by M J Lee
‘Why interview Carsley, then?’
‘It’s a fishing trip. A chance to question Carsley at length, put pressure on him. They can hold him for twenty-four hours before he has to be released.’
‘When’s the funeral?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And what happened to the other son, Daniel Carsley?’
‘I don’t know that either, Coroner. I presume he has been taken into care by the local council. He’s a vulnerable child.’
Mrs Challinor’s face hardened. ‘My agreement with Claire Trent was that you investigating this case would not jeopardise your work with our clients, nor would it compromise your commitment to represent the interests of the family in this difficult time for them…’
‘I don’t think that’s fair, Coroner, I—’
She held her hand up to prevent his speaking. ‘I honestly don’t care what you think is fair, Ridpath. Your job here is to represent the interests of the dead and their relatives. Remember the manual, “to be an advocate for the dead to safeguard the living.”’
‘You don’t need to remind me, Mrs Challinor.’
She stared at him unblinking. ‘So do you think you are doing your job?’
‘Yes,’ he answered firmly. ‘I need to make sure no other child suffers the fate of David Carsley. I can only do it by finding the boy’s killer before he kills again.’
‘But the difference between the Coroner’s Office and the police is stark, Ridpath, and you know this. We don’t chase convictions, we don’t chase criminals, we don’t chase promotions. We simply represent the families and we look for the truth. Who died? When did they die? How did they die? Who was responsible? That’s our remit. Nothing more, nothing less.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You don’t know what’s happening with a vulnerable family and their child. If your investigation is getting in the way of doing your job, let me know.’
‘The investigation is part of the job, Mrs Challinor. If I don’t find out who did this, other children will suffer. This man will strike again, of that I am sure.’
She licked her lips and softened her tone. ‘I understand the guilt you are feeling since the death of Polly…’
‘You don’t understand at all, Mrs Challinor.’
‘Let me finish.’
He nodded.
‘I’m willing to make some allowances, but your work with GMP must not be to the detriment of the standards of this office. I wonder if by investigating this case and also being the coroner’s officer on it, you have compromised your position.’
‘I disagree, Coroner,’ Ridpath said firmly. ‘In fact, I believe understanding the case has helped me do my job better.’
‘How?’
Ridpath thought. ‘I met Mrs Carsley, whom I wouldn’t have known otherwise, and involved her in her own son’s funeral. And I am sure Michael Carsley is innocent despite what others might think.’
‘Have you become too emotionally involved in the case, Ridpath? We do our job best when we are dispassionate.’
‘I am dispassionate about evidence but not about the victims of crime, particularly when those victims are seven years old.’
Mrs Challinor sat back in her chair. ‘I want you to be on top of all our cases and inquests, Ridpath. No excuses, is that clear?’
‘No excuses. Yes, Coroner.’
Her tone softened. ‘To that end, I propose we postpone your official return to this office until next Monday. It would give you time to finish your investigation. I’m sure Sophia could carry the workload until then.’
‘It would help, Coroner, thank you.’
‘But, Ridpath, the decision must be yours. Are you still a police officer or do you work for the Coroner’s Court?’
Before Ridpath could answer, there was a slight tap on the door.
Sophia entered. ‘I think you guys should see this…’
Chapter 43
She walked in, carrying the afternoon edition of one of the local papers. ‘I picked it up when I went for my coffee.’ She opened it out to a centre spread, most of which was dominated by a well-dressed Claire Trent standing in front of the police sign at GMP HQ.
Sophia began reading it out loud.
TOP COP PLAYS FOR KEEPS
by Molly Wright
She could be the chief executive of a publicly listed company. Or a top international lawyer. Or even something senior in politics.
Instead, Detective Superintendent Claire Trent chose to become a copper. Now she is the head of over 50 detectives and civilian personnel on the Major Investigation Team at Greater Manchester Police.
‘My family had no connection with the police at all. My father was an accountant and my mother a housewife. Her job was to raise the kids and look after the home, while my father went out to work at 7.53 on the dot every morning.’
She is sitting in her office, the sun streaming through the windows highlighting the natural blonde streaks in her hair, a steely-eyed determination imprinted in her eyes.
‘I went to the University of Leeds and studied history, but I wasn’t one of your student radicals. I was more the type to stay at home, study and have a cup of cocoa, rather than be out raving every night.’
She talks about her past in the same way she discusses her present; open, honest, straightforward and frank to the point of bluntness.
‘I finished Uni and didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I saw an ad for the Greater Manchester Police fast track scheme. I applied and was accepted.’
She states the last fact modestly, but the fast track scheme is restricted to the best and brightest, the future elite of Manchester police.
‘The rest is history and a lot of hard work, long hours and being in the right place at the right time.’
Once again, her natural modesty shines through. In truth, she has displayed a forthright intelligence throughout her career which has helped her rise to the top, to join the cream of detectives. Lecturing gigs at Bramshill, the police college, have singled her out as one of the deepest-thinking cops of her generation, a go-getter and strict disciplinarian.
