Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  The DCI ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘James Dalbey, aka the Beast of Manchester, has been locked up inside Belmarsh High Security Unit for the last eight years. In fact, we have the man who caught him sitting at the back of the room. Stand up, Ridpath.’

  He stood up slowly, like a reluctant singer in a karaoke bar, and nodded. The detectives all turned and stared at him before returning their gaze to Charlie Whitworth.

  ‘Ridpath’s just come back to work after a long illness. He’ll be the coroner’s officer for the next few months, liaising on this case and others.’

  Why was Charlie singling him out? Could it possibly mean he was back on the team? He sat down again.

  ‘To get back to your point, Sarah. Do me a favour; call Belmarsh when this meeting is over. Check the bastard is still tucked up all nice and cosy in his cell.’

  A chorus of laughter around the room, led by Harry Makepeace. Sarah Castle went an even brighter red.

  ‘Right, you lot. Get a move on. Chrissy will give you all the logon details plus case numbers for the overtime. John Gorman has assured me all available resources will be targeted at this. No bloody austerity on this case. He wants it solved, and solved quickly.’

  A buzz of approval went round the room. There would be overtime and more until this case was done.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you to keep schtum. The papers have picked up on it already but none of the details.’ He stopped for a moment for emphasis. ‘I want to keep it that way. If any of you are thinking of earning an extra bob or two from the reporters, don’t. If I find out somebody has sold details of this story, I’ll personally grind their balls with my teeth. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ chorused the seated detectives.

  ‘Get a move on, then – there’s lots of work to do.’

  Ridpath watched as the room was filled with movement. He loved the buzz of a major inquiry. The total focus on the job: sod the hours, sod the time, sod the weather, sod everything and everybody. Just get the job done and find the bastard who did it.

  He got up slowly and walked out of the room without talking to anybody.

  God, he missed this job.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Would he be pleased with her?

  Lesley hoped he would. It hadn’t been easy enticing her into the car. He’d said the third would be harder than the first two. This one seemed to be more wary, more skittish. Had the news that girls were going missing already been circulated by the tom-toms of the concrete jungle?

  ‘I don’t do none of that kinky stuff. Strictly a meat and two veg girl.’

  ‘I just want to have a chat.’

  ‘Why? Why do you wanna chat with the likes of me?’

  She remembered his words. Be open, smile a lot, remember the story. All these girls need money to feed their habit.

  Before she’d driven up to the girl, she’d practised the smile in the rear-view mirror. It always felt strange to her, smiling, as if her face didn’t have the correct muscles in her face. As a child she hadn’t smiled much – never felt the need.

  She had followed his instructions precisely to choose the girl. Go during the day. The ones desperate for money will be on the streets then. After dark, there are more girls and a greater likelihood of being spotted. The ordinariness of daylight is your friend not your enemy. Drive up the road twice and look for a young girl on her own. One that’s thin and scrawny, with no friends around her. She’ll be the one desperate for money. Better if she has an accent, somebody who’s not local.

  After driving down the road twice as she was told, she found the one she wanted on her own away from the others, standing at the corner next to the waste ground. A young girl wearing a blue nylon shirt which had seen better days and a short fake-leather miniskirt which showed off her thin thighs. The girl was hugging her body against the cold wind of a Manchester March.

  She turned left at the bottom of the road, deciding to loop round and come back for a third time, hoping and praying the girl would be still be there when she returned.

  This one was perfect.

  She turned left again at the lights, coming back to the top of the road, accelerating past a white Volvo parked in a side street, a single man sitting in the driver’s seat. A woman’s head rose from his lap, wiping her mouth, as she drove past.

  Why did men do this? What pleasure was there in it? What good did it do them?

  He was right. This shouldn’t be happening.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  She stomped on the accelerator, feeling the surge of power taking her away from all the dirt and decay and disgust.

  The girl was still there. Smoking a cigarette now. Trying to keep warm with each inhalation of smoke.

  She brought the car to a stop beside her and opened the window.

  The girl approached her slowly, checking with rat-like eyes if anybody else was in the car.

  ‘Are you up for business?’ That’s what he told her to say this time.

  The girl leant forward. She could see down the silk shirt to where soft breasts nestled in a purple bra. The rat eyes flickered from her face to the rear seat and back again.

  ‘I don’t do no kinky stuff, strictly a meat and two veg girl.’

  The accent Scouse or something like that.

  Perfect.

  She flashed the smile she had just practised in the rear-view mirror. ‘I just want to have a chat.’

  ‘Why? Why do you wanna chat with the likes of me?’

  ‘I’m a writer, doing a piece on the local girls. I only want ten minutes of your time.’

  The girl looked in the back of the car and then down the empty road. ‘You just want ten minutes?’

  She brought out the twenty-pound note. It was crisp and fresh, making a rustling noise as she held it in her fingers. ‘Twenty now and twenty when we’ve finished talking.’

  She watched the girl’s eyes fasten on the note, seeing in it all she needed to feed her habit.

  ‘We’ll just go round the corner and chat. I’ve even got some hot coffee.’ She held up the flask and shook it so the girl could hear the liquid sloshing inside.

