? Victoria, that was it, like the Victoria Falls, she joked.

  He liked her. She didn’t prod or poke him like the others. And when she changed his dressing or his catheter, her movements were always quick and precise.

  He heard the squeak of shoe on polished floor. She was moving away, her perfume fading into nothingness.

  But somebody was still there, watching him.

  He heard the words clearly.

  ‘I know it’s you, Dalbey. I know you’re involved somehow. But if you didn’t kill Brian Conway, who did?’

  It was Ridpath, he was sure of it. He tried to answer the detective but the words sat in his mouth unable to be voiced. He tried again, but still his lips wouldn’t move, his tongue like a dead whale inside his mouth.

  He could feel Ridpath’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care.

  The plan had worked.

  They were here.

  Ridpath was here.

  He felt a wave of elation flood through his body. Ridpath was going to be next. He didn’t know it yet, but he was the last on the list.

  Now he was sure they would achieve their goal.

  The deception had worked.

  More voices and a shadow over his head.

  He knew what was going to happen next as the nurse adjusted the dial on his drip and he drifted back down to the bottom of his well again.

  Chapter 79

  ‘You are certain it was him in the bed, Ridpath?’

  ‘It was him, boss, James Dalbey is not a man you forget.’

  They were standing outside Manchester Metropolitan Infirmary, surrounding an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. Around them, doctors, nurses and hospital workers scurried, enjoying a break from the smell of disinfectant or hurrying home after a long, hard shift. The rain had stopped now, but the wind remained, blowing in a storm from the Arctic.

  Claire Trent ran her fingers through her hair. For once, the ice-cool composure and perfect grooming were missing. The DCS was puffing furiously at a cigarette, her eyes staring at the ground as she worked out the implications of their latest discovery. ‘And the nurse said he was admitted on the fourth?’

  ‘She was clear on the date.’

  ‘It means it couldn’t have been Dalbey on the video of the murder of Brian Conway. We’ve been barking up the wrong tree all this time, boss.’ Turnbull glanced across at Ridpath. ‘All the work we did was a total waste.’

  ‘But it felt right. All the evidence pointed to Dalbey. We were so sure.’ Ridpath looked across to Claire Trent for support.

  She ignored him, taking another swift drag on the end of her cigarette.

  Turnbull seized his chance. ‘We weren’t sure, Ridpath, you were. If I remember, it was you who believed everything linked directly to Dalbey.’

  ‘That’s not fair, sir. The evidence—’

  ‘What evidence?’ Turnbull interrupted. ‘The only thing linking the murders of Don Brown and Brian Conway was your intuition.’ The word ‘intuition’ was sneered. Turnbull began counting off his fingers. ‘There’s no witness putting him at the scene of any of the murders, nor at the death of John Gorman’s dogs, nor at Southern Cemetery. Second, there is no ANPR evidence of his van being in the vicinity of any of the crime scenes. Third, we have no fingerprints or DNA evidence, nothing forensic that links him to any of the crimes. And fourth, he was in a bloody coma when the murders of Don Brown and Brian Conway were committed. Now, I don’t know about you, but being in a coma is about the best possible alibi there is.’

  Ridpath thought furiously. ‘But it had to be him. All the signs fitted. They all pointed to Dalbey. He was the only thing linking all four crimes. And what about the telephone message?’

  ‘Somebody has been jerking your chain, Ridpath. They recorded the TV interview and used it as the voicemail message.’

  Claire Trent looked at him. ‘Perhaps, you made the cardinal error of forcing the evidence to fit your hypothesis instead of the other way round.’

  There was no accusation in her voice just a gentle sadness.

  ‘Exactly, boss. It’s a rookie mistake. Jumping to a conclusion. The telephone message was a recording of the interview.’

  She stopped Paul Turnbull from speaking by simply raising her hand. She threw the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with her elegant high heel.

  ‘Paul, tomorrow I want you to go back over everything we have discovered. Right back to when John Gorman first asked us to look into the death of his dogs.’

  ‘That crime may not even be linked to the murders, boss.’

  ‘Of course it’s linked,’ Ridpath blurted out.

  Again, Claire Trent held up her hand. ‘Paul, go back through all the evidence we have. Question all the suppositions we made, dig deep into the evidence. There must have been something we missed.’

  A smile appeared at the corner of Turnbull’s mouth as he said, ‘Will do, boss.’

  Claire Trent stepped forward and waved to her driver who was sat in her car with the engine running down the street.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I think you’ve done enough, don’t you, Ridpath? And tomorrow, I would spend some time at the coroner’s office if I were you. There is still work for you to do there, right?’

  Chapter 80

  He took one last look at the judge snoring on the day bed.

  At nine o’clock, he’d fed the man and watered him, taking him to the toilet and watching through the open door.

  Not a pretty sight.