‘I was brought into MIT to shake it up, bring it kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Being a copper these days is not about pounding the beat and nicking the bad guys. It’s much more a management role; forming a mission, hiring the best people, setting the standards and letting people get on with their work. You know, the latest advances in DNA, CCTV, criminal profiling, computer crime, encryption, digital investigations, forensic analysis and managed resource allocation mean that the modern police force is so much more than a few coppers on the beat.’
Public opinion polls have shown that people want to see more policemen and women, for them to have a visible presence in their area.
She counters this with a simple answer. ‘But is it the most effective use of resources? Politicians always talk about putting more bobbies on the beat, but how is having a policeman on the street going to stop computer crime? Or track a criminal’s cell phone? Or analyse DNA from a crime scene? Or combat international drug gangs?’
Ever the disruptor, she asks the questions other police officers avoid. No wonder she is being fast tracked to run a major force in the near future. ‘Has it been difficult being a woman in a man’s world?’
She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Not at all. In fact, it’s an advantage. Being a woman, I bring a determination to get things done, to finish the job, not to take no for an answer.’
No wonder one of her heroes is Margaret Thatcher, along with Mata Hari, and Florence Nightingale. As eclectic choices as the person who made them.
Of course, one of her latest cases, the murder of David Carsley, enters the conversation. Despite not having any kids of her own, she cares deeply about children.
‘They should feel safe and protected at all times. The Carsley case has been one where we have interviewed over 3000 witnesses, canvassed 1200 homes in the area, and gathered over 250 different pieces of evidence. It’s an ongoing investiga
tion which I’m certain will soon result in an arrest.’
Her eyes take on a steely gaze as she talks about her desire to find the man responsible in almost evangelical terms.
‘This man will kill again if he is allowed to stay on the streets. The job, the vocation, of myself and my officers is to make sure he is taken down and put away for the rest of his natural life for this heinous crime.’
The kidnapping and murder of the seven-year-old boy from Wythenshawe happened over two weeks ago and an arrest still hasn’t been made yet.
‘A man will be charged soon.’
‘You have a suspect?’
‘We do.’ She answers firmly: again the steely tone in her voice reminds me of the late Mrs Thatcher. This is another woman who’s not for turning.
‘This man already has form for attacks on his wife and children. My Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Paul Turnbull, is sure we have the right man. It’s a question of collecting the evidence to prove his guilt conclusively.’
I ask whether it is somebody from Manchester or further afield.
Ever the discreet copper, Claire Trent shakes her head. ‘That wouldn’t be the correct procedure. We still need to gather evidence and make sure the Crown Prosecution Service agree with us there is a case to answer. But I can assure your readers and the general public, we will charge the right man in the near future.’
That is indeed great news.
And with Detective Superintendent Claire Trent in charge, Manchester is sure it has the right woman.
‘It’s a puff piece,’ said Mrs Challinor. ‘I didn’t know you were so close to arresting somebody.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Ridpath, checking his watch. ‘But I think it is going to happen soon. Unless I can do something to stop it.’
Chapter 44
Ridpath didn’t wait.
He walked straight out of the Coroner’s Office and down the steps, passing Helen Moore returning with her afternoon coffee.
‘You’re off out again?’ she asked.
He ignored her and strode out to his car, slamming the gear in and accelerating away in a squeal of tyres.
He had to talk with Claire Trent, find out what the hell was going on.
She didn’t seem surprised to see him when he turned up at her office.
‘Come in, Ridpath, and sit down.’
‘I’d prefer to stand, boss.’
‘Please yourself.’
He got right to it, there was no point in pussy-footing around. ‘What’s happening? I saw the interview you did with Molly Wright.’
‘News travels fast. I only did it this morning. I haven’t even seen the finished article myself yet.’
He passed the newspaper across the desk. She picked it up and scowled. ‘I don’t like the photo. Makes me look like some harridan from a brothel in Cheetham Hill. We’ll have to get them to change it.’
She scanned the article and nodded as she finished it. ‘Molly is better than I thought. She has communicated the main points across that I wanted.’
‘You’re going to charge Michael Carsley?’
‘Paul Turnbull has already taken him to Wythenshawe nick. He seems sure the man will confess as soon as he is confronted. The evidence is beginning to stack up, Ridpath.’
‘The man is innocent.’
The smile vanished from her face. ‘How do you know that? What evidence have you brought me, Ridpath?’
She waited for his answer.
‘I’m still working – we haven’t finished yet.’
‘But Turnbull is close to charging him.’
‘You said I had till Saturday.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Things change in an investigation, you should know that.’
‘You knew about the problems the Carsleys had in Scotland?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘But you didn’t see fit to tell me.’
‘I wanted to see if your investigation was thorough. I told you as little as possible because I wanted you to check everything. Understand?’
He softened his tone. ‘You didn’t tell me you were planning to charge Michael Carsley?’
