Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  His opinion of her had risen another notch.

  ‘If you are so concerned about the original investigation, why don’t we get Professional Standards Department involved?’

  ‘And have Manchester Police handling the inquiry into their own investigation? Not likely. As a coroner, I have a wide range of leeway on how I proceed.’

  ‘The police won’t like it.’

  ‘Is that speaking as a police officer or as a coroner’s officer, Ridpath?’

  ‘Both.’

  She frowned. ‘The chief constable may appeal to my boss, the chief coroner, but I think I can handle it. And by the time he does, we should have completed our investigations.’

  Ridpath frowned. He was desperate for a cigarette. He should have had one before coming in. ‘You said I had two jobs?’

  ‘The second is pretty obvious, isn’t it? Find the missing body.’ A smile like that of a tiger who has just seen a goat tied to a tree crossed her perfectly lip-glossed mouth.

  ‘How long do I have?’

  ‘Until the inquest on the 7th.’ She checked the calendar. ‘About a week, before the proverbial shit hits the fan.’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘So what are your next steps?’

  ‘Interview the undertaker first, Mr O’Shaughnessy, and then meet with Tony Seagram. According to the family, he was the one who organized the funeral.

  ‘Be careful there. Not a pleasant man. After the interviews?’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘Depends what happens. I’ll definitely check the mortuary records. The body will have been placed in there until it was released to the family. There must be a trail of paper. Either the body was placed in the coffin and then removed, or it never found its way into the coffin.’

  ‘There’s one other thing you should do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Read the original police file on the Dalbey case.’

  ‘Have you already requested it from the chief constable?’

  ‘I have…but he’s dragging his feet.’ She looked straight at him. ‘Could you get the file?’

  ‘Might be difficult.’

  ‘But you know somebody who could do it?’

  He thought for a moment. The keen, blushing face of DS Sarah Castle popped into his head. She could get the file easily, especially as she was supposed to be checking the MO of her recent case against that of James Dalbey. ‘I do know someone,’ he finally answered, ‘but as the coroner looking into one of the murders, they must eventually send it to you.’

  Again the smile of the tiger. This time with its teeth buried in the neck of the goat. ‘I will get it…eventually, but I would then be reading what the chief constable wanted me to see…’

  He finished her sentence: ‘…rather than what you want to find out.’

  ‘And what they remove from the file will be far more interesting than what they leave in.’

  Ridpath sat back in his chair. ‘You are a devious woman, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘Unfortunately, thanks to years of experience working with your colleagues.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘You know, my father, a barrister of the old school, always used to tell me a good police force was one that caught more criminals than they employed.’

  ‘A cynical attitude, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘Oh, he was a cynical old bastard, a man who’d seen far too much and forgotten far too little. He wasn’t far wrong though.’

  Ridpath stared at her. If his bosses ever found out he was talking like this, he would be looking after the toilets in Cheetham Hill nick for the rest of his career.

  And then another thought struck him. Why was she telling him all this?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When Ridpath finally arrived home, the house was in darkness. He found Polly sitting alone in the living room, television off.

  ‘Where’s Eve?’

  ‘Asleep. It’s a school night.’ The answer was monotone.

  ‘Why are you sitting in the dark? He switched on the light. In the bright yellow glare, he saw her flinch and turn away from him. ‘Turn it off.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She turned back towards him. He could see her eyes were red. ‘You promised this wasn’t going to happen again.’

  He stood there, transfixed.

  ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. No phone call. Nothing.’

  ‘I was in meetings,’ he answered weakly.

  ‘Meetings? You were supposed to be home at six. A less stressful job, you said. Regular hours, you said. An easier life, you said. IT’S THE FIRST BLOODY DAY!’

  ‘You’re upset…’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  ‘Look, it’s a difficult case…’

  ‘I thought you were a coroner’s officer, not in the CID.’

  ‘They still have cases. It’ll get easier when I learn the ropes. I promise.’

