by M J Lee
Charlie guffawed. ‘A job in the call centre answering the bloody phone! I’m a detective chief inspector with twenty-five years’ experience, for God’s sake, and they offer me that?’ He took a large swallow of whisky. ‘Nah, it’s just to salve their bloody conscience. I’m gonna take their payoff and never see the inside of a bloody nick again.’ A pause as Charlie stared into his glass. ‘I was a bloody good copper, Ridpath, one of the best and look what happened.’ He held his arms out, pointing to his useless legs.
‘They offer you any counselling?’
‘After the accident?’
Ridpath nodded.
‘Yeah, they were worried about PTSD. For fuck’s sake, that bastard in his car shattered my pelvis, broke my right leg in three places, fractured three ribs and broke an ankle, and all the fucking police could do was worry if I was “handling” it. I nearly bloody died and all the trick cyclist cared about was asking me what my childhood was like. If I had my way, I’d burn the lot of them. There’s so much fat there, it’d make the best bonfire night ever.’
Ridpath checked his watch.
‘Am I keeping you?’ Charlie snarled sarcastically.
‘I have to meet Ted Jones at noon.’
‘That arsehole. The best box ticker I ever worked with, but useless as a detective. Couldn’t detect his way out of a wet paper bag. Anyway, what you seeing him about?’
Ridpath detected the first flicker of interest in Charlie’s face. ‘A homeless John Doe set himself alight near Piccadilly.’
‘It happens. “Bunsens” we used to call them when I was in Central. A lethal mixture of meths and fags. Poof, up in smoke.’ He stopped talking and thought for a moment. ‘But I thought meths was long gone. Don’t tell me they’re going back on it?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘So why are you interested?’
‘There may be a link with another death the night before in Wythenshawe.’ Ridpath considered telling Charlie about the message written on the wall but decided against it. Instead, he said, ‘Mrs Challinor is also concerned about a death by burning in Derbyshire.’
‘How is our friendly neighbourhood coroner? Still trying to save the world, is she? Still worrying there may be another Harold Shipman out there?’
‘She’s fine…’
‘Oh, we are defensive. Got the hots for her, have you? Didn’t know you were into cougars.’
The Scotch was beginning to talk. Ridpath checked his watch again.
‘You’d best be on your way if you’re going to get into town before noon.’ He splashed another large measure of Glenmorangie into the glass, spilling some on the table. The stench of it was strong in Ridpath’s nostrils.
The detective stood up. ‘I’d best be going, Charlie. Look after yourself and see you soon.’
‘Not if I see you first, Ridpath. Close the door on your way out.’ He pointed to the front door.
‘Bye, Charlie.’
‘Don’t forget to check HOLMES. Only thing the Home Office was good for was that program. I’d check deaths of the homeless and correlate it against deaths by fire. You never know what might come up. Go and see Rob Johnson. He’s the only one I’d trust to operate the system. Tell him Charlie sent you.’
‘Thanks, Charlie, that’s a great idea.’
But Charlie wasn’t listening. He was already filling his glass one more time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ridpath had arranged to meet up with Detective Sergeant Jones at the building site rather than in his office. Jones hadn’t been happy, but Ridpath had insisted. There was no better way to understand a scene than being there; feeling it, seeing it, touching it, smelling it. Looking at pictures was worse than useless.
As he drove towards the centre of town, the sky was the dirty grey of an old dishcloth; louring over the city, threatening rain at any second.
A typical spring day in Manchester.
The atmosphere at the site, though, was completely different from the previous evening. For a start, there were more people around, using Back Piccadilly as a shortcut. And the buildings overlooking the site had lost their threat in the cold light of day. The area still smelled, though, with full bins lining the alleyway.
Why did nobody notice a man had burnt to death?
Jones was waiting for him when he arrived. ‘You’re early, Ted. Glad you got my message.’
‘No, you’re late, Ridpath. Why have you dragged me out of my warm, cosy, fart-filled office back to this dump?’
