DI Ridpath Crime Thriller

DI Ridpath Crime Thriller

Where The Truth Lies

Where The Dead Fall

Where The Silence Calls

Chapter One

10 March 2008. Chorlton, Manchester

‘I always bites the heads off babies. Dunno why. The orange ones first, then green, red, pink and finally yellow. Always save the yellow for last, I do. Never eat the purple ones though.’

Sergeant Mungovan put the head between his teeth and carefully bit down, avoiding the arms. ‘What about you?’

‘Never touch them, Sarge.’ PC Tom Ridpath tapped the top of the steering wheel, staring through the windscreen at the road. The wipers swept across once, clearing the light drizzle from the glass. It was one of those Manchester days when it was either raining, thinking about raining or had just finished raining and was about to start again. The sergeant popped the remaining torso of the jelly baby into his mouth, searching in the white paper bag as he chewed. ‘They all have names, you know. Now this one, the purple one, is called Big Heart.’ He held the body of the jelly baby between his large, nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Ugly brute, isn’t he?’ The windscreen wipers cleared the glass once more.

‘If you say so, Sarge.’

They had parked up in front of Turner’s newsagents on the corner of Withington Road. Sergeant Mungovan went there every day at eleven o’clock when he was on the morning shift. It was the only place selling his jelly babies out of a jar. The Sergeant bit the head off a bright fluorescent-green baby. ‘Look, I told you this morning, it’s either Doc or Sergeant. I can’t stand Sarge. Makes me think of Bilko.’

‘Who’s he, Sarge… Sergeant?’

‘Before your time, son.’

‘And you can call me Ridpath. I hate Thomas or Tom, they’re so bloody Victorian.’

The Sergeant shifted his bulk as he peered into the white paper bag. Years of sitting in police cars, eating sweets, bacon butties and Greggs’ Cornish pasties had taken their toll.

‘You can have the purple ones, Tom, if—’ Before he had finished the sentence, a large white van turned sharply right in front of them without any indication, causing another motorist to stamp on his brakes, bringing his car to a screeching stop. Sergeant Mungovan folded the top half-inch of his paper bag. ‘Right, our kid, time to pop your cherry. Looks like you’ve got your first collar. Let’s get after him.’

Ridpath leant forward to switch on the siren and lights of the Vauxhall Astra, only to find his hand slapped away.

‘Sergeant’s privileges. Didn’t they teach you anything at Sedgeley Park?’

The whoop of the siren erupted from above Ridpath’s head and the light cut through the gloom of March in Manchester. He put the car in gear and raced after the white van, now 200 yards ahead and moving fast. Sergeant Mungovan spoke into the radio. ‘In pursuit of a white Ford Transit, licence plate FB05 TBY, along Wilbraham Road, over.’

The van was ignoring the siren and the flashing lights, overtaking a slow-moving car and racing down the road. A spike of adrenalin surged through Ridpath’s body as he stamped on the accelerator. So this is what it felt like – a police chase just like those on Miami Vice, except he was involved and he was in charge. After a short lag, the Vauxhall leapt forward, belying its age. At least the engine was well looked after. They were gaining rapidly on their prey, the van ahead boxed in by the traffic.

‘Slow down, Stirling Moss. I want to nab this one with me in one piece.’

Up ahead the van was turning right, again without any indication, past a large Morrison’s supermarket. Ridpath followed it round the corner, accelerating to within 50 yards. The noise of the siren was louder now, echoing off the buildings on either side, the flashing light more intense. As if raising a white flag, the driver of the van slowed down, signalling to pull in. Ridpath stopped behind him, parking the regulation five yards away so he could see both sides of the vehicle, exactly as he had been taught in police training school.

The driver of the van was sitting in his seat, not moving, staring straight ahead.

Sergeant Mungovan picked up the radio again. ‘Anything on the status of the van? Over.’

Static, followed by the voice of a male dispatcher. ‘Nothing yet, computers are a bit slow this morning, Doc. Over.’

Mungovan switched off the radio. ‘Aren’t they bloody always?’

Up ahead the driver was still behind the wheel of his van and still not moving.

‘You wait here till dispatch gets back to you on the status of the van.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

The experienced copper placed his cap on his head and opened the door of the Vauxhall. As he shifted his bulk to get out of the car, the springs squeaked and the car rocked in complaint. He stood up, pulled down the stab vest over his stomach and closed the passenger door, keeping his eyes fixed on the driver of the van.

The car instantly felt lighter, more spacious. The radio emitted a squeak of static and then went silent again.

Sergeant Mungovan walked slowly, deliberately, towards the van, stopping for a moment to check a broken rear light. The driver side door opened and a middle-aged man wearing glasses and blue overalls stepped out. Long strands of hair coated the top of his head in the classic Bobby Charlton comb-over.

Static crackled from the radio. Ridpath looked down at the noise coming from the speaker. He didn’t know why he did that. It was a sound, not an image; why did he look down?

‘Proceed with caution, over. Driver of Ford Transit FB05 TBY wanted for questioning regarding abduction of prostitute from Moss Side…’

Ridpath looked up.

The man was standing over Sergeant Mungovan, his fist raised as if to strike downwards. The fist lashed out at the same time as the sergeant jumped backwards.

Ridpath watched it all as if in slow motion. The fist arcing through the air, the look of surprise in the sergeant’s eyes, the man’s hair flopping in the breeze, the fist striking the top of the stab vest where it was fastened across the shoulders. The sergeant falling backwards, arm stretched behind him.

The windscreen wipers sang across the glass, clearing the rainwater.

The man’s fist was raised again, the white knuckles clearly visible against the grey Manchester sky.

Ridpath fumbled with the latch of the door. It caught his sleeve then swung open. He stood up and shouted. He didn’t know what he said but it stopped the man.

Sergeant Mungovan was lying against the rear tyre of the van, his left arm raised to ward off the coming blow.

Ridpath shouted something again. It could have been ‘Stop, police’ but he didn’t know the words he used.

The man looked across at him, arm suspended in mid-air, a red wildness in his eyes. For a short moment, they stared at each other as if daring the other to act first.

