Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  ‘Well, I was driving along when this naked white guy suddenly ran across the road in front of me. He came out of nowhere. So I slammed on my brakes but I thought I wasn’t going to stop in time so I swerved onto the hard shoulder to avoid him.’ All the time he was speaking, Abdul Qadir was holding his arms in front of him as if gripping an imaginary steering wheel.

  ‘What did the man look like, Mr Qadir?’ Harrison was back asking the questions again.

  ‘Dunno really, it all happened so fast. He was white and he had no clothes on. I tell a lie. He was wearing a pair of boxers.’

  ‘What colour were they?’

  A frown appeared on Abdul Qadir’s forehead as he thought of the answer. ‘Blue, they were blue.’

  ‘Good, Mr Qadir. Can you tell us did you see anybody else on the road?’

  Ridpath sat forward. For him, this was the key question.

  ‘Somebody else?’

  ‘Yes, another person?’

  Abdul Qadir shook his head. ‘There was nobody on the road, only the naked white guy. Like I said, he just ran straight in front of me. I nearly hit him.’

  Ridpath sat back and sighed. He had seen somebody that day, hadn’t he? Why had nobody else seen the man with the gun?

  Inside the interview room, DS Harrison was speaking. ‘…Do you have a dash cam in your car?’

  ‘Abdul Qadir laughed. ‘In that old tin can? There’d be no point. Only cost me a hundred and fifty quid.’

  Charlie Whitworth turned to Ridpath. ‘He didn’t see anybody and there’s no footage. You’re screwed.’

  Ridpath held his head in his hands. Somebody must have seen the man. He can’t have been the only one.

  Inside the interview room, DS Harrison was now asking questions about the ownership of the car. ‘You are aware your car has false number plates?’

  Abdul Qadir held his hands up. ‘I don’t know nothing about that. Bought it from a man in a pub, said he needed the money urgently.’

  ‘You didn’t transfer ownership through the DVLA in Swansea. You have to notify the vehicle authorities if a car is bought or sold.’

  ‘I’m just a poor shop owner, I don’t know nothing about rules and regulations…’

  Charlie Whitworth nudged Ridpath’s arm. ‘Time for us to go. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I need to check on the surveillance guys watching Michael Connelly.’

  Then it hit Ridpath. He jumped up out of his seat and ran next door, bursting into the room as Abdul Qadir was explaining about his lack of licence and insurance.

  Both Harrison and Walsh stared at the him. ‘I just need to ask one question,’ he muttered.

  Harrison nodded to Walsh. She leant forward towards the recording machine and said, ‘Detective Inspector Ridpath has just entered the room.’

  Ridpath smiled at the witness. His voice was soft and emollient. ‘Mr Qadir, you said you saw nobody on the road, only the white male.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Did you see anybody at the side of the road?’

  ‘Do you mean not on the motorway or the hard shoulder?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  A slow smile crept across Abdul Qadir’s lips as he saw the detectives waiting for the answer. ‘I don’t know. The stress of knowing if I’m going to be charged with owning a car with the wrong plates has made me forgetful.’

  ‘I’m sure if you’re honest with us, DS Harrison will be able to take your honesty into account before he makes a decision on the charges. Won’t you DS Harrison?’

  ‘Of course, I will. A witness’s honesty is always important to me.’

  Abdul Qadir spent a few moments weighing up his answer, then he nodded his head. ‘I did see somebody at the side of the road. Not for long though. It was when I swerved around the naked man, I saw him out of the corner of my eye.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘A grey hoodie and jeans. He was standing near the fence at the side of the road.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  Abdul Qadir shook his head. ‘It was covered by his hoodie.’

  ‘Was he holding anything?’

  The Asian man thought for a moment and then shook his head again. ‘He may have been, but it all happened so quickly, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Qadir.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know. Are you still going to charge me?’

  Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s up to DS Harrison. Nothing to do with me, I’m afraid.’

