by M J Lee
Claire Trent stepped in front of him. ‘Remember people, James Dalbey is the most likely suspect for these murders. Any luck on finding him, Chrissy?’
‘We found his address when he was first released from prison, boss. But after he received his compensation, he vanished.’
‘I’d vanish too. To a tropical island with hot and cold running women.’ As Harry Makepeace whispered in his ear, Ridpath caught a waft of his fetid breath. It was like standing in the mouth of an open sewer.
‘Keep going Chrissy, he must have left a trace somewhere. Credit cards? Telephone records? Have you checked his bank account? Is somebody still withdrawing money?’
‘Done, boss, there were four withdrawals in cash of 100,000 pounds each a year ago. It hasn’t been touched since, the account has less than 20,000 pounds left.’
‘Jesus,’ Harry Makepeace whispered turning towards Ridpath. ‘Can you imagine walking around with that much cash? Surprised he wasn’t mugged.’
Emily Parkinson put her hand up, ‘Given he’s vanished, isn’t it even more likely he is the perp?’
‘Possibly, but we need to keep our minds open. Let’s be guided by the evidence not guesswork,’ said Paul Turnbull.
‘But the evidence is pointing directly at Dalbey, isn’t it?’ she persisted.
Claire Trent stepped forward. ‘It is, that’s why we have to pull out all the stops to get the bastard. Right? Any thoughts? Ideas? Anything we’re not doing that we should be doing?’
Emily Parkinson put her hand up. ‘What about the forensics at the murder of the coroner?’
‘First reports indicate the scene was as clean as a morgue. No fingerprints. No fibres. Nothing. They may find something but I’m not banking on it.’
‘What about the camera?’
Claire Trent glanced across at Paul Turnbull. He answered. ‘A common-or-garden Sony. Alan is following up on it.’
‘Nothing so far boss, I’ll push on.’
‘Do that.’
It was Emily Parkinson who spoke again. ‘Should we put out an appeal through the newspapers like the Manchester Evening News? They are desperate for information and somebody must have seen Dalbey?’
‘We could, Emily, but I’d like to hold off for a day or two and see if we can find him ourselves. The problem with those appeals is we get swamped with information. All the nutters come out of the woodwork and we have to follow up the ‘sightings’.’ She formed quotation marks with her fingers. ‘Anybody else?’
Ridpath put his hand up. ‘The coroner received a letter from Harold Lardner. He talked about a man on a killing spree. Was he referring to Dalbey? Perhaps a visit to see him in Ashworth?’
‘You volunteering?’ sneered Turnbull.
‘I could go if necessary.’
‘It needs to be followed up and you know the ex-pathologist, Ridpath. Arrange to go and see what he has to say.’
‘But Lardner has been locked up for over a year now, what help can he be?’
For a second Claire Trent’s eyes rolled upwards before she regained control. ‘I don’t know, Paul, but we need to check it out. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Put on the spot, Turnbull could only nod his head.
Ridpath spoke to ease the tension. ‘I’ll arrange it with the prison for tomorrow.’
‘Take Emily with you.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, boss.’
‘It’s not an idea, Ridpath, it’s an order, understand?’ commanded Claire Trent.
Turnbull was now smirking.
‘Yes, boss. We’re off to Liverpool tomorrow, DS Parkinson.’
‘Me and Scousers, we get on like that.’ She brought her fists together.
Ridpath put his hand up again. ‘One more thing, boss. Has anybody contacted the Seagram family? They should know what’s going on if Dalbey is the killer.’
Turnbull stared at him. ‘Why? Who are they?’
It was Claire Trent who explained. ‘Alice Seagram was a victim of Harold Lardner. Unfortunately, we managed to put away Dalbey for her murder before the mistake was discovered ten years later.’ She turned to Ridpath. ‘You’re worried he might attack them?’
He shrugged his shoulders in response. ‘I think they should be informed, boss. It won’t take the reporters long to find them. At least, if we let them know what’s happening, they can tell the newspapers we have been in contact.’
Claire Trent narrowed her eyes. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Ridpath, I would have said that is a politically astute move to make.’
‘It’s just the right thing to do, boss.’
‘Can you do it before you go to Liverpool?’
Ridpath nodded his head.
‘Right, that’s sorted. You all know what to do.’ Claire Trent held up her arms as the detectives began to chat and move about. ‘Listen, we have a dangerous killer out there. He’s killed two people and attacked two others. We have to stop him quickly, understand?’
Chapter 49
He had moved quickly after killing the coroner, swapping the van for a car which he parked under a canopy of trees behind a pub.
He checked out the location well in advance. There were no CCTV cameras overlooking the car park, nor were there any other cameras nearby. The closest was 100 metres away in an ATM. That was the great advantage of operating in the countryside. Most of the cities were saturated with the bloody things. In the centre of Manchester, simply walking down the street meant you were going to be on a multitude of cameras from banks, shopping malls, shops, and traffic cameras at junctions. Nobody could move any more without being seen, watched, spied upon and possibly followed.
It was standard operating procedure for any investigation to do a search of all the local CCTV. More often than not, the criminal was picked up by some camera, somewhere.
