by M J Lee
‘—to induce a coma.’ Turnbull finished his sentence for him.
‘How did you know?’ said the doctor.
‘We’ve come across it elsewhere,’ replied Claire Trent. ‘If you could complete your post mortem on the judge and send us the results as soon as possible doctor, we would be grateful.’
‘I’ll do it this evening. You will have my preliminary thoughts tomorrow morning.’
He walked away back to the single white tent, now illuminated by the portable lights and generators of the CSI team.
‘What do we do now, Claire?’
‘I’ll need you to organise this area, Paul. We need to interview the dog walker and canvas the local estate, maybe somebody spotted something. I’m going back to the office. See if we have discovered any new information on Tony Seagram. The team must have found something by now.’
‘They would have called if they did, Claire.’
She nodded. ‘You’re right, but I’m going back anyway.’
Claire Trent stared back at the mob of reporters and television news crews being kept back by a thin blue line of coppers from the local nick.
‘Now I need to fight my way through the mob, Paul, to do my job. It’s going to be a long night.’
Chapter 94
In the middle of the press of reporters and television crews, one man stood staring at the white tent.
Earlier that day he had transported the judge to this particular location and placed the body in the wood.
James had predicted the man would die as soon as the sentence was executed, but he lasted more than three hours, groaning and moaning, until Tony Seagram could stand it no longer.
He was about to stab him through the heart when the noises stopped abruptly. He checked the man’s pulse.
Nothing.
‘Finally, about bloody time.’ He’d levered him up into a wheelchair, covered him with a paisley blanket and wheeled him out to a van parked outside the house.
That afternoon, the clouds had cleared and it was a bright, if cold, day. A good day to dump the body of a judge.
He used the chair lift to place the judge in the back of the van, checking the notes on the plan to see if he had accomplished everything on his list.
After he had placed the judge’s body leaning against the tree in the specially chosen place, he would return to the house to make preparations for tomorrow.
It was the final act of the plan.
The final act of his little drama.
After tomorrow, he would be free.
And they would be dead.
Chapter 95
When the interview and search of Mrs Seagram’s house was finished, Ridpath briefed Emily Parkinson what to say in the report and decided to obey the instruction to go home.
Both Polly and Eve were surprised to see him.
‘You’re back. After we saw the news, we thought you’d be late this evening.’
‘I thought you wouldn’t come back at all,’ chipped in Eve.
‘They sent me home. Said I wasn’t needed, that I should rest.’
‘Claire Trent?’
Ridpath nodded.
‘She’s right. After a good night’s sleep, you’ll be back to the old Ridpath, fit and raring to go.’
‘Didn’t you hear the part about not being needed?’
His wife took a deep breath before looking him in the eye. ‘Listen, Ridpath, you are needed. Your family needs you. Myself and Eve need you. For one night, the Greater Manchester Police can manage on their own. You can save the world tomorrow. Tonight, you can enjoy a relaxing evening with us. We can eat a special microwaved lasagne, drink a bottle of cheap Spanish plonk and devour some Haagen-Dazs chunky monkey for dessert.’
Ridpath smiled. ‘It’s gourmet night chez Ridpath?’
‘I’ve got a three Michelin starred microwave.’
‘Mum, I hate to tell you this, but those stars are actually ice crystals. That setting is for defrosting food.’
‘I wondered why the lasagne was always cold in the centre.’
‘Sit down, Mrs Ridpath. Myself and my sous chef, Eve, will prepare your evening meal. Would you like a glass of Chateau Plonk while you wait?’
‘That would be appreciated. Wine helps clear the lungs of chalk dust.’
‘Coming right up. Sous chef Eve, come with me.’
So Ridpath prepared the meal adding a salad he made from a wedge of red cabbage, some sesame seeds and a dollop of mayonnaise only slightly past its sell-by date.
For the first time in a while they sat down as a family and talked, Ridpath forgetting, for a moment, Tony Seagram, James Dalbey, and all the rest.
It was only when Eve and Polly had gone to bed and he was sitting alone in the darkened living room that the demons returned.
With a vengeance.
Had he missed a clue?
Had he not worked hard enough?
Had he not followed through properly, missing vital evidence?
A deep sense of failure washed over him. Had he lost the knack for police work in his two years with the coroner? Was Turnbull right, was he now too much of a maverick to ever work as part of a team again? Was he just a pile of worthless shit?
A vast wave of despair flowed over and through him.
He hadn’t felt like this since the middle of his chemo when he felt so sick and tired he just didn’t want to carry on. Only Polly and Eve kept him going, their smiles through the glass window as the poison leeched into his body, making it all worthwhile.
But what had it all been for?
For him to fail when he had been tested? For him to let the Seagrams, Mrs Challinor, and all his colleagues down?
