Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  The woman was young: late twenties, Sarah guessed. Her hair was blond and lank and she had the careworn look of all young mothers faced with a 24-hour vigil over a young baby whose husband was never around to help.

  ‘Do you want a cuppa?’ She pointed to the kitchen.

  Sarah nodded yes. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Sarah Castle—’

  The woman placed her finger on her lips again. ‘Can you keep your voice down? She’s a light sleeper.’

  ‘Sure’, Sarah whispered. ‘I’m here to ask you about what you saw.’

  The woman placed a mug of tea in front of Sarah and pushed the bowl of sugar towards her. ‘You don’t know how much I look forward to this. Sad, isn’t it? A cup of tea is the highlight of my day.’

  ‘About the body you saw…’ Sarah took out her notepad and wrote the time and date at the top of the page.

  The woman put her mug of tea down on the table. ‘It was the man who made me look.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The one who was standing on the riverbank. I was hanging up her onesies to dry. She spends her life shitting on them and it doesn’t half smell. What is it about babies’ poo? I mean they only drink bloody milk, don’t they?’

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You don’t have kids, do you? I mean you’re too normal. Haven’t you noticed new mums all have this air of distraction, as if they know they’ve forgotten to do something but they just can’t remember what it was?’ She took another large mouthful of tea.

  ‘You were telling me about the man?’

  ‘I was, wasn’t I? He was standing on the riverbank, staring at something. I was standing at the window trying to get her to sleep. He was there for at least a minute. I wondered what he was looking at so I went out onto the balcony.’ She took another gulp of tea. ‘He was staring at something on the sandbank. I looked across and it seemed to be just a lump of something that had drifted down over the weir.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I looked closer and it wasn’t a bundle of clothes at all, but a woman floating there, her arms outstretched and resting on the sandbank. So I shouted at him…’

  ‘What did you shout?’

  ‘I think it was “Oi, you” or something like that. He looked up at me like he was scared or something, then he took a quick look at the body and took off.

  ‘Which way did he run?’

  ‘Towards town.’

  ‘And what did he look like?’

  ‘Medium size, sharp featured, with a goatee. Quite lithe and athletic, if you know what I mean – not muscular, like my husband Ian used to be. And he was bald too.’

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘No the man who ran away. He was bald. Ian just thinks he’s bald.’

  Sarah wrote the description down in her notebook. ‘And what was he wearing?’

  ‘All black. A black hoodie – Adidas, I think – a black T-shirt and black leggings.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, he looked scared when I shouted, like a kid who’d been caught doing something naughty.’

  The baby gave a quick sniffle, turning over in its cot. The woman froze, not saying a word. When the baby was quiet again, she patted her chest and drank again from the mug.

  ‘Would you recognize him?’

  ‘Ian? Probably.’

  ‘No, the man?’

  The woman thought, before nodding. ‘It wasn’t a face I’d forget.’

  ‘Good, I’ll get someone to come round and show you some of our photofits.’

  For the first time the woman became animated. ‘You mean like one of the police artist impressions you used to see on Crimewatch?’

  ‘Exactly, but it uses photographs, not drawings, and it’s done on a computer.’

  ‘Isn’t everything these days? Except this…’ She grabbed her right breast and lifted it up. ‘Ian used to call them Pinky and Perky. After the baby, he renamed them Flopsy and Dropsy. Did I tell you I was married to a right bastard?’

  Sarah stood up. ‘Here’s my card, Mrs…?’

  ‘Prendergast. Cecilia Prendergast.’

  ‘If you think of anything else, Cecilia, just give me a call. I’ll arrange for the photofit people to come to you.’

  As she finished speaking, the baby erupted into a pained fit of screaming on the scale of A flat.

  Mrs Prendergast rushed from her chair into the living room, picking up the baby and lifting up her shirt to allow it to suckle.

  Sarah waved goodbye, but received no response from the woman who was gently rocking the quietened baby in her arms, staring down at its peaceful face.

  Thank God I don’t have any children, she thought. Not likely to either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  When Sarah went back to the riverbank, Charlie Whitworth and the other detectives had moved over to Mill Lane, and the outer cordon around the scene had been widened.

  ‘The crime scene manager thinks the body was thrown from the bridge,’ Harry Makepeace told her.

  Sarah could see two white-suited figures silhouetted against the green bridge.

  ‘We also think the killer probably parked next to the pub before dumping the body.’

  The car park was empty of vehicles now, with two more of the SOC team searching the ground for clues.

  ‘The river current presented a bugger of a challenge for the SOC team. The sandbank was unstable so nobody could stand on it. They had to borrow a boat from a nearby rowing club.’ He made quotation marks with his fingers as he said the word ‘borrowed’. ‘The crime scene photographer even had to balance on it as he took his pictures of the body and the area.’

  ‘Not an easy place to manage.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘At least the divers are here now and have moved the body to the shore.’ He pointed to a place on the near side of the riverbank where a compact white tent had been set up by the SOC team.

  Next to it, a team of divers was combing the banks, searching for debris. One held up a child’s rusted tricycle like he had found pirate treasure. Another was pulling a long piece of grey fabric from the reeds next to the weir.

