Since the opening of Media City down the road, that point had now been reached. Everywhere in front of him, roads were being widened, acres of waste ground were being filled with new apartments and the derelict pubs refurbished into lifestyle cafes or, even worse, gastropubs.
Luckily, Maureen arrived to rescue him from the sight of a destroyed Salford.
‘Hiya, been waiting long?’
‘Long enough to hate this.’
‘Aye, I know what you mean. Only the cathedral has survived. Shall we go inside, Vera is waiting for us.’
Vera was warm and typically northern; honest, down-to-earth and friendly. ‘Are you Detective Inspector Ridpath? Nice to meet you. I believe you want to look at an adoptee’s records?’
‘That’s correct. Here are the details of the person we’re looking for, Christine Wilson. She would now be aged twenty-five and was probably adopted in 1996 or 1997. She’s suspected of being involved in multiple murders.’
Vera’s hand came to her mouth. ‘Normally, we only release records to the adoptee or a next of kin.’
‘I understand, but as you know, this case is extremely urgent. At the moment, I am acting on behalf of the East Manchester coroner. We could subpoena the records, but time is of the essence if we are to prevent further murders.’
‘I have been instructed by the bishop to provide you with assistance. We have a duty of care to the adoptees and to their records. Before I show you the documents, I’ll need proof of identity, and also from you, Maureen.’
Ridpath handed over his warrant card, followed by Maureen giving her identity card and her designation card.
‘You’re lucky there’s no veto on the records.’
‘Veto?’ asked Ridpath.
‘Some adoptees do not want to be contacted. They may not be ready to meet their birth mother or relatives, or have simply moved on, leaving the past behind. Either way, if there were a veto in place, I wouldn’t be able to release anything.’
‘I understand.’
She placed a brown envelope on the desk. ‘I printed them out after receiving Maureen’s call this morning. She was originally placed in St Michael’s before being adopted. I’m afraid the records are patchy, so I would like to manage your expectations. The nuns at the time were overworked and sometimes they were not as diligent as they should have been.’
‘Not a problem, I just need the name and address of the adopting family.’
‘I’ll leave you to open them together.’
She stood up and went into a back room.
Ridpath took a deep breath. ‘Well, here goes.’ He slid his finger under the sealed flap and pulled out four sheets of paper. The first was a photocopy of an admission form to St Michael’s Home, giving her name, age, and her parent’s name.
Maureen was looking over his shoulder. ‘See,’ she pointed to a handwritten note from a Sister Hermione. ‘The child’s mother has since remarried and moved away from Manchester. She has requested the child be adopted by a Catholic family,’ she read out loud.
The second sheet was the formal release for adoption form signed by Doreen Wilson and dated October 1996.
‘Not long after she married again.’ Maureen’s face was closer now, almost perched on his shoulder.
The third sheet was a record written by the sisters. During her stay at St Michael’s. Alongside a variety of dates during 1996 and 1997 were words like Wilful. Stubborn. Punished for disobedience. Refused to eat. Temper tantrums. Spitting. Fighting.
‘She obviously didn’t like the nuns,’ said Maureen
‘I don’t blame her. Why would you ever give children into the care of a group of women who have sworn they will never have children? It has never made sense to me.’
Maureen was about to answer when he turned to the fourth page. The title said ‘Notice of Adoption’. After the usual legal language, the name and address of the adopting couple appeared half way down.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ridpath out loud.
The volunteer workers in the centre stopped what they were doing, and all turned to stare at him.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘It’s very unusual, Ridpath.’
‘But can you do it, Mrs Challinor?’
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘I have the power, but…’
‘Why don’t I just send a team to arrest her?’
Claire Trent had joined them after being asked by the coroner. Outside, the sun was going down on a Manchester spring day and the street lights were just coming on.
Ridpath ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He felt better than he did this morning, but hot and cold flushes still swept through his body. His one mantra was to keep going until tomorrow and then he would check himself into Christies, letting the doctors do their worst.
‘Well, Ridpath…?’
‘Because we don’t have any proof, guvnor. It’s all circumstantial at the moment.’ Ridpath had taken both of them through the documents he had found this morning and the research he had carried out with Maureen O’Dowd.
‘The SOC team are going through the house, they’re bound to find evidence that she was there.’
‘It was owned by her father. She could just say she visited in the past and we’d be stuffed. There are no trace elements on any of the bodies other than that of Reggie Wilson.’
Claire Trent slowly shook her head. ‘I’m still not sure…’
‘I’m inclined to think Ridpath is right. Tomorrow is our only chance of stopping her once and for all. If she’s allowed to go free, she may want to carry on with her vendetta.’
Claire Trent interjected quickly. We can’t have any more trouble. Despite the death of Reginald Wilson, Manchester is on the point of exploding. Michael Connelly still thinks Big Terry was behind it all. While the rest of the gangs are trying to arm themselves. We had reports earlier from confidential informants of even more guns arriving from London and Liverpool. And last night, a firebomb was thrown through the window of the Wheatsheaf.’
