When the Past Kills

by M J Lee

  Another cough. ‘Sir Robert used to preside over criminal trials as a judge at the Crown Courts. He has sent many a guilty criminal to reside at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Strangeways, or Belmarsh, or Wakefield. He even sent some people to jail who were innocent, didn’t you, Sir Robert?’

  ‘I don’t know – don’t know what you are talking about.’ The judge shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog of the man’s words.

  ‘It is the innocents we are concerned with now, Sir Robert…’

  He glanced down at the viewership counter, over 500 now and rising steadily.

  ‘That is why we have decided to reverse the tables for once and put you on trial. The court will sit in thirty minutes at 10.30 a.m. You will be tried and sentenced for your crimes before a jury from all over the world.’ He moved the camera to look directly into his own masked face. ‘Join us at that time and hear the evidence for the prosecution and, of course, for the defence. You will then decide this man’s fate. The wolf has spoken.’

  He slowly zoomed into the judge’s confused face, lingering on the watering eyes and the furrowed lines across the forehead. He hoped the man would come out of his stupor and mount a defence, even if the verdict had already been decided in advance.

  Isn’t that what happened normally?

  He checked his viewing figures.

  There were 1,238 ghouls. In half an hour, once the video had been seeded by the sneezers on 4chan, the number would be far higher.

  It was time to give them the show they were looking for.

  Chapter 84

  At MIT, Detective Chief Inspector Paul Turnbull called an early briefing.

  Emily Parkinson joined, along with the other detectives working on the case. The boards at the front of the incident room hadn’t changed, James Dalbey’s picture still at the centre. No new information had been added.

  ‘Right, quieten down people, time to get started.’ Turnbull clapped his hands to bring the briefing to order.

  Parkinson noticed Claire Trent wasn’t sitting in her usual place at the front. Her chair was still there but empty. She checked her watch. Ridpath was late too. Did he know about this meeting?

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Ridpath?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll get started, I’m in charge of the investigation not him,’ Turnbull said firmly. ‘Right, I’ve called this briefing to fill you in about the developments in the case which occurred last night. As you know, we eventually discovered the whereabouts of our target; James Dalbey aka James Monroe. He is in a coma in the intensive care unit of Manchester Metropolitan Infirmary and has been there for the last five days.’

  Harry Makepeace put his hand up. ‘What’s that, boss? If he’s been there, he can’t have been the man in the mask on the video.’

  ‘Well spotted, that man.’

  ‘Have we confirmed how long he’s been in the hospital?’ asked another detective.

  ‘The length of the stay has been confirmed.’

  Emily Parkinson put her hand up. ‘So if he didn’t commit the murder of Brian Conway, was he involved in the other crimes?’

  ‘A great question, DS Parkinson. I’m starting to wonder myself.’

  ‘You think we’ve been chasing the wrong man all along?’

  ‘It looks that way, yes.’

  A murmur went around the assembled detectives. ‘So all the work has been wasted?’

  ‘No work is ever wasted, Rob. But it does mean we have to start again.’

  A louder murmur this time.

  Paul Turnbull held up his hands. ‘Listen, this happens in an investigation. Sometimes, we get led astray by assumptions people make.’

  ‘Are the four crimes even linked, boss? We’ve always assumed the same perp killed John Gorman’s dogs, vandalised Charlie’s grave and killed Don Brown and Brian Conway. And that the perp was James Dalbey,’ said Harry Makepeace.

  ‘But they must be linked, Harry,’ Emily answered him. ‘Are you trying to tell me four people involved in a case twelve years ago are all attacked or murdered and somehow the crimes aren’t linked?’

  ‘Could be a coincidence. We don’t know they are related, do we?’

  ‘Come on, coincidences like that don’t just happen.’

