by M J Lee
He played the voice recording. ‘This is James Dalbey. It’s time for the past to come alive.’ Then, he sat back and waited.
‘How did you get this recording?’ she asked eventually.
‘The telephone number was on a flyer for an undertaker’s found at the shed where John Gorman’s dogs were killed and at Charlie Whitworth’s grave. We rang it and heard this message.’
‘Is it Dalbey?’
‘It sounds like him. I only met him once but the voice is similar. I remember there was a precision to it.’
Claire Trent and Paul Turnbull were both silent.
‘What does it mean?’ the Detective Chief Inspector finally asked.
Ridpath took a deep breath and plunged forward. ‘I have reason to believe James Dalbey is behind the attacks on John Gorman’s dogs and Charlie Whitworth’s grave.’
‘You think the two are linked?’ asked Paul Turnbull.
Before Ridpath could answer, Claire Trent asked another question. ‘“It’s time for the past to come alive.” What the hell does that mean?’
Ridpath scratched his head. ‘I don’t know at the moment, boss. Plus Mrs Challinor received this letter yesterday.’ He placed a copy on the table.
Claire Trent read it before passing it over to Paul Turnbull. ‘“Dear Coroner,”’ he read aloud. ‘“He’s out and he’s ready to kill.” Sounds like a nutter.’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘Mrs Challinor doesn’t know but she thinks it could be Harold Lardner.’
‘The Beast of Manchester? Isn’t he in Ashworth? Why would Lardner be warning the coroner about an upcoming murder? And how did he know about it in the first place?’ Turnbull rattled off the questions.
‘I don’t know, but we need to find out.’
Claire Trent stared directly at him. ‘If this letter is from Harold Lardner and if it is a warning, how do we know he’s talking about James Dalbey? He could be referring to somebody else. Lardner was famous for grooming people to do his killing for him.’
‘We don’t, boss.’
‘And what about the undertaker, what was his name?’
‘Padraig Daly. He would prefer to be called a “funeral director”.’
‘Is this undertaker straight? Could he be involved with Lardner or Dalbey?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible I suppose.’
‘There are an awful lot of suppositions here, Ridpath. Too many for me. But then again I’m just a country bumpkin from Cheshire.’
The DCI stared directly at him, daring him to say something. Ridpath, for once, had the sense to keep quiet.
‘Hmm. You are right, Paul, too many unknowns.’ Claire Trent stroked the side of her face. ‘But we have to take anything involving Harold Lardner seriously. The press could have a field day if we ignored it. What are your next steps, Ridpath?’
‘DS Parkinson is tracing the number as we speak boss. But my bet is it will lead us nowhere. There are two things we have to do. First, is find out what’s happened to James Dalbey since he left prison.’
‘He’s probably on a tropical island surrounded with beautiful women with the money he received in compensation from the British taxpayer.’
‘Your fantasy, not his Paul,’ said Claire Trent.
‘Too bloody right. Better than being in Manchester surrounded by coppers.’
Claire Trent ignored him. ‘And what’s your second step, Ridpath?’
‘To go and see Harold Lardner. It’s time we had a chat with the Beast.’
Chapter 25
Don Brown opened his eyes.
For a moment the world was dark, then he noticed a small yellow light off to his left piercing the gloom. A pin prick of light.
He tried to move but couldn’t. His hands and feet were gripped tightly. He tried kicking out, but his legs wouldn’t move.
Where was he?
What had happened?
He remembered the unsteady man and a hand coming over his mouth.
Then nothing.
He tried to scream but his mouth couldn’t move. A pain shot though his lips as he tried to force his jaws open. Something was holding his lips together.
A wave of panic surged through his body as the elemental urge of flight or fight sent a cascade of adrenalin into his brain.
Where was he?
Why couldn’t he move?
Stay calm, Don, stay calm. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
He felt the warm air fill his chest.
Better, Don, stay calm.
He wriggled his body, feeling his shoulders hit smooth walls. He was in some sort of box. Why was he in a box?
And then it hit him. Was he in a coffin? Had somebody buried him alive?
Once more, panic surged through his body. He rocked from side to side, feeling the smooth walls and the ropes holding his hands strain and tighten.
He stopped, panting. Got to control yourself. Think!
He tried lifting his head but it only rose three inches before touching a solid surface. The material was smooth, plasticky to touch, not made from wood.
Where was he?
He tried to kick out with his legs, rocking his body from side to side. He felt the box move a little.
Perhaps if he rocked it harder he could push it on to its side?
He threw his body against one side, feeling it rock slightly but not move too much.
He was sweating now and breathing heavily. Was the box airtight? Would he run out of air? He didn’t want to run out of air.
Maybe he should kick against the lid?
He lifted his knees and tried to push them against the lid, feeling the strain on his upper thighs.
The lid wouldn’t budge.
He pushed harder, feeling the sweat run from his brow and drip down his face. His breathing became more ragged now and he was panting harder. A cloud of hot, damp air seemed to hang over him, his shirt clammy against his skin.
He relaxed his body. He had to conserve his energy.
