Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  Don nodded his head. ‘I don’t understand it. Mr Herbert is a stickler for filing. Checks it at the end of every day. By 6 p.m. we have to be up to date, or else.’

  Ridpath was already at the door. ‘Give me a call if you find anything.’

  And then he was gone, rushing down the corridor, hoping and praying the Oxford Road traffic was going to treat him kindly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The press conference had already started in the coroner’s court when Ridpath finally arrived. Oxford Road hadn’t been kind; neither had Rusholme and the A34, while Wellington Road had been positively cruel.

  Mrs Challinor raised her eyebrows slightly as he pushed his way in and sat down, stopping her speech for a second before continuing.

  ‘Yesterday morning, at 6 10 a.m., my officers carried out the exhumation of the grave of Alice Seagram in accordance with a high court writ dated 4 April 2018.’ She stopped for a moment to allow the journalists seated in front of her to catch up.

  On her left sat Carol Oates, dressed once again in a different version of her black outfit and with her blond hair pinned up in an even more elegant chignon. Jenny Oldfield was taking notes on a computer, tapping away on the machine, finishing almost at the same time as Mrs Challinor stopped speaking. Her outfit was a loud baby pink, matching her eyes.

  The coroner adjusted her spectacles and continued speaking. ‘On disinterring the casket, it was found that Alice Seagram’s body was not inside. The East Manchester Coroner’s Court and its officers are presently conducting an investigation into the disappearance of the body and will report back when its investigations are complete. The inquest into the autopsy finding on Miss Seagram has been postponed until then. I thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen.’

  She stood up to leave. Before she could get away, one of the journalists shouted out a question. ‘How did you know the casket was empty?’

  Mrs Challinor was poised in her reply. ‘It is standard operating procedure to check the condition of the body before removal to the lab. Next question.’

  ‘What are your next steps, Coroner?’

  ‘As I explained, the coroner’s officer, Thomas Ridpath, will carry out an investigation. When we are happy we have discovered enough evidence to point to a conclusion, we will hold an inquest hearing, calling witnesses.’

  ‘Will the family be involved, Mrs Challinor?’

  ‘We always put the wishes of the family at the centre of everything we do. The coroner’s officer visited them yesterday and I went to see Mr and Mrs Seagram this morning. They will be kept up to date on the investigation. Just a reminder for the press, the Coroner’s Office has only two goals in any inquiry: the first is to represent the interests of the family and the second is discover the truth. These have, and always will be, our guiding principles.’

  The journalist who had asked the first question raised her hand. ‘Will you be inquiring into the conviction of James Dalbey for the murder of Alice Seagram?’

  ‘That is not within the purview of my office. The high court has asked us to reopen an inquiry into events surrounding the post-mortem of Alice Seagram, not to apportion guilt. That is the role of the police and the courts. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure you’ll understand we have a lot of work to do at the moment.’

  ‘What’s happened to Alice Seagram’s body?’

  ‘We will let you know as soon as we have completed our investigations. Thank you for time, ladies and gentlemen.’

  She stood up and walked out of the court, followed by Carol Oates, leaving behind a buzz of journalists questioning each other to work out what had just been said.

  Ridpath quietly left the court and made his way back to the office. Margaret Challinor was waiting for him with Carol Oates.

  ‘You were late.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Challinor, one of the interviews ran over.’

  ‘Anything I can tell the family?’

  Ridpath went through the pathologist’s answers and those of the mortuary attendant.

  ‘The release form was missing?’

  ‘The attendant couldn’t explain it. He said we would have the original.’

  ‘Jenny…’ Margaret Challinor shouted out her open door.

  The office manager appeared in seconds.

  ‘Can you dig out the file on the Alice Seagram case from 2008?’

  She produced a manila folder from behind her back. ‘I thought you might be asking for it.’

  Margaret Challinor opened the file, sharing the contents with Ridpath. ‘See, we opened an inquest on 10 March after the body had been discovered, postponing it pending the result of police inquiries.’ She turned over another page. ‘Here is a note from Jim Howells’s predecessor, coroner’s officer, Anthony Chettle.’ She pointed to a dated and signed handwritten minute. ‘He called John Gorman asking if the body could be released to the family. Gorman answered in the affirmative.’

  ‘Chettle kept good notes.’

  ‘He was a stickler for correct procedure. A good man and an even better officer.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Retired to Cheshire, I think. Near the Cloud in Congleton. Used to love walking around there.’

  ‘Not a bad life.’’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I might want to interview him. Get a handle on the timeline.’

  Carol Oates leant in. ‘There’s another note on the next page in Anthony’s hand.’

  Mrs Challinor stared at it, deciphering the hand writing. ‘John Gorman called him back an hour later asking him to hold off on speaking to the family. They were going to have another autopsy.’

  ‘This was to check the time of death. The pathologist had originally put the time of death at between 4 p.m. and 8 p.m. on 7 March. By now, James Dalbey was in custody but he had an alibi for that time,’ explained Ridpath.

