Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

As Ridpath stopped his car at the barrier to the hospital’s multi-storey car park, the familiar palpitations began. His hand began shaking as he took the parking card and drove in, finding a vacant spot on the ground floor pretty easily.

  He switched off the engine and sat in the car for a moment.

  He held out his hand in front of him. It was shaking as he held it over the wheel. Not even listening to John Martin’s Solid Air during the drive from Stockfield had calmed him.

  Why did he get like this? All he was doing was going for his regular check-up and a visit to the vampire to give more blood.

  ‘Get yourself together, Ridpath,’ he said out loud, ‘not even Tiny McGough had this effect on you.’ Tiny McGough was a 6 foot 6 inch tall bouncer who the young Constable Ridpath once had the unfortunate task of arresting after the man had done far too much speed one night. Two blows to the head with his truncheon had made Tiny blink but had little other effect. It took a sharp kick to the man’s knee cap with his steel tipped boots to finally bring him down.

  To this day Ridpath could still hear the crack as his boot met the knee cap. Tiny was on crutches for six weeks afterwards. He was not a happy bunny.

  Ridpath had shown no fear that day, yet here he was trembling at the thought of chatting to a doctor and giving a few vials of blood.

  ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ he said out loud again, switching on the engine. He would go back to Stockfield. There was a mountain of work to get done, all of it having piled up over the last two weeks, plus he had to re-read the police report on the death of Ronald Wilson before he met Tommy Harper.

  He put the car in gear and stopped. How could he let Polly down? He had promised he would attend all of his outpatient clinics without fail. And what about Eve, what would she think of a dad who couldn’t even face a five minute meeting with a doctor?

  He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. ‘Time to face the music, Ridpath.’ Of course, the music he didn’t want to face was the doctor’s voice. And worse, the words of ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr Ridpath, but the cancer has returned.’

  Hateful, horrible words, spoken in a calm, reassuring voice.

  Logic told him he shouldn’t have to worry. He felt okay, a little tired but not the overwhelming fatigue he had before he was diagnosed. Today would be okay. He would walk in. The doctor would tell him everything was fine. The cancer was still in remission.

  Well, that was the hope anyway.

  He locked the car and walked through the hospital to his clinic. It was as bustling as ever with doctors, nurses, support staff, visitors and the occasional patient in pyjamas pushing a stand with a drip.

  He checked his watch. Five minutes early.

  On his right the small garden looked tired and pale, a few green shoots beginning to emerge on the bushes. He had spent hours there after his time in isolation.

  Anything to taste the fresh air of the day rather than the manufactured air of the isolation room. Anything to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Anything to hear the gentle rustle of the wind through the leaves.

  He thought about going there again for a few moments to calm his nerves, but checking his watch there seemed little point. All he was doing was postponing the inevitable.

  He entered the clinic and registered with the nurse behind reception. He hadn’t seen her before and from her name he thought she was Spanish. When she spoke, he knew it was her nationality.

  ‘Dyu please give blood with Nurse O’Brien, den wait for doctor to call, yes?’

  She was calm and utterly charming. He sat down in one of those ugly, uncomfortable chairs hospitals seem to enjoy procuring in order to torture their patients. Looking around, there were only two other people in the room, neither of whom he recognised.

  They were obviously man and wife. It looked like his second visit, because he had the look of sheer terror on his face.

  Ridpath knew it well. On the first visit, he would have been told of the possibility of cancer. On this, his second visit, he would find out the reality. The tests had been done and the truth was out there, ready to kick him in the teeth and change his life forever.

  Ridpath stared at him. The man knew what the doctor was going to tell him already, he just hadn’t heard the words. The wife was prattling away, trying to make small talk, anything to take her mind off where she was and the words she dreaded to hear.

  The man wasn’t listening to her. He was in his own little world, somewhere in the future.

  Ridpath had shared his ward before the chemo sent him to isolation with three other men, all older than him. He didn’t bother getting to know any of them, and they didn’t get to know him.

