Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  ‘As a copper, you’re just getting a light check,’ said the tattooed prison guard.

  ‘I’d hate to see what you do to the inmates.’

  ‘They get moved every couple of weeks and the whole cell is strip-searched. We’ve got good security at Belmarsh,’ he said proudly. ‘Have to, mate – got some real bad ’uns in here.’

  At the end of the reception area he saw a red iron gate. He strode up to it and stood outside. He was conscious of the camera above the gate zooming in to stare directly at his face. Some unknown guard hidden in a control centre far away was studying his face and comparing it with security footage when he entered the prison and with the picture on his police ID.

  Finally, after a minute, the gate was buzzed open. Once through, he was faced with four more gates.

  The guard had followed him. ‘Each one of these gates leads to a different wing of the HSU. And no two in the unit can be opened at the same time. Security, innit?’

  ‘Is it meant to keep people in? Or to keep others out?’

  ‘Both, mate. We don’t have no bother at Belmarsh. Been open nearly 30 years and nobody’s ever got out unless we let them out.’

  ‘He was shown into a spacious office, behind which sat a tall man with a military bearing and a grey goatee.

  ‘Paul Reynolds. Pleased to meet you.’

  The hand was out and Ridpath shook it. His hand felt like it had been squeezed in a vice. ‘Tom Ridpath, on temporary assignment to the Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘Take a seat.’ The deputy governor opened a file in front of him. ‘You’re here to meet James Dalbey, I believe?’

  ‘Correct. The coroner has reopened the case of one of his victims, Alice Seagram.’

  ‘Dalbey is an interesting character.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He makes a change from the usual murderers, rapists and recidivists.’ He opened the file in front of him. ‘His psychological assessment is particularly fascinating – a cocktail of OCD, adult ADHD, narcissism and possibly Asperger’s, but the psychiatrist wasn’t sure. And on top of it all, there’s a diagnosis of early onset schizophrenia when he was 12.’

  ‘He’s been a problem for you?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Ridpath, James Dalbey has been a model prisoner.’ He leant forward, interlocking his fingers in front of him. ‘You have to understand, the main problem in any prison is boredom. People are locked up for long periods with nothing to do. The mind can play awful tricks on anybody when it’s got time to work its worst. Dalbey doesn’t have that problem. He spends 24 hours a day trying to prove his innocence of the murder of Alice Seagram.’

  ‘There were other killings, but he was never charged.’

  The deputy governor sat back. ‘Interesting, he never talks about those – just Alice Seagram.’

  ‘Do you think he’s innocent?’

  Paul Reynolds threw his hands up. ‘I don’t think anything, Mr Ridpath. My job is to ensure the safety of all the prisoners here while they remain in our custody. Innocence. Guilt. For me, they are just words that have no meaning inside HMP Belmarsh.’ He closed the file in front of him. ‘You know, the cons have a saying, you only do two days in prison: the day you go in and the day you leave. We make sure the time between those two days is as quiet, peaceful and safe as is humanly possible.’

  ‘Funny to think of prison as a safe place.’

  ‘That’s what it was always meant to be. A prison is a place where society is free from its inmates and the inmates are free from their exterior problems.’

  ‘Is James Dalbey free?’

  A long sigh. ‘He’s free as long as he’s obsessed with getting out of here, Mr Ridpath. My fear is what happens when that is denied.’

  ‘Or even achieved?’

  The deputy governor placed the file away in a drawer. ‘Dalbey will be ready for you now. The officer will take you to a meeting room.’ He stood up and opened the door. Outside in the corridor, a portly officer, also with a grey goatee, was waiting.

  ‘A word of warning, Mr Ridpath. James Dalbey will test you. He tests everybody – it’s one of his obsessions.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  A wave of excitement washed over Sarah. She felt her face reddening. They were standing in the gallery looking down on Harold Lardner and his assistant as they began the autopsy.