  That was the clincher, as he said it would be. She remembered his words: ‘On a cold day, always make sure they see the coffee. Open it if you have to so they can smell the warm aroma. Put yourself in their place. What would you do? Sit in a warm car with a free cup of coffee or stand out in the cold hoping against hope some bloke with a swollen dick is looking for a blow job?’

  The girl snatched the money out of her hand and shoved it into the top of her purple bra, marched round the bonnet of the BMW and climbed into the front seat, the miniskirt riding up to reveal purple knickers against thin white thighs.

  ‘My name’s Lesley,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘what’s yours?’

  The girl ignored the hand. ‘It’s Suzy. Just ten minutes and no more. And don’t use my name. I don’t want you to use any names.’

  ‘No worries. No names, no pack drill.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Something my father used to say. He was in the army.’ She was following his instructions exactly. Tell them something about yourself. It will put them at ease.

  She put the car in gear, signalled and pulled away.

  The girl didn’t fasten her seat belt.

  She drove slowly. Take your time, there’s no need to rush now.

  ‘You mind if I smoke?’

  The girl reached over and pressed the cigarette lighter on the dashboard, bringing out a crumpled pack of Rothmans. ‘I always smoke these. They’re a bit more expensive but they don’t give you cancer like the others.’

  The cigarette lighter popped out and she brought the glowing end up to the cigarette. ‘Days like this you need the warmth of a fag. God knows what I’d do without them. Always have a pack at home and one in my bag, just in case. You never smoke?’

  She changed down and signalled left, pullin
g out onto the empty road.

  ‘Where we going’? I don’t want to go far. Those thievin’ bitches will nick my patch.’

  ‘We’ll stop here, if that’s OK?’ She turned left up a dilapidated street and then right to park behind an advertising hoarding. The nearest terraced houses were all dark and desolate, the windows either boarded up or broken.

  He had chosen this area specially. An ‘improvement area’ under renovation for the last three years.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ She shook the flask.

  The girl blew a long trail of light-blue smoke through her reddened lips. ‘Has it got sugar in it? Cos I can’t take no sugar – trying to lose a few pounds.’ The girl took hold of a handful of flesh through the silk shirt.

  The woman could see that even though the girl was thin to the point of emaciation, flesh still sagged off her. ‘There’s no sugar in it. Can’t stand the stuff myself.’

  ‘But I still have my chocolate. A bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut every day. Even when I got no money.’

  For a moment, she tried to work out how the girl could afford chocolate when she had no money, then gave up. No point in understanding these women. They sold their bodies to men. What worth were they?

  She poured out the coffee into the plastic cup and handed it to the girl.

  ‘You drink all this down, it’ll warm you up for the rest of the day.’

  The girl cradled the cup in her fingers. ‘Coffee and a fag. Just what a girl needs on a day like today.’ Then she drank a long draught of warm coffee, following it with an even longer suck on the cigarette. ‘Feels better already,’ the girl coughed.

  She took out her notebook and wrote ‘Girl 2’ at the top of the page. Have to keep up the pretence. Mustn’t spook her now.

  Not now.

  ‘What you wanna ask me? You ain’t no social worker or nothin’?’

  ‘No, I’m not, but I do take care of people. You could call it my hobby.’

  ‘Which paper you work for? I hope it ain’t the Sun. Can’t stand the Sun. I’m from Liverpool.’

  ‘I work freelance, with one other man, taking care of people.’

  ‘Oooh, that fag has gone straight to my head.’

  She took the plastic cup and the cigarette from the girl, who tried to protest but no words came out of her mouth. She threw the cigarette out of the window and poured the dregs of coffee back into the flask.

  ‘You just relax and have a good rest, that’s my girl.’

  The girl didn’t answer. Her mouth lay open, spittle drooling out of the corner, sliding over her chin to cover the sores from drug use. Inside her mouth, a black gap showed where a couple of teeth used to be.

  She reached over to fasten the girl’s seat belt. ‘Clunk, click, every trip – remember?’

  Shame it was going to be this girl’s last journey.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It struck him he was wasting too much of his life outside buildings smoking cigarettes.

  This time, it was the East Manchester Coroner’s Court in Stockfield. He had arrived early and, not wanting to sit in reception like a desperate pillock waiting for people to drift back from lunch, stood outside smoking his third cigarette of the day.

  Three more than he was allowed.

  The Coroner’s Office was in a Victorian building in the centre of Stockfield. Another city decimated by progress instituted by the town planners of the sixties and seventies from the comfort of their Edwardian mansions in Hale and Alderley Edge. A few buildings had survived their contra-flow diagrams, traffic management systems and usage pie charts. The Coroner’s Office was one of them. It had the air of a Victorian schoolroom occupied by a modern-day Wackford Squeers, but lacking the humanity and empathy of that celebrated teacher.

  Ridpath checked his watch: 2 p.m. Time to go in and face the music. He hoped it wasn’t going to be something from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  The reception desk was still empty, silently guarding the offices behind it. Ridpath walked past and shouted to the deathly quiet interior. ‘Hello, anybody there?’

  No answer.

