Where the Silence Calls

by M J Lee

  ‘It looks like it’s the only option.’ He turned to Sophia. ‘This could be a long day, Sophia.’

  ‘And that’s presuming this picture was taken by a local newspaper, and that they printed it, and there’s more of the image to see. Have you thought this might be the original crop? Perhaps the man you’re looking for was never seen in the picture.’

  No, Ridpath hadn’t thought of that.

  Shit, this was going to be difficult.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Ridpath was still thinking what to do when Sophia spoke up.

  ‘Look, we know the tournament was organised by the National Association of Girls and Boys Clubs, right?’

  Ridpath nodded his head slowly.

  ‘Why don’t I call the local branch and see if they have any records? They may have even taken the picture themselves.’

  ‘It’s called the Girls and Boys Clubs of Greater Manchester. GBCGM for short.’ Both women stared at him. ‘I Googled it this morning’.

  The librarian finally spoke. ‘I’ll find the number for you.’ She tapped her code into the computer and wrote the number down on a Post-it note.

  ‘I’ll get started on checking the local papers,’ said Ridpath.

  Sophia wandered off to the entrance to make the phone call.

  ‘Do you have a date range?’ asked the librarian.

  Ridpath shrugged his shoulders. ‘The whole of 1994?’

  ‘It’ll be a lot of reels.’

  ‘Can’t avoid it.’

  ‘OK, but rather you than me.’ She went off to the cabinets where the microfilms were stored, leaving Ridpath on his own in the middle of the library floor. All around him people were reading, checking maps, or staring at computer screens.

  Off to the left, there was the buzz of a cafe. This was also different from the almost reverential atmosphere of the place when he was growing up. He remembered a cathedral-like silence where it was forbidden to talk except in a quiet whisper.

  As he stood there, he wondered if this was just a wild goose chase and he had missed a clue he should have been following. A clue that would lead him to the killer before he killed again.

  Too late now. This was the best thing he could do at this moment.

  Sophia came back. ‘I spoke to a Mrs Hargreaves. They probably have the records in their archives somewhere, but she said I should talk to a man called Steve Richards, who has run the five-a-side competition for donkey’s years. He’ll be in after ten o’clock.’

  ‘Where are they based?’

  ‘A place called Gritstone Mill out in Stockport.’

  ‘You’d better go out there and interview him.’

  ‘But I’ve never done an interview before.’

  ‘Good time to start then. Just ask the right questions.’

  ‘Thanks, Ridpath, that’s a great help.’

  ‘Find out all he knows about the picture. Take it with you.’

  She waved goodbye as the librarian arrived back with an armful of microfilm reels. ‘I’ll start you on the Manchester Evening News, the Manchester Advertiser, the Sports Pinks, Manchester Metro News, and the Middleton and North Manchester Guardian. I’ll come back with some of the district newspapers later.’

  ‘How many of those are there?’

  ‘Well… at least ten. But as I said, we don’t hold them all.’

  Ridpath’s heart fell again. It was like looking for a payphone that worked. ‘I’d better get started then.’

  Two hours later and Ridpath had just about finished the Manchester Evening News. His eyes were tired from staring at the print on the cream screen. All the articles were blurring into each other in some vast sea of newsprint.

  At first he checked the articles one by one, but quickly realised this was going to take him a year. Then he just checked the pictures. After an hour he worked out only the back pages held the sports news, so he whizzed through the microfilm until he reached that place.

  Even though 1994 was only twenty-five years ago, and he had lived through it, the world and Manchester seemed like a very different place. United won the league and cup double, Keane was in midfield with Cantona up front, John Major was prime minister, Tony Blair became leader of the Labour Party, the IRA were still bombing Britain, and police were digging up bodies at the home of Rose and Fred West.

  He remembered that time in his own life. His mother and his sister continually arguing, while he kept his head down and said nothing, burying himself in books or TV, or in the library to avoid their constant squabbles. His sister left home towards the end of the year, running away to London aged sixteen. Ridpath never asked her how she managed, but three years later she was serving time for theft and drugs, and had been in and out of jail ever since. They hardly saw each other any more; the last time was more than three years ago.

  Ridpath had just switched off the machine to take a break when the phone call came through.

  ‘It’s Sophia. I met with Steve Richards and he remembers the time well. He was organising the tournaments in May every year. I showed him the picture and he remembered the team. They all thought they were going to be the next David Beckham or Paul Scholes.’

  ‘Did he remember the man in the picture who’s cropped out?’

  ‘He didn’t. Too many coaches and parents, he said, plus he was busy organising the event and had no time to talk to them.’

  Ridpath’s head sunk to his chest and he let out a long sigh.

  ‘But he remembers the photographer. The same man used to come to all their events.’

  Tentatively, Ridpath asked, ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He doesn’t remember the name…’

  Another sigh.

  ‘…But he used to work for the South Manchester Express.’

  Ridpath punched the air, shouting ‘Yes!’ The other library users stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Sheepishly, he nodded at them.

  ‘Hello, Ridpath, are you there?’

