Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  A shiver went down his spine again. Enough. Focus on work, Ridpath.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number for the pathology department at Manchester Royal Infirmary. He was put through to an answering machine.

  ‘You’ve reached Dr James Schofield. I’m either in the lab, performing a post-mortem or sleeping. Either way, I don’t want to be disturbed. But if you leave your name and number after the beep, I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.’

  On a machine the voice sounded higher and more youthful, like a teenager pretending to be an adult. Ridpath left a message. ‘Hello Dr Schofield, this is DI Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office. Just a couple of questions. When will I be able to see the post-mortem report on Ronald Wilson? Secondly, do we have a date for the release of Gerard Connelly’s body? I need to meet with the family this afternoon. If you could get back to me before then it would be appreciated. Thank you.’

  He looked at the list again. Only forty-three things left to do. He leant back, cracked his knuckles and started on number three; the death of a Mr Robert Hampson, aged seventy-eight.

  By two o’clock he had crossed off twenty-seven of the items on his list. If he was free tomorrow he would come in for a couple of hours to finish the rest.

  Ridpath hated to leave things undone, and with Polly and Eve still living at her mother’s, there was little to do at home except look at the four walls or watch telly. During his illness he had spent hours inside either pre-chemo or post chemo, with only the telly for company. He’d had enough of Cash in the Attic or bloody Homes in the Country to last him this lifetime and the next.

  He’d do anything to avoid staying at home again.

  Even go to see one of Manchester’s biggest thugs on a Saturday afternoon. He checked the man’s home address in the file. Time to get on with it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The taxi company was housed in a small Nissen hut on the outskirts of a rundown council estate.

  He’d been sent here after first calling on the unobtrusive semi-detached house that served as the Connelly home. A young woman in her twenties had answered the door. She’d obviously been crying. After showing her his coroner’s officer ID card, she answered his question.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I need to see him about Gerard Connelly. Could you tell me where he is?’

  At the mention of her brother’s name, her eyes moistened again. ‘Where he always is. Down the taxi office.’

  ‘Perhaps I could speak to your mother.’

  ‘That’d be hard.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She died four years ago.’ The eyes of the young woman filled with tears again.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Ridpath always found the mouthing of these platitudes difficult. For him, when they came out of his mouth it always sounded so insincere. What he should say rather than what he really felt. The course had spent a whole day on grief and family counselling, particularly on how to express empathy correctly. He still found it difficult though, the words always got in the way.

  ‘Yeah, so am I,’ she finally answered.

  ‘Could you tell me where the taxi firm is?’

  She pointed down to the end of the street. ‘Just turn right and you’ll see it on the left. Cars will be parked outside with the name Carmen on them.’

  Ridpath smiled. ‘An original name for a taxi firm,’ he said ironically.

  ‘My dad named it after my mother. Carmen Sheehan.’

  Ridpath kicked himself. Rule number one, never make assumptions. He tried to recover his discomfort. ‘Is there anything I can do for you at this terrible time?’

  She appeared to think for a moment. ‘Yeah, there is something…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Bugger off and leave me alone, copper.’

  The door slammed in his face, the glass still vibrating as he stood there.

  That was well handled, Ridpath. A sudden craving for the comfort of a cigarette washed over him. He resisted the urge, striding away from the house in the direction she had pointed.

  The street was quiet, peaceful. Classic suburbia; houses built in the 1930s out of red brick, net curtains covering the windows. Vauxhalls, Toyotas and Fords in the driveways, neatly tended rose-filled gardens in front.

  Who’d have thought one of Manchester’s biggest criminals lived here?

  At the end of the street, on the other side of the road, an old Nissen hut stood in a patch of open ground on the edge of a park. Outside the hut a variety of cars, all sporting the logo of Carmen Taxis were illegally parked on the grass verge.

  Carmen Taxis. Michael Connelly’s late wife’s name. Ridpath felt his face redden at the mistake.

  ‘Should have kept my mouth shut,’ he said out loud to himself.

