Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  ‘You could have dissembled,’ she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What was the point? You worked with him.’

  ‘I did have that misfortune. He was a lazy, good-for-nothing shyster who spent more time and effort avoiding work than he ever did doing it.’ She smiled like a cat who had seen a mouse. ‘So why you?’

  The truth will set you free. ‘I’m a good copper, Mrs Challinor, a very good copper. Nine months ago, I was diagnosed with myeloma – bone cancer – I embarked on a course of chemo in Christie’s and took a new drug they were trialling. Six weeks ago, I was finally given the all clear. The cancer is in remission.’

  ‘Are you still taking drugs?’

  ‘One a day. But there are no side effects according to the doctor. The force will send you my file, I’m sure.’

  She lifted a beige file from beside her computer. ‘It already has.’

  ‘Then there was no need to ask. You already knew.’

  ‘But I didn’t know how you were going to answer, Detective Inspector, did I?’

  ‘No, but I did.’

  She licked her lips before continuing. ‘You know the job is only temporary?’

  ‘Three months is what I was told.’

  ‘Do you know what the job entails?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

  ‘A coroner’s officer is an advocate for the dead to safeguard the living.’

  ‘A pretty broad job description.’

  She sighed. ‘It is, and that’s the official job one from the Chief Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘Sounds like management-speak. The police force is full of it these days.’

  ‘Consultants?’

  He nodded. ‘Crawling out of the woodwork. One lot comes in and recommends a reorganization. Two years later, another lot recommends the exact opposite. I often wonder if they’re operating together to create work for each other.’

  She made a moue with her lips. ‘Not so different from the Coroner’s Service, but in reality our job hasn’t changed since just after the Norman Conquest in 1066. We were created then as servants of the crown, hence coroners, to separate the investigation of death from the legal process of judgment. Not a lot has changed since then.’

  ‘A long time…’

  ‘The law is always reluctant to change. It’s one of the strengths, and the weaknesses. There are just under one hundred people like me in England and Wales, and our jurisdiction is limited to determining who the deceased was and how, when and where they came by their death. When the death is suspected to have been either sudden or from unknown cause, the coroner decides whether to hold a post-mortem examination and, if necessary, an inquest.’

  ‘It’s a wide remit.’

  ‘And seems to be getting wider all the time. We have a boss, he’s part-time but don’t ask me why, appointed after the 2009 Coroners and Justice Act.’

  ‘Just after I started in the force.’

  For the first time, Ridpath saw a change in Mrs Challinor. She looked down and then began to rearrange the files on her desk nervously. ‘The Act was passed in response to murders by Harold Shipman.

  ‘The doctor who killed over 300 pensioners? Was Hyde part of your district?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was South Manchester, but the truth is I wouldn’t have spotted the deaths either. If a doctor certifies death, as Shipman did, we are unlikely to investigate.’

  ‘Even now?’

  She nodded again. ‘The Smith Commission reported on the Shipman murders and offered a whole raft of measures to prevent them happening again. But, of course, the government of the day ignored the recommendations.’

  ‘Why?’

  She flicked away a long curly strand of grey hair which had fallen across her eyes. Ridpath noticed her fingers: long, graceful and beautifully manicured.

  ‘A reluctance to change. Cost. Stupidity. Or a combination of all three,’ she finally answered. Her jaw set and her voice became forceful, emphatic. ‘But I am determined nothing like that will ever happen again. We will investigate all suspicious deaths, and discover the truth to the best of our ability, Ridpath. Is that clear? Your colleague, Jim Howells, never understood what his role was. Thought this job was a cushy number. Well not when I’m in charge, understand?’

  He nodded. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Your absolute best. Nothing else is good enough.’ She passed across a blue file. ‘The exact details of your role are in here. Your job is to carry out investigations on the coroner's behalf. A coroner’s investigation may involve a simple review, or it may involve a complete examination of the circumstances behind a death.’ She paused for a moment to look at him. ‘It also includes investigating every death that happens in police custody. Would you have a problem investigating your own colleagues?’

  He thought for a moment. Would he have a problem? He shrugged his shoulders and decided to answer truthfully. ‘I don’t know.’

  She continued to stare at him. ‘At least you’re honest,’ she finally said. And then her voice changed pitch and she lightened the mood. ‘I’m not without a few powers to help in any investigation though. A coroner’s court is a court of law, and accordingly the coroner may subpoena witnesses, arrest offenders, administer oaths and sequester juries during inquests.’ She reached over and tapped the file she had given him. ‘You’re basically going to do anything and everything I ask of you.’ The green eyes stared at him through the darkened lenses. ‘Do you understand?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You were CID?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘The difference between the Coroner’s Office and the police is stark, Detective Inspector. We don’t chase convictions, we don’t chase criminals, we don’t chase promotions. We simply represent the families and we look for the truth. Who died? When did they die? How did they die? Who was responsible? Is that clear, Detective?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘As soon as we can, we’ll get you on an officer’s course.’

  ‘Even though I’m only staying three months?’

  ‘I don’t care about the time, Detective, I care about your effectiveness. You will go on the course. In the meantime, though, we have ongoing investigations that need to be progressed.’ She opened a drawer and pulled out a pink file. ‘This will be your first case.’

