Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  He knocked on the door, waited for the word ‘Enter’ and stepped in.

  Mrs Challinor had thrown her robe onto the back of her chair. She was pacing up and down, obviously livid. ‘How dare the pathologist not bother to turn up? He promised me a report yesterday and it still hasn’t arrived.’ She turned to see Ridpath. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I think his non-arrival has to do with me.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Dr Schofield was the pathologist at the accident last night. I think he is performing the post-mortem this morning. Probably why he can’t attend your court.’

  ‘No excuse, he needs to prioritise his work. An inquiry into the circumstances surrounding a man’s death should come first.’

  Ridpath was tempted to say that given half the police, the mayor of Manchester and a herd of rabid reporters were chasing him, Dr Schofield had probably got his priorities right this time. However, he had the sense to stay silent.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind but it was me who recommended him for the job in the first place.’

  ‘To replace Harold Lardner?’ The face of the man dubbed the Beast of Manchester flashed into Ridpath’s mind. He was the pathologist who committed at least ten violent attacks on women, covering them up by finding people to blame and hiding or changing vital evidence. A murderer in plain sight is always the most difficult to find.

  Mrs Challinor stopped and took a deep breath. It was the most agitated Ridpath had ever seen her. Normally she was the epitome of calm control.

  ‘Let’s take advantage of this screw up.’ She took a file from the top of her desk and handed it to him. ‘This is the police investigation into the death of Ronald Wilson. It’s not very good work. They even have the temerity to state the man either killed himself or died from accidental drowning. Both radically different explanations of anybody’s death. I’d like you to look into it Ridpath.’

  ‘But I have to catch up on all my other work.’

  ‘I think this is important, the police investigation was sloppy.’

  ‘There’s another issue. I know the investigating officer.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘Tommy Harper is overly fond of his beer, but I’ve always known him to be a diligent investigator.’

  ‘When was the last time you worked with him?’

  Ridpath thought back. ‘Eight years ago. We were both detective constables working on a serial rapist operating in the university district.’

  ‘Did you catch the man?’

  ‘Yes, more by luck than any great investigation. He was stupid enough to leave his DNA at the scene of the crime. Me and Tommy were on the same investigating team.’

  ‘Follow this case up anyway. We have a week before I have to reopen the inquest.’

  ‘I’m going to the post-mortem on last night’s victim, do you want me to talk to Dr Schofield?’

  ‘No, I’ll handle it myself. He needs to understand the importance of priorities.’

  Her mouth was set and her jaw clenched. Ridpath wouldn’t like to annoy Mrs Challinor. He wasn’t sure if he would live to tell the tale.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chief Superintendent Trent and Chief Inspector Whitworth were already sitting in the reception area when Ridpath arrived.

  ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Before you ask, I’m here representing the coroner.’

  ‘Does Margaret Challinor know?’ asked Claire Trent.

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘We’re part of the same Legal Women’s Group.’

  Ridpath had heard of it. Many of the senior female officers in the police were members. Amongst the more chauvinist coppers it was known as the Muffia. He didn’t know Margaret Challinor was a member too.

  A mortuary assistant appeared in the doorway. ‘Dr Schofield will see you now.’

  ‘Makes it sound like we’re the ones being examined not the bloody corpse,’ said Charlie under his breath.

  They walked into an anteroom before the mortuary.

  ‘Dr Schofield would like you to wear these.’ She pointed to a set of whites laid out neatly on a table.

  ‘The previous pathologist never bothered asking us to wear this stuff.’

  The assistant merely shrugged her shoulders.

  That pathologist, Harold Lardner, was now on remand in Wakefield Prison, charged with murder. Ridpath and Charlie Whitworth had been involved in his capture after discovering he had been hiding his victims at a body farm near Preston. Ridpath had heard through the grapevine that he was claiming the murders were caused by the long-term effects of PTSD after being involved in more than 12,000 post-mortems in his time working in Manchester. Whatever the defence, there was no way he was getting off.

