by M J Lee
Turnbull stormed out of the office. After a moment’s hesitation, he was followed by Alan Jones. However, the detective sergeant stopped at the door for a second and turned back. ‘Did Mr Dalbey visit this office at eleven a.m. yesterday, Mr Collins?’
‘I haven’t seen Mr Dalbey or Mr Monroe for the last eight months, Detective Sergeant. I have no idea where he is now.’
‘Thank you, Mr Collins.’ The policeman ran after his boss.
He didn’t see the solicitor smile broadly as he sat behind his file-strewn desk. ‘The police are always the same,’ he muttered to himself, ‘running around like headless chickens.’
It was true he hadn’t seen James Monroe for eight months but he had spoken to him on the phone just last week. All they had to do was ask the right questions and they would discover far more.
On the other hand, they had given him too much information. It was time to make the call.
Chapter 68
In the briefing room at Stretford nick, Claire Trent and the head of the Police Tactical Unit, Sergeant Trevor Hall, were both hunched over a table, staring at a map.
Ridpath had stepped back a little to give them room, but could still see the details of the operation.
‘Access is through a road from Longford Avenue. There’s a coffee shop in the park. We’ll use it as our base, advancing on foot from there to the houses. We’ll also come in from The Quadrant along the side of the pitch and putt course as well as from Ryebank Road, past the Athletic Club. Any questions?’ asked Hall, looking at his team.
His men shook their heads.
Claire Trent spoke up. ‘It’s already dark, what about lighting?’
‘The path to the house is well lit, but obviously the park itself is not. If, for some reason, he escapes our cordon, I have two officers equipped with night vision goggles to help with any subsequent search. The weather’s rough, wind and rain throughout the operation, which will help us as nobody will be out and about walking their bloody dogs. But it makes it more difficult to spot him if he makes a dash for it and tries to break through the cordon.’
‘He won’t escape though, will he?’ asked Claire Trent.
‘No, ma’am, he will not.’
‘Any reports of activity?’ asked one of the PTU officers. A man with tattoos curling up his arms and vanishing beneath a short-sleeved shirt over tight biceps.
‘Nothing at the moment, Ian. We have eyes on the house. No movement reported.’
‘I want him taken alive if possible, but understand this man has already tried to blow up a pathologist and a CSI as well as killing a coroner. Be careful, very careful.’
‘Our bomb disposal officer will be in the first group to enter the house. Bob, are you ok with the plan?’
‘Fine, Trev, but we need to watch out. This bastard has C4 and has used it before. The place may be booby trapped. Do not touch anything until I have given the all clear, understand?’
The assembled officers all nodded.
‘What about the park itself? There’s a kids’ zoo nearby,’ asked Ridpath, pointing to the map.
‘The entrances are being sealed off and, as we speak, people are being asked to leave the park quietly without fuss. Luckily, it’s raining so there aren’t many people there.’
‘Thank God for Manchester weather.’
‘Right, one last thing. No blues and twos, this is a silent operation. Our objective is to capture this bugger. Ok? The time is now 17:30. The operation will commence at exactly 18:00 hours. Let’s be careful out there. Anything to say, DCS Trent?’
‘This bastard is a killer. You are authorised to fire but only if your life is in danger. I want this man in custody.’
The officers, all wearing their protective gear – matt-black Kevlar helmets, NIJ level IIIA bulletproof vests, black ski masks to cover the HOSDB approved jumpsuits and Nomex undergarments – nodded agreement and moved away to perform last-minute checks on their Heckler and Koch rifles.
Five minutes later they were pulling out of Stretford Police Station in their armed response vehicles, a palpable, almost physical air of tension in the group.
Nobody was talking, nobody looking at each other. All concentrating on their role in the upcoming job, focussed on what they were about to do.
Five minutes later they were edging through the police tape strung across the bottom of Longford Avenue where it entered the park, silently pulling up outside an old hut which now housed the cafe. The area and the nearby kids’ petting zoo were deserted except for police officers.
As they stepped out of the vehicles, the wind and rain hit them. They hurried for the shelter of the nearby cafe.
‘Anything from your observers, Sergeant Hall?’ asked Claire Trent.
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ the officer said formally. ‘All quiet, no sign of movement inside the house.’
The officers adjusted their equipment, checking each other carefully, making sure each piece of kit was operational.
‘It’s 17:55, ma’am, do we have your permission to begin?’
Claire checked her watch. ‘You do, Sergeant Hall.’
The sergeant spoke into his Airwave. ‘Team B, where are you?’
‘Moving into position now, Sarge. ETA, one minute. Over.’
‘Right. On arrival hold position until further orders. Over.’
‘Copy that. Over.’
‘Team C?’
‘Passing the playground by the side of the pitch and putt course, Sarge. Over. Will reach our position by the wall next to the car park in one minute. Over.’
‘Hold position on arrival. Over.’
‘Will do. Over.’
Sergeant Hall turned to Claire. ‘Teams B and C in position, ma’am. Permission to proceed?’
Ridpath noticed she was crossing her fingers.