Ridpath slammed his car door shut and the moment was broken.

The man hesitated for a second, eyes darting left and right, before running down Albany Road away from the van.

Ridpath rushed over to Sergeant Mungovan lying next to the rear wheel, his right arm hanging loosely at his side. He knelt down and placed his fingers on the Sergeant’s neck.

‘What the bloody hell are you doin’?’

‘Checking for a pulse, Sarge.’

‘Does it sound like I’m dead?’

‘No, Sarge. Are you OK?’

‘Of course I bloody am. Get after the bastard – I’ll call it in.’ He fumbled for his radio with his left hand.

The man was already 60 yards ahead and moving with a speed which surprised Ridpath. Should he leave the sergeant?

‘Get the bastard,’ shouted Mungovan, pointing with his unhurt arm.

As if on automatic pilot, Ridpath found his legs obeying the order and running down the street after the suspect. Behind him, he could hear Sergeant Mungovan calling for backup on his radio.

The man was a hundred yards ahead and moving pretty quickly for a middle-aged, overweight bloke: his head tilted back, his arms pumping and the strand of hair flopping in the wind.

He wasn’t going to stop for anybody.

Ridpath was running strongly despite the tight stab vest and heavy boots. He was proud of how healthy he had managed to keep himself despite spending two years stuck behind a desk and a computer in that insurance office.

Two mind-numbingly boring years of his life.

Wasted.

But police training school had soon sorted him out. Most of the others moaned like donkeys when they went on another cross-country run. Not him. For him, it was pure joy to feel his chest sucking in air and his legs splattered with mud. Anything, even cross country running in the middle of an English winter, was better than sitting behind that desk.

The suspect was already crossing Brantingham Road and heading towards Unicorn, the co-operative grocery. Ridpath had been in there once with his wife when she was on her ‘organic vegan, just eating fish, no milk’ week. A strange place with an even stranger smell. A mixture of turmeric, cumin, sour milk and just a whisper of self-righteousness. Luckily the vegan week had only lasted four days before a pork char siu bao called his wife’s name.

The man stopped at the kerb and looked over his shoulder, seeing Ridpath still running after him. He darted across the road, narrowly missing a cyclist and bringing a white Mercedes to a screeching halt.

The rain still drizzled down, forming a thin wet film over the smooth paving stones. Ridpath slid to a stop at the edge of the road, feeling his legs slide from under him. He put his arm down to stop his fall and jerked himself upright, shouting, ‘Stop him!’, but his words were lost in the noise of the traffic.

A student must have heard because he reached out to grab the man, only to be shoved off his bike viciously. The man stamped on the student’s hand before doubling back up Barlow Moor Road and swinging right down a narrow lane past an Indian fruit and veg shop, its wares displayed in crates across the pavement.

Ridpath stopped for a moment, hearing the sound of sirens in the far distance. The cavalry was on their way. He clicked his radio. ‘In pursuit of suspect on Barlow Moor Road opposite the Unicorn Grocery, over, heading west towards Chorlton Library, over.’

The radio crackled like it was clearing its throat. ‘Message received, over. Vehicles dispatched, over.’

He waited for a gap in the traffic but none appeared: a never-ending flow of cars, trucks and bikes. Ridpath took a deep breath before sticking out his hand and slipping between a bus and another Mercedes. He dodged between the other cars accelerating towards him and managed to reach the other side of the road, hearing the screech of tyres on asphalt to his left, followed by a shouted, ‘Bloody idiot!’

The student was lying on the ground holding his left hand across his chest. An old woman with a shopping trolley was bending over him, asking how he was.

Ridpath ignored both of them and ran up the road, past the oranges and mangoes outside the shop, turning right to follow the suspect.

Nothing.

The man had vanished. ‘What the…?’

He ran down the lane. At the bottom, a mound of grass-covered earth blocked the road. Ridpath leapt up on top of it. On the other side two rows of lock-up garages formed a short street. Right at the end the suspect was fumbling with a bunch of keys, trying to open the door at the side of one of the garages.

Ridpath reached for his radio. ‘Suspect at corner of Claridge and Oswald Road lock-ups. Over.’

‘Message received. Over.’

The sirens were louder now, the high-pitched squeal modulating with all the harmony of a scourge of banshees.

The suspect had seen him, and redoubled his efforts to get the door open, searching through the keys looking for the one that would fit.

Should he tackle him alone or wait for backup?

Ridpath ran down the other side of the mound of earth and up between the garishly painted garages. One was sprayed with a sign in big bold letters: ‘Free Benny’.

Who the hell was Benny?

The suspect had the door open. He vanished inside and the door began to close. Ridpath threw himself at it, feeling his shoulder crash into the wood. The next moment he was falling into blackness as the door crashed open, throwing the suspect backwards onto the floor.

A jolt of pain shot through Ridpath’s shoulder as he tried to push himself off the floor.

The man scrabbled for a hammer lying on the ground next to his head. Ridpath threw himself on top of him, grasping with both hands the arm that held the hammer.

His shoulder screamed in pain as he struggled on the floor, seeing the hammer above his head, the dull metal ball ready to strike down.

The man was much stronger than he looked. He pressed down harder, leaning all his weight into the hammer, forcing his arm forward.

Ridpath could feel his arm shaking, the shoulder shrieking, the metal getting closer to his head. He rolled away, hearing the swoosh of the hammer as it swung past his head, seeing the sparks ricochet off the floor as it struck the ground.

The man swung the hammer back towards him, backhanded now, curving it round in an arc. Ridpath jumped backwards, grabbing the arm as it curved through the air.

His opponent fell forward, off balance.

Ridpath swung the man’s arm against the leg of a metal desk, hearing the wrist crack beneath his hands.

The hammer tumbled to the ground.

Ridpath grabbed the back of the man’s head and smashed it into the metal edge of the desk. He pulled the man’s head back, ready to strike the forehead against the desk again.

For a second, the man’s eyes flared with fear. Ridpath grabbed the thin blond hair and thrust the head forward once more.

Again, the head struck the desk with a sickening thud.

