by M J Lee
‘I don’t understand, doctor, how did he die?’ asked Turnbull.
‘He froze to death. If I were to be a little more scientific, I would explain that during exposure to cold temperatures, most heat loss escapes through the skin; the rest, you exhale from your lungs. When this happens, the hypothalamus, the brain’s temperature-control centre, works to raise body temperature by triggering processes to heat the body. Shivering for example or vasoconstriction; blood vessels temporarily narrowing.’
The doctor paused for a moment. ‘If the core body temperature continues to fall, the organs begin to shut down to preserve heat and protect the brain. Breathing, heart rate and brain activity slows. Most people become confused and they have hallucinations. There is even evidence that some people rip off their clothes, even in the coldest conditions, believing they are too hot. I saw some evidence of that occurring in this case. His shirt was torn as if Mr Brown had tried to remove it.’
‘What a way to die,’ whispered Turnbull.
‘Any estimate of the time of death?’
‘You always ask the same question, Ridpath. This time, I can’t offer you anything with any precision, I’m afraid, the cold slows down the normal process of decay. The microbiome may help but I doubt it in this case. When did he disappear?’
‘Yesterday morning at approximately 6.20 a.m. He had clocked off from his shift at the hospital five minutes earlier.’
‘Then the time of death is anywhere from 6.20 a.m. to 5.17 p.m. yesterday.’
‘You can’t be more precise?’
Dr Schofield shook his head. ‘Anything else is sheer guesswork.’
‘Thank you, Dr Schofield.’
Turnbull started ripping off his scrubs and walked towards the door. ‘We’re done here.’
Ridpath glanced at the clock. ‘Was there anything else, doctor?’
‘The nails.’
‘What about them?’
Turnbull stopped and turned back.
‘He’d ripped off his nails trying to claw his way out of the freezer.’
‘And?’
‘We found a thumbnail lodged in his clothing. I’ve checked under the microscope and there seems to be a blue fibre lodged beneath it. I’ve sent it over to forensics for analysis.’
‘Did it come from his clothing or the freezer?’
‘He was wearing a red Manchester United shirt when he was found so I don’t believe it was from his clothing.’
‘Locard’s principle.’
‘Exactly, Ridpath.’
‘What are you two on about?’
The doctor answered. ‘Locard’s exchange principle holds that the perpetrator of a crime will bring something into the crime scene and leave with something from it, and that both can be used as forensic evidence.’
‘The fibre may have come from the perpetrator.’
‘Or perhaps from the vehicle in which he was transported. Thank you doctor, I’ll follow up with forensics.’
‘There’s one more thing, Ridpath.’
‘More?’
‘I found this tucked into the top pocket of the t-shirt.’ He held up a small piece of paper in an evidence bag.
‘Any prints on it?’ asked Turnbull.
‘It’s clean, Chief Inspector.’
Ridpath moved closer, staring at the evidence. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve unfolded it, and it seems to be a game of hangman, with none of the letters filled in, but the game completed.’
Ridpath saw a spare drawing of a hanged man, drawn in a child’s style. ‘There are seven letters in the word.’
Both himself and Turnbull spoke at the same time. ‘Coroner.’
Chapter 52
‘Let’s go for a drink, Ridpath, I need to get the taste of the bloody morgue out of my mouth. Where’s the nearest boozer?’
Ridpath checked the clock again. 5.45. He had promised Polly he would be back by six this evening. ‘The Grafton is the closest, I reckon, down the street.’
‘What beer is it?’
‘Holt’s, I think.’
‘I’d love a pint of Holt’s. Come on, my mouth’s as dry as a kangaroo’s jockstrap.’ He marched down the street towards the pub.
While Turnbull was at the bar, getting the round, Ridpath messaged Polly. ‘Back soon, stuck in a meeting.’ A little white lie, but she was sure to understand.
