Where the Truth Lies
Page 1
Where the Truth Lies
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Copyright
Where the Truth Lies
M. J. Lee
CHAPTER ONE
10 March 2008. Chorlton, Manchester.
‘I always bites the heads off babies. Dunno why. The orange ones first, then green, red, pink and finally yellow. Always save the yellow for last, I do. Never eat the purple ones though.’
Sergeant Mungovan put the head between his teeth and carefully bit down, avoiding the arms. ‘What about you?’
‘Never touch them, Sarge.’ PC Tom Ridpath tapped the top of the steering wheel, staring through the windscreen at the road. The wipers swept across once, clearing the light drizzle from the glass. It was one of those Manchester days when it was either raining, thinking about raining or had just finished raining and was about to start again. The sergeant popped the remaining torso of the jelly baby into his mouth, searching in the white paper bag as he chewed. ‘They all have names, you know. Now this one, the purple one, is called Big Heart.’ He held the body of the jelly baby between his large, nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Ugly brute, isn’t he?’ The windscreen wipers cleared the glass once more.
‘If you say so, Sarge.’
They had parked up in front of Turner’s newsagents on the corner of Withington Road. Sergeant Mungovan went there every day at eleven o’clock when he was on the morning shift. It was the only place selling his jelly babies out of a jar. The Sergeant bit the head off a bright fluorescent-green baby. ‘Look, I told you this morning, it’s either Doc or Sergeant. I can’t stand ‘Sarge’. Makes me think of Bilko.’
‘Who’s he, Sarge…Sergeant?’
‘Before your time, son.’
‘And you can call me Ridpath. I hate Thomas or Tom, they’re so bloody Victorian.’
The Sergeant shifted his bulk as he peered into the white paper bag. Years of sitting in police cars, eating sweets, bacon butties and Greggs’ Cornish pasties had taken their toll. ‘You can have the purple ones, Tom, if—’ Before he had finished the sentence, a large white van turned sharply right in front of them without any indication, causing another motorist to stamp on his brakes, bringing his car to a screeching stop. Sergeant Mungovan folded the top half-inch of his paper bag. ‘Right, our kid, time to pop your cherry. Looks like you’ve got your first collar. Let’s get after him.’
Ridpath leant forward to switch on the siren and lights of the Vauxhall Astra, only to find his hand slapped away.
‘Sergeant’s privileges. Didn’t they teach you anything at Sedgeley Park?’
The whoop of the siren erupted from above Ridpath’s head and the light cut through the gloom of March in Manchester. He put the car in gear and raced after the white van, now 200 yards ahead and moving fast. Sergeant Mungovan spoke into the radio. ‘In pursuit of a white Ford Transit, licence plate FB05 TBY, along Wilbraham Road, over.’
The van was ignoring the siren and the flashing lights, overtaking a slow-moving car and racing down the road. A spike of adrenalin surged through Ridpath’s body as he stamped on the accelerator. So this is what it felt like – a police chase just like those on Miami Vice, except he was involved and he was in charge. After a short lag, the Vauxhall leapt forward, belying its age. At least the engine was well looked after. They were gaining rapidly on their prey, the van ahead boxed in by the traffic.
‘Slow down, Stirling Moss. I want to nab this one with me in one piece.’
Up ahead the van was turning right, again without any indication, past a large Morrison’s supermarket. Ridpath followed it round the corner, accelerating to within 50 yards. The noise of the siren was louder now, echoing off the buildings on either side, the flashing light more intense. As if raising a white flag, the driver of the van slowed down, signalling to pull in. Ridpath stopped behind him, parking the regulation five yards away so he could see both sides of the vehicle, exactly as he had been taught in police training school.
The driver of the van was sitting in his seat, not moving, staring straight ahead.
Sergeant Mungovan picked up the radio again. ‘Anything on the status of the van? Over.’
Static, followed by the voice of a male dispatcher. ‘Nothing yet, computers are a bit slow this morning, Doc. Over.’
Mungovan switched off the radio. ‘Aren’t they bloody always?’
Up ahead the driver was still behind the wheel of his van and still not moving.
‘You wait here till dispatch gets back to you on the status of the van.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
The experienced copper placed his cap on his head and opened the door of the Vauxhall. As he shifted his bulk to get out of the car, the springs squeaked and the car rocked in complaint. He stood up, pulled down the stab vest over his stomach and closed the passenger door, keeping his ey
es fixed on the driver of the van.