They would let him out soon, wouldn’t they? It was just somebody’s idea of a joke, but this time they’d gone too far.
What was that?
It sounded like a cough or somebody clearing their throat before they spoke.
He heard a voice.
‘Mr Brown, I wouldn’t struggle too much if I were you.’
A muffled voice talking to him. Was somebody out there?
He tried to answer but his jaws still wouldn’t move.
Another cough. ‘You may have realised by now, you are in a box. I have taken the precaution of tying your hands and feet together as well as wrapping your mouth in duct tape. We wouldn’t want the neighbours to hear, would we?’
There are neighbours? He must be in a house.
‘You have oxygen and if you look to the top right, you will see a small hole which allows a limited amount of air in. We don’t want you to suffocate. But, as you will have worked out by now, the more you move, the more oxygen you consume.’
The voice was warm and almost friendly, like a beloved uncle talking to an errant child.
He tried to shout again. Please release me, let me go. But his jaws were clamped tightly by the tape.
He stopped and waited, listening for the man and his voice. In the silence, his breathing sounded short and wheezy.
Another cough, and the voice began speaking again. ‘You may be wondering what we want and why we have locked you in here. But we’re not going to tell you. Perhaps in a few moments you might guess the truth or you may continue in a state of ignorance. It is a state most human beings happily live in for most of their lives. You can enjoy it for the few moments you have left in yours.’
What was that? What was he saying?
‘But what I will tell you is you are presently lying in an ice box. A floor standing freezer might be a better name for it. Just an ordinary home variet
y, nothing fancy I’m afraid. In a few moments, I’m going to switch it on. You’ll hear a motor start up and perhaps you will feel the vibrations through the fabric of the freezer. I’ve also arranged for a light to come on. We wouldn’t want you to die in the dark, would we?’
Die? Was he going to die? He didn’t want to die. Not now, not when there was so much to live for.
‘You might see the delicious irony of your death. Or you might not. But as the cold increases and your bodily functions begin to shut down, I’d like you to think of this. Alice Seagram spent ten years in such a box. I hope you enjoy the rest of your life there.’
What? What did he say?
He kicked and wriggled and rocked his body against the side wall again and again and again, until he was exhausted, lying there, panting, desperately trying to catch his breath.
‘Good bye, Mr Brown.’
A loud click and a motor hummed into life. He could feel the vibrations through the walls of the freezer. A light came on, flooding the interior with an intense, brain-shattering brightness.
He shut his eyes, forcing his eyelids together to cut out the bright light, still seeing bright spots imprinted on his retina.
When the spots had vanished, he slowly opened his eyes again.
He raised his head three inches until it touched the lid and looked down past his chest. He was in a white, ridged box slightly longer than his body. His hands were tied together in front of him and his legs were bound at the knees and ankles with tape.
Perhaps, if he bent slightly, he could use his fingers to undo the tape around his legs. He scrunched up his body, trying to reach down to his knees. He felt his fingers crawl over the fabric of his trousers and touch the edge of the tape.
A bit further and he could undo it.
He pressed his body against the side, trying to reach further but his fingers just touched the tape, sliding over the edge of it, but unable to pull it apart.
Scrunching his body up even more, he extended his fingers another inch. If he could only reach a little further, perhaps…
As he exhaled and stretched his fingers out for one last try, he noticed his breath frosting the air. A cold wind swept across the skin of his hand and up towards his chest.
Fear, along with the sharpness of the cold air, crept into the marrow of his bones.
Chapter 26
Detective Sergeant Emily Parkinson was not a happy camper. She had just spent most of the last two hours staring at a list of telephone numbers.
Next to her, Chrissy Wright was also going through a reverse directory looking for the number used by Dalbey on the undertaker’s flyer. It was grunt work, the sort given to police civilian workers like Chrissy, not to detective sergeants. But Ridpath had insisted she handled this personally.
She didn’t enjoy working with the detective inspector. He kept far too much to himself, not sharing his thoughts on the investigation or the case. She felt like she was becoming his dogsbody, his gopher.
Go for this, Emily. Get that, Emily. When the grunt work had to be done for the Gorman case, it was her who had to do all the house-to-house interviews and check up on the CCTV while he swanned off to the coroner doing God knows what. If he ever did come back to MIT, she would make sure she was as far away as possible from his team.
‘This could be it.’ Chrissy Wright’s high-pitched shout interrupted her thoughts.
‘You’re not at a City game now, Chrissy. No need to shout, I’m sitting right next you.’
‘Sorry, Emily. The numbers match. It’s one of those business offices. You know the ones who provide services for companies. Do you want me to ring it?’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ She picked up the phone, checking the number pointed out by Chrissy as she dialled. The call was answered in two rings by a woman’s voice.
‘Telford Business Services, how can I help you?’
‘This is DS Parkinson of the Greater Manchester Police, one of your numbers has come up as part of our investigation.’
‘Oh, I hope we haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘We don’t know yet. The number is 0333 8693 5277.’
‘It’s one of our business reply numbers served by our answering machines.’
‘Who rented the service?’
