When the Past Kills

by M J Lee

  The face looked like a wolf.

  9:04:19.

  9:04:20.

  Chapter 45

  Mrs Challinor was still trembling when Claire Trent questioned her.

  ‘Are you sure this was the only email you clicked?’

  The coroner nodded.

  Claire Trent, Paul Turnbull and Ridpath were crowded into the coroner’s office, all circling Mrs Challinor and her laptop. The live feed had been killed and all that was left was a grey screen.

  Harry Makepeace knocked and came into the room. ‘We didn’t get there in time, boss. Whoever it was had already scarpered. We’ve got a chopper out but I’m not hopeful. All we know is roughly the time he left but we don’t know the make and model of the car. I’ve ordered up the ANPR files for the M62 anyway.’

  ‘What if he didn’t come back to Manchester? What if he went the other way to Yorkshire and doubled back?’ asked Ridpath.

  Claire Trent stared at him, not bothering to reply. ‘When did you receive the file, Mrs Challinor?’

  ‘It must have been around nine a.m. I was looking at a case and my inbox pinged.’

  Turnbull was staring at the screen. ‘The arrival time was 9.01 a.m.’

  ‘Was it normal for your emails to make a sound as they come into your inbox?’

  ‘No, that’s what was so strange, I’d turned the function off.’

  ‘So you opened the email?’

  ‘I saw that it came from my daughter, I always open those.’

  ‘It didn’t Mrs Challinor,’ said Turnbull looking at the URL. ‘Your daughter’s address is gmail, this is a hotmail account.’

  ‘But the name is the same.’

  ‘They’ve cloned your daughter’s name from her gmail account.’

  ‘But how? How did they do that?’

  ‘Lots of ways. She could have put her email on her Facebook, Twitter or Instagram accounts. Or given it to a friend. Or they could have bought a list of emails from your daughter’s university on the dark web. Or they simply could have gone fishing.’

  ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Log on to this site and get something free is the usual way. A trip, or even just a personality analysis. Lots of ways of collecting emails.’

  ‘Our digital people will have to take your laptop, Mrs Challinor,’ said Claire Trent.

  ‘But I need it. There’s confidential information stored inside.’

  ‘We need to trace the source of the file sent to you.’

  ‘I can’t let it go. There are too many confidential files; ongoing investigations, personal details of deaths, my coroner’s notes.’

  ‘I’m sorry. A man has been murdered. We’ll download the files you need onto a drive.’

  ‘The information is confidential, Mrs Trent,’ the coroner replied firmly.

  ‘I can get a warrant if necessary.’

  The two women were at a stand-off.

  Finally Ridpath said, ‘Why don’t I take the laptop to the digital team and stay with it while they examine the source of the file?’

  They both looked at him.

  ‘Agreed,’ Claire Trent finally said.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll ask Jenny to download the files for the cases you need in the next couple of days onto a drive.’

  Mrs Challinor nodded. ‘What did the police find in Saddleworth?’

  ‘The same scene as you watched on the screen,’ replied DCS Trent. ‘Brian Conway was hanging from the rafters. An emergency medical team tried to resuscitate him but he was pronounced dead at 9.42.’

  ‘Who was the man in the wolf mask?’

  ‘We don’t know. Probably James Dalbey. An explosives team are checking out the house before the CSIs go in. With luck we’ll find a fingerprint or some link back to Dalbey.’

  Turnbull interrupted the conversation. ‘But what did Brian Conway have to do with Dalbey? He was a retired coroner.’

  Mrs Challinor lifted her head. ‘I can answer that.’

  Chapter 46

  He was pleased with the morning’s work. The plan was going exactly as designed. It was now time for the next phase; time to ratchet up the pressure even more.

  No doubt the police would be combing through hours of CCTV footage of the area around the house. It was one of the reasons he had chosen the coroner for the first live performance. The man lived close to the M62, the main motorway leading into Manchester from the East. They would have to examine the footage from the motorway. At that time in the morning, over 5,000 vehicles an hour were heading into the city.