The car instantly felt lighter, more spacious. The radio emitted a squeak of static and then went silent again.
Sergeant Mungovan walked slowly, deliberately, towards the van, stopping for a moment to check a broken rear light. The driver-side door opened and a middle-aged man wearing glasses and blue overalls stepped out. Long strands of hair coated the top of his head in the classic Bobby Charlton comb-over.
Static crackled from the radio. Ridpath looked down at the noise coming from the speaker. He didn’t know why he did that. It was a sound not an image; why did he look down?
‘Proceed with caution, over. Driver of Ford Transit FB05 TBY wanted for questioning regarding abduction of prostitute from Moss Side…’
Ridpath looked up.
The man was standing over Sergeant Mungovan, his fist raised as if to strike downwards. The fist lashed out at the same time as the sergeant jumped backwards.
Ridpath watched it all as if in slow motion. The fist arcing through the air, the look of surprise in the sergeant’s eyes, the man’s hair flopping in the breeze, the fist striking the top of the stab vest where it was fastened across the shoulders. The sergeant falling backwards, arm stretched behind him.
The windscreen wipers sang across the glass, clearing the rainwater.
The man’s fist was raised again, the white knuckles clearly visible against the grey Manchester sky.
Ridpath fumbled with the latch of the door. It caught his sleeve then swung open. He stood up and shouted. He didn’t know what he said but it stopped the man.
Sergeant Mungovan was lying against the rear tyre of the van, his left arm raised to ward off the coming blow.
Ridpath shouted something again. It could have been, ‘Stop, police’ but he didn’t know the words he used.
The man looked across at him, arm suspended in mid-air, a red wildness in his eyes. For a short moment, they stared at each other as if daring the other to act first.
Ridpath slammed his car door shut and the moment was broken.
The man hesitated for a second, eyes darting left and right, before running down Albany Road away from the van.
Ridpath rushed over to Sergeant Mungovan lying next to the rear wheel, his right arm hanging loosely at his side. He knelt down and placed his fingers on the Sergeant’s neck.
‘What the bloody hell are you doin’?’
‘Checking for a pulse, Sarge.’
‘Does it sound like I’m dead?’
‘No, Sarge. Are you OK?’
‘Of course I bloody am. Get after the bastard – I’ll call it in.’ He fumbled for his radio with his left hand.
The man was already 60 yards ahead and moving with a speed which surprised Ridpath. Should he leave the sergeant?
‘Get the bastard,’ shouted Mungovan, pointing with his unhurt arm.
As if on automatic pilot, Ridpath found his legs obeying the order and running down the street after the suspect. Behind, he could hear Sergeant Mungovan calling for backup on his radio.
The man was a hundred yards ahead and moving pretty quickly for a middle-aged, overweight bloke: his head tilted back, his arms pumping and the strand of hair flopping in the wind.
He wasn’t going to stop for anybody.
Ridpath was running strongly despite the tight stab vest and heavy boots. He was proud of how healthy he had managed to keep himself despite spending two years stuck behind a desk and a computer in that insurance office.
Two mind-numbingly boring years of his life.
Wasted.
But police training school had soon sorted him out. Most of the others moaned like donkeys when they went on another cross-country run. Not him. For him, it was pure joy to feel his chest sucking in air and his legs splattered with mud. Anything, even cross country running in the middle of an English winter, was better than sitting behind that desk.
The suspect was already crossing Brantingham Road and heading towards Unicorn, the co-operative grocery. Ridpath had been in there once with his wife when she was on her ‘organic vegan, just eating fish, no milk’ week. A strange place with an even stranger smell. A mixture of turmeric, cumin, sour milk and just a whisper of self-righteousness. Luckily the vegan week had only lasted four days before a pork char siu bao called his wife’s name.
The man stopped at the kerb and looked over his shoulder, seeing Ridpath still running after him. He darted across the road, narrowly missing a cyclist and bringing a white Mercedes to a screeching halt.
The rain still drizzled down, forming a thin wet film over the smooth paving stones. Ridpath slid to a stop at the edge of the road, feeling his legs slide from under him. He put his arm down to stop his fall and jerked himself upright, shouting, ‘Stop him!’, but his words were lost in the noise of the traffic.
A student must have heard because he reached out to grab the man, only to be shoved off his bike viciously. The man stamped on the student’s hand before doubling back up Barlow Moor Road and swinging right down a narrow lane past an Indian fruit and veg shop, its wares displayed in crates across the pavement.