‘Permission granted, Sergeant Hall.’
‘Right, Ian, you’ll lead column A on the right, keep close to the wall. I’ll lead column D. On arrival at the house, Barry will use the enforcer to gain entry. You will cover us.’
‘Copy that, boss.’
Trevor Hall checked his watch. ‘It’s 17:58:30. By my reckoning, it will take us one minute to get to the house. Twenty seconds to assess the situation and then entry. All clear?’
His team nodded.
‘Right let’s move, Ron.’
* * *
Ninety seconds later, the teams went into action with military precision. They formed two columns of four officers each. In the left-hand column, led by Sergeant Hall, the second officer held the heavy red enforcer that would allow them to gain entry.
Sergeant Hall had studied the plans of the house. Pretty standard layout. Living room on the ground floor with kitchen at the back, three bedrooms upstairs, no basement.
They advanced down a narrow lane, keeping to either side, the rain gusting straight onto their visors. On the right, a lawn bowls club was empty and quiet.
Sergeant Hall whispered into his Airwave. ‘Approaching the house now. Do you have eyes on us?’
‘We can see you. Over,’ replied Team C.
‘Still no view for us. Over,’ came the answer from the leader of Team B.
They must have positioned themselves too far back. Never mind too late – they needed to carry on.
He held up his hand, dropped to a kneeling position and stopped, his Heckler and Koch G36 levelled at the house.
It was quiet; no lights and no sign of movement. He quickly scanned the area. It was a lovely place to live, even in the middle of a gale in February, surrounded by parkland, trees and the dark of the night.
He banished the thought from his mind and concentrated on the job, waving the team forward. ‘Going in,’ he whispered into his Airwave.
Chapter 69
The judge was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, his hands dangling down at his sides, the wrists fastened to each leg by a pair of handcuffs.
The man was quiet at the moment. A soporific, Risperidone in this case, g
iven to him three hours ago in a cup of water, continuing to work. It made him docile yet still responsive.
Just as any judge should be.
The house was barely furnished. He had found it almost four months ago and immediately realised it was ideal. It was sufficiently isolated to give the sort of privacy he required without being too far away from everything. Located on the outskirts of Manchester, in the middle of one of the few patches of countryside left, the only strangers he saw were the occasional dog walker giving their animals exercise.
Bloody fools.
Being in the middle of winter helped. Not many people brave the outdoors of Manchester on a February evening when the wind is blowing, the rain sleeting down and the cold probing their bones like a stiletto.
What did amuse him though was it wasn’t far from the crematorium. Each day, lines of black limousines and hearses would pass the house on their journey to the land of the dead.
The judge was about to join them, even though he didn’t know it yet.
He listened for a moment.
Outside, Manchester lived up to its reputation; the wind whistled through the trees and the rain was beating against the window.
Inside, the man’s breathing whistled in his chest. Did he have asthma or bronchitis? No matter. He wouldn’t be troubled by his chest for much longer.
He checked the time.
5.58 p.m.
Two more minutes and he would leave to get some food for both of them. He’d feed the old man at nine o’clock, slipping in the last dose of Risperidone with his food.
He wanted the man to be as aware as possible tomorrow morning. After all, the judge was going to return to court once more.
But this time, he was going to be the one on trial.
Chapter 70
Ridpath was biting his fingernails. The thumb was already bitten down to the quick so he started on his index finger. It was a disgusting habit but one he couldn’t quit. His mother had tried, how she had tried; painting his nails with some ugly tasting solution, shaming him with words, making him look at the chewed ends of his nails. But still, in times of stress, he returned to the habit.
Tonight was a time of stress.
He hated standing there, doing nothing except listen to the squawks and occasional communications on the Airwave as the macho men crept forward.
He looked across at Claire Trent. She was staring at the radio on the desk as if looking at it would make time go quicker. He glanced down to her hands. She still had both fingers crossed. He wouldn’t have guessed she was a superstitious woman, but there she was with one of the most basic signs of hope.
On the Airwave, he heard the whispered message of ‘Going in,’ from Sergeant Hall. You could cut the tension in the cafe with a blunt pen knife.
Claire Trent was gripping the table now. Another officer, from Stretford, was tapping his fingers on his wrist, making an annoying sound.
Ridpath ran his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily, receiving a dirty look from his boss. Why couldn’t they go in too? Waiting here was sheer torture.
There was a long period of silence, what seemed like hours and hours but actually couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds.
This was suddenly broken by the sound of metal crashing into wood. They were using the enforcer to gain entry. Followed by shouts of ‘Police, police.’
The sound of the door crashing open and more shouts of ‘Police. Police.’
Heavy boots on a wooden floor. More shouts. Another door being slammed into a wall.
‘Living room, clear,’ a voice shouted.
‘Kitchen clear,’ from another voice.
Sounds of heavy boots pounding upstairs. ‘Bathroom, clear.’
‘Bedroom, clear.’
A long silence.
Another door crashing open followed by a high-pitched male voice. ‘Jesus, what the fuck is that?’
Chapter 71
He checked the plan one last time. The six Ps had been drilled into him over and over again.
