by M J Lee
She washed the saucepan and cup, leaving them to drain by the side of the sink. She would put them away tomorrow morning before she went to work.
As she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom, one thought kept rattling around her brain.
Was James Dalbey innocent?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The next morning Ridpath was on the 6.15 train from Manchester Piccadilly to Euston, from where he would take the underground to Plumstead.
He settled into his seat, removed the printouts from the files Sarah had given him and began to read.
The documents seemed well written and comprehensive, as if John Gorman had realized somebody might be reading them later. The interviews with James Dalbey were documented in exhaustive detail up until the point he had stopped speaking. In the margins were handwritten notes checking out Dalbey’s story, all of which were initialled ‘CW’.
Had Gorman asked Charlie to check everything? It certainly looked like it.
Next to a sentence from Dalbey talking about a man who had booked the van for him, Charlie had written:
Checked 12/03/08. Van hired over the phone by a man from Prospect Limited on 7 March. Picked up by Dalbey in person morning of 10 March. Mileage records show it was driven 20.8 miles. Distance from hire firm to Chorlton 7.4 miles.
And later on, when the man was mentioned again:
SOC team performed a complete forensic examination of the lock-up garage. No other DNA was discovered except for that of Dalbey and the five victims. Bodies of three of the victims still missing. Have questioned Dalbey but he claims to know nothing.
Outside the window of the train, the English countryside rushed past, a blur of green marked occasionally by some ugly buildings or industrial development. Every ten minutes another new business park seemed to come into view, as if they were growing like a rash across the landscape.
He returned to the documents, examining the pathologist’s report. It seemed fairly standard: detailing the injuries suffered by Alice Seagram. Attached was a hand-written note from the pathologist, Dr Lardner:
After a reappraisal of the evidence, and taking into account the unusually warm weather conditions for the time of year, I have decided to broaden the possible time of death to midnight on 7 March. An exact time of death is impossible to ascertain at this moment until new evidence comes to light.
It was signed by Dr Lardner and dated 11 March, the day after James Dalbey had been arrested and interviewed. Had John Gorman put pressure on the pathologist to change his report? Then he remembered he hadn’t taken his Revlimid. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ Polly usually reminded him, but he had been in such a rush he had forgotten. She always joked, ‘One a day to keep the doctor away.’ But there was always a hint of sadness in her voice as she said it.
He took the pack out of his bag. Such a little pill to save his life. He flashed back to the day his treatment had started.
He was put on an experimental treatment of a combination of Revlimid, cyclophosphamide, and dexamethasone called RCD by the consultant, all of which were taken by mouth in 28-day cycles. The cyclophosphamide was the chemotherapy, while the ‘ D’ element was a steroid. Some days he had to take over 32 tablets.
He had four cycles and then went on to stem-cell collection, high-dose melphalan and stem-cell transplantation. More days visiting the hospitals, more injections and long hours sitting with a vein in his right arm and another in his left, connected by tubing to a machine that took stem cells out of his blood and then returned the blood back to his body.
It felt like something from a 1930s Frankenstein movie with him as the recreated monster.
Then came the killer time when they gave him high doses of melphalan to kill off the cancer cells and reintroduced his own stem cells. Four weeks in total isolation at Christie’s, unable to touch or hold Polly and Eve. A bastard of a time, not knowing if the treatment would work.
He couldn’t face that again.
Not again.
The train went through a long, dark tunnel. Classic timing, he thought, a bit like my life back then.
He sat there in the dark, his eyes closed, reliving those moments alone in his bed at night listening to the sounds of the hospital around him.
Never again.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The meeting was starting in two minutes. This time, Sarah had no role; Charlie Whitworth would chair it from the beginning.
She took her seat next to Harry Makepeace. He looked tired; obviously he’d been at the crime scene all night, watching the SOCOs collect evidence under powerful arc lights. She was also tired, having woken up early to finish reading the files before she went to work. There were a couple of things she didn’t understand from the first and second autopsies on Alice Seagram, not least the consistent pattern of broken fingers nobody seemed interested in questioning.
