‘Hang on a minute. You’re saying that you think all these cases are linked? One person has been killing all these people?’ Charlie was suddenly animated.
Ridpath took another deep breath. Why did he feel so tired, it’s like all his bones were aching. ‘I have come to that conclusion, yes.’
‘Where’s your proof?’
‘I don’t have any yet. It’s just an educated guess. I’ll know more this afternoon, when Protheroe reports.’
Charlie sat back. ‘You’ve got nothing. You’re just wasting our time, Ridpath.’
Claire Trent held out her hand to stop the DCI from speaking. ‘But why, Ridpath? If these deaths are linked, as you say, there must be a reason?’
‘I’m not sure, ma’am. I think it’s to do with the murder of a man called Harry Wilson twenty years ago,’
‘Hang on, Harry Wilson? Wasn’t he shot dead in a pub on Corporation Street? They never found the killer.’
‘I think he was Ronald Wilson’s father.’
Charlie Whitworth closed his eyes, shaking his head. ‘It makes no sense, Ridpath, why would anybody kill the son of a man shot dead twenty years ago?’
There was an urgent knock on the door. The detective constable who drove Claire Trent entered without waiting for an answer. ‘Sorry to disturb, guvnor, but the briefing is ready to start.’
She nodded at him before turning back to Ridpath. ‘Look, I’ve got two of Manchester’s biggest gangs ready to start all-out war. As we speak, both Big Terry and Michael Connelly are looking for guns to start killing each other. I have a chief constable breathing down my neck demanding results. I have all the district commanders screaming about overtime bills.’ She picked up a few sheets of paper from her desk and waved them in the air. ‘And to top it all off, I’ve just had both the police commissioner and the mayor of Manchester on the phone, who dislike each other with a vengeance. They both decided to bury the hatchet this morning, and stick it into my head instead.’ She smiled at him, her lips colourless. ‘So forgive me, but I really don’t have time for your little theories at the moment. Some of us have real policing to do.’
‘But I think I’m on to something, ma’am.’
She stood up. ‘Come on, Charlie. We’ll make this briefing short and then you and I are going to have a chat with Michael Connelly. It’s time to defuse the tension and let him know we’re watching his every move.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Ridpath.
She looked him up and down. ‘I’d get that cold seeing to if I were you, and go back to the coroner’s office. I’m sure she can find something to keep you busy. Or you could go home. You look like death warmed up, Ridpath, take a few days off.’ She ended the conversation without a trace of sympathy in her voice.
And then Claire Trent and Charlie were gone, leaving Ridpath alone in the office. Through the window he could see the wasteland known as North Manchester; ugly prefabricated warehouses, a few isolated pubs, neon-red fast food shops, patches of bare ground where once had stood rows and rows of terraced houses, despair hanging on every street corner.
He wasn’t giving up. He was onto something, he could feel it in his aching bones.
But what was he going to do next?
Chapter Sixty-Six
Ridpath walked into Reddish station after first stopping at Tesco’s to pick up some cough sweets for his sore throat and packets of paper tissues for his briefcase.
He hadn’t stayed long at HQ. He’d walked past the briefing room hearing Claire Trent’s voice lecturing the team. For a second he thought about going in, but then decided against it. She had been quite clear, go back to work for the coroner or go home.
He walked out and sat in his car without starting the engine. He knew he was on to something. His whole body screamed there was a link between the deaths of Ronald Wilson and Gerard Connelly, with more possible links to the murders of Phil Marsland and Elsie Granger.
He knew there was something there. The pathologists’ reports may find a link but there had to be something else. He couldn’t go back to Stockfield to sit in front of his desk, knowing he was so close.
He started the engine, remembering an old trick his old mentor, Sergeant McEwan had taught him. ‘If you’re stuck, laddie, follow your instincts. They’ll tell you where to go in any investigation.’
That was why he was going back to Reddish station. He had to follow up on Elsie Granger’s family and the murder of Harry Wilson.
There was something there, he knew it in his water.
For a change the reception area was neat and tidy. ‘Is Tommy Harper in?’
The duty sergeant was classic old school. ‘Who shall I say is asking?’
‘DI Ridpath, coroner’s officer. It felt strange saying those words after his name when it should have been, DI Ridpath, Major Incident Team. ‘I was here last night,’ he added to cover his own embarrassment.
The sergeant made the phone call. ‘Apparently he’s not in yet. Must be out on something.’
‘Is Maureen here. It’s her I want to talk to anyway.’
‘She’s always here. Let me buzz you through.’
The door clicked and Ridpath walked through. Somebody had cleaned the place up after last night. Gone were the Pret wrappers and coffee cups. Maureen was standing beside her desk. She was wearing the same clothes as last night.
He pointed to her. ‘Haven’t you been home?’
‘These are my work clothes. Wouldn’t be seen dead in these on the street. Keep them in the locker and change every morning. But I think you forgot the first sentence.’
Ridpath’s eyebrows raised.
‘The one about “Good morning, Maureen, did you sleep well?”.’
‘Oh that one. Well, did you?’