  Of course, the old man had objected. ‘Do you have to stand there? Can’t I at least close the door?’

  But he couldn’t take any risks. Not now, they were so close.

  Afterwards, he had given the man the water laced with Risperidone. Within minutes, he was fast asleep and would remain sedated for at least the next eight hours.

  The judge might be a bit slow and dopey in the morning though, an after effect of the drug. They wanted him at least semi-alert and active. It was necessary for what they had planned.

  So he had an epipen with adrenaline in it just in case.

  Every contingency, every possibility had been taken care of in the plan.

  While the judge slept, he brought the case down from upstairs and began to prepare the set up.

  The camera was better this time, a Canon, XF400, they wanted the pictures to be clearer, to see every nook and cranny of the judge’s emotions.

  He set up the tripod and camera facing a plain white wall with just a single metal chair sitting in front. He wanted the bareness of this image for tomorrow. A judge with all the trappings of the legal system removed, leaving just one stark, indelible image of its real nature; an old man with his prejudices and foibles.

  He checked the image on th
e Mac, zooming in slightly.

  Perfect. He would finalise everything with the judge in his place tomorrow morning before the transmission, but, for now, he was finished.

  Time to rest and prepare himself for tomorrow.

  It was going to be a big day.

  Chapter 81

  Ridpath sat in his armchair facing a darkened television, a large glass of Lagavulin in his hand.

  After the discussion with Claire Trent, he had driven home. Polly was waiting for him.

  ‘You look as dark as last week’s washing, what’s up?’ she asked, putting her arms around his neck.

  ‘The case, it’s all gone wrong.’

  She didn’t ask for any of the details. She knew he wouldn’t tell her – not when the investigation was ongoing. ‘Not your fault, you’re a team, remember?’

  ‘We’re not a team when things go wrong.’

  She pulled him closer to her. ‘Look, you did your best. Tomorrow is another day. You can go back in to work and sort it all out.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Love you, Mrs Ridpath.’

  ‘Mrs Lam-Ridpath, remember? I always fancied having a double-barrelled name and we Chinese don’t hold with this taking of our husband’s names rubbish. Unless, of course, your surname is Fuk, then you jump at any opportunity.’

  He laughed. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Same old, same old. The wicked witch of the West, also known as the Mrs Hardisty, has decided in her infinite wisdom, we are going to be giving up two days of our holiday for training in – you’ll never guess?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yoga for teachers.’

  ‘Sounds good, I’m sure the instructor will be cute.’

  ‘But can you imagine me telling my ten-year-olds how to do the downward dog? That’s really going to help them in their exams? Or what about the happy baby?’

  ‘You could try to invent some new poses. The “here comes the teacher, let’s hide” pose could be a winner. Or better still, the “confuse the Ofsted inspectors” pose.’

  ‘Is that the one with my head up my arse?’

  ‘Nah, it’s the one with your head up the inspector’s arse.’

  ‘Touché, Ridpath. Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour even when you’ve had a shitty day.’ She took her arms from around his neck. ‘Anyway, I’m going to do the “Lying flat out pretending I’m a lizard” pose in my bath. Don’t stay up too late.’

  ‘How’s the girl?’

  ‘Fine. I caught her holding hands with a boy today in the playground.’

  ‘A bit young isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s eleven, going on twenty-seven, Ridpath. They grow up far too early these days.’

  ‘You’re telling me. I’ll pop up to see her.’

  ‘She’s asleep I think. Either that or texting her new boyfriend.’

  ‘I’ll take a look.’

  As silently as he could, Ridpath climbed the stairs to Eve’s room, quietly opening her bedroom door. His daughter was fast asleep gently snoring, her body curled up into a foetal position, head resting on a Frozen pillow, gripping her rabbit. Above her bed, a poster from the latest BTS album was illuminated by the soft glow of a night light.

  She had grown up so quickly, too quickly. He missed the time when she was three years old and was discovering the world. Now she straddled the banks of childhood and womanhood, with a foot on either shore. Too old to be a girl and too young to be a woman.

  He closed the door and went back downstairs to find his whisky.

  Twenty minutes later and he was sat in his armchair, the whisky still untouched in his glass.

  How could he have been so wrong?

  Everything pointed to Dalbey being the person behind the killings. He would have staked his life on it. But how could the man be the perp if he was in a bloody coma?

  None of it made any sense.

  And even worse, Claire Trent seemed to have disowned him. Not helped of course by Turnbull’s active dislike. Perhaps he had played it wrong. He should been more accommodating, played the game, been the subservient little underling.

  ‘Sod that,’ he said out loud, taking a long swallow of the whisky, feeling it gently burn the back of his throat, like being kissed by a fire-breathing version of Marilyn Monroe.

  The name rang a bell. Monroe? Why had Dalbey chosen that as his new name? What did it mean to him?

