‘When do they arrive?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘We’re not going to be ready, Coroner.’
She checked her watch and took a pink file from her inbox. ‘So you better get moving, Ridpath.’
Once again, he had been dismissed. He was starting to get used to it.
Chapter 17
‘Sophia, has anything come from the woman at the IRC yet?’
‘Five minutes ago, while you were with the coroner, delivered by courier.’
A large package lay on Ridpath’s desk. He picked it up and pulled apart the white plastic courier bag. Inside was a bulky A4 envelope. He unwound the string binding it, removed all the packing and pulled out just six sheets of paper.
The top sheet was a note from Louise Bagnall, cheerily informing him the enclosed was the material he had requested and promising further help if any was needed. ‘New Hampshire Detention Services as a company is dedicated to helping the coroner in any way possible to ensure the speedy resolution of this matter.’
She was obviously the person responsible for the copywriting on the brochure.
Sophia came and stood beside him. ‘Is this about the death of the detainee?’
‘Six pages. It’s not much, is it?’ He checked out the next document. It was a photocopy of an admission processing form. At the top on the left was a small, grainy passport-sized photograph of the victim, Wendy Tang, as she was then called. The face had an air of resignation about it, as if she knew she was powerless against the world of bureaucracy.
There were details about her height, weight, colour of eyes and hair. The distinguishing marks box was left blank.
The next box was simply headed RECEIVED FROM in bold capital letters. Inside somebody had written.
UK Immigration Enforcement
Dallas Court
Langworthy Street
Salford
‘It makes them seem like parcels, not human beings. UK Immigration Enforcement were the same bastards that snatched my cousin one morning at 7 a.m. She was seeking asylum, having escaped Pakistan to avoid an arranged marriage.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘They sent her back. She’s married now. The man is 53 years old and has two other wives.’
‘I’m sorry, Sophia, but we must remain dispassionate about this case. Whatever we feel, our job is to investigate and try to understand what happened. We mustn’t let personal feelings intrude.’
‘Be dispassionate? When people are being snatched off the streets, imprisoned without trial and deported, without leave to appeal a bureaucratic decision? Did you miss the Windrush case, Ridpath? That was just the tip of the iceberg.’
‘Sophia, if you can’t be dispassionate, I will have to take you off the case. Getting angry and arguing with Carol Oates helps nobody.’
‘She’s such a cold fish.’ She held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘But I’ll do as you say. Dispassionate is my new middle name.’
Ridpath turned back to the document. There was a scribbled signature for the receiving officer; it was Tony Osborne, the same officer who had been working the night of her death. The time of receiving the detainee was recorded as 9.15 a.m. on August 19th.
The final box was headed ACTION. Beneath this section somebody, presumably Tony Osborne, had written in block, capital letters.
AWAITING DEPORTATION
Another sheet attached to the processing document was full of boxes with nothing written in them. All seemed to be headed with acronyms and numbers.
‘They’re billing codes, to be completed later.’
Ridpath stared at Sophia.
‘What? I worked in an insurance office for one summer. It’s a standard corporate charging sheet. There will be fixed rates charged for the number of days she is detained, meals, medical services, special dietary requirements, uniforms and all the rest of the stuff these companies can charge the government. It’s their way of milking the system.’
‘But it’s all empty.’
‘Maybe they didn’t get round to filling it in or, more likely, they’ve attached a blank one instead of letting you see what they’ve been charging.’
Ridpath turned to the final two sheets. The first was a list of the officers employed by Wilmslow IRC at the time of the death of Wendy Tang aka Wendy Chen Hong Xi, with their names, addresses and telephone numbers. Two of the men listed were Joe Cummings and Tony Osborne. Each name had a passport-sized headshot next to it, obviously a copy of their ID cards.
The last page was a list of the detainees confined in the IRC that evening, their room numbers and what had happened to them.
