Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  ‘Twins. Born sometime between April and June 1995. Their names were Ronald George and Reginald Michael Wilson.’

  ‘Ronald George Wilson? Is that our vic in the Secret Lake?’

  Ridpath nodded. ‘Ronnie and Reggie were also the Christian names of the Kray Twins.’

  ‘The East London gangsters?’ asked Maureen.

  ‘Why would Harry Wilson name his sons after two of the most violent gangsters Britain has ever known?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Tommy. But a better one would be what happened to Reginald Wilson?’

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It was late when Ridpath finally reached home. Maureen had rummaged around in the records but couldn’t find anything new on the Wilson murder. She had managed to dig up a birth announcement from an archived copy of the Manchester Evening News.

  Harry and Doreen Wilson are excited to announce the arrival of twin sons, Ronald and Reginald, born on April 2, 1995. Mum is tired but very happy. Dad is drunk. Two are always better than one.

  She had also dug up a few articles from the period. The Manchester Evening News prided itself on its crime coverage. The fact that lurid stories of rapes, murders, assaults and arrests sold tons of newspapers was neither here nor there.

  This one’s headline was a classic:

  ‘Suspected gang leader meets violent death’

  One of the alleged leaders of Manchester’s most violent gangs, Harry Wilson, met his own nemesis in the shape of two lead bullets fired from an automatic pistol yesterday. At three in the afternoon the assailant, wearing a dark blue hat on his head, walked into the Davenport on Deansgate, took out his gun and shot the alleged gang mastermind twice, once in the chest and again in the head.

  The gang leader was pronounced dead at the scene by the pathologist of Manchester Royal Infirmary, Harold Lardner. A paramedic at the scene said, ‘With those injuries nobody was going to survive.’

  Witnesses to the incident report the killer moved quickly and the time from him entering the pub to the death of Harry Wilson was less than one minute.

  Liam Livingstone, a friend of Mr Wilson said, ‘We were having a quiet drink in the back room of the bar when in walked this man and shot Harry dead. He didn’t stand a chance, but we’re going to get who did it. Nobody gets away with this.’

  Detective Sergeant Edward Roylance, leading the investigation appealed for calm, saying. ‘The police will find out who committed this dastardly crime and when we do, they will be put away for a long time. This crime has all the hallmarks of a professional operation.’

  The Manchester Evening News has since learnt that the killer drove away in a green Ford Mondeo, licence plate M478 RWQ. The car was later found abandoned in the Gorton district of Manchester.

  If any witnesses saw the incident or have anything to report, please call the hotline on 865-1111.

  Next to the report was a picture of the pub, the Davenport. A year later it was severely damaged when the IRA planted a bomb in the centre of Manchester blowing out the beautiful stained glass windows that had survived a hundred years of drunks, fights and the best the Nazis could throw at them.

  Beneath that was another picture. This time of a woman with her head down, obviously distraught, being escorted by a uniformed police officer. It was captioned ‘Doreen Wilson being led away from the scene of the crime by police.’

  By the time Maureen found this it was already eleven p.m. Tommy decided he’d had enough and went home. Ridpath followed soon afterwards. Now here he was, back in an empty house, it definitely wasn’t a home.

  Ridpath yawned and stretched, throwing his bag down on the floor. He was tired, more tired than he had ever felt before.

  He walked over to the cabinet and poured himself a generous serving of Laphroaig, adding just a splash of water for the health of it. As if by magic, the glass rose to his lips and he took a large mouthful. A shiver ran through his body and he suddenly trembled with cold. Not the normal reaction to a dram of Scotland’s best.

  Tired, too tired.

  He switched on the heating and sat down. How could he get everything clear in his mind? At the moment there were far too many questions and far too few answers.

  Who killed Elsie Granger? And why?

  There seemed to be no point. She was an old lady, incapable of hurting anybody. Jesus, she even struggled to make herself a cup of tea. So why kill her? There had to be a reason.

  Could she have told Ridpath more?

  Probably.

