Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  It wasn’t about hunches or guesses or leaps of imagination but dogged, determined bloody-mindedness that solved a case and put away criminals. It was all about chasing evidence until it was so damning even the most stupid of juries, and there were a lot of those, had no option but to convict.

  He took a large slug of whisky from the mug, enjoying the hit on the back of his throat. His bottom lip came up to taste the drops of liquid gold stuck to his moustache.

  He could go home now, the wife would be asleep, snoring as she always did.

  He sat still for a moment, listening to the noises of a police station at night. In the distance, a siren rushing to some real or imagined emergency. Closer, the tapping of a keyboard as one of the night shift completed his paperwork. In his office, the slight whirr of his ancient desktop as the fan fought to keep it cool.

  He missed the kids. One was on a gap year in Australia, working on some fruit farm somewhere. Last week, on the phone call, she said she had met some Aussie and might not come back. Little Sam, his favourite. Always easygoing, always loving even as a child. She had found love easier than he ever had. Shame it had to be on the other side of the world.

  The other, Jane, still at university studying sociology. What was the point in that? Can’t get a bloody job with a degree in sociology. But she had insisted and now she hardly spoke to him. And when they did, they argued. Apparently he was an active ‘participant in the hegemonic forces of a reactionary state’. Whatever that meant.

  He took another longer slurp of the whisky. She was too like him was Jane. Possibly more dogged, more determined than even he was.

  He poured another measure of whisky into the mug. No point in going home yet. The wife would be asleep whatever time it was.

  He often wondered if she used sleep as a weapon against him. A way of avoiding any interaction. After twenty-five years of marriage it wasn’t surprising. He didn’t think he could stand being with him that long either.

  Twenty-five years. Almost as long as he had been a copper.

  Not many left now. John Gorman was gone. The best copper he had ever known and the best man. After the Beast of Manchester case he had taken early retirement.

  What a bloody waste.

  He raised the mug up high. ‘Here’s to you, John, and the allotment.’

  There was no taste in the whisky any more. No bite at the back of the throat. He laughed to himself. A bit like him really.

  What to do about Ridpath? If Claire Trent had her way he would be hung out to dry. Somebody had to be the fall guy for this evening’s fiasco and what better person than the man who caused it?

  He would try to protect him of course, but in the new GMP blame was everything. It wasn’t about how good a copper you were, but about how many arses you licked and how many balls you rubbed.

  He took another long draught of whisky.

  ‘Here’s to survival,’ he said to the four walls.

  He would go home soon, but not just yet.

  Chapter Nine

  Ridpath sat in his empty house, staring at a blank TV screen. He had tried to ring Polly three times but she hadn’t answered. Instead the infernal answering machine had simply reminded him of her voice and the last damning word.

  Bastard.

  A wave of tiredness washed over him. He should have rung them to explain. He should have rung them.

  Slowly he levered himself out of the chair and hobbled over to the cabinet to fix himself a Laphroaig. His whole body felt like he had just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Even his ear had been bitten off by Claire Trent when she saw him back at the station.

  ‘For your sake, there’d better be a man with a gun, Ridpath. Otherwise, you can kiss your career goodbye. Even the coroner will have nothing to do with you after I’m finished.’

  He raised the glass to his lips. ‘Cheers, Claire. Up yours.’

  He drank a large mouthful down in one gulp, enjoying the bite of honey at the back of his throat, followed by a tingle down his spine as if somebody had just danced on his grave.

  ‘Perhaps it was Claire Trent in her spiked heels,’ he said out loud.

  The empty house didn’t answer him.

  Once again his mind turned to that moment, seeing himself sitting in the car, facing the young man with the angel wings tattooed on his chest. It was like he was watching himself from outside the car. Seeing the young man’s head turn, his own following the man’s line of sight. Staring at the hoodie with the gun in his right hand. It was a gun, not a knife, nor a hammer, nor anything else.

  A gun. An automatic. A matt black killer.

  The young man’s eyes widening with fear and then taking two steps away, straight into the oncoming artic. The wing mirror cleaving the skull in two, the body flying through the air, landing in a misshapen lump ten yards in front of his car.

  Not moving. Still.

  He swallowed another large mouthful of Laphroaig.

  He had seen it, hadn’t he? A man with a gun in his right hand. A hard face revealed as the hoodie blew off in the wind.

  It wasn’t his imagination.

  It wasn’t the drugs.

  The man had been standing there, staring at the victim.

  Why hadn’t anybody else seen him?

  Day Two

  Thursday, April 19, 2018

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning Ridpath reached over to hug his wife closer to him as the morning light crept between the slender gap in the curtains. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and her hair touched his cheek. He smelt the aroma of her shampoo; sweet, clean with a hint of apple blossom. He edged forward wanting to feel the warmth and softness of her body against his.

  But she wasn’t there.

  He sat up in bed, immediately feeling a huge sense of loneliness wash over him. He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment, unable to make sense of his surroundings. The white wardrobe and matching dresser bought from Ikea looked alien, as if he had never seen them before. His wife’s things were still arrayed neatly on top of the dresser; various creams and masks, lipstick, facial cleanser, a brush with a few dark hairs struggling to escape its bristles.