  ‘Well done, Sophia, you did great.’

  ‘Not bad for my first interrogation.’

  ‘Interview, Sophia, only the Secret Service do interrogations.’

  ‘Do you want me to come back to Central Library?’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘No, go back to the coroner’s office and brief Mrs Challinor.’

  He ended the call and hurried over to the librarian’s desk. ‘Do you have the South Manchester Express here?’ Ridpath crossed his fingers behind his back.

  ‘For 1994?’

  He nodded.

  She ran her finger down a list. ‘You said the South Manchester Express, not the South Manchester Reporter?’

  Ridpath said yes and crossed his toes as well.

  Her finger stopped. ‘We do have it, in cabinet 28. Would you like to see it?’

  Would he like to see it? Would United like to win the league again? ‘Yes, please.’

  The librarian went off to the cabinet, returning with just one reel. ‘Would you like me to load it up for you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Ridpath snatched the reel and trotted back to the microfilm reader. With fumbling fingers, he undid the box and put the microfilm on the sprocket, winding it through the gates.

  He switched the reader back on.

  It was upside down.

  He unloaded it and threaded it on again properly. The typed message ‘South Manchester Express Jan-Dec 1994’ stared back at him. He pressed the lever of the reader and the newspaper whizzed past his eyes, a catalogue of house pictures, adverts and short articles.

  He stopped. March 10, 1994.

  He pressed the lever again, finally reaching May 1, then he slowed down, but kept the reader moving forward. More house pictures. A semi-detached house in his area was just 56,000 pounds. More ads for Tesco and Sainsbury. A cat stuck down a drain. Cricket team pictures. Even more houses.

  He scrolled slowly through the month of May: nothing on five-a-side games or boys clubs. Back to the beginning and he started again, going more slowly this tim
e. But the same reports remained in the paper right up to May 31.

  Nothing.

  A dark shadow appeared across his screen. He turned quickly, ready to strike out at whoever it was looming behind him. But it was just the librarian.

  ‘How’s the search going?’ she asked.

  ‘Not great. The five-a-side tournament happened in May but there are no pictures.’

  ‘Have you tried June? The local papers were always a bit slow with the news.’

  He pushed the lever forward.

  And there it was on June 2. The full, uncropped picture.

  His mouth dropped when he looked at the man’s face and saw the name in the caption.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  He strode up to the door and rang the bell. He had spent most of yesterday afternoon watching the house and knew Charlie would be well into the Scotch by now.

  ‘Who is it?’ a querulous voice shouted down the hall.

  Even after all these years, he still recognised the voice. ‘It’s me,’ he shouted back.

  He could see a shape coming closer through the mottled glass.

  ‘I wish people would tell me their bloody names rather than shout “It’s me”. The door is open anyway.’ As he said the last word, the door swung open and Charlie Whitworth stood in the hallway, leaning on a walking stick. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’

  He could smell the whisky from here. ‘You don’t recognise me, Charlie?’

  The man stared at him through unfocussed eyes. ‘No, never seen you before.’

  The door began to close but he was too quick, sticking his boot in the gap.

  ‘If you don’t remove your foot, I’m going to break it.’

  He took the revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at Whitworth. ‘Now, let’s go inside and have a nice chat in your kitchen. We can talk about old times if you want, Charlie.’

  The eyes creased up. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m disappointed you don’t remember me, but you’ll find out soon enough, Charlie. Now why don’t you turn around and hobble back to the kitchen on your walking stick. There’s a bit of a chill in the air this morning and we wouldn’t want you to catch your death. Not of cold, anyway.’

  Charlie stared down at the metal barrel of the revolver then up at his face. He could see the man was trying to remember his face, going through the mugshot books in his mind to find out which criminal he’d put away had returned to darken his door.

  After a few moments, the former detective gave up and slowly turned around, before limping down the hallway to the kitchen.

  He entered the house, closed the door and followed him into the kitchen.

  ‘Now sit yourself down, Charlie, and pour yourself a large Scotch. You’re about to hear my life story. You’ll know part of it, of course. But I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear the rest.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Not a lot, but you’ll find out later. First things first. Sit down and pour yourself a Scotch.’

  Reluctantly Whitworth took his seat at the kitchen table and poured himself a drink.

  ‘I think I first met you in early 1994…’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Ridpath stared at the article below the picture and the caption beneath it.

  WINNERS FOR THE SECOND YEAR

  Stockfield Boys Club came out tops once again in the Manchester and District Five-a-Side Competition hosted by the National Association of Boys and Girls Clubs played last week. They beat Harpurhey 3–1 in the final after trailing 1–0 at half time. The manager of the team, David Mulkeen, said, ‘This is a special set of boys. My favourites after all these years coaching these age groups. After a lot of hard training, I’m going to take them out for a special treat this evening, so they can finally let their hair down and have some fun.’

  Well done, Mr Mulkeen. We’ve just seen David Beckham and Paul Scholes break into the United team from the Juniors. Perhaps you are looking at a future star from amongst these talented boys.