‘Just a minute.’ Emily heard the sound of steps and the opening and closing of a filing cabinet.
‘It was rented two weeks ago by a Mr D Brown. He paid in cash.’
‘Do you have an address?’
Emily nudged Chrissy Wright.
‘The address is 212 Barlow Moor Rd, Manchester M21 7GL.’
Chrissy typed it quickly into Google Maps. The image focussed and the red marker entered itself in the middle of Southern Cemetery.
Emily Parkinson rolled her eyes. ‘You know that’s the address of a cemetery. Apparently, your renter was a dead man.’
‘Well, we don’t check every address. As long as the punter pays on time.’
‘Did you meet with him when he placed the order?’
‘No definitely not. It’s all done over the phone. We never see the punters.’
‘Well,’ Emily tried a different tack, ‘do you remember speaking with him?’
There was a long silence. ‘Truth is, I can’t remember. We get so many enquiries and I handle them all. I’m the only person here. All the punters end up sounding the same.’
‘One final question. Did you check the answering machine message?’
‘Nah, no point. They’re all the same. It’s all done remotely once the punter pays his bill. No need for me to get involved, I’m far too busy.’
‘Thank you, you’ve been a great help.’ She put down the phone pulling a long face towards Chrissy Wright.
‘What’s next, Emily?’
The detective sergeant sighed. ‘I don’t know. You should ask his highness when he deigns to come back. And right on cue, here he is.’
Ridpath had exited Claire Trent’s room and was putting on his coat.
‘The answering machine belonged to a business service company, the client paid in cash and the address given was at Southern Cemetery,’ said Chrissy Wright as Emily Parkinson sat back with her arms folded.
‘Doesn’t surprise me. What was the client’s name?’
Chrissy checked her notes. ‘The name wasn’t Dalbey, it was a Mr D Brown.’
Ridpath’s eyes narrowed. ‘D Brown? Was it Don Brown?’
She checked her notes again. ‘Don’t know, the woman didn’t say. All she had was a Mr D Brown.’ Emily Parkinson sat forward. ‘Who’s Don Brown when he’s at home?’
‘If it’s the same man, he was the mortuary attendant in the Beast of Manchester case. He was the one who removed Alice Seagram’s body.’
‘Is there a connection?’
‘I don’t know It’s a bit of a bloody coincidence though isn’t it?’
Chapter 27
‘We need to find Don Brown urgently. Chrissy, can you check the electoral lists for all the people with that name?’
‘In Manchester? Or anywhere else?’
‘Start with Manchester and expand outwards. From what I remember of him, he won’t have moved far from his home town.’
‘Brown is a common name, Ridpath, there’ll be thousands of entries.’
‘Better start right away then.’
‘And how will I know if I find the right Don Brown?’
‘We’ll have to call each name to check. We’re looking for a former mortuary attendant who would now be in his mid-thirties.’
‘That narrows it down – not.’ Chrissy Wright went back to her desk, muttering to herself.
Emily Parkinson looked up at him. ‘You really think we need to look for this man?’
‘I’m certain of it. Don’t you realise, if it is Dalbey who’s attacking Gorman’s dogs and Charlie Whitworth’s grave, he’s been leaving clues each time? The undertaker’s flyer and now the name of the man who booked the answering machine.’
‘It’s a l
ittle far-fetched, isn’t it? And one more thing, I might realise more if you kept me in the loop instead of making me your bloody gopher.’
Her voice had risen and some of the other MIT detectives looked up from the computers to see what all the fuss was about.
‘Look, I’m sorry, ok. I’m sorting it all out in my own head. It’s like we’re being led by the nose by Dalbey or whoever is doing this, always one step behind. But everything you’ve done has been useful. I wanted to let you know.’
‘They said you were a bit of a maverick, a loner.’
‘Perhaps they’re right. In the last two years with Mrs Challinor I’ve got out of the habit of telling people what I’m doing. She just lets me get on with it.’
‘Yeah, well now you’re part of a team and, if we’re going to be effective, I need to know what’s going on.’
Ridpath ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll communicate better, you need to know as much as I do.’
‘Apology accepted. Talk to me, let me know what’s going on.’ She smiled. ‘You can start now, if you want.’
‘That’s just it, I’m not certain what’s going on.’
‘Start from the beginning.’
‘Ok. I arrested Dalbey when I was a probationary constable—’
‘I heard the story, first day on the job, wasn’t it?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘First day and I caught a serial killer. Dalbey confessed to murdering three young women when John Gorman and Charlie interviewed him.’
‘The Beast of Manchester was caught.’
‘And then two years ago, the murders began again.’
‘But Dalbey was inside.’
‘Right, we finally worked out Dalbey was innocent and we found the real killer.’
‘The pathologist, Harold Lardner.’
‘The man himself, now a resident of Ashworth High Security Prison in Liverpool. Dalbey was released and paid substantial compensation for his arrest and imprisonment. John Gorman led the team involved in securing his confession. He was allowed quietly to retire while Charlie Whitworth, his number two, was passed over for promotion and killed in the line of duty later in the year.’