The man recoiled for a moment before sinking down to his knees. Ridpath ignored the pain in his shoulder and punched downwards, connecting with the man’s head just below the ear, the momentum of the blow propelling him across the man’s body.

He pushed himself off and brought his fist back.

The man raised his hands to cover his face, not fighting back any more, just protecting himself. ‘Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!’ he screamed, hiding behind his hands.

He slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head where it wasn’t protected, feeling the crunch of his knuckles against the man’s temple. Then he hauled the man’s body around and fumbled for his handcuffs, wrenching the man’s arms up and behind him, snapping the steel jaws onto the wrists.

Behind him came the screech of tyres, the slamming of doors, the welcome sound of police boots on tarmac.

‘In here,’ he shouted pushing himself off the man and sitting back on the floor, his breath panting in short sharp gasps.

Voices outside the lock-up.

‘In here,’ he shouted again.

As the door slowly, cautiously opened, the grey light of a Manchester day crept into the garage, gradually reaching to the rear wall.

Ridpath stared up. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

Chapter Two

Present day

Ridpath stood outside looking up at the acres of plate glass covering the building and shivered. Why was he so nervous? This was his place, his patch; he knew every inch of police headquarters.

He took another long drag on his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke, the doctors had told him many times, but he was sick of them and their rules. He laughed to himself. Only he could be sick of doctors.

He took one more life-giving suck on the Marlboro Red and threw the butt into the drain on his right. It had been nine months since he’d been inside this place. Nine months is a long time. A lot could have changed. A lot probably had changed.

As his DCI, Charlie Whitworth, always used to say; ‘Listen, Ridpath, the only constant with the police is change. A new chief constable and we change. A new government and we change. A new policy and we change. Only the job remains the same. We catch the bad guys and we put them away. Remember that and you’ll go far in this job.’

Well, he had remembered it and he had gone far.

Until nine months ago.

He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. ‘Come on, lad, get on with it,’ he said out loud, adjusting the tie his wife had given him to wear. It felt strange to feel the noose of the tie around his neck, touching his Adam’s apple. You’ll get used to it, he thought. You always get used to it.

He launched himself up the whitewashed steps, stopping in front of the glass doors, waiting to be buzzed in.

The door opened and he strode into the reception area. Well, at least this hadn’t changed. There were still the same old fading police notices on the wall with their fading messages:

‘Look out, there’s a thief about.’

‘Don’t be blind to the signs.’

‘Look her in the eye and tell her a little drink never hurt anybody.’

And there were some new ones, clean and crisp in their colour and design:

‘Help free the UK from modern slavery.’

‘Hate crime. Tell the Manchester Police about it.’ Beneath this one somebody had written in biro: ‘Because nobody hates crime more than the Manchester Police.’ He thought he recognized the handwriting.

Just two people spoilt the pristine emptiness of the reception area: a wrinkled woman and a young, burly man, both sitting forlornly on the row of plastic seating screwed to the floor. Probably waiting for someone to be released after a night in the cells. Another drunk driver.

A sergeant he had never seen before was standing behind thick glass, looking like a clerk at a post office except for the blue uniform. A muffled voice through the microphone. ‘How can I help you, sir?’

‘An appointment with Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Whitworth at 10.30.’

The sergeant checked his diary. ‘Nothing in here, sir.’

Just then the door to the inner sanctum of the police station opened. ‘Well, I never. Ridpath, it’s great to see you.’

‘Harry Makepeace, skiving off as usual.’

‘You know me too well.’ Makepeace scanned him up and down. ‘You’re looking well.’

Ridpath stepped back and waved his hands. ‘Feeling great. Raring to go.’

‘You here to see the boss?’

He nodded.

Harry held open the door. ‘I’ll take you through…’

‘But there’s no appointment…’ The tinny voice of the sergeant sounded feeble through the speaker.

‘No worries, Martin. This is Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath. Used to work here.’

‘Still do.’

Harry Makepeace turned slowly towards him. ‘Aye, I suppose you do. Come on.’

He stepped through into the back office. Behind him the voice of the sergeant was calling, ‘Can you sign the book?’

They both carried on walking down the corridor.

‘Been a few changes since you were here.’

‘Have there?’

‘Me for one – I’ve been promoted.’

‘Congrats, Detective Inspector Makepeace, it’s been a long time coming.’

Harry looked across, checking for irony. ‘Aye, too bloody long.’

‘Charlie’s still here though. Still running the Major Incident Team?’

‘Aye, nowt’s changed there. John Gorman’s officially in charge, but he’s so snowed under by management meetings, Charlie does the day-to-day.’

They entered the CID office on the right.

The place hadn’t changed at all. The same beige walls with the marks of ancient posters staining the government-issue wallpaper. The same mismatched desks. The same ancient desktop computers due to be mothballed a year ago but still being used. And the same grey, coffee-stained carpet that always gave him an electric shock every time he touched his desk.

That detective’s office.

His detective’s office.

Most of the workstations had detectives sitting at them, tapping away at their keyboards or just staring at the screen, their tabletops strewn with papers and coffee cups. Others were on the phone, their shoulders hunched as they tried to take notes and ask questions at the same time. Two young men rushed past him without saying a word, hastily grabbing jackets and coats.

As he stood in the entrance, a few people discreetly looked up from what they were doing and smiled. One or two waved. But nobody came forward to say hello.

There was a buzz about the place Ridpath missed, something magical in the air. That invisible current of energy running through the room when something big was happening.

‘Busy time, a murder. Charlie’s expecting you,’ said Harry.

He pointed to the far side of the room which was blocked off at the end by a curved glass wall. For as long as Ridpath could remember, this place was called ‘the Bubble’.

‘See you later, for a…’ His hand wobbled in front of his mouth. The universal sign language for a beer, the fuel of choice for any modern police force.

Ridpath nodded, turning towards the Bubble. Inside, he could see Charlie Whitworth staring at a computer screen. He crossed the floor and knocked on the door.

The detective chief inspector frowned and glanced up from his computer, before his face cracked a large smile and he stood up from his desk.

He pushed open the door.

‘Great to see you again, mate.’ Charlie Whitworth advanced with his hand held out.