Proper planning prevents piss poor performance.
It was the mantra. Everything was timed to the minute.
Sure, things occasionally didn’t quite go like clockwork. Glossop was a classic example.
They should have taken the lives of the complete CSI Team but they had missed them because the idiots had been slow to arrive and get to work. Ridpath intervening had not helped.
No matter.
He would get revenge on the detective later. He was saving Ridpath for last. That was the plan. He was going to be the one they savoured, tasting the pleasant bitterness of his death.
But he mustn’t jump ahead of himself.
Stay in the now, he always reminded himself. The past and the future are where mistakes are made. The present is where the truth lies.
Outside, he heard a noise in the garden, a screech like the gate being opened. They deliberately didn’t oil the hinges. A simple precaution but an effective warning.
He moved silently towards the window, slowly pulling aside the curtain.
At first, he could see nothing, but the twinkle of light in a pair of eyes gave the intruder away.
A fox stood in the gateway, his nose sniffing the air, whiskers twitching, checking whether it was safe to enter or not.
He pulled the curtain further open. The fox took fright, fleeing silently into the windswept night.
He checked his watch again.
Five minutes behind schedule. No matter, he would make the time up.
He checked the door to the cellar one last time.
It was bolted twice and locked. The judge would not escape.
He put on his coat and prepared to brave the rigours of the February night.
Tomorrow was going to be a brilliant day. He could feel it in his bones.
And so would the judge.
Chapter 72
Ridpath and Claire Trent ran out of the cafe, turning left to follow the same route taken by the Police Tactical Unit a few minutes before. But they didn’t bother with concealment, instead they ran as fast as they could through the pouring rain, past the lawn bowling club on the right and the glasshouses on the left.
A group of PTU officers assembled in a group outside the house, checking their rifles and the rest of their equipment.
‘Where’s Sergeant Hall?’
‘Upstairs, second bedroom on the left, ma’am,’ one of them replied. He stepped in front of her with his arm out, ‘But you can’t go in yet. The bomb disposal officer still hasn’t declared the place safe.’
Claire Trent pulled on her blue plastic gloves and moved the arm aside. ‘Are you going to stop me, Constable?’ She brushed past him followed by Ridpath.
They walked past the shattered red door, still hanging off one hinge and ran up the stairs.
Trevor Hall was waiting for them at the top. ‘The house is clear. Ron is just giving the place a final check but there is no sign of explosives or firearms.’
‘We heard you found something.’
He nodded. ‘It’s in here.’
They walked into a small bedroom on the right. There was no bed inside nor any furniture. Instead the whole room was painted the deepest, darkest black Ridpath had ever seen. The windows appeared to be boarded up so no daylight could enter. Against one wall, a picture of an old woman was superimposed over the body of the Madonna painted in the style of an old Renaissance painting. A single candle in a red glass container cast a shimmering light upwards. Two other long, unlit, votive candles were on either side of the light.
Around the head of the woman, a halo glowed brightly.
‘It’s his mother,’ whispered Ridpath.
‘What?’
‘It’s Dalbey’s mother. I recognise her face. She died not long after Dalbey was imprisoned. I remember he complained when I met him. He was angry the Ministry of Justice wouldn’t allow him to go to his mother’s funeral.’
The detective superintendent glanced at the scene again,
her lips pursing. ‘It’s all a bit weird, almost incestuous.’
Ridpath stared at it for a long time, remembering his own childhood and the weekly masses forced on him and his sister by his mother until he rebelled when he was thirteen. ‘You’re going to hell, like your sister. You’re a heathen,’ she had shouted, crossing herself, ‘may God in his infinite wisdom have mercy on your heathen soul.’
Finally he spoke. ‘You weren’t brought up a Catholic, guvnor?’
‘No religion at all in my family. My father disapproved of it. He was a bit of a leftie. Went with the territory of being a university lecturer in sociology.’
Ridpath glanced across at her. That was the first time Claire Trent had ever told him about herself or her background. ‘He’s equating his mother with the Madonna, the Virgin Mary. This is a shrine to her.’
‘The Virgin Mary?’
‘No, his mother.’
‘It’s weird, almost Oedipal. Did we ever discover who was Dalbey’s father?’
‘I don’t know if we ever asked.’
Sergeant Hall coughed behind them. ‘The building is clear, ma’am. Can I stand my men down?’
‘Please do, and thank them for me. They did well.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, I’ll pass it on.’
‘Can you also get a CSI team here, Sergeant, as soon as possible? I want this house done over like a kipper. No stone unturned. Understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She turned back to Ridpath. ‘At least we know Dalbey was here, and recently by the state of the house.’
‘Yes, boss, but where is he now? And, more importantly, who is going to be his next victim?’
‘That’s what worries me, too. There’s nothing left for me to do here, I’m going back to HQ.’
‘I’d like to stay a bit longer, question the neighbours. Find out all I can about James Dalbey and what he was doing here.’
‘Good, I want a debrief at the office at nine p.m. this evening, Ridpath. Don’t be late.’