  He shook his head.

  He was at home. Their home.

  Pull yourself together, Ridpath.

  He stumbled downstairs still tasting the dregs of the Laphroaig pasted to the inside of his mouth and teeth. He had sat up till 2:30 a.m. staring into mid-air, going over the events of the day again and again, all chased down with more glasses of whisky.

  Far too many glasses of whisky.

  He put the kettle on and absent-mindedly switched on the TV. The mayor of Manchester was talking; hair swept back, tie crisply tied in a half Oxford, elegantly tailored jacket fastened tightly against an even tighter waist.

  Ridpath turned up the sound.

  ‘…The events of yesterday indicate the police response to the accident during rush hour was woefully negligent. I will be seeking a full explanation from the chief constable this morning and, if none is forthcoming, appointing an independent commission into the affair.’

  An off-screen presenter asked a question. ‘But surely the massive traffic jams caused by the accident point to a problem with traffic management and traffic planning?’

  ‘Not at all, Wendy. Normally traffic flows smoothly even at the busiest times along the M60. Our recent improvements have increased traffic flow by 28 per cent. I will be looking at the way the police responded to the accident. There is no way people should be stuck in a traffic jam for four hours when all they want to do is get home to their wife and kids or go and see a football match.’

  ‘Thank you, mayor.’

  Ridpath switched the TV off, he couldn’t listen to it any more. So that’s how they were spinning it now. A traffic accident. No mention of a crime scene or a man with a gun.

  Was he being hung out to dry?

  Time to go to the coroner’s office. He showered and dressed quickly, grabbing his keys from the hall table.
>
  They weren’t there.

  And then he remembered the car was still being checked for fingerprints by the SOC team.

  Shit.

  He called a minicab and instructed the driver to take the M60 to Stockfield. Within minutes they were driving past the location of yesterday’s events.

  Ridpath sat up in the back of the cab, peering out of the rear window. He had difficulty finding exactly where the accident had happened. Nothing marked the spot. No tents remained on the motorway. No coppers scoured the area around the hard shoulder for evidence. No police at all.

  The traffic moved smoothly, drivers totally oblivious to the events of the night before.

  It was like nothing had ever happened.

  The driver stared at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Accident here last night,’ he said as they raced past the scene.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I got caught in the tailback with a fare from the Trafford Centre. Three bloomin’ hours we were stuck in the jam. My fare had to get out and take a piss at the side of the road.’

  The eyes staring at him in the rear-view mirror. Angry eyes.

  ‘Whoever caused it should be shot. Bloody useless police. We pay them so much money and they can’t even manage a traffic accident.’

  Ridpath didn’t answer. There was no point.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Morning, Ridpath, you’re early.’

  ‘So are you. Is Mrs Challinor in her office?’

  ‘Preparing for court. First day of the inquest on Ronald Wilson.’

  Jenny, the office manager, was already in place behind the reception desk of the Coroner’s Court. This morning her hair was pink and she wore a bright purple jumper which contrasted nicely with the green eyeshadow.

  ‘Go careful when you see her. Mrs Challinor’s on the warpath. She was stuck in traffic for an hour last night on her way home.’

  Not another one, thought Ridpath. Time to tell her what happened.

  He knocked on the door, heard the single word, ‘Enter’ and stepped right in. The head coroner was seated behind a neat desk going through a file, her nest of grey hair surrounding black-rimmed glasses.

  A folded copy of the Guardian lay on the desk, showing the large headline. ‘Manchester Gridlock.’

  ‘Good morning, Ridpath. Good to see you, how was the course?’

  Ridpath detected the slight scent of a different perfume, not her usual. Was it Shalimar?

  ‘Pretty good, I learnt so much regarding the duties of a coroner’s officer. Feel I understand what I’m supposed to be doing now.’

  ‘Good. The trainer said you came top of the cohort. She seemed quite taken with you.’

  Ridpath blushed. ‘She was a good trainer – exact and challenging – I enjoyed it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Actually, I’m here today because of something I learnt on the course.’

  Margaret Challinor put her pen down. ‘Go on…’

  ‘I have to open a new case for us. The accident on the M60 last night.’

  She leant forward and tapped the paper, ‘I read about it. Even worse, I suffered it last night. You know they blocked entry onto the M60 for an hour.’

  ‘May I?’

  She nodded,

  He pulled out a chair and told her the complete story. When he was finished, she was silent for a moment, then brushing her grey hair away from her eyes said. ‘Are you sure there was a man with a gun?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘And we have no ID on the victim?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘The news is already calling it an “accident”.’ Margaret Challinor brushed her grey hair off her forehead impatiently. ‘The designation of the cause of death is our job, not a reporter’s nor is it the job of the mayor of Manchester. You’d better get Jenny to open a case on an unknown victim.’

  ‘Will do. The post-mortem is at noon? Can I go?’

  ‘It’s unusual for a coroner’s officer to attend but not disallowed. How’s the workload?’

  ‘I dunno yet. I’m sure there’s a ton of emails. I’ll sit down with Jenny this morning and get briefed on all the cases going through the system.’ He paused scratching his nose. ‘I’d like to go.’

