by M J Lee
‘Your report.’
‘All is running smoothly at the coroner’s office. Only a hundred and fifty-five deaths in Manchester last week, with three being ascribed to Covid. In total, one thousand and thirty-six people have died from the disease in the city. Of the recent deaths, I’m following up on six of them, but there’s nothing overtly suspicious I need to report. I also have one missing person case from eleven years ago. The family has asked the coroner to hold a presumption of death inquest.’
‘Why?’
‘No communication or sightings for over eleven years. Perhaps they are seeking closure.’
‘Or they’re trying to claim on insurance,’ snarled Turnbull.
Ridpath ignored him. ‘In the absence of a body, the coroner needs to seek the home secretary’s permission to hold an inquest and grant a presumption of death certificate. So I’ll need your help going through the police files, Chrissy.’
The civilian researcher was wearing a new Manchester City scarf proclaiming them League Champions 2021 even though the league hadn’t officially finished playing yet.
‘No problem, Ridpath.’
‘Chrissy is busy at the moment,’ said Turnbull.
‘She can still find the time to help Ridpath, Paul. We need to work with the coroner at the moment.’ Claire Trent stared at her chief inspector.
Turnbull stayed silent.
‘Right, that’s sorted. Anybody with anything else? Worries? Concerns? Information?’
The detectives collectively shook their heads.
‘Good.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s difficult at the moment. We’re understaffed, under resourced and under pressure. Going into special measures was the worst that could have happened at the present time. But do understand the action by the Inspectorate of Constabulary had nothing to do with your work or that of your teams. It was a systemic failure, not a failure of police work. Understand?’
Another collective nod.
‘Be careful out there. Ridpath, you can stay behind.’
Chapter 13
When the rest of the detectives and civilian researchers had filed slowly out, Turnbull gestured for Ridpath to move closer. ‘We have a new job for you.’
‘A new job?’
‘You’ve heard about the discovery of three hands on Monday night?’
‘I’ve already been to the crime scene as the coroner’s officer.’
‘Good, you already understand the case.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
Claire Trent leant forward. ‘You job is to assist the local CID in any way you can.’
‘Assist?’
‘The SIO is DS Dave Connor. Do you know him?’
‘I used to work with him in MIT when Charlie Whitworth was in charge. He’s a good copper, is Dave.’ He paused and scratched his nose as his two bosses watched him. ‘But why me? Emily… DS Parkinson could handle it just as well.’
‘She’s working for me on something,’ said Claire Trent firmly.
‘And there could be a conflict of interest. As a coroner’s officer, I am supposed to be independent of police investigations.’
Turnbull snorted. ‘Do you want the case or not?’
Claire Trent laid her hand on his arm to calm him. ‘I’ve discussed the possible conflict with Mrs Challinor. She believes it can be negated if your assistant—’
‘Sophia Rahman.’
‘—handles the case from the coroner’s side, leaving you to aid the local CID.’
A light bulb went off in Ridpath’s head. ‘You two have already decided everything, haven’t you?’
‘Of course, I needed Mrs Challinor to understand why your services were necessary to help the local CID. She wants you to prioritise the presumption of death inquiry but has accepted you need to work with local CID on the hands case.’
‘And in return, she gets Chrissy’s help checking up on our missing person, Jane Ryder.’
Turnbull raised his eyebrows and glanced across at his boss.
‘Got it in one, Ridpath. Mrs Challinor and I both agree such an arrangement could be mutually beneficial.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘So this is a done deal?’
‘Trussed up like a turkey waiting for Christmas,’ said Turnbull, smirking.
‘What about other resources from MIT to help Dave Connor?’
‘The rest of the squad is tied up on live cases. You’re it, I’m afraid.’ Turnbull opened his arms as if to say sorry, but Ridpath could see in his eyes he wasn’t.
‘We also think you’re the right person for the job,’ added Claire Trent quickly. ‘We want to see a result on this case, Ridpath, don’t let it drag on.’
