Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  A few murmured welcomes to which Lorraine nodded her head.

  ‘Great.’ Claire Trent clapped her hands once. ‘I want your team watching Big Terry’s mob, Lorraine.’

  ‘No problems, guvnor.’

  ‘Steve, I want you to take Cheetham Hill. And Robbo, your team knows the Moss Side mob so can you be on them, please?’

  ‘Of course, Claire.’

  ‘We’re not going to have another gangland war like the days of Gunchester, not on my bloody watch. Right, get on it.’ She clapped her hands to end the briefing. ‘Charlie and DI Ridpath, in my room. Now.’

  Ridpath glanced across at his DCI and mouthed, ‘What does she want?’

  Charlie Whitworth smiled enigmatically and shrugged his shoulders.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Right, what are you two up to?’

  The question came as soon as Ridpath closed the door. Claire Trent stood behind her desk, putting it between herself and the two detectives.

  Ridpath glanced across at Charlie Whitworth. ‘I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.’

  ‘You think I don’t know Dave Hardy is one of your buddies. Why all the questions?’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I presume he wanted to know about the inquiry, ma’am.’

  ‘And make me look like a bloody fool in front of Robinson and his team?’

  ‘I think you’re overreacting here, boss…’

  ‘Am I Charlie? Am I being too feminine for you? Too girly? Well, listen to me, if I have one more scene like we just had, you’ll be out on your arse, running the bloody bogs in Belle Vue nick, do I make myself clear, DCI Whitworth?’

  Ridpath saw Charlie grit his jaw, the muscle flexing at the side of his face. ‘Very clear, ma’am.’

  ‘And don’t think anybody can protect you. People have long memories in GMP. You and John Gorman ruffled a few feathers in your time. After the Beast of Manchester fiasco, some people feel it’s time to do some plucking.’

  ‘I resent that, ma’am. We had strong evidence of Dalbey’s guilt.’

  ‘You managed to put an innocent man away for ten years, Charlie. If it weren’t for Margaret Challinor’s work, he would still be in prison.’

  Ridpath noticed she made no mention of his part in the affair.

  ‘That’s unfair, ma’am…’

  She held up her hand to stop him talking. When she spoke again the tone had changed, becoming warmer, more empathetic. ‘Look, Charlie, I think you’re a good copper, but there are people in management who believe MIT needs a shake up after the John Gorman era. That’s why they brought me in. I would prefer you to stay on, but if I have to put up with another showing like this morning, well…’

  She left the last part of the sentence unsaid.

  She glanced at her expensive watch. ‘Now, I have a meeting with the chief constable to explain to him why we could be at the start of a major gang war to make the days of Gunchester look like a vicar’s tea party.’

  ‘It may not be a gang war…’

  They both stared at Ridpath.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said Claire Trent.

  ‘Well, I only saw one man chasing Gerard Connelly.’

  ‘The man with the gun?’

  Ridpath nodded. ‘If it were a gangland killing I would expect there to be more people involved, not just one shooter.’

  ‘They could have brought a hitman in from Liverpool or Birmingham,’ said Charlie.

  ‘But why? It doesn’t make sense. The gangs of Manchester have an agreement, they are raking in acres of cash, why mess it up? Even back in 2013, when Morgan was murdered, Manchester remained quiet, why start a war now?’

  Claire Trent stayed silent for a moment. ‘Those are good questions, Ridpath. The worse thing we can do at the moment is to jump to conclusions without any real evidence.’ She looked up at Charlie fixing him with her green eyes. ‘Find out what’s going on. Leave no stone unturned, understand? Use any and all resources, intelligence, confidential informants. Whatever you need, you’ve got.’

  ‘What about Robbo. He’s probably got the best intelligence?’

  ‘I want MIT to sort this out, not Serious and Organised Crime. We’ve had to call them in because the chief constable demanded it, but we’re going to make this go away, not bloody Robbo.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘You’re going to be my eyes and ears with Michael Connelly, Ridpath.’

  ‘What? I’m supposed to be working with the coroner.’

  ‘Exactly, in that role you have to liaise with him regarding his son. It will give you an opportunity to visit his home without him knowing you are GMP.’

  ‘But doesn’t it compromise my position with the coroner?’

  She made a moue with her mouth. Ridpath noticed the red lipstick had begun to clump around on her top lip, leaving little goblets of red in the cracks in her lips.

  ‘Last time I looked at the budgets, your salary was still being paid by my department and you were still on my books…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And I’ve already had a chat with Margaret Challinor and she agrees you will be the best person to liaise with the Connellys regarding the funeral of their son. It is part of the duties of a coroner’s officer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘So, I want to know what’s happening in their family. If anybody farts and there’s no smell, I want to know, understand?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  She stood up, pulling down her black jacket. ‘Time to meet the management. You two better get going too.’

  They both stood up. When Charlie reached the door she spoke again.

  ‘Before I forget, Charlie. Get rid of Dave Hardy. Transfer him to Traffic or something. I don’t want him on the team any more. Is that clear?’

  Charlie Whitworth’s jaw clenched and unclenched. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he answered without turning back.