  A deep slash to the throat was sure to silence her for good.

  He kicked himself. Why didn’t he ask her more questions? Why had he been more concerned that she drank a cup of tea rather than doing his job as a copper?

  Then he remembered he wasn’t a copper any more but a coroner’s officer. He raised his whisky in the air, seeing the honey coloured liquid through the squares of the cut glass. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’

  He took another big mouthful, feeling the heat as it slipped down his throat and a sharp pain as he swallowed. Strange, there seemed to be no taste. He touched his nose to the side of the glass.

  He couldn’t smell anything. Usually, the whisky was overpowering with the scent of peat and malt and honey and the sea.

  Now nothing.

  He sneezed twice and a shiver wracked his bones. Was the loss of smell due to the tablets? He would ask Dr Morris at his next check-up. Or was he going down with a cold or flu? If it was the latter, he should report to the doctor at Christies. But they might take him for observation and then what would happen to the case? Nobody else would follow it up and Tommy Harper was as useless as a wet Wednesday in Accrington.

  He’d take a few paracetamol and drink the Vitamin C Polly had bought for him. Make himself a hot whisky before he went to bed. And, Bob’s your uncle, he would be right as rain in the morning.

  He couldn’t stop the investigation. Not now he was so close. And somebody had to find Elsie Granger’s killer. Old women should be allowed to live out their days in peace not suffer attacks by mindless thugs.

  His mind flashed back to that day on the M60. It felt like years ago, but less than six days had passed since the incident.

  What was the link to the death of Gerard Connelly? The same rope had been used by the kidnapper in both cases. Was it Reginald Wilson?

  As a twin of his brother Ronald, it would explain the likeness in the photographs. The pictures of the dead Ronald were the spitting image of the man with the gun.

  At least they knew he had been murdered now. It wasn’t just an accident on the motorway. Was the killing of Phil Marsland revenge for Gerard’s death or was there another reason?

  How did the death of Harry Wilson fit into all this? It happened over twenty years ago, yet it seemed to run through the case like words through a stick of Blackpool rock.

  None of it made any sense.

  He took another long gulp of whisky. A shiver ran down his spine again, but this time of pleasure rather than cold. What was Charlie up to now? Was he still staking out Graham Connelly? Watching over him like a wolf guarding lambs?

  As the whisky took over his tired mind and his eyes began to droop, another thought raced around his head.

  Elsie Granger had taken care of Ronald Wilson after his father’s death, but what had happened to the other children, Reginald and Christine?

  And more, where had their mother gone?

  Day Seven

  Tuesday, April 24, 2018

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Ridpath woke up to find himself still sitting in the chair, the whisky tumbler lying at his feet and the aroma of stale alcohol in the air. Light was pouring in through the curtains.

  What time is it?

  The clock on the mantelpiece said 6:35 a.m. What time had he fallen asleep?

  He stretched his neck left and right, hearing the tendons click. The muscles of his legs ached where they had been pressed against the arm chair. The heating was still on and he was tired, grumpy and feeling sorr
y for himself.

  He picked up the glass and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. His stomach rumbled. Had he eaten yesterday? A sandwich from Pret a Manger with Tommy Harper and umpteen cups of coffee. A bacon sandwich would work a treat.

  He opened the fridge. Inside was a half pack of margarine, a shrivelled apple and the milk smelt like it was off.

  Worse than Elsie Granger’s fridge. At least, she had an excuse.

  Black coffee it was going to be then. He looked around the kitchen for the jar. Where did Polly keep it? Nothing in the cupboards except tins of spaghetti hoops, Eve’s favourites. He thought about opening one but the idea of them for breakfast made his stomach churn. The rest of the cupboard was filled with assorted packets of cereal, dried spices well past their sell-by date and packets of Polly’s favourite instant noodles.

  His body felt tired and his head heavy and swollen. Had he drunk a lot of the Laphroaig last night? He only remembered drinking one glass before he fell asleep.

