Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  He called Mrs Granger’s number on his mobile. It rang and rang and rang without an answer machine kicking in. Where was she? She was hardly the most mobile person in the world. Had the next door neighbour taken her out shopping? She said it usually happened on Friday Maybe she’d been busy and decided to take her today instead.

  He rang again. Still no answer. He was about to put his car in gear to drive over to her address when his phone rang.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Granger, I’m glad you phoned back…’

  ‘Ridpath, I didn’t know you were seeing other women.’

  It was Polly’s voice. ‘I’m not… I’m just… it’s…’ he stuttered.

  ‘I know, I was just teasing you. I was wondering if… I mean, Eve was wondering if you are free this afternoon. There’s another film on in Didsbury she wants to see and she asked me if you wanted to come too.’

  Ridpath was about to answer that he was busy and had to work when he remembered what he had promised himself. ‘No, I’ve just finished what I’m doing. What time is the film?’

  ‘It’s Wonder Woman at five o’clock.’

  ‘I thought she’d seen it already.’

  ‘She has, but she likes the idea of women kicking arse, so she wants to see it again. If you don’t want to go, that’s ok, I’ll take her.’

  Ridpath glanced at his watch, 3:30 p.m.. He would maybe call Mrs Granger after the film, she was bound to be back by then. ‘I’m in town about half an hour away. I’ll pick you both up from the Chinese Dragon’s house at 4:15 this afternoon.’

  ‘You mean my mother?’

  ‘Her as well. She’s not coming is she?’ Ridpath asked crossing his fingers.

  ‘She’s got a mah-jong session with her pals. They’ve been “swimming” since this morning. Me and Eve have to get out of the bloody house. The shouts of “Pong” are starting to drive us both crazy.’

  ‘Ok, see you soon.’

  He clicked off the phone. He would definitely call Mrs Granger after the film. Perhaps he could go round tomorrow morning before the meeting at police HQ.

  The old woman wasn’t going too far, not at her age.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Elsie Granger edged her Zimmer frame 3 inches forward, shuffling her feet, one arm resting on the Zimmer frame and the other holding a mug of tea.

  Slowly, deliberately, without spilling a drop, she set the tea down on the dresser next to her chair.

  ‘Such a palaver over making a cuppa,’ she said out loud, glancing across at the television. Now she just had time to go back for her piece of salmon in lemon sauce before the evening news began. She liked watching the news, it always reminded her there were some people worse off in this world.

  She rotated the Zimmer frame around an inch at a time. It wouldn’t do to fall at her age. Look at Mr Gillespie at number sixty-seven. He’d been on his living room floor for six hours before somebody found him. All that time lying there with a broken hip. The pain must have been terrible. It couldn’t happen to her, not with living alone now, with Ronnie being gone.

  She inched the Zimmer frame forward with her forearms on the padded rests. Her knees were painful this evening, perhaps it was going to rain tomorrow. That was the problem with living in Manchester, it was always going to rain tomorrow.

  ‘Careful now, Elsie, watch the carpet rod at the door, can’t have you tripping up over it.’ She often talked out loud to herself these days, more to hear the sound of a human voice than anything else.

  A voice. Any voice.

  Some weeks she went for days without seeing or hearing anybody except the men on the telly. The loneliness hurt her. It felt like a gaping hole inside her stomach that could never be filled. All through her life she had never been a terribly social person. It was enough having Fred and Ronald around. She didn’t need anybody else. And then there was God too. Her Holy Trinity, she used to joke with the priest. A lovely man was Father Alphonsus.

  But since he had moved on she didn’t get along with the new, young one that had taken over the church. And now both Fred and Ronald had gone too.

  She reached up to dip her fingers in the holy water beneath the picture of Christ on the wall in the hall, making the sign of the cross, before shuffling forward into the kitchen.

  Even God had left her too. She never felt his presence any more. It was as if she were all alone in the world.

  The phone rang in the living room. She’d never make it back in time before they rang off. It was only another man trying to sell her double-glazing anyway. Not many people rang her any more. Why would they?