  ‘And Charlie, there’s an awful lot of willies waving in your department. Replace him with a woman. I want a better gender balance in MIT.’

  Charlie sighed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They both walked back to DCI Whitworth’s office, neither one of them speaking or looking at the other.

  Once inside Charlie threw his file onto the table. ‘You should not have witnessed that Ridpath. No senior officer should ever be reprimanded in front of a junior.’

  ‘I think she was making a point.’

  ‘Making a point? She just drove a hole in me big enough to park a tractor.’

  ‘What are you going to do about Dave Hardy?’

  His boss looked at him with dagger eyes. ‘I don’t bloody know. Luckily, he had a chat with me earlier. He wants something quieter and less stressful with regular hours; his missus is complaining she never sees him.’

  ‘I know the problem.’

  Charlie Whitworth ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I’ll find him something. He’s a bloody good copper is Dave, but he’s been tired for a long while. Time for him to move on.’ Suddenly, the eyes glanced towards Ridpath. ‘If you think you can replace him you’ve got another think coming. For one, he’s a DS and you’re already an inspector. And secondly, you have to show a bit more loyalty before I let you back on the team, Ridpath. I want people I can trust to be by my side not stab me in the back.’

  ‘I’ve never stabbed you in the back, boss.’

  ‘But you’ve not been by my side either, have you?’

  ‘I thought our job was to stop the bad guys not take sides.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘You always were a naive sod, Ridpath.’

  ‘Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about me. I was asking for Tommy Harper. He’s dying out in Reddish.’

  ‘Fat Tommy? He’s still drinking his way through the beers of Manchester?’

  Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t know. Apparently, he’s the reverse of Dave Hardy. He wants to spend less time wit
h the missus.’

  ‘Probably the other way round if you ask me. Anyway, you heard Her Majesty, she wants a bloody woman for the team.’

  ‘She’s got a point. Since Sarah Castle died, it’s become very male.’

  Charlie stayed silent, staring down at the ground for a moment.

  For a moment, Ridpath flashed back to the young woman detective sergeant murdered by Harold Lardner, her smile beaming at him as they negotiated the workload on the Beast of Manchester case. For some reason he had never erased the voicemail she had left him on his mobile. As if by removing her message, he would remove her memory. He had never told anybody, but sometimes she came to him in his dreams, always saying the same thing. ‘Don’t give up, Ridpath, never give up.’

  ‘Sarah was a good officer, but she was a loose cannon that’s why she was targeted by the Beast,’ Charlie said finally.

  ‘She was targeted because she got too close to him.’

  Charlie’s eyes flared with anger. ‘See what I mean about loyalty, Ridpath? You can’t stop rubbing my nose in it. Don’t you think I know I screwed up and that’s going to stay with me for the rest of my life.’

  There was a long silence between the two of them before Ridpath finally said, ‘There’s one other problem I didn’t tell Claire Trent.’

  Charlie’s eyebrow raised. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was on your team when we arrested Michael Connelly six years ago.’

  A small smile appeared at the edge of Charlie’s lips. ‘That may be a problem, Ridpath, but luckily it’s yours not mine.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The woman and her brother sat in the white van for five minutes, checking the car park and the church for any signs of movement.

  Nothing.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ she ordered.

  They ran to the back doors. He had found a decal online for a plumber and attached it to the side of their white van, changing the number plates too.

  Of course, the van had been her idea. It was now one of those ubiquitous vehicles everybody sees but nobody notices.

  She opened the back doors. Phil Marsland was lying on a plastic sheet in the rear, naked except for a pair of blue boxers.

  She never knew why she always dressed their victims. At first, it had been a matter of expediency; to give them something to wear when their clothes had been soiled after their skin had been burnt with cigarettes. But now, it just looked right. There was something pleasing about the young male body in boxer shorts.

  Even more pleasing when they were dead.

  The car park was empty as it always was on a Saturday afternoon, their spot hidden from the main road and Barton Bridge beyond. She had her brother park with the engine facing outwards. Even on the off chance somebody came in, all they would see was a white van with its back doors open.

  She glanced up at the church, its spire and dark, satanic stone looming over them. She shivered: a hateful place. That was why she had chosen it. The CCTV on the corner of the roof was staring right down at them like a watchful eye. A good job she had smashed the lens two days ago. The monument was just ten yards away.

  She didn’t know why she had chosen this place, it just seemed right. Open enough for the body to be discovered, not too isolated. The position, close to the junction between Eccles, Salford and Manchester, appealed to her sense of theatre. They would all know here was where the territories of the various gangs met.

  ‘You cover the body with a sheet and carry it over to the monument. But first I have to finish the job.’ She picked up a large kitchen knife and reached over to grab Phil Marsland’s penis, pulling it upwards. ‘He won’t need this anymore.’

  With one swipe of the knife the penis came away from the body. She held the small sausage like object in her hand. ‘I’ll keep this as a souvenir.’ She stuffed it in her pocket. ‘Carry him over there.’

  She always admired the strength of her brother, built up over years spent in the boring routines of lifting weights and running on treadmills. She could never see the point herself, but he loved it. Hour upon hour of a single-minded obsession with his own body. Never mind, his strength would serve now.