  ‘I can’t take much more of this, Ridpath. You’ve just had nine months off work. You were diagnosed with myeloma, for Christ’s sake. You have to take it easy until your body builds up strength again.’

  He knelt down in front of her and wrapped her in his arms, feeling her resist for a few seconds before finally succumbing and melting into his body. ‘You know what it’s like for the first few days. Getting up to speed, learning the ropes, working on new cases. It’s only to be expected.’ He pulled back and looked into her wet eyes. ‘At least I’m not running around Manchester chasing after nutters like I used to.’

  She laughed. ‘I remember the time you came home with two black eyes, like a bloody panda.’

  He laughed too at the memory. ‘Tiny Tim was his name. Six foot six of steroid-grown muscle, off his head on special K. Took four of us to hold him down. Bob Trenton broke his knuckles on Tiny’s nose.’ Ridpath smiled at the memory. ‘Wrote a lovely apology letter to each of us, did Tiny.’ A pause. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’ll try to sort it out. Promise.’

  He pulled her back to him, feeling the warmth of her body.

  She pushed herself away. ‘You’ve been smoking too, I can smell it.’

  ‘Just one or two.’

  ‘The doctor said you can’t smoke.’

  ‘Actually, he said “You should try to give up smoking.” I’m trying. It’s not easy.’

  She stood up, pushing him away. ‘You’re an unfeeling, selfish, shit, Tom Ridpath…who couldn’t give a toss about his wife or child, only caring about the next case or the next collar. You make me sick.’

  She pushed him away again and stormed out of the room. He listened as her feet stomped up the stairs and waited for the ritual slam of the bedroom door.

  It didn’t happen.

  Even when she was pissed off with him, she would never wake Eve up.

  She had a point though. It was pretty stupid still smoking his Marlboro Reds, having just recovered from cancer. Not the smartest move, Ridpath.

  He went over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a single shot of Laphroaig, changing it into a treble as he poured. He sipped the pale, straw-coloured liquid, tasting the smoke and the peat and the sea spray off Islay, followed by a honeyed bitterness as it slipped warmly down his throat.

  Inevitably, his mind drifted back to the case. Had John Gorman put pressure on the pathologist? Had the police case been rigged against James Dalbey?

  He drifted back to the time in the garage lock-up. Saw the whitewashed brick walls covered in rust-coloured bloodstains. The girl hanging from the manacles on the wall, her beaten face and body a mass of bruises and blood. And his hands, sticking to the floor as he touched it, seeing the red globules smeared on his fingers

  The place was a charnel house. James Dalbey had the key.

  He had to be guilty.

  Didn’t he?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The following morning, Ridpath was up with the larks, making a breakfast of honey nut crunch for an uncommunicative, sleepy, tousle-haired daughter and tea and toast for his wife, delivered in bed.

/>   ‘You’re still on the naughty step,’ she said, chewing on the toast.

  ‘I’ll try and take it easier, but you know what it’s like on a case. You get wrapped up in the whole momentum of it.’

  ‘I don’t get wrapped up in anything except worry for you. I don’t think you know when to stop.’

  ‘I’ll take it easier, promise.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ He got up to leave her bedside. ‘And don’t forget, Eve has her school concert tomorrow night. She wants you to be there.’

  ‘Is Eve the silent girl sitting in our kitchen eating cereal?’

  ‘That’s her. She’s not a morning person.’

  ‘Or an afternoon or evening person by the look of it.’

  ‘She just takes a while to get started.’

  ‘Maybe I should put antifreeze instead of milk on her cereal?’

  ‘Tried that. Doesn’t work.’ She glanced at the bedroom clock. ‘Oh shit, is that the time?’

  Ten minutes later, Ridpath finally managed to usher both wife and daughter out of the house and into the car for school. His daughter managed a mumbled ‘Goodbye, Dad’ before parking herself in the rear seat and staring zombie-eyed out of the window.