‘I didn’t know we were going to charge him when I briefed you. Something new came to light.’
‘Like?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not obliged to tell you anything, Detective Inspective Ridpath.’ She stared at him for a long time, her eyes boring into him. ‘But as you have been involved, however tangentially, I will let you know. We discovered new evidence.’
‘What new evidence… boss?’ The last was added by Ridpath in a deliberate attempt to at least appear to be contrite.
‘Police Scotland have confirmed that Michael Carsley was arrested but not charged for child abuse.’
‘What?’
‘Teachers noticed bruises and a bump on the head of his son and reported it to Child Services. They called the police and he was arrested and charged. But, due to the nature of the crime, the Procurator Fiscal decided not to proceed with the case.’
‘When was this?’
‘Right before the family came to Manchester. It was probably the reason they left Scotland. He had earlier been cautioned for an assault at his place of work and on his wife, Irene Carsley. It seems the man has a problem with his temper.’
‘Hang on, which son are we talking about? David Carsley would have been too young to go to school at that time.’
‘Correct. The charges were for an assault on Daniel Carsley.’
Ridpath sat down, his eyes darting from left to right as he tried to process the information. Was that why Mrs Carsley was so scared of her husband? Had she been unable to protect her children? But why leave them with him?
‘There are other factors as well.’
He looked up at his boss.
‘Carsley was seen leaving the house by a neighbour at one thirty on the day of the murder. That’s why we brought him in to question him. He admitted leaving the house but wouldn’t say where he went.’
Ridpath was stunned. ‘Why didn’t this witness come forward before?’
Claire Trent’s eyes rolled upwards. ‘She didn’t think it was important. And there’s more…’
Ridpath waited for the kick to the teeth Claire Trent was going to deliver.
‘The CSIs re-examined the boy’s clothes again, stacked next to the body. There was no DNA anywhere, but there was a fingerprint on the big toe of a sock. It belonged to Michael Carsley.’
‘They’ve just found out?’
‘They used a technique called Vacuum Metal Deposition. Apparently, it can show prints on fabrics. Luckily, somebody at the lab had the good sense to use VMD on the boy’s clothes.’
‘The fingerprint could have come from touching the boy’s clothes in the past. Dressing him the morning of his disappearance.’
‘That’s possible but would it have survived for so long on the sock? After two days the print would have disappeared with normal wear and tear. It was still fresh when they found it.’
‘Convenient,’ Ridpath said under his breath.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, boss. Has Carsley confessed?’
‘No. Paul Turnbull is interviewing him now at Wythenshawe nick. He reckons with a bit more pressure, he’ll cough to the murder.’
‘He didn’t do it, boss.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t kill his son.’
‘Where’s your evidence, Ridpath?’
Ridpath tapped his fingers together. His mind flashed back to the happy picture of Michael Carsley and his sons on the mantlepiece. ‘I don’t have any. But I don’t think he did it.’
‘Another one of your hunches?’
Ridpath didn’t answer.
‘Did you find anything wrong with Paul Turnbull’s investigation?’
‘No, boss, there were a few minor things; he seems to have covered most of the bases. But it still—’
‘Did he make any major errors? Miss
possible evidence? Miss witnesses? Not follow proper procedure?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Did you discover anything?’
‘Not really – we’ve only had three days.’
‘Well, now your time is up, Ridpath. I’m reassigning Emily Parkinson and Chrissy back to Paul Turnbull. He’ll need all the help he can to prepare the case for the CPS.’
She stood up. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to tell the chief constable the good news. The fact that we’ve found the man responsible will be a weight off his shoulders. He may even be congratulated in the press for once.’
She strode toward the door.
‘Oh, and Ridpath – you’re off the case. I had a chat with Mrs Challinor a few minutes ago. Apparently, you have been neglecting your coronial work. I’ve told her you will no longer be working on the Carsley case.’
‘But, boss, he’s innocent.’
‘Read my lips, Ridpath: you’re off the case.’
‘What about my report? You wanted to see it.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Give it to me tomorrow at nine a.m. Afterwards, you can go back to work for the coroner. At least she will be pleased to see you.’
Chapter 45
Ridpath went outside HQ to get some fresh air. The usual groups of smokers were assembled around a standing ashtray, cordoned off like lepers from the rest of society.
For a second the familiar craving for a cigarette flooded his tastebuds as he smelt the secondary smoke drifting towards him.
Why did it always remind him of lavatories?
Perhaps that was where he had first started. Stealing a couple of cigarettes from his mother’s packet, sneaking off during the morning break with Mark and Terry to the bogs and inhaling their first coughs. All the time listening out for any teachers who were prowling the corridors.
His youth. A long time gone and an age away. At least, it felt like that. In truth it had been little more than twenty-five years ago. How he would like to pick that young teenager up and shake him by the collar, saying, ‘Don’t be an arse.’
But at that age, he wouldn’t have listened.