  Ridpath walked up the short concrete path and rapped on the door. A well-built man answered. He was the caricature of the film heavy; bald head, broken nose and bulging muscles encased in a dark leather jacket, like a human black pudding.

  ‘What you wan’?’

  ‘I’m here to see Michael Connelly.’

  ‘He ain’t seeing nobody.’ The thug went to close the door. Ridpath stuck his foot in the gap.

  ‘I’m from the Coroner’s Office. I need to see him regarding his son.’

  From inside a voice called out weakly. ‘Let him in, Pat.’

  Michael Connelly was sitting behind an old wooden desk. In front of him family photos were strewn across the top. The rest of the cabin was a mess; old Pirelli calendars on the wall, a faded picture of the queen, three Union Jacks and metal filing cabinet filled the far wall. The rest of the space was occupied by a dishevelled job-lot of sofas, chairs and stools Oxfam had rejected as being unsuitable for use.

  Michael Connelly looked up from the photo he was holding. His eyes were red and rheumy, his face round and blotched, a tracing of red veins sprouting on the cheeks. ‘Now’s not the right time.’

  Ridpath looked for somewhere to sit down. He moved a pile of old Sun newspapers off a chair and onto the floor.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, I said now is not the right time.’

  The thug called Pat took one step forward menacingly.

  Ridpath stared at him forcing him to stop. He turned back to Michael Connelly. ‘I’m here about your son, Gerard.’

  The man leant forward. ‘Speak but make it quick.’

  ‘I’m from the Coroner’s Office Your son has been examined by the pathologist and we are just waiting on his report before we can release the body back to you.’

  ‘You’ve cut my son up?’

  ‘In all cases of suspicious deaths, the coroner will always request a post-mortem.’

  The small eyes narrowed. ‘A suspicious death? I thought Gerard was run over in a car accident…’

  ‘He was, but…’

  ‘But?’

  Ridpath took a deep breath. The man was going to find out anyway, better it came from him. ‘There were suspicious circumstances…’

  ‘Like being chased by a man armed with a gun?’

  It was Ridpath’s turn to be surprised,. ‘How did you…?’

  ‘A little bird in GMP told me. He was on the phone to me even before Charlie Whitworth arrived with his cock and bull story about a traffic accident. I wanted to see if you’d tell me more lies.’

  ‘Not the way I work.’

  ‘Then tell me the truth of what happened.’

  Ridpath took a deep breath. ‘We believe he was being chased at the time of his death.’

  The man lurched forward. ‘Chased? Chased by who?’

  ‘We don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘We? I thought you said you were a coroner’s officer?’

  ‘I’m on temporary secondment from GMP. It’s DI Ridpath in case you wanted to know.’

  The piggy eyes narrowed again. ‘We’ve met before?’

  ‘Possibly…’

  A long fat finger with a dirty nail p
ointed at Ridpath’s face. ‘I remember you. Part of Charlie Whitworth’s mob, ain’t you?’

  ‘Not any more, on assignment to the coroner.’

  Michael Connelly chuckled. ‘They put you out to grass?’

  Ridpath didn’t answer as the door opened and a man stepped into the cabin, bumping fists with the thug at the door. He looked the spitting image of Gerard Connelly. Again, Ridpath flashed back to the face through his windscreen, hands resting on the bonnet of his car, chest struggling for breath, blue eyes staring wildly, the angel’s wings fluttering…

  ‘Who’s this? The young man asked.’

  ‘This is… what’s your bloody name again?’

  ‘I’m the coroner’s officer, DI Ridpath.’

  ‘You a copper?’

  Michael Connelly answered for him. ‘Sort of. They’ve retired him. Used to be with Charlie Whitworth.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Let’s ask him, shall we?’

  This was obviously a game, played between the two of them. A power game, with him as the sacrificial pawn. ‘Now we’ve worked out who I am, who are you?’ asked Ridpath.

