Where the Innocent Die

by Where the Innocent Die (retail) (epub)

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, but the woman must have smuggled it in with her.’

  ‘Was she searched on entry?’

  ‘Of course, it’s part of our procedures when any detainee is processed.’

  ‘But still she managed to bring it into the Centre.’

  A long pause. ‘We’ve tightened up our processing procedures since the… incident. Now, all detainees are searched twice before they are allowed in the Centre.’

  ‘Bit like closing the door after the horse has bolted.’

  ‘It is, but it’s all we can do.’

  Ridpath closed his notebook and put his pen back in his top pocket. ‘Well thank you, gentlemen. I won’t keep you any longer.’

  He held out his hand, which was grasped firmly by Collins. He felt a strange pressure in his palm as the man said, ‘I’m a good friend of the Assistant Chief Constable, Dave Downton. You should join us for a round of golf one day.’

  The pressure on Ridpath’s palm increased. Was this man a mason? Then the handshake was released and Collins said, ‘I’m sure I could square it with the club.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not a golfer,’ replied Ridpath, putting his hand back into his pocket.

  Lucy Bagnall escorted him back downstairs to the Control Centre, leaving the two men in the staff room. ‘I haven’t had time to find the things you wanted. I’ll email them across to you when I’ve compiled them.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘By tomorrow morning at the latest. You must realise Inspector Ridpath I have other work to do.’

  ‘Anything more important than the death of a young woman in the custody of your Centre?’

  The woman stayed silent.

  ‘No, I thought not. Thank you for your help and for escorting me around the facility. I’ll look forward to seeing the information ASAP.’

  Ridpath was met with a cold face as he was given back his mobile phone, his car keys, his wallet and loose change, and shown out of the facility.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Bagnall.’

  The door closed.

  As it did, Ridpath’s body relaxed as if he had been holding his breath all the time he was in there.

  He inhaled a vast lungful of Manchester air.

  He had never been happier to cough it back up.

  Chapter 11

  As his tour of the Centre finished at 5.30, Ridpath decided to go home instead of driving all the way back to the Coroner’s Office.

  On arrival, he went straight up to see Eve in her bedroom. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘Is pretty good, good or just OK?’

  She thought for a moment, her black hair falling across her eyes as she twisted her head. ‘It means pretty good, Dad. Go ask Mum, she knows more about this stuff than me anyway.’ With that, she put her headphones back on and continued watching her iPad.

  His wife was in the dining room, her books spread all over the table as she wrote her lesson plan. He asked her the same question. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘Is this a wind-up? Did you two get together and decide, “Dad’s had a difficult day, let’s make him even more stressed”?’

  Polly rose from the table and put her arms round his neck. ‘You’ve had a bad day?’

  ‘Visited an immigration removal centre. Not a good place, made my skin crawl.’

  ‘I’ve heard bad things about those places in the Chinese community. People have done nothing wrong and get locked up.’

  ‘It’s worse. So how did she do?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t care?’

  ‘Well, I don’t but if she’s going to do these tests, I want her to do well.’

  ‘Look, you can never tell, but knowing your daughter, if she said she did OK, it meant she aced the exam. She’s not one for exaggeration.’

  ‘Unless she’s talking about the singing abilities of BTS.’

  ‘True. I brought a takeaway from Marks and Sparks, one of their meal deals, came with a free bottle of crappy wine. You hungry? Eve’s already eaten.’

  ‘Ok, what is it?’

  ‘Chicken fried rice with a side order of broccoli and corn. Looks better than the stuff we used to serve in my dad’s restaurant.’

  They had met twelve years ago in the restaurant when Polly was a waitress and Ridpath needed a lining of carbohydrates before a night out with his mates. They had been together ever since; for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Without Polly, Ridpath would never have made it through the endless rounds of hospital stays, chemo and the rainbow of different pills he had to take. She was his rock, his pillar, his prop forward in the battle against the cancer. It had put so many strains on his marriage, even leading to a separation for six months, but in the end, it had brought them closer, made them stronger.

  ‘I’ll put it in the microwave to heat up.’

  ‘Great. I’m off down the Horse and Jockey later, quiz night.’

  She took her arms from around his neck and walked through to the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder. ‘You going to lose again?’

  He followed her. ‘Nah, Dave’s back so at least we’ll have music covered. Those bloody students have to screw up one night.’

  She pricked the top of the packet with a fork and popped it in the microwave. ‘Do they? When was the last time you beat them? Six months ago, wasn’t it? And only because you had the ringer from University Challenge.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we have a strategy tonight.’

  ‘What? You’re going to give the correct answers?’

  ‘Something like that. You want me to open the wine?’

  ‘Yeah, I need a glass. Oh, and there’s one more thing.’

  Ridpath looked up from twisting the screw top off the bottle.

  ‘Your daughter is going on strike this Friday.’

  ‘Strike?’

  ‘The school strike stuff for the planet. Her and her mates want to join the demo in Manchester.’

  ‘Isn’t she a bit young for that stuff?’

  ‘She’s ten going on twenty-seven, Ridpath. She makes me feel young sometimes. But I wouldn’t stop her. It could be more than your life’s worth.’

