Where the Silence Calls

by M J Lee

  ‘And?’

  ‘Book tickets for the BTS concert in London on June the first. It’s a Saturday and we could make a weekend of it, go as a family I mean.’

  ‘You almost sound as if you want to go as well.’

  She smiled and got up from the dressing table to jump on the bed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with half-naked Korean boys dancing…’

  Ridpath rolled his eyes in imitation of his daughter. ‘So I’ll have Eve shaking her tush to the music on one side and a wife dripping with lust on the other.’

  She kissed him on the lips. ‘You put it so nicely, Ridpath.’

  He kissed her back. ‘It’s a deal, I’ll book the tickets tomorrow, but let’s keep this from her, our little secret.’

  Another kiss, longer now.

  And as Ridpath kissed his wife, he realised they hadn’t talked about his cancer for a week or more. He hoped that would continue for another year at least. Scratch that. He prayed it would continue. He wanted to see his daughter grow up into a beautiful young woman. And he would give anything for that to happen.

  Day Three

  Thursday, April 25, 2019

  Chapter Thirteen

  The incident report from Ron Pleasance was sitting on Ridpath’s desk when he arrived at the coroner’s office.

  Sophia Rahman smiled at him over the top of her computer. ‘I printed it out for you. Was this the case you went on yesterday?’

  He nodded and picked up the report to start reading.

  ‘Pretty gruesome way to die.’

  ‘There’s no pretty way.’ He sat down and studied the report.

  Pleasance had done a good job. He had described the times of the fire and the discovery of the body. He briefly summarised Dave Greene’s testimony and that of the next-door neighbour, Myra Finnegan. He described going to the B&Q store, taking a PC with him as a witness. The staff remembered an obnoxious, drunken customer with long hair and wearing a big overcoat, coming into the store as soon as they opened. Pleasance had shown them the photo of Joseph Brennan and they had recognised him immediately. They even remembered what he had bought: some plastic bags and a bottle of bleach, both items on special offer.

  The detective constable was very good on his follow-up questions.

  I asked them if he had bought an accelerant ie petrol, kerosene or methylated spirits, and they answered in the negative. I also asked if he had bought any orange spray paint. Again the answer was negative. But a staff member remembered a can of spray paint was missing from a display he had created that morning. Subsequent investigations showed that no cans of spray paint had been sold that day.

  At the end, Pleasance outlined a plan of action. Check the internal CCTV of the store. Visit Joe Brennan’s GP to see if he had ever been diagnosed with mental health issues. Check with the Department of Work and Pensions on Brennan’s status. Find out if there was any next of kin.

  The report then ended with the line: ‘Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath, the coroner’s officer for East Manchester, has been informed of these enquiries’.

  Ridpath smiled at the mention of his name. Not as stupid as he looked was DC Pleasance.

  Along the bottom a message was scrawled in ink: ‘Good report, Pleasance. Don’t spend too long on this. Let Ridpath do the donkey work.’ The message was signed Ian Wharton.

  Seems like the leopard definitely hadn’t changed his spots.

  ‘Why are you smiling, Ridpath?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Nothing, same old shit, different day.’ Then he had an idea. ‘Sophia, can you follow up on this? Find out if Joseph Brennan had any next of kin. But don’t contact them yet. If he does have relatives, we’ll have to let them know he’s passed away.’

  ‘No problem, Ridpath.’

  ‘And call the mortuary and check when Schofield is doing the post-mortem on Mr Brennan.’

  ‘He’s doing a post-mortem?’

  ‘Didn’t we ask him to?’

  Sophia pulled a brown folder towards her, opened it and scanned down the page. ‘There’s no request from us.’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. Should he bother asking the pathologist to perform a post-mortem? There was considerable cost involved, as well as the pathologist’s time, which may be of more use on another case.

  He made a decision. ‘Ask him to go ahead. We should check out the cause of death.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He stood up and put on his jacket.

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘If anybody asks, I’m with Ron Pleasance checking on the death of Joseph Brennan.’