She’d call Ridpath after this meeting and tell him about the fingers and about Tony Seagram’s conviction for assault.
She looked around the room; the usual suspects were there, but no Charlie Whitworth yet. The photos of the crime scene she had put up last night stood out against the white of the wall: a wide shot of the river and the sandbank with something resting on it; a medium shot of the area with the lump more clearly visible; and a close-up of what was obviously a human body face down in the water, arms and upper torso on the sand and the rest of the body in the water. Finally, a close-up of the face of a woman, hair wet and skin flecked with dirt.
A pretty face.
A tired face.
A dead face.
Next to it was the photofit of the man seen leaving the scene by Mrs Prendergast, with a blown-up description. To her, he still looked like half of the hoodies she arrested in her days on the beat. A Shoplifter, maybe, but a murderer?
The back of the room suddenly stiffened; people no longer slouched against the wall, notebooks came out. Somebody was weaving their way through the detectives.
John Gorman entered, followed by Charlie Whitworth.
A small man carrying that sense of presence of all small men. Salt-and-pepper hair scraped back from the forehead, neatly combed into place either side of tiny, feminine ears. A blue jacket slightly too large for him and shiny black shoes. Were they patent leather?
He positioned himself at the front of the room with Charlie by his side, scratching his nose as the detectives went silent. She noticed an elaborate yellow ring on his left hand. A citrine? Not the sort of jewellery one would expect to find on a superintendent of police.
‘Good morning.’ Instantly the room went silent. ‘I asked DCI Whitworth if I could say a few words this morning.’ He paused, scratching this nose once again. ‘Last night, we discovered the body of a woman in the Mersey at Northenden. What I’m about to tell you must not leave this room.’ He looked around at the detectives to make sure they had understood his words. ‘The preliminary findings of the pathologist suggest a link between this killing and that of the unknown victim with the swan tattoo found beside the Bridgewater Canal in Stretford and another possible victim, a Miss Irene Hungerford, a sex worker from Newcastle who had been working in Moss Side.’
Sarah sat up straighter. Another victim? This was news to her. When had another victim been discovered?’
‘We are treating this case as one of multiple murder. It is the most important investigation in the unit at this time. Let me repeat. It is the most important investigation. Drop everything else. All available resources will be devoted to catching this man before he kills again.’ He paused, scratching his nose once more. ‘To this end, I have asked Jonathan Holburt, a consultant profiler, to give us the benefit of his vast experience in dealing with crimes of this type.’ He pointed to a man at the back of the room.
Harry Makepeace whistled softly. ‘Three thousand quid a day for this guy. They must want our perp badly,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. Sarah pretended she hadn’t heard.
John Gorman carried on. ‘He will present his prelimi
nary findings during this meeting. I will now leave you in the capable hands of DCI Whitworth. We need this man stopped, ladies and gentlemen, and we need him stopped quickly. I am expecting you to do it. That’s all.’ One last look round the room and he sat down at the front.
‘You all heard the Chief Super. This is our most important investigation. Drop everything else. Understand?’
Whitworth received a series of nods and ‘OK’s from the assembled detectives.
‘Harry’s going to fill you in on last night’
The detective next to Sarah stood up and consulted his notes before speaking. ‘A woman’s body was spotted in the river Mersey at 2.25 yesterday afternoon by a woman, Mrs Eileen Prendergast who lives in one of the flats overlooking the river. The area was cordoned off at 2.42 by the first attending officer, Sergeant Harris of Northenden. The boss, I and DS Castle arrived at 3.20. The SOC team arrived at 3.30. The Underwater Police Search unit arrived at 5 p.m. and the body was moved to a SOC tent at 5.50. A preliminary search of the river was carried out by divers until dark. The search resumed at 6.30 this morning.’ He stopped for a moment and checked his notes.