  Harry Makepeace nodded towards the DCI. ‘I’d stay away from him for a while. He’s got a touch of the Alex Fergusons.’

  ‘Full hairdryer?’

  ‘Maximum power.’

  Charlie Whitworth strode towards them. ‘Sarah, you get suited up. Harry, you check the cordons on the paths beside the river are properly manned – we’ve extended them 200 yards either way.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Harry, moving away quickly.

  ‘You took your bloody time.’

  ‘The woman had a baby. It was a difficult interview.’

  ‘Well?’

  Sarah relayed the woman’s statement.

  ‘Get on to the photofit guys. I want a composite of the man asap.’

  ‘Already done, sir. They’ll be here tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not good enough – I want them here today. If they give you shit, tell them John Gorman’s given this priority.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  After she made the call, they were finally given permission by the crime scene manager to enter the tent. They suited up in the white Tyvek onesies, hairnets and blue latex gloves, pulled aside the flap and entered.

  The pathologist was already leaning over the body.

  ‘It’s a murder, isn’t it, not a jumper?’ were Charlie Whitworth’s opening words.

  ‘Good afternoon, Charlie, it’s pleasant to see you too on this bright April afternoon in Northenden.’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, Harold. Is this a murder?

  The pathologist sighed loudly. ‘Looks like it from a preliminary examination. See, the wire of the garrotte is still around the neck. The face has been smashed in. It could have happened if the body had crashed into the weir but I don’t think so. There’s blood in the bruising, suggesting she was still alive when these marks were made. We’ll know more when the post-mortem has been
completed.’ He pointed down to the legs. ‘See the kneecaps. It looks like somebody has been drilling holes. Was she tortured?’

  Sarah stared at the legs, fascinated. The white skin was puckering and covered in dirt, but around the knees she could see four distinct holes surrounded by red bruising.

  Another technician was kneeling down at the side of the body, carefully bagging the right hand.

  ‘How long has she been dead?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Come on, Harold, you can do better.’

  The pathologist turned his head away from the body. ‘I can’t and I won’t. After all the James Dalbey rubbish recently, I’m not sticking my neck out for anybody. I’ve had the coroner’s officer give me the third degree this afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Ridpath, I’ll handle him.’

  ‘Still can’t give you anything. Look, you know time of death is notoriously difficult to estimate for bodies in water. The body temperature doesn’t follow the usual pattern of losing 1.5 degrees for every hour after death.’

  ‘Give me something to work with, Harold.’

  The pathologist let out a long sigh. ‘More than an hour, less than three days. Until we get back to the lab, there’ll be nothing better I’m afraid.’

  ‘Any ID on her?’

  The technician shook his head. ‘I didn’t find nuffink on her,’ he said laconically in a London accent.

  ‘Another Jane Doe. John Gorman won’t be pleased.’

  The technician had finished bagging the right hand and now moved on to the left. He stopped for a moment and tapped the pathologist’s shoulder, pointing to the hand.

  The pathologist examined it. ‘Interesting. The index and middle finger of the left hand have been broken at the knuckle.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means it’s interesting, Charlie. From the redness of the bruising the hand was broken before death.’

  ‘Does this confirm she was tortured?’

  The pathologist shrugged his shoulders, saying nothing.

  The technician lifted the lifeless arm. The pale white bloodless hand hung limply down. The nails were a dirty, dingy white and the fingertips had puckered and wrinkled. Then he wrapped the hand in a numbered evidence bag, sealing it with a tie from his pouch.

  ‘Finished, Terry?’ asked the pathologist.

  The laconic technician nodded.

  ‘Help me to move her.’

  They both knelt either side of her with their hands on her shoulders. A whispered ‘1, 2, 3’ and the girl was placed on her bag.

  Sarah Castle stared into the woman’s lifeless eyes. The face was flecked with mud from the sandbank, with more oozing out from both nostrils. The left side of her face was smashed in by repeated blows, breaking the occipital bone and the cheek and jawbones. The left eye socket was empty – a dark hollow where an eye once rested.

  But it was the mouth that horrified Sarah. It was pulled back in a rictus scream, gums exposed and tongue stuck out, revealing smashed teeth.

  The smile of death.

  The pathologist sat back on his haunches and stared at the body. ’I have some bad news for you, Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I think the MO is similar to the girl with the swan tattoo.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Charlie Whitworth.

  ‘And worse, he’s escalating. The damage to this body is more severe.’

  ‘You think he’s going to strike again?’

  Harold Lardner just nodded once. ‘I think he will.’

  Sarah Castle stared at the body of the young girl.

  She didn’t say a word.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Ridpath hadn’t told his wife about his trip down south yet. He would save that dubious pleasure for later. He parked the car next to the SOC van at the top of Mill Lane and walked down towards the crime scene.

  The technicians were already setting up lights; it was obviously going to be one of those long nights. Others were taking pictures, moving equipment or simply waiting for instructions. All were dressed in the SOC uniform of white plastic and blue gloves looking like a posse of Teletubbies.