  A quick kiss and a farewell of ‘Don’t forget to wrap up well’ from his wife and she was off in a cloud of fumes from the exhaust pipe of the car. He would have to take it into the garage when he had time.

  The morning was one of those clear, eggshell-blue spring days with the leaves just forming on the trees and enough bite in the air to freshen the cheeks and the tips of the ears.

  A beautiful day to spend looking for a missing body.

  He drove out to Stockfield along the clogged mess of the M60, roadworks slowing the traffic to a crawl, but at least it was still moving. Like a snail on sleeping tablets, but still moving.

  The parking machines took the last of his change and he strode past the empty reception desk into the coroner’s office. He could see Margaret Challinor was already behind her desk. Didn’t the woman ever go home? But there was still no sight of the elusive office manager. Did she exist or was she merely a figment of the collective imagination?

  He sat down at his designated desk and went to turn on the computer, seeing a note on the screen. ‘Will give you a password when I see you.’

  ‘Should be sometime around 2025 the rate we’re going,’ he said out aloud.

  ‘Actually it will be around 9.26 according to the clock.’

  He turned round to see the person behind the voice. She was roundish and short, as if somebody had pressed down on her head and she had expanded sideways, wearing an extremely short dress exposing an expanse of white thigh and dimpled knees.

  ‘You must be the elusive Jenny Oldfield.’

  ‘One and the same. But I prefer to think of myself as the exclusive Jenny Oldfield.’

  Her make-up was thick, as if laid on by a brickie on his day off, highlighted by bright-purple eye shadow and matching lips. Ridpath stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Jenny.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘So you’re Tom Ridpath? Carol didn’t say how handsome you were.’

  He blushed, not answering. There wasn’t a lot he could say.

  She handed him a tiny square of paper. ‘The password. The council suggests you eat the paper after you’ve memorized it. I always add a spot of salt and pepper to aid the digestion.’

  He looked down at the machine-printed and sealed paper.

  ‘I was just joking about eating it. But you dispose of it safely somewhere. Mrs Challinor is a stickler for security.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t say much, do you? I like that in a man. Now let me take you through the logging-on procedures and then I’ll show you where everything is kept.’

  She spent the next half-hour giving him a tour of the office, before finally leaving him alone at ten with a cheery ‘If you need anything just shout.’ With a wave of her beringed, dimpled fingers she was gone, leaving behind a vast emptiness where she had once stood.

  Time to get to work.

  He googled all the local undertakers, finding O’Shaughnessy listed in bold type as ‘a purveyor of services to the bereaved since 1968’. He rang the number and a young voice with a strong Irish accent answered.

  ‘O’Shaughnessy’s.’

  ‘Could I speak to Mr O’Shaughnessy, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not available. Perhaps I could help?’ The voice was fresh and sparkling, the exact opposite of Albert Ronson.

  ‘I would like to speak to Mr O’Shaughnessy himself.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here, but if it’s bereavement services you’re looking for, I’m your man.’

  ‘It’s Mr O’Shaughnessy I’m looking for.’

  ‘I’m sorry – as I said, he’s not in the office. My name is Padraig Daly, perhaps I could help?’

  ‘I’m ringing from the Coroner’s Office, Mr Daly. We’d like to speak to Mr O’Shaughnessy about a funeral he organized in 2008.’

  ‘I’m afraid that would be a wee bit difficult, as Mr O’Shaughnessy availed himself of our services five years ago.’

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘We prefer to use the word deceased, Mr…?’

  ‘Ridpath, Detective Inspector Ridpath.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mr O’Shaughnessy passed away after a tragic accident.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The undertaker’s was situated in an imposing detached building set back from the road in the suburb of Northenden, not far from where the Seagrams lived in Didsbury, but a quite different kind of area.