Turnbull returned with a half for Ridpath and a pint and a chaser for himself. ‘Here’s the woman’s drink.’
‘I’m driving.’
‘You think any cop is going to pull you over?’
‘That’s maybe how it was in Cheshire, but in Manchester, it’s different. A bigger force, bigger responsibility.’
Turnbull took a large swallow of beer, wiping away the foam left on his top lip with his sleeve. ‘Not a bad pint that. You trying to teach me my job, Ridpath?’
Ridpath could see this was becoming one of those conversations. So be it. The man’s constant belligerence was starting to grate.
Turnbull took another swallow of beer. ‘What was it with the double act with the pre-pube?’
This constant needling was deliberate. Ridpath was determined he wouldn’t rise to the bait. ‘Schofield is good. He’s thorough, accurate and doesn’t miss anything. If he says the fibre will be useful, it will.’
‘You two know each other?’
‘We’ve worked together before.’ Ridpath flashed back to the Connolly case and the immolation of Samuel Sykes. ‘Schofield was a great help.’
‘Sure there isn’t something more there.’ Turnbull was leering as he picked up his chaser of whisky.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, I got the impression, you were more than colleagues. We’re all open minded in the police now.’
The man was baiting him. Why?
Ridpath took a sip of his beer as Turnbull asked his next question. ‘How’s the coroner?’
‘Mrs Challinor? Good at her job, never seen someone work harder.’
‘You misunderstand me. I meant is she pro us? Or is she one of those coroners who sees it as her job to represent the victims in society? If there ever was a problem, would she be on our side?’
‘Our side?’
‘The police. The forces of law and order.’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’
‘I will, next time I meet her.’
Ridpath decided to change the subject. ‘The fibres may be the best lead we have so far.’
‘How?’
‘Well, if Schofield is right and the fibres do come from the carpet of a vehicle, it could help us isolate the make and model.’
‘But we’re looking for a white van, aren’t we?’
‘What if our perp used another vehicle? He must have known we would check CCTV around John Gorman’s house?’
Suddenly, Turnbull’s eyes narrowed. ‘If it wasn’t a white van, we’ll have wasted our time.’
‘But the fibre may help make the ANPR search easier by isolating the vehicle he did use; it may be the white van. We would no longer be looking for a needle in a haystack. Remember the woman said he was in a white or grey car?’
Turnbull thought for a moment before taking another swallow of beer. ‘Why did you become a copper, Ridpath?’
Ridpath shrugged, ‘Dunno, seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘I’ve checked your file. You were one of Charlie Whitworth’s blue-eyed boys, being promoted rapidly despite not being one of the fast track mob with their university degrees and mouths full of long words. Then, it all fell apart, didn’t it? The cancer was a bit of a kick in the teeth.’
‘That’s finished now, I’m in remission.’
‘But is it ever finished? What if it comes back? What if you’re in the middle of a case and you get ill again?’
Turnbull was staring at him, waiting for a reaction.
Ridpath smiled. ‘Well, if it happens, I’ll handle it, won’t I? Cancer is an illness, not a permanent disability. I�
�m cured now and never felt better.’ There was no need to tell Turnbull about the monthly check-ups or the procedures if he ever caught flu.
He finished his half and stood up. ‘I’ll be off now. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. You can get yourself home, can’t you?’ Ridpath was buggered if he was going to give the man a lift.
He walked out of the pub. Just before he left, Turnbull shouted across to him, ‘Look after yourself, Ridpath, I wouldn’t want you collapsing on the job again.’
Ridpath walked slowly back to him. He could see Turnbull brace himself, ‘One last thing, boss. I’d check the coroner’s body if I were you. So far, the killer, if it is Dalbey, has left a clue to his next murder on the body of each victim. It’s almost as if he wants us to stop him.’
Ridpath turned and walked out of the front door, glancing back once. Turnbull was already on his phone.
He desperately needed a shower. Not to rid himself of the smell of the morgue, but to remove the stench of Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull.
