Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

  The policewoman was standing beside her car, locking the door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she asked, ‘could you tell me the way to Market Street in Altrincham?’ She held up the road map. ‘I think I took a wrong turning somewhere.’

  Play the foolish woman, he’d said, channel Marilyn Monroe and her dumb blonde act. Remember this woman’s a copper; she wants to help people, it’s in her DNA.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear. Where did you say you were going?’

  ‘Market Street in Altrincham.’

  ‘Oh, you’re miles away,’ Sarah Castle said, smiling. ‘Don’t you have satnav?’

  She saw the copper’s eyes checking the back seat to see if there were other passengers and then the visible relaxation as she saw the car was empty, with only a middle-aged woman driving.

  ‘It’s bust – I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for ages. You know me, leave everything till the last minute. Could you show me on the map?’

  He’d told her to switch on the cabin light and hold the map on her steering wheel, force her to lean in the window, to look. The copper would be relaxed: outside her own home, a lone woman needing help, nothing to fear.

  She raised the map slightly. ‘Where exactly am I?’

  The policewoman put her bag on her shoulder and leant forward, resting her arms on the open windowsill.

  Just a little further.

  ‘You’re not far from Sale town hall. Let me see the map.’

  Leaning in closer.

  She could smell her perfume now. Still faint traces – she must have re-spritzed earlier – but mixed with sweat and tiredness.

  The policewoman’s head was leaning in through the window, looking at the map, finding her position with her finger. Leaning in a little further to catch the light. A trail of faint blonde hair on her neck.

  She brought the syringe up and jammed it into the area just below the ear, depressing the plunger.

  ‘You have 30 seconds’, he’d told her, ‘30 seconds before the drug takes effect. Control her, don’t let her go.’

  The policewoman slapped her neck with her left hand, feeling the hard plastic of the syringe sticking out. ‘What the hell?’

  Lesley took hold of the ponytail and smashed the copper’s head against the metal edge of the door.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  She could feel the copper struggling to escape her grip on the hair.

  Four times.

  She felt the ponytail become heavier as the copper’s legs gave way, slumping against the door.

  Move quickly, he had told her.

  She let go of the ponytail and tried to open the door, feeling the woman’s body weight against it. Don’t panic, he had said. If she is leaning against the door, exit via the passenger door.

  She did as she was told, wriggling out of the driver’s seat, opening the passenger door and taking a quick glance up and down the road.

  Still empty.

  On the other side of the road, a light went on in upstairs bedroom.

  She froze.

  A woman in shadow came to the window and began drawing the curtains, stopping for a couple of seconds before continuing. Lesley stayed where she was, ducking down behind the car.

  The woman finished closing her drapes and she could see her shadow vanishing from the light.

  She ran round to the driver’s side, grabbing the inert body of the copper under the arms and dragging her to the rear of the car.

  ‘Remember how strong you are,’ he had told her.

  She lifted the copper’s body onto the edge of the back seat and rolled it in, pushing in a leg that was sticking out. She closed the back doors quietly and went back to the driver’s seat.

  ‘Don’t forget to check if she’s dropped anything.’

  She looked where Sarah had fallen. Her bag had opened, spilling out her wallet, some pens and what looked like a half-eaten sandwich. She shoved all the stuff back in the bag and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  She had just 30 minutes to get to the workshop before the effects of the sedative began to wear off.

  ‘Drive slowly and carefully. The last thing you want is a speeding ticket or to come to the notice of any nosy coppers.’

  This time she would follow his instructions to the letter.

  No mistakes.

  No foul-ups.

  No errors.

  The copper was going to die.

  As she drove away, she didn’t notice the curtain twitch open for a second before closing once more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The train was pulling into Piccadilly station in Manchester when his voicemail pinged again and again and again. The Wi-Fi had been so abysmal, Ridpath had given up trying for a signal. He had also given up looking for a seat, eventually finding a corner on the floor next to one of the toilets.

  It was a very tired and extremely grumpy Ridpath who finally disembarked, vowing to never take Virgin again.

  As he walked along the platform to the exit, he checked his voicemails. The first was from Polly.

  ‘Hey you, the man who pretends to be my husband. You forgot to tell me what time you were getting home. I made you a nice dinner, but it’s burnt now. Tough shit. If I’m asleep when you get in, don’t wake me. And don’t forget you have a check-up at Christie’s tomorrow at 2.30. Goodnight…’ A long pause. ‘I miss you, you bastard.’

  He smiled. The clock said ten minutes past eleven. He would catch the tram home and, with a bit of luck, would be back before midnight. She would be awake, waiting up for him.

  He went to the second voicemail. ‘Hi, Ridpath, Margaret Challinor here. Can you be in at 8.30? We have our weekly progress meeting tomorrow, you need to be there. Plus you can fill me in on your meeting with James Dalbey. Hope you had a good trip.’

  Not much sleep, but he’d manage. He hoped he could get away in time for the hospital appointment. He hated going there – nothing to do with the Christie’s staff, they were wonderful – it was just the awful sense of anticipation as Dr Morris studied his notes and looked at him over the top of his half-moon glasses. What was he going to say?