‘Our woman was in Room 7 so either side of her were Rooms 5 and 9, opposite was 6 and 8.’ Ridpath searched through the list. Here’s Room 5.
Mehmet Ali SYRIAN deported 20/08/2019
‘He was deported the day of her death. What about Room 9?’ Ridpath searched through the list. There was no Room 9 listed.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t used that night?’ suggested Sophia.
‘But they told me the facility was full. What about Rooms 6 and 8?’
Sophia found the numbers on the page next to each other.
Nicolai Ciobanu ROMANIAN deported 20/08/2019
Roman Popescu ROMANIAN deported 20/08/2019
‘So all the people in the surrounding cells were deported the day of the incident. Were they getting rid of possible witnesses or was this normal procedure? After all this is a short stay facility.’
Sophia shrugged her shoulders.
‘Right, I want you to get onto Louise Bagnall. Check whether there was anybody in Room 9.’
‘Ok, will do.’
‘And the security officer, Stuart Collins, was supposed to send me the CCTV tapes from that evening, can you get on to him?’
‘I’ll chase them up.’
Ridpath grabbed his jacket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What I should have done yesterday. Going to see Detective Sergeant Ronald Barnes. Perhaps he can tell me what the hell is going on in this case.’
Chapter 18
Tony Osborne glared at his half-drunk pint and realised he didn’t want any more. At the bar, a student was ordering a shandy, much to the disgust of the barman. Next to him, an old man sat staring into mid-air, his nicotine-stained fingers tapping on the box of matches next to his pint.
The hands were rough and hard with manual work, while the man’s face was etched with the wrinkles of old age, his flat cap nestling over a hedge of bushy eyebrows.
Tony Osborne didn’t want to end up like that; sitting in a dreary pub, guarding a glass of frothy brown suds, waiting for death to strike.
He couldn’t face such a future.
Not any more.
And he didn’t have to if he just played his cards right.
The company had given him a week off to prepare for the testimony at the Coroner’s Court on Thursday. Yesterday was training at the Centre, today was a morning spent in the solicitor’s office in the town centre to prepare for the day.
‘Remember to dress well, Mr Osborne, jacket, shirt and tie but not your uniform. You are a human being, not a custody officer.’
‘Remember to be on time, preferably come fifteen minutes early. You can sit in the court and listen to the other testimony.’
‘Remember to speak up at all times, and make sure the jury can hear you.’
‘Remember it’s not a court of law. The coroner will ask most of the questions, not a barrister. This court simply wants to know what you did and what you saw, nothing more.’
‘Remember you are representing the company. Always state how proud you are to work for New Hampshire Detention Services and always follow the correct procedures.’
It was all bollocks, of course. They had told him what to say and how to say it, even coaching him to answer difficult questions with ‘I don’t remember’ or ‘I can’t recall’.
He’d had enough. When this was all over and he’d col
lected his money, he was off. Somewhere warm and sunny with plenty of hot and cold running women. Somewhere like Thailand. Sean had said you could live like a king for ten quid a day out there. He was sick of Manchester; the cold, the wet, the rain and all the bloody people moaning as if their lives depended on it.
He was off as soon as this court date was done and dusted. It had all gone as they’d told him so far. All he had to do was spend another twenty minutes saying the same thing over and over again and he would be finished. Collect his money and go to discover the women of Thailand. Or, more precisely, let the women of Thailand discover him.
It was his love of them which had trapped him in this bind in the first place.
Just two more days and he would be free.
No more prisons for him.
His sentence was over, the jail time done. The only uniform he would wear from then would be Hawaiian shirts, shorts and a pocket full of condoms.
He looked at his pint and pushed it away.
The old man finally moved his head and gazed across at him with rheumy eyes. ‘I could have had it all,’ he said, slurring his words.
Tony Osborne was going to have it all. And then some more.
Fuck Manchester. Fuck the prison. Fuck everything.