  ‘So they ordered another autopsy to change the time of death to when Dalbey was available to commit the crime.’ Carol Oates shook her head. ‘Is this for real?’

  ‘Time of death is notoriously difficult to assess, Carol, let’s not jump to conclusions.’ She located Anthony Chettle’s address in the file and passed it to Ridpath.

  ‘I’ll go and see him when I have a second. Perhaps he’ll remember something that’s not in his notes.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ muttered the coroner, quietly turning the page. ‘Here’s the release form signed by Anthony two days later. No note on it this time. The police obviously felt it was time to return the body to the family.’

  ‘Well they would, wouldn’t they?’ Carol Oates said. ‘ They’d got the result they wanted from the pathologist and their man James Dalbey had been charged with Alice Seagram’s murder. A murder he couldn’t have committed based on the findings of the first post-mortem. How convenient.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The news came through as they were absorbing the results of the post-mortem. Sarah Castle had just received another bollocking from Charlie Whitworth and wasn’t in the best of moods.

  It was Harry Makepeace who ran into the ops room. ‘Boss, there’s been another body discovered out in Northenden, on the river. A naked woman with her head smashed in.’

  Charlie Whitworth grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Let’s get out there. You lot carry on working on this. Sarah, you’re with me.’

  She grabbed her notebook and followed him down the corridor to the rear of the building where the cars were parked. Harry got in the driver’s seat of the unmarked car and immediately switched on the siren.

  ‘Turn the bloody thing off, Harry. I can’t hear myself think.’

  The whooping noise stopped instantly.

  He got in the front seat and Sarah in the back.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘A Sergeant Harris from Northenden.’

  ‘Get on the blower to him, Sarah. Tell him we’re on our way and to keep everyone away till we get there. Then get on to the SOC team and have them ther
e asap.’

  Harry was pulling out of the station and racing down Oldham Road, reaching into his jacket pocket with his right hand. ‘It’s the last number, Sarah.’ He tossed the mobile to her.

  She didn’t know what she had done to deserve this but she was happy anyway. At least she was away from the office and off the bloody computer.

  She dialled the sergeant at the scene of the crime. He answered immediately, telling her in detail what he had already done.

  She took the phone away from her ear to report to Charlie Whitworth. ’The body’s on a sandbank in the middle of the Mersey, boss. The sergeant has cordoned off a perimeter on both sides of the river. Apparently SOC are already on their way.’

  ‘Ring them anyway to check.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The car raced down the M60 in the outside lane, coming off at the airport exit and turning left after the Brittania hotel.

  ‘Mill Lane’s on the right, Charlie,’ said Harry.

  ‘Know the area well, do you?’

  ‘Grew up in Wythenshawe.’

  ‘Lucky you. Any of your schoolmates out of prison yet?’

  Harry Makepeace didn’t answer.

  ‘The SOC team will be here in ten minutes, boss. The crime scene manager is called Diane Fenton.’

  ‘Good, we’ll have a shufti before it’s covered in people wearing white plastic suits and blue gloves.’

  Harry swung the car right into Mill Lane, forcing the oncoming traffic to stop. The car hit the cobbled street and immediately began to judder.

  ‘One day we’ll get a car with suspension that hasn’t been repaired by a butcher.’

  ‘Fat chance, boss.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘There’s a car park down the end next to a derelict pub, the Tatton. Spent many a happy night in there, I did, when I were courting.’

  ‘Didn’t know they had pubs in the Middle Ages, Harry.’

  As they neared the pub car park, they saw a uniform guarding the entrance. Charlie Whitworth rolled down his window and flashed his warrant card. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Over the bridge and to the left past the weir.’

  ‘Don’t let anybody in here.’

  They pulled in and ran up the steps of a green bridge. Sarah was behind her two colleagues as they ran over the bridge, hearing their heavy footfalls on the wooden planks, followed by her much lighter tread.

  She could see activity to her left, on the footpath next to the river beyond a weir. A crowd of onlookers had already gathered, kept back by some police tape and a couple of beleaguered constables.

  They ran down towards the crowd.

  ‘Harry, call the local nick and get some help down here right now. I want this scene as tight as a duck’s arse.’

  A sergeant was helping to push the crowd back along the path. Half of the people were carrying golf clubs.

  ‘Sergeant Harris. DCI Charlie Whitworth.’

  ‘You finally got here.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘A woman on the sandbank.’ He pointed back towards the river. Sarah followed his arm. A dark object was floating next to a dank muddy shoal. In her mind it gradually formed into the shape of a body: blond hair, arms, a torso, all bobbing in the grey waters of the river.

  ‘Jesus!’ It was Harry Makepeace who spoke. ‘How are we going to get there?’

  ‘I want all these people moved back at least 60 yards, Sergeant. And make sure the paths are blocked around the pub, the bridge and this part of the river.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sarah, tell the SOC team they can set up a situation area next to the pub.’

  She got on the phone. ‘They’re already there, sir. Just suiting up.’

  He turned to the sergeant. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘A woman from the flats over there.’

  Go and see her, Sarah. I want all the details while it’s still fresh.’