‘Great to be back, boss.’

The piercing blue eyes stared directly at him as they shook hands, examining him carefully. Finally, his hand was let go.

‘Take a seat.’

Ridpath had barely settled in the chair facing Charlie Whitworth when the question he had been dreading came with all the subtlety of a kick to the head.

‘How’s the cancer?’

Chapter Three

‘Don’t hang about do you, boss?’

Charlie Whitworth reached forward to touch a beige folder on his desk. ‘You know me. I was never one for small talk.’

‘What can I say? I’m in remission after six months of chemo. The cancer’s not spread and all the doctors say I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog.’ He reached forward to tap the wooden table.

The gesture wasn’t lost on Charlie Whitworth.

‘But you know – it’s all in the report in front of you. What’s more, the doctors have certified me as fit to return to work and it’s been signed off by HR. Been through so many rounds of assessment’ – he formed quotation marks with his fingers – ‘I feel like I’ve been prodded and poked more than a hooker in a room of blind men.’

Charlie Whittaker opened the report and pretended to read it. ‘True. Says it all here, but—’

‘But what, Charlie?’

‘But…you collapsed in the middle of an important investigation. What if it happens again? And what about the stress? This job isn’t famous for being an easy ride.’

‘Stress didn’t cause my myeloma, Charlie. The illness had nothing to do with the job. It’s just one of those things.’

‘A bit shit for someone who’s 35.’

‘You said it. But I’m OK now and raring to get back to the job. You don’t know how boring it is sitting at home all day with the wife fussing around and Cash in the Attic on bloody telly. If I see another Paul Martin with another bloody toby jug, I’ll shove it where the sun don’t shine.’

Charlie Whitworth chuckled. ‘I can imagine.’ Then the smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. ‘How’s Polly handling it?’

‘Wants me to get back to work. Jesus, Charlie, I’ve been prowling round the house like a caged lion for the last three months. She’ll be happy to get rid of me.’

Charlie Whitworth closed the file and placed it on the desk in front of him. He licked his lips and the moustache sprouting beneath his nose like a tangled vine. ‘I’m gonna lay my cards on the table. The deputy chief isn’t keen on you coming back—’

‘But—’

He held his hands up to stop Ridpath from speaking. ‘But John Gorman and I had a chat with him and we’ve found an answer.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re going to give you a job where we can monitor your performance and your health for three months.’

‘What’s the job?’

‘It’s an important job for us. We need somebody to sort it out, and quickly.’

‘What’s the job, Charlie?’

‘Coroner’s officer.’

‘Coroner’s officer? You’ve got to be joking, Charlie. It’s a job for the deadbeats and the terminally stupid. I thought Jim Howells was doing that job?’

‘He was.’

‘He was, but what?’

Charlie Whitworth sighed. ‘He was, but he screwed up big time. Taking early retirement. Listen, it would help us out and it’s only for three months. The deputy chief would owe you one. Three months, that’s all, then John and I can move you back into the squad when the coroner finds a full-time replacement. The bloody woman wants somebody with a medical background.’

‘Not a copper?’

‘Not any more. Apparently, the job is changing according to her.’

Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘I can retain my rank?’

‘Of course, you’re still a probationary detective inspector. Have to start again though. The clock’s gotta be reset. Rules, I’m afraid.’

‘And you’ll take me back onto the squad after three months?’

‘Listen, Ridpath, you’re a bloody good copper, who wouldn’t want you back on their team? And for us it kills three birds with one stone.’

‘It’s two birds, Charlie.’

‘Not in this case, Ridpath. Relations between the coroner and the deputy chief are a little strained at the moment.’

‘Jim Howells?’

‘You got it.’

‘He always was a bit of a twat.’

‘That’s just the half of it. Anyway, the deputy would like you to use your undoubted charm to smooth things over, build up trust with the coroner, show her how cooperative and useful the police can be. You know, the usual crap.’

‘Because the deputy is never going to make chief constable if the local coroner has been bad-mouthing him to the Ministry of Justice.’

‘You got it in one. You can be his eyes and ears.’

‘I’m no snitch, Charlie.’

‘Never said you were. A watching brief. Show us you can do the job.’

‘I dunno…’

‘Look, I’ll be honest. The only other available job is in dispatch.’

‘Stuck behind a desk wearing a headset listening to you lot doing the job? You think I’d like that?’

The DCI shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘What’s your answer?’

‘I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?’

‘Not a lot – we never do.’

The looming presence of Harry Makepeace appeared through the glass of the Bubble, followed by a knock on the door.

Charlie Whitworth waved at him to enter.

‘Boss, the initial post-mortem report is in on the unknown vic.’

The DCI stood up instantly, picking up a sheaf of notes from his desktop. ‘You’d better attend this briefing, Ridpath. It can be the first step in our new policy of openness with the coroner.’

‘What’s the case?’

‘A strangling. Body found yesterday morning.’ The DCI strode towards the door, followed by Ridpath hastily rising from the chair to follow his boss. The DCI stopped abruptly just as he left the office. ‘If you want to get back with us, don’t screw this up.’

Ridpath looked down to see a finger prodding him in the chest.

‘You haven’t told me when I start.’

The cornflower-blue eyes stared back at him. ‘She’s expecting you at 2 p.m. You start this afternoon.’

Chapter Four

‘Right, you lot, listen up.’ Sarah Castle looked across as Charlie Whitworth entered the room and the noise quietened down.

Ridpath took a seat in the rear beside the door, watching Charlie weave his way through the detectives to join Sarah Castle at the front.

He remembered her from before his illness. One of the fast-track mob, parachuted in from some management course and already racing up the promotion ladder. Now here she was, telling some senior detectives to be quiet.

She looked to Charlie, waiting for the nod before she could begin.

Detectives were taking out their notebooks. Next to Ridpath, a young detective constable was neatly writing a row of headings across the top: time, date, name of investigation, call sign, location and his role.

He must be new, thought Ridpath, just out of training school.

Sarah Castle coughed twice, silencing the last of the gossipers amongst the detectives. ‘To recap: victim found yesterday morning at 6.45 a.m. on the towpath of Bridgewater Canal next to Stretford Marina, by a man walking his dog.’

