When the Past Kills

by M J Lee

  ‘I can’t eat this. I’m vegan.’

  ‘Since when?’ he asked.

  ‘Since last night. I saw a documentary on how they treat the chickens who lay these eggs in the factory farms.’

  ‘These are free range,’ Ridpath lied again.

  ‘Go on, you need to eat something Eve, look at me.’

  Polly was tucking in to the scrambled eggs and managing to smile and grimace at the same time.

  ‘Why’s there burnt toast in the sink?’ asked Eve.

  ‘Is there? How did that get there? Perhaps, I should call the police… hang on, I am the police, maybe I should investigate.’

  Eve rolled her eyes in the way only eleven-year-olds can do. ‘Dad, it’s too early…’

  ‘But it’s not too early to eat.’ He pointed to the food.

  She stared at her breakfast for a while before gingerly picking up the toast and its burden of scrambled egg with the tips of her fingers and biting down. ‘Mmmm, it’s good, what’s in it?’

  ‘Herbs and a smidge of paprika.’

  ‘Jamie Oliver?’

  ‘The man himself. Listen, I have to go now. We’ve got the weekly status meeting at the Major Investigation Team and I want to have a chat with Mrs Challinor in her office before I go.’ He picked up the cafetière of coffee and poured another cup for his wife. ‘Anything else before I’m off?’

  ‘Has she found your replacement yet?’ His wife asked between mouthfuls of coffee and scrambled eggs.

  ‘I don’t think so, it’s one of the things I want to talk with her about this morning. She’s rejected all the coppers and is now advertising for someone to become the new coroner’s officer.’

  After his illness, he had been seconded by Greater Manchester Police to work with the East Manchester Coroner, supposedly a cushy desk job that would allow him to work regular hours. But Ridpath had no desire to sit back and just pick up a salary. Luckily, the coroner, Mrs Challinor, was determined to ‘represent the dead in the court of the living’ as she described her job.

  Ridpath had enjoyed the challenge of working with her and even managed to solve a few important cases. His successes plus the continued remission of his illness had encouraged his boss at MIT to ask for his return.

  He had managed to avoid making a decision on his future for the last three months but the arrival of a new DCI, Paul Turnbull, meant he could no longer put it off. He was due to return to Police HQ in two weeks’ time.

  ‘Will you miss working there?’

  Ridpath didn’t answer, rinsing out his cup under the tap. ‘How many weeks does Eve have left before half-term?’ he asked changing the subject.

  ‘A couple of weeks. You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to the holiday.’

  ‘And me,’ Eve mumbled.

  Both his wife and child went to the same primary school. One as a teacher and the other as a pupil. Luckily, it had never been a problem for either of them. But that would all change after the summer. Eve had passed the exams and was set to join Altrincham Grammar School for Girls in September.

  Everybody in the house seemed set to change. Even his wife was talking about applying to move to a new school, the petty rules of her headmistress destroying any joy she had at work.

  ‘Anyway, I’m off.’ Ridpath kissed both of them on the top of their heads.

  ‘Can you pick up some milk on your way back? I have end of year reports to write plus a mountain of admin to clear. There’s a rumour we’re going to be Ofsteded before Easter.’

  ‘Again? They visited you a couple of years ago!’

  ‘To keep us on our toes, apparently. Sometimes, I think the old witch enjoys the visit of the Inspectors. Makes her feel powerful.’

  ‘Mum, you’re not supposed to call Mrs Hardacre an old witch.’

  Polly zipped up her mouth and slapped the back of her hand.

  ‘I’ll get the milk. I’ll be back early this evening.’

  He put on his coat and did another round of kisses. Since the diagnosis of cancer, he always made sure he said goodbye properly. Cancer had a way of concentrating the mind. What if he never saw them again?

  Chapter 4

  ‘Morning, Sophia, is the coroner in?’

