by M J Lee
It was raised and came crashing down against the lock on the yellow door.
The door held.
Steve raised the enforcer again and crashed it down. The door swung open, smashing into the wall and coming off its hinges. Trevor Hall jumped through the door, his Heckler & Koch pointing forward.
He entered the narrow hall, seeing his doppelganger moving towards him. For a second, he thought he was looking in a mirror, until the man shouted, ‘Kitchen clear.’
Hall raced upstairs, followed by his team. He went to the bedroom on the left.
Nothing but a made bed.
‘Clear,’ he shouted.
From other rooms both upstairs and downstairs, he heard shouts of ‘Clear. Clear. Clear.’ Followed by a shout from downstairs in Lenny’s voice. ‘Boss, you should come and see this.’
Trevor Hall shouldered his rifle and trotted downstairs.
‘What is it, Lenny?’
‘In here.’
Hall pushed open the door leading to the rear living room. His mouth dropped open. ‘Jesus, what sick fuck did this?’
One entire wall was covered in pictures of naked boys, most of whom were less than eight years old.
Chapter 97
Walking into the convenience store, they saw the magazines on their left, facing a central aisle stocked with all the necessities of modern living: bread, milk, eggs, crisps and chocolates. Beyond the central aisle was half a wall of fridges filled with soft drinks and ice cream. The rest of the wall was made up of shelves of alcohol, most of it cheap and all of it extra-strong. Between the two was a solid steel door leading to an outside delivery area.
Against the far wall were more groceries and a green door with the red stencilled words ‘NO ENTRY’ printed in capital letters.
Matthew Oram certainly knew his customers.
A young man was standing behind the counter with a till on his right and a closed shelf of cigarettes behind him. He didn’t raise his head from the MMA magazine he was reading.
There was nobody else in the shop.
‘Hiya,’ Emily said brightly, ‘is the owner around?’
The young man finally lifted his head. ‘No.’ He then went back to reading his magazine.
Emily fished out her warrant card. ‘I’m DS Parkinson. I talked to Mr Oram on Friday and I’d just like to follow up on a few things he said. Do you know where he is?’
The man’s bottom lip came up over the top one. ‘No.’
Emily glanced at Ridpath. She reached forward to close the magazine.
‘Oi…’
‘Now I have your undivided attention, where is Mr Oram?’
The man attempted to snatch back the magazine but couldn’t take it from Emily’s grip. ‘I told you, I don’t know. Sunday is his day off, that’s why I’m here. He’s probably cooking dinner for his mother. That’s what he normally does on Sundays.’
Ridpath relaxed. He was at the address Chrissy had got from the electoral register, then.
‘So he’s not here?’ Emily persisted.
The man took his magazine back. ‘Look around. Can you see him?’ He rolled his eyes as if to say these people are so stupid.
‘Thank you for your time,’ responded Emily.
She turned back to Ridpath but the man carried on speaking.
‘He’s probably upstairs. His mum lives in the flat above and she don’t go out much. In fact, she don’t go out at all.’ He leant forward. ‘She’s a bit strange,’ he whispered. ‘Scares the hell out of me.’
Both detectives stopped. Emily turned back to face him. ‘How do we get into the flat?’
‘The stairs are through that green door. I can ring him and tell him you’re coming if you want.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Ridpath, striding towards the door. ‘We prefer to surprise him.’
Chapter 98
He’d just finished cleaning the mess the boy had made when he heard a noise coming from the back alley.
He looked out of the window to see a blue uniform ducking down behind a low wall.
His Corsa was parked in full view, in the place they reserved for deliveries to the shop, not in the garage. He’d wanted to move the boy up to the flat as quickly and silently as possible.
The top of another policeman’s head appeared briefly above the wall. There were at least two of them out there.
Were they onto him? Or just checking out the car?
Another sound from downstairs. The bell ringing as somebody entered the shop.
It was quiet, too quiet.
He walked to the bedroom, grabbing the baseball bat from behind the door. The boy was still lying on the bed, his open eyes staring at the ceiling.
Should he finish him off?
He heard the door from the shop open and footsteps coming up the stairs.
He raised the bat above his shoulders, ready to bring it down on the boy’s head.
The doorbell rang.
Should he answer it? Brazen it out? They couldn’t come into the flat without a warrant anyway. He didn’t want to kill the boy, not yet. It would be such a waste.
The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time.
‘Coming, coming,’ he shouted, ‘keep your shirt on.’
Closing the bedroom door, he checked everything was OK in the flat.
It all looked fine. He would say Mother was sleeping and that’s why they couldn’t come in.
He walked to the door and checked through the peephole. It was the same female detective who had asked him about the ATM on Friday. Why was she back?
And there was somebody else with her. A taller, thinner copper he hadn’t seen before.
The bell rang again.
‘Hang on,’ he shouted, placing the baseball bat out of sight and opening the door.
Chapter 99
Emily Parkinson smiled as broadly as she could. ‘Hiya, Mr Oram, remember me?’
