When the Past Kills

by M J Lee

  ‘I could ring those numbers?’

  ‘No, it will be quicker for MIT to do it. I’m sorry Coroner, I have to get back there now.’

  ‘Go, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Ridpath stood up. ‘You’re sure you are ok, Coroner?’

  ‘I’m fine. Get whoever did this, Ridpath.’

  ‘I will, Mrs Challinor, I know we’re close now.’

  Chapter 64

  The judge lived in a large arts and crafts house in Bowdon, with immaculately kept gardens to the front and rear. The house had the black and white solidity so representative of the period. The only feature out of place at the front was a large purple box with the words ‘Total Security’ printed in block white letters under the elegantly carved eaves.

  He parked the van outside the gates and pressed the intercom.

  A querulous voice answered almost immediately, ‘Yes, what do you want?’

  He pretended to stare at his clipboard and coughed to clear his throat before speaking. ‘Mr Robert Brooking?’

  ‘It’s Sir Robert Brooking, and I will ask you again, what do you want?’

  ‘My name’s Matheson, from Total Security.’ He pointed back to a new purple van, with its specially designed signage, even though the man probably couldn’t see it. ‘We have a booking to check the security.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  He tapped the clipboard. ‘It’s here in black and white. Mr Robert Brooking, 4 Ambrose Gardens, Bowden. Four p.m. Check security alarms. See.’ He held the clipboard up to the camera on the intercom.

  ‘I’ll say it once again. I am a knight of the realm and my title is Sir Robert. You will address me properly. Thirty years as a judge earned me the title and I deserve it to be used.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Robert…’

  ‘People these days have no respect, I’d have soon punished such behaviour when I was on the bench.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would, Sir Robert.’

  ‘What? What did you say?’ The voice was becoming increasingly querulous and tinny through the speaker.

  ‘About the security check…’

  ‘There must be mistake. I made no booking for a security check. You only did one three months ago.’

  ‘Perhaps, your wife made the booking.’

  ‘Diana wouldn’t normally involve herself in such mundane matters. And anyway, she’s away at the moment, in our cottage in the Lakes.’

  He already knew that. ‘Maybe it was one of your servants?’

  ‘Servants, we don’t have servants any more. In my rooms at the High Court, but not here, not any more.’

  ‘Well, I have a booking and if you want to miss out on the free safety check, I’ll be on my way.’ He pretended to leave.

  ‘Free, you said?’ came quickly from the speaker.

  ‘There’s been quite a few break-ins in the area recently and the company has been performing free checks on its equipment for its valued customers. Insurance, you know.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Just ten minutes. We want to check the system’s wiring.’

  A long sigh from the speaker. ‘Very well then, I’ll be right out.’

  Within thirty seconds a tall, ascetic looking man with a large nose came from a side door and marched down the driveway past the parked Jaguar.

  ‘So sorry to bother you, Sir Robert.’ He put on his most humble, contrite face. ‘Perhaps they messed the dates up at the office.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’re here now and it is free?’

  ‘It is, Sir Robert.’

  The old judge bent down to open the gate before quickly straightening up. ‘Can I see some sort of identification?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Robert.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out the laminated card, again created for this purpose.

  The judge gave it a cursory glance, before handing it back and bending down to open the gate. ‘You can’t be too careful these days.’

  ‘So true, Sir Robert, a lot of thieves and burglars wandering the streets.’

  ‘The courts have become far too lenient.’ The gates squeaked as they opened.

  ‘I can put some oil on those if you want.’

  ‘I would appreciate it.’ The judge thought for a moment before asking. ‘Since you are here, you could look at the side door. It makes an awful racket too. Diana is always complaining.’

  The former judge was walking away, pointing to the side door.

  He strode up behind him, wrapped his head in an arm lock and covered the nose and mouth with the pad soaked in chloroform. ‘There, there,’ he whispered feeling the man struggle against his grip, ‘just take a few breaths, breathe deeply and it will soon be over.’

  The former judge struggled feebly for a few more seconds, before his knees sagged, the weight of his body resting on the arm lock.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he dragged the man to the rear of the van, dumping him in the back. He took the hypodermic and injected the Risperidone into the vein in the crook of the judge’s elbow.

  He laid him on the mattress, checking his airways were free, before closing and locking the back doors.

  He ran quickly to the side door of the house, closed it and pulled the gate shut behind him.

  It had all gone as had been planned.

  It would soon be time for the judge to return to court.

  This time though, he would be the one on trial.

  Chapter 65

  Chrissy read aloud from the notice in the London Gazette.

  ‘Notice is hereby given that by a Deed Poll dated 12 January 2019 and enrolled in the Senior Courts of England and Wales on 12 March 2019, James Monroe, of 357a Lillie Road, Manchester M32 9GH, is single, a British Citizen, under section 11(1) of the British Nationality Act 1981, abandoned the name of James Dalbey and assumed the name of James Monroe. Any further communication on this matter should be addressed to Messrs Holbeck and Grimble, Two, St Peter’s Square, Manchester.’

  Turnbull pumped his fist. ‘Get in.’

