Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

‘Your English is good, where do you come from?’ his friend asked.

  Her eyes rolled. ‘Chorlton. Your English isn’t great. Where do you come from?’

  ‘Bury.’

  ‘That explains it.’ The pen hovered over the notepad.

  ‘How about the spring rolls?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve run out of springs…’

  ‘So they’re off?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘The restaurant down the street.’

  ‘Are you the rudest waitress in Manchester?’ his friend asked.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m trying hard. I’m in training. Came third last year in the “Rudest Waitress in Manchester contest”. I’ll do better this year. The bitch from the Flaming Dragon has hung up her notepad.’ She scratched her green hair with the pen and fixed me with her brown eyes. ‘So do you want to eat or do you want me to practice my one-liners on you? Eating is better, but less fun for me…’

  They ordered.

  ‘Three specials,’ she shouted across to her father without making a note in her pad. ‘Now what would you like to drink?’

  ‘Three Tsingtaos.’

  ‘Three beers from China for the Englishmen,’ she shouted again.

  ‘Why do you have a notepad but never use it?’

  ‘Same reason you have an appendix.’ She turned to go.

  He didn’t know why he did it. But just as she was walking away from the table, he asked, ‘We’re going to be at the White Lion later on. You want to meet us there?’

  She turned back slowly. ‘So this is the “let’s hassle the kooky Chinese waitress with the green hair and see if she’s stupid enough to be taken in by it” moment? It happens at least once a night, usually with lads out on the lash, but normally it comes after the beer, not before.’

  He stared down at the red tablecloth. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t have bothered to explain.’

  She left them, returning only once more to deliver their food.

  But that night she turned up at the pub and they had been together ever since.

  Until tonight.

  The doorbell rang. It was her, she was back.

  He ran down the stairs two at a time and wrenched open the door.

  Charlie Whitworth was standing on his doorstep. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy, Ridpath.’

  He stood in the doorway. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Charlie.’ He could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Charlie,’ the DCI mimicked. He waved a piece of paper in front of his face. ‘I got home and found a summons to appear at the inquest on Monday into Alice Seagram’s death.’

  Mrs Challinor had been quick. Or more likely Jenny Oldfield.

  ‘John Gorman’s got one too. He’s beyond angry. You were supposed to keep us informed of what the bloody woman’s up to.’ A sober-looking Dave Hardy appeared at his DCI’s shoulder.

  ‘I told you before, Charlie, I’m no stoolie. The coroner is doing her job. And I’ve done mine. I found the body of Alice Seagram.’

  For a second, Charlie seemed to sober up. ‘Where?’

  ‘At a university research facility near Preston.’

  Charlie clapped his hands slowly. ‘Aren’t you the good little detective? Mummy’s good little boy.’

  ‘James Dalbey couldn’t have arranged for it to be taken there in 2008. He was under lock and key.’

  Charlie’s face went redder. ‘Not another one. James Dalbey murdered Alice Seagram. He smashed her over the head with a hammer and then slit her throat, before finally dousing her body in sulphuric acid while she was still alive. Don’t you get it? He’s guilty.’

  ‘He’s not. And I’m going to prove it. Now go home, you’re drunk.’

  He went to close the door but found the DCI’s foot wedged in the gap.

  ‘Listen to me, Ridpath. You think you’re coming back on the team. Not a cat in hell’s chance, mate.’

  Dave Hardy put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Come away, boss, it’s time to go home.’

  Charlie’s finger appeared under Ridpath’s face. ‘As long as I’m there, you’re never coming back. Understand? You’re finished, Ridpath, and your career.’

  Dave Hardy pulled his boss away from the door. The DCI stumbled backwards down the path, turning back at the gate to shout. ‘You’re finished. Finished.’

  Ridpath stood there for a moment and then shut the door. In ten minutes he had lost his wife and his career.

  ‘Way to go, son,’ he said out loud before sinking to the floor, ‘Way to bloody go.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  The following morning, a dull, overcast Sunday, Ridpath turned up at the Coroner’s Office in Stockfield just after ten o’clock. The door was already open and Mrs Challinor was at her desk.

  Didn’t the woman ever go home?

  He had spent a sleepless night at his house. At first, he tried ringing Polly’s mobile but kept getting the annoying answering machine.

  He had finally checked the police interview with James Dalbey and it confirmed his suspicions. There was a handwritten note next to Dalbey’s explanation of how he had come to be in possession of the van.

  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.

  The note was initialled ‘CW’. Was that Charlie? Why was there no follow-up?

  But Ridpath knew why. Because they had already charged a suspect who admitted the murder. Why rock the boat with more pointless and time-wasting investigations?

  He could almost hear John Gorman’s voice. ‘Leave it alone, Charlie. We’ve got better things to do.’

  At least the link was now proven between the murder of Alice Seagram and of a prostitute in Manchester just two weeks ago. The link was a company called Prospect Limited. He had immediately checked them on the Companies register. Of course, no such company was listed.

  He was back to square one.

  Mrs Challinor was going through a pile of documents on her desk. ‘Good to see you, Ridpath, and good work finding Alice Seagram.’