‘A search of the riverbanks revealed the body of the woman was probably dropped from a nearby bridge and floated down from there across a weir before lodging itself on the sandbank. A forensics team are examining the bridge and the car park next to it for evidence, but it is likely the scene was compromised by first responders.’
A detective put his hand up.
‘Go on, Chris.’
‘Was the body weighted down?’
‘Not that we know of, but we’ll have to wait for forensics.’
‘How long had the body been in the water?’
‘We’re waiting on the answer from the pathologist.’
‘When did she die?’
‘We’re waiting on that too. Look guys, and…’ – Harry was about to say ‘girls’ but decided against it,’ – ladies. You know how it is. We’ll get those results out as soon as we have them. Two interesting matters to note.’ He pointed at the photofit picture. ‘This man was spotted by Mrs Prendergast at the scene. Did he carry the body and throw it off the bridge? We need to find him as quickly as possible.’
He shuffled across to a new picture. One she hadn’t put up: a grey blanket with a dark stain in the centre, still visible despite being immersed in the water. ‘The second matter is that this was found in the Mersey, caught on a dumped pram.’ He pointed to a picture of the blanket. ‘To my tired eyes, this stain looks like blood. But we can only confirm this when the forensics team reports back.’
Charlie Whitworth stepped forward. ‘Right. Let’s hear from our consultant profiler. Jonathan, can you give us the benefit of your experience?’
Harry Makepeace sat down next to Sarah. ‘Watch him tell us stuff we already know…’ he said bluntly.
Holburt walked through the assembled detectives and took Charlie Whitworth’s place at the front. ‘Thanks for having me here today. It’s a great honour to be working with the Greater Manchester Police once again.’
‘The honour’s all ours. Three thousand quid’s worth,’ Harry Makepeace said under his breath, but loud enough for Sarah to hear.
‘Let me get right into it. Those who know me, know I’m a profiler who uses forensic behavioural analysis. It’s a method I’ve developed myself which has proven successful in the past. I’ll produce a full report for you guys before the end of today, but here’s my top line.’ Jonathan Holburt looked down at the floor, and then began speaking. ‘We’re dealing with a practised and proficient killer. The offender is male, over 40 years’ old, same race as the victims. He has normal to above-average intelligence. He acts alone and will have the rep for being a loner wherever he works. He is probably self-employed and using his own vehicle.’ He paused for a moment, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket to pull it down over his expensive watch. ‘The murders are planned and rehearsed, organized to the nth degree. He probably brings his own tools, buying them in a series of DIY outlets to avoid being noticed. He is scared of women and lashes out at them to hide his fears. Was he abused as a child? So far he has left no DNA evidence, suggesting he is aware of police investigative procedure. But since the popularity of the programme CSI it’s not unusual. Interestingly, all the bodies so far have been found close to water. Is this significant for him? Is water a source of terror for him? Or of joy?’
‘No, it’s just an easy place to dump bodies…’ said Harry under his breath.
Jonathan Holburt pretended he didn’t hear. ‘Be careful with this one, gentlemen…and lady,’ he said, looking at Sarah, ‘he will kill again. Even worse, his killing will escalate, perhaps expanding like the Yorkshire Ripper away from sex workers to include the general female population. This man will not stop until he is caught.’
A silence descended on the room. Charlie Whitworth stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Jonathan that was extremely illuminating.’
‘…not,’ said Harry once again.
‘Fred has some interesting information from rattling the cages of our local sex workers.’
Sarah noticed how Charlie’s language had changed in the presence of his boss and the consultant.
Fred stood up and opened his notebook. ‘Still no name for the tom with the swan tattoo, but two things of interest came up. First, another girl went missing about two weeks ago, an Irene Hungerford from Newcastle. One of the pimps said she had come down from Newcastle to work for him. Did a couple of days on the streets then buggered off. He thought she had just done a runner. But last week the sister rang him from Geordieland asking where she was. Could be nothing, but it’s the first time I’ve seen a pimp worried about a girl’.