  She nodded. ‘OK.’

  He was just leaving the office when he heard her call his name.

  ‘Ridpath, I have a favour to ask. Could I go to the post-mortem?’

  He couldn’t think why anybody would want to watch a human body being reduced to a pile of skin, bones and discarded tissue. Then he remembered she was a Biomedical Sciences student. Mrs Challinor had insisted he employ somebody with medical qualifications rather than legal or police training. ‘It won’t be your first, will it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I saw lots at uni. It was one of the modules.’

  ‘What? Cutting up dead people?’

  She smiled. ‘It was actually called Medical Visualisation and Human Anatomy.’

  ‘Like I said, cutting up dead people.’ He shrugged. ‘OK, if you’re sure?’

  She smiled again. ‘I’m actually looking forward to it.’

  Ridpath walked out of the office, shaking his head. Young people these days. In his youth, he’d looked forward to some Northern Soul for an evening out. Now, they enjoy some Northern Liver.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Can you spare some change for a coffee?’ asked Soapy Sam from his seated position in front of All Saints on Market Street.

  The high heels walked straight past him without pausing.

  Tosser, he thought, but he said, ‘Cheers, love, have a nice day.’ There was no sarcasm in his voice. He had learnt years ago never to use sarcasm, the punters didn’t like it. Better to be over-cheerful. It painted a more acceptable picture: the cheery chappy who’s just down on his luck and asking for a bit of help to get by.

  It made them feel good.

  And made a few more bob for him.

  Usually he worked the kebab shop next to the pubs and clubs every evening. Firstly, there was something about stuffing your face with a greasy kebab while being watched by a starving, homeless man that made the punters reach into their pockets. Secondly, the kebabs were five ninety-nine, which meant they always had a bit of change left over from a tenner. Lastly, they were pissed – you had to be pissed to eat at that scumbag’s place – and there was a universal law of nature that said the more pissed you were, the more money you gave.

  But something had gone wrong last night.

  He’d been waylaid by Liverpool Katie and a bottle of cider which they’d shared in Piccadilly Gardens. One thing led to another and he’d never made it to his usual pitch.

  How many had they drunk last night?

  He checked his body. Not too bad, bit woozy, a bit hungover, but that was to be expected – he had spent most of the night on the lash.

  So here he was. Outside All Saints, sitting on his blanket with the white polystyrene McDonald’s cup placed within touching distance in front of him.

  Hungry, hungover and broke.

  Not to worry, at least it wasn’t raining.

  A shadow loomed over him, followed by the tinkling of coins in his cup. He always left twenty pence in there. It was his seed money. The punters didn’t like to see an empty cup. By their strange way of reckoning, an empty cup meant this beggar wasn’t worthy of money from other people, and therefore they wouldn’t give any.

  He never understood it himself. If the cup was empty, the poor bugger sitting on an old blanket definitely had no money, otherwise he would have seeded the cup. Stands to reason, don’t it?

  But the punters don’t think like that
in their world. No logic at all.

  The reverse was also true. If a man like him had too many pound coins in his cup they wouldn’t give either. The strange rationale being he didn’t need the money. But if you live on the street, you always need money; for drugs, for alcohol, for a doorway to bed down for the night, or for your mates to share a bottle or two to chase away the time.

  He would never understand the logic of the punters and their world. But you have to live in it, don’t yer?

  So smile. Be polite. Always say thank you, even when they don’t give you nothing or look at you. And never, ever use sarcasm. A bit of wit. A bit of flirting with the girls out on the lash. That was OK.

  But showing them up for the fucking hypocrites they were?

  Never. Not if you wanted to get high that night.

  A pair of expensive trainers stood in front of him, next to a branded shopping bag. Another few coins tinkling in the polystyrene cup.

  ‘Thank you, guv’nor, God bless.’

  He checked the cup. Two pound coins. Not bad from the young bastard. He whipped them out quickly and slipped them under his right leg. It was a start.