  It was a cancer ward after all. There was little point in making a new friend if they were going to die. Even today the words ‘cancer’ and ‘ward’ scared the hell out of him. It was funny how two small words could produce an effect far worse than Tiny McGough.

  A nurse appeared in front of him.

  The vampire.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ridpath. Nice to see you again. Let’s take a little blood, shall we.’

  In his head he was screaming, ‘We are not taking blood, you are, and it’s not a little, but whole vials of the bloody stuff’. But he said nothing, simply grunting and standing up to follow her into a small room next to the doctor’s.

  ‘Please sit down on the edge of the couch and roll up your sleeve.’ She said the last words without looking at him as she prepared the vials and syringes.

  He took off his jacket and did as she asked.

  ‘We’ll take your blood pressure first.’ She slipped the cuff over his arm and pumped it up, checking the results and noting them down. ‘A little high today.’

  It’s always high when I go to hospital, he thought, what do you expect?

  ‘Just an armful of blood.’

  She made the same joke every time. She must say it a hundred times a day to a hundred different patients. He bet nobody ever laughed.

  She tied off his upper arm and flicked the inside of his elbow, trying to find his vein.

  ‘You’re the one with the deep veins, aren’t you?’

  He didn’t say anything as she pushed the syringe into his arm and screwed the vial into the back. Instantly it began to fill with rich, dark red blood.’

  ‘Flowing like a river today.’

  She unscrewed the vial and added a new one, which began to fill again.

  ‘The doctor has asked for three vials today. That’s two armfuls in layman’s terms.’

  Ridpath mouthed the words as she said them. It was the same old patter.

  When she had finished she pressed a cotton swab into the crook of his elbow and asked him to hold it. ‘There you go, easy wasn’t it? Dracula has had his feast.’

  That was why he called her the vampire. She called herself Dracula.

  ‘Now let’s take your weight before the doctor sees you.’

  He stepped on the weighing machine and she recorded the result.

  ‘Please go and sit down in the waiting room. The doctor will see you shortly.’

  Ridpath went back and sat down, holding his arm across his chest like it was broken. In a few seconds the door to the doctor’s room opened and the couple stepped out. The wife’s eyes were red and the man had the wild look of shell shock. A gaze that looked at the world but saw nothing.

  He heard the doctor’s words. ‘Please don’t forget to make an appointment to come in on Friday. I’ll arrange the bed for you.’

  Ridpath knew the scenario well. More tests. More waiting for results. More pain and worry. All to confirm the diagnosis they had just been given.

  Three terrible words. ‘You have cancer’.

  The cruellest words.

  The man and his wife shuffled over to the receptionist. She leant around them and called his name. ‘Mr Ridpath, the doctor will see you now.’

  He stood up, knees trembling and strode into the doctor’s room trying to think positive thoug
hts.

  It’s all going to be good.

  It’s just a check-up.

  You feel fine.

  The cancer is in remission.

  He sat down facing the doctor. Dr Morris was a calm, slight, overweight man who smelt of mouthwash. He checked his notes, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ridpath, how are we feeling?’

  ‘Great, doctor.’ Ridpath lied. He was feeling okay that was all. He never felt well in hospitals. It went with the territory.

  ‘No tiredness or lassitude?’

  ‘Not at all, full of energy at the moment.’ Ridpath lied again.

  The doctor sniffed, obviously not believing him.

  ‘I see you have returned to work. How are you handling it?’

  ‘Well. I’ve been given a less stressful job as a coroner’s officer.’ Again Ridpath lied. The job was supposed to be less stressful but that’s not how it was turning out.

  ‘Eating well, are we?’

  Ridpath patted his stomach. ‘Watching my diet, plenty of vegetables and fibre as you suggested.’ Another lie. The last vegetable Ridpath had seen was a tomato with the fry up he had eaten on the last day of the course.

  The doctor harrumphed.