  Ridpath left the room as DS Harrison began to speak to the witness. ‘As you have been co-operative and surrendered to the police voluntarily…’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Ridpath and his boss walked back to their cars, not talking to each other but smoking their own brands of cigarette.

  On their left the giant telephone box that was old Stretford Town Hall loomed over them. Across the road Lancashire County Cricket ground was silent as the cricket season was in its early stages and the team were playing somewhere else. Even the roads were quiet; not jammed with the thousands of football fans on their way to the match at the Stadium of Dreams just down the road.

  Finally Charlie spoke. ‘Looks like you’ve been vindicated, Ridpath. There was another man there.’

  ‘And the man was chasing Gerard Connelly, that’s why he ran across the M60.’

  A quiet puff of the Embassy followed by the expellation of smoke through the nostrils. Filtered by the moustache, it rose to halo Charlie’s head.

  Saint Charlie Whitworth, thought Ridpath, nothing could been further from the truth.

  ‘Aye, but still no confirmation of the gun.’

  ‘Jesus, Charlie, what do I need to do? I tell you I saw a gun in the man’s hand. He was going to shoot Gerard, but Connelly was hit by the lorry.’

  ‘I’ll let ma’am know we’ve got confirmation.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Now she’s going to have to change her story again.’

  ‘Why do you enjoy winding her up, Charlie? You’re just going to create trouble for yourself.’

  ‘There’s got to be some perks from this job, Ridpath. And seeing Ms Trent’s knickers in a twist is one of mine.’ Then he stared at Ridpath. ‘You’re not defending her, are you?’

  ‘She’s a good copper, Charlie, who’d be an even better guvnor if you let her.’

  ‘You are protecting her.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What happened between you two on the course? Did you give her one?’

  Ridpath stepped back. ‘You know me, Charlie, I’ve loved Polly from day one. Never been unfaithful to her. Ever.’ Ridpath neglected to mention that his night with Claire Trent happened before he met Polly. He crossed his fingers behind his back hoping Charlie wouldn’t ask about the timings.

  Instead, his boss pulled his nose, checking his fingers for any dirt. ‘Whatever. It looks like we got a full on gang war on our hands. Plenty of overtime for the uniforms before this is over.’ He took another drag of the Embassy. ‘I wonder which lot it was. Salford, Cheetham Hill or Moss Side?’

  ‘Could be a new mob we know nothing about,’ suggested Ridpath.

  ‘We’re buggered if you’re right.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The state of our intelligence these days is woeful. They’d rather spend money once it’s all kicked off, than try to stop it ever happening. Closing the community centres was the worst thing that ever happened. The gangs found a fertile recruiting ground amongst the estate kids.’

  ‘My money is on Big Terry in Salford’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno, a copper’s hunch. He’s young and he’s aggressive. Time to expand and where better than into Michael Connelly’s territory?’

  ‘But why knock off the youngest son. Surely, you’d go for the head of the snake, Connelly himself. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted to put the fear of God into our Michael, let him know it’s going to be him next.’

  ‘And give him time to retaliate. Connelly and his son are
not ones to take this lying down.’

  DS Harrison appeared at the double doors of the building and waved to them. He ran across the car park. ‘Thank God you’re still here, they’ve found a body. It’s Phil Marsland, Big Terry’s son.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ridpath and Charlie Whitworth signed the sheet held by a constable at the entrance to the car park of All Saints Church. They ducked under the police tape surrounding the scene and walked towards the centre of activity, stopping just in front of more police tape forming the inner cordon.

  Charlie went off to find Claire Trent. From where he stood Ridpath could see the naked body of Phil Marsland propped up in a sitting position leaning against a marble monument.

  On the stone were carved the words:

  Marshall Stevens, son of Sanders and Emma Stevens,

  18 April 1852 – 12 August 1936

  Whose life’s work lies around this spot.

  A founder of the Ship Canal

  Manager of the Manchester Ship Canal Co.

  Developer of Trafford Park

  Member of Parliament for Eccles

  Some eminent Victorian, no doubt. One of those people who had created the city and now lay here long forgotten.