  He couldn’t remember how long he had been on the streets. Must have been two years since he lost his home to those DWP bastards. How was he supposed to remember interviews? For God’s sake, he couldn’t remember his name most of the time. Nowadays he was called Soapy Sam. He didn’t know where that had come from. But it stuck and at least it was easy to remember for the other dossers.

  ‘Got any gear, Soapy Sam?’

  ‘Leave my piss alone, Soapy Sam.’

  ‘Get your own hole, Soapy Sam.’

  The name stuck. It was a good name. Easy to remember.

  Another pair of shoes stood in front of him. ‘Can you spare some change for a coffee?’ He went into his usual routine, expecting a few coppers to be thrown in his cup.

  Instead, he felt something being put into his hand. Something like paper, only stiffer, yet still flimsy. Followed by a voice. ‘This is for you, treat yourself.’

  Then the shoes walked away.

  Soapy Sam glanced down surreptitiously at the paper in his hand.

  Fifty quid.

  Fifty fucking quid. He looked up to check out who had given him the money, but the man was gone. ‘Cheers, guv’nor, God bless you,’ he shouted anyway. Got to keep the punters happy.

  He folded up the money and placed it in the special purse he wore on a string round his neck, close to his heart. You can’t be too careful on the streets. A lot of bad people. Never used to be, mind. Salt of the earth used to live on the streets, but not any more.

  They’ve all gone. Dead, some of them. Or drifted away. Or simply vanished.

  He packed up his stuff in his bag, placing the old blanket in the wire shopping basket he sat on. You can’t beat a shopping basket on a day like this. The cold ground is bad for you, bad for the bones and the piles. ‘Gotta be comfy.’ Harry the Hun had taught him that when he first went on the streets and he had never forgotten it.

  Anybody who’s lived on the streets will tell you the importance of being comfortable. You don’t want to be packing your stuff up and moving on every five minutes. You want to find a nice doorway, with a good passing trade and preferably a boozer or three nearby. Don’t move about, don’t be rude, and don’t ever, ever be sarcastic.

  You can make a good living on the streets if you follow the rules.

  He slung his bag over his shoulder, hitched his coat around his body against the cold and shuffled off.

  Heaven was waiting. He looked more like a six-foot-tall black man with a dodgy red bandana and jeans hanging round his ankles, but he was heaven for Sam.

  Across the tram lines, past the Caffè Nero, right after the Primark.

  He spotted the man he was looking for standing in the middle of the concrete jungle. He remembered when Piccadilly Gardens was just that, a garden with flowers and sunken beds and gravel pathways. A nice place to sit and while away the hours when he was a lad.

  But now it was just concrete, designed by some architect who lived in a big house surrounded by gardens, trees, birds and bees.

  ‘Wha’ you wan’?’

  ‘One Brown and three Mamba.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Forty.’

  Sam reached into his jumper and pulled out the folded square of paper.

  ‘Fifty quid, you’ve had a good mornin’.’ He signalled to a young kid, who ran off.

  Sam held his hand out, the skin wrinkled with dirt and oil and bronzed by the sun. ‘A tenner.’

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Ten quid, my change.’

  His dealer leant in closer. ‘You sure you don’t want one more? I can make it two ’cos I feelin’ generous. You can burn all day, man.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Wanna have some cider with Katie later.’

  ‘You gotta bit of squeeze, ol’ man?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Me and Katie, we look after each other.’

  ‘You married, man.’ The kid ran up and tossed a small plastic bag to his boss. ‘Here’s your stuff and there’s a little taster of something new for you, from your Uncle Tony.’

  Sam checked the baggie. It was all there. He tucked the bag into the purse beneath his clothes, couldn’t lose it now. ‘My tenner.’

  ‘Hold you horses, you gettin’ you money. Uncle Tony, he an honest dealer.’

  Sam felt the note being placed in his hand. He checked it out. An old ten-pound note. He folded it up into a small square and placed it into the purse with his gear. That was two bottles of White Lightning for himself and Katie sorted.

