Where the Dead Fall

by Where the Dead Fall (retail) (epub)

  ‘Waste of a good pint.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll see you in thirty minutes at Reddish nick. How’s that?’

  ‘Time to grab a meat and potato pie from the local chippy.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat a little more healthily, Tommy.’ Fine words from a man who hadn’t had anything to eat today except a Starbucks coffee this morning. Ridpath had been counselled on his diet by a dietician as part of his recovery programme from the myeloma. For three months, with Polly’s help, he had kept to it religiously. Since she had left he had fallen by the wayside. Not eating stodge or fast food, but basically not eating at all. ‘I’ll pick up a sandwich from Pret for us both.’

  ‘I like the BLT.’

  ‘You would.’

  On his way to Poynton, Ridpath picked up the sandwiches and dropped into a chemists for the shampoo. Time to butter up Tommy with a bit of soft soap, he chuckled to himself.

  The detective sergeant was waiting for him in the lobby of Reddish Police Station.

  ‘I hope you brought the brown sauce. Can’t eat bacon without brown sauce.’

  ‘Brown sauce is not one of your five a day, Tommy.’

  ‘It is in Salford.’

  There was no answer so Ridpath didn’t bother. They went to Tommy’s desk. There was no time for small talk, Ridpath simply told the detective what he wanted.

  ‘But it’ll take hours going through all those old files.’

  ‘You doing anything better tonight?’

  ‘Can I get Maureen to help?’

  ‘Maureen?’

  ‘The PCSO, she’ll know where everything’s kept.’

  ‘Hasn’t she gone home already?’

  ‘Not Maureen, lives here, she does. What she doesn’t know ain’t worth knowing.’

  He shouted across the CID room. Hidden behind the desk in the corner was a short, thin woman wearing the thickest glasses Ridpath had ever seen and a silver cross hanging around her neck.

  ‘Maureen, can you help us for a minute?’

  She walked across to the two detectives.

  ‘This is DI Ridpath from MIT.’

  She shook out her hand. ‘You work with Chrissy?’ she asked.

  ‘Used to, now on secondment to the Coroner’s Office.’

  ‘Bit of a comedown for an MIT detective isn’t it?’

  Tommy coughed. ‘Maureen, we need all the files on Ronald Wilson…’

  ‘The one who topped himself at the Secret Lake?’

  ‘That’s him. His old charge sheets, warrants and any intelligence in the Police National Computer or HOLMES about him.’

  ‘Right, give me ten minutes, I’ll print it out.’

  ‘Plus, we want the latest intelligence on Gerard Connelly and Phil Marsland. Anything and everything on the PNC.’

  ‘Sure, let me get you the Wilson files first.’

  Maureen was a good as her word. Just as the detectives were finishing their sandwiches, she appeared holding three folders.

  ‘Ronald Wilson’s arrest warrants and trial documentation,’ she put the first folder down. ‘His intelligence in the computer, not much here I’m afraid. Bit of a tearaway when he was young but nothing since he came out of prison.’

  Ridpath grabbed the arrest file and began reading. Tommy Harper slowly took the intelligence file.

  ‘Thank you, Maureen for finding them for me,’ she said.

  Ridpath looked up. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit under the cosh. Thanks for these.’

  ‘That’s OK, DI Ridpath, I’ve worked here for twenty-seven years. I recognise management putting the squeeze on.’ She tried to go, then stopped.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wilson. The name rings a bell. Let me just check something, won’t be a tick.’

  Ridpath returned to Ronald Wilson’s file. A few minor run-ins with the law; shoplifting, dope possession, being in a stolen car, but nothing major until 2014. He was then charged with GBH. A fight down a pub turned ugly and somebody was glassed. Wilson was sentenced in 2015 and sent down for three years serving his time in Leeds and Warrington prisons. He would check Gerard Connelly and Phil Marsland’s file later to see if they had been locked up together. Was that the connection?

  ‘You ever heard of a Peter Avery?’

