Tommy shook his head.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’
‘Folk keep themselves to themselves round here.’
‘One last question, Tommy. Who identified the body?’
‘His grandmother. Strange woman. Didn’t shed a tear, just said “That’s him” as if she were pointing to a bit of steak in the butchers.’
‘Death hits people in different ways. We know that, Tommy.’
The other detective nodded. Then he began to kick the dirt at his feet. ‘Ridpath, can you do me a favour? Can you have a chat with Charlie Whitworth, see if he has a place on MIT?’
‘I’m hardly flavour of the month at the moment.’
Ridpath stared across at the water of the lake, rippling softly in the spring sunshine. A gust of wind swayed the willow trees on the banks, each branch festooned with tiny green buds reaching up to bathe in the sun.
‘I got caught up in the reorganisation in 2013…’
‘When they broke up CID?’
‘Sent me out to J Division, didn’t they? “Policing in the bloody community”.’ Tommy held his fingers up forming quotation marks. ‘Then the boss sent me here. My detective work is chasing a few kids who’ve stolen bicycles, or stuff like this; blokes who top themselves after getting out of prison.’
‘Ronald Wilson was an ex-con?’
‘Got out four months ago. Probably couldn’t handle life on the outside. Anyway, I can’t hack it any more, I’m dying here.’
Ridpath scratched his head. ‘You’re not the only one.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The house was in the middle of a row of terraces on Bowler Street, not far from Reddish. Ridpath knocked on the door and stepped back.
No answer.
He checked his watch. Four p.m. Right on time. He glanced up and down the street. All the other houses were painted in a variety of colours; reds, mauves, eau-de-nil green, a light primrose yellow. All except this one. It stood out defiantly in dirty grey with paint peeling off the wood. Even the door looked like it hadn’t been changed since the place was built before World War One, still with a stylised ship in stained glass in the centre of the front panel.
He knocked again.
This time there was a faint voice from inside. ‘Coming.’
A minute later the door opened to reveal a short, unkempt woman wearing a pink twin piece decorated with pearls. Ridpath held out his warrant card. ‘DI Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office. Sorry if I woke you up. Are you Mrs Granger?’
‘I was the last time I looked. And I don’t do much of that any more.’
Ridpath frowned. ‘Much of what?’
‘Sleeping. If it’s about Ronald, you’d better come in.’
He followed her down the hall, past a picture of Jesus with a red light where his heart should be, and a small bowl of holy water. They turned into a small room on the right. She walked unsteadily, a Zimmer frame supporting her every step. The place had that old people’s smell; a tired mustiness combined with a tinge of pee and the aroma of age.
She inched across the tiny room. The heat was sweltering; a gas fire glowing brightly and the windows tightly closed. Near to the fire an old armchair was surrounded by balls of wool, pattern sheets and discarded knitting. Above it a large ornamental clock ticked loudly, the second hand jerking each time it moved forward. In the corner the television was on with the sound turned down but the subtitles on.
She saw him looking at the television. ‘I’ve gone a bit deaf in my old age, but my eyes are still as sharp as knitting needles.’ Ridpath was not sure that was true but said nothing.
The woman dropped heavily into the arm chair. ‘The knees are gone too. Too much scrubbing steps and floors when I were young. Were you the one who rang me this morning?’
Ridpath took a seat opposite, opening his notebook. ‘That was me, Mrs Granger. I’ve come about your grandson, Ronald…’
‘He’s not here.’
For a moment Ridpath worried if the old woman was suffering from senility. He decided to start again. ‘Mrs Granger, I’m from the Coroner’s Office…’
‘You’ve already said that. If you’re here to tell me he’s dead, I already know. I saw him lying in a white room with a sheet over him. Took care of him since he was a baby. Well, me and Fred. Towered over both of us he did. He were always a big lad even when he was in school. Bit of a tearaway. I had the police around here a few times, I tell you. But he weren’t a bad lad, just boisterous.’
‘He lived with you?’
‘Well he couldn’t live with his mother, she ran off down south with a new fella not long after Ronald were born. Myself and his granddad brought him up. Then, after Fred died, I looked after him. Or, I should say, he looked after me.’
‘Exactly how old was Ronald when he died?’
Only the sound of the clock broke through the silence as Mrs Granger counted on her fingers. ‘He were born in February 1995, so that would make him twenty-three. They said he drowned, but I don’t believe them.’
‘Why?’
‘Ronald couldn’t swim. Never learned, was afraid of the water. So why would he go swimming in the Secret Lake?’
Ridpath didn’t tell her that if he wanted to commit suicide not being able to swim was an advantage. ‘A witness saw him take off his clothes and jump into the water.’
The old woman turned and stared at Ridpath. ‘I don’t believe it. Ronald would never take off his clothes in public. He were shy. Oh sorry love, where’s my manners? Would you like a cuppa?’ She tried to lever herself off the arm chair, but fell back.
‘You want me to make it?’
‘Would you love? These knees of mine are giving me gyp today.’
He walked through to the kitchen. It was spotless in a totally unused way. He filled the kettle full of water and placed it on the gas ring.
