by M J Lee
He took another long drag on his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke, the doctors had told him many times, but he was sick of them and their rules. He laughed to himself. Only he could be sick of doctors.
He took one more life-giving suck on the Marlboro Red and threw the butt into the drain on his right. It had been nine months since he’d been inside this place. Nine months is a long time. A lot could have changed. A lot probably had changed.
As his DCI, Charlie Whitworth, always used to say; ‘Listen, Ridpath, the only constant with the police is change. A new chief constable and we change. A new government and we change. A new policy and we change. Only the job remains the same. We catch the bad guys and we put them away. Remember that and you’ll go far in this job.’
Well, he had remembered it and he had gone far.
Until nine months ago.
He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. ‘Come on, lad, get on with it,’ he said out loud, adjusting the tie his wife had given him to wear. It felt strange to feel the noose of the tie around his neck, touching his Adam’s apple. You’ll get used it, he thought. You always get used to it.
He launched himself up the whitewashed steps, stopping in front of the glass doors, waiting to be buzzed in.
The door opened and he strode into the reception area. Well, at least this hadn’t changed. There were still the same old fading police notices on the wall with their fading messages:
‘Look out, there’s a thief about.’
‘Don’t be blind to the signs.’
‘Look her in the eye and tell her a little drink never hurt anybody.’
And there were some new ones, clean and crisp in their colour and design:
‘Help free the UK from modern slavery’
‘Hate crime. Tell the Manchester Police about it.’ Beneath this one somebody had written in biro: ‘Because nobody hates crime more than the Manchester Police.’ He thought he recognized the handwriting.
Just two people spoilt the pristine emptiness of the reception area: a wrinkled woman and a young, burly man, both sitting forlornly on the row of plastic seating screwed to the floor. Probably waiting for someone to be released after a night in the cells. Another drunk driver.
A sergeant he had never seen before was standing behind thick glass, looking like a clerk at a post office except for the blue uniform. A muffled voice through the microphone. ‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘An appointment with Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Whitworth at 10.30.’
The sergeant checked his diary. ‘Nothing in here, sir.’
Just then the door to the inner sanctum of the police station opened. ‘Well, I never. Ridpath, it’s great to see you.’
‘Harry Makepeace, skiving off as usual.’
‘You know me too well.’ Makepeace scanned him up and down. ‘You’re looking well.’
Ridpath stepped back and waved his hands. ‘Feeling great. Raring to go.’
‘You here to see the boss?’
He nodded.
Harry held open the door. ‘I’ll take you through…’
‘But there’s no appointment…’ The tinny voice of the sergeant sounded feeble through the speaker.
‘No worries, Martin. This is Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath, used to work here.’
‘Still do.’
Harry Makepeace turned slowly towards him. ‘Aye, I suppose you do. Come on.’
He stepped through into the back office. Behind him the voice of the sergeant was calling, ‘Can you sign the book?’
They both carried on walking down the corridor.
‘Been a few changes since you were here.’
‘Have there?’
‘Me for one – I’ve been promoted.’
‘Congrats, Detective Inspector Makepeace, it’s been a long time coming.’
Harry looked across, checking for irony. ‘Aye, too bloody long.’
‘Charlie’s still here though. Still running the Major Incident Team?’
‘Aye, nowt’s changed there. John Gorman’s officially in charge, but he’s so snowed under by management meetings, Charlie does the day-to-day.’
They entered the CID office on the right.
The place hadn’t changed at all. The same beige walls with the marks of ancient posters staining the government-issue wallpaper. The same mismatched desks. The same ancient desktop computers due to be mothballed a year ago but still being used. And the same grey, coffee-stained carpet that always gave him an electric shock every time he touched his desk.
That detectives’ office.
His detective’s office.
Most of the workstations had detectives sitting at them, tapping away at their keyboards or just staring at the screen, their tabletops strewn with papers and coffee cups. Others were on the phone, their shoulders hunched as they tried to take notes and ask questions at the same time. Two young men rushed past him without saying a word, hastily grabbing jackets and coats.
As he stood in the entrance, a few people discreetly looked up from what they were doing and smiled. One or two waved. But nobody came forward to say hello.
There was a buzz about the place Ridpath missed, something magical in the air. That invisible current of energy running through the room when something big was happening.
‘Busy time, a murder. Charlie’s expecting you,’ said Harry.
He pointed to the far side of the room which was blocked off at the end by a curved glass wall. For as long as Ridpath could remember, this place was called ‘the Bubble’.
‘See you later, for a…’ His hand wobbled in front of his mouth. The universal sign language for a beer, the fuel of choice for any modern police force.
Ridpath nodded, turning towards the Bubble. Inside, he could see Charlie Whitworth staring at a computer screen. He crossed the floor and knocked on the door.
The detective chief inspector frowned and glanced up from his computer, before his face cracked a large smile and he stood up from his desk.
He pushed open the door.
‘Great to see you again, mate.’ Charlie Whitworth advanced with his hand held out.
‘Great to be back, boss.’
