by M J Lee
‘… And then I ran. You see, he told me to run to the garage if I was stopped. Whatever I did, get to the garage.’
‘I chased after you.’
‘You kept shouting for me to stop but I had to get to the garage.’
‘How did you know where it was?’
‘He showed me that morning. He said “You must run here. Understand?” I understood.’
‘So you ran there even though you knew I was chasing you?’
‘I ran as fast as I could but you caught up with me. I didn’t know which key to use, see. I’d never been inside the garage before.’
Ridpath remembered standing on the mound; Dalbey was searching through the keys looking for the right one.’
‘You attacked me as I opened the door.’
‘I didn’t attack you. I arrested you.’
‘You jumped on me, I tried to defend myself. I don’t like it when people touch me.’
The dark garage. His arms over his head. Ridpath with his fist raised, bringing it down hard against the man’s temple. ‘You know what was inside the garage?’
‘The girl against the wall. Blood. Dirt and decay. Disorder. I don’t like things to be untidy or dirty.’
‘You were taken to the station?’
‘They said I could never leave. I would have to stay there forever.’
‘Who said?’
‘The policeman with the moustache. He said I’d done a bad thing and I was never going to leave the police station until I signed.’
Ridpath remembered his return to the station. The other police officers lining up to pat him on the back and offer their congratulations. Charlie Whitworth and John Gorman taking him aside to tell him how pleased they were with his conduct and how, in the future, they would look after him. ‘You’ve got a bright career ahead of you, Tom, mark my words. We’ll look after you. Me and Charlie here. We always take care of people.’ Followed by a little knowing laugh. One of the happiest days of his life.
He dragged himself back to the interview. ‘So you signed the confession?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Told them about the man but they didn’t want to listen.’
Ridpath checked the files. There was a note in Charlie’s handwriting. ‘Suspect talks of “another man”. No corroboration. Psychiatric evaluation?’
‘Even when I signed it they wouldn’t let me leave. They lied to me so I refused to talk to anybody. I don’t like people lying.’
‘You never said another word?’
‘No.’
‘Not to the psychiatrist?
‘Especially not to him. Sticky man, his palms were sweaty.’
The notes contained a full psychiatric evaluation. ‘Patient cooperative and talkative.’
‘You didn’t speak to the psychiatrist?’
‘Not a word.’
Ridpath was about to point out the discrepancy in the files, but he decided not to bother. He was sick of this man, this place, the smells, the noises and the ticking of the clock on the wall. ‘I think we’ve done enough for today, Mr Dalbey.’
A hand came out across the table and seized his wrist. ‘You do believe I’m innocent, don’t you?’
Ridpath stared down at the hand holding his wrist. Slowly, Dalbey released his grip.
‘It doesn’t matter if I believe you, Mr Dalbey. The evidence is all that counts.’
‘But it isn’t for a coroner, is it? According to the Coroners and Justice Act 2009, the coroner’s job is simply to find out the truth.’
‘You seem to know the law well.’
‘I’ve had a long time to study it.’
Ridpath got up and packed his files into his battered briefcase. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Dalbey.’ He put out his hand.
Dalbey just stared at it without moving.
Ridpath turned and banged on the door to be let out. A guard immediately opened it up.
Just as he was about to leave the room, Dalbey spoke again. ‘You’ll never find her, you know.’
‘Find who?’
‘The body of Alice Seagram. That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it?’
Ridpath stopped. ‘Do you know where she is, Mr Dalbey?’
Again, the violent shake of the head. ‘But he does. He took her away.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
‘What the hell do you think you were doing in there?’
They hadn’t gone two steps outside the mortuary before Charlie Whitworth was in her face. The autopsy had lasted two more hours with Mr Lardner performing his usual Y-section, examining the vital organs of the deceased in minute detail. All they had discovered was that she hadn’t drowned – there was no water in the lungs – and she hadn’t been sexually active on the day of her death. The death itself was confirmed as manual strangulation by garrotte after a beating with a blunt instrument around the head. Time of death was any time in the 24 hours preceding the discovery of the body.
‘My job, sir – just asking questions.’
‘My job, sir.’ Charlie mimicked. ‘I’ll tell you what your job is, Detective Sergeant. When we are in an autopsy, your job is to take notes and keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?’
‘But I was just pointing out the similarities between the two murders so far and those of the Beast of Manchester back in 2008.’
‘We caught the Beast – his name was James Dalbey. Where is he now, Castle?’
Sarah noticed the absence of both a rank and a Christian name. ‘In Belmarsh Prison.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘Because I rang the prison, sir. They said he was in his cell.’
‘So how can he be committing murders in bloody Manchester?’
‘With all due respect, sir, it seems to me—’
‘With all due respect, Detective Sergeant, you need to concentrate on the investigation we have at the moment, not dig into matters already dead and buried.’
‘Not in the case of Alice Seagram. Her body has gone missing.’
