Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

At the top she opened a door and pointed to the bed. Leaning into him, she whispered, ‘You get undressed. I’ll just go for a pee.’

  She pushed him into the bedroom, closing the door.

  He felt strange, the bloody vodka was strong. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the back of the chair. The room was almost empty; a chair, the bed and a bedside table. That was it, looked like nobody lived here. Perhaps she just used this place to shag. One of her dad’s perks, an empty house.

  He put his mobile phone and wallet on the bedside table. Needed to have the phone handy for when he took the pictures. He would make sure everybody could see her face. And afterwards he could even use them for a little slut shaming. Post them on the net for everyone to see.

  He laughed out loud at the thought.

  He tried to take off his trousers but he kept falling over. That bloody vodka had a kick to it. Never mind. He sat on the bed and pulled them off with his feet, kicking them to the far wall. He whipped his V-neck over his head and slipped between the covers.

  He couldn’t wait to shag this one. What would his mates say, sleeping with the enemy?

  He chuckled to himself. He would definitely take pictures of her.

  The door was opening slowly. Here she was. He couldn’t wait to see her naked.

  But it wasn’t the blonde young woman standing in the doorway. It was the taxi driver and he had a black gun in his hand. What was he doing here?

  ‘Nice to see you again, Phil.’

  He was joined by the blonde woman, but she was still fully clothed. What was she doing with all her clothes on?

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Phil, but you won’t be enjoying my pleasures tonight. Instead, my brother is going to be having some fun with you. I’m afraid you won’t enjoy it though.’

  Why was she speaking in that way? And why wasn’t she drunk anymore?

  And what was that about her brother?

  Phil Marsland tried to get up from the bed but found he couldn’t move. His brain was telling his body to get up but nothing was happening.

  The young woman stepped into the bedroom followed by her brother. ‘Can you feel the GHB kicking in Phil? Enjoy it while it lasts.’

  The taxi driver’s fist came crashing into his mouth. The last thing Phil Marsland tasted before he lost consciousness was his own blood.

  This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end.

  Day Three

  Friday, April 20, 2018

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘It’s good to have Ridpath back with us, even if he has decided to come late to our weekly meeting.’

  The sarcasm was heavy in Margaret Challinor’s voice as he mumbled his apologies and took his seat, placing his latte on the table.

  This was the weekly meeting of the Coroner’s Office, to check up on outstanding cases, monitor progress and highlight new cases needing investigation. Everybody was in their usual positions; the head coroner at the front, chairing the meeting with the area coroner, Carol Oates, on her left and a part-time coroner from Derbyshire, David Smail, on her right. Jenny sat opposite him taking notes.

  ‘Right, we can get started. How’s the Larousse case, Carol?’

  ‘She died of natural causes at home aged seventy-six. The doctor has signed the death cert and it’s been countersigned by a colleague. Police were called to the scene, a constable first, then checked by a duty sergeant. All seems in order.’

  ‘When was the last visit by the doctor?’

  Carol Oates checked her notepad. Her blonde hair was tightly rolled in an elegant chignon, which complemented her alabaster skin and dark, tailored business suit. As she read, a single hair escaped from its hair grips and long, beautifully manicured fingers gently pressed it back into place. ‘Ten days previously. She had been suffering from arthritis for many years. Her medical records are as thick as a telephone book.’

  After the Shipman case Mrs Challinor rigorously checked all deaths at home. A murderous doctor was not going to get away with his crimes for thirty years on her watch.

  ‘Good. Next one down is Ronald Wilson. I opened the inquest yesterday but, in the absence of the pathologist’s report, I have postponed it for a week.’

