‘I’ve just discovered the murder of an old woman, a Mrs Granger. A case I’m working on for the coroner.’
‘Then it’s a job for the local nick, not MIT. We’ve got enough on our plate.’
‘I think you’d better come down.’
‘Who’s the local copper?’
‘Tommy Harper.’
‘Good luck then hold his hand so he doesn’t balls it up.’ He could feel his boss wanting to put down the phone.
‘Charlie, wait. I think the murder is related to the death of Gerard Connelly.’
‘How? Is this another one of your long shots, Ridpath? Can it wait till tomorrow? We’ve just received reports of a load of firearms coming in from Liverpool for Big Terry this evening.’
Ridpath thought for a moment. A meeting tomorrow would allow him to question the pathologist, Schofield, and bring Margaret Challinor up to speed. ‘How about tomorrow morning? I’ll come to the office and brief you.’
‘That’s good. There’s a meeting at nine. Brief me before then.’
‘Have you received the pathologist reports on Gerard Connelly and Phil Marsland yet?’
‘Protheroe’s has come in, but Schofield says he’s working on something else. Stupid tosser hasn’t worked out this is the most important thing we have at the moment. Claire Trent is giving him a kicking as we speak. She’s handy with her high heels.’ He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘Anyway. I’ve got to go.’
‘See you tomorrow, Charlie.’ But the dead tone was already buzzing in his ears.
Tommy Harper stepped forward but Ridpath stopped him by holding up a single finger. He rang the pathologist’s number but the phone was engaged. He then dialled Margaret Challinor and was put straight through.
‘Mrs Challinor, Ridpath here. I’ve got some bad news. Mrs Granger, the grandmother of Ronald Wilson, has been found dead. Can I come and brief you this evening?’
‘I’ll be here until seven tonight. After that, I have a concert at the Halle. Rachmaninov.’
‘Ok, I’ll be there by 5:30. See you then.’
‘Can’t you tell me about it now, Ridpath.’
‘I need to brief you properly. See you at 5:30. ‘He clicked off the phone before she could ask him any more questions, turning back to Tommy Harper. ‘I’m all yours.’
‘Shall we do it down the pub?’ the detective asked.
Chapter Fifty-Six
In the end the interview took place in Ridpath’s car. Tommy asked all the correct questions, giving him a written statement on the discovery of the body.
Strangely enough, Tommy was quite good at getting at the details.
‘Did he notice any strange smells?’
‘Did he touch the victim?’
‘When did he first see the knife?’
‘What time was it on the clock?’
‘Did he notice anything unusual in the kitchen? In the living room?’
Then Tommy started chewing the end of his pen. ‘Just a few more questions, if I may.’
Ridpath checked his watch. ‘Fire away.’
‘You said you interviewed her on Friday afternoon?’
‘That’s right, I left at 5:30 p.m. to meet my wife and daughter.’
‘But you came back on Saturday morning.’
‘I dropped in to her house at eight a.m. before going to a briefing with Claire Trent. She was alive when I left her on Saturday morning around 8:30.’
‘What were you doing here on Saturday morning?’ There was an edge to Tommy’s voice.
‘I came round to give her some groceries. I noticed she didn’t have anything to eat in the house when I interviewed her on Friday.’
‘Bit of a Good Samaritan are you? Didn’t know that was part of the coroner’s officer job?’
‘It isn’t. I felt sorry for her. I also rang social services but it was obvious they weren’t going to get anybody out to see her until today at the earliest.’
‘Did anybody come?’
‘You’ll have to check, Tommy.’
The detective sergeant chewed the end of his pen again. ‘So you were the last person to see her alive and the first person to see her dead.’
‘No, Tommy, the first person to see her dead was the murderer, not me.’
There was a tap on the window of the car. Protheroe stood outside with the hood off his head but still dressed in his protective suit. Ridpath wound the window down.
‘I’ve completed the initial examination and pronounced her dead. Don’t quote me but I’d say she’s been dead for less than twenty-four hours, probably between twelve to twenty hours.’