  Pictured above are the winning team: (from left to right) Thomas Larkin, Tony Doyle, Sam Sykes, Joe Brennan and Michael McHale, with coach David Mulkeen and his assistant, Charles Whitworth.

  Ridpath looked again and again at the name of the man who had been cropped out. Charles Whitworth. It was definitely Charlie, a younger version but still his former DCI.

  A second later he jumped out of his seat in Central Library and hurried past the startled librarian. Then he stopped for a second.

  Think, Ridpath. What did he need to do?

  Proof. He needed proof.

  He raced back to the reader, got out his phone and took a picture of the screen. It was just about legible but the quality wasn’t great.

  The librarian was staring at him.

  ‘Could you print out the page on my reader and send it to this email address?’ He quickly wrote down the GMP contact address. ‘Send it to Detective Superintendent Claire Trent.’

  ‘Sure. Did you find what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately.’

  He ran out of the building, pulling the mobile phone back out of his pocket. Trent wasn’t answering, the ringtone buzzing in his ears. He ended the call, nearly running into an old woman, but just dodging around her at the last minute.

  He rang Lorraine Caruso. The phone was answered after two rings.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Caruso.’

  Ridpath bet she loved saying those words. ‘Hi Lorraine, it’s Ridpath. I know who the man in the picture is.’

  ‘How? You’re supposed to be back at the coroner’s, not working on the case. I thought DS Trent made it clear.’

  ‘It’s Charlie.’

  ‘What?’

  Ridpath checked the traffic and ran across the road, down the side of the Midland Hotel. ‘It’s Charlie Whitworth, the man in the photo. The cropped man.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Ridpath. What the hell are you talking about?’

  He slowed down to a walk. He had to explain it properly to her. ‘I found the original of the five-a-side photograph. It was in a local newspaper and uncropped. The other man is Detective Chief Inspector Whitworth. He must have been doing some youth work or liaison with the community back in 1994.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I’m going to end the call now and send you a copy of the page. I’ve sent one already to Claire Trent. We have to move quickly on this, Lorraine.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Hello, Lorraine…?’

  ‘I’m just thinking, Ridpath.’

  ‘There’s not time. Send a squad car to Charlie’s house immediately. I’m on my way there now. Hurry, Lorraine.’

  ‘But… but…’

  ‘Act now, for God’s sake.’ He ended the call and sent the picture to her address. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  Was Charlie in trouble? Was he going to be the killer’s next victim? And then an idea struck him. Could it be Charlie? Could Charlie be the man who was killing people and setting them alight? The words of their last conversation came back to him. ‘I’d burn the lot of them. There’s so much fat there, it’d make the best bonfire night ever.’

  He doubled his pace along the crisp packet strewn streets.

  Chapter Sixty

  ‘You have to believe me, I knew nothing about what happened.’

  ‘So why did you ask me to keep quiet about it?’

  Charlie frowned, trying to remember. ‘Did I?’

  ‘You visited me in hospital. You told me not to tell anyone, said you would have to arrest someone if the truth came out.’

  ‘Well, I would. Playing that stupid game was asking for trouble. Why did you agree to do the dare? It was stupid.’

  He smiled. Charlie Whitworth was good, no wonder he had finagled so many confessions out of reluctant cons. He could make anybody believe black was white. ‘There was no game, Charlie. Mulkeen lied to you. They were doing it for him.’

  T
he man’s face went pale. ‘That can’t be true,’ he blustered. ‘They told me it was a game. I was a police constable. If I’d thought…’ And then his eyes suddenly brightened as the penny finally dropped. ‘They lied to me.’

  ‘You wanted to believe the lie, Charlie. That’s why you have to die.’ He stood up and pointed to the door. ‘It’s time to go now.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘You’ll find out when you get there. Come on, get up.’ He gestured with the revolver. ‘Or I could shoot you here in the kitchen. I think your wife wouldn’t like it, would she? Coming home to find her pots and pans and dainty china drenched in your blood. When is she coming home, Charlie?’

  ‘Don’t talk about my wife. Leave her out of this!’

  ‘Then it’s time to go.’

  Reluctantly Charlie grabbed his walking stick and levered himself out of the chair, supporting his weight on it.

  ‘You’re going to drive us, while I sit in the back seat.’

  ‘I haven’t driven since the accident. I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Looks like we’re going to find out. If you can’t drive, I’ll kill you here.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘As I said, you’ll find out. Come on, we don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Late for what?’

  ‘Late for the fireworks. There’s always fireworks at a celebration.’

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ Charlie said brusquely.

  He stepped back as the ex-copper hobbled past him, just in case he tried to take a swing with the walking stick. He didn’t, of course, the revolver made sure he stayed quiet.

  He was quick, though. Nobody would have noticed the phone was no longer lying on the table next to the bottle of Scotch.

  But he wanted him to take the phone. He wanted the police to track its movements through the phone towers.

  After all, he needed an audience for this last party trick and it would save him ringing them later.

  Charlie was quick, though, despite leaning on a walking stick.

  Shame he was going to die.