  He was sure he heard the echo of his voice off the eau-de-Nil painted walls. Why are all government buildings painted in this colour? Had the civil service somehow issued a memo in 1958 that all walls were to be painted an ugly pastel green and nobody had found the time to revise it? Or had the government bought a job lot of paint in 1962 and was still trying to use it up? The latter was the more likely reason.

  He called again, ‘Helllooo…’

  A tap on the shoulder, followed by: ‘You must be the coroner’s new officer?’

  He turned round to face a young, attractive woman whose dark clothes seemed to come from the same era as the paint.

  ‘The name’s Ridpath. Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath.’ He held out his hand.

  She took it as if she were holding a wet fish. ‘A detective inspector? We are honoured this time.’ She brushed past him. ‘Come this way. Margaret’s waiting for you.’

  As she walked away from him, he noticed her blond hair was wound into a tight chignon and held in place with four shiny grips, each one carefully placed at the side of her head.

  She stopped outside a large Georgian door. ‘Margaret’s office is in here. I don’t think Jenny is back from lunch yet so I’ll take you through.’

  ‘Jenny?’

  She pushed open the door. ‘Office manager and general factotum. She does everything, but don’t ask her to make the coffee.’

  ‘She doesn’t see it as part of her job description?’

  A tiny smile crept into the corner of her mouth. ‘Noooo, she just makes terrible coffee.’

  They were in a compact office. At one side, a desk with a computer even older than the ones down at the station was surrounded by an array of cute dolls: Hello Kitty, a bear from Bavaria, three versions of the Smurfs and a troupe of what looked like plush versions of garden gnomes.

  ‘If you ever travel abroad, you have to bring one back for Jenny, otherwise you’ll find your paperwork gets eaten by one of the trolls.’

  She knocked on the door.

  A curt ‘Come’ came from inside.

  She rolled her eyes and pushed open the door. Behind an expansive oak desk sat a nest of long grey hair surrounding thick black spectacles. The head rose to reveal a woman with the clearest skin Ridpath had ever seen. It was like cream with just a few flakes of raspberry rippling through it.

  ‘Margaret, this is Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath, our new coroner’s officer.’

  He stood there, uncertain whether to advance with his hand out or stand at attention. He ended up doing neither, simply slouching in the doorway.

  ‘Thank you, Carol.’ She placed the forms she had been working on in a neat pile to the left of her desk and stood up. She was far taller than he expected, at least six foot, the grey hair now neatly framing a face showing only the faintest signs of her age. Either she used some of the most expensive face creams known to woman or she looked after herself incredibly well.

  She walked around the desk towards him. ‘Good afternoon. You’re on time.’ Her hand came out. The fingers were long and the nails expertly polished and shaped.

  He was surprised at the strength of the grip as she shook his hand. ‘I make a habit of it – being on time, that is.’

  ‘Good.’ A curt nod towards the person who had escorted him into the room, whom he now knew was called Carol. ‘Thank you, we have a meeting about the Rattigan inquest at four, do we not?’ It was a not very subtle dismissal.

  ‘We do, Margaret. I’ll prepare the papers.’

  ‘Good.’ Margaret Challinor closed the door as Carol left. ‘Take a seat.’

  There was only one chair in front of the desk. It was a bentwood chair, more often found in schoolrooms than in offices.

  The woman sat behind her desk as he made himself comfortable in the uncomfortable chair.

  ‘You’re a detective inspector?’

  ‘Pro
bationary. Still in my first year.’

  The grey eyebrows rose above the dark, slightly tinted spectacles. ‘Normally, they send us a constable, or at most a sergeant. The deputy chief must be trying to butter me up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s Margaret, Mrs Challinor or Coroner, not ma’am. I’m not the Queen. Well, not yet anyway.’ There was no smile on her face. The hands came up to interlock in front of her nose. It almost looked as if they were fighting each other. ‘Why you?’

  ‘Why me…what?’

  ‘Why did they send you?’

  ‘I was told the last coroner’s officer had retired—’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Jim Howells?’

  She nodded, still staring at him through the darkened glasses. On her left, the April sun shone through the large picture windows, highlighting a photograph of Mrs Challinor surrounded by two girls in their late teens. There was no man in the picture.

  ‘What did you think of him?’ she asked quietly.

  Ridpath knew his next answer was crucial. He had conducted enough criminal interviews to know the early questions were always the most important. Personally, he used the rule of three: two questions to get a witness talking, then the most important question as the third. The coroner used a slightly different technique. Three or four personal questions to unsettle and discomfort the interviewee, then ask a question to which you already know the answer.

  As with any interview, he had five options. He could tell the truth. He could be diplomatic. He could lie or he could dissemble.

  He used the fifth: play for time.

  ‘What did I think of Jim Howells?’ It was classic stalling technique. Simply repeat the question and wait for the interrogator to explain herself, giving him more time to think.

  Margaret Challinor just nodded her head, without removing her gaze from his face.

  No more options now, he would have to answer. He chose the first option. ‘The man was a waste of oxygen. Should have been kicked out of the force years ago.’ When all else fails, tell the truth. Or as much of the truth as was humanly possible.