  Carol Oates turned a page. ‘According to my notes the police report was inconclusive. They weren’t sure whether it was an accident or suicide. The body was discovered last Thursday, floating in Wingate Lake. Apparently it had been in the water for at least two weeks. Mr Wilson was a twenty-three-year-old male, a couple of arrests for possession but seemed to have turned his life around in the last few years. His absence was reported by his grandmother on April 1. Not the best day to make a missing person’s report to the police. They didn’t start taking any action for three days afterwards when a neighbour followed up. The investigation looks pretty messy and there’s no pathologist’s report yet.’

  ‘Any suicide note?’ asked Mrs Challinor.

  ‘The police found nothing. And they have yet to find his clothes and wallet. The police think they were probably stolen by local kids.’

  ‘Still haven’t found them?’ asked Ridpath.

  Carol Oates checked the file. ‘The report doesn’t say. I presume not.’

  ‘Have you read the police report, Ridpath?’

  ‘I have, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There are a few gaps in the investigation.’

  ‘A few gaps,’ Carol Oates said incredulously. She began to count off her elegantly manicured fingers. ‘Can’t find Ronald Wilson’s clothes. Can’t find the witness who called it in. Can’t find his wallet? Didn’t attend the post-mortem. Shall I go on?’

  Mrs Challinor frowned. ‘The inquest will reopen next Thursday. This one doesn’t smell right to me. Can you follow up, Ridpath? Check out the police investigation and urge the pathologist to complete his report. I want a far more definite answer than “maybe it was suicide or maybe it was an accident”.’

  Ridpath made a note in his book.

  ‘Shall I schedule it before or after the Rashid inquest?’ asked Jenny, fluttering her incredibly long fake eyelashes.

  ‘Before. Once we have a better idea of the police investigation and the pathologist has deigned to provide us with a report, it should be pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Is it the new pathologist?’ asked Jenny, ‘the one that looks like a deranged teenager let loose in a science lab?’

  Ridpath coughed. ‘Apparently, he has an illness, Kallmann syndrome.’

  ‘So speaks our resident authority on illness,’ added Carol Oates, followed by a fake smile that quickly turned into a grimace.

  ‘He’s one of the best young pathologists in the country. He suffers from hypergonadism. And, if you care to know, Carol, I personally recommended him,’ Mrs Challinor said sharply.

  The two women stared at each other until Carol Oates looked away.

  ‘Although after yesterday’s performance, or lack of performance, I wonder if I have made the right choice.’

  Ridpath broke the tension. ‘I’ll get right onto it. The Wilson case, I mean.’

  ‘We also have 178 other cases extant at the moment, Ridpath. If you’re looking for more work to practise your newly acquired skills during training, you won’t be disappointed.’

  ‘I’ll get up to speed as quickly as I can.’ He coughed. ‘But I’m afraid I have to leave by 12:30.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘An appointment at Christies.’

  Mrs Challinor arched her brow. ‘Nothing serious I hope?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just the normal check-up and blood donation to the hospital. Three pints of Ridpath’s best.’

  She made a note in her diary. ‘Do make sure you get up to speed, Ridpath, I don’t want our clients to suffer because you have fallen behind.’

  ‘Of course not Mrs Challinor. I will be “up to speed” as you call it, by Monday.’

  ‘Good. Any objections, Carol, to Ridpath taking over this case?’

  ‘Fi
ne by me, saves me chasing witnesses.’ A little smile appeared on her lips. ‘But if he’s looking into it, he can handle the rest of the case too. Liaison with the family and all the documentation.’

  ‘The family haven’t been told?’

  ‘His grandmother identified the body, but the pathologist hasn’t released it yet. Too busy, apparently, with another case. An accident.’

  She stared directly at Ridpath. Was she mocking him?

  ‘Is this Ridpath’s case?’

  ‘I believe so…’ Carol Oates said lightly, the smile on her lips broadening.

  ‘I’ve opened a file, Mrs Challinor, 4367/18,’ said Jenny handing over a pink folder.

  ‘Good. As Ridpath is now handling the Wilson case, you can look after this accident.’

  Carol Oates’ head snapped round. ‘But it was Ridpath who reported it.’