  Northenden was on the other side of the Mersey; streets of Victorian terraces huddled around an ancient church dating from Norman times. It retained its unique character sandwiched between the middle-class enclave of Didsbury and Europe’s biggest council estate in Wythenshawe. So far it had escaped the creeping gentrification of Manchester: old-fashioned chippies sat next to tiled pubs, fruit and vegetable merchants ranged alongside local butchers. No Starbucks, no wine merchants and definitely no artisan bakers. The only corner of modernity was an art deco cinema converted into a Jehovah’s Witness temple.

  Ridpath parked beneath a sign saying ‘O’Shaughnessy. Funeral Directors.’ Immediately, the image of Cecil B. DeMille in an undertaker’s frock coat flashed through his mind, shouting, ‘I want more tears. Gif me more tears.’

  Padraig Daly was waiting for him in the reception area, standing next to a huge spray of flowers. On closer inspection, Ridpath realized they were plastic.

  The man was dressed in an argyle jumper, tartan trousers and a pair of Nikes, as if he had just come from the golf course. He led Ridpath through to an elegantly decorated conference room, complete with flat-screen TV on the wall and a fake walnut centre table.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Ridpath?’ he asked as soon as they had both sat down.

  ‘You said Mr O’Shaughnessy had passed away.’

  ‘That’s correct. Five years ago. A sad story.’

  Ridpath raised an eyebrow and kept silent, waiting for Mr Daly to continue.

  ‘An accident. A tragic accident, but we all have to go sometime, Mr Ridpath. The only thing is we don’t know when. God’s funniest joke on us all. Ah, but it keeps the wife in handbags and myself on the links, so I’m not a man to complain.’

  The conversation was making Ridpath feel uncomfortable. After his brush with his own mortality, it was the last thing he wanted to hear about. Time to bring the conversation back onto safer ground.

  ‘You said he had an accident?’

  ‘A fire at the bungalow. Apparently, he fell asleep on the couch with a cigarette in his hand. In his retirement he liked a wee dram, I heard. Don’t we all? Body was burnt to a cinder, unrecognizable. Not a nice way to go.’

  Ridpath looked around him. The O’Shaughnessy name was everywhere: on coasters, etched into the side of water glasses, displayed in a brass plaque on the wall.

  ‘We kept
the name when we bought the business in 2009. My dad wasn’t an egotistical man, and Mr O’Shaughnessy had built up a good following, particularly amongst the Irish in south Manchester. It made sense to continue as it was.’

  ‘Under new management but with an old name?’

  ‘Exactly. As my dad always says, “ There’s a good living in dying.” We’re never going to be short of customers and it’s not going out of fashion. It’s a recession-proof business. And between you and me, you’re not going to skimp on a bob or two when you’re laying a relative to rest.’ He laughed to himself. ‘We don’t have to do one of the “two for one” offers or “buy one, get one free” you’ll see down the local supermarket. High turnover, high profit margins, with an endless stream of customers. We did the analysis and it seemed to be the perfect investment business.’

  ‘You weren’t an undertaker all your life?’

  He laughed. ‘Not at all. My dad and I ran a chain of shoe stores. We bought the business off Mr O’Shaughnessy in 2009 and he stayed on for a year to show us the ropes before retiring.’

  ‘Why do you think he retired?’

  Daly shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t an old man – just 55, I think. Maybe he was sick of death and dying? He’d been in the business man and boy and never married. The classic old-school undertaker.’ Daly pulled his fleshy bottom lip forward between his fingertips. ‘A meticulous man. His accounts were correct to the last penny when we examined them. We couldn’t believe our good fortune. The business was a steal at what we paid for it. And, with the changes we made to the operation to reduce costs, it’s been a little gold mine ever since.’

  Ridpath picked up a hint of something. ‘You said he was a meticulous man?’

  ‘The accounts were the best we’d ever seen. Too good to be true, almost. Plus he kept a detailed record of every funeral he ever organized.’

  Bingo. There it was. ‘Could I see those records?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Each year he opened a new book. The diaries of death, we call them. We don’t do it any more, though. Which year would you like to see? It starts in 1981.’

  ‘Show me 2008, please.’