Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  Claire Trent bumped into a young man trying to get away. The man went sprawling on the ground.

  She ignored him and carried on running. One of the armed officers had tripped over the pavement and he too went sprawling.

  Nobody stopped to help him.

  She ran round the top of the road. A white car was driving straight towards her on the pavement. She jumped out of the way.

  It raced past just missing her right foot. Inspector Hurd screaming something.

  The car didn’t stop,

  In slow motion, he brought his rifle up and the recoil jerked it back into his shoulder twice.

  From the ground, she saw the white car continue in a straight line for twenty yards before veering right and slamming into a lamp-post.

  For a second, the lamp-post wobbled then slowly snapped in two, the top half falling across the car and a long, oblong glass shade shattering over its roof.

  Silence, and then the puff of the airbags exploding, followed by the loud whoops of an alarm.

  On her left, the armed officers inched cautiously forward, their rifles pointing directly at the vehicle. Dave Hardy tried to move forward too but was waved back by the uniformed Inspector.

  One of the armed response team ran round to the front of the car, keeping his rifle trained on the windscreen. He shouted, ‘All clear’ raising his fist to the air.

  Claire Trent picked herself up from the floor. Her knee was grazed and her hip bruised. A shoe with a broken heel lay in the gutter. She bent over to pick it up and limped over to the inspector standing in front of the car.

  Inside, a young man was sitting upright, his body kept in place by the airbag.

  The face was covered in a sort of talcum powder and his forehead was shattered where the officer’s bullet had exited. Blood dripped slowly down his cheeks, staining the white powder from the airbag.

  Claire Trent looked back up the road.

  A body was lying to one side, its leg stretched out at a strange angle.

  Charlie Whitworth.

  She began limping back to where he lay, shouting, ‘Charlie, Charlie!’

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  The phone rang and rang. Why wasn’t Charlie picking up?

  He checked the number to make sure. It was right.

  He pressed redial, hearing the ring tone loud and clear. But still no answer. Where was Charlie? In the middle of something and that was why he wasn’t picking up?

  He couldn’t wait any longer. He called Claire Trent. Charlie would be pissed off but sod it, this was too important.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was loud and clear.

  ‘It’s Ridpath, guvnor. I’ve got the name and address of the man behind all the killings.’

  There was a long sigh down the end of the phone. ‘His name is Reginald Stokes and he lived at a place called Bridgewater Lane.’

  How did she know? ‘That’s it, guvnor we need…’

  ‘We’ve already sent an armed team to the address, Ridpath. Mr Stokes is in front of me now. He’s dead.’

  Ridpath was stunned. A thousand questions raced through his mind. How? What? Why?

  Claire Trent carried on speaking. ‘He just tried to shoot up Michael Connelly’s house but was shot dead by an armed response team.’

  Ridpath tried to take it all in. Why would he do that?

  Claire Trent continued. ‘But I have some bad news. Charlie Whitworth has been injured, badly I’m afraid. It’s not looking good… sorry Ridpath, I have to go, somebody is calling me.’

  The phone line went dead.

  Charlie was injured?

  Ridpath sat down on the chair.

  Maureen was staring at him. ‘What’s happened?’ she finally asked.

  Ridpath didn’t answer. He just looked at the grey carpet and then he noticed his hand was shaking and it wouldn’t stop.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  It was three hours later when he received the call from Claire Trent to be at her office by five p.m.

  What did she want? To give him another bloody reprimand?

  He was kept waiting for twenty minutes before he was finally called in. It was like waiting for an audience with the queen. Despite the success of the operation, the office was subdued, Charlie’s injuries heavy on everyone’s mind.

  He knocked on the door, receiving the curt instruction to enter.

  ‘Sit down, Ridpath.’

  He took the only chair in front of her desk.

  ‘I’ve called you in today…’

  ‘Before we start, ma’am, I wonder if I can ask about Charlie. How is he? Nobody knew outside…’

  She looked down at her hands on the table. ‘It’s touch and go. He’s in the infirmary. Multiple fractures I was told. In surgery at the moment. We’ll know more when he comes out.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘You two were close?’

  ‘Until recently we were. He hasn’t quite forgiven me for the Beast of Manchester case…’

  ‘Charlie has a memory on him.’

  ‘And then some. He once told me to always get my retaliation in first. I thought he was joking until I saw his face.’

  ‘He was old school was DCI Whitworth.’ Then her face suddenly reddened and she corrected herself. ‘He is old school, that’s what I meant.’

  Ridpath covered her embarrassment by asking a question. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  She shuffled some papers on her desk. ‘I called you in to let you know you were right.’

  Ridpath’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘We checked with army records. Reginald Stokes was born Reginald Wilson in 1995. He had a twin brother, Ronald. His father was gunned down the same year and his mother married David Stokes in 1996. At sixteen, he went to the Army Foundation College in Aldershot, afterwards joining REME as an armourer and serving two tours of duty in Afghanistan. He left the army nine months ago.’

