‘I thought Graham was gay?’ said one of the detectives.
Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, they found nothing and went away.’
Ridpath was watching Claire Trent for her reaction. She had specifically ordered Charlie not to interfere in the behaviour of Graham Connelly. Would she rant and rave?
Nothing.
Just a simple nod of the head, followed by a question, ‘Was our cover blown?’
‘I don’t think so. We watched him yesterday and there was no change in his routine. We even heard him ordering crack from his dealer.’
‘We could nick him for possession,’ said one of the detectives.
Claire Trent jumped in quickly. ‘No. A waste of time. If he’s the one who killed Marsland, he’ll give himself away soon enough.’
Charlie Whitworth was about to continue, when the same detective asked a question. ‘Are we any closer to finding out who was chasing Gerard Connelly?’
Everybody looked at Ridpath, including Claire Trent. She spoke quickly. ‘We’ve put the E-Fit picture in the Manchester Evening News today and I’ve asked the local plod to do a thorough search of Sale Water Park. We’re a bit stretched on resources at the moment but we need to keep following up. Everybody, and I mean everybody, will be pulling double shifts until this is sorted. Clear?’
A chorus of sighs and groans went round the room. Harry Makepeace muttered ‘The missus will kill me.’
Claire Trent quietened the noise by raising her hand. ‘Chrissy, do you have any news?’
The police support officer stood up. She was still wearing her Manchester City scarf around her neck, despite the room being uncomfortably warm. Ridpath wondered if she ever took the bloody thing off.
‘Well, City won 5-1 yesterday…’
Another chorus of groans.
‘So it wasn’t a bad day. We’re still top and the scum aka United are third.’
More groans. Chrissy smiled broadly before carrying on. ‘We’ve been tracking activity on Gerard’s mobile phone on the day before he vanished last week.’ She pressed a key on the computer and a map of Manchester popped up on the screen. ‘As you can see, we’re looking at activity reported from cell masts. Smart phones send a regular signal to the nearest phone mast to help locate their position. We’ve plotted his route on the day he vanished.’ She pressed another key and a red line appeared on the map. ‘We have him leaving his home at noon on the day he disappeared. Having lunch in the Horse and Jockey pub with two friends and then driving into the centre of Manchester. We’ve correlated his cell mast hits with CCTV cameras on the roads and in the pub using ANPR.’
A series of pictures of a white Mercedes appeared on the screen found in car park, plus a couple of pictures of Gerard Connelly drinking and eating with friends.
‘We checked the car. Nothing unusual. The last picture we have is from a street camera on Deansgate – it’s very blurred I’m afraid.’ Gerard Connelly was coming out of the Sawyers Arms with a woman by his side. The woman’s face was hidden from the camera but she was tall and elegantly dressed.
‘This was taken at 3:44 p.m. on Monday, April 16. The phone was switched off two minutes later.’
‘Have we found the phone, Charlie?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Not yet, ma’am.’
‘Who is the woman?’
‘We don’t know, guvnor.’
‘Any CCTV in the bar?’
Chrissy sighed. ‘There is, but it wasn’t working. Under maintenance apparently.’
Claire Trent’s eyes rolled back into her head. ‘What’s the point of CCTV if it isn’t working? Any other pictures?’
‘This is the best we have, guvnor.’
‘Right, good work, Chrissy. Can you do exactly the same analysis of Phil Marsland’s phone?’
‘No problem, ma’am.’ Chrissy sat back down.
As I say, the pathologist has promised me his full report on Phil Marsland today. We will meet tomorrow morning to take you through it. In the meantime, Charlie, I want you to follow up on the woman. Find out who she is and how she knows Gerard Connelly.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘It’s guvnor or Claire, Charlie, she said looking him directly in the eye. ‘Chrissy, I want you to focus on the movements of Phil Marsland. He went missing on April 20.’
‘Will do, guvnor.’
‘Work closely with Alan on it. Robbo can you follow up on Liverpool? If we can stop the flow of guns into Manchester from the Scousers, we can prevent any retaliation from Big Terry.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Anybody got any questions?’
Ridpath thought about putting his hand up and telling them what he knew. But one look at Claire Trent’s face told him the meeting was over. Her asking for questions was just habit. Anyway, everything he had was too vague at the moment and Claire Trent wouldn’t thank him for revealing new information at a briefing if she hadn’t been informed first. Whoever said ‘knowledge is power’ had obviously been a policeman at one time.
‘Right, you lot. We need to keep the pressure up on these thugs. The sooner we solve these deaths, the sooner Manchester can get back to being the quiet rural backwater we all know and love.’
A few laughs from her audience.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get out there and get working.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
As soon as he was out of the meeting Ridpath rang Mrs Granger.
Still no answer.
This was worrying. He could imagine being out shopping with her neighbour on a Sunday afternoon, but early on a Monday morning? Surely the neighbour would be at work.
He thought about ringing the local plod and asking them to go round to check up on her, but with the state of their manpower at the moment, that might not happen until noon. Better go himself.
Just as he was about to leave, Charlie Whitworth collared him.