  ‘Put them on, Charlie,’ ordered Claire Trent.

  Reluctantly Charlie started pulling the white overalls over his jacket and trousers. Ridpath and the super followed suit. Claire Trent’s outfit was far too big for her.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the only size we have,’ the assistant apologised.

  They walked through into the examination room. Dr Schofield had already started the post-mortem, helped by a male technician. He was speaking loudly so the microphone above his head could record his notes.

  ‘Head: AIS 9. Face, right side: AIS 6. Left side, AIS 4. Neck: AIS 6. Thorax: AIS 6.’ Without looking up he paused the recording and said, ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, just let me finish this gross examination.’

  ‘Certainly looks gross,’ said Charlie Whitworth in a loud voice.

  The detectives fanned out around the post-mortem table. Ridpath stared at the bright white lights shining down on the body, making it seem even whiter than he remembered. The young man’s eyes had been closed but the limbs were still bent at strange angles, like a marionette which had been dropped on the floor. The wound on the head had already been cleaned, revealing a deep gash with the serrated bone edge of the skull clearly visible. The angel had vanished now to be replaced by the open cavity of the man’s chest where the pathologist had folded back the two sides of the Y section.

  In his early years as a detective Ridpath had been known as “Vomit Man” for his reaction to a post-mortem. But not anymore. Now they just left him cold, a chill that seemed to swamp his body, penetrating deep into the bones. The only reaction these days was a desperate desire for a cigarette after it had all finished. A sort of post-mortem need to rid his nose, mouth and lungs of the stench and taste of death.

  The doctor carried on speaking. ‘…AIS Upper Extremity: right side AIS 6, left side, AIS 3. Lower Extremity: AIS 6, both sides. The ISS is 75.’ Finally, he stopped examining the corpse and turned towards them. ‘Welcome to my world, detectives. I would ask you don’t talk when the microphone is switched on, it screws up my notes. If you would like to ask a question, put up your hand and I will answer you.’

  Charlie Whitworth raised his arm. ‘What was all that about?’

  Dr Schofield coughed once and explained slowly as if he were speaking to a child. ‘AIS stand for Abbreviated Injury Scale. It’s a system of coding to classify and describe the severity of injuries in motor accidents. It represents a threat to life rather than a comprehensive assessment of the injury. This man displays many injuries over AIS 6 indicating the incident was un-survivable. I won’t bore you with the maths but his Injury Severity Score was over 75, meaning A&E wouldn’t have bothered to work on him. I have written several papers on the subject for the Association for the Advancement of Automotive Medicine,’ he said proudly.

  ‘We’re all numbers now, are we doctor?’

  ‘And letters. It’s Detective…?’

  ‘DI Ridpath, attached to the Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘You were there last night weren’t you?’

  ‘I was the one who called it in.’

  Claire Trent looked at her watch. ‘Can we get a move on? I have a management meeting at two p.m.’

  The doctor
stared at her for a moment before continuing. ‘As I was saying, his ISS of over 75 means the injuries were fatal. In layman’s terms, this man’s suffered a polytrauma. More bones were fractured rather than remain whole, with particular damage being seen on the skull, the pelvic region, the fibula and the tibia. His death was probably instantaneous.’

  ‘Of course, he died straight away, he was hit by a bloody big truck.’ Charlie Whitworth laughed, nudging Ridpath with his arm.

  ‘I’ll thank you to treat our customers with respect, DCI Whitworth. If you can’t, I suggest you leave my post-mortem.’

  Charlie Whitworth sighed and said in an audible voice. ‘First time I’ve been told off by a kid in a mortuary.’

  ‘I heard, DCI Whitworth. You may be interested to hear I suffer from Kallmann syndrome, congenital hypogonadotropic hypogonadism to the educated. It’s a disease stopping a person from starting or fully completing puberty. It affects both men and women and can leave a person with a youthful appearance, while being adult or above normal adult height. I diagnosed myself when I was seventeen but it took another two years to convince doctors. I attended university still looking about fourteen years old. The good news is I never have to shave. The bad news is my sense of smell is severely diminished and I have a particularly short middle finger.’ He held up his hands, still holding a scalpel. ‘Happy now you understand why I look as I do?’