  To make it a little more difficult, he had driven towards Yorkshire early in the morning, coming in from that side across the Pennines, rather than take the more direct route from Manchester. They would eventually spot the van but it would double the number of vehicles they had to examine with the traffic cameras as well as extend the length of footage they had to watch.

  He already knew where he was going to dump the van afterwards and change to another vehicle. By the time they had isolated the new car, he would have finished.

  He only needed three more days to complete his work.

  A lot could happen in three days though. He had to be careful and vigilant.

  No mistakes.

  No lapses in concentration.

  No deviation from the plan or the timetable.

  Just stay the course. Everything had happened according to schedule. The only error being the survival of the pathologist and the CSI in Glossop.

  Never mind.

  He had made his point. The pathologist was now a wreck of a man and the CSI would never work again. More importantly, he had slowed down all their forensic work. From now on, they would have to let the bomb squad perform a sweep of each location before they could enter.

  It was the plan.

  It was perfect.

  Time to use those bastards on the web. The people who preyed on the suffering of others like mosquitoes feeding on a warm body at dusk.

  He watched the video from this morning, seeing Brian Conway’s eyes as he kicked against the dying of the light. The man hadn’t cared about Alice. He had just pronounced her dead without bothering to investigate properly. They had their suspect, their sacrificial lamb, and nothing else mattered.

  He saved the video and uploaded it onto a 4chan site on the dark web. These people were nutters but they would serve his needs well. They were used to spreading conspiracy theories, dark state gossip, and ridiculous rumours.

  Here was a murder in living colour. They would spread it around the internet world in minutes.

  The police wouldn’t know what hit them.

  It was time to keep them busy, buy some time while he finished his work.

  The plan must be carried out.

  It was the only thing to satisfy her memory.

  Chapter 47

  The coroner ran her fingers through her spiralling grey curls. ‘Brian Conway was the coroner in the original Seagram case. Along with his officer, Anthony Chettle, he held the inquest into the death of Alice Seagram after the trial of James Dalbey. Given the conviction during the criminal case, the inquest was a formality.’

  ‘Did he also release the body back to the family?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘He signed the papers but the actual work will have been done by the officer.’

  Claire Trent leant forward. ‘We have yet another link to Dalbey. So far he seems to have targeted the police officers in charge of the investigation that put him in jail, Gorman and Whitworth, the mortuary assistant who stole the body and now the coroner who ran the inquest. Who else would he target?’

  ‘The coroner’s officer, Chettle, is an obvious target,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘Anthony couldn’t be a target any more,’ said Mrs Challinor, ‘he passed away six months ago.’

  ‘We’d better check where he’s buried.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘What about the judge who ran the trial?’ said Turnbull.

&nb
sp; ‘Or the prosecuting barrister?’ added Claire Trent. ‘Emily Parkinson is supposed to be compiling a list of all possible people linked to the prosecution of the case. I want it sooner rather than later, Paul.’

  ‘I’ll get it to you, boss,’ answered Turnbull.

  ‘There’s also the family involved, the Seagrams. Remember they gave him his initial alibi but rescinded it—’ said Ridpath ‘—after Lardner, the pathologist, lied under oath. He was the killer and yet he managed to shift blame to Dalbey.’ Mrs Challinor finished his sentence.

  ‘You want me to send out Osman notices to these people, boss?’

  Claire Trent stroked her jaw. ‘Not yet, we don’t have enough proof they are under threat. What are we going to tell them? A killer is on the prowl and he might be coming after you next? Lock your doors and stay alert? A message like that will scare the hell out of anybody. The tabloids would have a field day. But we don’t have the resources to protect all of them. When will DS Parkinson complete her list?’

  ‘I don’t know, boss, I’ll check,’ answered Turnbull.

  ‘Do that,’ said Trent eyeing the DCI, ‘I want to see a full list before we act. No point in scaring all those people unnecessarily.’