‘So sometime on Sunday?’ Tommy asked.
‘That’s where I would put it. I may be able to give you a more exact time after the post-mortem. The fire was on, which may have sped up the process of decomposition.’
‘Anything else, doctor?’ asked Ridpath.
‘A couple of things. The lividity of the body suggests she was killed where she sat and has not been moved. The cause of death was probably loss of blood, but I need to check in the post-mortem, just in case.’
‘And the weapon?’ asked Tommy.
‘The bread knife in the kitchen has obvious blood caught in its serrated edge. But once again, let’s wait until the post-mortem and DNA tests on the blood before we jump to conclusions. I’ll go back in and finish off. We’ll bring the body out in about half an hour, so you’d better warn the uniforms.’
Ridpath glanced over his shoulder. In the time he had been giving his statement the crowd had swollen; kids, mothers, fathers and grannies were all pressing against the police tape trying to see what was happening.
‘Here you go, Ridpath, you’d better sign and initial this. Let me check your mobile number in case I need to get in touch with you.’
Ridpath took the form and signed it, saying ‘I’m free to go, am I, Tommy?’
The detective sergeant didn’t join in the joke, simply answering. ‘For the moment, Ridpath, for the moment.’
A fleeting image of Elsie Granger telling him to bless himself with holy water raced across his mind. ‘I’m going to get whoever did it, Tommy, no matter what it takes. No old woman deserves to die like this.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Leaving Tommy Harper to organise the crime scene, Ridpath drove slowly through the crowd and parked up around the corner. He rang Dr Schofield, once again only getting through to an irritated voicemail message. ‘I’m busy right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you sometime in the next millennium. Beeeeeep.’
Ridpath switched off his mobile.
This case was becoming complicated, he had to clear it up in his own mind before he briefed the head coroner. He spent the next ten minutes jotting down a few notes and trying to connect the dots. It soon became obvious how many gaps there were in his knowledge of the victims.
There must be something linking them.
But what was it?
His dashboard clock said 4:55 p.m. If he drove quickly he would just make it in time to meet Margaret Challinor. He put the car in gear and sped away from the pavement, nearly running over a poodle playing in the street.
‘Concentrate, Ridpath,’ he admonished himself. The last thing he needed now was a bloody car accident.
Driving carefully he arrived at Stockfield Coroner’s Court ten minutes late. He hurried into the coroner’s office, past a startled Jenny who was just packing her stuff to go home.
‘You’re late, Ridpath,’ was the coroner’s greeting as he entered her office.
‘Sorry, Mrs Challinor, I was giving a statement.’
‘Sit down. I’ve got an hour before I have to leave.’
Ridpath pulled out the bentwood chair in front of her desk, feeling like an errant schoolboy about to be chastised by a stern headmistress. He put out his notes on her desk and gathered his thoughts.
‘When you’re ready, Ridpath, perish the thought you would actually brief me before midnight.’
‘The case has become complicated, Mrs Challinor. I’ve just left Mrs Granger’s house. She was murdered sometime on Saturday.’
‘Murdered? Who would want to kill an old lady?’
‘Somebody did. And I think this death is linked to those of her grandson and of Gerard Connelly.’
‘Go on…’
‘Let’s start with Ronald Wilson. According to the pathologist he was killed and his body dumped in the lake…’
‘Correct. The police belief it was a tragic accident or suicide was totally wrong.’
‘Agreed. But I noticed a connection between Ronald Wilson’s murder and the death of Gerard Connelly.’
The coroner sat forward, a frown appearing between her elegantly shaped eyebrows. ‘What connection? One was stabbed in the head, the other was run over by a lorry.’
Ridpath raised his hand and began counting off his fingers. ‘Firstly, both were only dressed in blue boxer shorts.’
‘It’s common enough, I would guess about 30 per cent of men wear them.’
‘Actually, it’s 58 per cent, I checked. The shorts were brand new and none of them had been washed. Most men wear them for at least four years. You’ll be pleased to hear one in ten men only change their underwear once a week.’