  She passed across the file.

  ‘We have been instructed by the high court to reopen an inquest into the death of Alice Seagram. The exhumation of her body will be performed at 6.30 a.m. tomorrow morning. I’d like you to be there.’

  ‘Alice Seagram?’ The name stirred something in the far recesses of his brain.

  ‘One of the victims of James Dalbey. He has convinced the family he had nothing to do with her death, that somebody else was responsible.’

  ‘I saw the news reports. An unknown man. They’ve been asking for the case to be reopened for years.’

  ‘There were so many flaws in the original post-mortem, it was only a matter of time before the high court agreed.’

  ‘You know I was involved in this case?’

  ‘So I was told.’

  Ridpath wondered who she had been talking to. ‘It doesn’t disqualify me?’

  ‘Not in my eyes. The undertaker, Mr Ronson, will perform the exhumation tomorrow morning. You will be the representative of the Coroner’s Office. There is a detailed list of your duties during the exhumation in the file.’

  ‘My first day I’m going to be digging up a dead person?’

  ‘Think of it as a perk of the job.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘How’d it go? ’His wife was taking off her coat in the hallway, shouting through to the living room.

  He was reading the blue file given to him by Margaret Challinor. She was right. A coroner’s officer did everything and anything: from informing families about the death of loved ones to attending crime scenes, investigating cases to chasing down witnesses, visiting
mortuaries to liaising with doctors. The job was a glorified social worker cum private investigator cum general dogsbody.

  She appeared in the doorway, her straight black Chinese hair still damp from the rain. ‘Didn’t you hear me? How’d it go?’

  He looked up from the blue file. ‘Charlie Whitworth and John Gorman are looking out for me, but the deputy chief has “reservations”.’ He formed his fingers into sarcastic quote marks.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means they want me to be th coroner’s officer for three months.’

  ‘What does one of them do?’

  He held up the blue file. ‘I’m just finding out. But it should be a less stressful job, with regular hours. An easier life.’

  ‘You’re not getting a desk job at headquarters? The least they owe you is a desk job.’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘I asked for one but there are none available. The cutbacks…’ He looked away from her and back to his job description, hoping she would forgive him for the fib.

  She sat down on the couch opposite. ‘You didn’t ask, did you? You asked to go back to work as a detective.’

  How did Polly always know when he was lying? She would have made a great copper.

  ‘Tom, you promised me.’ She reached out to touch his hand. ‘Your health, it—’

  He shrugged the hand off his arm. ‘The doctors said I was fit to work. I’ve been prodded and poked like the last buttie in the chip shop for the last nine months, Poll. I’ve been running and working out for the last three. Feel that.’ He flexed his biceps, ‘Strongest I’ve ever been.’ His voice softened. ‘I’ve got to get back to work. Can’t stand doing nothing anymore.’

  ‘Can’t stand being around me, you mean?’

  ‘It’s not about you. I can’t stand being treated like a child.’

  ‘I’m just worried about you. The doctor said if you get a cold or flu, it could be dangerous.’

  ‘He also said I was fit for work.’

  She raised her voice.’ ‘Fit to go back to work. Not fit to run around Manchester chasing bloody nutters.’

  A silence like a shroud of fog settled between them. Outside the window, the soft patter of rain on the cobblestones of the patio he had laid last week. Inside, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly. Upstairs, the dull thud of his daughter’s music shook the ceiling.

  Ridpath finally broke the silence. ‘I went into Eve’s bedroom this evening. She’s got pictures of half-naked Chinese men on her walls.’

  ‘They’re not pictures of half-naked men. They’re pictures of half-naked boys. Korean boys.’

  He looked at her, as if to say give me a break.

  ‘It’s BTS, the latest Korean boy band. The craze is going around all the schools at the moment. Half my class wants to go to Korea. The other half haven’t got a clue where it is. At least it helps me teach geography.’

  ‘I don’t like it. She’s only ten, for God’s sake.’

  ‘She’s ten going on twenty-three. Girls grow up quicker these days.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, if you want her to take them down, you can ask her yourself. I’m not going anywhere near that minefield.’ She stood up. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  He put down the file. ‘Nah, I’m going to walk the dog.’

  ‘We don’t have a dog.’

  ‘He’s going to get walked anyway.’

  She leant over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Quiz night at the Horse and Jockey?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I thought you’d had enough of coming second?’

  ‘Those bloody students can’t win every week, Anyway we’ve got a new team member, appeared on University Challenge a few years back.’

  ‘So you and your mates have brought in a ringer?’

  ‘Not a ringer. A buzzer. Could beat them tonight.’

  ‘Can you can drop in the offie on your way back from the pub, get some milk?’

  He looked around for his coat. ‘I still don’t like those posters.’

  ‘Well, if you want to start World War Three…’ She left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

  ‘What is it with girls today?’

  ‘Oh, Mr “Girls’ should know their place and it’s behind the sink” is showing his face, is he?’

  ‘It’s not that, she’s only ten. They’re supposed to be into Barbie and stuff.’