Matthew Oram stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a smart, casual outfit; a white shirt and blue slacks with a pair of brown, tasseled loafers on his feet. It was as if he was about to go on a Sunday afternoon date.
‘Of course, you’re the policewoman who was asking about the ATM footage. Did you get it in the end?’
‘We did, thanks.’ She tried to peer around him to see into the flat. ‘I’ve just got some follow-up questions. I wonder if I could come in? It won’t take more than a few minutes.’
Ridpath stayed quiet, staring at the man. Was this their killer?
‘It’s a bit awkward, I’m cooking afternoon lunch for my mother.’
‘It won’t take long.’ Emily tried to push past him but he stood his ground.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Oram.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient now.’
Ridpath spoke for the first time. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come down to the station to answer the quest—’
Before Ridpath could finish the sentence, Oram had a baseball bat above his head and was striking down at Emily.
The bat hit her with a dull thud where the neck joined the head and she fell forward into the flat.
For one second, Ridpath stood there staring down at the inert body of his colleague. Oram raised the bat once more, and Ridpath, realising the danger he was in, threw himself forward, taking the man around the chest in a classic rugby tackle.
They both fell to the wooden floorboards with a heavy crack. Ridpath felt the air explode from his mouth as the handle of the baseball bat struck him in the chest. He lay there struggling for breath, his chest heaving, desperately searching for air.
Ridpath felt something hit him in the stomach.
Oram’s knee.
He bent double, trying to grab the man’s arm, but he wrenched it free. He was far stronger than he looked.
A fist struck Ridpath’s temple.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His head went woozy and he thought he was going to black out. He t
ried to avoid the blows, throwing his arm up to cover his head. But Oram was on top of him now, striking downwards again and again.
Ridpath kicked out blindly, feeling his knee connect with something solid. Oram screamed in pain and, for a second, the blows on Ridpath’s head stopped.
He kicked out again, trying to wriggle free from Oram, but the man was ready for him this time. The kick was blocked and the punches against his head came one after another, Ridpath feeling the man’s hard knuckles strike his head again and again and again.
Ridpath blacked out for a second and woke up to feel the man’s fingers around his Adam’s apple. He felt them pressing in, squeezing ever tighter and tighter.
Ridpath couldn’t breathe. He felt a weight across his chest, weighing him down. The pain was immense, getting stronger. The fingers tightening around his throat, squeezing the breath, squeezing the life out of him.
Words whispered in his ear. ‘Can you feel the pain? Do you know what it’s like to die?’
The pressure increased.
Tighter and tighter.
Hands gripping his throat. He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t breathe. His legs kicking weakly against the floor.
The pain grew less, as if it were being swallowed up by a whale. The weight on his chest became heavier and heavier. And now he was floating above his body, looking down at himself with Matthew Oram’s hands around his throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him.
In his head, he whispered his last words. ‘I’m sorry, Eve.’
Then there was a flash of bright light and the pain stopped.
Chapter 100
Molly Wright and her photographer followed the detectives into the convenience store.
What were they doing here? She hoped to God they weren’t just getting cigarettes for Claire Trent. If they were, Molly had definitely chosen the wrong car to follow.
A young man was standing in front of a green door, staring up at a carpeted flight of stairs.
Molly could hear the noises of a fight coming from above.
At the same time, she could hear the sound of fists pounding on the back door of the store, desperate to get in.
She ordered the young man to open the door and climbed up the stairs, the photographer following gingerly behind her.
The sounds of the fight were getting louder; a gagging sound, feet being kicked against a wooden floor, whispered words.
The inert body of Emily Parkinson was draped across the doorway. She was still breathing but out cold.
Molly stepped into the living room.
A man was on top of the thin copper, his hands around the detective’s throat, choking him to death.
Ridpath’s legs were still kicking but she could see he was getting gradually weaker.
The man leant forward and whispered something in his ear.
The photographer took a shot, the flash going off. As the man raised his head, noticing them for the first time, Molly picked up the baseball bat and swung it wildly, connecting to something soft with a satisfying thud.
The man slumped backwards, blood pouring from his ear and temple.
Behind her, Molly could hear the pounding of heavy feet on the stairs, followed by, ‘Jesus, what the fuck has happened here?’
Two Weeks Later
Sunday, August 23
Chapter 101
‘Dad, do you believe in heaven?’
‘Not really, Eve.’
‘So you think Mum isn’t in heaven, she’s just here, buried in the ground?’
‘I’m not very religious, Eve, I don’t really buy into this heaven and hell stuff. But I think your mum is still with us, in our memories and in you and me.’
They were in Stretford Cemetery standing in front of Polly’s grave. The green granite stone they had ordered from the mason was etched with these words:
Polly Lim Ridpath
1981–2020
Daughter, Mother, Wife, Lover
Taken from us far too early
It was Eve who had added the last bit about being a lover. ‘Well, that’s what Mum was all about. Love. For me and for you, Dad. So why can’t we put it on her gravestone?’