‘Not a pleasant thought, Ridpath, but what’s your point? Is it just a coincidence both men were wearing brand new blue boxer shorts?’
‘To answer you, briefly, I don’t think so. There are too many other coincidences in this case.’
‘Explain what you mean.’
‘I checked the ante-mortem injuries on both bodies. After reading the pathologist’s report on Ronald Wilson and the possible rope marks found on his wrists, it reminded me of Dr Schofield’s findings on Gerard Connelly. I asked him to compare them.
‘And?’
‘I’m still waiting for a response.’
Mrs Challinor tilted her head. ‘Let’s ring him now.’
She pressed the speaker on her phone and speed dialled the pathologist. Ridpath listened to the warbles and squeaks as the phone connected, expecting to hear the click of the answering machine kicking in.
Instead, Dr Schofield answered immediately. ‘Coroner, I was just about to call you.’
‘I hope it was with good news, doctor.’
‘Good and bad, I’m afraid.’
‘I have Ridpath sitting next to me and you’re on speaker phone.’
‘Good, saves me repeating my message to him.’
‘I believe he asked you to perform a comparison of the injuries on the bodies of Ronald Wilson and Gerard Connelly.’
‘That’s correct, Mrs Challinor. I have performed the comparison and there are surprising similarities between the two clients.’
‘Can you elucidate, doctor?’
‘The scarring on Gerard Connelly’s body shows sixteen sites of interest. There may have been more but, as you know, parts of the body were severely damaged by the lorry. An examination of the left wrist which was undamaged in the accident shows the presence of partially healed rope scarring. Under a microscope I noted that the fibres of hemp still adhered to the skin. An examination of Ronald Wilson’s wrists showed a comparative morphology despite the body having been in the water for at least ten days. Again, under the microscope, hemp fibres were found subcutaneously.’
‘All it proves is that both men were tied up, doctor, not that they were tied up by the same person.’
‘True, Mrs Challinor However, there is a startling similarity between the fibres.’
‘You’re saying they came from the same type of rope?’
‘I’m saying more, Mrs Challinor. In the fibres found on Gerard Connelly’s left wrist I found some of the fibres contained DNA.’
‘Of course they do. They will have been in contact with his skin?’
‘But it’s not his DNA, coroner.’
Ridpath could almost hear the drum roll at the other end of the phone.
‘I compared the DNA with that of Ronald Wilson…’ The pathologist paused for a few seconds.
‘And?’ asked Margaret Challinor.
‘It was a match.’
Ridpath leant closer to the phone. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘It means both Ronald Wilson and Gerard Connelly were both tied up, or came into contact with, the same rope. Do keep up, Ridpath.’
‘Exactly, Mrs Challinor. And that’s the link between the two deaths.’
The coroner was silent for a moment. ‘Thank you, Dr Schofield, this throws a whole new light on our investigation.’
‘It’s so good to talk to someone who understands the latest developments in forensic science, Mrs Challinor.’
‘But why?’ interrupted Ridpath.
‘Why what?’ answered the coroner.
‘Why did he tie them both up?’
‘I think it is your job to find out, Ridpath, don’t you? Do you have any other questions for Dr Schofield?’
‘Just one more. Do you know Dr Protheroe?’
‘Jim? Of course.’
Ridpath didn’t know Protheroe’s first name was Jim. ‘He’s the pathologist on two other murders that may be related to the case. Those of Phil Marsland and Elsie Granger. Could you share your findings with him?’
‘You think the cases are linked, Ridpath?’ asked Mrs Challinor.
‘Possibly. Phil Marsland was tied up and dressed in boxer shorts too before being murdered. The science may be able to tell us.’
‘Finally, you’re speaking like a scientist rather than a copper,’ a high-pitched laugh echoed down the phone line, ‘I’ll share my findings with Jim after this call.’
‘Anything else, Ridpath?’
He shook his head.
‘Thank you, doctor.’