Charlie Whitworth rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘You’re beginning to piss me off, Detective Sergeant, trying my patience. The murders of the Beast of Manchester were solved in 2008. End of. We put him away. His name was James Dalbey. End of.’
‘Could it be a copycat killer?’
Charlie ran his fingers through his non-existent hair. ‘Not according to the bloody expensive profiler we’ve just hired. According to him, the killer is a first-timer who is developing his methods as he goes along.’
‘But surely, sir—’
Charlie held up his hands. His voice was firm and commanding. ‘I’ll say this once and once only. We are looking for a new killer. He has committed at least two heinous crimes, maybe more. Your job is to help me catch him before he commits a third. You job isn’t to chase some wildcat theory from the pages of some trashy women’s magazine.’
Sarah remained silent.
‘Do you understand, DS Castle?’
‘Yes…sir,’ she added reluctantly.
His voice dropped a register.
‘Listen, Sarah, I’m all for coppers having a bit of initiative, but when it starts getting in the way of an active investigation, then it has to stop. Let’s hear no more of your bullshit theories. Old-fashioned police work is going to solve this crime. Chasing and squeezing the evidence until it gives us the man we need. Clear? Now let’s go and get a sandwich. Autopsies always make me so hungry. Maybe it’s seeing all the meat on display.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Outside the prison, Ridpath immediately lit a cigarette, trying to replace the smells of incarceration with the bitter taste of tar. He exhaled a long draught of smoke into the sky, hoping Polly would forgive the transgression just this once, but he needed nicotine right now.
The Uber would arrive soon to take him back to the station.
He had a problem. Even though he had arrested Dalbey, found him with the keys to the garage where a woman was manacled to a wall. Even though a hammer with the blood of Alice
Seagram was found in the back of the van. Even though Dalbey had been found guilty by a jury of his peers. Despite all this, Ridpath thought he was innocent.
He didn’t know why. Call it copper’s gut. A feeling something was wrong somewhere.
The files on the case looked open and shut. All procedure had been followed to the letter, even to getting a psychiatric assessment of Dalbey, but still the nagging doubt remained in Ridpath’s mind that something wasn’t right.
The Uber pulled up in a squeal of brakes. He looked back at the stark grey prison walls. Imagine spending time inside there – a living death. A bit like having a cancer – not just inside you, but surrounding you as well.
He had another appointment with Dr Morris tomorrow. Just a check-up, but he hated them. More blood taken by the nurse who couldn’t find a vein if it was as wide as the Mersey. ‘Just an armful this time, Mr Ridpath.’ She always told the same joke, channelling Tony Hancock.
He shouldn’t complain but he always felt like a guinea pig. There were always a couple of students hanging on the professor’s every word, being tested about his illness while he lay there watching them watching him. One of them even had the temerity to start poking him in the stomach as if he had an ulcer. He was tempted to shout: ‘I’ve got cancer, not a tummy bug – and warm your bloody hands next time.’
The Uber driver waited patiently for him to finish his cigarette; he must have picked up a lot of cons outside these gates.
He wasn’t looking forward to his next visit to the hospital. At the back of his mind was the big fear. He sensed it every morning from Polly before he left to visit the doctor.
‘Have you got everything?’
‘Of course.’
‘What time’s the appointment?’
‘At 10.30, but I won’t get to see him until 11.30 – he’s always running late. It’s why they call us patients.’
Polly didn’t smile, simply saying, ‘He’s busy.’
A quick peck on the cheek and he’d leave the house, knowing she was watching him through the window, waiting for him to get in the car and drive away, wondering if he would be coming back that evening.
Because the big fear in his mind was that the doctor would tell him he was no longer in remission and the cancer had returned.
He finished his cigarette, stamping the butt down with his shoe where it joined a whole factory of other butts. This must be the place where all the prisoners had their first fags of freedom.
He would have a lot of thinking to do on the train back to sunny Manchester, too much thinking.
He opened the car door and got in.
‘You just got out?’
Ridpath glanced over his shoulder at the prison receding quickly into the distance. ‘You could say that.’
‘Funny, you don’t look like you’ve been inside long.’
‘Why?’
‘You look too healthy. Most of the ex-cons I pick up look like they’re going to die tomorrow. Not a healthy place, prison. What did you get?’
Ridpath was staring out of the window, distractedly. ‘What?’
‘What did you get?’
‘Life,’ he finally answered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Sarah called Ridpath’s mobile. The number rang for a minute then went into voicemail. She left a message. ‘Hi, I need to talk to you urgently. I think I’ve found something on Tony Seagram and on the murders. Call me back as soon as you get this. Oh, it’s Sarah, by the way…DS Castle,’ she finally added.
It was 8 p.m. and the incident room was still buzzing. Harry Makepeace had just come back with a confirmed ID on the girl found in the Mersey.
‘She was a sex worker, right enough. Name of Debbie Ashworth from Knowsley, near Liverpool. One of the other toms recognized her as a new girl. Had only been on the streets for a week.’