  Surrounding the memorial was a phalanx of white coated SOCO’s with a pathologist, Protheroe this time, bent over examining the body closely. It looked to Ridpath like a mannequin on display in a department store, one whose clothes had not been put on yet.

  Off to the left an investigation of detectives stood around, waiting for permission to come forward. At the centre were Claire Trent and Charlie Whitworth, worried looks on both their faces.

  Unlike the middle of the M60, this crime scene was relatively easy to control, being in the grounds of a former Roman Catholic church. The church wasn’t used any more, but was still well looked after. A sign behind him proudly proclaimed it was in the care of the Greyfriars monks of London as it was the finest example in the country of one of Pugin’s Gothic Revival Churches.

  To Ridpath it looked dark and menacing, designed to impress its congregation with the power of the church rather than welcome them in to worship. He remembered his own brush with Catholicism in the shape of a large, bald priest called Father Newman who took perverse delight in hitting young boys who couldn’t remember their catechism.

  Bastard.

  The church was in a strange position, with no houses surrounding it. Instead, it was on its own next to the Ship Canal.

  Behind him, the dome of the Trafford Centre stood out like a beacon of trade and consumerism. To the left, the constant drone of traffic on the M60 and the cantilevered slope of the Chill Factor, an indoor skiing centre. To the right, the once proud factories of Trafford Park, now mostly abandoned or turned into retail parks. In front of him, the Manchester Ship Canal and Barton Swing Bridge. Across the bridge lay Eccles, a once prosperous but now tired post-industrial town, famous for just one thing. A pastry with raisins.

  Was the location significant? Here where Manchester, Eccles and Salford met. Was the person who killed Big Terry’s son sending a message?

  He looked back at the church. Nobody came here any more, there was no congregation, a perfect place to dump a body.

  The semi-naked corpse was still leaning on the monument, the white flesh stark in the cold light of a Manchester spring. ‘April is the cruellest month’. The words came back to him spoken in the voice of the Dominican teacher at his school. Another bastard, but one who loved English Lit. He would ask Polly later who had written it, she was bound to know.

  And then he remembered he wouldn’t be seeing Polly later. Or Eve. A wave of sadness washed over his body, drowning him in its hurt.

  Pull yourself together Ridpath.

  He walked over to join the detectives. Charlie Whitworth acknowledged his arrival, but Claire Trent ignored him. His DCI must have already told her the news about Abdul Qadir.

  Ridpath glanced back at the naked body, now shielded from view by the white-suited pathologist and another SOCO. ‘How do we know it’s Big Terry’s son?’

  ‘One of the uniforms recognised him. Pulled him in a couple of years ago for possession,’ answered Charlie.

  ‘Cocaine or heroin?’

  ‘A lump of dope. The magistrate let him off with a small fine and a slap on the wrist. Hardly worth the bother.’

  Claire Trent glanced up at him. ‘What are you doing here, Ridpath?’

  ‘I brought him,’ said Charlie, ‘he’s the coroner’s eyes and ears. Also, we can do with every man we’ve got at the moment.’

  Charlie blushed as he realised what he had just said to his senior officer. ‘…And woman too, of course,’ he stammered.

  Claire Trent ignored him. ‘You’ve met Michael Connelly?’

  ‘Got the phone call from Charlie as I was leaving him. He’s spitting fire about the death of his son.’

  ‘Looks like he’s already started getting revenge, didn’t wait long,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s too upset over Gerard Connelly’s death. Hasn’t left his taxi shed since the news according to the daughter.’

  ‘He could have ordered the killing.’

  Ridpath remembered Graham Connelly coming in to the shed after he had arrived. ‘I met the eldest son. Nasty piece of work.’

  ‘You don’t know half of it,’ said Charlie.

  The pathologist stood up, stared at the body one last time as if saying a prayer, and walked towards them, pulling the Tyvex mask and hood away from his face. ‘I’ve just pronounced him dead at 5:35 p.m.’