  ‘And that’s why he should not be involved in the investigation.’

  ‘But, Margaret, I want to stay involved…’

  ‘Don’t you think you are already too involved, Ridpath? You are a witness to the accident, you can’t also be the investigating officer for the coroner.’

  Had she been talking to Claire Trent? Was this a stitch-up to prevent him knowing what was going on? ‘But Margaret…’

  ‘I’ve decided, Ridpath. Carol will handle this case and bring it to inquest. Understood?’

  Reluctantly, Ridpath nodded.

  ‘Good, let’s move on. We have a lot to cover this morning.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After the meeting Ridpath returned to his desk. Jenny had already placed a large stack of files on top of it, all requiring his attention. But before he plunged in, it was time to work the phones.

  Ronald Wilson’s family first. He took a deep breath and then rang the number in the file. A fragile, wavering voice answered the phone. ‘Hello…’

  ‘This is Thomas Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office. I’m calling about Ronald Wilson.’

  ‘He’s not here. He passed away. They found his body at the lake. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Mrs Granger. Elsie Granger. I’m his grandmother.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to his mother if I could?’

  ‘So would I, dear. Haven’t seen her for over twenty years. She left when Ronald was a toddler. We adopted him, myself and Fred. Didn’t want him to go to no home. Well, he was one of our own wasn’t he? Even if his mother wanted nowt to do with him.’

  Ridpath scanned the file, none of this was written down.

  ‘Fred passed away four years ago. Took it hard did, Ronald. He worshipped Fred, you know. They used to go hiking every weekend together.’

  ‘Is there anybody else there with you, Mrs Granger?’

  ‘No, just me now. Fred and Ronald have both gone. I suppose I’ll join them soon.’

  Ridpath checked the address. Bowler Street. ‘Are you free at four o’clock this afternoon, Mrs Granger? I just need to go over some details with you.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I always watch the news at six. Never miss the news me.’

  ‘It won’t take very long. See you this afternoon, Mrs Granger.’

  He put down the phone. He should be able to meet this woman and then drive to pick up Polly and Eve to take them to the seven p.m. showing of the film in Didsbury. It would be tight but he should be able to make it.

  Scratch that, he had to make it.

  Next, a quick call to Tommy Harper to set up a meeting at Wingate Lake for the early afternoon.

  ‘We could have lunch and then take a gander at the scene. The Fir Tree is a lovely little pub nearby, does a great home-made pizza and nifty pint of White Nancy from the Bollington Brewery,’ was Tommy’s reply to his request for a meeting.

  ‘Sorry, Tommy, I already have another appointment, but I’ll see you at 2:30, ok?’ The last thing Ridpath wanted to do was turn up at a bereaved family’s home stinking of beer.

  A sad ‘OK’ was the only response. Next, a call to the pathologist’s secretary. She confirmed Dr Schofield had already performed the post-mortem. She would check with the pathologist when the body could be released and when the report would be available.

  He struck another line through his list of things to do.

  Finally, a call to Charlie Whitworth. ‘Hello, boss…’

  ‘Don’t you bloody boss, me. What were you doing on the M60 yesterday?’

  ‘Driving to work in Stockfield.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about. Why did you stop on the hard shoulder?’

  Ridpath rolled his eyes. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Never you mind. Let’s just say you’re not the plod’s favourite detective at the moment. In fact, if I were you I would use public transport for the foreseeable future. Harry Todd’s got an all points bulletin out for you. I reckon the Traffic lads are on a bonus if they give you a ticket.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Nah, it’s worse. And you still haven’t answered my question?’

  ‘What question was that boss?’ said Ridpath stalling for time.

  A long sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘Why were you parked up on the M60 at the place where the accident happened on Wednesday night.’

  ‘Just checking it out, Charlie. Seeing if anything had been missed.’

  ‘Playing bloody private detective were we?’