  Paul Turnbull held up his hands again. ‘People,’ he shouted, ‘we are going to examine every assumption we have made, including whether these crimes are linked our not. We are going back to basics. Evidence and only evidence is going to guide our investigation. Not hunches or assumptions or guesswork. Cold hard facts are what we are looking for.’ He stabbed his index finger in his palm as he spoke these words. ‘And to answer your question, DS Parkinson, we will start by treating these crimes as four separate cases until the evidence tells us otherwise. Clear?’

  ‘But, they must be—’

  ‘Clear?’ Turnbull raised his voice.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Emily mumbled staring down at her notes.

  ‘Right, we’re going to deal with these as two cases of murder, one of vandalism and one of violence against animals. As with any case, the investigations of the murders will take precedence. Harry, I want you to take charge of the investigation into the death of Donald Brown. Re-interview all the witnesses, check their statements, talk to the woman again who saw the man sitting in the car and see if she can give us a better ID. If we can get a photofit, we’ll put it out into newspapers and hopefully, somebody will come forward.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘Alan, I want you to take over the Brian Conway case. Here the ANPR work is key. We need to find the vehicle the killer or killers used to get to the house in Saddleworth.’

  Chrissy put her hand up. ‘You want me to continue with the ANPR comparisons, we’re nearly finished.’

  ‘Stop it, until we’ve proven the cases are linked.’

  ‘But, sir, if we stop, we’ll lose our best chance of finding the link between the four cases,’ interrupted Emily.

  ‘As I said, DS Parkinson, I am not convinced the cases are linked. We’ve been led on a wild goose chase based on hunches and assumptions. Given our limited resources, we will concentrate our efforts on the murders. The chief constable wants us to solve these cases and solve them quickly.’

  ‘What about the Osmans? They’re ready to go out.’

  ‘Hold onto them for now. No point in spooking people needlessly.’ He turned back to Alan. ‘I also want you to go through Brian Conway’s cases. Find out if he made any enemies. Also check out his personal life; a single man, never married, you know what I mean.’

  Emily Parkinson’s mouth dropped; she was about to say something when he turned to her.

  ‘Emily, I want you to liaise with the hospital, find out more concerning Dalbey.’

  She nodded without saying anything, writing a note in her book.

  ‘What about the John Gorman case and the desecration of Charlie’s grave, boss, what are we going to do?’ asked Harry Makepeace.

  ‘Put them on the back burner for the moment. No point in spreading our resources too thin.’

  There was a knock at the door and Hannah Rowland, one of the young civilian staff working on the digital team, entered. All eyes turned to look at her.

  ‘Sorry for interrupting the briefing, DCI Turnbull, but we found something on the dark web and we think you need to know.’

  ‘What is it?’ barked Turnbull.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s important but a High Court judge is going to be put on trial.’

  Chapter 85

  ‘Morning, Ridpath, we weren’t expecting to see you today.’ Sophia was already sitting behind her desk.

  ‘Still working here, Sophia, I thought I’d show my face. You’re in early again.’

  ‘Mum’s still being a pain. Wants me to meet this chemical engineer. The man keeps his pens in the top pocket of his shirt and his mobile phone in a pouch on his belt.’

  Ridpath did a quick mental check where his pens were, realising he didn’t have any. ‘The fashion police wi
ll have to arrest him.’

  ‘You’re telling me. That’s a ten stretch if ever I heard one.’

  Ridpath pointed to the coroner’s office. ‘Is Mrs Challinor in?’

  ‘Is she ever not here? I sometimes think she has a bed under her desk. When you’ve finished, there are some deaths I have to go through with you, plus Don Brown’s family are asking when we will release the body for burial.’

  ‘Ok, let me see her first, then we’ll chat. I may also have something for you to do.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. Does it involve foreign travel?’

  ‘If you count Liverpool as foreign, then yes it does.’

  He knocked on Mrs Challinor’s door. A loud ‘Come in’ came from inside.

  The coroner was in her usual position, behind her desk going through a file. ‘Morning, Ridpath, didn’t expect to see you today.’

  ‘I thought I’d do some work here.’

  ‘Persona non grata at MIT are we?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Claire Trent rang me last night. Said it might be best if you spent a few days working here. What happened?’