  ‘But why boss?’ asked Ridpath, frowning.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why is Dalbey doing it now?’

  Turnbull answered. ‘Revenge for his lost years in jail. He’s going after all those who put him inside.’

  ‘But why now and why kill John Gorman’s dog but not the man?’

  ‘Maybe he intended to go back for Gorman, and was disturbed before he could kill him? This man is organised, everything is planned. Look at what happened this morning.’

  ‘Why not go back another day? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ridpath, I’m not the bloody killer,’ Turnbull exploded. ‘Come up with a better answer rather than making me look stupid.’

  Claire Trent held up her hands. ‘Enough you two, we have too much work for you to bicker.’ She checked her watch. ‘I have to brief the chief constable. Paul, can you organise a full briefing for the detectives at 3 p.m? We’ll need to bring everybody up to speed.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ grunted Turnbull still staring at Ridpath.

  The coroner spoke up. ‘There is of course one person who may be a target of the killer whom we haven’t mentioned.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Claire Trent.

  Mrs Challinor pointed directly at Ridpath. ‘Didn’t you arrest him?’

  Ridpath was immediately catapulted back in time. One of his first days on patrol. Stopping the van with Sergeant Mungovan, the chase through the streets of Chorlton, finding Dalbey at the lock-up, a fight and looking up to see the woman chained to the wall, blood splattered across her face.

  ‘You arrested him, Ridpath?’ asked Turnbull.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘It was also Ridpath’s work which cleared Dalbey and discovered the real killer, Lardner.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, add Ridpath to the list, Paul.’

  Ridpath stood there, staring at the monitor, with its last, blurred image of Brian Conway hanging by his neck from a rope.

  Was Ridpath next?

  Chapter 48

  ‘Right, gather round people.’ Paul Turnbull clapped his hands and the assembled detectives took their seats. Claire Trent looked up from her mobile phone. Yet another text from the chief constable.

  Ridpath glanced over the room. They were taking this seriously now. Over thirty detectives and virtually every civilian resource available to MIT was gathered together. Alan Jones was standing next to the chalkboard as usual.

  ‘Following this morning’s incident, this briefing is to bring you up to date on the investigation. Let me remind you, given the media involvement, everything spoken about in this room, is confidential. I will personally break any detective who leaks to the press, is that clear?’

  A few mumbled replies.

  ‘IS THAT CLEAR?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ was the strong response from the room.

  The tabloids had been calling the PR department of GMP for the last couple of hours, all desperate to find out why the coroner had been killed and who had committed the outrage. The footage had already gone viral, with over 500,000 views and rising.

  Suddenly, all eyes were focussed on MIT.

  Paul Turnbull scratched the top of his balding pate. Ridpath could see livid red marks already etched into the skin.

  ‘As you know, this morning the former coroner, Brian Conway, was murdered and the act live streamed on the internet. John from the digital team will explain.’

  A bearded, pot-bellied man rose from his seat. ‘It looks like somebody created a site on the dark web and sent the link to Mrs Challinor. As soon as she clicked it, the link went live.’

  ‘Can we trace the IP address of whoever set it up?’ asked Claire Trent.

  ‘That’s the point of the dark web. Nothing is traceable. It would be like looking for a black cat in a dark room which isn’t even there.’

  Claire Trent shook her head and stared at him.

  ‘Who uploaded the video to Facebook?’

  ‘There are multiple accounts who have posted it on their pages. Some are sock puppets, some bots, a few trolls. These lurkers and spammers exist for one purpose; to spread disinformation, to muddy the waters.’

  Harry Makepeace leant closer to Ridpath. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Beats me, my daughter is better with an iPad than I am.’

  ‘I thought you were there when they went through the laptop?’

  ‘I was, but I was about as useful as the Mayor of Manchester. I didn’t know what the hell they were doing.’

  A quick scowl from Claire Trent stopped Ridpath from speaking.