  ‘Don’t make this personal, Ridpath, understand? Our job is to be dispassionate. To evaluate the evidence and come to a conclusion regarding the probable cause of death. Personal feelings should never come into it.’

  ‘But it is personal, Mrs Challinor. I watched a man being killed by a forty-ton lorry because he was scared for his life, running away from a man with a gun.’

  ‘Don’t get too involved, Ridpath. Take it from me, it never helps.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Time to start the inquest. I’d like you to join this one before you go to your post-mortem.’

  ‘I should catch up with the workload.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase that, you’re sitting in on this case. The investigation by the police has more holes than a Chinese bucket.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Thirty minutes later he walked up the stairs to the court on the second floor.

  After leaving the coroner he had been waylaid by the office manager and forced to read documents requiring his signature before she would let him escape.

  The inquiry had already started as he slipped as quietly as he could through the doors.

  The old building had recently been refurbished inside to bring it finally kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, with flat screen TVs, microphones for the witnesses, a new jury box, Internet access and power points for the solicitors, and the latest projection equipment to display documents and evidence. All part of Mrs Challinor’s desire to make it ‘more responsive to modern needs’. However, the building still looked like some harsh Victorian school run by Mr Gradgrind whilst the coroner’s procedures dated even further back to medieval times.

  It was one of these procedures Ridpath heard as he sat down at the back of the court: the swearing of the oath.

  Mrs Challinor turned her head slightly to notice his arrival, but didn’t smile or offer any hint of a welcome. Instead, her concentration was focused on the man swearing the oath. A man Ridpath recognised as Detective Sergeant Tommy Harper.

  He was dressed more neatly than Ridpath remembered, in a fresh shirt, suit and tie. He held a bible in his left hand and his right hand was held up palm forward as he gave the oath. ‘I hearby swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me God.’

  In front of the coroner were three solicitors, each with a laptop open in front of them. Only two people sat in the visitors’ area behind a length of purple rope. Ridpath didn’t recognise them. No family seemed to be present.

  Mrs Challinor spoke first. ‘Please state your name and occupation for the court.’

  The detective leant forward and spoke directly into the microphone. The sound came out loud and breathy. ‘Detective Sergeant Thomas Harper, Greater Manchester Police, presently attached to J Division.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant. You are aware this inquest is an inquiry to into the death of Ronald Wilson; to establish when he died, why he died and how he came by his death. “How” can include the cause of death and the immediate events and circumstances leading to the death.’

  ‘I am, ma’am.’

  ‘I believe you are the investigating office in charge of the inquiry?’

  Tommy Harper sat forward again, speaking directly into the mike. ‘I am, ma’am.’

  ‘Just stay where you are, Detective Sergeant, the mike will pick up your words without you moving closer.’

  The policeman settled himself in his chair. ‘Yes, ma’am, sorry ma’am.’

  ‘How did you discover Ronald Wilson’s body?’

  ‘I didn’t, ma’am.’

  Mrs Challinor sighed. ‘I’ll rephrase the question. ‘How was the body of the deceased discovered?’

  ‘We received a phone call from dispatch at…’ he checked his notes, ‘1:05 p.m. that some children had found a body floating
in Lake Wingate…’

  ‘What time did you arrive at the scene?’

  ‘Me personally or the police?’

  Mrs Challinor sighed. ‘Let’s do both, shall we?’

  ‘A police sergeant from Reddish arrived at…’ Harper checked his notes once more, ‘…1:26 p.m. No, I tell a lie, 1:21 p.m. Can’t read my own handwriting.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I arrived at 1:43 p.m.’

  ‘It took you a while?’

  ‘I was investigating something else.’

  Probably the bottom of a pint glass knowing Tommy, thought Ridpath.

  ‘Tell me what happened next?’

  ‘Well, I approached the lake…’

  Mrs Challinor’s eyebrow arched, ‘There was no police cordon set up?’

  ‘Not when I arrived. We set that up just before the pathologist arrived at 2:05 p.m.’

  ‘So, children were walking around and looking at the body?’

  ‘No, we kept them away as much as we could…’

  While the detective sergeant was speaking, a tall blonde-haired woman dressed in black stepped forward and handed Mrs Challinor a note. This was Carol Oates, the area coroner.

  Mrs Challinor opened it and said loudly enough for the court to hear. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, coroner.’

  ‘This is too bad, most unprofessional.’ She placed the note down and spoke directly to the court. ‘My apologies to the solicitors and to you, Detective Sergeant Harper, but I have just been told the pathologist, Dr Schofield, is unable to attend court today. An urgent case requires his immediate attention. He has also not yet finished his report into the death of Ronald Wilson.’ She opened her desk diary and flicked through several pages. ‘Accordingly, I hereby postpone this inquiry until…Thursday, April 26 at 10:00 a.m. in this court. My apologies once again. I will ensure the pathologist understands the necessity for his attendance at that time.’

  With that polite but veiled threat she stood up and exited the court. Ridpath left quickly too, avoiding everybody as he rushed down the stairs to Mrs Challinor’s office, hoping to see her before she was nabbed by somebody else.