‘Didn’t know Stretford had a bloody marina. Sounds a bit posh…’

‘It’s on the canal, Harry – you work out how posh it is,’ said Dave Hardy, one of the senior detectives.

Sarah Castle continued speaking despite the interruption. ‘Name of victim unknown as of this moment. No identification found with the body. Fingerprints taken but no record on IDENT1. We’ve asked the Interpol AFIS to check, plus her prints have been sent to EURODAC in case she’s an asylum seeker. SIS II isn’t online yet but as soon as it is, we’ll tap into the database.’ She took a breath and looked around the room, then carried on. ‘Age approximately 25 years old, dyed blonde hair, originally brunette—’

A murmur of amusement ran around the room, quickly silenced by a stern look from Charlie Whitworth.

‘…tattoo of a swan on the inside of the right arm. A specialist search team is still at the scene checking forensic evidence and a team of divers from the marine unit is arriving in’ – she checked her watch – ‘42 minutes, to begin dragging the canal. The crime scene manager is Katie Green, who will be the liaison between the underwater and forensics teams.’

She walked over to the desk and picked up a clipboard with a printed form attached. ‘The pathologist has come back with some initial findings. The victim was struck on the back of the head by a blunt instrument, followed by multiple stab wounds to the torso and blows to the left side of the head. A ligature was also found around the neck. The pathologist is still trying to ascertain the cause of death, but the victim had been dead for at least two days before she was found. Full report will be available to us as soon as possible, once the post-mortem is completed.’

Sarah Castle let the clipboard drop to her side and stepped backwards to allow Charlie Whitworth to take over the rest of the meeting.

‘Thank you, DS Castle. I’ll call the pathologist myself and give him a kick up the arse to speed him up.’ The other detectives laughed but Ridpath noticed Sarah Castle went bright red, the colour in stark contrast to her blond hair.

Next to him the young detective was scribbling furiously in his notebook, taking down everything that was said.

‘We’re treating this as a murder inquiry. You all know what that means. The canal path is on the dog walkers’ daily route. If our vic has been dead for two days but only just found, it means the body was dumped recently. Harry, I want you to pull in all the CCTV from the area, checking on cars and vans. The body must have been transported to the site somehow. Dave…?’ The older detective sergeant raised his hand. ‘I want you to continue with the house-to-house of the local area. Check if anybody saw anything or anybody acting suspiciously.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘Chrissy… Where’s Chrissy Wright?’

A tiny woman stepped out from behind a burly sergeant wearing a Manchester City scarf around her neck.

‘Can you get on HOLMES? I want to know if there have been any similar crimes on the database anywhere in the last year.’

Chrissy simply nodded her head.

‘Sarah, I want you to check missing persons. The tattoo is the one clue to this woman’s identity. You’ll also be the FLO when we discover who she is.’

Family liaison officer – the worst job in cases like this. Staying with family and making sure they were kept informed of the investigation. Ridpath didn’t envy Sarah; it was always a nightmare, with little thanks and lots of hassle.

‘I’ll get on it, boss,’ she answered without a trace of annoyance in her voice.

A clipboard was passed to him. On it each detective had signed their name, rank, department and mobile number. For a second, Ridpath was tempted to add his name to the list but he didn’t, passing the board on to the detective constable with the copious notes.

‘Any questions?’

Harry Makepeace raised his hand. ‘The local toms sometimes do their business beside the canal. I wonder if our vic could be one of them? Or maybe one of them saw something?’

‘Good, Harry. Can you follow up? When the pictures come in of the girl and of the tattoo, you might want to show it to the toms and see if they recognize her. Get Bob to help you.’

Harry looked back at the young detective sitting beside Ridpath. ‘Will do, boss.’

‘One other question, sir.’ It was Sarah Castle who spoke. ‘A blow to the back of the head followed by stab wounds to the torso and more blows to the head is consistent with the MO of James Dalbey…’

‘And?’

‘I just thought it was worth a look at the case files.’

The DCI ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘James Dalbey, aka the Beast of Manchester, has been locked up inside Belmarsh High Security Unit for the last eight years. In fact, we have the man who caught him sitting at the back of the room. Stand up, Ridpath.’

He stood up slowly, like a reluctant singer in a karaoke bar, and nodded. The detectives all turned and stared at him before returning their gaze to Charlie Whitworth.

‘Ridpath’s just come back to work after a long illness. He’ll be the coroner’s officer for the next few months, liaising on this case and others.’

Why was Charlie singling him out? Could it possibly mean he was back on the team? He sat down again.

‘To get back to your point, Sarah. Do me a favour; call Belmarsh when this meeting is over. Check the bastard is still tucked up all nice and cosy in his cell.’

A chorus of laughter around the room, led by Harry Makepeace. Sarah Castle went an even brighter red.

‘Right, you lot. Get a move on. Chrissy will give you all the logon details plus case numbers for the overtime. John Gorman has assured me all available resources will be targeted at this. No bloody austerity on this case. He wants it solved, and solved quickly.’

A buzz of approval went round the room. There would be overtime and more until this case was done.

‘I don’t have to tell you to keep schtum. The papers have picked up on it already but none of the details.’ He stopped for a moment for emphasis. ‘I want to keep it that way. If any of you are thinking of earning an extra bob or two from the reporters, don’t. If I find out somebody has sold details of this story, I’ll personally grind their balls with my teeth. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, boss,’ chorused the seated detectives.

‘Get a move on, then – there’s lots of work to do.’

Ridpath watched as the room was filled with movement. He loved the buzz of a major inquiry. The total focus on the job: sod the hours, sod the time, sod the weather, sod everything and everybody. Just get the job done and find the bastard who did it.

He got up slowly and walked out of the room without talking to anybody.

God, he missed this job.

Chapter Five

Would he be pleased with her?

Lesley hoped he would. It hadn’t been easy enticing her into the car. He’d said the third would be harder than the first two. This one seemed to be more wary, more skittish. Had the news that girls were going missing already been circulated by the tom-toms of the concrete jungle?