  He poured out two glasses as the microwave hummed noisily. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m kind of chuffed she’s thinking of something other than herself.’

  ‘Good, I’ll tell her you approve.’

  He handed one glass to Polly and took a sip of his own wine, wincing as he tasted its sourness. ‘But let her know, if I have to come and bail her out of the nick, she’s going to get her arse tanned.’

  Chapter 12

  Yang May Feng was scared.

  She hadn’t left the flat for five days now, not daring to go out in case she met him again. Even in the last month, she could count on the fingers of her hand the number of times she had been outside.

  But at least she was safe here. Nobody knew about this place.

  It belonged to one of her customers, the one who was back in Hong Kong and only came to Manchester every couple of months. She had taken his spare keys and made copies one evening when he was snoring loudly after drinking too much at the club.

  And now she was here alone.

  The last of the packet noodles lay empty on the table. The fridge was bare, the shelves empty, not even a leaf of tea remained.

  Could she take the risk and go out to get some food?

  What about money? If she went to the ATM, how much would be left? She was sure there was less than nothing.

  She had to do something and soon. Her next payment was due on Wednesday and if she didn’t go to work, how was she going to pay them?

  She checked the front door was bolted and all the windows were closed, going through all the rooms once again after she had finished.

  But still she felt uneasy.

  She crept into bed and pulled the covers up to her neck, listening to the sounds of the night as they cut through the silence.

&nbs
p; A dog barking. The clack, clack, clack of mah-jong tiles being mixed – swimming, the Chinese called it. Two doors away a couple was arguing, the woman yelling at her stupid pig of a husband.

  A sharp sound off to the left.

  Was somebody trying to get into the flat? She picked up the knife and hid it beneath the covers, close to her chest.

  She listened.

  No other sounds.

  Silence, but no peace.

  Did he know where she was?

  TUESDAY

  SEPTEMBER 17

  Chapter 13

  Ridpath was early for the weekly Major Investigation Team meeting, managing to grab something resembling coffee and a cheese toastie from the canteen before it began.

  He had been up bright and early, making breakfast for Eve and coffee for Polly. Eve was her normal chatty self.

  ‘What are you going to do today?’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you have PE?’

  The crunch of cereal.

  ‘I’ve made a sandwich for your lunchbox.’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Hmmmph, hmmmmph.’

  He was used to her inability to talk for the thirty minutes after she awoke. Often he asked her questions just to see if she would engage with him.

  She never did.

  Polly, on the other hand, was a bundle of energy. Flustered energy but energy nonetheless.

  ‘Where’s my lesson notes?’

  ‘Can you pick up the dry-cleaning?’

  ‘Have you seen my necklace? You know the one I always wear in September.’

  ‘What happened to the toothpaste?’

  A series of random questions fired off as she rushed around the house without any expectation of an answer.

  Ridpath finally packed them both off in the car to go to school, leaning in just before they left.

  ‘We won last night.’

  ‘The quiz?’

  ‘Yeah, I answered four questions correctly, including one on Chinese history.’

  ‘What happened to the students?’

  ‘We slayed them.’

  ‘You mean they didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Ok, we’ll celebrate with something from the chippy this evening. See you later.’

  And with a wave they were both off to school, leaving Ridpath free to drive to his meeting.

  As he entered with his cheese toastie and the hot liquid resembling coffee, he noticed the meeting room was already packed but he only knew a few of the people. The department had changed considerably since it was run by John Gorman and Charlie Whitworth.

  In his head, Ridpath made a sign of the cross for Charlie, killed by Terry Dolan in a fireball two months ago. He still thought of him every day. He supposed he always would, particularly when he spent so much time in their old offices.

  ‘All right, let’s be having you.’ Detective Superintendent Claire Trent stood at the front of the room and immediately everyone quietened or scurried back to their seats. ‘Before we start, there are a couple of announcements. You may notice DCI Lorraine Caruso is not with us today. I’m delighted to announce she has been promoted to Head of Force Liaison, starting immediately. I’m sure you’ll all wish Lorraine a great time in her new job. I will be announcing the new operational head of the department in due course. Until then, I will manage it myself. Secondly, before we go through the active caseload, I’ve asked DCI Dawson from the ridiculously named TITAN squad aka the North West Regional Organised Crime Unit to talk to us about the rise of Albanian gangs in Manchester. This is a growing threat as they have expanded out of London and the South East in the last few years.’ She turned to the tall, austere man on her left. ‘If you’d like to start, Paul.’

  ‘Thanks, Claire. Titan is a bloody stupid name for what we do, chosen by the mob in London, but it’s a deadly serious job. The National Crime Agency has estimated £90 billion of black money is laundered through the UK every year, 4% of the country’s GDP. London has become the global capital of money-laundering and the beating heart of European organised crime. English is now the international underworld’s lingua franca and crime is an essential part of the British economy, providing hundreds of thousands of jobs, not just for professional criminals – the NCA reckons there are 4,629 organised crime groups in operation – but for prison officers, lawyers and court officials, and security businesses employing more than half a million people. Not to mention ourselves, of course.’