  Never mind. It had to be done.

  The third message was from Sarah Castle. ‘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.’

  What had she found that was so important? He descended the escalator and waited at the stop. He boarded the tram and, as it pulled away, called Sarah’s number.

  It immediately went to voicemail.

  Strange. She didn’t strike him as a person who would ask him to ring back and not answer her phone. Nor was she somebody who went to bed at 10 p.m. with a cup of cocoa.

  He tried again, and again it went to voicemail. This time he left a message. ‘Hi, Sarah, it’s Ridpath. Got your call. What have you found? Will call back tomorrow morning. Have a good night.’

  He switched off his phone and stared out of the window at a neon-lit Manchester rushing past. A city changed immensely in the last 20 years, since the IRA bomb that had devastated the centre in 1996. Some people thought it was the best thing that had ever happened; Ridpath wasn’t so sure. In gaining so many high-rise yuppie apartments had the city lost its soul?

  He remembered the Northern Soul nights with his mates Fast John, Deadly Dave and Paralytic Pete, wearing their wide trews and carving out areas of the dance floor to flash their moves as the girls looked on.

  Northern Soul was dying in the late 1990s when he became obsessed with it, but perhaps that was the attraction. Being part of a group of people who knew every song, the story of every singer and the sadness behind every move. He’d been to the Haçienda, but the fake E-driven lovey-doveyness of the scene was not for him. He preferred the energy, sweat and madness of a decent night out with real music, not some moronic synthesizer monotone, twiddled by a fat, balding, overpaid DJ.

&n
bsp; He dragged his mind back from something he loved to something he hated. He couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  What was he going to do about James Dalbey?

  On the train back, he had examined every detail of his story. There was something disquieting about it. And then he realized what it was.

  The story was plausible.

  Was he just another dupe of an incredibly clever and manipulative psychopath?

  He went through all the details in his mind again. He didn’t think so. There were just too many problems with the evidence, the police investigation and the autopsies of the victim. When added together with Dalbey’s explanation of why he had the keys to the lock-up, it all came together into one inescapable conclusion.

  James Dalbey was innocent.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. God, he was tired. He would have to tell Mrs Challinor tomorrow. And even worse, he would have to tell Charlie Whitworth.

  More importantly, if Dalbey was innocent, then who was the Beast of Manchester? And why had he stopped killing after Dalbey was arrested?

  And then an idea struck him that drained his face of blood.

  Had the Beast stopped killing?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  They were all gathered in the badly furnished meeting room of the Coroner’s Office. Ridpath had arrived early to avoid the morning rush hour and had nipped out to Starbucks for a takeaway latte. At least that’s what they called it. He could only taste milk with a slight flavouring of something – sawdust came to mind, but it could hardly be described as coffee. Never mind, at least it was warm and comforting.

  While waiting for the coffee to be made by the people Starbucks jokingly referred to as ‘baristas’, Ridpath had called Sarah Castle, reaching her voicemail once more.

  ‘Hi, it’s DS Sarah Castle, you know the drill.’

  Strange, he thought; why ring someone and then not answer your phone? ‘Hi, Sarah, it’s Ridpath again, call me back when you get this. I’m stuck in a meeting but I’ll take your call. What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  The others looked at him as he bustled in. Margaret Challinor was at the head of the table, with Carol Oates on her right; Jenny was on her left with a man he had never seen before, dressed in a black suit and conservative tie.

  Ridpath sat in the only seat available, at the bottom of the table. There was obviously a rigid pecking order in this office, as if he hadn’t worked that out already.

  ‘Good, you finally made it. We’re all here now – let’s begin, shall we?’ She gave the half-smile, half-patronizing smirk beloved of meeting chairs everywhere.

  ‘Ridpath, have you met David Smail? He’s a senior coroner from Derbyshire helping with the workload.’ It turned out it was quite common for coroners to work part-time across a number of jurisdictions and to be paid a daily rate for doing so, even when they were full-time coroners in other districts. It was a strange system. He could only imagine the kerfuffle if, as a detective, he presented a bill for work done to help Lancashire Police.

  ‘If you’ll open the printout of the Excel spreadsheet Jenny has prepared, you’ll see it’s a busy time: 144 active cases, 27 adjourned inquests, 86 unusual deaths, 24 accidents and 7 possible suicides. You’ll be pleased to hear we won’t be won’t be going through them all. As coroner’s officer, you would normally be involved in all of them, Ridpath, but, as you’re new, Jenny has spared you until after your course. When is that, Jenny?’

  ‘I’ve booked one for the end of April, in Leeds. I hope that’s OK?’ Jenny’s purple eyelids glistened under the bright lights. These women were already beginning to order his life.

  Margaret Challinor didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Carol, the inquest into the death by drowning of Mr Azhar Ali is on Tuesday? All in order?’

  Carol was wearing a different black suit. Ridpath imagined her wardrobe at home. Twelve black suits, all in different cuts and materials. Her definition of rebelliousness would be to wear a cream blouse instead of white one.

  ‘All done, Margaret. Witnesses confirmed, should be fairly straightforward.’

  ‘And the family?’

  ‘The situation has been explained to them through an interpreter.’