‘Well done, Harry. Get on to Merseyside Police and see if they’ve got anything on her. She’s probably got form for soliciting. Also get an address for the family. Sarah, you’re the family liaison officer: contact them tomorrow morning when we have the address. You’ll have to drive across to Liverpool.’
‘Will do, boss.’
After this, a local businesswoman, Mrs Norris, came forward saying she thought the photofit picture in the Manchester Evening News reminded her of one of her employees, Martin Sharples. She had his address, so Charlie Whitworth, Harry Makepeace and Norman Dean had gone charging off to knock on his door.
Before he left, Charlie had asked Sarah to check all the witness statements compiled from the house-to-house, looking for anomalies and inconsistencies. She and he both knew it was make-work: something to keep her busy and away from the investigation itself. A little punishment for speaking up this afternoon.
She had completed it anyway, placing the finished files on his desk, having added two suggestions for follow-up interviews. The family address still hadn’t come in from Liverpool; the Scousers were always a bit slow.
She looked at the clock. Already 10.30.
She thought about ringing Tom Ridpath again or perhaps going round to his place. She needed to talk to someone about the broken fingers and about Tony Seagram. But then she remembered he had a wife and child. Perhaps they wouldn’t be too pleased to see a bedraggled copper knocking on their door, wanting to discuss a case until the small hours.
It could wait till tomorrow. Nothing was urgent anyway. The murders had happened ten years ago, they weren’t going anywhere.
She signed off on the log sheet for her overtime and then packed up her stuff; two packets of Polos and a half-eaten cheese and tomato sandwich.
After his reaction at the mortuary, she’d have to make it up to Charlie somehow, get back into his good books. Otherwise, she could find herself doing traffic for the rest of her life. The thought of spending her days stuck in a dark room staring at televisions showing the M6, the M61 and M62 gave her a headache.
Anything but that.
She took one last glance into the incident room. It was empty at the moment. The pictures on the walls were a stark reminder of the case they had to solve. A new picture stared out at her: the smiling face of a pretty woman, haloed by a frizz of curly hair. This must be the woman from Newcastle who went missing in Moss Side. What had happened to the body?
She knew she was on to something. She just had to get more evidence, prove there was a link to the murders in 2008. And, if Charlie Whitworth still wouldn’t listen, take it to John Gorman.
A risky strategy, for sure. She would be either a hero or a zero.
Either way, she would do what was right and damn the bloody consequences.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Lesley watched in her rearview mirror and saw her coming out of the station and walking across the car park. This was the woman she wanted. The description fitted her to a tee: wearing a red jacket, carrying a black shoulder bag, shoulders slightly hunched and blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.
The woman looked tired, her body moving slowly, without energy.
Good, it would make it easier for her.
He had said it was time to take it up a notch, to test themselves against the angry hornets’ nest this would provoke.
No more working girls.
No more misfits and strays from the streets.
No more junkies.
At first she was scared, worried she wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But then she saw the beauty, the audacity of the plan, and it thrilled her. They had to change who they were targeting, otherwise nobody would know what they had done. There had been very little in the papers about their earlier victims.
No major reports.
No concerned citizens.
No letters from ‘Angry of Hale’.
‘It was because they were nothings. Meat for the use of men. The papers don’t care about them. Nobody cares about them. We have to do something they will notice.’
Now was the time to change, take it to the next level. She had been merely practising before, per
fecting her craft, he said. This was the real test, the acid test. The way to really make them sit up and take notice.
And what better way than to take one of their own?
At last, she could prove herself to him.
At last, she could win his trust.
At last, she could win his love.
The death of this copper would be an act of love. Not everybody would see it that way, but he would – and he was all that mattered.
She watched as Sarah Castle climbed slowly into her Audi. The lights went on and she began to pull out of the car park. The woman followed her, keeping back 100 yards as he had advised.
He had already told her where the woman would be going. All she had to do was be patient and make sure she wasn’t spotted.
They drove down Chester Road, through the ghost town that used to be the centre of Stretford. It amused her that 2,000 years ago, Roman centurions had marched this way, off to kill the Brigantes. Now here she was, off to kill a copper.
The more the world changes, the more it stays the same.
Past the turn off to the canal where she had dumped one of the other bodies. The girl who had screamed as she had smashed the hammer into the side of her face.
She had enjoyed the screams. It reminded her of the time her mother forced her to watch her drown the kittens in the bath when she was seven; the kittens screaming as they tried to scramble up the white enamelled sides. Her mother catching hold of them and pushing them under the water until they no longer struggled.
They had killed five kittens that day.
She had killed three women so far.
It was easier than killing kittens.
The policewoman turned left in Sale. It was clear she was going home. She lived alone, so the house would be empty, but it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
The car pulled up outside a house on the left. The policewoman reached into the back and got her bag. As he’d instructed, she pulled up alongside, winding down her window.