‘I’m a detective inspector, how can I report to a detective sergeant?’
‘You’re not reporting to him, Ridpath, you’re assisting the local CID on behalf of MIT. It’s their case, not ours, but I’ve been asked to help them and I’ve promised the ACC I would.’
‘Could DS Parkinson and Chrissy Wright help me if I need it?’
‘No, they are busy with our live cases.’ Turnbull ran his fingers across his bald scalp as if combing through hair. ‘Listen, we have too much work and too few people. You’re still on our books, so we’ve nominated you to help the local CID. Think of it as playing for another team on loan. And besides, this case will probably lead nowhere. My bet is a couple of medical students have been messing around in anatomy classes, nicking body parts to scare their girlfriends.’
Ridpath realised he had no choice in this, it had already been decided for him. ‘Right, when do I start?’
Before Turnbull could answer there came a knock on the door. It opened and Peter Swift stood in the doorway. ‘Boss, the acting chief is ready for the meeting now. And DCI Turnbull, I’ve brought the car round for our trip to South Yorkshire.’
‘Right, Peter, I’ll be out in minute.’
Claire Trent packed up her folders. ‘I have to go. Good luck, Ridpath.’
‘Am I going to need it?’
‘Old cases are always difficult.’
‘You’re telling me.’
Before she left, Claire Trent turned back to Turnbull. ‘I’ll let you know how this meeting goes later, Paul.’
‘Keep fighting, boss.’
‘I intend to. Nobody is going to mess with my patch.’
She strode out, leaving the door open.
‘One last question.’
‘What is it, Ridpath?’ sighed Turnbull as he stood up.
‘Has anybody told Dave Connor yet?’
‘We thought we’d leave it to you, Ridpath.’
Chapter 14
Ridpath stood downwind of Emily Parkinson, inhaling as much second-hand smoke as he could. He’d given up smoking for almost a year now as Eve hated the smell on his clothes and his breath. But Ridpath still enjoyed the vicarious pleasure of standing next to Emily as she puffed away.
They were outside Police HQ in the reserved area for smokers around the back. A large ashtray was in front of Ridpath, filled to the brim with sad fag ends. It was joke in the building that the quality of the air-conditioning was so bad the only way to get some fresh air was to go out for a smoke.
He’d already briefed Chrissy on Jane Ryder. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some work for you. And if Turnbull gives you trouble, it’s been approved by Claire Trent.’
‘Great, anything to get off bloody stats.’
‘I’m looking for missing person files.’
‘No worries, Ridpath, have you done a misper check before?’
‘Did the course in training years ago, but that’s about it.’
‘Give me the name and I’ll go through the databases for you. When did she disappear?’
‘Her name was Jane Ryder and she was last seen on June 12, 2009.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Just sixteen. Had her birthday a week before, according to the file.’
Chrissy made a smacking sound with her lips. ‘Did the parents report it to
the police?’
‘I think so. I’m meeting them tomorrow morning to get more details.’
‘Somebody will have gone round to the house if she was only sixteen.’
‘Even though she’s no longer a child?’
‘As ever, the law is a bit vague. Once a young person reaches sixteen they can leave home or their parents can ask them to move out. However, parents are responsible for their children’s well-being until they turn eighteen. Police would follow the usual procedure for a sixteen-year-old.’
‘Which is?’
Chrissy adjusted the scarf around her neck. ‘Conducting a search of the house and outbuildings, obtaining two pictures, fingerprints, DNA and any other items of interest, with the parents’ permission. The investigating copper would look for diaries or notes. Finally, they’ll fill in a Form 737 and place all the information on OPUS.’
‘The old operating system. Can we still access it?’
‘I can. There’ll also be a risk report, and they may have contacted a missing person search manager. Depending on the risk assessment, there will be a list of actions taken on OPUS and the report will be sent to the Missing From Home Unit for follow-up. The officer will also seek permission to place the child’s details on the Missing Children website.’