‘The homeless person that died here yesterday—’
‘The bunsen? What of it?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
Jones’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it to you? I thought you were with MIT. Heard you were on sick leave, though. Cancer, wasn’t it?’
At the mention of his illness, Ridpath blanched. He hated being reminded of his cancer. It was like this wraith standing over him waiting to strike at any minute. ‘Well, I’m back at work and working for the coroner. She asked me to look into it.’
‘Didn’t they get my report? Open and shut case. An accident. Life on the streets, innit.’
The catch-all for a multitude of sins. It was just life on the street. The concrete jungle where the survival of the fittest ruled and the police were a thin blue line holding back the forces of anarchy.
‘For her, it’s still open and definitely not shut.’
‘You really gonna waste my time with this, Ridpath?’
‘That’s Detective Inspector Ridpath to you, Ted. And yes, I’m going to waste your time until I’m satisfied this was an accident.’
Jones began to walk away. ‘Take it up with my gaffer. I’m not staying here any longer.’
Ridpath pulled his phone from his pocket and redialled the last number. He held it out to Jones. ‘You can talk to him now, if you want.’
He had taken the precaution of ringing Detective Inspector Harris, Jones’s boss, this morning. Harris was old school, a copper who was aware the coroner knew Claire Trent, who knew the chief constable. As ever in GMP, it wasn’t what you knew, but who you knew.
Jones was listening to his boss and nodding his head. ‘But… but… yes, sir.’
He clicked off the phone and stared at the screen before handing it back to Ridpath.
‘It didn’t have to be this way, Ted.’
‘That’s Detective Sergeant Jones to you,’ he said, walking through the gate into the building site. Ridpath followed him.
Beside the bins, Jones pointed to a dark patch on the ground. ‘This is where we found the bunsen. An empty bottle of meths at his feet and a spliff still between his fingers. Wasn’t much left of him. You know those pictures of the victims of the first nuclear bombs in Hiroshima?’
Ridpath nodded.
‘Like that, only worse.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘None came forward. As you can see, the place isn’t overlooked.’ He pointed to the next building with its bricked-up windows. ‘The woman who was the first responder said he was still glowing when she found him.’
‘Why did she come in here? It’s just a building site.’
‘The smell. She thought somebody was cooking a roast dinner.’
Ridpath turned around in a circle. He could see the surrounding buildings but no cameras. He hurried back to the gate. The camera on the building opposite would have caught anybody entering or leaving.
If it was working and recording and switched on.
He pointed to it. ‘Did you check CCTV?’
‘Why waste time doing that? I told you, he had a bottle of meths at his feet and a lit cigarette. He burnt himself to death.’
Ridpath didn’t say anything but walked back to the area behind the bins, looking down at the dark patch on the ground. ‘Did you keep the bottle of meths?’
Jones shook his head.
‘Well, where is it?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps one of the ghouls took it as a souvenir.’
‘There were people watching?’
‘A few. Police investigating a death always attracts the ghouls, you know how it is.’
Ridpath knew only too well people’s morbid fascination with death. ‘Did you dust it for fingerprints?’
Jones threw his hands up in the air. ‘It was a bunsen, for Christ’s sake. One of the homeless. If he didn’t die here, it would be somewhere else. In a doorway surrounded by cider bottles or covered in Spice roaches. You know how it is, Ridpath – people don’t last long on the streets.’
Ridpath pointed to the graffiti. PLAY THE GAME in its bright orange letters. In the full light of day, it was even clearer. Only the final ‘E’ displaying signs of being rushed.
Jones shook his head. ‘Definitely wasn’t here yesterday.’
‘You sure?’
‘Read my lips. It wasn’t here yesterday.’
Ridpath checked the time. ‘Right, you can go now.’
‘Wasted enough of my time, have you?’
Ridpath had had enough. ‘Listen, a man died here yesterday. Our job is to find out what happened, not to rush back to our nice warm office and a friendly chat with some PCSO.’