  ‘Don’t forget to wear the gear.’ She pointed to two pairs of plastic gloves and a cheap plastic windcheater she had bought in Sainsbury’s a few days ago. ‘We mustn’t leave any trace of ourselves.’

  He put on the gloves and the windcheater, then dragged the body to the open door, pulling it forward and lifting it across his shoulder.

  ‘Not very heavy, I could take two of him.’

  ‘Place him sitting against the monument.’

  He obeyed her. He always obeyed her. They were re-united a year ago after being separated for years. It was a shame about the other one. He had got cold feet just when they were about to start. A combination of the old woman and his time in jail had got to him, making him weak and fearful. He had threatened to expose them. She couldn’t allow it to happen.

  She looked down at Phil Marsland sitting upright against the monument. ‘He won’t fall over?’

  ‘Nah, he’ll stay right where he is.’

  ‘Good, just what I want.’ She reached out and brushed Phil’s hair with her gloved hand, making it look neat and tidy. Phil Marsland taking a last look at the world through dead eyes.

  Shame about him, a pretty boy. But like the others, he had to die.

  It was all part of the plan.

  ‘Time for you to drop me close to home,’ she told her brother. Their job was done today.

  Now all they had to do was wait for the shit to hit the fan.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought the decision was the best for the Coroner’s Office.’ Margaret Challinor pushed a long grey hair away from her eyes.

  ‘Without talking to me first?’

  ‘There wasn’t time. It was an offer from Claire Trent. I had to make a decision quickly.’

  ‘So now you’ve put me in the position of liaising with a family and reporting on them at the same time.’

  ‘As I said, it was a quick decision.’ She sat back in her chair and stared at him. ‘Look, we have an opportunity to rebuild bridges with MIT here. They have a new boss in charge…’

  ‘A woman who you know…’

  ‘A woman who I know and admire. To get where she has in the police force has taken intelligence, perseverance and acumen.’

  ‘It’s also taken ruthlessness, the ability to use people and sod the consequences.’

  ‘All attributes that would make her an attractive friend to my department and a difficult enemy.’

  ‘But you put me in an impossible position.’

  ‘I don’t have to remind you DI Ridpath, you are a serving police officer.’

  ‘Do you think I could forget? GMP is a hierarchical organisation. Once you are out of the hierarchy you are incredibly weak. People start to make decisions for you rather than with you.’

  She turned and stared out of the large sash window to her right. ‘It’s also an incredible strength, Ridpath. Use it.’

  ‘Hard when people are taking decisions for me.’

  ‘Listen to me. It was necessary. We need to improve our relations with MIT. Trust me, when I say it’s part of a bigger plan.’

  ‘So I’m just another cog in the power game?’

  ‘No, Ridpath, far more important. You are a valuable member of my team.’

  He stood up. ‘Then treat me like I am not just another pawn on a bloody chess board.’

  He walked out, leaving her sitting behind her desk. He was beyond angry. She talked a good game about empowerment and inclusivity – all the management speak he had heard on his training courses – but in the end, she was just like all the rest of them. At least with Charlie Whitworth you knew where you stood. You were either in or out. At the moment, Ridpath was the pig in the middle and he didn’t like it one little bit.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ridpath sat down at his desk and took three deep breat
hs. He hated being controlled and manipulated, even by somebody like Margaret Challinor. He recognised the contradictions in his behaviour. After all, any uniformed service was all about taking orders and doing what you were told, wasn’t it? But in the police it had never felt that way. He was always a part of a team, doing what was right for the case.

  Not playing politics.

  Not letting egos get in the way.

  Not playing silly buggers.

  It was all about gathering enough evidence to put the criminal away. That was it. The evidence was king, nothing and nobody else mattered.

  He stared at his to-do list. For the first time it stretched over two pages. The first line read.

  Check on coroner’s report for Ronald Wilson.

  A shiver went down his back and he coughed. He suddenly felt cold. Dr Morris had said to avoid stress and here he was as tense as a scalded cat after the confrontation with Margaret Challinor.

  Take three breaths and calm down, Ridpath.

  For once he listened to himself. He inhaled deeply and held it. There, he was feeling better already. Still angry but feeling better about it.

  Later, he would have to meet Michael Connelly and his family, something he was not looking forward to. His mind flashed back six years to the last time he had seen Connelly. The man’s body bent double and his hands forced behind his back, handcuffs being placed on his wrists by Charlie Whitworth. It was a dawn raid on Connelly’s unobtrusive semi in a quiet cul-de-sac of Eccles. He hadn’t tried to resist at all, just smiled as Dave Hardy read him his rights, charging him with armed robbery.

  ‘I’ll be out by lunchtime,’ was all he said. And he was. The case was dropped by CPS six months later as witnesses miraculously discovered they could not remember anything about the incident. Even the post office manager who had stared down the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun suddenly acquired a bad case of amnesia.

  Intimidation. Extortion. Racketeering. All Connelly family values, and he would have to deal with them as well as report back to Claire Trent.