  He let his mind wander over the events of the last few days. The image of John Gorman’s dogs jumping from the back of the van. The small cairn of stones that once was Charlie’s gravestone. The explosion in Glossop. The body of the former coroner swinging silently from the rafters.

  It must have been Dalbey, mustn’t it? Who else could it have been?

  Chapter 82

  The following morning, Ridpath’s bones ached and his head hurt.

  For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t the first to get up. For some obscure reason that dubious honour fell to Eve.

  Polly had woken late as well and was now rushing around the house like a demented ferret.

  ‘Has anyone seen my teaching notes?’

  ‘On the table, mum.’

  ‘And my iPad?’

  A long exasperated sigh followed by the crunch of a spoonful of cornflakes. ‘Next to the notes, Mum.’

  ‘My glasses, where are my glasses?’

  ‘On your head, Mum.’

  By the time Ridpath surfaced and walked into the kitchen, Eve was dressed and ready to leave, looking impatiently at her mum who was flapping around searching everywhere.

  ‘Has anybody seen my butterfly brooch?’

  Ridpath pointed to a scarf hanging in the hall.

  ‘What’s it doing there? I never wear it with that scarf.’ Polly ran upstairs to get a coat from the wardrobe.

  ‘We missed you this morning, Dad.’

  ‘Mum hasn’t had her coffee yet?’

  ‘Nah, brain’s still in fuzzy logic mode.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Cornflakes. With milk rather than water.’

  ‘Do you want anything else?’

  ‘Nah, I’m good. You not rushing off this morning?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘No meetings until ten.’

  ‘I thought you were working a case?’

  ‘I was,’ he said before correcting himself, ‘I still am, just not this morning.’

  ‘Not like you.’

  ‘Not like me,’ he agreed.

  The noise of heavy footsteps across the ceiling, followed by a loud clump as something was dropped.

  ‘Anything special for you today?’ he asked changing the subject.

  ‘Nah, the usual. Me and Andrea are meeting up after school to do a project on the Suffragettes.’

  ‘Emily Pankhurst and all that?’

  His daughter nodded. ‘Did you know she was born in Manchester?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course, where else?’

  ‘We’ll probably go into town to take some pictures of the new statue in St Peter’s Square.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘Nah, we’ll take the tram, it’s quicker.’

  ‘Smart arse,’ he said, messing up her hair.

  Polly finally clumped down stairs. ‘Are you ready, Eve?’

  A long roll of Eve’s teenage eyes. She rose from the table and leant in to whisper, ‘You need to make her coffee in the morning, Dad. She’s useless without her fix of caffeine.’

  A shout from the hall. ‘I heard that. Hurry up, we’re going to be late.’

  A quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Cheer up, Dad, you look like death warmed up.’

  And she was off, out of the front door and into the waiting car. Polly ran back still putting on her jacket. Another kiss on the cheek. ‘Bye, Ridpath, see you later. I’ll cook a Marks and Sparks takeaway tonight, ok?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Ridpath said to the retreating back.

  The door slammed and he was left alone in the hallway, suddenly feeling lost for a second. H
e walked back into the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He didn’t feel like eating anything, not this morning.

  He had stayed up far too late last night and drunk far too much whisky, the sour taste was still in his mouth. He had gone over the case again and again in his mind, searching for something he had missed or a point where he had gone wrong. But everywhere he looked the logic and the detective work were correct.

  And yet, Dalbey was in a coma in the hospital?

  He sat there drinking his coffee, going over the events of the past few days again and again.

  It wasn’t until later, in the middle of his shower, that an idea came to him from something Harold Lardner had said. Once it did, it was so obvious, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

  Chapter 83

  Exactly ten a.m.

  He focussed the camera on the man’s face, making sure the image was sharp so he could see every nook and cranny, every wrinkle and fissure.

  Without the ridiculous horse hair wig, judicial robes, and all the perfectly designed theatre of a court of law, the man looked weak and fragile. He hoped the judge would find his voice. A trial was the best sort of theatre after all.

  He pressed the record button on the camera and the feed went live. He looked down at his laptop and adjusted the framing slightly, zooming out a fraction to show the judge in a medium shot.

  There was something poetic in the slump of his shoulders and the way he hung his head.

  In the corner of the image a small eye indicated the number of live viewers, just twenty-five at the moment, but he was sure it would increase as the teaser progressed. There were enough ghouls out there to watch a free show and he made sure they would know about the event by posting the link onto 4chan pages with the promise something special was going to be broadcast.

  He decided to begin, clearing his throat nervously before he began. ‘Today, we have with us Sir Robert Brooking.’

  At the sound of his name, the judge raised his head slightly. The adrenalin he had been given an hour ago fighting with the remains of the soporific in his system and winning. ‘What? Where am I? Who are you?’