  ‘Good. Make sure we have an interpreter in the court, Jenny. What do they speak, Urdu or Hindi?’

  ‘Actually, it’s Punjabi,’ said Carol.

  Margaret Challinor smiled. ‘Of course it is. Make sure we have an interpreter in court, Jenny. Use Mrs Singh – she speaks all three languages, doesn’t she?’

  ‘And Gujarati, but not Tamil. We have to get Mrs Pereira for Tamil.’

  ‘Good, moving along, the fire at Molton’s Brewery. David, where are we?’

  And so it went on. A catalogue of accidents, possible suicides, murders, unexplained deaths and one death in custody – a 17-year-old boy who died of an asthma attack.

  Then Mrs Challinor finally reached him. ‘Now, Ridpath, our most vexing problem at the moment. Where are we with Alice Seagram?’

  He decided to be candid. ‘As you know, the body was not in the coffin when it was opened—’

  ‘Are you likely to find it after ten years?’ Carol Oates interrupted.

  ‘You never know. It—’

  ‘But the chances of it being discovered are minimal, even if we had Sherlock Holmes on the case.’

  This was an obvious attack on him, but why? The answer came in her next question.

  ‘Weren’t you the coroner ten years ago, Margaret?’

  ‘I was, Carol – thank you for reminding me. I have already spoken to the chief coroner. He is not happy with our handling of such a high-profile case. The minister has been asking questions, plus the local MP has jumped on bandwagon talking about “incompetence” and implying corruption.’

  Carol Oates produced that morning’s Guardian from her bag, opening it to page six. ‘I think he’s getting his information from here.’

  There was a picture a well-dressed man Ridpath recognized as Tony Seagram. Beside him was a large headline: ‘DID MY SISTER DIE IN VAIN?’ with a smaller subhead: ‘Did the Police Fudge the Post-mortem Report?’

  ‘Surely this is a police problem,’ said David.

  ‘It would be, except the high court has asked us to reopen the inquest.’ She paused for a beat. ‘The high court also rang me yesterday. They want to know about the progress of our investigations.’

  ‘But without a body, there can be no progress…’ said David.

  ‘Exactly, and without progress his honour, Lord Malahide, who ordered the reopening of the inquest, is going to look a fool.’

  ‘No judge likes to look a fool.’ said David, stating the obvious.

  She looked down the table at Ridpath. ‘Unless we resolve it soon, we’re going to have a Ministry of Justice investigator here causing us even more strife. How was your meeting with James Dalbey yesterday?’

  Ridpath closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose. ‘I think…’ he said slowly, ‘I think James Dalbey is innocent.’

  ‘What?’ said Carol, losing her icy cool for the first time.

  ‘You heard me. I don’t think he killed Alice Seagram.’

  There was silence in the room. Finally Margaret Challinor spoke. ‘What are you going to do now?

  ‘I want to go and see my predecessor, Anthony Chettle. I need to understand what was happening in 2008.’

  ‘You don’t have much time left, Ridpath.’

  ‘I know.’

  A smile crossed Carol Oates’s face.

  ‘Unless I go and see him today, we are never going to get any closer to solving this.’

  ‘Or finding the body,’ said Margaret Challinor.

  ‘And the inquest opens on Monday,’ added Carol Oates.

  Ridpath hung his head and ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair. He only had three days left to work it all out.

  What if he failed?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Her head w
as resting against something soft and damp. It smelt of iron and rust and shit. Her body trembled; she was cold and thirsty, very thirsty.

  What happened? Where was she?

  Her head hurt. A thick, solid pounding on the right-hand side of her brain, spreading downwards towards the tight neck muscles.

  She licked her chapped lips, trying to find a drop of saliva in her dry mouth. A groan came out involuntarily from her throat. She shivered again.

  Feeling cold, very cold.

  She was lying on the floor, wearing only her shirt and trousers.

  Where was her jacket? It only cost 60 quid from Next but she liked that jacket. Made her look tall and slim. Where was it?

  She shivered again. More importantly, where was she?

  Think, Sarah – what happened?

  She remembered driving home, locking her car and then a woman…a woman asking for directions.

  What happened next?

  Hard as she thought, the only thing that surfaced in her mind was a big black hole of emptiness.

  Must get up, drink water.

  She tried to use her arms to push herself up from the sticky floor but they were too heavy, far too heavy.

  Open your eyes.

  They were stuck together. Had she not removed her mascara last night? Did she go to bed with her make-up on? She didn’t remember being drunk.

  She forced her eyes open. Everything was blurred, unreal, hazy. She closed them again.

  Concentrate, Sarah. Focus.

  She opened her eyes again. The dark sticky floor slowly came into view, stretching off into the distance. Next to her eyes, a sharp piece of something white lying on the floor. What was it?

  She let her eyes take in the rest of the room without moving her head. It was large and not well lit, dissolving into dark shadows. One light picked out an aluminium table to her right.

  She moved her head slightly to see more, but a sharp pain slashed into her brain.

  OK, OK, take it slowly.

  She closed her eyes again and concentrated on breathing.

  In. Out.

  In. Out.

  In. Out.