‘No, not really. I was thinking about this case.’
‘Come up with anything?’
She smiled and beckoned him over to look at her computer. ‘I got in early and rang a friend at the registry office. I’m a bit of family historian in my spare time. She’s just sent me these details for Doreen Wilson.’
Ridpath peered over her shoulder to a see marriage certificate on the screen.
‘Doreen Wilson married again. A man called David Stokes in Fleet, down south in Hampshire.’
‘Well away from Manchester.’
‘You couldn’t go much further.’
Ridpath checked the date on the certificate. ‘August 12, 1996. That was quick, less than a year after the death of her first husband.’
Could she be the woman with Gerard Connolly in the CCTV picture? And perhaps the mysterious woman who had called in Ronald Wilson’s supposed suicide attempt, despite the fact he had been stabbed and his body dumped? The woman who wouldn’t give her name and the police still hadn’t found. Could it be a woman behind this, getting revenge for the murder of her husband over twenty years ago, using her son to carry it out? But why wait till now?
Maureen interrupted his thoughts. ‘I checked up on a Doreen Stokes in Fleet and this came up.’
She pressed the enter key and a newspaper obituary appeared on the screen. The words were in the depressing format full of commas so loved by obituary writers:
Stokes, Doreen. After a long illness, the death is announced of Doreen on October 4, 2014, aged 51, loving wife to David Stokes and mother to Christine, and the twins, Ronald and Reginald. May she rest in peace.
‘Are you sure this is the same woman?’
‘Her age and name are correct, plus who else would have three children with exactly the same Christian names with two of them being twins?’
She had a point. So if Doreen wasn’t the woman who had reported Ronald’s body in the lake, who was?
Ridpath glanced across at the PCSO sitting in front of her computer. The thin woman’s body was shaking with excitement.
‘So, after I saw this obituary, I went on Facebook and searched.’
‘What for?’
‘I checked if Doreen Stokes had a Faceboo
k page.’
‘But she’s dead…’
‘Most people don’t take them down. There are thousands of dead people on Facebook.’
‘And not many living either.’
‘She did.’ Maureen sat back in her chair.
‘Don’t leave it at that. Tell me…’
‘Here it is.’
A Facebook page appeared on the computer. A woman’s picture was displayed prominently in the header. The face was smiling and happy, so different from the face in the Manchester Evening News on the day of the murder, but it was the same person there could be no doubt.
‘So we’ve now found out what she looked like before she died, so what?’
Maureen held up her finger. ‘That’s where I was clever. I searched her list of friends…’
‘And?’
‘This name came up.’ Maureen moved her cursor over a name and a small picture.
‘Reggie Stokes,’ said Ridpath.
‘They taught you how to read in training school, detective.’ Maureen clicked on the name and she was taken to another Facebook page with a large picture as its header.
Ridpath whistled. ‘What the…’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
He didn’t know why he did it.
Adrenalin perhaps.
The sound of the bullets hitting the glass and brick.
The jolt of the Uzi against his shoulder.
Whatever. It didn’t matter. For the first time in a long while, he felt the power of sheer joy.
He had driven past the taxi shed, taking a good look at the goons standing in front of it. On the left, the silver police Vauxhall was parked, two coppers sitting inside looking like the plastic dummies they were.
Then he had turned left, driven slowly down the street and stopped in front of Michael Connelly’s house. The Uzi was out of the holdall and lying next to him in the passenger seat.
He had opened the window, checking the area around the house as his sister had told him to do.
Nobody.
Perfect.
He had picked up the Uzi, flicking off the safety switch and checking it was on automatic.
Starting at the top windows, he had kept his finger on the trigger, hearing the burp of the gun and feeling the judder against his shoulder.
The glass in the windows shattered, crashing to the floor, the bullets thudding into the surrounding brickwork giving off little puffs of dust as they hit home. For a second he wished he had brought the Armalite too. He would have had fun with its .223 Nolsers.
He heard the loud click as the magazine emptied. Should he load one more?
He checked the house. All the windows were shattered on the top floor and most on the ground floor.
Enough. He had made his statement. And besides, he had another idea. His sister would probably kill him, but he just had to do it.
The icing on the cake.
He put the car in gear turning left at the end of the road instead of right as he should have done. The car would still be waiting where his sister had left it. It wasn’t going anywhere.
He drove slowly, hearing the sirens of the police cars as they raced to Michael Connelly’s house. Two passed him going the other way, with their sirens blaring and grim-faced police sitting in front.
Keystone Kops.
He made another left and stopped, checking his watch. He would wait here for five minutes before making the attack.
He checked the Uzi. The barrel was hot, but it would be ok. He removed the spent magazine and pulled out a new one from the holdall, slotting it into place.
Shame, his sister had told him to leave it in the car. Perhaps, he would take it with him. Such a beautifully balanced weapon, a waste to just throw it away.
He would handle his sister.
No problem.
After all, she needed him. She still needed him.
He checked his watch again.
11:01 a.m.