  Sod this for a game of soldiers. He would pick up something from the canteen and go to the supermarket when he had five minutes. Why he didn’t buy anything when he had been shopping for Mrs Granger escaped him.

  He showered, changed his clothes and was in the car in thirty minutes. On went David Bowie and Jean Genie; he needed something to give him some energy before facing Charlie Whitworth.

  After twenty minutes of the thin white dude he was ready to face the world. The life enhancing properties of a couple of bacon sarnies and he would be all set for the day.

  He just stepped into police HQ, when Charlie met him at the lifts.

  ‘You’ve been a bad little soldier, Ridpath.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come with me. Madam is waiting for you in her office.’

  ‘Claire Trent?’

  ‘Who else?’

  They walked into the lift, getting out on the MIT floor. Ridpath was dying to ask Charlie what it was all about, but his boss just stared straight ahead at the polished aluminium of the lift door.

  They walked across the detectives’ floor. Most people were already at their desks, tapping away on their old PCs. A few raised their eyes as Ridpath walked past, but quickly dropped them again.

  Why did this feel like a scene from the Green Mile? Another dead man walking?

  Charlie tapped on the door, heard a brisk ‘Enter’ from inside and opened it, gesturing for Ridpath to go in first.

  Claire Trent was sitting behind her desk, make-up as immaculate as ever and a mountain of papers and reports in front of her.

  ‘When were you going to tell me, Ridpath?’

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  He placed the Uzi in the black holdall along with three extra mags just in case he needed them. He was only planning to use one mag, but you never knew what was going to happen.

  The 6P mantra drilled into his brain during his army training had stayed with him. Piss Poor Planning Prevents Proper Performance.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘Locked and loaded.’

  She put on her coat. ‘Right, let’s get going. I’ll leave the car on Moorside Road in Urmston. You can pick it up and dump the one you stole yesterday there. Leave the keys in the ignition. With a bit of luck the local kids will nick it and lead our friends in the police a merry chase. I’ll put a whisper on the street to let them know.’

  He stood up and kissed her on the forehead. ‘You’ve already told me the plan ten times.’

  ‘Eleven doesn’t hurt.’

  He pushed a blonde hair off her forehead. ‘You’re nervous?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why? We’ve done all the planning, nothing can go wrong. We’ve got them all at each other’s throats and killing the old lady removed any links to our past.’

  ‘It’s just… it’s the last step. If we get this right, then we can sit back and watch them kill each other.’ She reached out and touched his cheek.

  ‘You’re going to enjoy that?’

  ‘You have no idea how much. It’s time to pay them all back for the death of our father. The delivery of arms will go through?’

  ‘Big Terry should get them tonight.’

  She smiled. ‘Moss Side and Cheetham Hill are primed and waiting?’

  ‘We’ve been feeding them both arms for the last six months. Nothing too good. Just a few old Makarovs to tempt them. The good stuff will come in the next few days.’

  ‘Courtesy of Dominguez’s partners?’

  ‘Former partners. We are their new retailers in the UK.’

  She moved away. ‘It’s all just business to them. But for us, it’s far more than that.’

  ‘After today Connelly will have to move quickly.’

  ‘But he won’t. He’s too old now, too slow, not like before.’

  ‘What about Graham?’

  She sniggered. ‘Graham. A wet fart in a blanket. Gerard was the smart one and without him they are lost.’ She opened the door. ‘Time for me to go. I’ll see you tonight?’

  ‘I’ll be here waiting.’

  ‘Reggie, take the other route, don’t drive past the police. No point in taking chances, not now.’

  ‘Sure, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It’s better.’ She nodded once and then left.

  He checked his watch. He would leave exactly at 10:30 a.m. ETA on target at 11:00 a.m. Change cars at 11:07 a.m. Home again 11:35 a.m. Cars fuelled and checked. Satnav disabled. Don’t want them to find out where he came from.

  He smiled to himself. He would drive past the police in their shitty silver Vauxhall Vectra. He had to have some fun in life, despite what his sister said. What was the point of doing anything, unless there was some thrill involved, a chance of being caught?