The piercing blue eyes stared directly at him as they shook hands, examining him carefully. Finally, his hand was let go.
‘Take a seat.’
Ridpath had barely settled in the chair facing Charlie Whitworth when the question he had been dreading came with all the subtlety of a kick to the head.
‘How’s the cancer?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Don’t hang about do you, boss?’
Charlie Whitworth reached forward to touch a beige folder on his desk. ‘You know me, I was never one for small talk.’
‘What can I say? I’m in remission after six months of chemo. The cancer’s not spread and all the doctors say I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog.’ He reached forward to tap the wooden table.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Charlie Whitworth.
‘But you know – it’s all in the report in front of you. What’s more, the doctors have certified me as fit to return to work and it’s been signed off by HR. Been through so many rounds of ‘assessment’ – he formed quotation marks with his fingers – ‘I feel like I’ve been prodded and poked more than a hooker in a room of blind men.’
Charlie Whittaker opened the report and pretended to read it. ‘True. Says it all here, but—’
‘But what, Charlie?’
‘But…you collapsed in the middle of an important investigation. What if it happens again? And what about the stress? This job isn’t famous for being an easy ride.’
‘Stress didn’t cause my myeloma, Charlie. The illness had nothing to do with the job. It’s just one of those things.
‘A bit shit for someone who’s 35.’
‘You said it. But I’m OK now and raring to get back to the job. You don’t know how boring it is sitting at home all day with the wife fussing around and Cash in the Attic on bloody
telly. If I see another Paul Martin with another bloody toby jug, I’ll shove it where the sun don’t shine.’
Charlie Whitworth chuckled. ‘I can imagine.’ Then the smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. ‘How’s Polly handling it?’
‘Wants me to get back to work. Jesus, Charlie, I’ve been prowling round the house like a caged lion for the last three months. She’ll be happy to get rid of me.’
Charlie Whitworth closed the file and placed it on the desk in front of him. He licked his lips and the moustache sprouting beneath his nose like a tangled vine. ‘I’m gonna lay my cards on the table. The deputy chief isn’t keen on you coming back—’
‘But—’
He held his hands up to stop Ridpath from speaking. ‘But John Gorman and I had a chat with him and we’ve found an answer.’
‘Go on.’
‘We’re going to give you a job where we can monitor your performance and your health for three months.’
‘What’s the job?’
‘It’s an important job for us. We need somebody to sort it out, and quickly.’
‘What’s the job, Charlie?’
‘Coroner’s officer.’
‘Coroner’s officer? You’ve got to be joking, Charlie. It’s a job for the deadbeats and the terminally stupid. I thought Jim Howells was doing that job?’
‘He was.’
‘He was, but what?’
Charlie Whitworth sighed. ‘He was, but he screwed up big time. Taking early retirement. Listen, it would help us out and it’s only for three months. The deputy chief would owe you one. Three months, that’s all, then John and I can move you back into the squad when the coroner finds a full-time replacement. The bloody woman wants somebody with a medical background.’
‘Not a copper?’
‘Not any more. Apparently, the job is changing according to her.’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘I can retain my rank?’
‘Of course, you’re still a probationary detective inspector. Have to start again though. The clock’s gotta be reset. Rules, I’m afraid.’
‘And you’ll take me back onto the squad after three months?’
‘Listen, Ridpath, you’re a bloody good copper, who wouldn’t want you back on their team? And for us it kills three birds with one stone.’
‘It’s two birds, Charlie.’
‘Not in this case, Ridpath. Relations between the coroner and the deputy chief are a little strained at the moment.’
‘Jim Howells?’
‘You got it.’
‘He always was a bit of a twat.’
‘That’s just the half of it. Anyway, the deputy would like you to use your undoubted charm to smooth things over, build up trust with the coroner, show her how cooperative and useful the police can be. You know, the usual crap.’
‘Because the deputy is never going to make chief constable if the local coroner has been bad-mouthing him to the Ministry of Justice.’
‘You got it in one. You can be his eyes and ears.’
‘I’m no snout, Charlie.’
‘Never said you were. A watching brief. Show us you can do the job.’
‘I dunno…’
‘Look, I’ll be honest. The only other available job is in dispatch.’
‘Stuck behind a desk wearing a headset listening to you lot doing the job? You think I’d like that?’
The DCI shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘What’s your answer?’
‘I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?’
‘Not a lot – we never do.’
The looming presence of Harry Makepeace appeared through the glass of the Bubble, followed by a knock on the door.
Charlie Whitworth waved at him to enter.
‘Boss, the initial post-mortem report is in on the unknown vic.’
The DCI stood up instantly, picking up a sheaf of notes from his desktop. ‘You’d better attend this briefing, Ridpath. It can be the first step in our new policy of openness with the coroner.’
‘What’s the case?’
‘A strangling. Body found yesterday morning.’ The DCI strode towards the door, followed by Ridpath hastily rising from the chair to follow his boss. The DCI stopped abruptly just as he left the office. ‘If you want get back with us, don’t screw this up.’
Ridpath looked down to see a finger prodding him in the chest.