  She reached the microwave and pressed the button to open the door. Inside, the fish was steaming in its bath of lemon sauce. She grasped the bowl in her arthritic fingers. It was funny, she didn’t feel hot or cold any more. It was all the same to her. A reaction to all the drugs she took perhaps.

  Holding the bowl in her right hand, she shifted the Zimmer frame along, just resting her left arm on the pad.

  Funny, she had made this journey so many times in her life. Fetching and carrying for Fred and Ronald. She had been a good wife and mother. A damn sight better mother than her daughter, Doreen.

  And now Fred and Ronnie were gone. She would follow soon. She hoped it would be soon.

  The evening news was about to start when she heard the noise behind her.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she shouted.

  No answer.

  Was it the cat from next door? He was always sitting on her kitchen window sill. Perhaps he was out on the prowl tonight after a few mice or his oats.

  ‘Cats don’t eat oats,’ she said out loud, chuckling to herself.

  She set the bowl down next to her tea and manoeuvred herself around so she was standing directly in front of her chair. She dropped down on it and sat there for a few seconds recovering her breath.

  Another sound in the kitchen. This time she was sure it was something breaking. She tried to still her breath, sitting up in her chair to listen intently. Had she left a glass too close to the edge of the sink? Had it fallen? Or had the neighbour’s cat knocked over a milk bottle?

  Then she remembered there weren’t any milk bottles any more. Nor any milkmen. How she missed the rattle of the milk float early in the morning on the cobblestones of the street.

  Footsteps.

  She was sure she heard footsteps.

  They were going upstairs. Why would anybody want to go upstairs?

  The door swung slowly open.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she shouted, reaching for the knitting needle at her feet. ‘Who’s there?’ Louder now. Holding the knitting needle in her arthritic hands like a knife ready to stab forward.

  ‘It’s just us, come to see you. We haven’t seen each other for such a long time, Elsie.’

  A blonde-haired woman stepped out of the dark of the hall into the glowing light from the television.

  Mrs Elsie Granger noticed the glint of steel in the woman’s hand.

  It was the last thing she would ever notice.

  Day Six

  Monday, April 23, 2018

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  For the first time in a long while Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath drove to work with a broad smile on his face.

  Eve and Polly had spent the night at home. The family was back together again, even though it had only been for a few short hours. Eve had insisted they return home after the film so she could pick up a few things from her room. One thing led to another and she was insisting she had to spend the night with her ‘boys’ watching over her. The pictures of the Korean boy band BTS.

  There had been a moment of embarrassed silence until he offered to spend the night on the couch. He knew Polly well. If he wanted the family to get back together again, it was going to be a long process of baby steps to show he had changed.

  Inevitably, the conversation shifted towards his cancer.

  ‘You’ve been keeping the check-up appointments?’

  ‘Religiously.’

&nb
sp; ‘And?’

  ‘All clear last month, I went again on Friday to allow the vampire to take more blood and see Dr Morris. He seemed very happy with my progress. I’ll get the results soon.’

  ‘You’ve been looking after yourself?’

  ‘I think so. Eating well, drinking less and I haven’t smoked for the last two days.’ The first two were little white lies but at least the latter was true.

  ‘That’s good, Ridpath. And the house is spotless too.’

  Luckily, he had decided to give the place a clean yesterday, before then it had been a tip.

  She opened the cupboards and the fridge in the kitchen. ‘Not much food, though. Are you really eating well?’

  ‘You know me, I hate cooking. Eating out more than I should but at least I’m eating.’

  ‘You should always have food at home, it’s much better for you.’

  ‘I know. Listen Polly, I realise it’s up to me to take more responsibility for my health and welfare. It’s the least I can do for you and Eve.’

  She’d just nodded and said she was going to bed. He’d given her a hug, hoping against hope she would ask him to join her, but she hadn’t.

  Never mind, baby steps.