  Tommy Harper looked up from his file. ‘Yeah, put him away a couple of years ago. Minor con artist and low life. Caught receiving and it was his fifth conviction. Still in Strangeways, I think. I got the impression he preferred being in prison to being outside. Thought it was safer.’

  ‘He was Wilson’s victim in the pub attack, gave him a cut needing fifteen stitches. Is Avery the sort to seek revenge?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘Nah, he will have put it down as the price of doing business. He must have stiffed Wilson over some stuff he was fencing.’

  Well that was one theory to cross off the list. Ridpath returned to the file. The address for Ronald Wilson was the same as Mrs Granger. His probation officer was a Chris Ryan. Maybe give him a bell tomorrow.

  He turned the page. Empty. That was it.

  Ronald Wilson, this is your life of crime. No Eamonn Andrews coming through the door with a big red book though, just a few bits of paper in an old file. Not terribly successful even when he was a criminal and nothing since he was released in 2017. The old woman’s story seemed to be holding up. ‘Anything from intelligence?’

  ‘Not a lot. Ran around with gangs when he was young.’

  ‘Anybody we know?’

  Harper shook his head again. ‘Nah, just the usual low lifes stealing cars and dealing drugs. There’s a note from his probation officer, a Miss Ryan. ‘Ronald Wilson is adjusting to life outside of prison. He’s yet to hold down a steady job but works on a casual basis. There have been no reports of consorting with his old confederates. He has kept all his appointments with me. The next steps are to find him a steady job. He seems to be open to this idea.’

  ‘Confederates?’

  ‘You can’t get the staff these days. Ms Ryan must have just been appointed, straight from university. You think he was pulling the wool over her mortar board?

  ‘Nah, fits in with what his grandmother said. He was trying to go straight.’

  Tommy closed his file and threw it down on the desk. ‘Not a lot of use then.’

  Ridpath agreed. ‘I need more details about the family. Did Ronald Wilson have a brother?’

  There was a cough from behind. Maureen was standing there holding a much thicker file. ‘I’ve printed this for you, thought it might be useful.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ridpath.

  ‘His dad’s file.’

  ‘His dad?’

  ‘Harry Wilson. A major villain in the nineties. Was shot dead in 1995. Thought you knew…’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  After the killing of Elsie Granger, there was a palpable air of excitement about both of them. Reggie had been cleaning and checking both the Uzi and the Armalite obsessively, caressing the matt black metal of each of the guns, oiling the barrels, checking the balance of both of them and the fit against his shoulder.

  ‘They’re good,’ he finally announced, ‘Both have been looked after by somebody who knows what he’s doing.’ Four years in the army as an armourer had given him a confidence around weaponry.

  His sister, on the other hand, had been pacing up and down the kitchen, going over the details in her mind. They had worn gloves so there was no possibility of leaving prints in the old woman’s house on Sunday, but they could have left something behind; a blonde hair, fibres from her jacket, a shoe imprint in the blood from Elsie Granger.

  She shrugged her shoulders. Why was she wasting so much time worrying? It didn’t really matter. By the time they finished today, a gang war would have started in Manchester. The Connellys versus Big Terry. No holds barred. No quarter given. A vicious, bloody war where she and her brother were going to be the only winners.

  For a moment a chill swept down her body. Had she thought of everything? She st
opped pacing the kitchen and turned to her brother. ‘You know what you have to do?’

  He slotted the magazine into the Uzi for the umpteenth time. ‘Yes,’ was the single word answer.

  ‘What are you going to use?’

  He looked at both weapons lying on the kitchen table next to the bowl of sugar and a bottle of brown sauce. ‘The Uzi. It will be quicker and more effective, with less chance of collateral damage. The velocity of the bullet…’

  ‘Fine,’ she interrupted him, but be careful when you attack. This must be seen as an amateur job not a professional.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Outside the taxi shed. I’ll drive past them.’

  The last detail bothered her. What if one of them was actually awake and watching. Would they remember her brother? ‘Are you sure? It’s not necessary.’