  ‘When did he come back to Manchester?’

  ‘As far as we can make out, almost immediately. The house is registered under his real father’s name, Harry Wilson, but was only bought earlier this year.’

  ‘Where did he get the money?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘We haven’t worked that one out yet. He seems to have blamed Michael Connelly for the death of his father. I’ve read the case files and Connelly was present in the pub the day it happened…’

  ‘He gave a witness statement to Ted Roylance, the investigating officer.’

  It was the turn of Claire Trent to raise her eyebrows. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I read the case file.’

  ‘You have been a busy detective. And here was I thinking you were just a pretty face.’ Once again she reddened from the throat upwards. She picked up another sheet of paper. ‘A scene of crime team is in the house as we speak. It appears the cellar may have been used to detain people.’

  ‘Perhaps Gerard Connelly and Phil Marsland?’

  ‘Possibly. They are collecting DNA and fingerprint samples from the house and cellars. Let’s not jump to any conclusions before we have proof, shall we?’

  ‘Protheroe called me an hour ago.’

  ‘Really? He hasn’t seen fit to call me…’

  ‘I said I would tell you. He’s writing his report right now. You should get it this evening.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There are DNA matches to both Gerard Connelly and Ronald Wilson on the rope used to bind Phil Marsland…’

  ‘He used the same rope?

  ‘Apparently. Maybe he didn’t think we would tie the three cases together.’ It was Ridpath’s turn to go red. ‘I meant link the three cases together.’

  ‘I know what you meant, Ridpath. But it is interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘What ma’am?’

  ‘If you hadn’t been working for the coroner, we would never have made the connection.’ She glanced at her computer. ‘Shit, is that the time?’ She stood up and began collecting her papers together. ‘I’ve an interview on Gr
anada Reports at 6:30. It’s telly time.’

  ‘Good luck, ma’am.’

  ‘Thanks Ridpath.’

  He turned to leave her office.

  ‘And Ridpath…’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Thanks for all your work. You’ve done well.’

  Ridpath nodded his head.

  ‘But if you ever call me ma’am again, you’ll be cleaning out the bogs at Strangeways. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘As clear as a pint of Boddies… guvnor.’

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  It was late when Ridpath arrived home. After the meeting with Claire Trent he had driven back to Stockfield to brief Margaret Challinor.

  ‘An eventful day, Ridpath.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Anything more on Detective Chief Inspector Whitworth?’

  ‘I haven’t received any messages, but his surgery must be over by now. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.’

  ‘And Claire Trent, how’s she handling all this?’

  Ridpath had forgotten the two of them knew each other. ‘I don’t know honestly, I didn’t ask. It’s not the sort of thing you say to a senior officer. I think she’s OK. Seems to be relishing the pressure, if I think about it.’

  ‘A bit of an adrenalin junkie, if you ask me. Bright and tough, but she flies close to the sun, if you understand what I mean.’

  Ridpath nodded his head. ‘Don’t we all. Comes with the territory.’

  ‘Do you think I should postpone the Ronald Wilson inquest on Thursday?’ she said, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s up to you but I would say don’t. The pathologist’s report was pretty clear so I think you can deliver a coroner’s verdict of murder by a person, or persons unknown. The police will have to reopen their enquiry and come to a new conclusion in their report anyway…’

  ‘Good, I was hoping you would say that. Are there any relatives left alive as far you know?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. There is a daughter but we haven’t been able to find her so far.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it matters. The State will take care of the funeral in the absence of relatives. I’ll open separate inquests on the other victims of Reginald Wilson. I think you said there were three others?’

  ‘The pathologist reports links two others: Gerard Connelly and Phil Marsland. I think he also killed Elsie Granger.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was the only one who could tell us the information we needed about the family. To be honest, without the help of Maureen O’Dowd at Reddish, it would have taken me far longer to work it all out.

  ‘Somebody to assist you makes it all much easier.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She stood up. ‘Right, I’m going home and so should you.’ Her voice dropped a register. ‘Can I be straightforward with you, Ridpath?’

  He wondered what she was going to say. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You look terrible. Like you haven’t slept for two days.’

  Ridpath realised his hair was wet and he was sweating despite her office being quite cold. ‘Just tired, Mrs Challinor. A good night’s sleep will help.’

  ‘Why don’t you come in late tomorrow? Take the morning off.’

  Ridpath thought about it. Perhaps he could take Eve and Polly to school again. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed their mornings together. ‘I might take you up on your offer, Mrs Challinor.’

  It was eleven when he arrived home that night. He thought about ringing Polly but decided it was too late, she would already be asleep. He would try tomorrow morning before school.

  He trudged upstairs, feeling like it was a mountain he was climbing. Taking off his clothes seemed to take ages but finally he was buried deep beneath the duvet.

  His body ached, his head hurt and he was sweating like he had just run a bloody marathon, but, as his eyes closed, one thought fought its way up from deep in his subconscious.