  ‘She didn’t say?’

  The coroner shook her head. ‘And I didn’t ask.’

  As Mrs Challinor spoke her email pinged loudly.

  ‘It’s another link,’ she whispered, reaching for her mouse.

  Chapter 86

  He kept the camera focussed on the judge. The man was more like his old self, but had still not fully recovered the aggression, arrogance and sarcasm he had used so effectively in his courts to demean the defence.

  It was amazing the effect only one day of being deprived of his liberty had on the man. Now he would know what it felt like to be dragged out from the stench of the cells below court to the bright, eviscerating light of the judicial system.

  He glanced down at his ghouls, otherwise known as viewers. There were 7,800 and the number was rising rapidly. The teaser had worked. Time to send out the link to the specially invited guests; all those who had been involved in James Dalbey’s case. Time to scare the living shit out of them. And the dead shit too.

  Checking the focus one last time, he pressed send. After the last show with Brian Conway, he was sure they would need no encouragement to click the link.

  He put the wolf mask over his head. It was hot inside but he could put up with the discomfort for the next thirty minutes. The mask did add the element of theatricality the production needed.

  The light went green. His specially invited audience had clicked the link. It was time for the show to begin.

  Raising the gavel in his hand, he brought it down heavily on the table in front of him, cleared his throat twice, and began. ‘I call the court to order. Today, we have with us Sir Robert Brooking.’

  At the sound of his name, the judge lifted his arms and rattled the handcuffs against the chair. ‘Release me, now, damn you. I order you to release me.’

  A nervous clearing of the throat. ‘All in good time, judge. But first, we are going to put you on trial. Sir Robert was a recorder in the High Court. For those unacquainted with the bizarre rituals of the British legal system, that is a senior judge in charge of serious criminal trials at the Crown Courts. He has sent many a guilty criminal to prison. He even sent some people to jail who were innocent, didn’t you, Sir Robert?’

  ‘I told you to release me now.’ The judge rattled his handcuffs.

  He could see the anger in the man’s eyes. Marvellous. ‘It is those who were innocent we are concerned with now, Sir Robert.’

  He glanced down at the viewership counter, over 12,500 now and still rising.

  ‘That is why we have decided to reverse the tables for once and put you on trial. The charge is that you did knowingly and with malice aforethought convict one, James Dalbey of Manchester, for a crime you knew he did not commit.’

  ‘A lie, a brazen lie.’

  ‘How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘It’s a lie and I do not recognise this court. It’s a sham, a pantomime of justice.’

  Another cough. ‘No, Sir Robert, the prosecution will show the real pantomime was in your handling of the case in 2008 and it led to the incarceration of an innocent man for ten years for a crime he did not commit. I will ask you once again. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  The judge sat there in silence, not saying a word.

  ‘In the absence of a plea, and in the desire to seek a fair trial, the court has decided to accept a plea of not guilty. You will be able to present your case for the defence, Sir Robert. The verdict will be decided by a jury of your peers, now numbering…’ he glanced down at the viewing figures. ‘Twenty-two thousand four hundred and fifty-six men and women. The trial will commence now.’

  Ridpath was staring at the screen open-mouthed. ‘That’s the judge from Dalbey’s original trial. Sir Robert Brooking.’

  Mrs Challinor didn’t react, her eyes deep in thought.

  Ridpath took out his mobile and called Claire Trent. She picked up after two rings. ‘Boss, Mrs Challinor has been sent another link. The judge from Dalbey’s original trial is now being tried himself.’

  ‘I know, Ridpath, we’re watching it here at MIT. The digital team found the pictures on the dark web. It was advertised this morning.’

  ‘We didn’t know he was missing?’

  ‘When his wife arrived home, she reported it to the local nick but they decided to wait until after the weekend before flagging it in the system. Just in case he’d done a bunk with his mistress. Idiots.’

  ‘Boss, I had an idea this morning. What if Dalbey had an accomplice, an assistant? The same way Harold Lardner used to operate—’

  ‘We have no evidence.’