‘There doesn’t seem to have been much follow-up.’
‘She was probably evaluated as not high risk; a runaway rather than somebody who’d been taken.’
‘You know a lot about this.’
‘Spent my first five years at the MFH unit. Know it like I know City’s players.’
‘Will the form show who was the responding officer?’
She nodded. ‘Plus all the other coppers involved, the SIO and the missing person’s manager.’
‘Great, I need to find witnesses for the inquest.’
Chrissy was silent for a moment, chewing the end if her pencil. ‘Given her age, she may be on two other nation-wide databases: the Vulnerable Persons database and Missing Persons DNA database, plus the Missing Kids website. Want me to check them out for you?’
‘It’s for the coroner, so I don’t want you to go to too much trouble, Chrissy. Point me in the right direction and I’ll do the work myself.’
‘No worries, anything rather than looking at more bloody stats. I’ll send you the info as soon as I have it.’
‘Thanks, Chrissy.’
Of course, Emily Parkinson had collared him as soon as he’d finished with Chrissy, making the universal sign of the invisible cigarette to the mouth, which actually meant she wanted to chat.
He inhaled another satisfying cloud of secondary smoke.
‘I hear you’ve been put on the Northenden case.’
‘News travels fast. I was only told myself five minutes ago.’
‘Nothing is secret on the floor, you should know.’ She paused for a moment, taking another long drag. ‘Need any help?’
‘You know I’d love to have you on the case, but apparently, I’m to “assist” the local CID in their investigation.’ He formed quotation marks with his fingers. ‘You desperate to get out of HQ?’
‘Nah, desperate to get off the computer. And so is Chrissy.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Comparing crime-solving statistics from all forty-four police districts of England and Wales.’
‘You must be up to your eyes in numbers.’
‘I dream bloody numbers.’ Another drag on the cigarette, followed by a furtive lowering of the voice. ‘If you need any help on your case, let me know. I mean it, Ridpath.’
‘I did suggest it to our lords and masters, Em, but they were keen for you to carry on doing what you’re doing.’
‘Justifying our existence.’
‘MIT needs justification?’
She assumed the voice of a police spokesperson. ‘“In the modern world of policing, each and every resource must be examined and quantified to justify its allocation in the fight against crime and the protection of the public.” I know the bullshit off by heart now.’ Another long drag on her cigarette. ‘I’ll even come in on my days off if you want, and so would Chrissy.’
‘You must be desperate.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. I’d kill to work on a case again.’
‘There’s an idea for you.’
‘It would be one way of getting out of HQ and away from the stats. Are you going to be the SIO?’
‘Nah, like I said, just assisting. The SIO is Dave Connor.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A good copper, old school, like Charlie Whitworth.’
‘Must be close to retirement. Why’d he leave MIT?’
‘Wanted an easier life and more regular hours. After John Gorman retired, he was seen as part of the problem, not part of the solution. You know how it is.’
‘The new brush sweeps clean. Now, Turnbull is doing exactly the same.’
‘How you getting on with him?’
‘Badly, he’s doing his best to force me out, but I’m hanging in there by the skin of my teeth.’
‘You’re too valuable to MIT, Em, he won’t let you go.’
‘You should tell him.’
Ridpath checked his watch. ‘Time to leave.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Off to see Dr Schofield.’
‘I love the smell of the mortuary in the late afternoon. Enjoy yourself.’
‘It’s a post-mortem, not a party.’
‘Funny, I’d give my left arm to spend an afternoon with the bodies in the mortuary right now. Better than wasting time with the corpses in there.’ She gestured back towards Police HQ.
‘Don’t let them get to you, Em. I’d better be off.’
Emily Parkinson waved goodbye, the cigarette still clapped between her fingers. ‘Knock yourself out, Ridpath, and call me if you need anything.’
‘Will do, Em. Take care of yourself.’