  What had happened to Harry Wilson’s daughter?

  Day Eight

  Wednesday, April 25, 2018

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Ridpath woke covered in sweat. His head was pounding and his mouth was dry. But one thought still echoed around his mind.

  What had happened to Harry Wilson’s daughter?

  He glanced down at the time. 9:20 a.m.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The he remembered his final act before falling asleep last night was to switch off the alarm. He climbed out of bed, feeling his muscles ache and his bones creak.

  Should he go to Christies?

  He had obviously caught a cold. Dr Morris had been direct. If he caught cold or flu, he was to go to the hospital straight away. He would call Mrs Challinor later, she was sure to understand.

  He staggered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He wasn’t the best of sights first thing in the morning. Polly always said he looked like a cross between Rupert Bear and the Honey Monster. He stuck out his tongue, coated in a sticky white fur. His eyes were even worse; red-rimmed and rheumy, like an eighty year old who’d partied all their life.

  He should go to Christies. If they kept him in, it didn’t matter. Better to be safe than sorry.

  His mobile rang in the bedroom. He rushed back and found it charging beside his bed. ‘Ridpath’ he said, hearing his voice creak.

  ‘Hiya, it’s Maureen, from Reddish.’

  ‘Good morning, Maureen.’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  Standing there in his boxer shorts in an empty house, she wouldn’t be disturbing anything. ‘No, Maureen, how can I help you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about Harry Wilson’s family…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And we know the twins found homes. One stayed with the mother and went down south, and the other stayed with the grandparents…’

  He knew where she was going with this.

  ‘…but what happened to the daughter?’

  He shivered. There it was. The same question had been haunting his dreams all night.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Well, like I said, I do a bit of family history in my spare time. I found out I’m related to the Pendle witches…’

  Why didn’t it surprise him? But he answered, ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘One day I’ll tell you all about it, But staying on Harry Wilson and his daughter, it struck me perhaps there may have been other relatives, so I researched his side of the family.’

  ‘Perhaps the daughter went to the paternal grandparents?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There weren’t any. Harry Wilson was an orphan.’

  Ridpath sighed, all the breath seemed to rush out of his lungs. She had rung him at this time in the morning to tell him this news?

  ‘But it got me thinking. What if the daughter was adopted?’

  ‘Christine.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The daughter’s name was Christine,’ Ridpath repeated.

  ‘And it also struck me Harry Wilson’s obituary said he was buried according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church.’ He could hear the excitement in Maureen’s voice now.

  ‘Her mother, Elsie Granger, kept a crucifix in her hallway. She asked me to bless myself before I left.’

  ‘So I thought if the parents were devout Catholics, what if…?’

  ‘The daughter was adopted through one of the Catholic agencies?’

  ‘Right first time, Ridpath. So I rang Caritas first thing this morning…’

  ‘Caritas?’

  ‘The Catholic Adoption Agency for the Diocese of Salford. For some strange reason, Manchester is in Salford for Catholics. ‘Caritas’ is based at the cathedral there.’

  Ridpath could feel his own excitement rising. ‘And?’

  ‘They do have a Christine Wilson in their records adopted in 1997, but they won’t release the information.’

  ‘You told them this was a pol
ice matter.’

  ‘Of course, but they still wouldn’t release the documents. I can understand their point of view; we could be anybody on the phone asking for records. They just can’t give them out to anybody.’

  ‘So we need a warrant. It could take a while depending on the judge.’

  ‘Well… no. I explained the urgency of the situation and how it might prevent more murders and they’ve agreed if we go down there and show our identification, they will release the records.’

  ‘When can we go?’

  ‘Now, if we want.’

  ‘You’re a star, Maureen.’

  ‘It did help that the bishop is my godfather. He vouched for me.’

  ‘It helps to know people in high places. Give me thirty minutes. Where will I meet you?’

  ‘Outside the cathedral on the Close.’

  ‘See you at ten o’clock.’

  He put the phone down. This case was finally slotting into place. The woman was the key. It was she who had rung the police to report Ronald Wilson’s supposed suicide. It was she who had been seen on the CCTV with Gerard Connelly before he disappeared. And Phil Marsland had been going on a date with an unknown woman when he vanished.

  She was the key to everything and she was still out there, Ridpath knew it.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  They met at Cathedral Close just off Chapel Street in Salford. Ridpath arrived first and stood in front of the solid, imposing cathedral.

  He remembered his mum’s family had grown up in this area in the twenties. She had often described the tenements, back-to-back houses, pubs on every corner and the ‘characters’ of the area like L. S. Lowry, Jimmy Hewitt and Walter Greenwood. ‘Just read Love on the Dole if you want to know what it was like. Policemen used to walk around in threes.’

  It had changed now. All the old houses were knocked down, the shops demolished, and the sense of community was completely destroyed.

  The area was going through what was known as ‘urban renewal’ which involved levelling everything and leaving it empty until property developers decided it was ripe for gentrification.