He looked across at the golden bottle of Lagavulin sitting half drunk on the shelf. He could take the pain away with its bitter honey. He could chase the demons away with its bur at the back of his throat.
He stood up and stopped.
Getting drunk wasn’t going to solve anything. The only thing to do was to return to work tomorrow.
Work harder.
Work smarter.
The answer was out there, he just had to find it.
His mobile phone buzzed. A message from Emily Parkinson:
Body of judge found. DS Trent happy about discovery of guns. Ballistics being checked, Still at work. Emily.
He messaged back.
What was the clue with the body this time?
She replied.
No clue found yet. Perhaps the judge was the last? Will you be in tomorrow?
He thought for a moment. Would he go in to MIT? Perhaps it would be better to spend time with the coroner. After all, officially he had less than a week left to work with her.
He shook his head.
Turnbull wasn’t going to get rid of him so easily. Not when there was work to be done. He messaged Emily back.
Of course, will be there at 9 a.m. You can brief me at that time.
She replied a minute later.
Good. See you.
Perhaps Claire Trent was right. He just needed a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
But at least he had Polly and Eve to come home to, filling his days away from MIT and the Coroner’s Office with joy and happiness. When every day was filled with death and dying, they reminded him that life, in all its beautiful strangeness, carried on.
He switched off the lights and climbed the stairs to his bed, thanking his lucky stars for the two most important women in his life.
Tomorrow would be another day.
Tomorrow would be a better day.
Chapter 96
In his bed in Manchester Metropolitan Infirmary, James Dalbey surfaced briefly from the bottom of his deep, dark well as the nurse changed his catheter.
He couldn’t feel anything but he was aware she was attending to him.
For a moment, he thought about waking up and sitting up in bed to request a bacon sandwich with extra butter melting into the thick doorstop of bread.
But
the moment passed and the taste of the bacon butty vanished from his mouth.
How he enjoyed playing them and playing with them.
They had deprived him of ten years of his life. Even worse, they had kept him from the only person he had ever loved or who had ever loved him. His mother.
The old James Dalbey had trusted people.
The old James Dalbey had loved his mother.
The old James Dalbey had tried to be a good man.
They were going to pay for the death of the old James Dalbey.
Each and every one of them, one by one.
The diagnosis of a brain tumour a month ago had knocked him back. But immediately he had seen the possibilities. What better alibi than being in a coma? Tony had always wanted to execute the plan on his own anyway, he enjoyed the infliction of pain and hurt. After they killed the dogs and commenced the implementation, he bowed out. No more prison for him.
And he was going to get away with it.
He had a plan.
A shadow loomed over him, playing with something above his head.
As the Propofol kicked in again, and he began sinking down to the bottom of his well, a fleeting thought crossed his comatose mind.
Were they all dead yet?
Chapter 97
The next morning Ridpath made breakfast for his daughter and his wife before driving into MIT. He felt rested and strangely relaxed. Getting a good night’s sleep had been the right move. For the first time in ages, he felt sharp and alert.
The radio was full of the story of the murder. The killing had been broadcast around the world through the internet. Even as the social media companies blocked the footage in one place, it popped up in another. The only other story dominating the airwaves seemed to be the arrival of a new disease in China. Already the authorities there had locked down one of their major cities in an attempt to control its spread. He couldn’t imagine the same thing ever happening in England.
As he stepped into MIT at exactly nine a.m., the office was buzzing, there were even more detectives than before, many of whom he didn’t recognise. They were all rushing around, sometimes bumping into each other in their haste to do their jobs. Chrissy was over behind her desk, buried beneath a wall of files. For a second she raised her head and saw Ridpath. Her mouth tightened and her eyes rolled upwards as if to say, ‘What the fuck is happening?’
He found Emily Parkinson in a corner of the department, hiding behind a computer, typing furiously.
She stopped as he approached. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a nightmare, Ridpath, there’s just so many people but we don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. The more bodies on a case, the harder it is to co-ordinate everybody. Who are all these people?’
‘It’s become national now, so they’ve drafted in teams of detectives from every division. There’s even somebody from the Met over there. We’ve basically got every police force in the country looking for Tony Seagram. He vanished from sight about six months ago and hasn’t resurfaced anywhere since. And that lot there—’ Emily pointed towards a group of six people huddled in a corner, ‘—are the communications team.’
‘Communications team?’
‘Since the trial of the judge was posted on the web, the media are all over this like flies on shit. That lot are just answering their enquiries. I’ve heard we’re going to get four more “press liaison officers” and another ten dedicated phone lines.’ She formed quote marks with her fingers.
Ridpath whistled. ‘This shit has hit the fan. And the judge?’
‘As I messaged you, his body was found in a forested area close to the Manchester Ship Canal, a place called Partington.’
‘No clues on the body?’
‘Forensics found nothing. Dr Schofield is performing the post mortem, we should get the results in soon.’