  He picked up the Uzi and unfolded the metal stock. ‘No, but it amuses me. They will remember the car and it will put the fear of God in them.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will. You’ll come here later?’

  ‘As soon as I can get away.’

  ‘You’ve arranged the weapons for Big Terry?’

  ‘They’ll arrive tonight. The Connellys received theirs this morning.’

  ‘We’re set then.’

  ‘All it needs is a tiny spark…’

  He held up the Uzi. ‘Or one of these.’

  Chapter Sixty

  Ridpath remembered his manners this time. He said thank you before grabbing the folder. It was a case file on the murder of Harry Wilson, September 22, 1995. At the top the word ‘UNSOLVED’ was stamped in bright red letters.

  ‘I printed it out from the cold case registry. Apparently, they’ve been looking into it again without too much success.’

  ‘Maureen, can you check up on Ronald Wilson’s family? Did he have a brother? And what was the name of the mother?’

  ‘I’ll check the birth and marriage records. We have the name of the father so it should be possible online. I can even check the electoral register for the period.’

  ‘Great.’

  Ridpath opened the file. It was the usual pro forma opened for every case. The investigating officer was a DI Ted Roylance. Ridpath had never heard of him. ‘Do you know a Ted Roylance, Tommy?

  ‘Yeah, detective inspector, retired about ten years ago. Why?’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Old school. Bit of a plodder but a good copper.’

  Ridpath began reading the report. The usual bumf about the Police and Criminal Justice Act 1967 was followed by a report disclaimer. ‘This statement consisting of (one page signed by me) is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and I have made it knowing that, if it is tendered in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have knowingly stated in it anything I know to be false or do not believe to be true.’

  Ridpath had read a million of these in his time. This one was well written and precise, with the typing showing it was done on one of the old typewriters.

  Statement of Edward Roylance

  Occupation: Detective Sergeant, A Division, Greater Manchester Police

  Number: 23756

  Date 23 September 1995

  At 15:25 hours on Wednesday, 22 September 1995, I received a call to attend to an incident at the Davenport Arms, Corporation Street, Manchester. On arrival, I found the body of a forty-two-year-old male lying face down on the floor of the saloon bar. He had two gunshot wounds. One to the chest and the other to the back of the head. Two spent cartridge cases from an automatic pistol were present on the floor of the pub.

  Subsequent enquiries revealed this man was Harold Wilson (DOB 12.5.54.) The first attending officer on the scene, Constable Ian Jack (PC 4006) had arrived to find the man already dead at 15:06 hours. The shooting incident had happened eight minutes previously with a barman, Mr David West, reporting the incident to the control centre at 15:02 hours.

  The pathologist was called and a scene of crime team arrived at 16:02 hours. Prior to their arrival the public house was sealed off and witnesses to the incident were detained to provide statements.

  The following statements were taken and are appended to this document:

  Mrs Doreen Wilson (DOB 14.6.63) – wife of the deceased

  Mr David West (DOB 12.12.72) – barman

  Mr Stan Havers (DOB 08.11.46) – friend

  Mr Lance Gibbs (DOB 02.3.48) – friend

  Mr Liam Livingstone (DOB 01.1.70) – friend

  Mr Michael Connelly (DOB 04.4.56) – friend

  These were the only people present in the bar during the incident.

  The pathologist, Mr Harold Lardner, pronounced Mr Wilson dead at 16:45 hours. The body was removed to the mortuary for a post-mortem at 17:12 hours.

  The pub remained closed while the scene of crime officers examined the premises for evidence.

  Signed and dated. Edward Roylance

  Ridpath’s eyes widened as he noticed the last witness name. He flicked forward to Michael Connelly’s witness statement.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  What did it all mean?

  He read through the statement once again. It was typed and from the mistake with the broken ‘p’, Roylance had obviously used the same typewriter as his own report.

