Where the Dead Fall
Page 1
Where the Dead Fall
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Two Days Earlier
Day One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Day Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Day Three
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Day Four
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Day Five
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Day Six
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Day Seven
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Day Eight
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Day Nine
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Two Days Later
Chapter Eighty-Three
Next in Series
Copyright
For Jimmy Hewitt 1921 – 1992.
A true Salford Lad.
Ex-Red Beret, lover of Guinness and Salford Red Devils, who never saw a doctor for forty-three years.
This book is dedicated to you, Jimmy.
Two Days Earlier
How long had he been here?
Hours?
Days?
He didn’t know. There were no windows to give him any sense of passing time, just a bright neon light beaming through the fanlight above the door.
He turned his head and licked the slime-covered wall, tasting the rancid wet mould on his tongue as he searched for moisture.
Why was he so thirsty?
He licked again, hoping against hope a few drops of precious liquid would coat his tongue and moisten his cracked lips.
Nothing.
Just the taste of damp, rotten mushrooms.
How long had he been here?
He shifted position once again, the ropes around his wrists chafing against his skin. As he did, he kicked the plastic water bottle lying at his feet, sending it crashing against the far wall where it spun for a few seconds before coming to rest in front of the door. It was empty anyway, the contents drunk long ago.
He should have saved some, not guzzled it all.
Why was he so thirsty?
He shook his head.
Think. Think clearly.
An Uber to her house, leaving his Merc in the city.
Better she said. You’ve had too much to drink, she said.
When had that ever stopped him before?
In her house, the one her father had left her, she said.
Drinking. Drinking what? Vodka and Red Bull. Feeling drowsy. Waking up alone on the floor. Naked, except for a pair of blue boxers.
What was going on?
Screaming. Yelling. Pounding on the door.
Again. And again. And again.
Nobody came. Nobody heard. The room seemed to absorb all his noise but gave nothing back in return.
Screaming again and again and again. His voice hoarse, his mouth dry. But still nobody came.
Then, he had stopped, taken a few deep breaths, calmed himself.
Why was he here?
He had done nothing wrong to her. Never.
He listened for any noise: the sound of traffic, the wind rustling through the leaves of a tree, the tread of a foot on a step.
Nothing.
Cold. Hugging himself to keep warm. Bare arms tied at the wrists, hooked over bare legs.
He would kill her when he saw her again. Enjoy every second as she squealed in pain and terror.
Then walking. Three strides and a half across one way, four strides the other.
Up and down. Up and down.
It was a box.
His box.
He had tried biting through the rope holding his wrists together but it wasn’t long before the fibres had cut his gums, the blood tasting metallic in his mouth.
He had banged on the metal door again till his hands bled but still nobody came.
Was he going to die here alone? What had he done to deserve this?
And then he started crying, snivelling as salty tears ran down his cheeks. His father’s voice from long ago in his head, cajoling, threatening. ‘No son of mine is going to bow down to nobody. Now go back and give that bully a kicking. Make sure you hurt him real bad.’
So he had gone back to school, walked up to the bully during playtime and hit him over the head with a cricket bat stolen from the gym.
The boy toppled like a tree, cut down in its prime.
Toppled and lay there, unmoving.
He got expelled the next day but his dad was proud of him. That was all that mattered, making his dad proud.
He met the bully at the shops a week later. The boy crossed the street to avoid him.
A good memory. Making his dad proud.
He chewed the rope once more despite the pain, twisting his mouth so his canine teeth came in contact with it.
He would escape, he wasn’t going to be trapped here for the rest of his life. Soon, the family would realise he was missing. His father would come looking for him, wouldn’t he?
His mouth was dry, all spit absorbed by the rope. He stared at his wrists. A few fibres were sticking out from the rope but otherwise it looked untouched.
Why was he so thirsty?
He stared at the slime-covered wall in the light from above the door. Could he lick it again? Anything for a few drops o
f water to moisten his dry mouth.
He was about to lean forward when the green slime darkened, vanishing from view.
What?
What was happening? Were they going to let him go?
A shadow covered the door. The handle was turning, the click of a key in the lock. The smell of cigarette smoke filling the room.
A man framed in the door, silhouetted by the neon light.
‘It’s time we had some fun.’