  ‘Was that good or bad?’

  ‘Looking at your figures, you have elevated blood pressure. Nothing to worry about too much but if it continues on your next visit, we’ll have to check it out. Plus, you’ve lost weight since your last visit.’

  ‘I don’t think so, maybe your scales are wrong.’

  ‘No, Nurse O’Brien checked twice. You’re two kilos less than a month ago.’ The doctor looked at him over the top of his glasses. ‘You need to take care of yourself, Mr Ridpath. It’s only six months since you completed chemotherapy, your body is rebuilding its strength. Are you still smoking?’

  Ridpath shook his head, but said nothing.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  ‘I’ve cut down and I haven’t smoked for the last two days.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound like a broken record but you are aware of the deleterious effects of smoking on your health. I strongly recommend you cease immediately.’ He glanced at his computer screen. ‘How’s your wife bearing up?’

  ‘Polly? She’s fine. Happy I’m back at work.’

  ‘We often find it is the partners of those who have recovered from cancer who suffer the most. The stress of the illness affects them as much as it affects the patient.’ He moved his mouse on the screen and typed in a few sentences. ‘We’ll check your blood work and I’ll give you a call when the results are in.’

  Ridpath stood up. ‘Thank you, Dr Morris.’

  ‘Mr Ridpath, I know you are a policeman, but you must give your body time to recover properly.’

  ‘I know, doctor.’

  ‘Knowing and doing are two different things, though, as you are well aware. I will see you next month. In the meantime, look after yourself and if you feel a cold or flu coming on, contact us immediately.’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  Ridpath left the doctor’s room, closing the door behind him. The couple were no longer in the waiting area. No doubt they had gone somewhere to discuss the details of the diagnosis.

  A discussion of the future when the future wasn’t known.

  As he left the waiting room, he heard the nurse call to another patient. ‘Mr Dowling, the doctor will see you now.’

  The words sent a shiver down Ridpath’s spine.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tommy Harper was already waiting as Ridpath parked his car on Shillingford Road. He was a portly man; his cheeks round, flecked with red veins and a stomach dangling over his belt like yesterday’s washing. An air of stale beer draped over him like a shroud. Obviously, Tommy had decided to enjoy a liquid lunch at the Fir Tree, another step in his crusade to try every beer known to man.

  Ridpath remembered them both as cadets; bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before the pressures of the job had kicked in. Back in the day Tommy used to beat Ridpath in the long cross-country runs beloved of the PT instructor at Sedgley Park. Not any more though, these days he looked like he couldn’t run a warm bath.

  ‘Hiya, Ridpath, long time no see.’

  ‘Tommy, when was the last time we met?’ he said, shaking hands.

  ‘Mike Johnson’s wedding, wasn’t it? Five years ago.’

  ‘Which wife was that?’

  ‘Number three, I think. Anyway, he’s on number four now. Went to another reception about six months ago. You weren’t there.’

  Ridpath wondered how much Tommy knew. ‘Nah, I was on leave.’

  ‘Sick leave I heard.’

  So he knew everything. ‘Had a bit of a struggle with cancer. Over now, in remission.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, mate. You’re looking well.’ He grabbed hold of the roll of fat hanging over his belt. ‘Better than me.’

  ‘It’s the beer, Tommy.’

  ‘Nah, mate, it’s all this bloody salad the missus keeps making me eat. Bloody rabbit food.’

  They were walking down Fallowfield Loop towards the lake.

  ‘Bit out of the way, this Wingate Lake?’ said Ridpath.

  ‘That’s how it got its other name.’

  Ridpath turned his head towards Tommy and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The Secret Lake, that’s what everybody says round here. Nobody calls it Wingate Lake. Don’t even know where that name comes from. It’s an old fishing pond that fell out of use in the Eighties. Now a few of the locals use it to walk their dogs. The local school kids skive off from school here.’

  Ridpath stepped over a lump of black bin bag. ‘And some people just do a bit of fly-tipping?’