  Again Michael Connelly answered as another set of blue eyes bored into Ridpath’s skull. ‘This is Graham, my eldest, Gerard’s brother.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ repeated Graham.

  ‘As I was explaining to your father, after the pathologist has completed his report the body of your brother will be returned to the family for burial. I’m here to sort out the paperwork.’

  ‘We want Gerard now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. The pathologist hasn’t…’

  Graham Connelly was standing over Ridpath in a flash. His face inches away. ‘You’re not listening to me. We want my brother back… now.’

  Ridpath didn’t flinch. ‘And you’re not listening to me. He will be released when the coroner says so, not before. In a suspicious death…’

  ‘You’ve said that before. How do you know it was suspicious?’ asked Michael Connelly.

  The young man blinked and stood upright.

  Ridpath took a deep breath. Michael Connelly was going to find out the details anyway from his mole. Better he heard it from the horse’s mouth. ‘Because I was there when it happened.’

  ‘What… what are you saying?’

  ‘I was driving back from Teesside. Your son ran across the road in front of my car. I was able to stop in time, but the lorry driver couldn’t.’

  ‘We gonna do for that lorry driver…’ said Graham.

  Michael held up his hand, silencing his son. ‘You’re not telling us everything,’

  ‘I saw a man with a gun, chasing your son.’

  Graham Connelly was in his face again. ‘Who? Who did you see?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I did, we would have him under arrest.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, copper, we’ll find him before you and when we do, his life isn’t going to be worth living.’

  ‘Leave it to us. We’ll find out who did it.’

  ‘This copper hasn’t worked it out, Dad.’

  ‘Mr Coroner’s Officer, we sort out our own problems. We will find out who killed Gerard and we will deal with it ourselves.’

  ‘Even if innocent people get hurt in the process?’

  It was Graham who answered. ‘You police may control the day, but when the lights go down and you go home to your suburban homes or eat doughnuts in the quiet of your nick, that’s when we come out. This is Manchester. We own the night and we sort out our problems. We don’t need coppers, or judges or courts. All we need is ourselves alone.’

  ‘And all you’ll do is create another gang war like there was back in ninety-nine. Guns on the streets, people getting shot, a child dying.’

  ‘We don’t want no gang war, Ridpath. Why would we? Everyone is making money and there hasn’t been trouble for years. But I’ll tell you this for nothing, if somebody was chasing Gerard and caused his death, they and the rest of their mob will pay with their lives.’

  ‘Gunchester again?’

  Graham Connelly laughed. ‘That was then, this is now. That was run by some crazy Yardies, not us. We have more soldiers than the police. And we can put more guns on the ground than you. Don’t take us on Mr Policeman. You’re going to lose.’

  Ridpath stood up. ‘Like I said, I’ll call you when your son’s body is released by the pathologist. Do you have an undertaker?’

  Michael Connelly nodded. ‘O’Casey. He handles the big Manchester funerals.’

  ‘Looks like he’s going to be a busy man over the next few weeks,’ said Graham.

  ‘Leave it to us, Mr Connelly.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘We need no help, we’ll sort it out ourselves.’

  Ridpath walked to the door. The black pudding thug stepped out of his way.

  Just as he was about to exit, Michael Connelly raised his voice. ‘Don’t get in our way, Mr Coroner’s Officer. If you do, you will regret it.’

  ‘The only thing I regret is not putting you and your family away years ago.’

  Ridpath slammed the door behind him. The wooden cabin seemed to rattle on its foundations.

  As he walked away his phone rang. It was Charlie Whitworth.

  ‘We just got a call from Stretford nick. The driver of the car on the M60 just walked in.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Charlie Whitworth stood in front of the two-way mirror.

  Ridpath entered the viewing room and walked across to stand beside him. Through the glass he could see a middle-aged Asian man with three days of beard sprouting in chaotic profusion. The bags under the man’s eyes were deep and sagging and his eyes were red-veined.

  ‘Thanks for calling, Charlie.’