  Charlie Whitworth stayed silent. Ridpath liked this doctor, he had balls. They may not have dropped yet but he still had them.

  Claire Trent glanced at her watch again.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ Without waiting for an answer, he clicked on the microphone. ‘The man is a young male, approximately nineteen years of age, no ID possible at present. One large tattoo of a pair of angel wings on his upper chest extending to the ribs, no other tattoos on the body.’

  ‘Was he a druggie?’

  The pathologist sighed. Without switching off the microphone he answered DCI Whitworth. ‘I am still waiting for the toxicology results to come back from the lab, but there are no indications of needle use nor are there any other signs of prolonged drug use. The young man appears fit, healthy and in the prime of life. Any other questions? Let’s get them over and done with now, shall we?’

  ‘Dental work?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘Pretty standard National Health – a few fillings and no extractions. Wisdom teeth not yet descended.’

  ‘What about congenital health problems?’

  ‘A good question Detective Superintendent Trent – but I’m afraid nothing. The heart, liver and kidneys are all functioning perfectly. Shame this man didn’t have a donor card on him, he could have saved at least three lives. Shame the law hasn’t changed already.’ The assistant wiped the sweat of his brow. ‘Anything else?’

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘Perhaps you will allow me to tell you what is of interest. See here. He picked up a small camera and focused it on a mark on the upper left arm. The picture appeared on the screen of a round brown partially healed mark on the left upper arm. ‘And here. And here. And here.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Claire Trent, ‘marks from the accident?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They are partially healed so must have occurred before the event. But I’ve sent samples off to the lab.’

  ‘So what do you think they are?’ asked Charlie, impatiently.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of speculating, DCI Whitworth, but to me they look like cigarette burns. The lab will let us know when they have completed their analysis.’

  ‘Are they self-inflicted?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know, DI Ridpath. Gentlemen… and lady, you are asking me to have an opinion before I have analysed the evidence. It’s like asking a Strictly judge to give a mark before they have seen the competitors dance.’

  ‘I didn’t know you watched Strictly Come Dancing, doctor,’ said Claire Trent.

  ‘I don’t. It was a simile to help you understand. Now if I can continue?’

  The watching detectives all nodded their heads.

  ‘That’s not all.’ He moved the camera up to the victim’s mouth. ‘Unfortunately the right hand side is too damaged to provide any evidence, but the left displays tears and abrasions in the corner of the mouth. We have taken swabs looking for fibres but I’m not too hopeful.’ Again the camera moved, this time to the right wrist. ‘More abrasions here above the wrists. Unfortunately, there has been damage during the accident so I can’t make out what may have caused them. The lab should be able to tell us more. There is bruising on the underside of the hands…’

  ‘When did he get those marks, Dr Schofield?’ asked Claire Trent.

  ‘Within a day or so of his death, Detective Superintendent. The bruises have healed but not a great deal.’

  ‘So they were inflicted before he died?’

  ‘Definitely. Finally, there is a small amount of residue under the fingernails. I’ve also sent this to the lab for analysis.’ The doctor stared at the body lying on the slab. ‘This person has been through far too much for evidence to remain on the skin.’ He shook his shoulders as waking himself up.

  ‘Are the abrasions rope burns, doctor?’ asked Ridpath.

  A long, audible sigh. ‘I don’t indulge in guesswork. We will wait for the lab to come back to me and then I will complete my report. I am a scientist, DI Ridpath. My job is to tell you what I discover, not to solve the case nor to indulge my imagination.’

  There was a silence for a moment before Claire Trent looked at her watch and said. ‘Thank you Dr Schofield.’