  ‘Aye, there’s a lot of that going on.’

  They walked up a slight path and the lake suddenly appeared before them, the water glistening in the spring sun, reeds swaying in the breeze and a few dogs barking as they ran after a ball.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have expected that.’

  ‘Not many people do.’ He pointed straight ahead. ‘Over there is a recycling plant and to the left a cement factory. It was a rubbish dump till a few years ago but now they’ve started building the new estates on either side. Hate them myself. Like little boxes, no character and not a pub in sight.’

  ‘Yet here is completely hidden.’

  ‘Secret, ain’t it?’

  ‘Show me where the body was found?’

  ‘Over there at the far end of the lake.’

  They walked down a path, avoiding the rubbish strewn on either side.

  ‘You working for the coroner now? Cushy number?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘Not with Margaret Challinor it’s not.’

  ‘I heard she was a bit of ball breaker.’

  ‘No, she’s good at her job. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

  ‘No wonder her and Jim Howells didn’t get on. He was a useless prick at anything he ever did.’

  They reached the corner of the lake. It stretched in front of them like a wide river, long and thin. On their right the buzz of vehicles and crushers from the recycling plant provided a continuous drone to counterpoint the songs of the blackbirds and the robins in the trees.

  ‘Where did you find the body?’

  ‘Over there, in the reeds about half way up.’ Tommy Harper pointed to a spot opposite a bench. ‘A couple of kids from the local school were throwing a stick into the water for their dog and they saw him. Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Apparently he’d been in the water for two weeks.’

  ‘That was the guess, since he was reported missing by his grandmother on April 1st.’

  ‘I thought the pathologist had made the estimate?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘Nah, he wouldn’t tell me anything. It was the new chap. The young-looking one, can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Schofield.’

  ‘That’s it. Wouldn’t make any commitment as to time of death. It was my gues
stimate. The body was pretty decomposed plus you could see where the resident pike had taken chunks out of it.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘The kids who found it were pretty upset.’

  ‘The post-mortem has already been performed. You should get the report for your case file in a couple of days.’

  ‘Great, then I can close it. You know the management likes a closed case. Better for the stats.’

  ‘Why suicide?’

  ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’

  ‘Your report was inconclusive but you didn’t rule out suicide. Why?’

  ‘I didn’t see any marks of violence on the body, other than the bloody fish. And somebody called it in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We put a sign up on April 8th. You know “Have you seen this missing person”. For once it worked. A woman called it in. Said she’d seen a man taking off his clothes and going into the water two weeks ago. We checked it out but didn’t find anything. Three days later, the kids found the body.’

  ‘What was the name of the woman.’

  ‘That was the strange thing, she didn’t leave her name.’

  ‘And the kids, what did they say?’

  ‘So many bloody questions, Ridpath, am I being interviewed?’

  ‘Sorry, Tommy, you know what it’s like. I’m new on the job and the coroner is a stickler for details. Likes everything tied up neatly.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck with working out if this was an accident or suicide. He could have had a few drinks and gone for a swim or he could have walked into the water with the intention to drown himself. I honestly don’t know which.’

  ‘But no note and no clothes?’

  ‘Listen, you leave a penny on the floor here and somebody will nick it. Leave clothes with a wallet on top and they won’t last twenty seconds.’

  ‘A wallet?’

  Tommy sighed. ‘The woman said he put his wallet on top of his clothes before he jumped in the water.’

  ‘Do many people swim here?’

  Tommy Harper laughed. ‘Not the sane ones.’

  None of this was in the police report. Ridpath looked around him. A couple were holding hands, their dog trying to make them throw his ball. A young woman was sitting on the park bench eating a bag of crisps as her child dozed in the pushchair. Four teenagers, still in their school uniforms, were playing football using their expensive jackets as goal posts. It was pretty busy for a Friday afternoon. ‘Nobody else saw the man jumping in the lake?’