As Emily spoke, Turnbull appeared in the entrance to his office. ‘Listen up people, Dr Schofield has emailed over his preliminary report. The judge died from a heart attack brought about by shock. We’re still waiting on toxicology but I’m not hopeful it will give us anything.’
He spotted Ridpath and Emily and beckoned with his finger. ‘You two in the incident room now. Claire Trent wants to see you.’
DS Parkinson stood up and pulled down her jumper. ‘I wonder what bollocking the dragon lady is going to give me now.’
‘How’s Claire Trent bearing up?’
‘I think you’re going to find out.’
Chapter 98
In the house out in the wilds of Altrincham, Tony Seagram was making the last-minute preparations and checking the list on the plan.
He’d been following the news on Sky TV all morning. He didn’t bother watching the BBC any more, it was far too slow in its reporting and had turned into little more than a government mouthpiece.
A face on the screen was reporting the worldwide reaction to the death of the judge. Shock, horror and anger seemed to be the words most used, followed by a long explanation of the Beast of Manchester case with stock images of James and Harold Lardner.
For a second, a photo of Alice appeared on his television. His beautiful sister was alive again, if only for the few seconds of a television report.
The journalist finally spoke about the failing of the judicial system in the case. Good. The message was getting through.
After today, they would have even more to talk about.
A spokesman for the police came on. He used the usual platitudes; ongoing investigation, working hard, teams of detectives, sympathy for the family. Every time, they stood up and said the same thing only in a different order.
He switched the man off in mid-sentence, returning to the plan.
He went through the list once more, checking he had packed everything he needed.
It was done.
He was ready.
He put on the camouflage jacket over his white t-shirt and took one last look at the room. The camera was still there against one wall pointing at the single chair where the judge had sat.
He checked his watch. Nine a.m.
It was time to leave.
He didn’t bother locking the door behind him, he wasn’t coming back.
Chapter 99
Death.
It was God’s last big joke on all of us. We all knew we were going to die, but nobody knew when.
From the bottom of his well, James Dalbey focussed on death.
It was something he’d thought about a lot before he entered his coma.
The death of Alice.
The death of his mother.
The death of the dogs. And Don Brown. And Brian Conway. And the judge.
So many deaths, but in the greater scheme of things, so few.
He wished he could have killed more. Not in the physical sense of pulling a trigger, kicking a chair from beneath a hanged man, or blinding a judge. Tony was far better at the physical aspects of killing. His friend enjoyed it far more.
Even helping with the killing of the dogs had made him nauseous.
No. He wished he had planned to kill more.
A station full of coppers.
A court with a row of judges.
He chuckled to himself. What was the collective noun for solicitors? A lie of lawyers. A corruption of counsellors. A dishonesty of public defenders?
Whatever.
He was suddenly aware of the beeping of machines and the whispers of doctors. He knew they were planning his surgery soon. They would cut open his brain to take out the tumour growing within.
He chuckled again. The metaphor of a malignant cancer growing in his mind appealed to him.
Little did they know, how malignant it was.
He wished he could’ve killed more.
Chapter 100
Ridpath and Emily Parkinson followed their DCI into the incident room. Claire Trent was sitting behind a desk. Her face was a pasty shade of white and it looked like she hadn’t slept in a hund
red years.
The whiteboards were still the same as before except now a close-up picture of a smiling Tony Seagram was placed in the centre.
‘Right, I want you both to go to Ashworth and interview Harold Lardner again. It’s time to test your theory that he knows something.’
‘I’m sure he does. How’s the rest of the investigation?’
She sighed and tugged the skin between her eyes. ‘Look, Ridpath, I’ll be honest, I’ve got nothing – except the mayor, the chief constable and half the world’s press up my arse.’
‘There were no clues at the place where the judge’s body was found?’
‘None that we found. The post mortem hasn’t revealed anything new either.’
‘But Seagram has been leaving clues at the scene of every murder.’
‘Not this time.’ She stood up and walked over to a table with a map stretched out on top of it. A map of the area was marked with a large ‘X’ where the body was found as well as a grid of the search area in the woods and the homes already interviewed in the house-to-house.
She prodded it forcefully with her index finger. ‘The judge was found here at 6.32 yesterday evening by a dog walker…’
Ridpath looked down at the table and stared at the map, not believing what he saw. ‘The wood, boss.’
‘Yeah, he was propped up against a tree, an ash apparently.’
‘I know, but the name of the wood.’
Through her tired eyes Claire Trent gazed down at something she had looked at one hundred times over the last twelve hours, seeing it new for the first time.
‘It’s called Coroner’s Wood.’
Chapter 101
Claire Trent was staring at him. ‘You think the name of the wood is important?’
He nodded his head. ‘Tony Seagram always leaves a clue to his next victim with the last one. This time there was nothing except the place where the body was found.’