  The morning had been wonderfully chaotic. He had risen early to pour cornflakes for Eve and boil a couple of eggs for Polly, toasting a few rounds of stale-ish bread in case they were hungry.

  As was normal, Eve came down and grumpily ate her cereal without speaking. Polly drank her coffee and put the eggs in her handbag for later, fretting all the time she was going to be late for school whilst he devoured the toast, watching all the frenetic activity of getting ready.

  ‘Where’s your schoolbag?’ asked Polly.

  ‘I dunno, where did you put it?’ answered Eve pulling on her school socks.

  ‘At your grandma’s, that’s where it is. Ridpath…’

  ‘I’ll drive you both there and then take you onto the school.’

  ‘Eve, hurry, we’re going to be late. The Wicked Witch of the West is going to kill me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk about the headmistress like that. Mrs Roberts is always very nice to me. Says I have lovely handwriting’

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she? You’re her star pupil. I, on the other hand, am known as the teacher who is always late.’ Polly glanced at her watch. ‘And if we don’t get a move on, I’m going to be the late Polly Ridpath.’

  It was a typical morning in the Ridpath household. How he had missed them. He also noticed she had called herself Polly Ridpath.

  Baby steps.

  He hustled them both out of the house into the car and drove them to the dragon’s house, waiting outside while Eve and Polly both picked up their school things before dropping them off at their school.

  As soon as they arrived Eve rushed off to see her friends, while Polly sat in the car.

  ‘Thanks, Ridpath, I really enjoyed last night.’

  ‘It was good to be a family again, wasn’t it?’

  She nodded, glancing at the car’s clock. ‘Is that the time? The Witch will kill me.’ She leant over, gave him a peck on the cheek and was gone.

  Now he was on his way to the briefing. Would he face a Claire Trent out for his blood because of the phone call? Or had Charlie handled it? And what would he do about his new information? Tell them about it or keep quiet until the pathologist rang him back?

  He still hadn’t contacted Mrs Granger. That would have to be his first job after the briefing. Without her information he would leave himself open to sneers and disbelief from both Charlie and Detective Superintendent Claire Trent. There were too many questions still requiring answers.

  He parked in the open-air HQ car park and headed up to the briefing room. It was chucking it down with rain and of course he didn’t have an umbrella in the car. How can you drive in Manchester without an umbrella? Then he remembered Polly had taken it, so he pulled his jacket tighter around his chest and dashed through the downpour to the main building.

  The briefing room was already full by the time he arrived. A young DC made him sign the register and he found a place next to Harry Makepeace.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Is it? I’ve been up all night watching that bloody taxi shed and Michael Connelly. You know he sleeps there? Silly tosser.’

  There was the sound of the banging of a fist on a table. The guvnor, Claire Trent, was standing at the front of the room with Chief Inspector Robinson. An unknown chief inspector in a uniform stood next to them both.

  ‘Right, you lot, let’s get started,’ she bellowed.

  The detectives gradually stopped talking and the few still standing rushed to find seats.

  ‘We had a quiet weekend. And that’s down to you lot watching over our targets and the extended police presence on the streets. Well done.’

  ‘The quiet before the storm…’ whispered Harry Makepeace beneath his breath.

  Claire Trent continued. ‘But we have to stay vigilant. Eventually there will be a retaliation from Big Terry’s mob. My bet is they are just trying to work out who did it.’

  ‘Same as us then…’ Harry Makepeace whispered.

  She pointed to a picture of the victim’s body propped upright against the granite monument. Ridpath noticed the corpse was wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts exactly the same colour as Gerard Connelly.

  ‘Dr Protheroe performed the post-mortem yesterday. He rang me with a topline report. Phil Marsland was shot from close range with a .38 calibre bullet. Death was probably instantaneous.’

  ‘It sounds like an execution, ma’am.’ It was Catherine Delaney speaking. She looked fresh and sprightly. Even from where Ridpath was sitting he could smell the scent of soap and a floral perfume.

  ‘It probably was, Catherine, suggesting a pro hit. Do we have anything from intelligence, Robbo.’