  ‘You’re treading on thin ice…’

  He opened the door. ‘I’d better tread on it on the way to the pub. And it’s the naked men I worry about…’

  ‘Naked boys, actually.’ There followed a long sigh. ‘If you want, I’ll have a chat with her and see if she can’t find some different posters.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And wrap up before you go out. Wear the wool fleece with your coat over the top. And don’t forget to wear a scarf, the thick blue one…’

  He made a face at her.

  There was another long silence between them. This time it was Polly who broke it. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Ridpath. Eve doesn’t want to lose you. I don’t know what I’d do if…’

  He reached over and held her tight. ‘I know, Poll, I know.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The cemetery was on a spur overlooking the flood plain of the river Mersey. Morning mist hovered over the water, sneaking like a thief into every tiny nook and cranny. The sun was just trying to peer over the horizon, its weak rays lightening the dark skies. The bare whispers of a north-east wind hustled over the ground, creeping between the gravestones and rustling the branches of a row of lime trees.

  Ridpath pulled his thick coat over the woollen fleece. The teal-blue scarf around his neck was nearly choking him, but he had promised Polly he’d wear it.

  The doctors had warned him to be wary of catching cold or flu. If he did, he would be whisked off back into the isolation unit of Christie’s. Bloody doctors and their bloody fears. There was no way they were getting him inside the hospital again. Not in a million years.

  He would have loved to smoke a fag right now. The tarry aroma of tobacco in the early morning air like the first cough of spring, but he had promised Polly he would cut down. Not eliminate, just cut down.

  God, she was good at getting him to make promises. Almost as good as he was at breaking them.

  The undertaker, Albert Ronson, had already erected blue plastic sheets on three sides of the grave, leaving the side hidden from the main road open.

  The message on the headstone was simple:

  Alice Seagram, 1990–2008.

  Taken from us far too early.

  In front of the headstone, a bunch of flowers bought from Tesco wilted in the early morning gloom.

  ‘I didn’t inter this client.’ The undertaker spoke out of the side of his mouth, not looking at Ridpath, whispering so as not to wake the dead.

  The undertaker was almost a cliché of his profession: tall, dressed in black and with a sallow complexion which hadn’t seen sunlight since the Dark Ages. ‘Only one customer in the grave, so it should be a simple exhumation.’

  The voice was monotone, without any sort of inflexion or stress. Funereal was the adjective to describe him, Ridpath decided.

  ‘The last time, I had three caskets on top and two cremation urns. Delicate job…delicate job.’ He blew on the ends of his sallow fingers in a futile attempt to warm them up in the cold morning air. Ridpath kept his hands in his pockets.

  The gravediggers had already started to remove the grass that grew over the plot, putting the sods on top of a tarpaulin on one side. ‘Won’t use a mechanical digger on this customer.’ Albert looked over his shoulder. ‘Treat her with respect just in case the family comes down to watch.’

  ‘Do families normally come?’

  ‘Some do. Some don’t,’ said Albert enigmatically.

  A car, its headlights cutting through the early morning mist, was parking at the side of the road.

  ‘It’s him, checking up as usual
.’

  A large, rotund man approached them wearing one of those dark-blue duvet jackets that made him look like a miniature version of the Michelin Man. ‘Morning, Albert,’ he nodded at the undertaker. ‘You must be the new coroner’s officer. I’m Health and Safety.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Morning. Inspector Tom Ridpath, on temporary secondment to the coroner from Manchester Police.’

  ‘Lovely morning for it.’ He stared at the gravediggers and tut-tutted. ‘Albert, you know they should be wearing their masks before they start digging. See to it, will you?’

  Albert glanced across at him mournfully, sneering with all the panache of a Professor Snape, before moving off to talk to the transgressing gravediggers.

  ‘Always tries to cut corners, does Albert.’ The man stomped his feet on the cold ground. ‘Been working long with the coroner?’

  ‘First day.’

  The man made a moue, his tiny eyes being swallowed up by the large red cheeks. He leant in closer. ‘Got a reputation, has Mrs Challinor.’ He leant in even closer until Ridpath could smell his breath. ‘Man-eater,’ he whispered. ‘But you didn’t hear it from me.’

  The spades of the gravediggers cut through the damp earth with a rhythmic ease, breath puffing out of their mouths like aged steam trains as they carefully laid each clod of turf on the tarpaulin, under the watchful eyes of the undertaker and Mr Health and Safety.

  ‘And watch out for Carol Oates. Ambitious, that one is. Not happy just being area coroner, is she?’

  ‘I don’t know, is she?’

  The man stopped smiling for a moment, wondering whether he was being made fun of. Ridpath kept his face still and unmoving.

  ‘She is. Wants to be head coroner, that one does, but Mrs Challinor is sitting in the hot seat.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about what’s going on.’

  ‘Health and Safety, mate. I keeps my ears and eyes and nose close to the ground.’

  An image of a jowly bloodhound with the man’s face leapt into Ridpath’s head as another car arrived at the side of the road.

  ‘Looks like the family has finally come.’

  But only one man exited the car. Ridpath recognized the thin, tall, slightly bowed shape.