  She knew it was strange but she loved this part of the job. She loved the smell of the formaldehyde. The glitter of the steel instruments in the spotlights. The cleanliness of the pathology suite.

  As a student, one of her roommates was studying to be a doctor. She had joined him once for one of his anatomy courses. He had dared her one day and she had taken up him on his challenge. All she had to do was don a white coat, borrow one of his clipboards and tag along with him.

  She remembered watching the large man being cut up on the table, layers of creamy fat tinged with blood on the stomach. The professor, an elegant man wearing a bow tie, enunciated in beautiful tones the name of each part of the body as he cut it away and removed it, laying each organ on the table beside him.

  One of the medical students fainted when the heart was removed. But she had stared, transfixed.

  The voice of the pathologist cut through her memories. ‘The time is 12.06 on 2 April. My name is Harold Lardner and I am performing the autopsy of a woman found in the Mersey yesterday. The client is a white female, aged approximately 20. A preliminary examination of the body reveals no tattoos or distinguishing marks, other than a childhood vaccination scar on the upper right arm.’ He examined the body minutely. ‘No other scars or injury marks. No track marks, suggesting this woman wasn’t an intravenous drug user. The client has a below-average body weight for her height and size.’ A check of the hands and the feet, removing the bags first. ‘Bitten fingernails, but manicured and polished toenails – a strange combination. The detritus beneath the fingernails has already been removed for examination in case there should be any epithelials from scratching or fighting her assailant.’ He stepped back two yards from the steel table, looking at the body as a whole. ‘The body exhibits the puckering of the skin common from being immersed in water. Impossible to estimate the length of time she had been lying in the water. It would have been longer than eight hours, though, from the amount of puckering.’

  Charlie Whitworth pressed the button on the console in front of him. ‘Any idea of time of death?’

  The pathologist looked up at the gallery, his eyes sandwiched between the surgical mask and the Tyvek cap. ‘I know you’re in a hurry, Charlie, and patience isn’t your strong suit, but give me a chance – I’ve only just started the examination.’ The voice was querulous, annoyed, so unlike the one he used when speaking into the microphone.

  Charlie Whitworth thought about responding, but then changed his mind, releasing the intercom button.

  The pathologist resumed his examination of the body. ‘There seem to be three small bite-sized marks on the outside of the left thigh.’ He leant in closer. ‘Too small for human bites, I would think, and the teeth are the wrong shape and size. I would guess Rattus rattus decided to have a spot of breakfast on the woman’s body.’

  Charlie Whitworth spoke again. ‘What does that mean, Mr Lardner?’

  ‘It means, Detective Chief Inspector, the rats of the Manchester rivers, probably our friend the brown rat, had a little nibble at our client. It also suggest she wasn’t in the river too long, or there would be far more bites. We’ll check the bites against our database and confirm later. But I’m pretty certain it’s Mr Rat.’ He leant forward to examine the body more closely. ‘But that’s interesting…’

  Charlie Whitworth couldn’t stop himself. He pressed the button and asked, ‘What?’

  ‘The index and middle finger of the left hand have been broken. There is swelling to the knuckle on the left compared to the right hand. See?’ He held both hands side by side. The assistant took a close-up photograph.

  Sarah touched the intercom button befo
re Charlie Whitworth could intervene. ‘You think this finger was broken by the killer, Mr Lardner?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could have been. Or it may have been broken by the body striking an object in the river, for example when it went over the weir.’

  ‘Any way of knowing?’

  ‘Knowing whether it was pre- or post-mortem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll examine the hand for subcutaneous bleeding. If the finger was broken before death the finger will have a red hemorrhagic appearance.’ He continued to examine the right hand. ‘There does seem to be red bruising around the wrist and fingers. We’ll have to check the tissue under a microscope but my opinion is the fracture was caused before death.’

  Charlie Whitworth was staring at her. She continued anyway. ‘Did the Jane Doe two days ago, the woman with the swan tattoo, have a similar break on her hand?’

