Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  His face was illuminated by the flair of the lighter and a stream of smoke flowed from his mouth. ‘Now why don’t you think it was Michael Connelly?’

  Same old Charlie, like a terrier with a rat once an idea had parked itself in his head.

  Ridpath sat down next to him. ‘Because it doesn’t make sense. The four gangs had an agreement. They were all making money, why spoil it?’

  ‘They are stupid thugs, Ridpath, shit doesn’t have to make sense. You must have heard the story of the scorpion?’

  Ridpath shook his head.

  ‘A scorpion is walking through the desert when he spots a mouse in front of him. “I’m very tired, can you give me a lift to the top of the hill?” He asks the mouse. The mouse shakes his head. “If I let you climb on my back and take you there, you’ll sting me with your tail.” “I promise on my mother’s life, I won’t,” the scorpion said. So the mouse shrugs his shoulders and allows the scorpion to climb on his back, racing away up the hill to the top. When they get there the scorpion raises his tail and stings the mouse on his head. As the mouse lies dying he asks the scorpion why he stung him. The scorpion answers “because that’s who I am. It’s what I do.”.’

  Charlie Whitworth sat back with a smug smile on his face and took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘It’s what they do.’

  ‘A cute story but it still doesn’t answer me. There are reasons why Michael Connelly didn’t do it.’

  ‘Go on.

  ‘Two things. First, I was with Michael Connelly and his son this afternoon. The way they were talking it was obvious they hadn’t taken action yet.’

  ‘They were just playing you,’ Charlie sneered. ‘I bet they remembered you were a copper the second you walked through the door. I told Claire Trent, Connelly wouldn’t fall for it, but would she listen?’ He shook his head. ‘Cloth ears, that one.’

  ‘Secondly, Big Terry said his boy was last seen on Thursday evening.’

  ‘He had a date with some woman.’

  ‘That means he vanished before we told Michael Connelly his son was dead.’

  ‘But you’re forgetting the age-old mantra of the detective.’

  Ridpath stared at him wondering what was coming.

  ‘What plus why equals who. The what was the shooting, the preferred method of Michael Connelly. The why was revenge for the death of his son. An eye for an eye. Put those two together and we get the who. Michael bloody Connelly and his family. All we have to do now is find the evidence.’

  ‘We’ve got something happening,’ said the detective from surveillance.

  Charlie and Ridpath rushed to the side of the window.

  ‘Down below them a van pulled up. Graham Connelly stepped out with his arm draped over the shoulders of a twelve-year-old, blond-haired boy. They were followed by an older, chubbier man dressed in a black track suit and trainers. The van drove off and, for a few moments, the three people stood on the pavement chatting. All the while, Graham Connelly was playing with the boy’s hair.

  ‘Shit, he’s underage,’ said Charlie. ‘You heard the briefing, Graham Connelly has form for paedophilia and he’s on the sex offenders’ register.’

  The three people were still standing on the street. Now, Graham Connelly and the young boy were play fighting. Connelly picked up the boy and lifted him over his shoulder, patting his bottom.

  ‘You’ve got to do something, Charlie,’ said Ridpath.

  The two adults were talking now but Ridpath couldn’t see what they were saying. The fat man pointed at the young boy.

  Graham Connelly reached into his jacket, pulling out his wallet. Money was taken out and passed over to the fat man. Again something was said which Ridpath couldn’t see. Then the fat man walked away, leaving Graham Connelly and the young boy together. They chatted for a moment, then Connelly’s arm went over the boy’s shoulders and they walked to the entrance of the apartments.

  ‘You have to do something Charlie, they’re going inside.’

  Charlie rushed to the Airwave radio on the desk. He pressed the send button. The machine squawked for a second before a male voice on the end of the line said, ‘Comms here. Go ahead.’

  ‘This is DCI Whitworth, can you patch me through to Detective Superintendent Trent?’

  Ridpath saw Charlie’s mobile phone lying on the desk next to him. Why didn’t Charlie just call her on her mobile? He must have the number.

  Comms answered. ‘Just patching you through now, DCI Whitworth, hold on…’

  A few more squawks and then it hit Ridpath. All communications on the Airwave were monitored and recorded. It was his way of ensuring the conversation was part of the record. Even now Charlie was thinking politically. At that moment Ridpath realised he never wanted to do Charlie’s job, where every action was considered and evaluated for its political effect.

  ‘You’re through, DCI Whitworth.’

  ‘Trent here, you got something for me, Charlie.’

  ‘Not exactly, ma’am, we have a problem.’

  The voice when it answered was slow and questioning without asking a question ‘Go ahead…’

  ‘We have just seen Graham Connelly entering his apartment in the Northern Quarter with a minor. A boy who can’t be more than twelve years old.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If you remember, ma’am, Graham Connelly was charged with sexual assault on a young boy.’

  ‘I remember, Charlie.’ There was a soft buzzing from the machine before Claire Trent’s voice came on the other end of the line. ‘But if we charge in there mob handed, Graham Connelly is going to know we are watching him. It will make it impossible for us to monitor his movements and conversations covertly any more.’