  His assistant was sat at her desk already. ‘Of course, Ridpath. When is she ever not here? I think you’ll find her in the ante-room to court no. 1. She’s preparing for today’s inquest. It’s due to start soon.’

  He nodded and walked back out of the office. Both the coroner’s courts were in a separate building to the administrative offices where he was based. It was a short walk across the courtyard. Ridpath debated whether to go up the front steps into the main entrance of the court or take the rear steps directly to the coroner’s ante-room.

  He chose the latter, quickly climbing up the stairway and stopping to rap once on the door before hearing the magic word.

  ‘Enter.’

  He strode in to find the coroner sat behind her desk, typing on her laptop from notes in a file next to it. She was dressed in a crisp white shirt with her black jacket draped across a chair.

  The ante-room to court no. 1 always reminded Ridpath of something Dickensian, out of Dombey and Son, perhaps. A wall of legal books and texts was stacked behind Mrs Challinor’s desk with filing cabinets, an escritoire with bottles of dry sherry slowly gathering dust and two side tables the only furniture, all made from a dark wood. Georgian sash windows gave a view over the assorted warehouses, Victorian terraces, executive offices and shopping malls of Stockfield. At one side, a door gave a private entrance to the court itself.

  Only one thing smacked of modernity; the coroner’s laptop. It was the latest model owned by Mrs Challinor herself rather than the council.

  ‘Good morning, Ridpath,’ she said looking up from her reading. Caught in the early morning light, Mrs Challinor reminded Ridpath of one of the pre-Raphaelite paintings he’d seen on a school trip to Manchester Art Gallery all those years ago; long, curled grey hair surrounding an alabaster skin and the lightest of light blue eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Coroner, if you’re busy, I can come back.’ He gestured towards the myriad files lurking on her desk.

  She stared down at the them. ‘The Wentworth Case. An alcoholic who, despite being seen by doctors, social workers, an outreach worker and a church group, still managed to drink herself to death. Everybody was on holiday and nobody followed up.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘A disaffected daughter and a long-gone husband.’

  ‘Do you want me to look into it?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s no criminality here, just laziness, stupidity and workloads fit to breaking. What do we charge them with? Having so much work they can’t look after all their cases properly? Sophia has liaised with the family, but even they don’t seem to miss her.’

  ‘Sad way to go. Why hold an inquest?’

  ‘Somebody has to hold them to account. It won’t save this woman but it might scare the council into resourcing their outreach services properly.’ She paused and stared into mid-air for a moment. ‘Then again, it might not.’ She switched her gaze back to him. ‘Sometimes, I feel I’m pushing a rock up a tall mountain and, as I get to the top, it rolls all the way down to the bottom again.’

  ‘It’s a feeling we all share, Coroner.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, thinking in that manner doesn’t help anybody. We do what we can. How can I help you, Ridpath? But before you tell me, help me carry these files into court.’

  Ridpath picked up the three heaviest and followed Mrs Challinor through the door into the empty courtroom. The same soft February light suffused the place through large Victorian sash window on the left.

  In an hour or so, this would be full of people, all gathering to either give evidence, watch the proceedings or help the coroner reach a conclusion by sitting on the jury. The court itself wasn’t large. Mrs Challinor’s desk sat on a raised dais overlooking a few tables for counsel in the centre, a
witness box on the right and a jury box on the left.

  In two of the corners, CCTV stared down at the participants in the inquest. These were a recent addition, requested by Mrs Challinor to provide a visual record of the proceedings. Today they were going to be used for the first time.

  ‘I do hope Jenny manages to work them out,’ the coroner pointed to them, ‘we’re having problems with the sound. The recorders are back in the main building. Apparently, there’s a problem with the technology.’

  ‘Isn’t there always,’ he said, plonking the files on her desk.

  She immediately set to work, sorting them into the correct order for her inquest.

  ‘I have the MIT meeting this morning, anything you want me to bring up with them?’

  Once again, she paused for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. Nothing has crossed my desk which I need to flag with them.’

  ‘Right.’ He stood there, staring down at the worn carpet.

  ‘Was there something else, Ridpath?’

  ‘Well, I’m seeing Claire Trent and the new DCI, Paul Turnbull, and I wondered if you had any news on the new coroner’s officer.’

  ‘How is Detective Superintendent Trent?’ said Mrs Challinor avoiding the question.

  ‘She’s fine, I think. But she doesn’t often confide in me the state of her health.’

  The coroner appeared to consider his answer. ‘No, I can guess she would probably prefer a more transactional relationship.’

  ‘Actually, she prefers a master–slave interaction or at least a commander–subordinate. It is the police after all.’

  ‘Hierarchies, how we love them. And hate them.’ Mrs Challinor stopped speaking and stared out of the window. ‘To answer your question, not very well, I’m afraid. GMP gave me a list of chancers, no-hopers, incipient alcoholics and those with their slippers already on their feet, doing the pension tango. The names are with Jenny if you want to check them before you go to MIT. We’ve put the job out on the website and I thought we may have had an existing coroner’s officer from Derbyshire but he’s pulled out. Too far to travel apparently. There’s a couple of others I’m going to interview over the next few days. You’re a difficult man to replace, Ridpath.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Coroner, it’s just the job back at MIT is open and if I don’t take it now…’

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Can you buy more time from Claire Trent?’

  ‘She’s not the problem. It’s the new DCI, Paul Turnbull.’

  ‘Ok, I’ll go through the police applications one more time, there may be a gem amongst the dross.’ She looked across at him. ‘We’re going to miss you, Ridpath,’ she paused for a moment, ‘I’m going to miss you.’ She looked away as if slightly embarrassed at her admission.

  ‘Not as much as I’ll miss you, Coroner.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘You’d better hurry otherwise you are going to be late.’

  Ridpath pursed his lips and nodded once. ‘I’ll let her know, Coroner.’

  He left the office, closing the door behind him, feeling as if he had let Mrs Challinor down somehow.

  It wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed.

  Chapter 5

  John Gorman’s back was killing him.

  Spending the whole day on the allotment yesterday was a mistake. He was too old to be bending down, digging and carrying. But the winter cabbages needed to be cut and the trenches for the potatoes had to be re-dug after their winter break.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t be such a workaholic in his retirement, but that was easier said than done. He had always been busy throughout his life, he couldn’t stop now. These days though, the problem was not doing too much but finding enough things to do.

  Somehow, as he aged, the days had grown longer. He found it difficult to sleep at night, lying awake in his bed staring at the ceiling, hearing the wind whistle through the trees.

  When he did find something to do, like digging the allotment, it was all so hard and painful. His mind was willing, but the body was weak. Nobody helped any more – he couldn’t tell people to do things like he used to.

  He missed the sense of control he used to enjoy. The good thing about being a Detective Chief Superintendent in the Greater Manchester Police was you looked after your team and they looked after you.

  The only job was to put away criminals. Nothing else mattered.

  As long as you did your job, nobody got in your way. And he had been good, very good, at his job.

  He swung his legs off the bed, glancing at the picture of his wife, Annie, on the bedside table. This morning, he had woken up, feeling the curve of her back as she lay on the other side of the bed.

  But he knew it couldn’t be.

  She had been dead for two years.

  They always planned to go travelling together once he retired from the Force. The Gormans on a tour of the world, they always joked. Annie had even gone as far as to research those round-the-world cruises to find out which one was best.

  But then she had her first heart attack and, before he knew it, she was bed bound, unable to travel. Being forced to retire from the police was the best thing he could do for her so he didn’t fight it. He was grateful for spending the last three months together before she died.

  He heard the scratching at the door. The dogs were up and waiting for him. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your bloody horses.’

  The scratching at the door increased in tempo, followed by a short yap of impatience. That was Big Charlie, the Jack Russell, all piss and vinegar in his tiny frame.

  He reached out and touched Annie’s photo with the tips of his fingers as he did every morning after he woke up and last thing at night before he slept.

  She was always there with him, every day.

  He levered himself up on to his legs, feeling a twinge in his back as he did. Should he go to the doctor? No point, there wasn’t a lot they could do and they were busy. It was only age, the incurable disease, catching up with him.

  As a young copper, he’d been able to run and fight with the best of them. One day, a scallywag had snatched a bag and he’d ran after him, eventually catching up with the bastard near Old Trafford. Must have been all of two miles he ran, in his big copper’s boots. The poor bastard never knew what hit him.

  Outside, the sun was peeping over the roof of next door’s shed, cracking through the haze of a Manchester morning. It looked like another beautiful February day. If the weather held, he should push on today in the allotment. Perhaps later in the afternoon he’d take the dogs to visit his wife’s grave in the cemetery. He could tidy it up and add some fresh flowers. It had been a while since he’d had a chat with her.

  More fevered scratching at the door.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  He took off his pyjama bottoms and reached for the trousers hanging over the side of the chair. One foot in and then the other. ‘Careful lad, we don’t want you falling like last week.’ He often talked to himself these days, when he wasn’t talking to the dogs.

  He knew why of course, loneliness, the need to hear the sound of a human voice even if it were only his own. A twinge of sadness welled up in the middle of his chest. He’d always loved solitude when Annie was alive. Now he was just alone.

  He slipped into his slippers and shuffled over to the door, opening it to be greeted by a yapping Big Charlie and Cora, the Golden Retriever, turning circles in the hall. Despite being three times Big Charlie’s size, she was dominated by him with a few well-placed nips to the back legs.

  ‘Come on you two, time to go out in the garden.’

  He didn’t know what he would have done without the dogs since Annie had passed. They had been his support, his pals, his mates. These days, he didn’t even see anybody from the police. They didn’t come to visit any more.

  Why should they? He was retired and life and the Force carried on doing what they had always done; putting away the bad guys, holding back the curtain of darkness that often threatened t
o overwhelm the city. He was proud of the thirty-five years he had spent on the Force. It had been a good life.

  He shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He couldn’t do anything before his first cuppa in the morning. It was almost as if his body was like a car in winter – slow to start.

  He leant over to turn on the radio. Another habit; listening to Today, Radio Four’s news programme. When he was working, he used to switch it on in the car on his way to work. Now, he found the voices comforting in the morning as they talked about the latest happenings in the world. Not that he cared any more, they could all bugger off as far as he was concerned.

  The dogs circled him, getting under his feet, before racing to the front door. It was like this every morning, their routine. As soon as he woke up, he let them out while he sat down for his cuppa.

  He opened the front door and they raced out into the garden, Big Charlie nipping at Cora’s heels, desperately trying to be first to pee.

  It wasn’t great for the lawn or the shrubs, but they needed to go first thing as much as he needed his cuppa. He would take them for a long walk in the afternoon to see Annie.

  He stumbled back to the kitchen and poured the boiling water into the tea pot throwing in two bags of PG Tips. As the tea brewed, he opened the back door and listened to the birds singing against the sound of the voices coming from the radio.

  A blackbird had already started staking out his territory from the aerial of the house opposite, lulled into a false sense of spring by the glorious sunshine.

  In the kitchen, the voices were discussing some illness in China. ‘Tell me minister, are we prepared to fight this disease if it ever comes to Britain?’

  A soothing, emollient voice answered the question. ‘Listen, Tom, we have our scenarios if this disease, ever, and I emphasise, ever, should come to these shores. We are world-renowned for our work in these sort of infections and I am sure we will combat this disease in the same manner in which we fought two world wars; with resilience, resolve and the British bulldog spirit.’

  ‘Is the bulldog spirit much of a defence against a pandemic, Minister?’ asked the interviewer.