Where the Silence Calls

by Where the Silence Calls (retail) (epub)

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Ridpath reached his car, parked near the old Central Station, and immediately put it in gear. He reached down to switch on the blue lights before realising the car was no longer fitted with them.

  Shit. He would have to drive like a lunatic and hope he wasn’t stopped.

  He raced out of the car park and down to the A57, weaving in and out of the traffic. Right onto the A6 and down through Levenshulme. On either side of the road, Manchester flashed past.

  He stopped at a traffic light and picked up the phone again, ringing Caruso and putting her on speaker. She answered as the lights turned green.

  ‘Have you sent the squad car, Lorraine?’

  ‘I haven’t received the picture yet, Ridpath. I’m not doing anything until I’ve received proof of what you are saying. We can’t all be bloody mavericks!’

  ‘Don’t you realise he could be in danger?’

  ‘There you go again. Always making a drama out of a crisis. Don’t you realise we all can’t—’

  He cut off the call. He couldn’t stand the woman’s voice. Why didn’t she do something?

  Another red light. He tapped the steering wheel. What to do? Sod it.

  He picked up his phone and dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency services, what service do you require?’

  ‘This is DI Ridpath. I believe a crime is being committed at Golddale Close, High Lane, off the A6. Please send a squad car immediately.’

  ‘Sorry, what was the name and address again.

  What was wrong with these people?

  The lights turned green. He put the car in gear and accelerated away, overtaking a slow moving car on the inside.

  He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath. A crime is in progress at Golddale Close, High Lane.’

  ‘What sort of crime?’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘Murder. Somebody is being murdered.’

  ‘Squad car dispatched, DI Ridpath. ETA seven minutes, over.’

  ‘Thanks, Control.’

  He was accelerating past Stockport Grammar School and the lights were just turning from amber to red. He put his foot down and felt the surge in the engine as the turbo kicked in. And then a flash in his rear mirror.

  Shit. Shit. A traffic camera.

  Sod it. He carried on accelerating, just managing to catch all the lights as they turned. Keeping left where the road split, he found himself behind a large Polish juggernaut. He overtook it, forcing it to move closer to the pavement. He was sure he heard some choice Polish swear words as he accelerated past.

  High Lane was only a couple of minutes away now. He remembered driving here just a few days ago, to visit Charlie and bring him a bottle of Scotch. It seemed like an age and half a lifetime away.

  Was Charlie the killer?

  Impossible.

  He had been bitter last time they met, but to go around pouring meths on people? Not Charlie, not in a million years.

  He swung left onto Charlie’s street. The squad car was nowhere to be seen. Ridpath stamped on the brakes and the car slid to a stop outside the bungalow.

  Ridpath jumped out, hearing the sound of sirens in the distance. The bloody cavalry were on their way but late as usual.

  The bungalow seemed quiet. No movement at the curtains.

  The sirens were getting louder now, cutting through the sounds of birdsong in the quiet suburb.

  He walked slowly down the driveway, checking for movement all the time. The door looked exactly as it had last time. He checked the handle and it opened. Charlie still wasn’t locking it.

  Ridpath stepped into the hallway, calling out, ‘Charlie, it’s Ridpath. Are you here?’ Was Charlie drunk, sitting in his armchair, moaning about the world?

  It was at times like this Ridpath wished he were armed, like American cops. At least then he would have some sort of weapon. Instead he picked up an umbrella from the hall stand. As his old instructor at the training college had said in his broad Scottish accent, ‘Any weapon is better than nuthin’ – remember that next time you’re in a wee stramash.’

  He moved slowly down the hallway, feeling the thick carpet under his feet, towards the kitchen where he and Charlie had sat just a few days ago.

  ‘Charlie? Are you here?’

  Outside, the squeal of brakes and the slamming of doors.

  Would Charlie have gone out? But didn’t he say he never left the house any more?

  He reached the kitchen.

  Empty.