Day One
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Chapter One
Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath had a broad smile on his face.
It wasn’t that he had successfully negotiated the tangle of roads, side roads and unintelligible signage on the transition from the M62 to the M60 ring road around Manchester.
It wasn’t that he had just come top in his residential course for coroners’ officers. The course itself was easy; ten years as a copper on the mean streets of Manchester ensured he could handle a few questions thrown at him by a bunch of pasty-white academics.
It wasn’t even that he had received the latest all-clear from Christies Hospital whilst on the course; his myeloma was still in remission. Each month he dreaded the phone call from the doctor. It was like waiting for the axe to fall as he knelt with his head on the block. This month he had another stay of execution. The axeman remained standing above him though, his axe frozen at the peak of its arc.
He had to go back for another check-up on Friday. More cigarettes as the tension built before his appointment. More blood to feed the nurse he had come to know as the Vampire. More trembling hands as he waited to see the doctor. Then the nurse calling his name and the long, awkward 5 yard trek to the doctor’s room. Knocking on the door, waiting for the word ‘Enter’. The terrible emptiness of anticipation as the doctor examined his results, clicking the buttons of his old NHS desktop and then turning to him to say…
Ridpath banished the image from his mind.
Think positive thoughts.
He smiled broadly again.
Tonight was going to be a good night. After two weeks away he would finally be able to see Polly and Eve, his wife and daughter. Not that Polly was too chuffed to see him at the moment; he had blotted his copybook badly during the Beast of Manchester case. She had walked out of the home, taking their daughter with her.
At least they were talking to each other now and, with a bit of luck, he could persuade her to come home. He would have to find a face-saving formula to allow her to come back. A promise of better behaviour in the future should do it, but Polly had a streak of Chinese stubbornness a mile wide threading through her like ‘Blackpool’ through a stick of rock.
Tonight, though, she had agreed he could spend some time with his daughter, taking Eve to see the latest Disney movie.
He glanced down at the dashboard clock.
5:28 p.m.
The rush hour traffic was heavy as he drove over Barton Bridge but at least it was still flowing. There should be no problem with time. He’d promised to pick Eve up from Polly’s parents’ home on Princess Parkway at 6:30 p.m. He was just twenty minutes away at the most. Should be able to stop at the newsagents and pick up a paper and some fags.
He wasn’t supposed to smoke; it was another area of contention between himself and Polly, but try as he might it was a vice he couldn’t stop.
The doctors nagged him. Polly nagged him. Even Eve nagged him. He knew it was stupid, a triumph of pleasure over sense, but he smoked anyway. Sometimes it was better not to reason a need.
A car overtook him in the outside lane, a red and white scarf hanging out of the rear window. There must be a United game at Old Trafford tonight. A good job he had timed his return pretty well. An hour later and the road would be full of fans driving to the game.
The green dome of the Trafford Centre caught his eye on the left as it bathed in the light of the April sun. He hated the place with a passion; identikit shops selling the same identikit rubbish, restaurants producing mountains of overcooked stodge, a voluminous eating hall designed in the shape of the deck of an ocean liner and air that smelt like it had been filtered through the lungs of a thousand sweaty elephants.
If hell was a shopping mall, then the Trafford Centre was the dead centre. The fact that it was packed with whining Scousers on a day out from the prison known as Liverpool made it even worse. Only Scousers could think a good day out was a trip to hell.
The radio jingled with suitably urgent music. A brief news report: Brexit negotiations were going as badly as ever, Windrush was a terrible indictment on the Home Office and the President of the United States was tweeting insults again.
He pressed the control on his steering column, trying to find a different station. A station with music; a bit of soul, or even better, Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust incarnation, but all he could hear was a variety of newscasters droning on. He tried not to listen to the news any more. It depressed him even more than thinking about his cancer.
The traffic was speeding up as the Trafford Centre receded into the distance. The signage said Stretford, Sale and Altrincham on the left. Normally he would turn off here and head for home, but he carried straight on to the Dragon’s Lair, aka Polly’s mum, just two more junctions to the exit.