But here he was safe from prying eyes.
They would eventually find the van, sooner rather than later, he imagined. The plods on the beat would notice it hadn’t been moved within a couple of days. But he’d made sure it was forensically clean. He couldn’t be certain of course, but he had taken all necessary precautions; made sure he wore gloves and taken everything with him. Even the clothes he’d worn were from Primark. A place that sold so many cheap clothes it would be impossible to isolate any fibres if he had left any behind.
Eventually though, they would make the connection. Perhaps the car had been spotted in Glossop and flagging the number plate up on ANPR in Saddleworth would immediately send a red flag to any half-decent copper.
But it would take them time to make the analysis.
Time they didn’t have.
Because the next phase of the plan was about to be put into operation.
After that, there was only one more phase, then he would be done.
It had been planned perfectly.
All he had to do was execute the plan.
Chapter 50
Dr John Schofield stood over the naked corpse of the man lying on a clean white sheet on the mortuary table. He often waited for a few seconds before beginning his post mortem.
His assistant, the ever-dour Vera, had retreated to the back of the morgue, looking for some specimen slides and jars to place on the trolley next to the corpse’s head. She understood him so well. Understood how important these few moments were before he began to slice into the body of the man.
A body that had once been a man.
He whispered a few words. ‘Let me not miss anything and let me treat you with the respect you deserve.’
It was the closest John Schofield ever came to a prayer. Working with dead bodies had made him a convicted atheist. You were born, you lived, and you died. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Everything else was just a belief, a hope that there was something more.
But for him, there was nothing. A body lying on a stainless steel table, all life having departed long ago.
He paused for a moment. ‘Vera, can you bring me the thermometer? I’d like to take this man’s temperatu
re again before we start.’
The measured tread of his assistant and the probe for measuring temperature appeared in front of his eyes.
He inserted it in the body and checked the reading. 89.2 degrees. Still way below any temperature that would sustain life.
He checked the time on the clock.
4.05 p.m.
Pulling the microphone down in front of him, he spoke softly.
‘Initial examination of Donald Brown, date of birth 12 April 1988, a male Caucasian, aged thirty-one years old. This man has been frozen in a chest freezer. As such, the post mortem cannot be performed until the body has completely defrosted. According to the literature, this should take approximately forty-eight hours. A clean damp sheet will be placed across the body to aid the defrosting process.’ He indicated Vera to come forward and assist him, before carrying on dictating. ‘On an external examination, the man seems relatively healthy, if slightly overweight. No distinguishing marks or tattoos. An old scar on the stomach suggests this man had his appendix removed at some point in his life. We will ascertain if this is correct after opening the body.’ He paused again, reaching over to open the eyelids with his gloved thumb. ‘The corneas are cloudy. As this man was found in a freezer this confirms that at some point the body was frozen. Did the freezing occur before or after death? We shall determine the answer when we perform the post mortem.’ He moved the angle poise lamp so it shone directly on the naked arms. ‘I see contusions and bruising on either side of the mouth. This man has been gagged at some point. But the gag was removed after death. Moving to the arms, there are the marks of a thin rope around the wrists with similar scarring around the ankles. Fibres present in both locations and I will now take a sample of these and of the surrounding tissue.’ He gestured for the assistant to move forward to collect the samples.
As he did so, Dr Schofield stopped her. ‘Just a moment.’
The doctor moved round to the head of the man and stared downwards.
‘What is that?’ he said aloud, forgetting the microphone was recording for an instant. ‘What the hell is that?’
Chapter 51
‘Listen, Ridpath, I don’t like you and, if it were my decision, you would be kicking your heels as a coroner’s officer for the rest of your career.’
Ridpath concentrated on driving the car, not answering his gaffer.
‘And you know why I don’t like you?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘Because you’re not a team player. You’re this little maverick copper who thinks he’s smarter and better than everybody else. But you’re not. Without everybody’s work, you’re just a nobody. If you return to MIT, you’re going to knuckle under and follow the rules, ok? If you don’t, you’re out. I don’t care what Claire Trent thinks. If it’s a choice between me and you, I know which she would have to pick, don’t you? What do you say to that?’
‘I say we’re here.’ Ridpath pulled up the handbrake of the car and it squeaked like a strangled chicken.
Turnbull was in his face. ‘Get with the programme, or get out, clear?’
Ridpath returned the gaze. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, now we’ve cleared the air, let’s get to work.’ Turnbull got out of the car and walked through the main doors of the morgue. Ridpath locked the car and followed him.
‘Jesus, I hate these places. Imagine what sort of nutter you must be to work here every day with these stiffs—’
‘I imagine a nutter like me.’ Dr Schofield’s high voice echoed around the tiled reception area. ‘Hello there, DI Ridpath, good to see you again. And you are?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull, the deputy head of MIT.’ He stuck out his hand.
Schofield held up his gloved hands. They were covered in dried blood and assorted gore.
‘You’ve finished the post mortem?’
‘I haven’t started yet. This is another customer.’
‘What?’
‘I said I hadn’t started yet. I have done a preliminary external examination of the body but no post mortem has been performed.’