‘I don’t do none of that kinky stuff. Strictly a meat and two veg girl.’

‘I just want to have a chat.’

‘Why? Why do you wanna chat with the likes of me?’

She remembered his words. Be open, smile a lot, remember the story. All these girls need money to feed their habit.

Before she’d driven up to the girl, she’d practised the smile in the rear-view mirror. It always felt strange to her, smiling, as if her face didn’t have the correct muscles. As a child she hadn’t smiled much – never felt the need.

She had followed his instructions precisely to choose the girl. Go during the day. The ones desperate for money will be on the streets then. After dark, there are more girls and a greater likelihood of being spotted. The ordinariness of daylight is your friend, not your enemy. Drive up the road twice and look for a young girl on her own. One that’s thin and scrawny, with no friends around her. She’ll be the one desperate for money. Better if she has an accent, somebody who’s not local.

After driving down the road twice as she was told, she found the one she wanted on her own away from the others, standing at the corner next to the waste ground. A young girl wearing a blue nylon shirt which had seen better days and a short fake-leather miniskirt which showed off her thin thighs. The girl was hugging her body against the cold wind of a Manchester March.

She turned left at the bottom of the road, deciding to loop round and come back for a third time, hoping and praying the girl would still be there when she returned.

This one was perfect.

She turned left again at the lights, coming back to the top of the road, accelerating past a white Volvo parked in a side street, a single man sitting in the driver’s seat. A woman’s head rose from his lap, wiping her mouth, as she drove past.

Why did men do this? What pleasure was there in it? What good did it do them?

He was right. This shouldn’t be happening.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever.

She stomped on the accelerator, feeling the surge of power taking her away from all the dirt and decay and disgust.

The girl was still there. Smoking a cigarette now. Trying to keep warm with each inhalation of smoke.

She brought the car to a stop beside her and opened the window.

The girl approached her slowly, checking with rat-like eyes if anybody else was in the car.

‘Are you up for business?’ That’s what he told her to say this time.

The girl leant forward. She could see down the silk shirt to where soft breasts nestled in a purple bra. The rat eyes flickered from her face to the rear seat and back again.

‘I don’t do no kinky stuff. Strictly a meat and two veg girl.’

The accent was Scouse or something like that.

Perfect.

She flashed the smile she had just practised in the rear-view mirror. ‘I just want to have a chat.’

‘Why? Why do you wanna chat with the likes of me?’

‘I’m a writer, doing a piece on the local girls. I only want ten minutes of your time.’

The girl looked in the back of the car and then down the empty road. ‘You just want ten minutes?’

She brought out the twenty-pound note. It was crisp and fresh, making a rustling noise as she held it in her fingers. ‘Twenty now and twenty when we’ve finished talking.’

She watched the girl’s eyes fasten on the note, seeing in it all she needed to feed her habit.

‘We’ll just go round the corner and chat. I’ve even got some hot coffee.’ She held up the flask and shook it so the girl could hear the liquid sloshing inside.

That was the clincher, as he said it would be. She remembered his words: ‘On a cold day, always make sure they see the coffee. Open it if you have to so they can smell the warm aroma. Put yourself in their place. What would you do? Sit in a warm car with a free cup of coffee or stand out in the cold hoping against hope some bloke with a swollen dick is looking for a blow job?’

The girl snatched the money out of her hand and shoved it into the top of her purple bra, marched round the bonnet of the BMW and climbed into the front seat, the miniskirt riding up to reveal purple knickers against thin white thighs.

‘My name’s Lesley,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘what’s yours?’

The girl ignored the hand. ‘It’s Suzy. Just ten minutes and no more. And don’t use my name. I don’t want you to use any names.’

‘No worries. No names, no pack drill.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Something my father used to say. He was in the army.’ She was following his instructions exactly. Tell them something about yourself. It will put them at ease.

She put the car in gear, signalled and pulled away.

The girl didn’t fasten her seat belt.

She drove slowly. Take your time, there’s no need to rush now.

‘You mind if I smoke?’

The girl reached over and pressed the cigarette lighter on the dashboard, bringing out a crumpled pack of Rothmans. ‘I always smoke these. They’re a bit more expensive but they don’t give you cancer like the others.’

The cigarette lighter popped out and she brought the glowing end up to the cigarette. ‘Days like this you need the warmth of a fag. God knows what I’d do without them. Always have a pack at home and one in my bag, just in case. You never smoke?’

She changed down and signalled left, pulling out onto the empty road.

‘Where we going? I don’t want to go far. Those thievin’ bitches will nick my patch.’

‘We’ll stop here, if that’s OK?’ She turned left up a dilapidated street and then right to park behind an advertising hoarding. The nearest terraced houses were all dark and desolate, the windows either boarded up or broken.

He had chosen this area specially. An ‘improvement area’ under renovation for the last three years.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ She shook the flask.

The girl blew a long trail of light-blue smoke through her reddened lips. ‘Has it got sugar in it? Cos I can’t take no sugar – trying to lose a few pounds.’ The girl took hold of a handful of flesh through the silk shirt.

The woman could see that even though the girl was thin to the point of emaciation, flesh still sagged off her. ‘There’s no sugar in it. Can’t stand the stuff myself.’

‘But I still have my chocolate. A bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut every day. Even when I got no money.’

For a moment, she tried to work out how the girl could afford chocolate when she had no money, then gave up. No point in understanding these women. They sold their bodies to men. What worth were they?

She poured out the coffee into the plastic cup and handed it to the girl.

‘You drink all this down, it’ll warm you up for the rest of the day.’

The girl cradled the cup in her fingers. ‘Coffee and a fag. Just what a girl needs on a day like today.’ Then she drank a long draught of warm coffee, following it with an even longer suck on the cigarette. ‘Feels better already,’ the girl coughed.

She took out her notebook and wrote ‘Girl 2’ at the top of the page. Have to keep up the pretence. Mustn’t spook her now.

Not now.

‘What you wanna ask me? You ain’t no social worker or nothin’?’

‘No, I’m not, but I do take care of people. You could call it my hobby.’

‘Which paper you work for? I hope it ain’t the Sun. Can’t stand the Sun. I’m from Liverpool.’

