Margaret Challinor stared at him for a long while.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, you know. I’m not hallucinating or imagining things.’
The coroner shook her head. ‘You are sure this is the same man, Ridpath?’ She tapped the picture once with an elegantly manicured nail.
Ridpath nodded. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’
‘You may have to.’ She played with the string of pearls around her neck. ‘If what you say is true, what are you going to do about it?’
Ridpath ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I hadn’t thought.’
‘Well, you’d better start. The postponed inquest on Ronald Wilson reopens on Thursday. I really don’t want to postpone it again. The body should be released back to the family.’
Ridpath thought of the man’s grandmother waiting to talk with an undertaker about the funeral. ‘But you can’t release the body while the police are investigating.’
‘I know.’ She stared at the post-mortem report. ‘But it seems your discovery means the two cases are linked. The death of Gerard Connelly and this man.’ The elegant nail tapped the photograph.
Once again, Margaret Challinor had cut right to the heart of the matter. His brain was trying to process the ramifications of what she had said. Logically, it wasn’t possible this man and the man he had seen with the gun were one on the same. And he didn’t believe in bloody ghosts. There must be an answer. The truth must be out there somewhere.
Margaret Challinor was still speaking. He caught the end of the sentence.
‘…what are you going to do?’
‘First, I need to talk to the pathologist and confirm his findings.’
The coroner nodded. ‘Good idea. Check the photos too. Always look for Mr Cock-up. Has some tired technician put the wrong photographs in the file?’
‘It happens,’ Ridpath agreed.
‘After that?’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think we know enough about the family. If the two cases are linked, then I need to talk with Mrs Granger again.’
‘OK, but when are you going to tell the police? If it’s a murder, they need to investigate again. And if the two cases are linked Claire Trent needs to know.’
Ridpath wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. ‘Not yet. Let me get the facts straight first. She’s got a lot on her plate, the last thing she needs right now is to go chasing after a false alarm.’
The coroner stared at him. ‘Not like you to be so cautious, Ridpath.’
‘Once bitten, twice shy. And in my case, you can teach an old dog new tricks. I’ll tell her at the briefing tomorrow. Today is about getting the facts straight.’
‘Two cliches in one sentence, Chief Superintendent Trent will be pleased.’
The face of his boss flashed through his mind. ‘If I told her about a dead man killing Gerard Connelly, she’d lock me away and chuck the key in the Mersey.’
‘But we can’t wait forever. You have till Thursday, Ridpath, to solve this. That’s when I have to reopen the inquest on Ronald Wilson.’
‘It’s not a lot of time, Mrs Challinor.’
‘You’d better get moving then.’ She put her black-rimmed glasses back on and began to open a file. ‘Can you send Carol back in?’
He was being dismissed. He stood up and walked towards the door, stopping just as he touched the old brass handle.
‘I’m not imagining it, Mrs Challinor.’
She looked up from her reading. ‘I’m sure you’re not, Ridpath. Nobody would invent such a story. And besides, I trust your judgement and your memory. If you tell me the men are the same, I believe you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But remember, thousands won’t. You need proof and you need evidence.’
‘You sound like Charlie Whitworth.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps, myself and Chief Inspector Whitworth can finally agree about something.’
‘You’re right, but there’s one thing I need above all.’
‘What’s that, Ridpath?’
‘I need the truth.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘Big Terry will be going apeshit. His beloved son wasted with his dick cut off.’ She threw the Manchester Evening News down on the table. ‘That was a lovely idea of yours.’
‘We learnt it out in Afghanistan from the Mujahideen. They first started using it in the 1980s. Put the fear of God in the minds of the young Russian conscripts. By the end, they had it down to an art form.’
‘You all set for tonight?’
‘As I always am.’
‘Wear something dark and a hat. No need to wake the neighbours.’
‘Mr Invisible, that’s me…’
‘…we’ll go in and do it quick, understand?’
He threw her a loose salute. ‘You’re worse than my CO.’
‘No, I’m far better than your CO. I’m still alive, remember?’
His CO had died along with five other officers in a helicopter strike in Helmand. Some Taliban had taken a lucky shot with an RPG. Seconds later the helicopter was lying on the valley floor, a heap of smoking, twisted metal, the stench of gasoline and human flesh heavy in the air.
He’d got out soon afterwards, there was no point being in the army any more.
What should he die for? Just so some politician could boast they had made the Western world safer for democracy?
What a load of bollocks. Tell that to all the widows of the men who died in the parched, rock-strewn cesspit they call a country.
He had gone north soon after arriving back in the UK. Gone back to Manchester to follow up on the story his mother had whispered to him on her death bed, the cancer eating up her breasts and her soul.
‘He killed your father. Pretended to be his friend but that bastard killed your father.’
At first, she didn’t believe him, the sister now sitting opposite him in the kitchen. The sister he never knew existed until his mother told him the truth. But the clues, and the lies, began to pile up until she could reach no other conclusion.
He had killed their father.