  The detectives dutifully laughed.

  He stopped for a moment and gazed out over the assembled heads.

  ‘Now knife crime is deadly serious, but the real villains don’t go around with blades. Organised crime is run like any other business, and its leading figures look like every other broker or tycoon. It’s become “anonymised” crime. The underworld has become the overworld.’

  Harry Makepeace sitting next to Ridpath leant over and whispered, ‘Far too deep for me, I just stick the bad ‘uns in the nick.’

  ‘Britain was once dealing with drug imports from half a dozen countries; now it is more than thirty. A young person who would in the past have sought an apprenticeship in a trade or industry may now find drug dealing offers better career prospects. And, apart from drugs and guns, gangs now facilitate the trafficking of women from eastern Europe and Asia for prostitution and children from Vietnam as low-level drug workers. Pretty much all of the National Crime Agency’s most significant operations now involve people, commodities or transferring money across international borders. Sometimes all three at the same time. The container lorry harbouring forty illegal immigrants may also hide drugs and arms.’

  A detective put her hand up. ‘But as a force, sir, we tend to deal with crimes in departments: vice or drugs or people trafficking. Won’t these new gangs make that a waste of resources?’

  ‘Silly girl, you’ve just killed your career,’ Makepeace whispered, ‘don’t make the case for a National Police Force, not in GMP.’

  ‘Great question – to combat the gangs, we have to change our structure and operations. For example, the Albanians. There are currently around 700 Albanians in British jails. The UK criminal has a get-rich-quick mentality while the Albanians’ strategy was get-rich-slow. Originally based in the East End of London, they are gradually expanding to Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool and Glasgow.’

  ‘But won’t they come up against the existing gangs in those places?’

  ‘But that’s where they have been clever in the last few years. They have formed alliances with other gangs – the homegrown mobs, the Chinese, the Vietnamese and others – particularly in the cocaine and people-trafficking crimes. It helped that their reputation preceded them. The Albanian criminals may be ruthless and potentially murderous when controlling their organised crime, but when it came to the UK, they tried to be more amenable – “We’re here, we need to get on,” that sort of approach. To sum up, the Albanians are coming here and when they do, these gangs will require a different set of skills to deal with the threat. Skills we have been frankly slow at developing in Britain. Any questions?’

  Everybody kept their hands down. Ridpath could see the woman DS was desperate to ask another but didn’t. She had more sense.

  ‘Well, if there’s no more, thank you for your time. I know you’re busy at the moment, but these updates are important. Crime is changing every day, so be careful people.’

  There was a short round of applause before Claire Trent returned to her feet.

  ‘Right, thank you, Paul. I want you all to keep a look out for these thugs. Tap your grasses and put a bit of pressure on. I want to nip these bastards in the bud before they get a foothold in Manchester. Right?’

  There were murmured grunts and nods from the assembled detectives.

  ‘It’s nice to see such enthusiasm for your jobs. I want to hear it.’ She held her open palm against her ear.

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘
Will do.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Report back at next week’s meeting. And woe betide anybody who doesn’t have something for me, even if it’s just a sniff of some rancid Albanian underpants, I want to know about it. Understand?

  ‘Yes, boss,’ chorused the detectives.

  ‘Right, let’s get to business. Tommy, how are you with the Urmston stabbing?’

  ‘The papers are with the CPS and just waiting for their response, guv’nor. Looks like he’ll go down for a long stretch.’

  ‘Good work, I’ll get onto the force publicist. We need to let the public know we’re with them in the fight. More important, we need to let any young thug know he won’t get away with carrying a knife in my city.’ She turned to a detective at the end of the table. ‘Emily, how’s the work on the County Lines investigation?’

  The young detective coughed once before she spoke in a soft voice. Ridpath recognised one of the new fast-trackers immediately: university graduates whose promotion and elevation through the ranks was assured as long as they kept their noses clean, attended the right courses and licked enough boots.

  ‘We’re liaising with DCI Dawson’s team at Serious and Organised Crime as well as the National Crime Agency and the National Crime Intelligence Service to identify individuals involved in the drugs trade and will be organising raids in the near future, ma’am.’

  Why did these people speak like they were reading from a manual, thought Ridpath. Perhaps it was the way of modern policing. Charlie would have just said, ‘We’re on to the bastards and we’ll be nicking them soon.’

  The answer seemed to annoy Claire Trent. ‘It’s boss or guv’nor, Emily. And keep me informed of any developments. I don’t want them southerners from the NCA on our patch, nicking our criminals. That’s our job. So no surprises, OK?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am… I mean boss.’

  ‘And keep Paul here copied on all correspondence too. He hates the NCA almost as much as I do.’

  ‘More,’ said Paul Dawson.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘And now some good news. I’ll be away next week giving evidence at the trial of Terry Dolan, the Fireman as he’s come to be known. CPS are happy with all the evidence we’ve gathered and it looks like he’ll be put away on multiple counts of murder. A big thanks for all your hard work putting the case together and a round of applause for the coroner’s officer on my left, DI Ridpath, for putting us on to the bastard in the first place.’