‘In my office, now.’ A finger pointed towards the bubble, the glass-sided room where Charlie could look out over all his detectives, making sure they were beavering away.
Inside, his boss didn’t stand on ceremony.
‘Not a word to anybody about Saturday night.’
‘What happened on Saturday night?’ Ridpath answered disingenuously.
Whitworth smiled. ‘Good lad. Our Lady Master has put it down to coincidence at the moment.’
‘She’s not that stupid, Charlie.’
‘I know, but I reckon she’s too worried about the possibility of all-out gang warfare in Manchester to bother about a paedophile and his peccadilloes.’
‘What happened to the kid?’
‘As soon as the cops arrived the kid made his excuses and left, while Graham Connelly explained he wasn’t married and didn’t have a wife so there could be no possibility of domestic abuse.’
‘Did he clock you were watching him?’
‘Of course, he did. Stuck the finger up at us before he went to bed, didn’t he? But you know what?’
Ridpath stayed silent, Charlie was going to tell anyway.
‘I want these toe-rags to know we’re watching them. The whole point is to prevent something happening, not to catch them in the process of doing it.’
‘Won’t they just wait until we run out of money for surveillance.’
Charlie’s lips twisted beneath his moustache. ‘Probably, but by then we will have caught the perps and locked them away.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on them surviving for long.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say. At least it’s not our problem.’
‘You meeting Michael Connelly today?’
Ridpath nodded. ‘Probably. Depends if the pathologist releases the body.’
‘He should do. We’ll get his report this afternoon.’
Ridpath thought about Dr Schofield. Should he tell Charlie about the links to the murder of Ronald Wilson? He decided to wait until he had interviewed the old woman. Wouldn’t hurt to give him a little taster tho
ugh.
‘I may have something interesting for you this afternoon, Charlie.’
‘About Connelly?’
‘Could be, I just want to check something out first.’
‘Don’t be a cock-teaser, Ridpath. Out with it.’
Ridpath held his hands up. ‘Not yet, Charlie, let me check something first and then I’ll get back to you this afternoon. I’d better be going now…’
He half-turned, trying to get away.
‘On yer bike, then. And one thing, Ridpath…’
Ridpath turned back to face him.
‘I want to be the first one to know what you’re up to. Don’t go thinking you can butter your bread with Queen Trent. New information on this case is for my ears only. Understand?’
Knowledge is bloody power, thought Ridpath, but he answered, ‘Of course, Charlie…’
‘Of course, Charlie,’ his boss mimicked. ‘What are you waiting for? Don’t you have a job to do?’
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ridpath parked the car outside the grey house. The net curtains were drawn across the windows and everything looked as quiet as when he last visited Mrs Granger.
He knocked on the door.
No answer.
He peered through the curtains into the living room but couldn’t see anything except his reflection staring back at him. There seemed to be a light on but he couldn’t be sure.
Again, he knocked on the door.
Still no answer.
An old lady walked past wheeling a shopping trolley. ‘You’ll have to knock harder, love, she’s bit hard of hearing is Mrs Granger.’
‘Have you seen her lately?’
The woman stopped. ‘She doesn’t get out much. Her knees you know. Shocking bad they are. I had a hip operation myself last year. Those doctors had me up and walking in five days. My son calls me the bionic woman.’
‘So you haven’t seen Mrs Granger in the last few days.’
‘No, love, but she’ll be in there. You just have to knock louder.’
The woman trundled off, waddling from side to side, dragging her empty shopping trolley behind her.
Ridpath knocked again as loud as he could. He bent down and opened the letter box to shout through it. ‘Mrs Granger, it’s me, DI Ridpath.’
Still no response.
Was she out?
He thought back to when he last saw her, leaning on her Zimmer frame as she told him where to put the tea and the sugar in her kitchen. The woman wasn’t going far.
But the memory sparked an idea in him. The kitchen backed on to a small yard with a back alley behind it. He ran to the corner of the street, spotting the back alley behind the houses twenty yards away. He ran down the alley, dodging over a suitcase full of dirty clothes spilling over the cobblestones.
Which house was Mrs Granger’s? Luckily most of them had also painted their rear walls. The grey, bare walls of her home stood out sharply against the bright colours of the rest of the terrace.
He stood on tiptoes to peer over the brick wall. The yard was quiet and there was no movement in the kitchen. He rattled the back gate. It was firmly closed with a shiny new Yale lock. When did she have this installed?
He thought about using his shoulder to barge through but then decided it would be easier to climb over the six foot high brick wall.
He stepped back, took a running jump onto the wall and hoisted himself up so he was sitting astride the top.
Inside the kitchen all was still dark and quiet.
He was about to jump down when a voice shouted from above.
‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing?’
A fat, unshaven man wearing a string vest was leaning outside the upstairs window two doors down.
Ridpath reached into his jacket, pulling out his ID. ‘DI Ridpath, working for the Coroner’s Office. I need to speak to Mrs Granger.’
‘Have you tried knocking on the door?’
‘There’s no answer. Have you seen her recently?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not for a week or so. Do you want me to come down?’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘Let me handle it, sir.’