After that, it was only a matter of time before she worked out a plan. He quickly learned she was as clever as she was ruthless. Nothing could get in their way. Not even their own brother.
Her voice brought him back to the present.
‘You’re sure you can take care of it?’
‘No worries.’
‘It must be silent. No screams, no fighting.’
‘What are we going to do with the body?’
‘We leave it where it is.’
‘Won’t it be discovered?’
‘Of course, but not until later and by then it will be far too late. One last thing; don’t forget the gloves. We must leave no trace behind. Nothing easy for the police to work on.’
She stood up and headed for the stairs. ‘I’m going for a nap,’ she shouted over her shoulder.
His sister was the coolest woman ever. Only she could sleep before they were going to commit a murder.
Chapter Forty-Eight
He parked the car on the double yellow lines outside the pathologist’s apartment on Duke’s Place close to the old Roman fort of Mamucium. The partial remains of a granary and the western wall jutted two feet out of a grass lawn. A vague memory came back to him from his time at university. One historian had called these bits of stone ‘the least interesting Roman remains in Britain.’
Looking at them, he could see why. For a start, they weren’t even real. A metal sign proudly stated they were a ‘reconstruction’ created because the Industrial Revolution had destroyed most of the original remains. That was Manchester, always sacrificing the past in the chase for something new.
In front of him a modern yellow tram clanked across a raised viaduct, rattling the Victorian pillars. He turned to face the pathologist’s apartment. It was depressingly ugly in the modern utilitarian city centre style; all red brick, grey paint and tiny balconies serving no purpose except
to provide storage space for a few tired plants and upright bikes.
He had called the pathologist after his meeting with Margaret Challinor. The man had informed him grumpily it was his day off and he was going to do nothing except sleep and then go to a film at HOME, some art house Polish thing Ridpath had never heard of.
At first, he had been reluctant to allow Ridpath to come to his home but after pleading his case, the detective was finally granted ten minutes, but no longer ‘as a special favour’.
Ridpath pressed the intercom and it was immediately answered as if the man was hovering over the screen in his flat. ‘Come up,’ said the curt voice followed by the click of the door.
The lobby of the building was as charmless as the outside, with not one ounce of character save for a tired bunch of flowers next to the lift. Ridpath touched them. They were plastic.
The front door opened as soon as Ridpath exited on the fourth floor.
‘Come in, you have ten minutes. I normally never allow people into my home. I’m making a special exception for you, Ridpath. I’ve been working all night, somebody decided to jump in the canal near the Gay Village after a row with his boyfriend.’
‘Not the best thing to do.’
‘I agree. They fished his body out at four o’clock this morning. So please make this as quick as you can.’ The last sentence was said as the man walked down a short corridor to the living room.
Ridpath followed him. The area was not large, but spotlessly clean, almost obsessively so. Magazines were stacked neatly on a black coffee table. The walls were a stark white with one single picture; a vague blue–green abstract looking like it had been picked up from Ikea. The furniture was grey, modern and uncomfortable. Probably from Ikea as well.
‘I won’t offer you coffee, you won’t be staying long enough to drink it.’
In the stark comfort of his home and out of his uniform of a white coat, the pathologist looked even younger. A grey T-shirt and sweat pants making him look like a teenager at some unfashionable party.
Ridpath ignored the lack of coffee and sat down at the pine table. Another import from the far north no doubt.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr Schofield.’ He opened the file which contained the post-mortem report on Ronald Wilson. ‘Sorry, I only just saw this today.’
‘You work on a Sunday, Ridpath. I didn’t think the coroner was so busy.’
Ridpath ignored the jibe. ‘In this report, you make it clear you believe the death of Ronald Wilson was murder not an accident or suicide. Is that correct?’
‘Read my report. I thought that I made myself clear?’
It was like dealing with a stroppy teenager. ‘You did, Dr Schofield, I just want you to make it clear for me and for the coroner.’
The pathologist sighed and pulled out a chair to sit down next to Ridpath. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Deaths by fresh water drowning have three clear signs. Funnily enough, they were first noted in thirteenth century China by a man called Sung Tz’u. They are the presence of water in the lungs, removal of the surfactants covering the alveoli, cerebral oedemas or mastoid haemorrhages. Ronald Wilson displayed none of these signs ergo he was already dead when he entered the water. When these are combined with the wound on the back of the head…’
‘Caused by a sharp instrument, you said.’
‘An awl, auger or trepan. Even a knitting needle would serve the purpose. Add in defence wounds to the hands and my conclusion is this man was attacked and murdered before his body was placed in Wingate Lake.’
Ridpath pulled the photograph from the envelope. ‘Is this the man you performed the post-mortem on?’
The doctor glanced at the photograph. ‘Of course, it is. The photograph is in the post-mortem folder.’
‘It’s important you look at it closely, doctor.’
James Schofield sighed but picked up the photograph anyway, staring at it and comparing the numbers on it with those at the top of his report. ‘This is Ronald Wilson. See I noted the birthmark on his neck in my report.’ The doctor pointed to a small brown discolouration on the victim’s neck and to the line on the report.