  But the thrill only worked if you were prepared.

  6Ps. Remember them.

  He took the Uzi out of the holdall. Time for one last check.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, guvnor.’

  ‘Don’t “guvnor” me, Ridpath, not when you’ve been holding back information.’

  ‘With all due respect, ma’am, I didn’t hold back any information.’

  ‘That’s not what Tommy Harper told me this morning.’

  So the fat toe-rag had tried to ingratiate himself by calling Claire Trent and telling her everything they had discovered last night. ‘Can I sit down?’

  She nodded.

  He pulled out a chair. ‘I haven’t told you yet because I’m still not sure we are onto anything.’

  ‘A mistake, Ridpath. Your job is to keep me informed, not keep me in the dark. The message from Tommy Harper was so garbled as to be unintelligible. Something about a gangland killing twenty years ago.’

  So the beer belly on legs couldn’t even get his facts straight. ‘I was going to let DCI Whitworth know this morning…’

  ‘Really?’ said Claire Trent, her eyes rolling upward. Then you’d better tell me now what you think you have discovered.’

  ‘DI Ridpath arranged to meet me before the briefing, ma’am.’ At least, Charlie was defending him.

  ‘So?’ She checked her watch. ‘We have three minutes before the briefing starts. What’s going on, Ridpath?’

  He took a deep breath. His career was hanging by a thread here. If he made one wrong move, Claire Trent would have him working in lost property for the rest of his life. A fate worse than death.

  ‘Margaret Challinor asked me to look into the death of a man called Ronald Wilson. His body was found in Wingate Lake just over a week ago…’

  ‘What’s this got to do with our gangs?’

  ‘I’m getting there.’ He sneezed twice. Claire Trent handed him a box of tissues from her desk. He wiped his nose and continued, ‘She felt the death was suspicious. The police report was inconclusive; either suicide or an accident. But she felt something was wrong.’

  ‘She has good instincts does Margaret Challinor.’

  ‘The pathologist
’s report stated Ronald Wilson was murdered; a stab wound in the brain.’

  ‘This is all very good but how does it impact the case we are working on right now…?’

  Ridpath held his hand up. He felt another sneeze coming on but stifled it. ‘I noticed some links between the Wilson case and the death of Gerard Connelly. Both were semi-naked when found, both just wearing blue boxers. Both had ingested a sleeping drug, Ambien. And both had rope marks on their wrists.’

  ‘It’s very tenuous, Ridpath, even for you. CPS would throw the case out before it went to court.’

  ‘That’s why I asked the pathologist, Dr Schofield, to compare and contrast the two men to see if there were any links in the way they died.’

  ‘And were there?’

  Ridpath nodded. ‘He found the rope marks on both men to be similar…’

  ‘Similar is not evidence, Ridpath.’ Charlie Whitworth interrupted.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet. He also found Ronald Wilson’s DNA on minute rope fibres discovered on Gerard Connelly’s body.’

  Claire Trent leant forward in her chair, ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s it really. It shows the same rope was used to bind both men. And if the same rope was used…’

  ‘Then they were tied up by the same person. The two cases are linked.’ She sat back again. ‘But there’s no link between the two deaths. As you said, one was stabbed in the brain, the other run over. Have you considered the samples could have been cross contaminated? They were both analysed in the same lab. Plus surely the amount of DNA would have been very small. Has Schofield performed verification tests?’

  Ridpath sat there staring into mid-air. It was a possibility. He hadn’t thought to ask Schofield about verification tests. If the DNA did come from laboratory contamination then all his assumptions were wrong…’

  The slamming shut of Claire Trent’s desk diary brought Ridpath rapidly back to the office in police HQ. ‘It’s not enough. We have a briefing right now…’

  ‘I also asked him to liaise with Protheroe to see if there was a link with the murder of Phil Marsland and of Ronald Wilson’s grandmother, Elsie Granger,’ Ridpath stammered a reply.