  ‘You don’t need a bloody degree to work that one out,’ said Charlie.

  Protheroe stared at him. ‘But I have one and it allows me to make that determination, Chief Inspector. You, on the other hand, don’t and couldn’t.’

  Claire Trent was becoming visibly annoyed by the bickering. ‘Get a grip both of you. This isn’t some petty playground squabble, a man is lying dead over there.’ She pointed back towards the monument. The scene of crime team were erecting a white tent over it, shielding the body from view.

  Charlie nodded once and looked away. Dr Protheroe stood his ground, the muscle at the side of his face twitching beneath the unshaven cheeks.

  ‘What can you tell us, doctor?’

  ‘It’s early days and I’ll know more when I take the body back for a complete post-mortem. Death appears to be from a single gunshot wound to the right temple, the bullet exiting just below the left ear. Death would have been instantaneous.’

  ‘Self-inflicted?’ asked Claire Trent.’

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘Not a chance, unless he held a gun with his toes. The hands were tied behind his back. Additionally, the body displays cuts and burn marks made before he died.’

  ‘He was tortured?’ said Claire Trent.

  ‘I believe so, but once again, these are observational findings only. Please wait for my full report after the post-mortem.’

  ‘It looks like it’s on display, propped up against the monument,’ said Charlie.

  Claire Trent ignored the observation, asking the pathologist, ‘Time of death?’

  ‘I’ve checked his body with a rectal thermometer and I would estimate he died between six and eight hours ago.’

  ‘So around ten o’clock?’

  The pathologist nodded. ‘I also believe he wasn’t killed here.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘In layman’s terms, there are inconsistencies in the pathology that rule out this area as the place of death.’

  ‘Such as?’ Charlie pressed him.

  ‘Again in layman’s terms, the body shows signs of having lain on its left side for a considerable time before it was placed in a sitting position. Additionally, there is a complete absence of blood or brain matter on the ground around the body, suggesting he was killed elsewhere and then placed here.’

  Ridpath jumped in. ‘How long did the body lie on its side before it was moved?�
�

  ‘A good question, DI Ridpath. The lividity suggest something in the region of two hours, but again please do not quote me.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. That’s really useful.’

  Charlie Whitworth stared at him. ‘Why? Why is it useful?’

  ‘Because it means if the body was killed around ten o’clock and then lay on its side for two hours, the earliest he could have been placed here was noon.’

  ‘That would be my best estimate.’ The doctor glanced over his shoulder, pulling his Tyvex hood back over his head. The SOCOs had finished erecting the tent. ‘Time to finish my preliminary examination.’ He turned to walk away, stopping for a second and then turning back. ‘One more thing, his penis was removed after death. We can’t find it anywhere near the body.’

  There was a collective intake of breath from the assembled male detectives.

  Before Ridpath could ask another question, a shout erupted from the direction of the main road.

  ‘Let me see him. I want to see him.’

  Ridpath, Claire Trent and the rest of the detectives ran towards the commotion.

  A large bald-headed man with a bright blue tattoo of a spider’s web on his neck was struggling with two sergeants and a constable.

  ‘I want to see him He’s my son, let me see him.’

  ‘Terry, calm down. You know we can’t let you into the crime scene,’ Claire Trent shouted.

  ‘But he’s my son, you bastards. I’ve gotta see him.’

  More cars were screeching to a halt on the road outside the church. The doors swung open and more thugs piled out, advancing towards the thin blue line of policemen guarding the outer cordon. In the front of the thugs was a blonde-haired woman who seemed to be their leader.

  ‘Steve, get on to HQ and request back-up immediately from the tactical unit. Make it a priority.’

  The DC who drove her around, shouted ‘yes, guvnor,’ and ran back to where his car was parked.

  The new thugs arrived in force and immediately pulled their boss away from the uniformed coppers and began to push their way through the cordon. The blonde-haired woman stood next to her father, clenching and unclenching her fists.