‘I don’t think you understand how urgently the post mortem information is needed doctor,’ insisted Turnbull.
‘And I don’t think you understand, Detective Chief Inspector, you cannot perform a post mortem on a frozen body. It needs to defrost first. Imagine a Christmas butterball turkey freshly bought from Tesco’s—’
Turnbull held up his hands. ‘Enough, I get it.’
The image swirled around in Ridpath’s brain and he shook his head to get rid of it. ‘Did you discover anything on the external examination, doctor?’
‘I did. I do understand the need for urgency, that’s why I am talking to you before the post mortem has been completed. When you’ve suited up, come and join me in the morgue.’
He turned and walked through large double doors on the left.
‘There’s an invite I never thought I’d hear. Is this man for real?’
‘Dr Schofield is the best pathologist I’ve ever worked with. If he says the body isn’t ready for the post mortem yet, it isn’t ready.’
Turnbull frowned. ‘Is it necessary to get suited up? I never used to bother.’
‘Dr Schofield insists on it if we want to enter his mortuary.’
‘Never used to bother before,’ muttered Turnbull again following Ridpath to the changing area. As they were putting on the green scrubs, he asked. ‘What’s with the voice? He looks like a thirteen-year-old. Are you sure he’s the pathologist?’
‘He suffers from Kallmann Syndrome, a form of congenital hypogonadotropic hypogonadism.’
‘You trying to impress me with big words?’
‘He told me so I looked it up. It’s a disease stopping a person from starting or fully completing puberty, leaving him with a youthful appearance, despite being an adult.’
‘So, he’s a freak right?’
‘No, just somebody with a genetic disorder.’ Dr Schofield stood in the doorway. ‘The good news is I never have to shave. The bad news is my sense of smell is severely diminished which is useful when cutting up a cadaver but not so useful when drinking wine. I also have a particularly short middle finger.’ He held up his gloved hands, still covered in blood. ‘Would you like to come this way?’
They followed him into a large white-tiled room with four stainless steel tables arranged in the centre. On one of the tables, an assistant was taking a sample from the stomach of a corpse. Above their heads, a large clock displayed the time. 4.30 p.m.
Ridpath shivered as the cold of the lab began to seep into his bones. He hadn’t forgotten his appointment with Eve and Polly that evening. In fact, he would do almost anything to get away from this place.
The assistant made a cut with a scalpel across the stomach. Ridpath almost gagged as a smell like the abyss of hell rose from the body. Behind him, he heard Turnbull stop and take a step backwards.
Dr Schofield moved past his assistant and pointed to a corpse covered in a damp white sheet. ‘This is Mr Donald Brown, a thirty-one-year-old hospital porter from Glossop. I believe you knew him Ridpath.’
The Detective Inspector focussed on the face of the body on the table. The man looked a little older than when Ridpath last saw him and he had lost weight. But it was Don Brown, the mortuary attendant he had interviewed two years ago.
‘Can you confirm the identification for me, Detective Inspector Ridpath?’
Ridpath was surprised for a moment at the pathologist’s use of his rank, and whispered, ‘I can.’
‘Can you speak louder, please?’ The doctor pointed to the mike hanging down from the ceiling.
‘I can. This is Donald Brown.’
The assistant moved away, carrying some petri dishes with slices of intestine.
‘Good. You must understand these are preliminary findings only from an external examination. I still need to follow up with post mortem proper, the
toxicology and the analysis of tissue samples.’
Turnbull finally joined Ridpath at the table. ‘Understood doctor. Can we get on?’
‘You mean there is someplace else you’d rather be, Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘I can think of at least 2,000 places, doctor.’
‘But you’re here. The topline is you are looking at an adult male in the prime of his life. Slightly overweight, but otherwise quite fit.’
‘Was he a druggie?’
‘If you are asking if the man was addicted to any illegal substances, Chief Inspector, the answer is I don’t think so. I can see no evidence of needle tracks or marks. The toxicology will discover if there are other substances in his body. I will have the results for this after the post mortem.’
‘What was the cause of death then?’ asked Turnbull.
‘The probable cause of death was a myocardial infarction brought on by severe hypothermia.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘In layman’s terms, a heart attack brought about by a dangerous drop in body temperature. But once again, I will confirm this after post mortem. But I can see no signs of any external trauma or asphyxiation. Poison or drugs may have been used and I’ll know after toxicology.’
Ridpath’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying this man froze to death?’
‘Exactly. The normal body temperature averages 98.6 degrees. With hypothermia, core temperature drops below 95 degrees. In severe hypothermia, core body temperature can drop to 82 degrees or lower. This corpse was removed from the freezer exactly five hours and seventeen minutes ago. Despite the freezer losing power during the explosion, the body’s core temperature is still only…’ he removed a probe from inside the chest cavity and consulted a display on his desk, ‘…still only 89 degrees. When we first inserted the thermometer five hours ago, the body temperature was 83 degrees. The power had been off since the explosion which was catalogued as happening at 5.17 p.m. yesterday.’
‘So yesterday the body must have been much colder?’
‘That is correct. He is gradually thawing out.’