On the other side of the road traffic was already thickening as commuters headed home or headed north. Some of them may have been heading to the Lakes or Scotland. Perhaps he could take Eve walking in the Lakes for a weekend? Polly might even join them. She hated the idea of hiking though. ‘What’s the point of spending three hours huffing and puffing up a mountain only to come down two minutes later?’ she had once told him with unerring Chinese–British logic.
She had gone with them anyway, enjoying the clean fresh air and reading Wordsworth’s poetry from the comfort of the pub as he and Eve climbed Helvellyn.
Before he got ill.
Before the chemo.
Before they split up.
Around him, more cars raced past, with even more scarves hanging out of the windows. He didn’t bother going to United any more. Since Sir Alex left the joy had gone out of the team for him. They were just another bunch of over-hyped, overpaid athletes who had somehow lost the spirit that was the football club.
Shame.
Up ahead he caught the flash of something white on the hard shoulder.
A naked man?
What was a naked man doing beside the motorway?
The white Ford in front of him on the inside lane honked a loud scream of disapproval.
The man looked right, towards the oncoming cars, but ran into the road anyway. Ridpath jammed his foot on the brake, pushing down as hard as he could, forcing his body into the seat.
The brakes screeched in anger.
The man was running across the road. The white car swerved left, its rear end fishtailing violently.
The man kept on running as the Ford missed him by inches.
Ridpath stamped on his brake harder. He glanced into his mirror, praying to God there wasn’t another car close behind accelerating to smash into his rear.
The man continued running, all the time looking across at Ridpath getting ever closer, and then he stopped in the middle of the road, like a wild animal caught in the glare of the headlights.
Except it was broad daylight on the M60 in the middle of the rush hour.
For Ridpath the world slowed to a crawl. He gripped the steering wheel as the man turned slowly, getting bigger in the television that was the windscreen. Ridpath braced his body for impact. The man was facing him now, staring directly at the car racing towards him, his eyes large and his naked chest white.
What was on his chest?
A large pair of outstretched blue angel wings. Why would he have a pair of angel’s wings on his chest?
The car squealed as the tyres dug into the grey tarmac leaving a trail of burnt rubber. Ridpath pressed harder with his foot, forcing it down into the floor, changing down to use the engine to slow the car
.
The man was closer, closer.
Ridpath could see he was young with short black hair and an unshaven face, wearing nothing but a pair of blue boxer shorts and the angel wings covering his chest and white ribs.
He wasn’t going to stop in time.
The rear end of the Vauxhall Vectra began to fishtail. He held onto the wheel even tighter. The man was right in front of him.
Nowhere to run now.
Ridpath closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact, hearing the crunch of metal on bone, the body flying through the air, blood leaking from an open mouth.
As the screech of the brakes suddenly stopped, he was forced forward, gripped tightly across the chest by his seatbelt.
The car had stopped inches away from the white body standing in the middle of the road.
A slow sardonic smile as if to say he always knew Ridpath was going to stop.
He leant forward, resting his hands on the bonnet of the Vauxhall, his chest rising and falling with the pain of breathing. The man had blue eyes, the pale blue standing out in stark contrast to the white skin of the face and the dark, almost jet-black, hair.
But Ridpath’s eyes were drawn to a bright blue pair of angel’s wings tattooed across the chest, outstretched as if ready to take flight.
Ridpath heard a sharp screech behind him, the squeal of brakes. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. A white van was racing towards him. Strangely, at that moment he remembered the old stickers on car mirrors. ‘Vehicles may look bigger than they are.’
But this one was big and it was coming straight at him.
The screech of brakes was getting louder. Ridpath braced himself for the impact, pushing his body deeper into the leather seat.
The man continued to stare at him with his blue eyes.
Then silence.
No violent smack of bonnet against boot.
No sickening crunch of metal on metal.
No whiplash as the neck muscles fought to keep the head upright.
Ridpath checked his rear-view mirror. The van had stopped behind him with a foot to spare, the orange warning lights flashing brightly.
Two loud, long beeps of a horn shouted anger at Ridpath’s car, stationary in the middle lane of a motorway.
Ridpath stared at the man in front of him through the windscreen. For some reason, the wipers decided at that moment to swoosh across the glass, removing a film of dust and dirt.
Instantly, the man’s face became clearer. He glanced at Ridpath and then looked fearfully to his right, towards the hard shoulder.