  She watched as the boss walked to the bank of the river, staring at the body floating just fifteen yards away. She could make out the head and shoulders of the body much clearer now. One side of the face looked like it was collapsed in on itself, an empty eye socket staring sightlessly out into the river.’

  ‘Please let it not be him’, she heard her boss whispering to himself, before he turned back to her. ‘Haven’t you gone yet?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘You’re not a great fan of the police, are you, Carol? Ridpath thought it was time to confront this woman.

  ‘Not really, no. Too slow, too thick and too willing to charge the innocent for crimes they didn’t commit.’

  ‘That’s rubbish and you know it. If you knew the evidential hoops we have to jump through simply to get the Crown Prosecution Service to consider a case, you wouldn’t speak such tripe.’

  ‘“We?” I thought you worked as a coroner’s officer now?’

  ‘We’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’

  Margaret Challinor was looking at both of them with an air of amusement.

  ‘Are we? Our job is to find out the truth, not to rush to convict.’ Carol Oates’s carefully manicured hair was beginning to unravel slightly as her voice rose.

  ‘We don’t rush to convict. We look at the evidence and let it lead us to a conclusion.’

  ‘Rubbish. You bring all the prejudices and preconceptions of a bunch of macho white males into every investigation. All blacks are thieves. All Muslims are terrorists. All women are gagging for it. It forms the basis for every investigation. You don’t want to hear the truth.’

  Ridpath could feel himself getting angry. ‘That’s a bloody prejudiced statement, if ever I heard one. The truth? We don’t seek the truth because it doesn’t matter in a court of law. We seek evidence, it’s all that counts. The truth always lies. Only evidence is clear. Pure, unadulterated evidence.’

  Margaret Challinor held her hands up. ‘Shall we agree to disagree?’

  Ridpath reluctantly nodded, followed curtly by Carol Oates.

  ‘We must stay focused on the case in hand. Ridpath, what’s your next step?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to interview James Dalbey.’

  Margaret Challinor’s eyebrow rose slightly. ‘Why?’

  ‘It seems to me the one person at the centre of this case is him. Unless we understand why he attacked those women, we’re never going to get far. Plus, the documentation at the undertakers and in the morgue is missing. Why?’

  ‘He was locked up well before those documents went missing,’ said Carol.

  ‘Exactly. Why? If he was charged and imprisoned, why remove the documents about one of his victims?’

  ‘And why steal her body?’ asked Mrs Challinor.

  ‘None of it makes sense. But in order to start putting this jigsaw together, I have to understand the key piece: James Dalbey.

  ‘When do you want to go?’

  ‘As soon as I can. Tomorrow if possible.’

  ‘I’ll call the prison and make the arrangements for tomorrow afternoon.’

  There was a gentle tap on the door and Jenny entered. ‘I think you should see this.’ She held up a copy of the late edition of the Manchester Evening News: the headline read ‘CORONER ADMITS MISTAKES’.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Mrs Challinor, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

  Ridpath couldn’t help but notice a tiny smile crossing Carol Oates’s face as she pushed back a stray hair that had come loose from her chignon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sarah Castle was making her way up the stairs to the third-floor flat when her phone rang. She knew exactly who it would be.

  ‘Did you get it for me?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘Listen, I don’t feel good about this—’

  ‘Did you get it?’

  She stopped on the landing just below the woman’s floor. ‘It’s on a thumb drive. Not as much as I expected though for a major investigation.’

  ‘You got all the files?’


  She was getting annoyed with his questions. She was the one doing him a favour, for God’s sake. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Another woman has been murdered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just going to interview the woman who called it in.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Exactly. Charlie Whitworth’s at the scene with the SOC team.’

  ‘I need to get the thumb drive tonight.’

  ‘I’m going to be here till late.’

  ‘I’ll come to you. I need to check out the crime scene for the coroner anyway.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  She cut him off before he could reply. She was already regretting downloading the files for him, but what the hell. What was done was done.’

  She climbed the last few steps to the fire door, pulling it open. The woman’s flat was on the left, number 23. She knocked on the door and it was immediately answered by a female constable. Why did women always get the liaison jobs while the men did the bloody investigating?

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Fine, trying to put her kiddie down for a nap.’

  ‘You go for a break, I’ll interview her.’

  The constable stepped out of the way to allow her to enter. A woman was standing in the living room, holding a baby to her breast and rocking left to right. The woman stared at her and raised a finger to her lips.’

  Sarah Castle stood still, watching the baby’s eyes flutter briefly before closing.

  The woman stopped rocking and started walking towards the crib. As soon as she did a wail far louder than any police siren erupted from the tiny body. The woman began rocking again, singing a plaintive, out-of-tune lullaby.

  Sarah Castle stood there waiting.

  Finally, the baby settled down again and closed its bright-blue eyes. The woman kept on rocking for ten more seconds before walking over to a cot in the corner and placing the baby gently down on the mattress, covering her over with a pink blanket.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get her to nap for the last hour. There’s too much going on,’ she whispered, tiptoeing away.