  ‘Charlie!’ he shouted even louder.

  No answer.

  A banging on the door. Ridpath could see two enormous blue shapes through the glass. ‘It’s DI Ridpath, I’m coming to open the door,’ he shouted, just in case some eager plod decided to take him down.

  He walked back down the hallway and opened the door. ‘Charlie’s not here.’

  They bustled past him.

  ‘Do you have your warrant card, sir?’ a sergeant asked.

  Ridpath flashed it.

  ‘You called it in?’

  ‘I did. This is Detective Chief Inspector Whitworth’s house—’

  ‘Charlie? I worked with him in Prestwich.’

  ‘He’s missing.’

  The sergeant turned to his men. ‘Search the place.’

  One ran upstairs and the other checked the living room and kitchen. After thirty seconds, the one in the kitchen shouted back. ‘I think you should come and see this, Sarge.’

  They both rushed to the rear of the house.

  The constable was pointing to the far wall, hidden from the door.

  High up, somebody had sprayed letters in bright orange paint.

  ‘PLAY THE GAME,’ repeated the constable. ‘What does it mean, Sarge?’

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Claire Trent stared at the wall. ‘This wasn’t here when you visited him?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Why those words? Has the song got something do with it? Chrissy told me Queen released it in 1980.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s been bothering me for a while. I saw it at Joe Brennan’s house and at the building site where we found Sam Sykes. Both times sprayed with orange paint.’

  ‘There must be some reason he sprays it on the wall. Is he letting us know it’s him? Marking his territory, so to speak.’

  ‘For me, it sounds more like an exhortation.’

  Trent took off her glasses and wiped them with a paper handkerchief. ‘What sort of nutter are we dealing with?’

  She put the glasses on again and stared at the words on the wall, as if looking at them would reveal some hidden secret.

  A white-coated Scene of Crime officer approached them. ‘We’ve finished in the rest of the house. There’s no sign of forced entry or any disturbance.’

  ‘Thanks, Bert,’ said Trent.

  ‘Not surprising, the front door was always left unlocked so he didn’t have to get up to let people in,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘A bit stupid for a copper.’

  Ridpath shrugged. ‘Did you find a walking stick, Bert?’

  ‘Not in the house. The wheelchair is still here but nothing else. We’ve still got to search the garage but I didn’t see it before.’

  ‘Charlie told me he couldn’t get around without it.’

  Trent raised her eyebrows. ‘So it’s gone with him?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  She was quiet for a moment. ‘We’re faced with two possibilities,’ she said quietly. ‘Either somebody else wrote this on the wall, or Charlie did. If it’s the former, one of our own has gone missing, possibly abducted. But why?’

  ‘He’s the only one left alive in the photograph.’

  ‘Perhaps… but it also begs another question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Do you think he could have done it?’

  ‘What? Murdered all these people? Poured meths on them and set them alight, watching them bu
rn to death? Not a chance, not Charlie.’

  ‘But as you said yourself, he’s the only one left alive in the photograph. Everybody else is dead. Joe Brennan, Sam Sykes, Tommy Larkin and David Mulkeen burnt to death recently. While Tony Doyle and Harry McHale died in accidents. Unless it’s all a coincidence these people are dead, it only leaves one man in the photograph alive from the time: Charlie Whitworth.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one other death. Our man on the moors. John Doe.’

  ‘You think he’s important?’

  Ridpath scratched his head. ‘First, if we trust HOLMES, he’s the only one who’s linked to the killer but isn’t part of the group photo. And second, he was the very first person to die. It’s as if he somehow started it all off, if that makes sense.’

  ‘None of it makes sense, Ridpath. It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma.’