  WITNESS STATEMENT

  (CJ Act 1967, s 9 MC Act 1980, ss. 5A(3)(a) and 5B, MC Rules 1981, r70)

  Statement of: Michael Connelly

  DOB: 04.04.56

  Occupation: Businessman

  I was drinking in the Davenport Public House with my best friend, Harry Wilson. We had all met up in the pub at approximately noon time, the event being arranged the night before. Only Lance Gibbs arrived late about one p.m. We were celebrating the signing of a new business deal to open up a club. Harry was to be the owner and the other three of us were investors. We had a few pints and then moved onto the whiskies with Harry buying more than a few rounds.

  The area where we were sitting was empty with just our group occupying the main table. This wasn’t unusual as Harry was a regular in this pub and had asked Dave, the barman, to keep people away from our area.

  The time in the pub had been happy with Harry and his wife, Doreen, in particularly good form.

  Around 2:55, I am not sure of the exact time as I didn’t look at my watch, a man entered the room on my left. Harry shouted ‘Oi, what you doing here, this is a private party.’ The man then said, ‘Shut your mouth Harry, you’ve said enough.’ At which point, he drew a gun and fired at Harry hitting him in the chest.

  I upended the table spilling all the drinks and used it as a cover to protect myself. I don’t know what the others did but I heard Doreen screaming loudly. Then, the man walked over to Harry, who was lying on the floor, and fired one more shot into his head.

  The noise was deafening and the next time I looked the man was gone. Harry was still lying on the floor with blood pouring out of his head and pooling on the lino and the broken glass. Doreen was still screaming.

  I shouted at Dave to call the police which he did. I then went to Harry and checked his body. A large hole was in the back of his head with blood pouring out of it. I went to comfort Doreen and was doing this when a constable arrived.

  I do not know what the others were doing when the gunman was shooting. I have helped to create a description of the man, but my memory of his face is not very good as I was staring at the gun in his hand.

  Signed: Michael Connelly 23.09.95

  Ridpath then read all the other witness statements and documents relating to the case, handing them across to Tommy Harper as he finished them.

  Ted Roylance had done a competent if not very imaginative investigation. Everything was done by the book, all the ‘I’s dotted and the ‘T’s crossed, but still no arrest.

  Three things struck Ridpath immediately. The killing was obviously planned; the killer knew exactly where they were going to be even though the meeting had only been arranged the night be
fore. Secondly, the killer knew Harry Wilson’s identity, calling out his name before shooting him. Thirdly, it was a professional hit. The killer calmly walking over to Harry Wilson’s body and shooting him in the back of the head to finish him off.

  Professional killings were always the hardest to solve. There was no motive, no connection with the victim and often no link to any previous crime. No wonder Ted Roylance had been unable to pin it on anybody.

  Ridpath finished reading the file and waited for Tommy Harper. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Gang leader gets executed in pub. It’s a bit Al Capone, ain’t it?’

  ‘They didn’t call it Gunchester for nothing.’

  ‘Ted Roylance didn’t make a collar.’

  ‘Not surprising. Looks like a contract killer to me. But who hired him?’

  ‘If I remember correctly, didn’t this killing start the whole war off? The Salford, Gooch Close, Cheetham Hill, and other mobs all getting involved. Bloody mayhem, it was.’

  Ridpath narrowed his eyes. ‘I think you’re right. Wasn’t it over security on the clubs of Manchester, with the doormen controlling the drugs trade? I’ll have to check it.’

  Maureen was standing next to him. It was amazing how quietly and invisibly she glided around the station as if she were part of it.

  ‘I checked the births, marriages and deaths site for Harry Wilson. I can tell you the exact dates if you want them by calling the registry in the morning. But I can tell you from the index that he married a Doreen Granger sometime between April and June 1993.’

  ‘Makes sense, then. Elsie Granger was the mother-in-law,’ said Ridpath.

  ‘They had a daughter soon afterwards, Christine, born between October and December of 1993.’

  ‘A shotgun wedding?’

  Maureen ignored Tommy Harper, continuing to read from her notes.

  ‘They also had two sons, but you’ll never guess what they were?’

  Maureen was obviously one of those who enjoyed information being teased out of her. Ridpath stroked the stubble on his face. ‘Enlighten me.’