  The doctor held up his hand. It was still holding a scalpel. ‘I will tell you, however, these other injuries were not as a result of the accident. They occurred well before the incident on the motorway.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  They all stood outside the mortuary smoking cigarettes. Opposite, Manchester Royal Infirmary bustled with activity. Doctors in white coats walked by, studiously avoiding the small group on the pavement.

  Ridpath knew he shouldn’t have accepted one of Claire Trent’s Sobranies but once it was offered he couldn’t turn it down. Charlie Whitworth, however, had no such qualms. He made it clear he enjoyed his red Embassy far too much to ever give them up.

  Ridpath felt a bit of an idiot holding the long, black and gold tipped cigarette between his fingers, but once the cool smoke had snaked into his lungs, he enjoyed the soothing jolt of a particularly good tobacco.

  Charlie took a long drag on his cigarette, expelling the blue smoke into the air above his head, where it formed a small cloud before drifting off to join the lead, carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide comprising the breathable air of Manchester.

  ‘First time, I’ve ever been told off by a kid,’ said Charlie between puffs of tobacco.

  ‘Didn’t you hear a word he said,’ Trent sneered, ‘the man suffers from Kallmann syndrome.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything did you?’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He’s had delayed puberty. My bet he’s still taking hormone therapy to balance his lack of testosterone.’

  The DCI chuckled. ‘So he’s got no balls.’

  ‘Oh, I think he has plenty of balls, Charlie. Look at the way he handled you.’

  Ridpath decided to interrupt this love fest between his two senior officers. ‘The marks on the victim are classic signs of someone being tied up.’

  ‘How do you jump to that conclusion?’ challenged Claire Trent.

  ‘Abrasions on the wrists, tears around the mouth…’

  ‘Where’s your evidence? He could have cut himself shaving for all we know.’

  ‘He was scared and running from someone. Perhaps he’d been tied up and escaped.’

  ‘So you’re still peddling this tripe about a man with a gun. A man who nobody else saw and who didn’t appear on any CCTV?’ Charlie Whitworth was as aggressive as he was with any witness. C
laire Trent was just staring at him.

  ‘I know what I saw. And what about the other marks on his arms?’

  Charlie Whitworth’s eyes rolled. ‘They could be from anything. His work, a sport he plays, he may even have a rough girlfriend.’

  Ridpath glanced across at Claire Trent, who was examining something on the ground with the point of her shoe.

  ‘I know what I saw, Charlie. He was…’

  ‘Boys, boys,’ she held up her hands. ‘I have the mayor, the chief constable and half the press in England breathing down my neck because we managed to jam up Manchester’s traffic for four hours before a major football match on a Wednesday night.’

  ‘I…’ Ridpath began to speak but she held up her hand stopping him instantly.

  ‘We’ve heard enough from you, DI Ridpath. I still think our best theory is he was a druggie who was off his head and decided to take a jog across the M60 for some unknown reason. And that’s what I’ll be telling the chief constable when I meet him in…’ she checked her Patek Philippe watch, ‘…twenty-seven minutes. At the moment we don’t know who our victim is. We know nothing about him, his lifestyle or habits. Our new pathologist will report back in a day or two.’ She smiled like a hyena seeing a goat tied to a post. ‘So Charlie, in the meantime you need to show me how good you are. Your most important job is to find out who our unknown vic is. Give a kick up the arse to fingerprints. With a bit of luck he’s already on the database. And get on to toxicology. I want the report on my desk asap, yesterday if possible.’ She gave a slight wave of her hand.

  A hundred yards away a car engine started and raced forward.

  ‘You’ve forgotten one thing, guvnor. What about the car next to me on the M60, the one with false number plates. Shouldn’t we be looking for it?’ asked Ridpath.

  The BMW accelerated to a stop at the kerb. A young DC jumped out of the car and opened the rear door.

  ‘The other car? Give it the attention it deserves.’ As Claire Trent stepped into the car, she turned back and said, ‘Pull your finger out, Charlie. I can keep the bastards away from this one for a day or so, but I want results. And quickly.’