  Lorraine Caruso bustled into the kitchen. She avoided looking at Ridpath and spoke directly to her boss. ‘West Yorkshire was just on the phone. They’ve got a DNA match to our John Doe on the moors. His name is Alistair Ransome and he worked as a psychotherapist. Well, at least that’s what he called himself, but they’ve been onto Leeds University where he said he qualified and they’ve never heard of him. Seems to have been one of those so-called “consultants” who do a few courses and set themselves up in private practice. No clinical psychology degree or nothing but they think they can treat people. Usually do hypnotherapy and stuff like that.’

  ‘Why was his DNA on file?’

  ‘Spousal abuse about four years ago. The wife didn’t press charges, of course, but we kept the DNA and he came up as a match.’

  ‘Lorraine, get a list of his patients. Was he treating any of the football players or even David Mulkeen?’

  ‘Will do, guv’nor.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  Caruso handed over a piece of paper. ‘This is for his clinic but they haven’t got a home address.’

  ‘Find it.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘Ridpath, you’re with me. We’re going to the clinic. Lorraine, you stay and finish up here.’

  ‘But this is just grunt work, I should be with you.’

  Trent fixed her with a steely stare. ‘And you should have discovered it was Charlie Whitworth in the photo, but you didn’t.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Enough with the buts, Lorraine. Finish up here.’

  Just as they were leaving the kitchen, Ridpath had an idea. He collared the crime scene manager. ‘Ron, did you find Charlie’s mobile?’

  The man shook his head slowly. ‘Nah, definitely wasn’t in the house. Could he have taken it with him?’

  Trent smiled. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Ridpath?’

  ‘Charlie’s still got his phone.’ Ridpath dialled the number quickly and listened. ‘It’s gone straight to voicemail, guv’nor.’

  ‘Lorraine, get onto his mobile provider. I want them to get the GPS details of the phone ASAP. I want to know where it is right now.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Trent ignored the change in Caruso’s voice. ‘Come on, Ridpath, we need to visit the psychotherapist’s office.’

  ‘There’s one other thing we haven’t talked about, guv’nor.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Last week we found a body virtually every other day. This man doesn’t keep his victims for long.’

  ‘You think he’s working to a timetable?’

  ‘Certain of it.’ Ridpath glanced at his watch. ‘Which means he only has seven more hours before today ends.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Ridpath and Trent parked the car outside a large Victorian house in Didsbury, a trendy suburb of Manchester. In the paved-over garden a large sign proclaimed this was the ‘Didsbury Wellness Center’, along with a list of some of the treatments offered: traditional Chinese acupuncture, colonic irrigation, homoeopathy, reiki, Primordial Sound Meditation, aromatherapy and kinesiology, as well as common or garden yoga.

  Ridpath noted the American spelling of the word ‘centre’ and smiled to himself. Polly would love this place – not. After their experience with the marriage counsellor, both she and Ridpath had a healthy disdain for the practitioners of the ‘wellness’ industry.

  When he was first diagnosed with his cancer, some friends had told him in all earnestness he should ignore the doctors and go on special diets, visit Lourdes for a cure, drink herbal teas, smoke dope, or even try an Electro Physiological Feedback Xroid – some sort of device which you plugged yourself into and it magically cured you of piles and cancer. When he saw the cost, Ridpath shook his head and politely said no thanks. Christies and its tablets and chemo would do for him. Bastard things they were, but at least they had some sort of track record of success. Unlike the other stuff that promised the earth and delivered nothing but a hole in the ground.

  They walked up to the old-fashioned portico entrance. The house had once been the home of some rich cotton merchant but was now divided up into twelve different clinics, each offering their own version of ‘wellness’.

  Each clinic had a separate number and doorbell to ring. Ridpath scanned down the names. Alistair Ransome was number six. Next to his name it stated he offered Repressed Memory Therapy, whatever that was.

  Ridpath pressed the bell and waited.

  No response.

  Trent tried to turn the doorknob. It was obviously locked from the inside.

  Ridpath pressed the bell again. Still no answer.

  ‘Try number seven.’

  The name on the bell was Hilary Smith, Herbal Menopause Treatments.