Chapter 19
Rowley station was one of those new brick-built stations with all the mod cons: hot and cold running cells, a canteen, offices for detectives and even working broadband. The problem was nobody knew where the nick was, not even the police. It was hidden out of sight down a back alley at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Ridpath walked into reception. The usual posters were on the walls: fight people trafficking, don’t drink and drive, watch out there’s a thief about. Next to these posters was another showing Manchester’s most wanted criminals with their mug shots lined up as if on an identity parade. It would be difficult to find an uglier bunch of criminals anywhere.
At the end of the wall was a recruitment poster showing four smiling, uniformed plods beneath a headline saying, ‘Let the Force be with you.’ They were obviously aiming to recruit Star Wars fans this year. He half expected R2D2 to be hidden somewhere in the picture. But given GMP’s problems with its new computer system, R2D2 would be a definite improvement.
In front of the posters, on the benches, was a middle-aged woman with a black eye being comforted by her son who couldn’t have been older than twelve. She was quietly sobbing while her son whispered something to her. Ridpath observed both of them. She had probably been beaten up by her partner, while her young son was powerless to defend her.
Now that was a truer image of the reality of modern policing than the sanitised poster on the wall.
He walked to the glass-shielded front desk. A burly sergeant who looked like he could lose a few pounds was slouched behind the desk.
‘I’m here to see Ronald Barnes.’
‘And you are?’
Ridpath took out his warrant card and held it against the glass.
The sergeant immediately sat up straight. ‘Right, Inspector, I’ll let him know.’
Ridpath hadn’t told him where he was from. Rank hath its privileges.
While he was waiting, his phone rang. The woman with the black eye jerked backwards at the noise and had to be calmed by her son.
Ridpath turned away. The call was from Sophia.
‘Lucy Bagnall has come back with the name of the man in Room 9. Leaving him off was a mistake apparently. He was a Mr Liang Xiao Wen. He wasn’t deported, but transferred to another removal centre, Halverson IRC in Leicestershire. Apparently, some lawyer had appealed his deportation.’
‘Great, Sophia, can you push Stuart Collins on the CCTV tapes too?’
‘They’ve just arrived, so I’ll get onto them as soon as I can. But Carol Oates is being a pain.’
‘Remember, teamwork, Sophia.’
‘Teamwork. That’s my new middle name along with dispassionate.’
He ended the call. The sergeant was holding the door open and pointing upstairs. ‘It’s the second on the right.’
When Ridpath walked into DS Ronald Barnes’ office, the man was just taking down a picture from the wall and placing it in a brown box.
‘You redecorating?’
Barnes held up the picture for Ridpath to see. It was a younger version of himself dressed in a tuxedo shaking hands with Alex Ferguson. ‘1994, the year we won the treble. Manchester United on top of the world.’
‘Do you still go?’
Barnes shook his head. ‘Not since Sir Alex left. My son has my season ticket now. For me, all the passion has gone out of the game. It’s all about money now. Sanchez on 500,000 quid a week and he still looks like he couldn’t run twenty yards without being out of breath. Give me the old days when Hughesy, Scholes, and Becks were scoring wonder goals while Roy Keane was kicking three lumps of shit out of any midfielder who had the gall to get in his way.’ He gazed at the photo for a long time and back up at Ridpath. ‘You from PSB?’
‘No, nothing to do with that shower. I’m from the Coroner’s Office. DI Ridpath.’
‘So the witch has sent somebody to do her dirty work, has she?’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘The coroner asked me to look into the death of Wendy Chen at Wilmslow Immigration Removal Centre.’
‘That’s what I mean. The witch has asked you to do her dirty work.’
Ridpath sighed. ‘Look, Ron, I’m a copper too. I’m not here to bury you, OK? I just want to find out the truth.’
‘The truth? Is that what this is about?’
‘It’s about a young woman who died in a prison with her throat slashed.’ Ridpath pointed to the chairs. ‘Can we sit?’