  Charlie Whitworth and Sarah Castle were standing to one side, also dressed in white, with Harry Makepeace beside them in his street clothes.

  ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in.’ It Harry Makepeace being his usual cheery self.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Charlie Whitworth shook his head. ‘Not good. Another body displaying some but not all of the trademarks of our previous killing. Body was in the water so I’m not expecting a lot from forensics. Victim unknown again. No ID, no tattoos. You here on business or pleasure?’

  ‘A bit of both. Pleasure at seeing Harry here finally doing an honest day’s work and business for the coroner with you.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘She’d like to see the police notes from the investigation into James Dalbey.’

  ‘Jesus, Ridpath, I’m in the middle of a major investigation and you’re hassling me about somebody we put away ten years ago? Tell her to go through official channels.’

  ‘She has already.’

  ‘John Gorman said yes?’

  ‘He had to. It was an official request.’

  ‘OK, come down tomorrow afternoon for them.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m away tomorrow. Can I get them now?’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ His eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘Where are you going tomorrow?’

  In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Ridpath. He was going to find out sooner or later, best get it over with now. ‘I’m off to see James Dalbey.’

  ‘That bastard!’ You’re going to see that bastard?’ Charlie Whitworth exploded, causing all the SOCOs nearby to turn and look at him. ‘Well, good luck. I hope he remembers you. The man who actually caught him.’

  ‘We’ll see. So can I have them now?’

  ‘John Gorman agreed?’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  Whitworth sighed. ‘OK, OK. Sarah, would you mind going back to the station and digging out the files on James Dalbey for our colleague, the coroner’s officer?’

  ‘I’d much prefer to stay here, boss.’

  ‘You’ve done all you can. Go back and set up the incident room with the pictures of the girl and the photofit of the man the witness saw when they’ve finished creating it.’

  ‘OK, boss.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift, Sarah,’ said Ridpath

  They walked back towards his car.

  She glanced across at him. ‘You’re a manipulative sod, aren’t you?’

  ‘He would have given me them anyway…eventually.’

  She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Has John Gorman agreed?’

  ‘He will do by tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s going to kill you when he finds out.’

  He smiled, looking back at the Mersey. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, you know?’

  ‘Have you got the thumb drive?’

  ‘I’m not sure I should give it to you now.’

  ‘DCI Charlie Whitworth has given his permission.’

  ‘Because you lied to him.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that.’

  They stopped beside his car. ‘I need the notes, Sarah. I’m interviewing Dalbey tomorrow and I need to get up to speed on the investigation before I see him. What have the police to hide anyway? The investigation was well documented and the courts found him guilty.’

  Sarah Castle reached into her jacket and handed him a thumb drive in the shape of a Swiss army knife. ‘They’re all here, everything I could find.’

  ‘You’re a star, Sarah.’

  ‘And you, Ridpath, are a prize shit. The least you can do is give me a lift back to HQ.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ridpath edged along the row of seats mumbling his apologies as people lifted their legs out of the way. Of c
ourse, his wife had chosen the middle seats.

  On stage a young boy was playing Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’, hitting just one bum note in three. The piece actually sounded like something by the Clash.

  ‘I’d thought you’d forgotten,’ she leant in and whispered in his ear as he settled himself.

  ‘How could you, Polly? Of course I remembered – it’s Eve’s big night’

  The truth was, he had forgotten. After driving Sarah back to the station he’d rushed home, intent on printing out the files so he could read them on the train. But when he arrived, the house was in darkness, with no sign of his wife and child.

  On the mantelpiece above the fire was a short note in block capitals: ‘AT THE SCHOOL. CONCERT NIGHT.’

  ‘Shit. Shit. Treble shit.’

  He’d driven like Lewis Hamilton to the school, parking on a double-yellow line outside.

  ‘So you didn’t see my note on the mantelpiece?’

  Oh, Polly, he thought – you forget I’ve been trained in the subtle art of interrogation. ‘What note?’ he asked coyly.

  ‘The one you didn’t see, on the mantelpiece which isn’t there.’

  ‘That note?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Didn’t see it.’

  The boy finished with a rousing arpeggio. It was the first time Ridpath had ever heard ‘Für Elise’ ending in an arpeggio, but it seemed to work. The crowd applauded politely.

  ‘She’s up next.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘One of Hamlet’s soliloquies.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit advanced for her age?’

  ‘She’s an overachiever, like her mum.’

  Ridpath nodded his head. ‘OK. You know, the only thing I could recite at her age was the Manchester United football team: Macari, Hughes, Giggs…’

  ‘Shush, she’s on.’

  On stage his ten-year-old daughter was picked out by a single spotlight. She was wearing a pair of purple tights and a pink T-shirt several sizes too big for her.

  ‘She’s got my T-shirt.’

  ‘She liked the colour, felt it conveyed the anguish of Hamlet’s tortured mind.’

  ‘It’s my favourite T-shirt…’

  His daughter began to speak the famous lines, giving them a melancholy he hadn’t heard in her voice before. It was as if she were Hamlet asking herself about the meaning of her life: