by M J Lee
John Gorman zoned out of the words on the radio and poured out his mug of tea, adding a splash of milk. He walked over to the back door and opened it, breathing in the morning air. This was a time he loved even when he was going off to Police HQ every day to fight crime and his bosses. A time when the air was fresh and the morning light gave everything in Didsbury a soft glow.
At the front of his house, he heard a car engine starting. The neighbour was leaving for work early this morning, not like him. Either that or his wife had kicked him out again like she did last week.
John Gorman chuckled to himself. Young couples these days didn’t know how to work at a marriage.
What was he going to do today? Read The Times when it was delivered and do the crossword. That should take until ten, and afterwards? He didn’t know. Perhaps he wouldn’t go to the allotment but travel to see Annie this morning instead of this afternoon. Make a day of it, take the dogs for a long walk and tire them out.
Where were they?
He listened for their usual sounds – digging, yaps from Big Charlie and plant pots being knocked over by Cora.
Nothing.
The car had gone too.
Strange. Had he left the gate open when he came back yesterday?
He put his mug of tea on the table and rushed to the front door. The dogs weren’t in the garden.
‘Big Charlie… Cora,’ he shouted.
Nothing, not even the smallest yap in answer.
And the bloody gate was open. He was sure he had shut it last night but now it was open and the dogs were nowhere to be seen.
‘Shit.’ Now he would have to go up to the allotment and bring them back. That’s where they always went when they got out. Big Charlie in the lead, head held high, with Cora wandering dumbly behind.
He grabbed a coat and closed the door behind him. He felt the pathway through the thin soles of his slippers. Should he change into shoes? No point, the allotment wasn’t far away.
‘Big Charlie… Cora,’ he called as he closed the front gate and walked towards the allotment, hoping they would hear him and come rushing back.
Nothing.
He noticed the neighbour’s car was still in the driveway. Strange, he could have sworn he heard him drive off this morning. Perhaps, his ears were playing tricks.
‘Cora… Big Charlie…’ he called again.
Still no dogs.
He walked to the end of the road and turned left, Bradford Fold Allotments were around the corner. He listened for the dogs and called out once more. A young kid on his paper round looked at him strangely.
Bloody dogs. Big Charlie would get a proper telling off when he got home. John Gorman hadn’t been known as the hairdryer for nothing. He used to enjoy taking down young coppers a peg or two. A few well-chosen snarls usually had the desired effect. They didn’t screw up again, not when they were working for MIT anyway.
He turned the corner and walked down the path to the allotments. His was on the right at the far end.
He called once again. Usually there was an excited yap from Big Charlie, followed by the clumsy, tail-wagging Cora rushing up to greet him.
This time, nothing.
He hurried along the path, stumbling over a sod of earth somebody had dumped. Stupid buggers, he’d report them to the management committee.
Where were the dogs? Were they here?
‘Cora… Big Charlie…’
He thought he heard a whine from the other side of the hut. They were there, digging up his earth as usual. He called again but still they didn’t come.
He narrowed his eyes. All his copper’s instincts told him something wasn’t right. He rushed forward along the path feeling the damp earth beneath his slippers. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted.
He rounded the corner just in front of his allotment and shed.
No dogs and no noise.
‘Big Charlie… Cora,’ he shouted once more, striding towards the shed.
The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, hearing the hinges squeal in pain as the early February light crept across the floor, slowly illuminating a stack of plastic plant pots, three seedling trays, an earth-covered spade and a twitching leg.
He followed the leg upwards. The dogs were hanging from the eaves of the shed. Big Charlie’s neck was broken and Cora had a look in her eyes that said, ‘help me.’
John Gorman, a man who had put hundreds of Manchester’s most vicious criminals behind bars, screamed.
Chapter 6
Ridpath walked into the weekly status meeting at MIT carrying a latte and a Danish from the canteen.
The latte was really a milky coffee and the Danish a bit of puff pastry with jam in it. There was a new caterer at Police HQ in Newton Heath and the descriptions of the food had improved even if the food itself hadn’t.
DCI Paul Turnbull rose from his seat next to Claire Trent and clapped his hands. ‘If we can get started, people, we’ve got a busy day and I would like this meeting to take no more than…’ he checked his watch, ‘…thirty minutes. Let’s finish by ten-thirty, shall we?’
He ran his hand over his perfectly shaven head, as if combing back hair that was still there, staring across at the assembled detectives sitting in front of him.
He’d been poached from a senior position at Cheshire Constabulary, or nicked as Claire Trent joked, to be her new number two at MIT. After John Gorman and Charlie Whitworth retired, she concentrated on moving MIT into the twenty-first century, improving its capabilities: liaison with other forces, digital detection, surveillance, interviewing, CCTV analysis and even offender profiling. It was a far cry from just ‘nicking the bad guys.’
For her, he was the last piece in the puzzle; somebody who could bring all the new elements of policing together into one coherent investigation. He had a reputation for being a hard task master, but one who obtained results and was focussed on gathering evidence, exactly the sort of person Claire Trent thought she needed.
Ridpath asked himself where he would fit in to this new world order. Last week, he had even summoned up enough courage to ask Claire Trent.
‘You’re the grit in the oyster, Ridpath, the sand in the shoe. The one copper who looks at things differently. I’ve got a whole team who can follow the SIO’s Handbook to the letter. I need someone who doesn’t. Someone who works from his gut and makes those leaps of insight that solve cases. You’re my bit of Northern grit, Ridpath, my bit of rough. You’ve postponed your decision long enough, are you joining the team or not?’
As ever Claire Trent was as blunt as a pickaxe in the head.
So he’d finally said yes. Only two more weeks working with the coroner and he would move over, spending his time permanently at Police HQ. For some reason, he wasn’t sure whether he had made the right decision.
Paul Turnbull’s voice brought him right back to the present.
‘Right, the Russell case. Have all the evidence docs gone to the CPS?’
Detective Inspector Harry Makepeace answered quickly. ‘They went off last night, guvnor, the trial’s in two weeks at Manchester Crown Court.’
‘I want no cock-ups on this one, Harry,’ Claire Trent interrupted, ‘this bastard managed to get off two years ago on a technicality and his brief is as sharp as a scalpel. I want him nailed this time.’
‘CPS are happy with everything, boss,’ said Paul Turnbull, ‘I checked the submission before it went out, and Harry has done a great job.’
Makepeace smiled at Turnbull like a spaniel who’d just brought his master’s slippers. Somebody was already brushing the man’s teeth from the inside.
Claire Trent stayed quiet as Turnbull moved onto the next topic. ‘The drugs and county lines investigation with South Yorkshire in Doncaster, how’s it going?’
As he said this, her phone rang. She checked the number. ‘I have to take this.’ She stood up and left the room.
Turnbull nodded and looked back to the detectives. ‘As I was saying, the county lines investigation…’<
br />
Ridpath listened for a minute as Alan Jones described tracking drug movements from Manchester across the Pennines. Apparently, the business had been taken over by two women while their respective husbands were banged up.
‘Keeping it in the family, hey?’ said Rob Allenby, another of the new detectives brought in to join the team. Ridpath caught a whiff of the man’s breath as he leant over to whisper in his ear.
Ridpath didn’t answer, zoning out as Alan Jones continued detailing the minutiae of tracking mobile phones and ANPR. He stared out the window at the February day outside. Somehow Manchester managed to look pretty in the soft morning light of a winter’s day. Like an old man wearing a track suit and a baseball cap back to front. In the distance, a blanket of snow carpeted the tops of the Pennine hills, glistening in the sunshine.
‘Ridpath…’
He turned around as he heard his name.
‘…Anything from the coroner?’
He looked down to check his notes. ‘One hundred and fifty-three deaths in Manchester last week. The coroner has decided to look into forty-four of them but nothing seems out of the ordinary. Everything is running smoothly.’
‘Not digging up any more coffins, then?’ said Turnbull. The rest of the detectives laughed, all understanding the reference to the Beast of Manchester case which Ridpath had helped to solve after exhuming the body of one of the victims.
‘No, no more empty coffins. But we did have seventeen suicides. One man drank sulphuric acid.’
‘Did he want to wash the taste of the canteen’s tea out of his mouth?’ joked Harry Makepeace.
‘Or maybe the curry from Rusholme had been a bit hot,’ said another.
‘Does sulphuric acid burn at both ends too?’
More handclaps from the front. ‘Quieten down, people,’ said Turnbull.
Claire Trent re-entered the room, her face dark.
‘Finally, a couple of housekeeping jobs. There’s a new stack of MG5F forms with Chrissy.’ The civilian research officer raised her right hand. ‘Make sure you complete them correctly. Also CPS is being stringent on paperwork at the moment. Everything must go out in one bundle, clear?’
Again, he stared at the detectives, receiving a few mumbled ‘yeses’ in reply.
‘Next the deputy chief has said the recent glitches in the IOPS management system have been solved. Everything should be working as planned from now on.’
Rob Allenby leant over to Ridpath again and whispered, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
Another detective had raised his hand. ‘I had a chat with a mate at Cheetham Hill last night. He said it was still screwed up and they are entering addresses by hand onto the files.’
‘Look I’m just relaying what I’ve been told…’
‘I heard two poor coppers from Stretford went to a house on a domestic – a step-father beating up his wife.’
‘I’d teach the bastard what to do with his fists,’ whispered Emily Parkinson, a DS sitting behind Ridpath.
‘Turns out the man had form for domestic abuse, but nothing came up on the system.’
There was a collective shake of the head.
‘Look people, that’s not our problem. We’re MIT, we concentrate on our job which is to prevent serious crime in the City, understand. No more, no less,’ said Claire Trent. She held up her phone. ‘The chief constable just called me. Apparently, somebody has killed John Gorman’s dogs…’
‘Isn’t that a job for the RSPCA, boss?’ said Paul Turnbull.
‘Not according to the chief constable, he wants us on it. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Ridpath, as you’re re-joining and you know John Gorman, this can be your first job.’
‘But I’ve still got a lot of work with the coroner, boss.’
‘You said everything was running smoothly,’ smirked Turnbull.
‘You’re on it, I’ll brief you now. Meeting over, people. Stay safe out there.’
As the detectives filed out past Ridpath, he heard a few comments.
‘Don’t go barking up the wrong tree, Ridpath.’
‘Pack it in, Rob, stop hounding him.’
‘Where should a dog never go shopping, Rob?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘A flea market. Boom boom, tish…’
Ridpath could hear the laughter of his fellow detectives as he walked towards Claire Trent. Sometimes, he missed the banter… sometimes.
Had he made the right choice to come back?
Chapter 7
‘Sit down,’ ordered Paul Turnbull.
Ridpath took a seat opposite them both as the rest of the team filed out of the room behind him. He could hear a few dog howls from outside in the corridor.
Claire Trent spoke first. ‘Like I just said, I want you to work on John Gorman’s case.’
‘Can’t the local plod handle it? I’ve still got a lot to finish up with the coroner and she hasn’t found my replacement yet.’
‘That’s her problem, not ours,’ snapped Turnbull.
‘I saw the names. You offered her one ageing detective three months away from retirement and another famous for his attraction to the snug at the Horse and Jockey. They’ve even got a seat with his name on it.’
‘Still we made the offer, if she wants to turn them down, that’s her business.’
Claire Trent’s hand touched the sleeve of her DCI’s jacket to quieten him. ‘I think you’d be best on the Gorman case for a number of reasons…’
‘Which are?’ asked Ridpath.
‘You know the man.’
‘He was my boss.’
‘Only Harry Makepeace worked under him too and Harry’s stuck on the Russell case.’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘You said reasons?’
Claire Trent smiled. ‘Let’s say it will be a soft introduction back into MIT…’
‘We changed a lot of the systems and approach around here since your day,’ added Turnbull.
‘Investigating the murder of some dogs—’ interrupted Ridpath. ‘—Will be a way of integrating you back on the team. Besides it’s important to the chief constable.’
‘And if he’s worried about it, so are we.’
‘It’s a case that would suit your undoubted talents.’
It was like a Morecambe and Wise double act. Each finishing the other’s sentences. Ridpath recognised he had hardly any choice in the matter. ‘I still have to do all my work for the coroner…’
‘You’ll just have to work a bit harder. You’ve had a cushy number for the last two years, Ridpath, about time you put some hours in.’
Again, Claire Trent’s hand touched her DCI’s arm. ‘Do you want me to call Mrs Challinor?’ she asked.
Ridpath shook his head. ‘I’ll let her know. Who’ll be on my team?’
‘We thought you could handle this on your own.’
‘I’ll need somebody else to help. To show me the new systems,’ he said looking at Turnbull.
The DCI glanced across at Claire Trent. ‘We could give you DS Parkinson. She’s free at the moment.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Ridpath wondered if it was time to tell them they didn’t get on. Emily Parkinson was still smarting about his investigation of Ronald Barnes and Rowley Police station, her ex-nick. ‘Nothing. I just wondered if there was anybody else…’
Turnbull shook his head. ‘It’s her or nobody.’
Claire Trent stood up. ‘Sort it out and quickly, Ridpath. I don’t want any more calls from the chief constable or from John Gorman.’
Ridpath stood up too. ‘What’s the case name?’
Without missing a beat, Turnbull said. ‘Operation Rover.’
Chapter 8
When Ridpath had closed the door, Paul Turnbull turned to his boss. ‘I know you asked him to return before I arrived, but having met him, I don’t know what you see in the man.’
‘He’s a good copper.’
The
DCI scowled. ‘He’s not a team player.’
‘Sometimes you need someone who thinks out of the box. We’ve got lots of team players, but not many who can think for themselves.’
‘Let me rephrase it then. I’m not sure I want him on my team.’
Claire Trent made a moue with her mouth. ‘That’s your call. As I said when I hired you, create your own team and I’ll back every decision. But if I were you, I would wait to see what Ridpath can do before you move him on somewhere else. You want results? He gets them. He did well in providing a link between the Coroner’s Office and MIT, helping us get a handle on the Gangland killings and the Barnes case as well as discovering the identity of the real Beast of Manchester.’
‘Wasn’t that why Gorman retired?’
‘The ex-head of MIT twisted a few arms and took a few short cuts when he put away James Dalbey for those killings. It always comes back to bite your arse.’
‘So why have you got him on the death of Gorman’s dogs?’
‘I don’t like it when the chief constable tells me to investigate a case. The death of a few dogs is not a major investigation in my book. The local plod could have handled it, not MIT.’
‘I’m sure Gorman asked the chief constable for his old team.’
She stared at him. ‘You may think that, but I couldn’t possibly say.’
Turnbull chuckled to himself. ‘Gorman’s not going to be too chuffed when Ridpath turns up on his doorstep, is he?’
‘He’ll be spitting blood. But if he complains to the chief constable, my answer will be he’s the only resource available.’
‘And if the chief wants somebody different?’
‘He’s going to have to give us more resources.’
‘Ach, you’re a canny woman, Claire Trent. Remind me not to cross you.’
‘You’ll do well to remember it, DCI Turnbull. And give Ridpath a chance, he might well surprise you.’
‘That’s what I’m frightened of.’
Chapter 9
And so it begins. Not with a bang but with a Wimpy.
He remembered the joke from his childhood and laughed to himself.