  Now to find somewhere quiet where he could get spiced without being bothered by the cops or the plastics who patrolled the streets. And far away from the others who’d want to share his stuff.

  ‘Get away to get away,’ he mumbled to himself as he hurried across the square. Left at the corner, then first right into the narrow alley. Tall brick buildings looming over him. Didn’t like them, like giants ready to crush him.

  Speeding up now, closer to the place, moving as quickly as he could, already tasting the acrid smoke on his tongue, feeling the jolt of Spice as it flowed over his body.

  Squeeze through the graffitied gates of the building site.

  Forget the past. Forget the future.

  Hunker down behind the bins. A rat scurrying away.

  Forget the pain.

  Roll the spliff, fingers clumsy, sprinkling the Spice.

  Forget him.

  The lighter sparking in front of his eyes.

  Forget his words as he entered me.

  The smoke swirling through his body.

  Warmth.

  A hug of warmth.

  Peace. Quiet. Nothing.

  The darkness of shadow looming over him. Shoes in front of his eyes. The same shoes as before. The shoes that had given him the fifty-quid note. Perhaps he was going to get more money?

  He tried to lift his head but the Spice kept him in its grip, like being at the bottom of a deep, dark well.

  The shoes moved behind him. Something cold against his throat. A rapid movement and liquid flowed over his clothes.

  Red liquid.

  He felt himself falling sideways, the hard ground coming up to meet his head. An acrid smell. More liquid sprinkled over his body. Was it raining?

  Leave me be. Leave me alone. This is my gear, my peace.

  The flare of a match.

  You’re not having my gear.

  A smell of burning. His arm on fire. Blue flames crawling up his body to his face. An aroma of roasting meat like something from his childhood, when his mother was in the kitchen cooking the Sunday roast, waiting for their dad to arrive back from the golf club.

  He tried to scream but no sound came out of his throat.

  Laughter from somewhere, ringing in his ears.

  Then nothing.

  Peace.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He’d shown Sam the knife before
cutting his throat. Let him see the glistening steel shining in the cold light of a Manchester day.

  He hadn’t recognised it at all – why should he? The fact it was the same knife as the one Sam had pulled on him all those years ago simply passed him by in a haze of Spice.

  The drugs had him now. Had him deep in their grip.

  Giving him the fifty-quid note had been the catalyst, as he knew it would be. Within seconds, Sam was rushing off to his dealer to score. Following him back to his little bolthole on the building site was easy. Letting him settle for a few minutes while the drugs took effect, and then it was time to strike.

  The area Sam had chosen for his little drug den was perfect. A small back alley not far from the city centre, surrounded by abandoned buildings. There was just one CCTV camera covering a doorway opposite. That was simple to avoid; just lift his bag to cover his face.

  He doubted whether the police would even check the cameras. For them, it would be just another homeless death. A bunsen killed by his own desire for drugs. And he would leave enough clues to help them come to that conclusion.

  Sam hadn’t even lifted his head when he stood in front of him. He was deep in the Spice hole. A zombie in all but name.

  It was time for him to burn.

  It had always been time for him to burn.

  He splashed the meths over the body, making sure the face was well soaked, and put the bottle down close to the body.

  He remembered Sam’s laughing face. The eyes sparkling, the teeth white and the mouth pink. Well, he wouldn’t be smiling any more.

  Not any more.

  He stepped back and took out the lighter and the wooden spill from his bag. He lit the long match, watched the yellow-orange flame take hold, and then tossed it onto Sam’s clothes.

  The flames took hold immediately. They travelled up in a blue wave to the face and hands, feasting on the subcutaneous fat and tissue.

  The scent of Sam was delicious. A wonderful aroma of roasting flesh, like the best roast pork on earth.

  He tossed the lighter onto the body and waited for it to explode. The pop, when it came, was disappointing. He had expected more. Tommy Larkin had been much better.