  ‘It’s more than you deserve, Ridpath.’ He turned back to talk to a young DS standing at the back of the room in the shadows. ‘How long’s he been sitting there?’

  ‘About an hour, boss. We called you as soon as we worked out who he was. He’s been cooking here nicely while we waited for you to come.’ The DS at Stretford was obviously newly promoted. He was deferential to Charlie Whitworth to the point of obsequiousness. ‘His name’s Abdul Qadir. Runs a newsagents cum-corner shop cum-offy. Been done twice for dodgy cigarettes.’

  ‘Dodgy or no tax?’ asked Ridpath trying to understand whether the man was making fake cigarettes or importing them from abroad.

  ‘No tax. They had Arab stickers on them. Apparently fags are as cheap as chips in Dubai.’

  ‘Have you seen the price of a packet of chips, recently?’ grumbled Whitworth.

  The DS had the sense to keep silent.

  ‘Where’s the car?’

  ‘In the car park out front. Apparently, the stupid bugger drove it here. No tax, no insurance and false plates.’

  ‘So he’s stuffed?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  Charlie Whitworth thought for a moment. ‘Can you run the interview? I want myself and DI Ridpath here to have a watching brief.’

  ‘No problem, boss. I reckon he’s cooked long enough, don’t you?’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Whitworth said cruelly.

  The detective sergeant left the room and three seconds later entered the room next door, accompanied by a young, pretty woman dressed in civvies. The Asian man raised his head and shifted nervously in his seat.

  The woman sat down and started the recording machine. Immediately the sound of their voices came through clearly from speakers mounted on the wall.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Qadir, my name is Detective Sergeant Harrison and this is DC Kate Walsh.’

  Charlie sighed loudly. ‘His name is Ian Harrison, his rank is detective sergeant. What are they teaching them in training school these days?’

  The voices continued through the speakers. ‘The time is now 12:23 p.m. on Saturday, April 21st, 2018. We are interviewing Mr Abdul Qadir, who has waived his right to have a solicitor present at this interview. If you could state your name, age
and address for the tape.’

  The Asian man leant forward to speak directly into the machine. Ridpath expected the voice to be heavily accented when he spoke. And it was. But the sound was a pure Manchester whine not the voice of Pakistan.

  ‘My name is Abdul Qadir, innit. I’m thirty-seven years old and I live at 27 Hardie Street, Old Trafford.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Qadir. Can you tell us in your own words why you have come to the station this afternoon?’

  At least Ian Harrison knew what he was doing. The opening question was open-ended, classic interviewing technique.

  ‘I saw the article in the paper, didn’t I?’

  ‘Which article in which paper?

  ‘The article in the Evening News about the accident on Wednesday night on the M60.’

  DS Harrison stayed silent. Another classic technique. He had learned his lessons carefully.

  ‘You know, the accident where the man was killed and all the traffic was blocked for hours. It was on the BBC, weren’t it?’

  ‘So you saw the accident?’

  Abdul Qadir shook his head. ‘No, but the police want to interview the man driving a white car. That was me,’ he said pointing to his nose.

  ‘So you were the driver of the white car with the number plate P368 CWS?’

  ‘Yeah, I just said that.’

  DS Harrison had just ensured the man admitted to driving the car with false number plates. If he also had no tax or insurance they would throw the book at him. But Ridpath wished he would concentrate on the accident not grabbing another conviction to help the stats.

  As if by telepathy Harrison seemed to hear him. ‘Tell us about the accident, Mr Qadir, what did you see?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see the accident itself because I’d already driven past.’

  ‘So what did you see?’

  Great, still neutral questions. Harrison was good at his job. Even Charlie was quiet now, listening intently.

  ‘Well, I was driving to see my friend, Ali Mohammed; he runs a shop in Hyde. Very good shop, turnover more than a hundred thousand quid a year, next to a housing estate, you see, great location.’

  ‘But what did you see before the accident, Mr Qadir?’ It was the female DC who spoke, trying to keep her witness on track.