Chapter 53
‘Sorry, I’m late.’ He bent down to kiss Polly on the forehead and wave to Eve.
They had already started watching the film. Eve had this strange obsession with creating ‘movie nights’; pillows and blankets, snacks and drinks, blinds and curtains drawn, and lights off.
‘Don’t worry, we guessed you would be late,’ said Eve, ‘so we saved you some samosas, some bhajis and some onion rings.’
Polly paused the movie as the zombies were meeting the werewolves for the first time. ‘We finished all the popcorn. Do you want a glass of wine? There’s a Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge, but from the smell of your breath, you’ve already started.’
‘I had to have a swift half with the new DCI.’
‘How is he?’
‘Honest?’
Polly nodded.
‘A bit of a wanker.’
‘Dad, you’re not supposed to use language like that around me. Remember, duh, child present.’ Eve pointed to herself, mimicking her mother’s tone perfectly.
‘You’re old enough now to hear those words.’
‘No, she isn’t. I’ll get you the glass of wine before you say something much worse.’
Ridpath sat down next to his daughter. She was covered by her favourite Disney blanket and was hugging her rabbit close to her. Still the child despite the desperate attempts of the internet and schooling to drag her kicking and screaming into being a teenager.
‘How was your day?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ok, Maisie Riley has been showing off her new choker from Claire’s. Everyone is soooo jealous, even the teacher.’
‘I thought you weren’t supposed to wear jewellery to school?’
‘A choker isn’t jewellery, duh, it’s fashion.’
When had ‘duh’ become a word? Obviously after his years at school. ‘Anything interesting happening?’
‘The choker is the interesting part of my day.’
‘School work isn’t?’
‘School work is easy. Fashion is difficult.’
Polly came back carrying his glass of wine and a plateful of assorted samosas and spring rolls, but no popcorn.
He took the plate off her and asked, ‘How was your day?’
She shrugged. ‘Ok, but Maisie Riley has a new choker and it’s totally rad, duh.’
Ridpath looked at both of them. They were both trying to suppress their giggles.
‘This is a wind-up right? It’s time to make fun of the dad?’
Eve snapped her fingers. ‘Dad, is sooooo straight, duh.’
‘Can we watch the movie so I can eat my samosas in peace?’
Polly leant over and gave him a hug. ‘Bad day, lost your sense of humour?’ She smelt his neck and recoiled. ‘Sorry, Ridpath, you were at the morgue again, weren’t you?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘The smell, it’s always the same when you’ve been to the morgue. It sort of clings to you.’
‘Sorry, I’ll go and shower.’
‘No worries, it’s not that bad, I just won’t sit close to you. Eat your snacks first.’ She sat down on the far end of the sofa. ‘Eve, let’s watch the movie while your dad eats.’
Eve pressed the remote and the movie began again. All three sat in silence, broken only by the crunch of a samosa between Ridpath’s teeth.
His mouth may have been chewing but he wasn’t watching the zombies dancing with the werewolves. Instead, his mind was full of questions about the day’s events.
Had Dalbey returned?
Why was he taking revenge now?
Where was he?
And the worst question, the one that filled him with the most dread.
Who would be the next victim?
Chapter 54
Ian Stallard, the pathologist for Oldham and district, had received the call from DCI Turnbull just as he was about to start the post mortem.
He hated interruptions to his routine and this one annoyed him more than most.
‘You need to check the body.’
The background sounds meant the man was calling from a pub. ‘Which body?’
‘The body of the coroner, Brian Conway.’
‘I’m about to start the post mortem and, because of this interruption, I’m going to have to scrub up again.’
‘You still need to check the body.’
‘Why?’
‘There may be a hidden message or something like that on it.’
‘If there is anything, I will find it.’
He clicked off his mobile and began scrubbing his hands once more. After he finished, he walked over to the body on the slab. He had known Brian Conway for over twenty years. A good man was the coroner, a kind man, and not a bad golfer on a good day when the wind was blowing in the right direction.