  The pathologist stopped for a moment. ‘If memory serves me, she did. To the little finger.’

  Charlie Whitworth interrupted their conversation. ‘Where are you going with this, Sarah?’

  She held her hand up. ‘One last question. Mr Lardner, do you remember your examination of the victim of the Beast of Manchester? Weren’t Alice Seagram's fingers broken too?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sarah, you’re not still on about this. Dalbey is in prison, for God’s sake.’

  ‘It was ten years ago, Detective…?’ The pathologist’s voice boomed from the loudspeaker.

  ‘DS Sarah Castle,’ she answered.

  ‘Well, DS Castle, I think you are correct, but once I’ve finished here, I’ll check my notes to be sure.’

  ‘Give it a rest, DS Castle.’ Charlie shoved Sarah’s hand away from the intercom button. ‘Please carry on with the autopsy, Dr Lardner.’

  ‘Righto, moving along to examine her injuries. The right knee has four holes in it, probably caused by a drill. I’ll experiment to find the exact size of the bit for you later. These drill holes were made while the victim was still alive as shown by the…’

  But Sarah wasn’t listening. There was a link between the two series of killings ten years apart, and she had just proved it.

  Now she only had to convince her boss, who was, at present, staring at her with a look of sheer disdain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  James Dalbey was sitting upright and alert behind a low table. Ridpath tried to remember the man when he had last seen him – eyes full of fear, strands of hair falling across the dirty floor, covering up his face as Ridpath raised his arm to bring his fist down on his temple.

  The man who sat in front of him had hardly changed. The Bobby Charlton comb-over was still there, although neater and shorter now. The glasses were the same heavy black frames. The skin was just as white and untouched by the sun. A few more wrinkles around the eyes betrayed the passage of time maybe. The clothes had changed, obviously, into the prison uniform of a light-blue shirt and grey trousers. But other than that, it was like being taken back ten years.

  He walked over and pulled out a chair. Dalbey watched him all the time, not saying a word. Ridpath noticed a plastic water cup stood right in the centre of the desk on his side. Had Dalbey placed it there?

  The eyes stayed on him, unblinking.

  Ridpath remembered his interview training. If a suspect looks down or to the side, he’s usually trying to be evasive, has something to hide. A suspect who looks straight at you is trying to be part of the process. He’s opening himself up.

  ‘My name is Tom Ridpath, I’m the coroner’s officer for East Manchester—’

  ‘I recognize you.’ The words were slow and precisely articulated like a man who had not spoken for a long time. ‘You gave evidence at my trial. You were the policeman who arrested me.’

  Ridpath moved the cup from the centre of the table, Dalbey’s eyes following his hands all the time. ‘That was me,’ Ridpath admitted, ‘a younger version.’

  ‘You’ve changed a lot, Mr Ridpath. You’ve been ill.’

  How did he know? Had somebody told him about the cancer? The deputy governor, maybe? Tony Seagram?’

  ‘You think I’ve been ill?’

  The eyes, slightly magnified though the heavy glasses, stayed on him. ‘I know you’ve been ill. You’re going to ask me how I can be sure. And I am going to answer that in prison people become ill all the time. One of the highest natural death rates occurs in prisons, Mr Ridpath, did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Cancer, mainly.’ He leant forward across the table. ‘I don’t want to die in prison. I’m an innocent man. Innocent men shouldn’t die in prison.’

  ‘This isn’t about me, James. Can I call you James?’ Ridpath struggled to retain control.

  ‘Oh, but it is about you. And me. And truth. And justice. All those things and more.’ His eyes remained on him.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  James Dalbey nodded. ‘God sent you.’

  Had he heard correctly? Before he could ask another question, Dalbey continued speaking.

  ‘God heard my prayers to the high court and he sent you. The prayers were blocked before, but now God listens to me.’

  Was this man mad? Or was he just pretending? Using the Myra Hindley tactic of having found God to try to escape his sentence? ‘I’m afraid God hasn’t spoken to me.’