He must have made the attack slightly early. No matter. It meant he would be five minutes late dumping this car and picking up his own but it was within permissible operational parameters. And besides, he couldn’t give up this chance. It would have far greater effect than simply shooting up the house.
He checked the Uzi once again, wiping it down and taking out the mag, looking at the bullets nestling inside their metal casing before slotting the mag back into the machine pistol.
11:04 a.m.
A few more minutes and it would be time to go. They would all be at the house by now, running down from the taxi shed after the noise of gunfire. All milling around, staring at the damage and chaos he had created with one small Uzi.
In the hands of a professional, it could be deadly.
As he was about to show them.
He switched the Uzi over to firing bursts rather than automatic and laid it on the seat next to him.
11:08 a.m. Time to go again.
He put the car in gear and drove to the end of the road, turning left once again. One big circle had brought him back to the edge of the park.
At the next corner was the taxi shed with its cars parked illegally on the grass verges. He drove slowly towards it.
Outside, a tall bald-headed man in a leather jacket stood looking at his phone.
Stupid bugger, shouldn’t be here. He should have run to the Connelly’s house like the rest of them.
No matter.
His loss.
The man smiled to himself. His loss of life in this case.
He rolled down the window and pointed the Uzi straight at the man, feeling the bullets leave the end of the muzzle and rip into the leather jacket.
Again and again and again.
The man fell backwards, his body smashing into the green wood of the taxi shed, before sliding slowly down to the ground.
He flicked the switch back to automatic and sprayed the rest of the magazine at the shed, watching the wood splinter and dance as the bullets struck home.
God, he loved this. The sheer beauty of a rifle in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. The sound of glass shattering. The thud of bullets into wood. The jolt of the recoil as the Uzi jerked in the grip of his hands.
It felt good to be alive.
Now to really piss them off.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
They were already close to Michael Connelly’s when Charlie received the phone call.
‘Right. How long ago? Five minutes. We’re on our way.’ He pulled the mobile phone away from his ear and spoke to Claire Trent. ‘Somebody just shot up Michael Connelly’s house.’
‘Shit. Just what we needed,’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Any injuries?’
Charlie asked the switchboard. ‘None reported,’ he answered.
She leant forward and touched her driver’s shoulder. ‘How long to the house, Alan?’
He checked the satnav. ‘About ten minutes.’
‘Make it quicker. Use the siren.’
The dashboard lights began to flash and the car surged forward, throwing both Charlie and Claire Trent backwards into their seats.
They arrived outside Michael Connelly’s house seven minutes later.
The place was in an uproar. Thugs with bald heads were running around. Graham Connelly was screaming at the top of his voice. Neighbours were gawking through their windows, a few at the end of their gardens peering over the privet hedges.
The brickwork of the house was covered in small holes and nearly all the windows were shattered. Broken glass lay in lumps all over the garden.
A uniformed sergeant ran to their car as it slid to a stop. ‘I’ve set up a road block at the other end of the street to prevent vehicles coming down. Armed tactical units are on their way plus back-ups from Eccles, but we’re a bit stretched at the moment.’
The sergeant had spoken directly to Charlie Whitworth but it was Claire Trent that answered. ‘Make sure you block off both ends of the street, I don’t want anybody else near here unless they are in uniform. OK?�
�
‘Yes, ma’am’
As he was speaking, a puffing and panting Dave Hardy and Harry Makepeace ran across to the car. ‘We ran down from the surveillance car. We’ve checked the area and the shooter has gone.’
‘Anybody see what happened?’ she said stepping out of the car.
‘There’s one eye witness. A Mrs Conroy.’
A middle-aged woman was standing on the pavement her arms across her extensive chest, looking bored as if the arrival of a fleet of police cars was the most normal thing in the world.
Graham Connelly was still shouting at the top of his voice. More thugs were running to join him in the garden, their feet slipping and sliding on the broken glass.
Claire Trent went to the rear of her car, opening her boot. She reached in and took out two stab vests with the word ‘Police’ stencilled across the back. ‘Put this on.’
He looked at it. ‘Too small.’
‘Never mind. Put it on.’
Charlie struggled with the fastenings but eventually managed to clip the vest across his stomach.
‘You go with Dave Hardy and check at the Connelly’s. See if anybody was injured.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Claire Trent walked over to the witness, reaching inside her jacket pocket for her warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Trent. I believe you witnessed the event.’
The woman nodded.
Across the street, Graham Connelly was screaming orders at the thugs who were still running around like headless chickens.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Claire Trent asked again as she was joined by the uniformed sergeant and Alan, her driver.
‘I was just about to go down to the shops. I shut the door and walked to the end of the garden path. A car stopped outside Michael’s house and there was a loud noise, like an exhaust popping. The windows started to explode and I heard the bullets hitting the brickwork. Well I got down on the ground as soon as I worked out what was happening. Not right, is it? Michael’s such a lovely man and been on his own since Carmen died.’
Claire Trent looked down at her feet. ‘Let’s just start again from the beginning shall we? You were going to the shops? What time was this?’
Where the Dead Fall Page 24