‘I did my job, OK? He was a Spice-head who killed himself drinking meths. He won’t be the first and he won’t be the last. If you actually did some coppering in Manchester instead of enjoying a cushy number with the coroner, you’d know it.’
‘Finished?’
Jones nodded.
‘You can leave. I’ll let your boss know how co-operative you were.’
Jones stalked out of the building site, shouting, ‘Don’t bother, I can look after myself,’ over his shoulder.
Ridpath was left staring down at the dark patch on the ground. A man had died. Somebody’s son, perhaps a father. A man who once had dreams of happiness and love and life. Now he was just a mark on the ground.
Nobody should live like that and nobody should ever die like that.
At that moment, Ridpath decided he had to do three things.
Find out who the man was.
Discover how he died.
And work out who was the bastard who’d hit him over the head last night.
He wasn’t going to let this one go. John Doe deserved better.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ridpath was just about to start his engine and drive back to Stockfield when the phone rang.
He had tried to get the CCTV from the building opposite the site, owned by a company called Charest Fashions, before he left Back Piccadilly. But despite him ringing the bell three times and shouting through the letterbox, nobody had answered the door.
He would try again later. Or perhaps Sophia would. Time to get her to do something.
He had grabbed a quick Big Mac, large fries and a Coke and raced back to the car. Five bites later and with sauce dribbling down his chin, the Big Mac was no more, sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. The fries were still waiting for him, ready to be washed down by the Coke.
He thought about letting the phone go to voicemail, but after four rings he gave up and decided to answer. ‘Ridpath.’
‘Hi there, it’s Margaret Challinor. I’ve just got off the phone with Schofield. He has a window now.’
A window. Why did Ridpath care what his office looked like? ‘I’m sure it will throw some light on the dead.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A window, light, in his office.’
‘No, Ridpath, a window; time to do the post-mortem on our John Doe.’
‘Oh, that sort of window.’ Ridpath wished he’d never opened his mouth.
‘If you go there now, you’ll catch him in the middle of it.’
Did he really want to see the pathologist cutting open a burnt body after his lunch? He felt the Big Mac in his stomach and answered, ‘I’m on my way, Mrs Challinor. I’ll try to debrief you later back in Stockfield. And could you ask Sophia to meet me at the mortuary? I promised her she could attend a post-mortem.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘She asked.’
‘Ugly things, post-mortems.’
‘Don’t I know. I’m on my way now.’
‘OK, I’ll tell her.’
The phone clicked off abruptly. Ridpath put the car in gear and pulled out of the car park. Luckily, or unluckily, he was only ten minutes’ drive from the mortuary. He just hoped his stomach was up to whatever was waiting for him there.
Of course it wasn’t. He gagged just as soon as he walked into the examination room. The combined smell of disinfectant, preserving solution and burnt flesh got to him immediately. He put his hand over his mouth and swallowed just as Dr Schofield greeted him in his high-pitched voice.
‘Good afternoon, Ridpath, I thought you’d never make it.’
The doctor’s eyes, sandwiched between the top of his surgical cap and the bottom of his mask, were shining. He suffered from hypergonadism and so had the demeanour and appearance of a seventeen-year-old boy, despite being one of the best forensic pathologists in the country. He was standing next to a polished stainless steel table with a half-dissected body lying on it.
Ridpath’s gaze shifted from the body back to the doctor. ‘I hoped I wouldn’t have to.’
‘And you’re in luck. Just for today, this mortuary is offering a two-for-one special.’
Ridpath shook his head, not understanding.
The doctor stepped backwards slightly to reveal another white sheet covering a large lump lying on the neighbouring table. ‘I performed a post-mortem on your other burn victim, a Mr Brennan, this morning. Two deaths by fire in a short amount of time, most unusual. It meant I had to read up on the procedures.’
Schofield’s assistant removed the white sheet covering Joseph Brennan’s body to reveal a completely burnt, dismembered corpse.