  ‘Don’t say a word, Ridpath.’

  The detective held his hands up. ‘Would I wind you up, guv’nor?’

  ‘You would. And if I get a free gift card through the post, I’ll know who to blame.’

  Ridpath pressed number seven.

  Instantly a voice responded. ‘Are you my five thirty? Mrs Langan?’

  ‘No, actually, we’re the police,’ answered Trent.

  ‘Well, I give a ten per cent discount for all members of the armed forces, so I think I could extend it to the police. Come on up.’

  The door buzzed loudly and Ridpath pushed his way into a large old-fashioned hallway with a high ceiling and a stairway leading up directly ahead. The smell was a combination of candle wax and incense. Not unpleasant but not one that made Ridpath feel better either.

  A woman was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. ‘Sorry, I don’t do men. Not much call with my specialism. Though I often think some of them are so grumpy, there must be a male menopause.’

  ‘We’re not here for treatment, Mrs Smith. We’d like to ask you about your neighbour, Alistair Ransome.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said in a disappointed voice, ‘it was him I was thinking about when I said about men being grumpy. You’d better come up, looks like my five thirty is late… again.’

  Trent went up the stairs, followed by Ridpath. As they reached the landing, Mrs Smith pointed to a door next to hers. ‘That’s Alistair, number six.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know him, we just work next door to each other.’

  ‘You never talk?’

  Her neatly pencilled eyebrows went up. ‘Not much. Keeps himself to himself does Alistair, when he’s not moaning about the rent or the lighting or the government or his bloody feet. I swear he could moan in the Olympics, could Alistair.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  Mrs Smith counted on her fingers. ‘Eight days ago, on the twenty-first. He’d been arguing with one of his patients. Their voices were raised and it disturbed my hot flushes.’ She giggled. ‘Actually, it was Mrs Jones, she’s the one with the hot flushes who they disturbed.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I tapped on the door and asked if everything was OK. He answered it was but didn’t open the door.’

  ‘Are you sure it was
him answering?’

  ‘Oh yes, I recognised his voice. He’s from Somerset and has a peculiar West Country burr, like he’s been drinking cider since six in the morning.’

  ‘You didn’t see who he’d been arguing with?’

  Mrs Smith shook her head.

  ‘Did you hear what they were saying?’ asked Trent.

  She shook her head again. ‘Not really, I sort of zone out when I’m massaging people. I find it very therapeutic.’ Then she paused a moment. ‘But at one point it got very heated and I heard Mr Ransome shouting “You must remember!” and his patient saying he didn’t want to. Or words to that effect.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really, I don’t listen to what’s going on around me when I’m working. Focused I am, it’s what my clients love about me.’

  Trent’s phone rang and she ignored it for a minute but the sound was insistent. ‘Hello, Lorraine.’ Trent was listening and nodding. She clicked the phone off, grabbed Ridpath by the arm and started to pull him back towards the stairs. ‘Come on, they’ve found the phone. It’s on the second floor of a building in central Manchester, Bruton Place.’

  ‘We’ll be back to interview you, Mrs Smith,’ he called over his shoulder.

  Trent was in front of him, clattering down the old stairs. ‘Bruton Place is one of the blocks on the Greater Manchester list of high-risk buildings. Its cladding is worse than at Grenfell.’

  ‘So that means…’

  ‘If there’s a fire on the second floor, the whole lot goes up, eighteen storeys.’

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Lorraine Caruso ran up to their car as soon as it arrived outside Bruton Place.

  Frenetic activity was happening all around: flashing lights from police cars and fire engines, firemen rolling out lengths of hose, police pushing onlookers back behind blue- and white-striped tape stretching across the street, PCSOs shouting orders.

  ‘Boss, I’ve got the local plod to cordon off the area. More fire engines are on their way.’

  ‘What do we know about Charlie?’

  ‘The triangulation of the phone signal tells us he went into the building about two hours ago.’

  ‘Which floor?’