  ‘God spoke to the judge and to them.’

  This was becoming tedious. This man wore his armour of God like Joseph wore a Technicolor dream coat. ‘You are aware the high court ordered her body to be exhumed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there was no body in the coffin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man had become monosyllabic. He needed to get him talking. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘He took her.’

  ‘Who took her?’

  ‘The man who murdered her.’

  ‘It wasn’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m innocent.’

  Ridpath opened the police file in front of him. Time to use shock tactics. ‘Alice Seagram died from being beaten about the head with a ball-peen hammer, stabbed multiple times and then having her throat slit from ear to ear. After her death, she was possibly raped with the same hammer and then her body—’

  James Dalbey covered his ears with his hands. ‘It wasn’t me. He did it. He did it.’

  Ridpath checked the psychiatric assessment at the time. A diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. But if this man was certifiably insane, why wasn’t this used as a defence?

  With a speed which Ridpath found uncomfortable, James Dalbey removed his hands from his ears and returned to his calm state.

  The detective tried a different tack. ‘Can you tell what you remember of the day I arrested you?’

  James Dalbey’s eyes flickered upwards and to the right as he thought back.

  ‘Just try to remember what happened.’

  His eyes fluttered closed but Dalbey remained motionless, hands clasped in front of him. ‘He told me to go to a garage off Claridge Road…’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘The man. He knew everything about me, was helping me to get better. Said I had to go to a garage to become better. One of my tasks for the day.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  The eyes bulged behind the closed lids. ‘He never told me his name, said it wasn’t important.’

  ‘So he told you to go to the garage?’

  ‘I was driving the van—’

  ‘Was it your van?’

  ‘No, he gave it to me.’

  Ridpath checked the police notes. The van had been hired over the phone the day before. Cash paid.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I heard this loud noise behind me. At first I thought it was an ambulance but then I realized it was the police. I got scared.’

  Ridpath glanced at the file. ‘You’d been in trouble with the police before?’

  ‘Bad men, policemen. They lied.’

 
The file stated Dalbey had a conviction for resisting arrest two years earlier. Sentenced to probation. ‘So what did you do next?’

  ‘I tried to get to the garage. He said I would be safe in the garage.’

  Ridpath flashed back to the day ten years ago, his police car chasing the white van, lights flashing, siren blaring. ‘But you stopped.’

  ‘He told me to stop.’

  ‘But you were the only one who was in the van.’

  ‘No, before I drove the van. He said if the police came, to drive quickly for three minutes and then to stop.’

  Ridpath’s mouth was dry. He looked down at the plastic cup at the side of the table, considering whether to drink, but decided it was it was too risky. ‘What happened then?’

  His eyes opened. ‘You know what happened. You were there.’

  ‘I want to hear it from you.’

  A slow nod. The eyes closed again. ‘I stopped the van. I saw a large copper walk towards the rear and bend over to check the brake light.’

  Ridpath could see Dalbey was in the moment; he was back in that day ten years ago. His foot was tapping on the floor as if he were walking down the road towards Sergeant Mungovan.

  ‘The policeman stood up and pushed me away, said I was too close. I was just trying to explain about the light. The man had smashed it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why. He never told me why he did anything.’

  ‘So the police sergeant pushed you…?’

  ‘I don’t like anybody touching me, so I pushed him back and he fell over, banging his shoulder against the wheel.’

  That was when Ridpath had looked up, seeing this man towering over his sergeant. What had he been doing in the car? Checking the vehicle registration, that was it. The voice coming from control. ‘Proceed with caution, over. Driver of Ford Transit FB05 TBY wanted for questioning regarding abduction of prostitute from Moss Side…’

  Ridpath checked the police files. There was an anonymous tip-off that the van was involved in the abduction of a prostitute. Anonymous tip-off? But according to Dalbey the van was only given to him that morning. It had been hired late on the previous night.