Where the Silence Calls

by Where the Silence Calls (retail) (epub)

  Flames licked out of the windows and up the outside wall of the building.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  The Airwave crackled.

  ‘Come in, Team Alpha.’

  More crackling, before a breathless voice came over the comms. ‘Team Alpha all A-OK. A bit shook up but all present and correct. Something exploded as we were advancing into the living room. Flames everywhere. We’ve pulled back to the corridor. A man sitting in a chair before the explosion…’

  ‘Pull your men back, Fenton.’ Trent turned to the incident officer. ‘It’s your call, Dave, do you send your men in?’

  Dave Greene stared at the outside of the building. Flames were beginning to lick the walls, blistering the thin metal covering of the cladding. Black smoke was drifting up into the sky.

  Would there be any other explosions? Was it safe to send his men in?

  ‘Dave. What’s your decision?’

  More orange flames leapt out of the window and up the side of the building.

  He turned to his waiting fire teams. ‘Move in,’ he shouted. ‘Offensive Oscar mode. Repeat, Offensive Oscar mode.’

  Instantly men raced forward with hoses and began playing water on the outside of the building. An engine with a telescopic ladder reversed into position. Within thirty seconds a stream of water was being poured into the interior of the flat.

  For a second the flames leapt higher out of the window as if struggling with the streams of water, before vanishing back inside the flat.

  Within minutes the fire was under control. No more flames threatened to ignite the flammable cladding. All that remained was a thin stream of grey smoke coming from the interior.

  ‘Send in a team. Check the interior of the flat,’ ordered Dave Greene.

  A fireman wearing breathing equipment formed his team up and they went into the lobby of the building, following exactly the same route taken by the ARU just minutes earlier.

  Ten minutes later the same man came out, walked over to the command group and took off his mask.

  ‘The heat is savage, but the fire’s out, boss. There’s just one body sitting on a chair in the middle of the room.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Claire Trent.

  ‘He’s toast… literally.’

  ‘Lorraine, get a forensics team in there ASAP.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor.’

  ‘Interview all the neighbours, anybody who lives in or near the block, even the kids. I want to know if anybody else saw a man, or men, going into the flat this afternoon. Start now, while memories are still fresh.’

  ‘Will do, guv’nor.’

  ‘And check CCTV. It might let us see who went up to the flat.’

  ‘I think it’s out of order, boss, the kids on the estate…’ Alan’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Check it anyway. And get onto the local council or the management committee. Find out who owns the flat or if there’s a tenant.’

  ‘Anything else, boss?’

  ‘Nah, just get moving.’

  Trent looked back at the scorched outside of the tower block. They had just prevented a major fire, but another man had died.

  Chapter Seventy

  He watched as the fireball exploded out of the window and up the side of the tower block. Now he would see some action as the fire caught the composite tiles and ignited them, turning the whole building into one giant Roman candle.

  The firemen rushed forward and reversed an engine close to the flat, water already pouring from a nozzle on top of a ladder. Other men were rushing in with hoses, training them on the tiles, making sure they didn’t ignite.

  Shame, he would have liked to see the whole lot go up in flames. A fitting end to his work. A celebration bigger and brighter than bonfire night.

  No matter, he was finished now.

  They were all dead.

  He felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders.

  After all these years, they were dead.

  So be it.

  His work was finished. For now.

  One day, he would let the world know what he had done and why he did it. The urge to tell everything was strong in him now, he had held the secret for too long.

  But not yet.

  Maybe later, when he had rested and recovered, he would start planning again. After all, there were hundreds of Mulkeens in the world. Adults who preyed on children for their own gratification. They would be easy to find and punish.

  And then there were the Whitworths, the ones who allowed it to happen. By doing nothing, letting it continue and pretending it had never happened, they were just as guilty. Maybe even more so.

  Next month he would start planning again. The sex offenders register would give him all the clues he needed to find them.

  He knew now he had finally found his role in life. He was Shiva, the destroyer. And when he was ready, Shiva would rise again from the flames.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Three hours later and Ridpath was struggling into a Tyvek suit a size too small for him. He had been checked by the medical team and given the all-clear. The only thing he had lost was his left eyebrow, singed off in the first explosion.

  Terry Dolan was next to him, also putting on a suit. ‘Don’t often do this. Usually forensics have long gone before they let me anywhere near.’

  ‘Get a move on, we haven’t got all day,’ shouted Trent.

  ‘Impatient woman, your boss.’

  ‘You’ve just seen the good side.’

  Ridpath pulled up the hood and placed a mask over his mouth. ‘Ready, guv’nor.’ His voice was muffled but still clear.

  Trent made a show of looking at her watch. ‘If we could get on? It’s 21:55 already and I have a management meeting tomorrow morning and a briefing at noon. You will attend that, Ridpath.’ The last sentence was an order rather than a request.

  Terry Dolan rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get on then.’

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor. The forensics team had set up lights powered by a generator to illuminate their work. The power to the building was still out, with engineers from the local electricity board attempting to restore it.