  Emily Parkinson frowned. ‘Why would he make the deed poll so official. People change their names all the time, you don’t need to go to all the hassle of registering it officially.’

  ‘Perhaps he needed to update his passport or open a new bank account,’ suggested Chrissy Wright.

  ‘It doesn’t matter why he did it, we’ve got him now. Harry, check out the address. Find out if Dalbey, or Monroe as he is now calling himself, is still living there. But don’t go anywhere near the address yet, I want it staked out and observed, nothing more. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, guvnor.’

  ‘Chrissy, get on to the Royal Courts of Justice. I want the original documents Dalbey submitted, they must have them on file.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘And check out any bank accounts, telephone numbers, addresses registered to Dalbey’s new name.’

  ‘On it.’

  Turnbull checked the clock. 4.45. ‘Alan, you’re with me.’

  ‘Where we going, boss?’

  ‘To visit the solicitors before they close this evening. Let’s see if we can find out more about Dalbey. My bet is he’s no longer living at the address, but they must know where he is.’ Turnbull glanced around, looking for his jacket.

  ‘What do you want me to do, boss?’ asked Emily Parkinson.

  Turnbull found his jacket and walked over to pick it up. ‘You,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘you can brief the guvnor and Ridpath when he finally deigns to turn up.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to do anything more, boss?’

  He smiled. ‘I think it’s enough to keep you busy, Emily, don’t you?’ He looked around for Alan. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for? A bloody invitation?’

  Chapter 66

  ‘Ridpath, they’re looking for you.’ Emily Parkinson ran over to meet him as soon as he entered MIT.

  ‘You told them where I was?’

  She nodded. ‘Seemed to piss Turnbull off even more.’ />
  He looked towards the man’s office, seeing it was empty. ‘Where are they? I’ve got something on Dalbey.’

  ‘So have we. DCS Trent is still at her meeting with the chief constable and DCI Turnbull has gone out.’

  ‘Right, get the team together. Lardner met James Dalbey twice when he was first released from prison.’

  Emily Parkinson’s forehead creased. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we have work to do.’ He started towards the incident room.

  ‘Hang on, we’ve got news for you too. We can’t find Dalbey because he’s living under a different name. He changed it to James Monroe about eighteen months ago.’

  Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘I’ve seen the name before.’ He took out the printout Sophia had given him. ‘See it’s here on the list. A James Monroe visited Lardner twice in the last three months. Once on December 16 and again on January 11. He used a driving licence as ID to gain entry to Ashworth.’

  Emily Parkinson was looking over his shoulder. ‘Plus he left an address in the visitors log. Chrissy, where’s Fylde Terrace, Levenshulme?’

  ‘Hang on, I’m just checking.’ The civilian liaison officer quickly typed the address into Google Maps. The search engine was quicker than using the Force’s latest computer programme, IOPS. ‘Nothing here, there’s no such place in Levenshulme or anywhere else in Manchester.’

  ‘A false address, not surprising when you think about it. The prison staff obviously didn’t check.’

  Chrissy stood up, her head appearing over the top of her computer. ‘Did I hear something about a driving licence?’

  ‘Yeah, he used one as proof of identity.’

  ‘Give me the number and I’ll check with DVLA in Swansea.’

  Ridpath ran over to Chrissy’s desk. Meanwhile the rest of the squad had stopped what they were doing again and were watching keenly.

  ‘Here’s the info he gave.’ Ridpath pointed to the list of Lardner’s visitors.

  Chrissy accessed the police link to the DVLA website. She slowly typed in the long driving licence number and waited and waited. ‘It’s slow today.’ Finally an image popped up on her screen.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Ridpath looking at the picture.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Claire Trent.

  ‘We’ve found his address.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dalbey, he’s now known as James Monroe. Ridpath found his licence number when he visited Ashworth,’ said Emily Parkinson.

  Claire Trent looked at him coolly before walking round to stare at the screen. ‘Longford Park? He’s living in a park?’

  ‘There are some old workers’ houses in the centre, close to the pitch and putt course.’

  ‘You know the area, Ridpath?’

  ‘I grew up round there.’

  ‘Right, Where’s DCI Turnbull?’

  ‘Out, boss.’

  ‘Emily get onto the Police Tactical Unit, I want an armed squad at the address in fifteen minutes. Ridpath and Harry, you’re with me.’

  ‘Can I come too, boss?’

  ‘No, Emily I want you to coordinate everything from here. Chrissy, send all the information you have to the PTU and get the officer on duty to contact me asap.’

  ‘Where are we going, boss?’

  Claire Trent tapped the screen. ‘We’re going to get this bastard.’

  Chapter 67

  Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull and Detective Sergeant Alan Jones took the lift up to the sixth floor offices in a new office building close to Oxford Road.

  A map of the world in the elegant and tastefully furnished lobby proudly announced that Holbeck and Grimble had offices in London, Manchester, Glasgow, Belfast, Cardiff, Guernsey, Panama, the Cayman Islands and Gibraltar.

  Alan Jones tapped the last name. ‘Used to work in Gibraltar, boss. This lot are doing a lot of offshore work, tax havens. Nowadays, they don’t even bother to hide it.’