‘I’ll be adding these discoveries in an addendum to my post-mortem report.’
‘Thank you, doctor. I’ll see you again in the near future,’ added Margaret Challinor.
‘Call me when you are free.’
She clicked off the speaker phone.
‘A new relationship with the pathologist, Mrs Challinor?’
‘Not at all, Ridpath. I merely explained to him how inconvenient it was if his reports did not arrive in time for my inquest.’
‘Your chat must have worked, he seems eager to please. Less irascible.’
‘I also may have casually mentioned having recommended Dr Schofield for the position with the Trust, I could also unrecommend him. He took the hint.’
‘A smart young man.’ Ridpath was about to make another joke about being young, then didn’t. It was definitely not the right time.
‘So, what are your next steps? The inquest on Ronald Wilson will reopen on Thursday.’
‘Can you postpone?’
‘Possibly, but we have already empanelled a jury. I felt this case had implications for police competence and should be decided by a jury. So, next steps?’
‘I’m going to brief Detective Superintendent Trent and DCI Whitworth tomorrow. This discovery impacts their investigation into the death of Gerard Connelly.’
‘Fine, but I asked what are you going to do, not what are you going to tell people.’
‘If you would let me finish, Mrs Challinor…’
She held up her hands. ‘Sorry, Ridpath. I’m becoming impatient. If we don’t have the answers before Thursday then I am going to postpone the inquest again, re-empanel the jury and reschedule for a later date. After the Harold Lardner case the Ministry of Justice is already looking over my shoulder, threatening an audit of my performance as a coroner.’
‘I am aware of the issues, Mrs Challinor. But after listening to the pathologist, I feel sure that there is also a link to the murder of Mrs Granger and Phil Marsland.’ Ridpath scratched his head. ‘It’s like we’re peeling back the layers of an onion and all we’ve removed so far is the outer skin. Charlie Whitworth told me a couple of days ago of an old mantra used by detectives. Why plus what equals who. We don’t know why they are bei
ng killed, neither do we know what for. Until we do we’ll never find the who.’
‘You don’t buy MIT’s theory of a gang war?’
He shook his head. ‘Why fight now? They are all making money, their differences have been sorted and they’re busy diversifying into legitimate business like taxis, security and property. A gang war at this time would be bad for business. It’s what Michael Connelly pointed out to me three days ago.’
So what are you going to do?’
‘Next step is to contact Tommy Harper.’
‘That waste of oxygen…’
‘He’s a smarter copper than you think, Mrs Challinor. More importantly, he needs help at the moment and he has access to the police files on Ronald Wilson, Gerard Connelly, Phil Marsland and Elsie Granger.’
‘You want to see if they knew each other?’
‘Something like that. There must be link between all four, we just haven’t found it yet.’
Mrs Challinor looked at her watch. ‘You’d better get a move on, Ridpath. You have just one day, fourteen hours and forty-six minutes till my inquest opens on Thursday.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Tommy was pleased to hear his voice. ‘You didn’t leave your dabs with the SOCO, Ridpath.’
‘You want me to come over now?’
‘Could do. No pub for me tonight. Have to make sure all the paperwork is up to date.’
‘I need your help, Tommy.’
‘Somebody asking for my help, that’s a new one. Usually I’m told what to do.’
‘Well, this could help put you in Charlie Whitworth’s good books.’
‘I heard Dave Hardy’s leaving?’
News travels fast on the tom-toms of the police concrete jungle. ‘Yeah, I heard the same rumour.’
‘But, Trent wants a woman.’
‘You know Charlie, he’ll appoint somebody who he likes.’
‘You mean somebody who’s loyal to him.’ After a pause, Tommy asked suspiciously, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing, Tommy, It’s what I want us to do.’
‘Why does my hair tingle when you use the word “us”?’
‘You’re not using the right shampoo, Tommy. Head and Shoulders works wonders for the old scalp itch. Or you could try washing it in a pint of Tetleys.’
Where the Dead Fall Page 21