  He walked in and slumped down in the hard chair in front of her. He spent the next hour telling her everything that had happened, including Charlie Whitworth’s late-night visit.

  Margaret Challinor stroked her bottom lip. ‘It seems like we have a few problems, Ridpath. The first is the inquest tomorrow. At least, we have Alice Seagram’s body. Dr Davis will confirm her DNA before then.’

  ‘We can’t postpone?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too difficult. The Ministry of Justice is sending an observer and so is the High Court. If we delay, it will only give the national newspapers time to pick up the story, and the last thing I need is a mob of braying journalists in my court. But more importantly, we need to take the family into account. We can’t let them down any longer. They’ve waited ten years for this to come to court. So no postponement, not anymore.’

  ‘And the second problem?’

  ‘We know somebody else killed Alice Seagram, not James Dalbey, but we don’t know who it is.’

  ‘I’ve told you who I think it is.’

  ‘But do you have any proof? Any evidence?'

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘The murders in 2008 and this year were committed by the same man. A company called Prospect Limited links them together. But other than a signature, we have no evidence.’

  ‘He could just say it was forged. There has to be verifiable evidence.’

  ‘After ten years, we’re unlikely to find it. And the explosion wrecked any evidence we may have found in the workshop.’

  ‘It’s all very convenient, isn’t it? Just as the police get close to the killer, somebody is found to take the fall. First it was James Dalbey and now this nurse, Lesley Taylor.’

  ‘I don’t be
lieve in coincidences, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘Neither do I, Ridpath. We also have a third problem. The body of the murdered woman you found at TRACES. According to Dr Davis, she was scalped before she died…’

  ‘Not a nice way to go.’

  ‘Dr Davis is looking for links to the disappearance of the sex worker in Moss Side. The DNA results haven’t come back yet. He’s not getting a lot of help from Greater Manchester Police.’

  ‘They already have their killer – it’s Lesley Taylor, and she’s dead.’

  ‘So we have no real evidence of the involvement of another person, other than the word of James Dalbey.’

  ‘The family believe him.’

  ‘That’s not enough to get him out of jail.’

  ‘Do you believe he’s innocent?’

  She nodded. ‘But whether I believe it or not doesn’t matter. We have to prove he’s innocent.’

  Ridpath stared at her. ‘We’re stuffed, aren’t we?’

  ‘We have one thing that may save us. The truth.’

  ‘You’ve just said we have nothing to prove the killer’s guilt or James Dalbey’s innocence.’

  ‘But we have the inquest, where my job is to find the truth.’

  ‘It’s not enough, Mrs Challinor. It’s never enough. We need evidence, hard documentary evidence.’

  And then, as if looking down at himself from above, he heard his words again, ‘Hard, documentary evidence.’

  Of course, why hadn’t he thought of it before? There was one simple way of showing who the killer was.

  He stood up quickly. ‘I have to go, Mrs Challinor. I’ll call you this evening.’ He grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the building.

  This was his last chance.

  He knew how to prove who the killer was.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  He hadn’t slept last night. Not the best preparation for an inquest. He shaved, only nicking himself once, put on his best suit and drove along the M60 to Stockfield.

  That morning, he had rearranged the appointment with Christie’s for Tuesday with a mixture of charm and perseverance. At least he could tell Polly when he met her.

  If he met her.

  He rang Polly again before he left the house, hearing her voice once more on the answering machine but never talking to her directly. Would she ever speak to him again?

  The front door of the Coroner’s Court was open and, for once, Jenny was actually in reception.

  ‘Good morning, Ridpath. I see from the empty coffee cups and Subway wrappers you and Mrs Challinor had a busy weekend.’

  He had returned to the Coroner’s Office last night so that he and Mrs Challinor could work out a plan of action. After three hours, they finally thought they had a chance.

  ‘It’s 50/50, Ridpath. It all depends on how he behaves. We might be able to pull it off.’

  ‘We have to try, Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘You know this goes against all procedures for a coroner’s court?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Unlike other types of court case, coroners are not required to find someone “guilty” or “not guilty”, or to blame anyone; our job is to record the cause and manner of death.’

  ‘But if we do that, he’ll go free. And who’s to say he won’t begin killing again a few years from now?’

  ‘We could give our evidence to the police.’

  ‘How long would that take? John Gorman and Charlie Whittaker have closed their minds. They already have their killer.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘It’s about time I stuck my head out. You know, the clerk from the Ministry of Justice will be observing.’

  He nodded. ‘Is that bad?’

  She made a moue with her mouth. ‘Let’s hope he’s left his axe at home. If I screw this up, my head will be on the block.’

  ‘We’d better not screw it up then.’

  It was their only chance to finally catch the killer who had been terrorizing Manchester for so long.

  It was their last chance.

  He had wanted to stay at the Coroner’s Office with Margaret Challinor on Sunday night as she went through all the papers, but there wasn’t much he could do.

  She noticed his discomfort. ‘You don’t have to be here, you know. You’ve done your job, now it’s my turn.’

  ‘That’s all right, I prefer to be here.’ He was telling the truth.