  Outside, people were still not allowed back into their homes. The mood was becoming restless, the crowd working themselves up into anger.

  The corridor on the second floor was awash with water. Soot stained the white-painted ceiling. A child’s toy fire engine stood forlorn and lost in the middle of the floor, its red-painted sides now smeared by smoke.

  As they splashed through the water and approached number 2E, the walls became darker.

  They were met at the door by the crime scene manager, who signed them in.

  ‘Hiya, my name’s Tracy.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Claire Trent.’

  ‘Ooh, I’ve never had a Super on one of my jobs before. I thought your lot never left the office.’

  ‘This one does.’

  Ridpath leant forward and held out his hand. ‘DI Ridpath, attached to the coroner’s office.’

  ‘Weren’t you in the explosion?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘A glutton for punishment.’

  ‘Can we get a move on?’ said Trent.

  ‘Terry Dolan, fire investigator.’

  ‘Hiya, Terry. Right, let’s get on with it.’ The woman had a no-nonsense informality which Ridpath found refreshing but he could see it was already beginning to annoy Trent.

  ‘The pathologist is with the victim. He should pronounce time of death soon.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The young’un, Dr Schofield.’

  They stepped across the threshold into the flat. Most of the water had drained away inside but there was still that peculiar smell of damp and mould mixed with smoke that seemed to enshroud all fire scenes. From the living room came a lingering warmth left over from the explosion and the fire.

  ‘As you can see, the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom we
re relatively untouched by the fire itself. Most of the damage is from the water used to put the fire out. We’re currently dusting for fingerprints and any trace elements.’ As she spoke a large man carrying brown envelopes walked past them, heading into the corridor. ‘But with an explosion and so much water, we’re not expecting to discover much.’

  They walked down the short corridor towards the living room.

  ‘What caused the explosion?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  As the crime scene manager answered, Terry Dolan knelt down and pointed to the skirting board. ‘I think this may answer your question, Ridpath.’

  His gnarled finger pointed to a tiny pinhole. He then crawled across to the other side of the entrance and pointed to another small dot of dark on the opposite skirting board. ‘I bet you found a thin length of wire with two picture hooks attached, didn’t you?’

  The crime scene manager’s mouth opened. ‘How did you know? There was another wire leading into the living room.’

  ‘Did you find a battery too?’

  She nodded. ‘One was burnt out on the floor near the door. We thought it may have been involved.’

  ‘The battery would have sent an electrical charge which caused a spark, igniting an accelerant on and surrounding the victim.’

  ‘A booby trap?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘That’s my bet,’ answered Dolan. ‘The Armed Response Unit in their size tens checked out the other rooms, advanced through the door and boom…’ He mimed an explosion with his hands.

  ‘Why was nobody injured?’

  ‘The blast was contained in the living room, it didn’t make it into the corridor. You were lucky, Ridpath.’

  ‘Or that’s how it was planned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Ridpath touched his burnt eyebrow. ‘Well, guv’nor, haven’t you noticed nobody else has been hurt in any of these fires except the victim? In the Brennan fire somebody called it in before it even started. In the Mulkeen death, the fire and explosion was set miles from anywhere. And here, in a tower block with flammable cladding, nobody is hurt.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, Inspector.’ The high-pitched voice of Dr Schofield interrupted Ridpath in mid flow from inside the living room.

  They went in. The doctor was bent over a charred corpse. On the far wall, bright orange spray-painted letters shouted ‘PLAYED THE GAME’.

  The doctor stood up and took one last look at the corpse before walking towards them. ‘In here, one person died.’ He turned to the crime scene manager. ‘Tracy, I’m calling the death at 22:05 for your logs.’

  ‘Thanks, Eugene.’

  Eugene? It was funny but up until now Ridpath had never heard Schofield’s first name. Doctors didn’t have names, they had titles. Or that was his experience on the cancer wards.

  The doctor stepped aside to reveal a charred body. The face was blackened and the mouth twisted into a rictus grin, the lips pulled back and the teeth bared. A burnt moustache like hay stubble on the top lip. The charred arms still with their metal handcuffs around the wrists. Nothing was left of the eyes or hair.

  Ridpath stepped towards the corpse. The stench of burning flesh was strong in his nostrils despite the mask. He stared at a shiny metal object sitting against the charred skin. A St Christopher medallion.

  ‘It’s Charlie.’

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Ridpath finally reached home at two a.m. Polly was sitting up waiting for him, just a single lamp illuminating her face.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t call,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We were worried about you. Eve has only just gone to bed.’ She spoke without looking at him.

  ‘Sorry, there was a—’

  ‘I saw the explosion on the news. You closed off most of Manchester.’

  Before he could apologise again, she stood quickly and ran to him, wrapping him in her arms. ‘We were so worried…’

  He buried his face in her hair. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called, but we were so busy…’

  She pulled away from him, putting her hand over his lips. ‘I’m just so happy you’re safe. They said one man died, we were scared it was you.’

  ‘It was Charlie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Charlie died. We think he was abducted this afternoon by the killer and placed in a flat next to an explosive device.’

  ‘But why?’

  Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. ‘We don’t know. It seems to be something to do with a football team in the 1990s.’

  ‘A football team?’

  ‘I know, I know. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.’

  ‘Oh, Ridpath.’ She buried her face in his chest and held him tighter.

  For a moment he forgot about Charlie and the deaths and the blackened bodies, losing himself in her warmth and her touch.

  After a while, she pulled away again. ‘You need to get out of these clothes and into the shower. Everything smells of burning and smoke. I’ll pour you a nice big Glenmorangie while you shower.’

  He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Sounds just what I need.’

  She stroked his head. ‘Ridpath, what happened to your eyebrow?’

  He took off his jacket and handed it to her, pretending he hadn’t heard, then climbed the stairs slowly. God, he felt old and tired and drained.

  On the landing, he popped his head around Eve’s door, ignoring its bright orange ‘keep out’ sign.

  She was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled up to her face, clutching the stuffed rabbit she had loved since she was a baby.

  Her face had that wonderful serenity and peace only children have when they sleep.

  For a minute Ridpath stood there and watched her. The slow, rhythmic rise of her chest. The quietness of her breathing. The way her dark fringe fell across her eyes.

  The last image of Charlie flashed into his mind. A blackened, charred corpse sitting handcuffed to a chair. That was no way for any man to die.

  And then he imagined it was his body sitting in the flat. How would Eve feel? And what about Polly?

  He shook his head, trying to get rid of the images flashing through his mind. You can’t think of them, it doesn’t do anybody any good.

  He closed the door to Eve’s room.

  His job was to find out who killed Charlie. That’s all there was and all there would ever be.

  Day Nine

  Wednesday, May 1, 2019

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  At noon the detectives were assembled in the incident room for Operation Douter, waiting for Claire Trent.

  Chrissy Wright’s panels held two pictures of each of the deceased now: one from the five-a-side picture and the other a more recent shot. The only exception was Charlie Whitworth. His panel only held a blown-up version of the picture on his warrant card, Charlie staring out as if he were still alive, still in the incident room with them, working the case.

  Ridpath couldn’t look at it. Instead, he looked out of the windows at the bleak landscape of northern Manchester, the floodlight towers of the Etihad Stadium shrouded in the mist. As ever, it was raining; a steady drizzle that continued for days on end without hope of respite.

  Trent eventually arrived fifteen minutes late, Lorraine Caruso in her wake. ‘Sorry, everyone, dealing with the fallout from last night’s incident. The press seem particularly interested in Charlie Whitworth’s story.’ She sat down at the front while Caruso took up position next to Chrissy Wright.

  The DCI spoke first. ‘As you can see, we have entered the information we have so far on the panels, updated to reflect the new findings. I’ll let Chrissy take you through the developments since our last meeting.’

  Chrissy stepped forward. ‘The West Yorkshire pathologist has completed his post-mortem of Alistair Ransome.’ She moved to the first panel. ‘The pathologist puts the death of the psychotherapist at late on Sunday April 21 until early on Monday April 22. Which makes him our killer’s first victim.’

  ‘Have w
e checked his patient list and appointment book, Lorraine?’ asked Trent.

  ‘The lads on the fifth floor have cracked the password on his laptop. With their latest kit, it took less than five minutes. There are 173 names on his list, none of which match any of our victims. We’re going through them as we speak, boss, contacting each of them one by one. As you can imagine, it’s a laborious process.’

  ‘You need more resources?’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt, boss.’

  ‘You’ll have them.’ She turned in her seat to face the other detectives. ‘I have the chief constable’s promise that nothing will be spared in the hunt for this killer. Understand? And that includes you lot. Continue, Lorraine.’

  ‘The appointment book just had a time on the relevant date but no name so wasn’t much use. We haven’t found his mobile. We presume it was taken by the killer.’

  ‘Has his next of kin been informed?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘That’s been taken care of by West Yorkshire,’ she answered dismissively.

  Chrissy continued. ‘The second victim was a Thomas Larkin. He was found on the roof of Bakewell registry office, burnt to death. Derbyshire police initially logged it as suicide…’

  ‘Has the designation been changed?’

  Chrissy nodded. ‘They’ve also handed the case to us. A Detective Sergeant Frobisher is our liaison if we need it.’ Chrissy checked her notes. ‘The registry office was closed that day.’

  ‘CCTV?’ asked Harry Makepeace.

  ‘The system was not operational. Somebody sprayed the lens with orange paint.’

  Caruso stepped forward. ‘We think it could have been the killer.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ whispered Harry to Ridpath.

  Trent swung round sharply in her seat and stared at both of them.

  Caruso carried on. ‘We’re checking other CCTV in the area, but Bakewell isn’t as well covered as Manchester.’

  Chrissy moved past the panels showing Joseph Brennan and Sam Sykes, across to the picture of David Mulkeen. ‘The Derbyshire forensic pathologist has completed his examination of both Thomas Larkin and this man. Both were hit over the head with a blunt object, probably a ball peen hammer, and both were dead when they were set on fire. The accelerant used in each case was methylated spirits.’