  ‘But it’s a twelve-year-old boy?’

  ‘You are to do nothing, DCI Whitworth.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You are to continue with your surveillance but do nothing to jeopardise this operation, is that clear?’

  Charlie didn’t answer, his eyes frantically moving left and right searching for a solution.

  ‘I said you are to do nothing except carry on with your surveillance.’

  Ridpath stared at Charlie. The surveillance detective shrugged his shoulders. A sound clicked and the tape on the recorders began to revolve. Muffled voices came through the speakers.

  ‘You just sit yourself down on the couch. What would you like to drink? A coke or something stronger?’ Graham Connelly’s Manchester whine.

  A young boy’s voice answered. ‘Do you have a beer, Mr Connelly? I’d like a beer.’

  ‘Coming right up. You should check out the video games and see which one you want to play.’

  Charlie tried once more. ‘But ma’am, I believe an offence is about to be committed…’

  Claire Trent’s voice cut him off. ‘You have your orders, DCI Whitworth. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Charlie clicked off the Airwave.

  At the same time a male voice, Graham Connelly’s, came through the speaker. ‘Here’s your beer, I hope San Miguel is ok; don’t want you getting too drunk.’ A rustling sound. ‘You’ve chosen Assassin’s Creed. It’s great, I’m up to level 6 already. You put it in. I’m just going to get changed, get out of my street clothes. You want to get changed?’

  The sound of XBox. ‘Nah, it’s ok.’

  ‘Charlie you have to do something.’ said Ridpath.

  ‘What? You heard Trent. She gave me a direct order.’

  Ridpath pointed out the window, ‘There’s a twelve-year-old kid over there, on his own with a known sex offender and you’re going to do nothing?’

  ‘You heard her. She gave me a direct order, I can do nothing.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But she didn’t give you a direct order, Ridpath. She doesn’t even know you’re here.’ He turned to the surveillance officer. ‘Grant, was DI Ridpath with me tonight?’

  ‘Who? Never heard of him, boss.’

  Ridpath stood up. ‘I’ll ju
st go out to get some sandwiches and coffee.’

  ‘There’s a cafe round the corner that’s open. I think they have a payphone too, just in case you want to call somebody.’

  More voices through the speakers. ‘Right, it’s one on one. Before we start, you want another beer.’

  ‘Ta, Mr Connelly, that would be great.’

  ‘Did you hear, Grant?’ Charlie leant forward cupping his left ear. ‘Is that a domestic disturbance in the flat?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Charlie, could be?’

  Ridpath nodded once to Charlie and opened the door to the flat. As he was about to leave, his DCI said, ‘after you’ve eaten, Ridpath, you don’t need to come back. I’ll handle everything from now on.’

  Ridpath closed the door behind him.

  Sometimes he hated his job.

  This was one of those times.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  As soon as Ridpath arrived home he headed straight for the shower, standing under it for fifteen minutes as the hot water rained down on his head.

  What had just happened?

  Had he really just gone against Claire Trent’s direct order and rung in a false report to 999? The conversation kept flashing through his brain.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’

  ‘It’s my next door neighbour. He’s hitting his wife. I can hear it. He’s just shouted he’s going to kill her.’

  The woman on dispatch was calm and controlled. ‘What’s the address of the disturbance, sir.’

  ‘Twenty-five Reston Street, flat 3B.’

  ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘You’ve got to come quickly, I can hear them fighting.’

  ‘A police car has already been dispatched. What is your name, sir?’

  He put down the phone, his hand shaking as he did it.

  Already, he could hear the distant whine of a police siren, getting closer. They were quick today.

  He thought about going back to the surveillance post but Charlie had been clear. Let him handle it. So Ridpath had flagged down a cab and come straight home.

  The water was going cold. He switched off the tap and stepped out into the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror.

  Who was he now?

  A man who, for the first time in his life, had disobeyed a direct order. OK, it wasn’t given to him but he had heard it loud and clear. And yet he didn’t feel guilty about what he did. Instead, a vague unhappiness, a disquiet, inhabited his body.

  Was this why he had become a copper? To let paedophiles molest young children because preventing them would jeopardise an operation? Hadn’t it been drilled into them time and time again their job was to serve the public not simply look for the next arrest or the next promotion?

  What had happened?

  He coughed twice. A harsh, wracking cough.

  Better get dressed before I catch cold. That’s the last thing I need.

  He put on his clothes, all the time a sense of weariness hanging over him like a shroud. Was this why he had become a copper?

  That night he drank far too much Laphroaig, emptying the bottle.

  But he still slept badly.

  Day Five

  Sunday, April 22, 2018

  Chapter Forty-Three

  He woke up on Sunday morning with a slight hangover. Nothing too bad; just a dry, sticky mouth with the aftertaste of scotch coating his tongue.

  After three mugs of strong coffee he rang Polly, hoping that Eve would be free and they could spend some time together.

  All he reached was her voicemail. ‘Polly Lim is busy at the moment as is her daughter. If you leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. If you are trying to sell me insurance or any other useless consumer item I don’t need, you can bugger off. Bye…’

  Ridpath tried again, this time leaving a message, hoping when she heard his voice she would pick up the phone.