‘I work freelance, with one other man, taking care of people.’

‘Oooh, that fag has gone straight to my head.’

She took the plastic cup and the cigarette from the girl, who tried to protest but no words came out of her mouth. She threw the cigarette out of the window and poured the dregs of coffee back into the flask.

‘You just relax and have a good rest, that’s my girl.’

The girl didn’t answer. Her mouth lay open, spittle drooling out of the corner, sliding over her chin to cover the sores from drug use. Inside her mouth, a black gap showed where a couple of teeth used to be.

She reached over to fasten the girl’s seat belt. ‘Clunk, click, every trip – remember?’

Shame it was going to be this girl’s last journey.

Chapter Six

It struck him he was wasting too much of his life outside buildings smoking cigarettes.

This time, it was the East Manchester Coroner’s Court in Stockfield. He had arrived early and, not wanting to sit in reception like a desperate pillock waiting for people to drift back from lunch, stood outside smoking his third cigarette of the day.

Three more than he was allowed.

The Coroner’s Office was in a Victorian building in the centre of Stockfield. Another city decimated by progress instituted by the town planners of the sixties and seventies from the comfort of their Edwardian mansions in Hale and Alderley Edge. A few buildings had survived their contra-flow diagrams, traffic management systems and usage pie charts. The Coroner’s Office was one of them. It had the air of a Victorian schoolroom occupied by a modern-day Wackford Squeers, but lacking the humanity and empathy of that celebrated teacher.

Ridpath checked his watch: 2 p.m. Time to go in and face the music. He hoped it wasn’t going to be something from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

The reception desk was still empty, silently guarding the offices behind it. Ridpath walked past and shouted to the deathly quiet interior. ‘Hello, anybody there?’

No answer.

He was sure he heard the echo of his voice off the eau-de-Nil painted walls. Why are all government buildings painted in this colour? Had the civil service somehow issued a memo in 1958 that all walls were to be painted an ugly pastel green and nobody had found the time to revise it? Or had the government bought a job lot of paint in 1962 and was still trying to use it up? The latter was the more likely reason.

He called again, ‘Helllooo…’

A tap on the shoulder, followed by: ‘You must be the coroner’s new officer?’

He turned round to face a young, attractive woman whose dark clothes seemed to come from the same era as the paint.

‘The name’s Ridpath. Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath.’ He held out his hand.

She took it as if she were holding a wet fish. ‘A detective inspector? We are honoured this time.’ She brushed past him. ‘Come this way. Margaret’s waiting for you.’

As she walked away from him, he noticed her blonde hair was wound into a tight chignon and held in place with four shiny grips, each one carefully placed at the side of her head.

She stopped outside a large Georgian door. ‘Margaret’s office is in here. I don’t think Jenny is back from lunch yet, so I’ll take you through.’

‘Jenny?’

She pushed open the door. ‘Office manager and general factotum. She does everything, but don’t ask her to make the coffee.’

‘She doesn’t see it as part of her job description?’

A tiny smile crept into the corner of her mouth. ‘Noooo, she just makes terrible coffee.’

They were in a compact office. At one side, a desk with a computer even older than the ones down at the station was surrounded by an array of cute dolls: Hello Kitty, a bear from Bavaria, three versions of the Smurfs and a troupe of what looked like plush versions of garden gnomes.

‘If you ever travel abroad, you have to bring one back for Jenny, otherwise you’ll find your paperwork gets eaten by one of the trolls.’

She knocked on the door.

A curt ‘Come’ came from inside.

She rolled her eyes and pushed open the door. Behind an expansive oak desk sat a nest of long grey hair surrounding thick black spectacles. The head rose to reveal a woman with the clearest skin Ridpath had ever seen. It was like cream with just a few flakes of raspberry rippling through it.

‘Margaret, this is Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath, our new coroner’s officer.’

He stood there, uncertain whether to advance with his hand out or stand at attention. He ended up doing neither, simply slouching in the doorway.

‘Thank you, Carol.’ She placed the forms she had been working on in a neat pile to the left of her desk and stood up. She was far taller than he expected, at least six foot, the grey hair now neatly framing a face showing only the faintest signs of her age. Either she used some of the most expensive face creams known to woman or she looked after herself incredibly well.

She walked around the desk towards him. ‘Good afternoon. You’re on time.’ Her hand came out. The fingers were long and the nails expertly polished and shaped.

He was surprised at the strength of the grip as she shook his hand. ‘I make a habit of it – being on time, that is.’

‘Good.’ A curt nod towards the person who had escorted him into the room, whom he now knew was called Carol. ‘Thank you, we have a meeting about the Rattigan inquest at four, do we not?’ It was a not very subtle dismissal.

‘We do, Margaret. I’ll prepare the papers.’

‘Good.’ Margaret Challinor closed the door as Carol left. ‘Take a seat.’

There was only one chair in front of the desk. It was a bentwood chair, more often found in schoolrooms than in offices.

The woman sat behind her desk as he made himself comfortable in the uncomfortable chair.

‘You’re a detective inspector?’

‘Probationary. Still in my first year.’

The grey eyebrows rose above the dark, slightly tinted spectacles. ‘Normally, they send us a constable, or at most a sergeant. The deputy chief must be trying to butter me up.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am.’

‘It’s Margaret, Mrs Challinor or Coroner, not ma’am. I’m not the Queen. Well, not yet anyway.’ There was no smile on her face. The hands came up to interlock in front of her nose. It almost looked as if they were fighting each other. ‘Why you?’

‘Why me… what?’

‘Why did they send you?’

‘I was told the last coroner’s officer had retired—’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Jim Howells?’

She nodded, still staring at him through the darkened glasses. On her left, the April sun shone through the large picture windows, highlighting a photograph of Mrs Challinor surrounded by two girls in their late teens. There was no man in the picture.

‘What did you think of him?’ she asked quietly.

Ridpath knew his next answer was crucial. He had conducted enough criminal interviews to know the early questions were always the most important. Personally, he used the rule of three: two questions to get a witness talking, then the most important question as the third. The coroner used a slightly different technique. Three or four personal questions to unsettle and discomfort the interviewee, then ask a question to which you already know the answer.