‘OK, put a question mark on the board with the name Irene Hungerford. Fred, get a description and a picture from the sister. We’ll check the morgues and missing persons. Let’s play it safe on this one, John Gorman thinks this could be another victim.’ Charlie nodded in his direction of his boss.
‘Second,’ Fred continued, ‘one of the toms identified a picture of the girl with the swan tattoo. Said she was definitely from Glasgow. They talked one night after sharing some crack. She can’t remember much else though, other than she was new to Manchester.’
Fred sat down and closed his notebook.
‘Good work. Chrissy, any luck with missing persons?’
‘Nothing, boss. Glasgow were supposed to get back to me but I haven’t heard anything yet.’
‘I’ll follow up with Police Scotland – I know the super from a course we attended at Hendon. I’ll give him a bell, but you keep hassling.’
Chrissy nodded.
‘CCTV?’
Dave shook his head.
Fred stuck his hand up. ‘Sorry, one other thing. One of the pimps noticed a white BMW hanging around the streets, driving up and down but not asking for business.’
‘Check it out, Dave, but he probably just wants one as his pimpmobile and that’s why he noticed it.’
He held his hands out wide like the Pope in the middle of a mass. ‘Come on, guys, somebody must know who this bloody woman is?’
Sarah put up her hand. ‘Have we thought about releasing the swan tattoo girl’s picture to the media?’
Charlie Whitworth rolled his eyes extravagantly. ‘Of course we’ve thought about releasing the picture. I was going to do it this morning, but with the latest killing it would be like a red rag to a bull to the vultures of the press. We’d have half the world’s hyenas on the steps of the station waiting to pounce.’
Sarah shook her head, trying to work out the number of animals in the last sentence. ‘Why don’t we release the photofit of the man beside the river, boss? It’s pretty generic but we could just say we’re looking for this man to help with our inquiries. Nothing about the case at all.’
Charlie Whitworth thought for a moment. ‘Not a bad idea. Make it happen, Sarah. And a reminder: any of you lot thinking of earning a little bit on the side from the rat pack,
think again. You’ll be out of the Major Incident Team quicker than a Blackpool donkey gets off the beach. Get it?’
A chorus of ‘Yes, boss.’
Charlie Whitworth let out a long sigh. ‘Listen, we have the name of one missing sex worker but no body. And for the other two victims, we have the bodies but no names. It’s not good enough. This man will kill again. We need to make sure we catch him before he does. Understood?’
‘Yes, boss,’ from the assembled detectives.
‘Luke, you’re on house-to-house in Northenden. Dave you’re at the crime scene. Make sure the CSM has everything she wants.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Harry, you’re on the toms again.’ A few laughs from the team. ‘Ask if anybody is missing, but don’t let on we’ve found another body. Not yet.
‘They’ll start to think he’s a regular,’ said a voice from the back.
‘Somebody tell his missus he’s been spending time with working girls. Stuff him up good and proper.’
Charlie Whitworth raised his hands. ‘I’m on the post-mortem this afternoon. Any questions?’
Sarah saw the opportunity and raised her hand. ‘Can I join you there?’
‘Ghoul girl,’ came the same voice from the back.
Whitworth thought for a moment. ‘If the identity of our Mersey victim is not discovered by this afternoon, join me, DS Castle.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Inwardly, Sarah was smiling. Now she could ask the pathologist about the broken fingers. Why hadn’t they made more of this?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
To get inside the main prison Ridpath had already negotiated seven gated doors, produced his police ID six times and had his fingerprints scanned.
On arrival at the High Security Unit – a windowless grey concrete building opposite the main prison’s recently built five-a-side football pitch – the security checks began again.
Surrounded by CCTV cameras in a carpeted reception area – the only carpet in the block – he removed his shoes and belt and put all his belongings through an X-ray machine. He walked through a metal detector and was given a body search – the lining of his jeans, the soles of his feet and inside his mouth were all checked.