‘You haven’t told me when I start.’
The cornflower-blue eyes stared back at him. ‘She’s expecting you at 2 p.m. You start this afternoon.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Right, you lot, listen up.’ Sarah Castle looked across as Charlie Whitworth entered the room and the noise quietened down.
Ridpath took a seat in the rear beside the door, watching Charlie weave his way through the detectives to join Sarah Castle at the front.
He remembered her from before his illness. One of the fast-track mob, parachuted in from some management course and already racing up the promotion ladder. Now here she was, telling some senior detectives to be quiet.
She looked to Charlie, waiting for the nod before she could begin.
Detectives were taking out their notebooks. Next to Ridpath, a young detective constable was neatly writing a row of headings across the top: time, date, name of investigation, call sign, location and his role.
He must be new, thought Ridpath, just out of training school.
Sarah Castle coughed twice, silencing the last of the gossipers amongst the detectives. ‘To recap: victim found yesterday morning at 6.45 a.m. on the towpath of Bridgewater Canal next to Stretford Marina, by a man walking his dog.’
‘Didn’t know Stretford had a bloody marina. Sounds a bit posh…’
‘It’s on the canal, Harry – you work out how posh it is,’ said Dave Hardy, one of the senior detectives.
Sarah Castle continued speaking despite the interruption. ‘Name of victim unknown as of this moment. No identification found with the body. Fingerprints taken but no record on IDENT1. We’ve asked the Interpol AFIS to check, plus her prints have been sent to EURODAC in case she’s an asylum seeker. SIS II isn’t online yet but as soon as it is, we’ll tap into the database.’ She took a breath and looked around the room, then carried on. ‘Age approximately 25 years old, dyed blond hair, originally brunette—’
A murmur of amusement ran around the room, quickly silenced by a stern look from Charlie Whitworth.
‘…tattoo of a swan on the inside of the right arm. A specialist search team is still at the scene checking forensic evidence and a team of divers from the marine unit is arriving in’ – she checked her watch – ‘42 minutes, to begin dragging the canal. The crime scene manager is Katie Green, who will be the liaison between the underwater and forensics teams.’
She walked over to the desk and picked up a clipboard with a printed form attached. ‘The pathologist has come back with some initial findings. The victim was struck on the back of the head by a blunt instrument, followed by multiple stab wounds to the torso and blows to the left side of the head. A ligature was also found around the neck. The pathologist is still trying to ascertain the cause of death but the victim had been dead for at least two days before she was found. Full report will be available to us as soon as possible, once the post-mortem is completed.’
Sarah Castle let the clipboard drop to her side and stepped backwards to allow Charlie Whitworth to take over the rest of the meeting.
‘Thank you, DS Castle. I’ll call the pathologist myself and give him a kick up the arse to speed him up.’ The other detectives laughed but Ridpath noticed Sarah Castle went bright red, the colour in stark contrast to her blond hair.
Next to him the young detective was scribbling furiously in his notebook, taking down everything that was said.
‘We’re treating this as a murder inquiry. You all know what that means. The canal path is on the dog walkers’ daily route. If our vic has been dead for two days but only just found, it means the body was dumped recently. Ha
rry, I want you to pull in all the CCTV from the area, checking on cars and vans. The body must have been transported to the site somehow. Dave…?’ The older detective sergeant raised his hand. ‘I want you to continue with the house-to-house of the local area. Check if anybody saw anything or anybody acting suspiciously.’
‘Will do, boss.’
‘Chrissy… Where’s Chrissy Wright?’
A tiny woman stepped out from behind a burly sergeant wearing a Manchester City scarf around her neck.
‘Can you get on HOLMES? I want to know if any there have been any similar crimes on the database anywhere in the last year.’
Chrissy simply nodded her head.
‘Sarah, I want you to check missing persons. The tattoo is the one clue to this woman’s identity. You’ll also be the FLO when we discover who she is.’
Family liaison officer – the worst job in cases like this. Staying with family and making sure they were kept informed of the investigation. Ridpath didn’t envy Sarah; it was always a nightmare, with little thanks and lots of hassle.
‘I’ll get on it, boss,’ she answered without a trace of annoyance in her voice.
A clipboard was passed to him. On it each detective had signed their name, rank, department and mobile number. For a second, Ridpath was tempted to add his name to the list but he didn’t, passing the board on to the detective constable with the copious notes.
‘Any questions?’
Harry Makepeace raised his hand. ‘The local toms sometimes do their business beside the canal. I wonder if our vic could be one of them? Or maybe one of them saw something?’
‘Good, Harry. Can you follow up? When the pictures come in of the girl and of the tattoo, you might want to show it to the toms and see if they recognize her. Get Bob to help you.’
Harry looked back at the young detective sitting beside Ridpath. ‘Will do, boss.’
‘One other question, sir.’ It was Sarah Castle who spoke. ‘A blow to the back of the head followed by stab wounds to the torso and more blows to the head is consistent with the MO of James Dalbey…’
‘And?’
‘I just thought it was worth a look at the case files.’