Chapter 15
They were already in the hills above Glossop on the quaintly named Snake Pass to Sheffield before Turnbull spoke to his driver.
‘Can’t stand the Peak District, it’s only rocks and gorse and endless bloody moors. Why do people bother coming here?’
Peter Swift looked in his rear-view mirror. ‘It’s to get away from the city to somewhere more open, boss.’
‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me. And have you ever been up here on a weekend? You meet more people than you do in the centre of Manchester. I was on secondment in Buxton once, hated every bloody second of it. Tramping the moors, searching for lost walkers, finding the occasional body in a gully. If they wanted to kill themselves, why not do it quietly at home?’
Peter Swift recognised that no answer was needed or wanted.
‘Now I have to deal with the idiots in South Yorkshire. Couldn’t find a brain cell between the lot of them.’
Outside in the wooded valley leading to Ladybower Reservoir, spring was kicking the trees into life and the birds were singing joyfully. Inside the car, silence had descended once more, until Peter Swift plucked up the courage to speak.
‘Gaffer?’
‘What is it?’
‘I thought we didn’t like Ridpath. Why are we giving him a case?’
Turnbull sucked in air between his teeth. ‘You have to understand, it’s not personal between myself and Ridpath.’ He chuckled and a wry smile crossed his lips. ‘At least, it not too personal. For me he represents the old school of policing, based on hunches and intuitions, copper’s nose and all that malarkey. We should have junked people like him years ago. Modern policing is all about following systems, integrated operations and the best-case management of investigations. It’s the only way we can consistently achieve success. No time for bloody hunches.’
‘I think I get it, boss, but—’
‘Peter, if you’re going to advance your career in the police,’ Turnbull interrupted, ‘you have to understand that only one thing is important. Not degrees or diligence or even stre
et smarts, just one thing.’
Dutifully, Swift asked the question. ‘What’s that, gaffer?’
‘Success, Peter, success. And the wonderful thing is, you don’t even have to do the work yourself, you only have to be associated with it. Someone once said, success has a thousand handmaidens and failure has none. This is more than true of the police. Everybody remembers our successes, nobody is ever associated with our failures.’
‘What’s it got to do with Ridpath, boss?’
‘Well, a little dicky bird in the lab told me at lunchtime that the hands are too degraded to get fingerprints and there may even be a problem with DNA.’
‘But if he can’t identify the hands—’
‘And no body is found…’
‘A case with body parts is going nowhere.’
‘Oh, it’s going somewhere, Peter. Straight down on his record as a failure and, afterwards, to the Cold Case Unit where it will sit along with all the other failures of GMP, unloved and unwanted.’
Silence descended again, before Peter Swift once more summoned up the courage to ask: ‘But what happens if Ridpath solves the case, has a success?’
‘Unlikely.’ A long pause as Turnbull stroked his bald head as one would a good-luck charm. ‘But if he did, who was the one who recommended he be assigned to the job?’
‘You, gaffer?’ Swift said tentatively.
‘Me. And I’ll make sure everybody knows, too. Plus, if he somehow manages to find a lead, I’ll be back on the case as quick as a Manchester stripper whips off her clothes on a cold December night, leading the team to victory with Ridpath consigned to the knacker’s yard.’ A long pause. ‘What’s the one thing that matters in your career, Peter?’
‘Success. Or being associated with it.’
‘Here endeth the first lesson of policing, Peter. Remember this and you will go far.’
‘All the way to Sheffield, gaffer?’
‘We all have to do some penance, Peter, even the most successful coppers.’
Chapter 16
The smell of the mortuary was worse than Ridpath remembered. A white, sterile, inhuman smell, a deadly combination of disinfectant, formaldehyde and immense human sadness. As it always did when he entered the place, a shiver kicked down his spine. For a fleeting moment, Ridpath was tempted to turn tail and do a runner down Oxford Road, getting himself and his nose as far away from there as possible.