‘I don’t use the pot any more, but you’ll find a couple of mugs draining beside the sink and the teabags are on the counter.’
Ridpath put the mugs down and added the teabags, one for each cup. He went to the fridge for milk but it was empty. A half used loaf, a tub of spreadable margarine, two eggs and a shrivelled tomato. No milk.
He went back to the lounge. ‘You don’t have any milk?’
‘The neighbour’s not done my shopping this week. She’s the same neighbour who rang the police for me when he went missing. A big fat policeman came round. Not a bit as handsome as you.’ She paused for a moment as Ridpath blushed. ‘Ronald always did it every Friday morning when he were here. We sometimes went together if he wasn’t busy. I love going round supermarkets. So much more to see than when I was a girl. It’s so dear though, I’m surprised the young ones can afford to eat. You’ll find milk powder in the cupboard.’
Ridpath went back and found it sitting next to two cans of beans and a packet of dried soup.
He made the tea and took it through to Mrs Granger.
‘I do love a cup of tea,’ she said holding the cup with both hands and taking a large gulp.
‘Where did Ronald work, Mrs Granger?’
‘He didn’t. Well, not much anyway since he got out of prison. Never could hold down a job. People didn’t like Ronald. But he was good boy.’
‘Prison?’
‘When he were nineteen. They said he assaulted a policeman. But I know Ronald, he wouldn’t have done anything like that.’
‘When did he get out?’
‘Four months ago. I remember because it were just before Christmas.’
Ridpath wondered whether this was an accident or a classic case of suicide like Tommy Harper had said; a former prisoner who just couldn’t handle the world outside. ‘Did he have any close friends?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Not really. Before he went to prison, he was out with the lads every night. Since his release, he tried to stay away, kept himself to himself.’
‘Did he see his probation officer?’
‘Once, I think. After that, he was cont
acted by phone. He said the man was a waste of time.’
From Ridpath’s experience of the new probation service, Ronald Wilson wasn’t wrong.
Mrs Granger suddenly sat upright, almost spilling her tea. ‘But he had a new girlfriend. He told me. Lovely girl she was too, he said.’
‘What was her name?’
‘I don’t know. Never met her even though I asked. He said he would introduce us when she was ready.’
Ridpath closed his notebook. The tea lay next to his foot untouched. ‘I have to tell you Mrs Granger, the pathologist has completed his post-mortem examination of Ronald’s body.’
‘They cut him up?’
‘I’m afraid it’s routine in cases such as this to perform a post-mortem. I should be able to tell you soon when your undertaker can collect the body for burial or cremation.’
‘But I don’t have an undertaker.’
‘Do you have anybody, a relative or a neighbour, who could help you arrange the funeral?’
She shook her head. ‘There was a woman who came three times a week from the council when Ronald was inside. She was lovely and we had such good chats. But she stopped coming a while ago. Told me there wasn’t any money any more. The old priest, Father Donovan, used to come here, but he died and there’s a new young fella I don’t like. Wears a leather jacket. Now, have you ever heard of a priest in a leather jacket? Since he came to the parish, I don’t even go to mass any more. But I still says my prayers every night in case He’s listening.’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘OK, leave it to me. I’ll arrange for somebody to help you.’ Ridpath didn’t know how yet, but he would make it happen. Pensioners like Mrs Granger shouldn’t be left on their own.
He checked the ancient clock on the mantelpiece loudly ticking away time. ‘I have to go now, Mrs Granger, but I’ll come back tomorrow to let you know what’s happening.’
The old woman tried to get up.
‘Please stay where you are, I’ll see myself out.’
‘Now, make sure you bless yourself with the holy water on the way out. We wouldn’t want anything to be happening to you.’
‘I will,’ answered Ridpath, already deciding that he wouldn’t.
He walked to the door, turning back to take last look at the old woman. She was staring into the air, her filmy eyes looking at nothing in particular, her wrinkled fingers lying motionless on her lap.
Above her head, the clock, and its jerky second hand, ticked on.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ridpath sat in the car outside Mrs Granger’s house and made a call to social services to see what they could do regarding the funeral of Ronald Wilson. He listened to a polite but firm recorded message, stating the opening hours and giving another number in case of an emergency.
Was this an emergency? Probably not, it would wait till Monday. The pathologist still hadn’t officially released the body anyway. More of a worry was Mrs Granger. Would she be able to manage on her own?
He glanced at the dashboard clock, Eve and Polly would be waiting for him but there was just enough time to make another phone call.
He pressed speed dial on his mobile.
‘This is not a good time, Ridpath.’ Charlie Whitworth sounded grumpier than usual.
‘I was just ringing to see if the toxicology and the fingerprints results had come in for our M60 vic.’
‘They have.’
‘And?’
There was a moment’s silence before Charlie let out a long sigh. ‘Toxicology says there were no significant quantities of drugs in his system at the time of his death. There were slight traces of cocaine and marijuana, but the lab thinks they were probably from use at least a week ago. There was a stronger trace of a sleeping pill, Ambien, though. Perhaps our vic had insomnia.’