  ‘Can’t Facebook do something about the video? It shows the death of a man for God’s sake.’ Emily Parkinson addressed the digital expert directly.

  ‘They are trying but it’s like playing whack-a-mole. As soon as you knock one out, another pops up.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll be able to find the source of the video?’

  ‘In a one-word answer: no.’

  ‘Right. But keep monitoring John.’ Turnbull turned to his right, searching the crowd for a particular face. He saw the Manchester City scarf first. ‘Chrissy, how are we doing on the CCTV footage?’

  ‘We’re checking everything from the roads around the house, but there are not many cameras in those Pennine villages and we don’t know what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Try a Ford Transit Custom built before 2018.’

  ‘Are you psychic, Ridpath, or do you know something we don’t?’

  ‘It’s the van used to kidnap John Gorman’s dogs. Emily found CCTV footage.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be dognap?’ Rob Allenby said from the back to laughter from the detectives.

  Turnbull ignored them. ‘And when were you planning to tell us?’

  ‘It’s in the Gorman case notes.’

  Chrissy held them up.

  ‘Along with a picture of the man who stole the dogs. The picture matches the man in the video for height and build but we can’t see his face.’

  Claire Trent smiled at Emily Parkinson. ‘Well done. Put it on the wall. Knowing the area, he may have entered the M62 from Junction 21 or 22.’

  ‘That’s if he didn’t use any of the A or B roads, boss, or went towards Yorkshire before doubling back,’ interrupted Chrissy Wright as she put the picture of the van and the blurred close-up of the man on the wall.

  ‘We have to focus now, Chrissy. We’ll concentrate on the M62 first and shift to the other roads later.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  ‘Look for a white Ford Transit on the ANPR cameras, using a window of eight a.m. to ten a.m.’

  ‘In both directions? That could be over 10,000 cars during the rush hour, boss.’

  ‘Could we cross reference ANPR numbers of cars in the Glossop area and at th
e M62 junctions?’ asked Emily Parkinson.

  ‘Too much information. Do you know how many number plates that is? It would take us years to go through all the footage. And even then, perhaps the perp avoided using a road with an ANPR camera? Or maybe it wasn’t functioning. Sometimes, too much information can be worse than too little.’ Claire Trent answered, making sure everybody knew she was in charge. ‘Let’s focus first on a Ford Transit van on the M62 in this time frame. If we find number plates, we’ll narrow the number of vehicles by cross referencing versus Glossop. With a bit of luck, we’ll pick up one vehicle in both locations.’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  Paul Turnbull held both his hands up. ‘People, let’s concentrate on one incident at a time, otherwise we’re going to be here for the next ten hours.’

  Claire Trent looked at him like she had been stung by a bee. He moved to the left-hand side of the room next to a series of pictures of the Glossop incident. ‘Any more news from the house-to-house survey?’

  ‘Nothing we didn’t already know, guvnor. Only one woman saw the man sitting in the car. The sketch we got from her is on the board,’ said Harry Makepeace.

  Turnbull pointed to a photo-composite of a nondescript man in his forties. ‘It could be anybody. Anything from forensics?’

  Chrissy stepped forward, leaving her Manchester City scarf on the table. ‘They are still evaluating the scene. The explosion and subsequent fire destroyed everything.’

  ‘When is the post mortem?’

  ‘Dr Schofield is performing it as we speak.’

  ‘As soon as this meeting is finished, I’ll head over there.’

  ‘Can I join you, sir?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘You like post mortem’s Ridpath?’

  ‘It’s not about liking or disliking them, sir, they are the most useful tool for understanding our killer. And I find Dr Schofield’s work to be particularly insightful.’

  ‘We have our own resident ghoul in the office. You like looking at corpses, no wonder you enjoyed working with the coroner.’ There were a few sycophantic laughs but most people stayed quiet. ‘Of course you can come and watch a body being cut to pieces. Make sure you have your dinner first though. Wouldn’t want you throwing up on an empty stomach.’