Now here he was lying on a cold, stainless steel slab in an even colder morgue, ready to be cut open.
Stallard could have recused himself, asked somebody from Yorkshire to come and do the post mortem. But he felt that was a cop-out. And anyway, who could treat his friend better than himself?
He pulled down the mike and began speaking. ‘Case number 179/20 is an adult male, Brian Conway, date of birth, 12.01.1951. From first appearances, the customer seems in good health, slightly overweight but nothing to worry about.’ He checked the hands, arms and feet. ‘Hands and feet clean, no sign of drug use or any external damage and no signs of any defensive wounds. Why didn’t he put up a struggle?’
He often asked himself questions out loud as he performed his post mortems. Later, when he transcribed his notes they would help him form his conclusions.
He focussed for a minute on his friend’s appearance. ‘Ashen colour to the face, the nose, forehead and lips drained of colour. A coil of rope with which he was hanged is still around his neck. I am removing it now.’
After taking photographs, he cut through the rope with a sharp scalpel, before continuing to speak. ‘The ligature shows discontinuity and an oblique shape above the level of the thyroid cartilage.’ He measured the mark on the man’s throat. ‘With a depth of 2.3 centimetres. There are signs of abrasion, blackening of the skin through friction burns and a displacement of the skin around the ligature.’ He angled his head slightly to get a better view. ‘The displaced epithelium shows rightward displacement.’
He took a break, wiping his forehead, before returning to the body of his friend. He pulled the microphone down closer to his mouth and changed the angle of the light.
‘There is contusion, damage to muscle fibres and haemorrhage at the sternal end of the sternocleidomastoid muscle. The thyroid cartilage and the hyoid bone both seem to be intact as does the cricoid cartilage.’ He moved the body to check the back of the neck. ‘The cervical vertebrae are intact.’
He stood up again and stretched, his back was killing him. The classic pathologist injury; a bad back from stooping over bodies all day long. Still it had to be done.
He leant forward and gently opened the eyelids with his gloved hand. ‘Petechiae are present in the eyes and on the cheeks. From initial examination, death was caused by brain ischaemia after compression on the airways and blood vessels of the neck. Did a reflex cardiac arrest occur due to vagal inhibition created by pressure on the carotid sinus?’
He moved his gaze down to the mouth. Saliva had dried on the left-hand side of the lips. ‘What’s that?’
As he leant closer, he could see an edge of something white peeping out from between the grey lips. He selected a clamp from the table. ‘Sorry my old friend,’ he said out loud, prizing open the man’s jaws.
There was something there. He reached in with the tips of his fingers and slowly pulled out a sodden piece of paper folded into two. He opened it up.
‘Is Justice blind?’ he read the words printed on the paper out loud. ‘What the?’
He placed the paper in an evidence bag and marked the time and place of discovery on the cover. He must remember to include it in his post mortem report when he sent it over to the police. DCI Turnbull could do with it what he wanted.
He returned back to the body.
How exactly had this man died?
Chapter 55
He had often wondered how this would feel.
Would it be dark or lonely? Would it be like a dream? Would he be able to feel anything at all?
The answer was it was none of these things.
It was heaven.
A time which he could spend in his own mind. He’d been there often enough. In prison, the only way to survive had been to go inside himself. To find a different place from the four walls, the guards, the rancid smell of too many human beings crammed together, and always the noise.
Nobody realises but prisons are never quiet. There is always noise somewhere. From the clanging of the closing gates on each corridor to the loud snores of the sleeping old con next door. The shouts of the lags playing table tennis to the radios blaring all kinds of music. The calls of the prisoners to each other in the middle of the night to the screams of the nightmares.
Noise all the time.
Some escaped it through drugs, the black hole of Spice. Some escaped through religion. Others went noisily insane.