  ‘It’s not that, Charlie…’

  ‘Claire Trent, my boss and yours in case you’d forgotten, issued specific instructions you were not to get involved. Remember?’

  ‘I know but look at it from my point of view, Charlie. If you had seen a man with a gun and nobody believed you, what would you do?’

  ‘Don’t do the old trick of “put yourself in my shoes”, Charlie. Remember, I was using that one with villains when you were still your father’s wet dream. And secondly, people don’t not believe you, we just cannot find any corroborating evidence. Your man with a gun doesn’t exist, according to CCTV and the other eye witnesses.’

  ‘Have you found the missing driver yet?’

  ‘Nah, he’s vanished, along with the car. We put out a press release through the Evening News but if you were driving a car with false plates would you come forward?’

  ‘I suppose not, particularly if I was doing something bent.’ Ridpath paused for a moment before asking the next question. ‘And do we know who the vic is?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Ridpath.’

  ‘Come on, Charlie, we go back a long way. Put yourself in my shoes.’

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. ‘The fingerprint boys told me they will come back with the results this evening at five p.m.. With a bit of luck we’ll know then. Toxicology should have reported too.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie. I won’t forget this.’

  ‘You owe me a pint. And Ridpath…’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Keep your nose clean. They are still looking to pin the tail on the donkey for Wednesday. At the moment, you’re it.’

  ‘Hee haw…’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘What have I done? Why me?’

  There was a whine in Phil Marsland’s voice that annoyed her.

  ‘Why are you doing this? I’ve done nothing to you.’

  He was stretched out on the floor, naked except for a pair of blue boxer shorts she had given him to wear.

  Carrying him down from the bedroom to the cellar had been a pain. Even with her brother’s strength, it was difficult manoeuvring him through the narrow doorways in the house.

  At one point, he had caught his forehead on the entrance to the cellar. ‘Careful, you’ll hurt him,’ she shouted.

  ‘I thought that was the whole point,’ he answered over his shoulder, banging Phil Marsland’s head once more as they descended the stairs.

  ‘But not yet. When he wakes up, that’s when we’ll do him.’

  He was awake now and whining like a b
eaten dog. At least the smug arrogance had gone. It had taken all her composure not to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face when they had been in the pub together. She had wanted to pick up her glass and stab it into his face, watching as the sharp edges cut deep into his nose and cheeks.

  But she didn’t. Like the good little girl she was she kept smiling, occasionally stroking his ego and encouraging his vanity.

  ‘You want to know why you’re here, Phil?’

  ‘Please. Please tell me. I can put it right. Whatever it is, I can make it right. My father, he…’

  ‘We know who your father is, Phil.’

  ‘So why are you doing this. If he finds out…’

  ‘He’ll probably kill us like he’s killed lots of other people. Chopping them up and throwing them in the Mersey, isn’t that his style? The body parts floating down the river to the sea.’

  Phil Marsland stayed silent, his head down and his shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath.

  Her brother was smoking a cigarette. She watched as the end glowed bright red with every inhalation. ‘You asked us why we are doing this?’

  Phil Marsland nodded his head. A few drops of sweat, and blood from his nose, dripped onto the floor.

  ‘The simple answer is because we can, Phil.’

  Her brother laughed then taking the cigarette out of his mouth, touched the hot end to Phil Marsland’s shoulder.

  The young man sat up screaming, ‘No more, no more!’

  ‘It’s just a cigarette, Phil. And besides we haven’t really started. My brother here was in Afghanistan. He learnt lots of tricks out there.’

  ‘We had to make them talk, you see. Tell us what they knew. And sometimes they didn’t want to talk. The Americans were far worse than us, far more violent. But we were far more creative. They talked to us. In the end, they always talked.’

  ‘What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything, anything. What do you want to know?’

  She bent forward and whispered in his ear. ‘Let’s start with your family, Phil. What was it like growing up with your father?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four