‘Big Terry’s pub?’
Claire Trent nodded.
‘It’s a tinder keg waiting for a spark…’
‘Unless, we can defuse it,’ said Mrs Challinor. ‘I believe Ridpath’s plan is the only way.’
‘Have the subpoenas already gone out?’
‘Jenny…’ shouted the coroner.
The door was already being opened. The office manager stood in the doorway wearing a bright gingham outfit with even brighter pink lipstick. ‘Yes, coroner.’
‘Have the…?’
‘Yes, coroner, as you requested. And all have been delivered.’
‘Thank you.’ The door closed. ‘As you can see, Claire, we’ve already set the wheels in motion. Your men will go to work tomorrow morning. We start the inquest at 9:30. I’ll swear in the jury at nine a.m.’
‘My men are ready. I’m still not…’
‘Good,’ the coroner interrupted. ‘We are set. And don’t worry, I will take full responsibility if it goes pear-shaped. My reputation with the chief coroner is already shot. One more stick of wood for him to throw on my funeral pyre doesn’t matter.’ She closed her notebook. ‘Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I need time to prepare. I’m going to be working late.’
Day Nine
Thursday, April 26, 2018
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The following morning Ridpath stood outside Stockfield Coroner’s Court feeling like death warmed up.
He hadn’t slept well. He was either too hot or too cold all night. For hours he had lain in the dark thinking about the case, pulling on or kicking off the duvet.
Had he made any mistakes?
Was the research correct?
Could he be wrong?
Was she really the woman who made the phone call to the police about Ronald Wilson’s suicide?
Was she the woman in the CCTV picture with Gerard Connelly?
His mind turned over each fact again and again and again until finally he finally d
rifted off, only to wake up shivering at five a.m. with the sheets soaked.
After court he would check himself into Christies. He just had to keep going for a couple of more hours.
He had tried to ring Polly in the evening, leaving a message on her answering machine. She hadn’t called him back yet, but that wasn’t surprising. The mornings were hectic enough anyway, with both her and Eve being perpetually late for school. He was sure she would return his call at lunchtime, when she had a second.
Tommy Harper was the first to arrive, the Uber dropping him outside the court. He looked almost professional in a new suit, crisp white shirt and tie.
‘Are you ready, Tommy.’
‘Aye, done me homework.’ He held up the notes Ridpath had prepared for him the night before.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be great.’
A police Transit van stopped right opposite them. Michael Connelly stepped out, shrugging off the arm of one of the biggest police officers Ridpath had ever seen. Following him were Graham Connelly and the daughter, Carmela. She must have been released from hospital already.
‘Is this a guard of honour, Ridpath,’ asked Michael Connolly.
‘No red carpet, I’m afraid.’
‘You forgot it? What a shame. Another screw up and they’ll have you looking after lost property.’
Ridpath ignored him, talking directly to the larger of the policeman. ‘Any problems?’
He shook his head. ‘All three of them were ready and waiting.’
‘Why are we here?’ demanded Graham Connelly as belligerent as ever.
‘Because you have been subpoenaed to attend by the coroner.’
‘Is this about Gerard?’ Michael’s voice was softer. ‘You said there would be an inquest.’
‘Gerard’s inquest will be later, but today’s events do have a bearing on his death.’
As Ridpath was speaking another Transit van parked behind the first.
‘What’s that bastard doing here?’ shouted Michael Connelly, before being restrained by two coppers.
Big Terry was walking nonchalantly down from the van. He turned to his daughter behind him. ‘Look what shit’s turned up, Tracy.’
Before Ridpath could react, the two of them were in each other’s faces, shouting and screaming, joined by their respective families, the two daughters in the thick of the action. It took eight burly coppers to separate the warring factions.
‘Take the Connellys up the stairs first and make sure you keep them apart.’
‘I’m gonna kill you, Connelly,’ Tracy shouted as they were being led to the courtroom.
‘You’re gonna keep your mouth shut,’ said Ridpath, feeling his voice begin to break and his throat ache with the strain of speaking.
‘Don’t you talk to my daughter like that.’
‘Get them out of my sight before I charge them with obstruction,’ shouted Ridpath, hearing his voice break.
The uniforms led them upstairs, struggling and shouting all the way.
A large black car had already arrived. Claire Trent was stepping out of the car, followed by the two newest members of the MIT team, Lorraine Caruso and Catherine Delaney.
‘Is Margaret ready, Ridpath?’
‘As ready as she ever will be, guvnor.’
‘That’s not an answer that fills me with confidence.’
‘How’s Charlie?’
Claire Trent shook her head. ‘Still in intensive care in an induced coma. Multiple fractures of the ribs and a fractured leg, but that’s not the worst. Apparently they found bleeding in the brain. They’ve released the pressure so all we can do now is hope and pray for the best.’
Ridpath didn’t know what to say. He never did in these situations, even with people he knew, despite having received hours of training. ‘How’s the wife and family handling it?’
‘Not well. The wife spent the night beside his bed. But there’s nothing she can do except wait and see.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Should we go up?’