He jumped off the wall and walked to the back door, peering in through the kitchen window. No sign of any movement.
He got out his mobile and rang her number one more time. He could hear the phone ringing in the living room but there was still no answer. Perhaps, she was upstairs in bed asleep?
But he remembered her telling him she didn’t sleep very much anymore, the slightest noise waking her up.
‘We haven’t seen her for a while.’
A woman was shouting to him from the same window as the man.
‘Is the old dear OK?’
Ridpath decided he should wait no longer. The back door had another new Yale lock, He took out his wallet and chose an old credit card he kept for this possibility. He slid the credit card between the lock and the door jamb, working it until he could feel the card against the bolt. He slid it up and pushed with his shoulder. The door opened wide.
‘Mrs Granger? Mrs Granger?’ He called from the door. ‘It’s DI Ridpath, anybody home?’
He could hear something in the front room. On the draining counter of the kitchen, two used mugs sat rim-down. He walked slowly forward. Next to them a kitchen knife, its stainless steel gleaming in the light from the window and a smear of something red across the blade. ‘Mrs Granger?’ he said quietly.
Still no answer.
He reached the door of the living room. ‘Anybody home?’
The room was dark, with only the soft light of the television illuminating it. He could hear the hectoring voice of Jeremy Kyle, shouting. ‘We know you’re the father, admit it!’
He pushed the door fully open.
Mrs Granger was sitting where he had last seen her, in the arm chair next to the fire, a knitting needle at her feet. Next to her, an untouched bowl of microwaved salmon and mug of tea stood on the low table.
Her green eyes stared out unseeing at the flickering television and a pink wash of dried blood bathed the front of her blue cardigan from the gash across her throat.
Chapter Fifty-Five
It took the police less than seven minutes to respond to Ridpath’s call. He thought he heard a tone of ‘Oh, it’s you again’ when he rang dispatch but he probably imagined it.
The sergeant who came, an old pro called McNally, handled everything with a calm efficiency, rapidly blocking off the street and the back alley.
The neighbours came out in force to gawk at what was happening, with the fat man in the string vest and his thin wife at the front.
Tommy Harper eventually turned up after fifteen minutes, sucking a polo mint to unsuccessfully cover the tang of beer on his breath.
‘You discovered her, Ridpath?’
‘Yeah, at 10:22 a.m.’
‘Why were you here?’
‘Following up on Ronald Wilson’s death for the coroner.’
‘Why?’
‘The coroner wasn’t happy with your report of accidental death. Neither was the pathologist.’
‘Shit, that’s all I need.’
‘The pathologist thinks Wilson was murdered.’
Harper’s head went down.
‘I think Mrs Granger knew more about what happened than she let on.’
‘She didn’t say a word to me when she ID’d the body,’ Harper said defensively.
‘Did you question her?’
‘Why would I? She was there to ID her son who had drowned. Why would I ask her if anybody wanted to kill him?’
‘But you didn’t ask her anything?’
‘Did you? You said you were coming to see her. Did you ask her?’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘Didn’t know it was a murder, did I?’
‘Neither did I.’
The scene of crime van appeared at the end of the street. From the front seat stepped a tall, emaciated figure in a white suit who Ridpath recognised. Protheroe.
&nbs
p; ‘Morning, Ridpath, you’re turning up like a bad penny at these things.’
‘You’re the second person to notice.’
‘Did you discover the body?’
Ridpath nodded.
Protheroe turned to one of his assistants. ‘Make sure you take DI Ridpath’s fingerprints before he leaves.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, in we go. DS Harper please ensure nobody comes in or out of the house without signing the register. And can you clear these people back another fifty yards, we want to bring up the other van closer to the house.’
‘Will do. When can I see the body?’
‘When I’ve declared it dead and completed a preliminary examination. After I’ve finished I’ll call you.’ Protheroe signalled for his assistant to come forward, pulling up his hood at the same time.
As they disappeared into the house, Tommy Harper said, ‘What a charming man. I won’t be inviting him to join me for a pint.’
‘He wouldn’t accept anyway, he’s teetotal.’
‘Teetotal?’ Tommy spat the word out like it was a lump of cat vomit. ‘Why would anybody be teetotal?’
‘You could ask him.’
‘I don’t know if I’d like the answer.’
Behind them a group of constables from the local nick was pushing the crowd back and extending the perimeter with police tape.
‘You’d better interview me, Tommy. Get it over and done with. Do you mind if I ring Charlie Whitworth before we start?’
‘He’s coming here?’ Tommy adjusted his tie and straightened the collar of his shirt.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you mention what I asked you?’
‘I did. But you better talk to him yourself if he comes.’
Ridpath pulled his phone out of his pocket wandering a few yards away from Tommy Harper until he was just about of earshot.
‘DCI Whitworth,’ Charlie’s voice came on the line.
‘It’s me, Ridpath. I’ve got some bad news.’
‘What is it? Not the cancer?’ For once, Ridpath heard genuine concern in Charlie’s voice. Perhaps the hard, unfeeling, male was just an act?
Where the Dead Fall Page 20