He agreed with her. Polly was about love and so much more.
‘I still miss her.’
‘So do I, every day, but it’s good to come here.’ He looked around at the other graves arrayed in lines across the top of the hill overlooking the floodplain of the Mersey.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Where?’
She pointed to the river. ‘There must be a path down there.’
‘OK.’
They walked past some newly dug graves, finding a path leading towards the river. Many of the gravestones bore the Irish tricolour or the Gaelic harp, representing the country’s strong presence in this part of Manchester.
‘Dad, are you a hero now?’
‘Definitely not, I just did my job.’
‘But that woman says you’re a hero?’
‘Molly Wright? She’s a reporter doing her job.’
‘Telling the news?’
‘No, selling newspapers. But she probably saved my life.’
‘I should write and thank her.’
‘That would be a good thing to do, a nice gesture. She’s writing a book about the case.’
‘You’re going to be in a book, Dad?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s so cool. And how’s Emily?’
‘She’s fine, back at work already.’
‘Is she still wearing a bandage on her head?’
Ridpath laughed. ‘Not any more. She’s made of tough stuff, is Emily Parkinson, particularly her head.’
‘She promised we would go riding together when she came out of hospital.’
‘I’ll let her know you’re available, shall I?’
‘I’ll have to get my bike fixed first, the chain has come off.’
‘I’ll do it for you if you like.’
* * *
Across town, Molly Wright was enjoying a rather pleasant lunch with her agent in the Midland Hotel. She’d chosen a Chassagne Montrachet and a 2010 Château Palmer. Not the best year, but still far better than her usual Spanish plonk.
He was taking her through the marketing plans for the book she was writing on the Carsley case. ‘We should be able to get you on Jeremy Vine and Radio 4. Piers Morgan is interested in doing a segment and Tiger Aspect are working on plans to film it. I think you were awfully brave, attacking the killer like that. You saved the copper’s life.’
‘How is he?’
‘Ridpath? I’ve heard he’s going back to work soon. Of course, we contacted him to tell his story. It would have sold well, but he’s not interested, just wants to get on with his job.’
‘Strange. And the other detective, Emily whatsherface?’
‘She’s fine too. Both are receiving commendations for their work on the case, but it was you who saved their lives. You must emphasise that aspect in the book. Please, no modesty, you are a hero.’
Actually, she was a heroine, but didn’t say the words. ‘Who’s going to play me in the film? Somebody glamorous, I hope.’
‘They are talking to Scarlett Johansson and Anne Hathaway.’
‘They’re both American. I was hoping for somebody younger.’
‘It’s still early days, I’m sure they’ll find somebody… suitable.’
‘I want to make sure I am portrayed correctly. The story is important to me.’
‘As it is to us. Talking of the book, when do you think the first draft will be ready?’
‘Soon,’ she answered, without giving a date.
‘The earlier the better. We should strike while the iron is hot.’
Molly Wright loved the way agents always spoke in clichés whilst admonishing their writers for using them. The truth was, she was finding the book hard to write, not usually a problem for her.
As if reading her mind, he said, ‘We could find you a ghost if you need some
help getting the words down on paper.’
A ghostwriter. Why didn’t she think of that? It would take all the pressure off her. All she had to do was tell the story and let somebody else do the work of turning it into words on paper. She raised her glass. ‘I think that’s an extremely good idea, when can we find somebody?’
* * *
On the other side of Manchester, the Carsleys were faring less well. Daniel was languishing in a police station, having been arrested for shoplifting at Primark. He was waiting for the social worker from his children’s home to arrive before the police gave him a caution about his future behaviour.
Irene Carsley, nee McMurdo, was sitting in her bedsit staring at the four walls, having been forced to self-isolate. The scars on her arms showed evidence of self-harming but, as she never left her bedsit, nobody was aware of her mental condition. Her son, David, had been buried a week ago on Wednesday. She hadn’t attended the funeral.
Michael Carsley was still in his living room, staring at the glowing TV in the corner. He had switched off his mobile phone. The only calls he received were either from reporters promising him a small fortune for telling his story, or from well-wishers saying he should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he did to his son. ‘Despite what the police say, I know you were involved in his death,’ was the usual refrain on the calls.
He was too numb to respond any more.
* * *
On 20 August 2020, Jon Morgan finally left his wife, the family home and his dog, and went to live with Shirley Burgess in a rented apartment in Whalley Range.
They had both decided that living for love was more important than living a lie.
They still strolled together every morning beside the Mersey and were thinking of getting a pair of Jack Russells to accompany them on their walks.
* * *
Matthew Oram was remanded under Section 35 of the Mental Health Act 1983 to Ashworth High-Security Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation. He is considering pleading not guilty to the murder of David Carsley, Alan McCarthy, Steven Protheroe and Peter McDonald, according to Section 2 of the Trial of Lunatics Act 1883.