  The DCI shook his head. ‘We haven’t had any intelligence on killers for hire for a while. I’m afraid it’s a resource issue. Most of our intelligence officers have been switched to counter-terrorism work.’

  ‘What did Theresa May say about “crying wolf,” Harry Makepeace whispered.

  ‘The pathologist also confirmed the body hadn’t been shot at the monument but elsewhere. He was probably moved there any time from noon to the minute he was found at 4:30, with a more likely placement time of two p.m. to four p.m. Doreen, how was the CCTV search for the vehicle that transported the body?’

  The new female detective sergeant stood up. ‘It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Saturday is the busiest day for the Trafford Centre, ma’am. Roughly 25,000 vehicles an hour pass through the roundabout close to the church.’

  ‘What about the bridge?’

  ‘Barton Bridge is less busy, about 3,000 vehicles an hour cross it. So given our timings of noon to four p.m., that gives us approximately 12,000 cars to check through ANPR. Even then we’re hoping for a link to a known associate of Michael Connelly. But what if it’s one of the other gangs? And what if they didn’t come from Eccles but down the M60. I’m afraid without tighter parameters it’s like looking for a black cat in a dark room when you are blind.’

  ‘Or a Man United fan looking for a goal?’ said one detective.

  ‘Nah, it’s easier than that but still bloody near impossible.’ She sat down again.

  ‘Thanks Doreen. Keep going anyway, we may strike it lucky.’

  ‘Anything from the area, Dave.’

  Dave Hardy stood up and shook his head. ‘There’s nobody who lives in the area. The nearest houses are across the Manchester Ship Canal in Eccles. But nobody saw anything. I also checked up on the repair man who discovered the body. All his times and movements are accounted for.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. My interview with Big Terry was useless. All he told me was that his son was last seen going out at seven p.m. on Thursday night. Apparently he had some date with a woman that night. Big Terry didn’t know who the woman was. Phil Marsland didn’t take his car but hired a taxi. We’re check
ing which one as we speak.’

  ‘Michael Connelly runs a taxi company,’ said Charlie.

  Claire Trent turned to the police support officer. ‘Can you check his company too, Chrissy?’

  ‘Will do, guvnor.’

  ‘Anybody got anything from their CI’s? Any word on the street?’

  For half a second Ridpath was tempted to stick his hand up and reveal his latest information linking the murder of Graham Connelly to the death of Ronald Wilson, but he decided to wait. He had to get more information from both the pathologist and Mrs Granger. He wasn’t going to make any half-cocked allegations without supporting evidence. The one concrete link he had was that both victims were wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts. But that wouldn’t stand up in a court of law nor would it be accepted by Claire Trent.

  A few detectives mentioned rumours of Michael Connelly’s involvement, others suggested the Moss Side gang was involved, but there were no solid leads.

  ‘Looks like we’re stuck then. Protheroe’s final report will come in later today, perhaps it will give us more. In the meantime I want you lot to shake the trees. Somebody must know something.’ She pointed her finger at the room. ‘I want a report from every one of you at the briefing tomorrow morning. Every one of you, no exceptions. Understand?’

  There was a mumbled chorus of agreement.

  ‘Now let’s hear updates from those in charge of surveillance. Lorraine, you go first.’

  The detective inspector stood up. ‘As you say, guvnor, it was pretty quiet over the weekend with Big Terry. His mob all gathered in their usual pub, the Wheatsheaf. My bet is they were working out their next steps.’

  ‘Did you get anybody in the pub?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only regulars allowed in. A few of the boys tried but they were turned away. The place is like a bloody fortress.’

  ‘Thanks, Lorraine. Charlie, what about you?’

  ‘We had a chat with Michael Connelly on Saturday. Of course, he denies any involvement in, or knowledge of, the murder of Phil Marsland. I think his son, Graham, may know more than he’s letting on though. Separately, a car from the local nick went to his flat in the Northern Quarter on Saturday night in response to a report of domestic violence.’