‘So you are absolutely certain this is Ronald Wilson’s picture.’
A heavy roll of the eyes. ‘That’s what I just said. Why are you wasting my time, Ridpath?’
‘Because this is the man I saw with the gun standing at the side of the M60.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Schofield snorted. ‘Impossible, Ronald Wilson had been dead for between seven and ten days when I examined him beside the lake. You must be mistaken.’
‘I know what I saw, Dr Schofield.’
The pathologist smiled pityingly. ‘The science doesn’t lie, Ridpath. It might not tell the truth all the time, but it doesn’t lie.’
Ridpath realised he was facing the same problem again. Why didn’t people believe him? The presence of the man with the gun in the first place and now this. Was it something to do with his face? He would try once more. He pulled out a copy of the E-Fit composite created last Wednesday night.
‘Look, they are virtually identical.’
Dr Schofield examined the post-mortem picture and the E-Fit. ‘They’re close, I’ll give you that. But many young men in Manchester look similar. These composite pictures are notoriously unreliable.’ The pathologist glanced at his watch.
‘Just one more thing, if I can bother you.’
‘Go ahead, I still have time before my film. And this visit hasn’t been as boring as I expected.’
Ridpath opened the pathologist’s report on Ronald Wilson. ‘You mentioned in your report about marks on the arms. Could you explain them further?’
‘It was a difficult post-mortem. The body had been in the water for quite a time. The skin deteriorates and begins to slough off. You’ll understand it becomes more and more difficult to determine the extent and nature of superficial bruising or scarring.’
‘I understand, but…’
‘But I was able to see marks looking like rope burns or scars around the wrists.’
‘Were the hands tied when the body was placed in the water?’
‘I don’t think so. There were no ropes around the wrists when the body was found.’
‘But you think the wrists may have been bound before then?’
‘That’s what I said, DI Ridpath. Why are you asking me about this?’
‘Well, it’s just Gerard Connelly also displayed rope marks around his wrists. And he was found just wearing boxer shorts.’
‘So?’
‘But there’s more. Both had traces of Ambien in their systems according to toxicology.’
‘I see where you are going. You think the two deaths may be linked?’
‘Exactly. Is there anything we could do scientifically or forensically to compare the marks or the Ambien?’
The pathologist thought for a moment, his hand stroking his hairless chin. ‘Ambien is a sleeping tablet. It’s not commonly prescribed any more in the UK. It’s used far more often in America. No real way of comparing the two results using toxicology I’m afraid. The body breaks down the drug pretty quickly.’
‘What about the rope marks on the wrists?’
‘We could compare the skin visually under a microscope. It’s not done normally. We could even take it further, comparing a sample of the skin beneath an electron scanning microscope. The body was in the water but minute fragments of rope may still be attached. The problem is time and money…’
‘If I could get the coroner to order you to perform the tests, could you do it?’
‘It may not reveal anything, the body…’
‘I know, was in the water for a long time.’
The pathologist stood up. ‘Let me see what I can do when I get back to work tomorrow. I’ll also compare the upper torso scarring between the two victims.
Ridpath stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your time, do
ctor.’
‘Actually, thank you, Ridpath. It’s an interesting problem, I may even be able to get a paper out of this. Science is very competitive these days, important to get peer reviews.’
For a man who looked like a teenager, the doctor had a competitive streak inside him. Ridpath didn’t care, as long as it helped him solve this bloody case.
Ridpath walked towards the door. As he did, he heard the pathologist call his name and he turned back.
The doctor was still staring at the E-Fit picture. ‘Just an idea. Looking at this picture, they could be brothers? Have you thought about that?’
Chapter Fifty
Ridpath sat outside in his car going over the meeting he had just had with the pathologist. A brother. Of course, why didn’t he think of it? If Ronald Wilson had a brother it would certainly solve the problem of the timeline. It might also give a motive for the murder of Gerard Connelly.
Had Ronald been killed by the Connellys and that’s why a brother would seek revenge?
But why had Mrs Granger said nothing about other children? He checked Tommy Harper’s police report once more.
Nothing. He had to go and visit her. Ask her all the questions Tommy Harper should have asked in the initial police investigation.
Ridpath glanced across at the ancient Roman ruins, built thirty years ago by Manchester Corporation. The Romans handled their criminals with a shocking ruthlessness; just fed them to the lions or forced them to fight as gladiators. It might be a solution to Manchester’s gang problem: The Gladiator Games this Saturday at Old Trafford. The Connellys vs Big Terry and his mob. Come one, come all. Family seating available. Tickets available at your local nick.
He shook his head. He really was losing it. Pull yourself together Ridpath. And then he realised he hadn’t had a cigarette all day. Even better, he didn’t even want one. What’s more, he was enjoying the job. At last, this felt like real detective work; putting together all the varied bits of evidence to work out what had actually happened. He knew he wasn’t there yet, but he was getting closer, he could feel it in his water. Perhaps this coroner’s job was going to work out after all. At least, it felt like a step in the right direction.
Where the Dead Fall Page 18