  But she didn’t. Instead, the only thing he remembered was that she was calling herself Polly Lim now, her maiden name. She was no longer Polly Ridpath.

  Not good.

  Not good at all.

  He switched on the local news. United had beaten Spurs 2-1 in the semi-final of the FA Cup, so the lads were off to Wembley. Should he try to get tickets, perhaps take Eve and Polly down to London for the weekend? He’d ask Polly when he saw her.

  The rest of the news was the same old stuff. Verne Troyer had died. A woman had been assaulted on a late night bus. A punk festival was in town. The usual shenanigans on Coronation Street. Three people had been assaulted in Manchester city centre after a night on the town.

  But nothing about the murder or any gang activity. GMP must have been pulling out all the stops to keep it quiet, but anybody with a pair of eyes would have noticed more police on the streets.

  Perhaps he should go to police HQ? He was sure they needed some help. After three days on high alert, without any leave, there were bound to be some detectives who had called in sick.

  But then he would have to spend time with Claire Trent and he didn’t really want to face her, not after last night. Too many awkward questions.

  Then he remembered City were playing at home today against Swansea so the jams on Oldham Road near HQ would be horrendous. Definitely another reason to avoid going anywhere near there.

  He couldn’t stay at home though, staring at four walls and an unopened bottle of Laphroaig staring at him.

  So he decided to go into the office and clear up the rest of the backlog of work waiting for him. At least, he could start the week well.

  He drove over to Stockfield, this time avoiding the M60, parking the car next to a disused church rather than paying extortionate rates for the car park.

  He presumed the office would be empty, it was Sunday after all, but he found Margaret Challinor behind her desk.

  ‘Morning, Ridpath. Didn’t expect to see you here today.’

  She was wearing a mauve wool jumper and jeans, with her grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing the clearest skin and the absence of any wrinkles. It made her look young and youthful, belying her age.

  ‘I thought I would clear the backlog of work.’

  ‘Very commendable of you.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Same, really. Plus since my son and daughter have gone to university, I find the house a little quiet on a Sunday.’

  ‘No husband?’ Ridpath wondered whether he had overstepped the mark and offended her in asking such a personal question.

  Instead, she just laughed. ‘He left long ago, for a younger model I’m afraid, and he’s married again. Not to the woman he left me for though, somebody else. Doing rather well is John, a barrister, specialising in maritime law. And you, how are Polly and Eve?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Are you two still living apart?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘Give her time. She just needs time.’ Margaret Challinor smiled and then, as if embarrassed by their intimacy, immediately changed the subject. ‘How was your meeting with Michael Connelly?’

  ‘Not good.’ Ridpath told her everything. ‘You’ll have to assign somebody else. I don’t think he’ll want to see somebody he knows is a copper.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re wrong. He rang my mobile this morning. He wants you to continue liaising with his family. He calls you that “bloody copper”.’

  Ridpath frowned. ‘How did he get your mobile number?’

  ‘I thought you had given it to him.’

  ‘Why would I do that? Is it unlisted?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Ridpath frowned again. ‘Be careful, Mrs Challinor. The Connellys are dangerous people, not to be trifled with.’

  ‘I have no intention of “trifling” with anybody, Ridpath. He called me and I answered the phone. That’s all.’

  ‘Just be careful, Mrs Challinor.’


  He turned to leave, but her voice called him back.

  ‘Ridpath, the pathologist’s report on Ronald Wilson has finally come in. I haven’t read it yet but I think Jenny gave it to you. Can you look at it and tell me what you think?’

  Was this a test or her trying to show she had confidence in him? Margaret Challinor had a degree in forensic science, she would be able to understand the report far better than him.

  No matter.

  ‘I’ll get right on it and give you the topline.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The brown envelope was sitting in the middle of his desk, no stamp or address.

  Inside was a handwritten note.

  For DI Ridpath,

  Here is a copy of my post-mortem report on the death of Ronald Wilson. I have sent copies to the Police and the Crown Prosecution Service. In my considered opinion the death was unnatural.

  If you would like to discuss any element of this report, please do not hesitate to contact me.

  I remain your obedient servant,

  James Schofield

  Ridpath turned over the nine-page report. It was in a new template he had not seen before and seemed to be detailed in the extreme. A quick glance revealed it was written in an opaque medical language. Luckily, Dr Schofield had also attached a shorter topline.

  STATEMENT of WITNESS

  Statement of: Dr James Schofield, BSc, MB, BS, MRC Path, DipRCPath (Forensic)

  Age of Witness: 32

  Occupation: Greater Manchester Police Pathologist

  Address: Forensic Pathology Services

  This statement consisting of 9 pages signed by me, is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it anything I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

  The bottom was signed and dated by Dr Schofield. Ridpath was amazed the man was thirty-two, but looked eighteen. But given his medical condition, it was to be expected.

  He turned the page and continued to read.

  FINAL POST-MORTEM REPORT

  Mr Ronald Arthur Wilson – date of birth: 02.02.95.