‘So he was clean, Charlie?’
‘As clean as any person walking the streets of Manchester. But that’s not all.’
‘The fingerprints?’
‘The ones from the bonnet of your car came back with a clear match.’
‘To?’
‘A certain Gerard Connelly.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit is the word, Ridpath.’
‘Not one of the Connellys?’
‘The youngest son of Michael Connelly.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’m just about to go over to Eccles to tell him. Claire Trent has just put us on full alert and all leave has been cancelled. We’ve taken the truck driver into protective custody and we’re battening down the hatches in case a gang war erupts on the streets of Manchester.’
‘Is Michael still running the Eccles mob?’
‘Him and his other son, Graham. The son’s out of prison at the moment.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘Late last year, for good bloody behaviour.’
‘Jesus, the Connellys wouldn’t know good behaviour if it kicked them up the arse.’
Charlie Whitworth chuckled. ‘Claire Trent is spitting brass tacks. Her carefully constructed story about a crazy druggie who brought the M60 to a halt has fallen apart.’
‘Does that mean you’re starting to believe me about the man with a gun?’
‘Let’s just say it might have a wee bit more credence than thirty minutes ago.’
‘You need to look at the area around Sale Water Park. Somebody chased our vic through there before he tried to cross the M60.’
‘Listen, Ridpath, it might be a good time to show your face round the office. MIT is really stretched right now. She’s even called in help from the serious crime boys. It’s every hand on deck.’
‘She must be desperate.’ Ridpath was about to say he would be right over when he remembered Polly and Eve waiting for him at his mother-in-law’s house. Perhaps he could take them another time.
‘I’ll be right over… tomorrow morning, boss. I need to be with Polly and Eve this evening. They are waiting for me.’
Ridpath heard the brakes of a car scream to a stop at the junction in front of him. For a moment he thought it was Charlie Whitworth’s voice. Instead he heard an answer in calm, measured terms.
‘Don’t say you weren’t given a chance, Ridpath.’
Ridpath would have preferred the scream.
The phone clicked off. He sat there for a moment staring at the black mobile in his hand. Perhaps, he should go to MIT. This could be his chance to get back on the team, show both Trent and Charlie Whitworth he was still a good copper despite the bloody cancer.
He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
‘Sod them.’ He was a good copper but his wife and child meant more to him than any bloody job. He was going to spend a night with Polly and Eve and watch Coco the Clown or whatever the movie was.
Tomorrow was another day.
But tonight was for his family.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Right, Dave. You’re driving me.’
‘Where are we going, boss?’
Dave Hardy picked up his coat from the hanger as Charlie walked out of the door.
‘We’re off to see Michael Connelly.’
‘That toe-rag? What’s he done now?’
‘It’s not what he’s done, Dave, it’s what’s been done to him.’
The lift doors opened. A uniform from the sixth floor, his shoulders covered in silver braid, was already there.
‘Evening, sir.’
‘Evening, Charlie.’
They both bustled into the lift.
‘Going home, sir?’
‘Not this early, Charlie. Drinks with the Manchester Business Entrepreneurs Association.’
Charlie turned his back to face the door. ‘Sounds fun, sir,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘A barrel of laughs. How’s the M60 case coming along?’
‘New developments, sir.’
‘Oh? And what are…’
The lift doors opened and Charlie raced out without answering, followed by Dave Hardy, leaving the assist
ant chief constable on his own.
‘Tosser.’ Charlie said out loud when they were far enough away.
Dave Hardy was almost running to keep up with him. ‘Should have answered him, Charlie. It doesn’t help to piss them off.’
‘Let Claire Bloody Trent handle the wankers, that’s what she gets paid for.’
Dave Hardy opened the door of their car. A beat-up silver Vauxhall Vectra that had seen more detectives in it than a Manchester hooker.
‘Couldn’t you get anything better from the pool, Dave?’
‘It’s all they had, boss. The cutbacks…’
‘Is that the answer to everything these days?’
‘Yeah,’ was Dave’s monosyllabic reply.
He started the engine. It coughed a few times before finally firing. Putting it in gear, he drove through the raised barrier and out of the HQ car park, turning right on Oldham Road.
‘You still haven’t answered my question, boss.’
‘Forty-two.’
‘What?’
‘The answer to the meaning of life.’
‘No, I asked what Michael Connelly had done. Last time, it was armed robbery. He got off with that. But we haven’t been to his place for a while. He’s been quiet.’
‘He’s not been quiet, just more careful. We’re still looking into him for those hammer murders in 2005. And I’m pretty sure he was the one who shot Reuben Chalmers in Cheetham Hill.’
‘There was no evidence, boss.’
‘There never bloody is. But one day we’ll find it.’
‘So why are we going there?’
‘His son’s been found dead on the M60.’
‘Ridpath’s case?’
‘The one and only.’
Dave Hardy let out a long whistle. ‘Fuck me sideways.’
‘You and half the rest of GMP.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Do? We’re going to tell him.’
Dave looked away from the road. ‘Shouldn’t we have brought a few more men. He’s not going to be pleased.’
Where the Dead Fall Page 10