‘The coroner should be ready to start by now. Connelly and Big Terry are already up there.’
Claire Trent started up the stairs followed by the two female detectives. She stopped after three steps. ‘Is this going to work, Ridpath?’
‘I hope so, guvnor. I bloody hope so.’
Chapter Eighty
Ridpath took one last look at the streets of Stockfield. Office workers were carrying their coffee to work. A man was walking a dog, following it everywhere with a pink plastic bag. An old woman, scarf tied over her head, inched slowly along the road dragging an ageing shopping trolley behind her.
He couldn’t postpone it any longer. He turned and slowly climbed the stairs, his fingers crossed behind his back.
As he pushed through the door Mrs Challinor walked in at the front of the court and sat behind her raised desk. He expected some fanfare, as in the High Court, but there was nothing. She simply opened her files and began speaking.
Her tone was relaxed and informal. ‘Today we open the inquest into the death of Ronald George Wilson which was postponed from last Thursday, April 20. There will be a jury present at this inquest. They have already been sworn by one of my officers.’
Ridpath glanced across at the jury. Seven men and women, all looking fairly prosperous, sat in a box on the right. Mounted above them a large television screen was ready to display exhibits and run any footage of film that needed to be shown.
Mrs Challinor carried on speaking. ‘Representing the police we have Ms Marjorie Salmon.’
The barrister stood up and bowed her head once.
As there are no living relatives of the deceased as far as we are aware, there are no family members present. Nonetheless, the family’s interests will be represented by this court. It is my duty to see that the death of their son is explained and understood.’ She paused for a second, ‘Ms Oates…’
The senior coroner stepped forward. Ridpath could see her blonde hair was decorated in an elaborate bun, and her suit was a severe black.
‘Please call the first witness.’
Tommy Harper strode to the witness box and took the oath on a bible held by Carol Oates. As Margaret Challinor began questioning him, he sat back and answered clearly just as Ridpath had coached him.
‘Please state your name and occupation.’
‘Detective Sergeant Thomas Harper, at present attached to J Division of GMP, based at Reddish police station.’
‘Good morning, detective sergeant, you were in charge of the investigation into the death of Ronald Wilson whose body was found at Wingate Park on the 12th of April 2018. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct, coroner. The body was discovered floating there by a group of children. The lake is also known as the Secret Lake by locals.’
‘How do you think it got that name, detective?’
‘I’m not certain, ma’am, but it’s hidden from view behind factories and is not the easiest place to find. It took me a while to find it myself…’
Tommy was doing well; confident firm delivery with a voice suggesting calm professionalism. The hours spent coaching him last night were paying off.
Mrs Challinor continued to explore the details of the discovery of the body. It was when she got to the most important point that Ridpath listened closely.
‘Are you sure a woman rang your station to tell them a man was taking off his clothes and entering the water?’
‘Positive ma’am. I have taken the liberty of bringing a tape recording of the phone call, recorded at the station on the day in question.’
Jenny came forward and took the MP3 file from Tommy Harper. She placed it in the playback machine. Instantly, the conversation was heard through the speakers on the television screens.
‘Reddish police station, how can I help you?’ Maureen’s voice filled the Coroner’s Court.
‘I saw the posters you put around town.’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Which posters, madam?’
‘The ones where
you were asking about that man, Ronald Wilson.’
‘Oh yes, and what do you have to report?’
‘I saw somebody like that going for a swim in the Secret Lake.’
‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’
‘I saw somebody who matched that description take off his clothes and go swimming in the Secret Lake. You know, the one behind the recycling plant.’
‘I know where you mean, madam. It’s also called Wingate Lake. You say he took off his clothes and went swimming?’
‘That’s right, he laid his wallet on top of the clothes and just walked into the lake wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last week.’
‘But when exactly?’
‘Look, I’ve got to go now.’
‘If I could just take your name and address, madam…’
But the courtroom was filled with the sound of a disconnected line. Mrs Challinor carried on her interrogation of Tommy Harper as the noise ceased. ‘This was the call you received.’
‘It was. But subsequently the post-mortem revealed the call to be false. Ronald Wilson could not have walked into the lake because he was already dead,’
‘Yes, thank you, detective, we will be calling the pathologist to tell us about his findings. You are excused.’
Ridpath noticed she didn’t ask Tommy why he hadn’t followed up on the report. If he had, the body would have been found sooner.
‘I would like Dr John Schofield to take the stand.’
He hadn’t noticed the doctor before. He was sitting in the corner furthest away from Ridpath. The detective took the opportunity to cough and clear his throat. He was feeling hot now, his forehead burning up. He would grab a cab to Christies when this was finished, the sooner the better.
The two crime families were sitting at the back of the court, surrounded by uniformed policemen. Big Terry was studiously cleaning his fingernails while Michael Connelly was staring into space, as if bored by the whole proceedings. Only Graham Connelly looked interested at what was going on.
After Dr Schofield had finished the formalities, Mrs Challinor began questioning him.
Where the Dead Fall Page 27