  ‘Nowt to do with us, Alan. We’re here for one thing and one thing only; James Dalbey.’

  A woman approached them. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  Turnbull produced his warrant card and explained what he wanted.

  ‘You’ll probably need to see Mr Collins, the partner in charge of our Criminal Law Division. If you would wait here for a moment, I’ll see if he is free.’

  She glided away across the thick carpet.

  Jones looked around at the paintings on the walls and the minimalist Scandinavian furniture. ‘A little bit different from HQ, boss.’ He pointed to a Nespresso machine at one side. ‘They even have free coffee.’

  ‘A lot of cons have paid for this, Alan. Next time you’re in an interview and some solicitor is being bolshie, remember this office. Remember how they earn their money. Reminds me of a joke. How does a copper save a solicitor from drowning?’

  ‘Dunno, boss.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  A discreet cough behind them. ‘Mr Collins will see you now.’ The same woman guided them down a long corridor to a large corner office. A small, scruffy man sat behind a large desk covered in empty coffee cups, papers and pink ribboned files. The man and his desk were in stark contrast to the rest of Holbeck and Grimble’s office. As if an alien was suddenly playing for Manchester United.

  He pointed to two seats in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen. It’s not often I get a visit from the police and certainly not one of the rank of chief inspector. Usually, I have to go to the station. How can I help you, Mr Turnbull?’

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Collins, we’re here to find out more about one of your clients, a Mr James Monroe, previously known as James Dalbey.’

  Turnbull laid a copy of the London Gazette notice on top of a pile of files. Collins picked it up and read it, a small smile crossing his face as he did. ‘Much as it would delight me to be of assistance to the Greater Manchester Police, I’m afraid paragraph 6.3 of the Code of Conduct for Solicitors requires me to keep the affairs of current and former clients confidential unless disclosure is required or permitted by law or the client consents. This obligation is also enshrined in common law under the data protection legislation.’

  ‘But James Dalbey is one of your clients. It’s says so on the notice.’

  ‘It may be a philosophical point, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate that simply disclosing whether or not Mr Dalbey may or may not be a client of this firm is a breach of the code.’

  Turnbull waited for the man to continue, but he just sat there with his arms folded across his expansive belly.

  ‘The notice states quite clearly Dalbey is or was a client of yours.’

  Collins picked up the printout and read it again. ‘No it doesn’t, Chief Inspector. It states if anybody requires more information on this notice, they are requested to ask at our offices. It does not state Mr Dalbey or Mr Monroe are our clients.’ Again, a little smile of apology.

  ‘Well, we’re here now asking for more information.’

  ‘What would you like to know, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘We’d like know the whereabouts of your client, James Dalbey, also known as James Monroe.’

  ‘I’m unable to give you the information without a client’s express permission.’

  Turnbull smiled triumphantly. ‘So you admit Dalbey is a client.’

  ‘I did no such thing, Chief Inspector, I was simply stating a general principle. The Courts have stated the duty to preserve confidentiality is unqualified. It is my duty as a solicitor to keep any client’s information confidential, and that includes the information of whether somebody is a client or not.’

  ‘That’s just – words,’ spluttered Turnbull.

  ‘No, it is the law.’

  Turnbull took a deep breath. ‘Mr Collins, I believe James Dalbey, your client, is presently murdering people. Yesterday, he murdered an ex-coroner—’

  ‘Brian Conway?’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘He was a good man, a prof
essional. I had the pleasure of attending many of his inquests.’

  ‘Then you will understand the importance of finding the chief suspect in the case, James Dalbey. I believe Mr Dalbey intends to kill again.’

  Mr Collins appeared to consider this new information for a long time. ‘I am permitted by law to reveal client information if it helps prevent the commission of a criminal offence. However, in this case, the information available to me does not clearly identify a proposed victim or isn’t sufficiently detailed or compelling enough for me to form an opinion that a serious criminal offence will occur.’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m afraid the information is privileged, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Even if another person will die?’

  ‘Even then.’ Collins shifted his position in his chair and sighed. ‘However, let me point you to an interesting snippet of case law.’

  ‘I don’t have time for a lecture on the law, Mr Collins.’

  ‘Please bear with me, Chief Inspector, you may find the information useful. There is a famous case in Manchester, Rex v Manchester Crown Court. It was a little before your time, in 1999 to be precise. In this case, a client travelled to his solicitors’ office after an alleged assault. The police asked the firm to confirm the time of his attendance to enable them to establish the facts. The firm declined on the grounds of privilege. The court found in favour of the police. The information was held not to be privileged because it was not a communication for the purpose of legal advice.’ He stopped speaking and the smile appeared on his face again.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Alan Jones nudged his boss. ‘I think he’s saying you can ask him anything that is not covered by legal privilege or confidential information, sir.’

  ‘What is this bollocks? I’ll get a warrant and he’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘I won’t. And if any judge did grant such a warrant, which I doubt, we would fight it in every tribunal in the land. You would be spending the next two years of your life in court, Chief Inspector.’

  Turnbull stood up. ‘We’ll see, Collins. You solicitors are all the bloody same. You protect the guilty but don’t care about the victims. If someone else dies, you’ll be the one with blood on your hands.’