  ‘Go home, Ridpath. You’re making me nervous, I can’t concentrate.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything else I can do?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You could pray, but I’ve a feeling you’re not a God-fearing man.’

  He shook his head. ‘I was an altar boy when I was young but then I saw the light and became a devout atheist.’

  ‘Even when the cancer came you didn’t turn to God?’

  ‘Because the cancer came, I would never turn to God. How dare he put my family through such pain? And you surprise me, Mrs Challinor, I wouldn’t have put you down as a God-botherer.’

  She brushed a grey hair off her forehead. ‘I’m not. It’s just, the older I get the more I ask myself: what’s the point of being here? Why do we live?’

  ‘To punish the bad guys…’

  ‘It’s not enough, Ridpath.’ She stared at the papers on her desk. ‘Go home, I have work to do before tomorrow.’

  So finally he had gone back home and opened the door, hoping against hope Polly would be there.

  But silence and emptiness were all that greeted him.

  Now he was back at the Coroner’s Office again. ‘Good morning, Jenny. Is Mrs Challinor in?’ He went to walk past to knock on her door.

  ‘Been here since seven. But I wouldn’t disturb her – the inquest is set to begin in 30 minutes. She likes to prepare alone. I would grab a coffee while you can. And no, I’m not going to make it.’

  He went out and bought a coffee at Starbucks with what was laughably called a Danish but was really just undercooked puff pastry.

  By the time he returned the doors to the courtroom upstairs were open. He saw three of the journalists from the last press conference sitting to the side in the public area. Mrs Challinor’s strategy had worked. There seemed to be no national television coverage of the inquest. Perhaps they would turn up later.

  The family arrived as he stood by the door. Mrs Seagram already close to tears, her husband as belligerent as ever by her side. Tony Seagram approached Ridpath.

  ‘So you found my sister’s body?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘When can we get it back?’

  ‘As soon as the pathologist releases it.’

  ‘You know, my mother is organizing another funeral.’ Then his tone changed, becoming much darker, almost sneering. ‘Imagine that – I dare you, Inspector Ridpath – burying your daughter twice.’

  Despite himself, Ridpath thought about Eve and losing her. What would he do?

  Tony Seagram looked over his shoulder at the rapidly filling courtroom. ‘If this is the whitewash I think it’s going to be, you lot will never hear the last of it. I’ll drag you and your precious coroner out into the relentless glare of the media. Your corruption and incompetence are going to be exposed.’

  ‘The inquest will reveal the truth.’

  ‘Like the court case did ten years ago? Didn’t work for James Dalbey. Last time I checked, he was still locked up.’

  ‘Mrs Challinor will do her job.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve no doubt. But for whom, Inspector Ridpath? For whom?’

  The man moved back to join his mother and father sitting behind tables in front of the coroner.

  Ridpath waited beside the door. A man and a woman both dressed in gowns and wigs pushed past him and took their places at the tables in front of the coroner’s desk. They both deposited heavy files on top of the highly polished surface, chatting to each other all the time, with one of them pulling out her laptop.

  They were followed soon after by John Gorman and Charlie Whitworth. Neither spoke to Ri
dpath and neither man looked at him. It was as if he didn’t exist in their eyes. They sat down together in the viewing area, behind a flimsy pink rope strung between two brass stands, both looking straight ahead, neither talking to the other.

  A tall man, dressed in an expensive dark suit, with thinning hair and half-moon glasses arrived next, sitting close to the two detectives and pulling out a sheaf of notes from his briefcase. He looked like an undertaker about to interview a recently bereaved family. He pursed his thin lips and sniffed the air of the court.

  Who was he and what was he doing here? Ridpath was tempted to go over and ask him, but just as he was about to walk across, the pathologists, Lardner and Protheroe, arrived. The former was dressed in his usual tweed suit and tie. Protheroe was quieter than usual, subdued.

  It was Lardner who approached him.

  ‘Good morning, Ridpath, I hope we can get this over and done with as soon as possible. I’ve got three customers waiting from me back at the mortuary.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to wait a little longer. They’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Waste of time. It’s all down to that man Seagram’s work and the bloody press.’

  ‘The inquest will determine the truth, Dr Lardner, not the press.’

  ‘But the only reason we’re here is because of them. I admitted I made a mistake on the timing of the death, that’s why we performed another post-mortem. It doesn’t change the fact James Dalbey killed Alice Seagram.

  ‘The inquest will decide, Mr Lardner.’

  As he said those words, the jury began to take their seats on the right. Four men and three women. All white and all fairly prosperous in appearance. When were they selected? Obviously Jenny was very good at her job.

  Finally, Mrs Challinor walked in. He expected some fanfare, as in the high court, but there was nothing. She simply sat behind her desk, opened her files and began speaking.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Her tone was relaxed and informal. ‘Today we open the inquest into the death of Alice Seagram and the subsequent post-mortem.’ She pointed to the empty witness box on her left. ‘There will be a jury present at this inquest. They have already been sworn by one of my officers.’ A quick glance down to the papers in front of her. ‘Representing the police we have Mr Alex Chambers.’