Slowly, Ronald Barnes placed the picture of himself and Alec Ferguson in the brown box and walked to sit behind his desk.
Ridpath pulled out a chair and sat in front of him.
‘Aren’t you supposed to caution me first and shouldn’t I have a union rep with me?’
‘This is just a chat.’
‘That’s what they all say. Remember, I was a bloody detective when you were still sucking on your mother’s tit. Thirty years in the force and it’s come to this. Under investigation because some old coroner with her tits in a mangle complained about me. I only had three months to go and now they’re making me work shifts behind some bloody desk, collating bloody force recruitment statistics.’ The man thumped his chest. ‘I’m a detective, for God’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Ron. You don’t have to go, do you? You could stay and fight. Carry on working here for the next three months.’
‘What? And risk losing the whole bloody lot? I’ve waited thirty years for this pension and now the bastards are playing silly buggers. Not me. I’ll go, take what I’m owed and stick two fingers up at the bloody lot of ‘em.’
‘Can we talk about the investigation into the death of the girl?’
Ron Barnes stayed silent.
‘You were the Senior Investigating Officer, right?’
‘I was the only investigating officer. Correct.’
‘And you went to the Removal Centre, when?’
‘It’s all in the scene of crime report.’
Ridpath took it out of the folder and checked the details. ‘You arrived at 6.25 a.m., right?’
‘If that’s what it says.’
‘Why so long? The death was reported to the police just after 4.00 a.m.’
‘As far as I understand it, nobody was available. We’d had a stabbing and the detectives on duty were attending the scene.’
‘So a few cars were despatched but no detectives. When did you get involved?’
‘I received a message to attend the death at 6.02. I’d only been at work two bloody minutes.’
‘Your shift started at six?’
‘Correct.’
‘There were no detectives available before that time?’
‘Check the logs.’
‘I will.’ Ridpath made a note in his book. ‘S
o you arrived there, what happened?’
‘I arrived at 6.25 and was met by the facility manager, a bloke called Dave Carlton.’
‘He was already there?’
‘Either that or I was seeing things. He told me there was a suicide in Room 7. I went up with him, saw all the blood and immediately called forensics and the pathologist on call.’
‘Who was?’
‘Look this is all in the report, why don’t you just bloody read it?’
‘I want to hear it in your own words.’
‘Looking for discrepancies, are we? Remember I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you. Think I’d fall for those old tricks?’
‘What time did the pathologist, Dr Ahmed, arrive?’
Barnes smirked. ‘So you have read the report? It was at 7.02. He talked first with Carlton and called the death at 7.30 or thereabouts.’
‘Talked to Carlton? He’s not in your report.’
‘What does it matter? He didn’t go anywhere near the scene of the crime.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I bloody am. I know how to cordon off a crime scene.’
‘When did the forensics team come?’
‘It took them a while to get through security, so they arrived at 7.45. Joyce Taylor was the scene of crime manager. Know her, do you? She’s good at her job, doesn’t miss anything.’
‘You stayed at the scene?’
‘Until the body was moved and I interviewed the guards.’
‘And?’
‘It’s in the report. They all thought it was a suicide. Apparently it’s happened before. These people don’t want to go back to their own countries and would prefer to kill themselves than let it happen.’
‘That’s what you thought happened in this case?’
‘It looked like it to me, but I kept an open mind, just as you’re told to do in the manuals. I presume you’ve read the manuals, sonny.’
‘I’m not your “sonny” Detective Sergeant Barnes, my name is Ridpath and I’m a Detective Inspector.’
Barnes’ eyes narrowed. ‘Ridpath? I remember the name… weren’t you the one who collapsed on the job, cancer or summat? They hived you off to the Coroner’s Office when you returned, did they? Somewhere safe and cosy where you couldn’t hurt yourself or do any damage?’ He smirked again, ‘Or are you one of those who has to prove himself? “Despite everything I can still do the job and I’m going to prove it.”’
Where the Innocent Die Page 7