The smell was overpowering. A mixture of burnt toast, roast pork and decayed flesh filled the room. Ridpath swallowed again. Keep it together.
He adjusted his face mask. Not one but two burnt corpses to stare at. He hoped the Big Mac would stay in the depths of his stomach. He opened his mouth to speak and the words almost dribbled out of it. ‘We haven’t confirmed the identification of Brennan yet. We’re waiting on a DNA match.’
Dr Schofield picked up his notes. ‘The crime scene manager seemed to think it was him.’
‘All the indications point that way, but there’s been no confirmation yet.’
‘No matter. The DNA has gone to the lab, plus we took fingerprints, even though with the condition of the body, I doubt they will be of much use.’
Ridpath raised an eyebrow.
‘Burning often causes sloughing of the skin, making fingerprint information worse than useless. However, the forensic team found a dental bridge close to the body. We should be able to match the dental records.’ Schofield gestured back towards the other body in front of him. ‘Shall we finish this client first, though? He’s revealed some rather interesting nuggets of information.’
‘The SIO, Ted Jones, thinks it was an accident. The man was drinking meths and smoking Spice. He set himself alight.’
‘He might have made that presumption. However, I came to this customer with an open mind and have reached a very different conclusion.’
Ridpath was suddenly interested. Ignoring the smell, he stumbled over to where Dr Schofield and his assistant were standing in front of the mortuary table. The doctor was holding a scalpel in his hand. He leant forward and made a long incision.
‘I’m afraid we started without you and have made a fair amount of progress already.’
‘No worries,’ mumbled Ridpath, ‘but why do you think this wasn’t an accident?’
‘All in due time. Let me take you through my reasoning first. Then we may reach the same conclusion, or a different one, together.’
Dr Schofield stepped aside to allow Ridpath to see the body in its full horror for the first time. The face and hands were shades of black with patches of raw red and yellow flesh. The s
kin in one place had split, as if it had been slashed open with a knife. The hair and eyebrows had mostly burnt away, but tufts still remained poking through the blackened skin.
The body itself was a pure white beneath the shoulder line. A body that hadn’t seen the light of day for a long time.
The doctor glanced down at the cadaver lying on the stainless steel table. ‘Burn victims are never the most appealing things to look at, and in a post-mortem present a number of challenges.’
‘Such as?’ Ridpath mumbled, covering his mouth.
‘Most contact elements and trace elements are destroyed in the fire, so Locard’s exchange principle no longer applies. Plus any other evidence – skin epithelials under the nails, hair samples, bruising on the skin – is also destroyed. As long as the temperature of the corpse remains under 800 degrees Celsius, we can still obtain DNA, though.’
Ridpath glanced across at the two corpses lying next to each other. One had a black head and hands but the rest of the body was white. The other was completely blackened from head to toe. Both had their arms up like boxers getting ready to fight. Ridpath found himself staring at the two bodies. These men had once been living, breathing human beings, but now they just looked like specimens from a barbecue. The image appalled him and he quickly jerked his head away.
‘Why do they have their arms up?’
‘The pugilist’s pose. Common among fire victims. It’s the effect of heat on the muscles of the arms. Invariably, the victims end up looking like boxers ready to fight.’
‘And why is the John Doe’s body unburnt?’
‘Ah, but he is no longer a John Doe, Ridpath.’ Schofield held up a crocheted purse about five inches long and four inches deep. ‘We found this hidden beneath his clothes. It contained a ten-pound note, two letters from the Department of Work and Pensions, three wraps of what I presume to be heroin, another bag of a herbal mixture which is probably Spice, and an expired credit card. The card has the name Sam Sykes on it. I’m sure you will check if this is his identity, but until you do we will be calling this customer Mr Sykes.’
Ridpath made an entry in his notebook. As he did so, Sophia burst into the room dressed in whites. ‘Sorry I’m late, I just got your message.’