As with any interview, he had five options. He could tell the truth. He could be diplomatic. He could lie or he could dissemble.

He used the fifth: play for time.

‘What did I think of Jim Howells?’ It was classic stalling technique. Simply repeat the question and wait for the interrogator to explain herself, giving him more time to think.

Margaret Challinor just nodded her head, without removing her gaze from his face.

No more options now, he would have to answer. He chose the first option. ‘The man was a waste of oxygen. Should have been kicked out of the force years ago.’ When all else fails, tell the truth. Or as much of the truth as was humanly possible.

‘You could have dissembled,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What was the point? You worked with him.’

‘I did have that misfortune. He was a lazy, good-for-nothing shyster who spent more time and effort avoiding work than he ever did doing it.’ She smiled like a cat who had seen a mouse. ‘So why you?’

The truth will set you free. ‘I’m a good copper, Mrs Challinor, a very good copper. Nine months ago, I was diagnosed with myeloma – bone cancer – I embarked on a course of chemo in Christie’s and took a new drug they were trialling. Six weeks ago, I was finally given the all clear. The cancer is in remission.’

‘Are you still taking drugs?’

‘One a day. But there are no side effects according to the doctor. The force will send you my file, I’m sure.’

She lifted a beige file from beside her computer. ‘It already has.’

‘Then there was no need to ask. You already knew.’

‘But I didn’t know how you were going to answer, Detective Inspector, did I?’

‘No, but I did.’

She licked her lips before continuing. ‘You know the job is only temporary?’

‘Three months is what I was told.’

‘Do you know what the job entails?’

‘I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

‘A coroner’s officer is an advocate for the dead to safeguard the living.’

‘A pretty broad job description.’

She sighed. ‘It is, and that’s the official job one from the Chief Coroner’s Office.’

‘Sounds like management-speak. The police force is full of it these days.’

‘Consultants?’

He nodded. ‘Crawling out of the woodwork. One lot comes in and recommends a reorganization. Two years later, another lot recommends the exact opposite. I often wonder if they’re operating together to create work for each other.’

She made a moue with her lips. ‘Not so different from the Coroner’s Service, but in reality our job hasn’t changed since just after the Norman Conquest in 1066. We were created then as servants of the crown, hence coroners, to separate the investigation of death from the legal process of judgement. Not a lot has changed since then.’

‘A long time…’

‘The law is always reluctant to change. It’s one of the strengths, and the weaknesses. There are just under one hundred people like me in England and Wales, and our jurisdiction is limited to determining who the deceased was and how, when and where they came by their death. When the death is suspected to have been either sudden or from unknown cause, the coroner decides whether to hold a post-mortem examination and, if necessary, an inquest.’

‘It’s a wide remit.’

‘And seems to be getting wider all the time. We have a boss, he’s part-time but don’t ask me why, appointed after the 2009 Coroners and Justice Act.’

‘Just after I started in the force.’

For the first time, Ridpath saw a change in Mrs Challinor. She looked down and then began to rearrange the files on her desk nervously. ‘The Act was passed in response to murders by Harold Shipman.’

‘The doctor who killed over 300 pensioners? Was Hyde part of your district?’

She shook her head. ‘It was South Manchester, but the truth is I wouldn’t have spotted the deaths either. If a doctor certifies death, as Shipman did, we are unlikely to investigate.’

‘Even now?’

She nodded again. ‘The Smith Commission reported on the Shipman murders and offered a whole raft of measures to prevent them happening again. But, of course, the government of the day ignored the recommendations.’

‘Why?’

She flicked away a long curly strand of grey hair which had fallen across her eyes. Ridpath noticed her fingers: long, graceful and beautifully manicured.

‘A reluctance to change. Cost. Stupidity. Or a combination of all three,’ she finally answered. Her jaw set and her voice became forceful, emphatic. ‘But I am determined nothing like that will ever happen again. We will investigate all suspicious deaths, and discover the truth to the best of our ability, Ridpath. Is that clear? Your colleague, Jim Howells, never understood what his role was. Thought this job was a cushy number. Well not when I’m in charge, understand?’

He nodded. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘Your absolute best. Nothing else is good enough.’ She passed across a blue file. ‘The exact details of your role are in here. Your job is to carry out investigations on the coroner’s behalf. A coroner’s investigation may involve a simple review, or it may involve a complete examination of the circumstances behind a death.’ She paused for a moment to look at him. ‘It also includes investigating every death that happens in police custody. Would you have a problem investigating your own colleagues?’

He thought for a moment. Would he have a problem? He shrugged his shoulders and decided to answer truthfully. ‘I don’t know.’

She continued to stare at him. ‘At least you’re honest,’ she finally said. And then her voice changed pitch and she lightened the mood. ‘I’m not without a few powers to help in any investigation though. A coroner’s court is a court of law, and accordingly the coroner may subpoena witnesses, arrest offenders, administer oaths and sequester juries during inquests.’ She reached over and tapped the file she had given him. ‘You’re basically going to do anything and everything I ask of you.’ The green eyes stared at him through the darkened lenses. ‘Do you understand?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I understand.’

‘You were CID?’

Ridpath nodded.

‘The difference between the Coroner’s Office and the police is stark, Detective Inspector. We don’t chase convictions, we don’t chase criminals, we don’t chase promotions. We simply represent the families and we look for the truth. Who died? When did they die? How did they die? Who was responsible? Is that clear, Detective?’

‘Crystal.’

‘As soon as we can, we’ll get you on an officer’s course.’

‘Even though I’m only staying three months?’

‘I don’t care about the time, Detective, I care about your effectiveness. You will go on the course. In the meantime, though, we have ongoing investigations that need to be progressed.’ She opened a drawer and pulled out a pink file. ‘This will be your first case.’

She passed across the file.

‘We have been instructed by the high court to reopen an inquest into the death of Alice Seagram. The exhumation of her body will be performed at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. I’d like you to be there.’

‘Alice Seagram?’ The name stirred something in the far recesses of his brain.

‘One of the victims of James