Ridpath stopped for a moment, hearing the sound of sirens in the far distance. The cavalry were on their way. He clicked his radio. ‘In pursuit of suspect on Barlow Moor Road opposite the Unicorn Grocery, over, heading west towards Chorlton Library, over.’
The radio crackled like it was clearing its throat. ‘Message received, over. Vehicles dispatched, over.’
He waited for a gap in the traffic but none appeared: a never-ending flow of cars, trucks and bikes. Ridpath took a deep breath before sticking out his hand and slipping between a bus and another Mercedes. He dodged between the other cars accelerating towards him and managed to reach the other side of the road, hearing the screech of tyres on asphalt to his left, followed by a shouted, ‘Bloody idiot!’
The student was lying on the ground holding his left hand across his chest. An old woman with a shopping trolley was bending over him, asking how he was.
Ridpath ignored both of them and ran up the road, past the oranges and mangoes outside the shop, turning right to follow the suspect.
Nothing.
The man had vanished. ‘What the…?’
He ran down the lane. At the bottom, a mound of grass-covered earth blocked the road. Ridpath leapt up on top of it. On the other side two rows of lock-up garages formed a short street. Right at the end the suspect was fumbling with a bunch of keys, trying to open the door at the side of one of the garages
Ridpath reached for his radio. ‘Suspect at corner of Claridge and Oswald Road lock-ups. Over.’
‘Message received. Over.’
The sirens were louder now, the high-pitched squeal modulating with all the harmony of a scourge of banshees.
The suspect had seen him, and redoubled his efforts to get the door open, searching through the keys looking for the one that would fit.
Should he tackle him alone or wait for backup?
Ridpath ran down the other side of the mound of earth and up between the garishly painted garages. One was sprayed with a sign in big bold letters: ‘Free Benny’.
Who the hell was Benny?
The suspect had the door open. He vanished inside and the door began to close. Ridpath threw himself at it, feeling his shoulder crash into the wood. The next moment he was falling into blackness as the door crashed open, throwing the suspect backwards onto the floor.
A jolt of pain shot through Ridpath’s shoulder as he tried to push himself off the floor.
The man scrabbled for a hammer lying on the ground next to his head. Ridpath threw himself on top of him grasping with both hands the arm that held the hammer.
His shoulder screamed in pain as he struggled on the floor, seeing the hammer above his head, the dull metal ball ready to strike down.
The man was much stronger than he looked. He pressed down harder, leaning all his weight into the hammer, forcing his arm forward.
Ridpath could feel his arm shaking
, the shoulder shrieking, the metal getting closer to his head. He rolled away, hearing the swoosh of the hammer as it swung past his head, seeing the sparks ricochet off the floor as it struck the ground.
The man swung the hammer back towards him, backhanded now, curving it round in an arc. Ridpath jumped backwards, grabbing the arm as it curved through the air.
His opponent fell forward, off balance.
Ridpath swung the man’s arm against the leg of a metal desk, hearing the wrist crack beneath his hands.
The hammer tumbled to the ground.
Ridpath grabbed the back of the man’s head and smashed it into the metal edge of the desk. He pulled the man’s head back, ready to strike the forehead against the desk again.
For a second, the man’s eyes flared with fear. Ridpath grabbed the thin blond hair and thrust the head forward once more.
Again, the head struck the desk with a sickening thud.
The man recoiled for a moment before sinking down to his knees. Ridpath ignored the pain in his shoulder and punched downwards, connecting with the man’s head just below the ear, the momentum of the blow propelling him across the man’s body.
He pushed himself off and brought his fist back.
The man raised his hands to cover his face, not fighting back any more, just protecting himself. ‘Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!’ he screamed, hiding behind his hands.
He slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head where it wasn’t protected, feeling the crunch of his knuckles against the man’s temple. Then he hauled the man’s body around and fumbled for his handcuffs, wrenching the man’s arms up and behind him, snapping the steel jaws onto the wrists.
Behind him came the screech of tyres, the slamming of doors, the welcome sound of police boots on tarmac.
‘In here,’ he shouted pushing himself off the man and sitting back on the floor, his breath panting in short sharp gasps.
Voices outside the lock-up.
‘In here,’ he shouted again.
As the door slowly, cautiously opened, the grey light of a Manchester day crept into the garage, gradually reaching to the rear wall.
Ridpath stared up. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWO
Present day
Ridpath stood outside looking up at the acres of plate glass covering the building and shivered. Why was he so nervous? This was his place, his patch; he knew every inch of police headquarters.