  ‘But we do, boss. The CCTV from the abduction of John Gorman’s dogs. There was somebody else in the car. And I remembered something Lardner said as we were leaving. It was “Remember it’s about pain, he takes no pleasure in doing what he does. It’s all about pain. His pain and theirs.” You see, he used the plural boss. At the time, I thought he meant the other victims. Now, I wonder if he meant his accomplice or accomplices.’

  Ridpath felt Mrs Challinor’s hand touch his arm. ‘I recognise the voice of the man in the wolf mask. It’s come back to me who it is…’

  Chapter 87

  He checked the number of viewers – still rising. A little cough to clear his throat again. ‘Sir Robert Brooking, you had an interesting career, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I? I am so glad you approve.’

  The sarcasm was back. Marvellous.

  ‘Marlborough. Pembroke College, Cambridge, member of Kent Court Chambers from 1970. A barrister specialising in maritime law, weren’t you?’

  The judge tilted his chin slightly and stared into the camera, and raised his eyes to look at the man behind the camera. He tried to lift his arms to shield his gaze from the lights but the handcuffs restrained him. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible until the verdict has been reached. You are in a court, milord. But this time you are not the judge but the person facing trial. Shall I continue?’

  The judge frowned.

  He read from the bio he had printed out, coughing before he began. ‘Sir Robert Brooking. Took silk in 1983 and quickly found favour with the Thatcher Government as an advocate for tougher sentencing for law and order offences. You were particularly busy during the miners’ strike, sentencing one man to six months for the theft of a loaf of bread and two bars of chocolate.’

  He glanced down at the viewing figures. There were 28,000 now and rising quickly. The ghouls were gathering from around the world.

  ‘What’s all this about? What’s going on?’ The judge tried to lift his arms again, the handcuffs rattling against the metal chair. ‘Let me go! Let me go now!’ he shouted.

  ‘You were generally chosen when the government of the day required a compliant judge who would always deliver the necessary verdict. Whether the verdict had anyt
hing to do with justice was dubious. But you did your duty; to be seen to be upholding the rule of law, whether the law was justified or not.’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to this poppycock for a second longer. Release me now.’

  He continued ignoring the man’s shouts. ‘Knighted in the Birthday Honours of 2008 for “services to justice”, you remained on the bench for the best part of twenty-nine years before finally retiring as a recorder in 2012. During your time, many innocent men were sentenced for crimes they did not commit. You were particularly fond of confessions obtained under duress. What was it you said? “A confession is still a confession regardless of the circumstances under which it was obtained. No man confesses to a crime he did not commit.” You did say those words did you not?’

  The judge stopped shouting and raised his head. ‘I did and I would say them again.’

  ‘I thought you would. Even if it led to the conviction of an innocent man?’

  ‘No justice system is perfect, mistakes get made, but the vast majority of criminals get the sentences they deserve. In my opinion, we are often too lenient.’

  He glanced down at the viewing figures; 42,396 and rising higher all the time. ‘It’s time for you to confess, Sir Robert, but rest assured, this is a crime you did commit. You are not innocent.’

  The judge’s face was going redder and redder. ‘This is not a court of law. You know nothing of justice.’

  ‘And I would say with the utmost lack of respect, neither do you, your honour.’ The man in the wolf mask paused for a moment. ‘Do you remember one case? That of James Dalbey?’

  ‘I tried many cases.’

  ‘But do you remember the Dalbey case?’

  The judge shook his head.

  ‘Let me remind you. A man accused of murdering a young woman, Alice Seagram. He confessed to the crime when questioned by two police officers, Detective Chief Superintendent John Gorman and Detective Chief Inspector Charles Whitworth.’

  ‘It was a clear-cut case.’

  ‘But didn’t James Dalbey retract his confession, saying he knew nothing about the murder? And didn’t you, in your summing up, stress the relevance of the confession to Dalbey’s guilt?’