by M J Lee
He pulled on the suit pants, adjusting the notch on his belt and tucking the extra-long strap into the trouser loop. He had lost weight recently, his features even more gaunt than usual.
Grabbing the jacket, he took one last look in the mirror and hurried into the living room of the service apartment. She was waiting for him in the kitchen, next to the coffee machine.
‘All ready and set, Ridpath?’
He didn’t answer her, instead pouring himself half a cup of coffee.
‘Have a good day.’
He knew he shouldn’t answer but he did. ‘First day back, I don’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘You’ll be fine. You’ll always be fine.’
He missed the little morning rituals they used to have. Brewing Polly’s coffee. Shouting up to Eve to get dressed and go to school. Making his daughter breakfast and forcing her to eat, whether she wanted to or not. The chaos and anarchy around him as both of them prepared to go to school while he was as organised as ever.
He missed all that.
Eve was with her grandparents. It seemed like the right decision given the circumstances. She had moved in with them when he had moved out to the service apartment. At least, her grandparents could look after Eve, giving him time to look after himself.
‘Don’t forget your notebook.’ Polly pointed to the kitchen table.
‘I won’t,’ he answered, picking it up, ‘you know me, I never do.’
He finished the coffee, took his keys from the hook, and picked up a fresh mask from the pile he kept on the table by the door.
‘Have a good day,’ she repeated.
‘It’s good to be going back to work, Poll.’
‘I know.’
He turned back to look at her, sitting at the kitchen table, as fresh and young as the day he had met her all those years ago. ‘You made me a better person.’
‘I know that too. Women are constantly bringing men up to their standard. It’s our job.’
He smiled. She hadn’t changed, even in death.
He knew she wasn’t real, wasn’t really there. But he kept seeing her, and worse, hearing her voice.
Polly was dead.
There. He had admitted it.
She died from a massive internal haemorrhage on a trolley in A & E with doctors desperately trying to save her life.
He couldn’t live at home any more, it was a crime scene, with hot and cold running CSIs all over the place, one murder and one suicide to investigate.
Two bodies. One of which was the woman he had loved and lived with for the last fourteen years.
Wasn’t admitting your partner was gone and never coming back one of the final steps in the stages of grief? One of the many things he had learnt in the last six months since her death.
The problem was, he still saw her, still talked with her.
Every day.
It was something he kept hidden from the psychiatrist appointed by Greater Manchester Police to help him with his PTSD. Sometimes secrets had to be kept. He couldn’t let just anybody wander inside his head.
He took one last look at her and said, ‘See you later,’ closing the door on the apartment, leaving her there all alone.
After six months off, it was time to go back to work.
Finally.
Chapter 5
‘Ah, Ridpath, good to have you back.’
Mrs Challinor was seated at the head of the table, with everybody else arranged around the room, ensuring they were socially distant and wearing the inevitable masks. The weekly work-in-progress meeting had been put back a day due to the bank holiday.
Sophia was there, as was Jenny Oldfield, the office manager. David Smail, the part-time coroner from Derbyshire, was seated on Mrs Challinor’s right, and a new woman he didn’t know was on her left.
‘Have you met Helen Moore? She’s recently been appointed, her first day too. Carol has gone to the warmer climes of Weston-super-Mare to be the coroner for Somerset and Helen is her replacement.’
They both nodded to each other, avoiding the formal act of shaking hands.
Mrs Challinor continued speaking. ‘Ridpath is our coroner’s officer. He’s been on sick leave for six months.’ The rest of the sentence was left unspoken. Mrs Challinor didn’t feel the need to say any more.
‘Ridpath? That’s a strange first name.’
‘My Christian name is Thomas, but everybody calls me Ridpath.’ He found his voice cracking, and had to adjust the pitch. It was so long since he’d been part of these meetings, so long since he’d interacted with other human beings – other than the police psychiatrist, of course, and many of those meetings had been on Zoom.
‘Let’s get started, shall we? We have a lot to get through. I’ll go first.’ Mrs Challinor held up an official-looking piece of paper. ‘As you know, Greater Manchester was placed in another lockdown on 31 July.’
‘What a shambles,’ grumbled David Smail, ‘announcing it on Twitter two hours before it was introduced, without telling the mayor or the people.’
‘Nonetheless, we will need to be extra vigilant in applying the new measures.’
‘What are they? There was no detail. Another cock-up.’
Margaret Challinor raised her hand slightly. David Smail took the hint and stopped speaking. ‘The guidance seems unnecessarily complicated. Essentially, there should be no mixing of households…’
David Smail was about to speak again but she stopped him once more.
‘…but I will seek to get clearer rules. The instructions from the chief coroner’s advice given on 26 March remain in force; Medical Certificates of Cause of Death can still be signed by any doctor and we need to issue Form 100A, Sophia, for every death.’
‘Of course, Coroner.’
‘However, the chief coroner has made it clear that the coronial service in England and Wales should now routinely conduct hearings again. The coroner must be present in court, otherwise it is not a legally constituted tribunal, and the proceedings must be open to the public. We can still use remote video and audio for evidence but it is illegal to live-stream court proceedings.’
David Smail frowned. ‘So we can take evidence, but we can’t show the court in action? Even Parliament is live-streamed these days.’
‘According to the 1925 Act, it is still illegal to film the proceedings of a court. One day the criminal justice system will be dragged kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, David, but that day is still to arrive.’
‘What about jury trials?’ asked Helen Moore.
‘The chief coroner would like jury inquests to recommence but suggests using smaller juries of eight or nine.’
‘How do they socially distance in our jury room? It’s impossible.’
‘We’ll have to work something out, Jenny. The chief coroner has left it to our discretion.’
‘What about the Coroners’ Court Support Service?’ asked Sophia. ‘Is it still suspended?’
It was Sophia Rahman, Ridpath’s assistant, who asked the question. To Ridpath’s eyes, she seemed to have matured immensely in the last six months. Gone was the callow girl, fresh from university, and instead a confident, able woman had taken her place. Even her clothes had changed. The casual but comfortable shirts and dresses replaced by a more formal black suit, echoing that of Mrs Challinor.
‘The CCSS helpline is operative but I’ll talk to the local resilience forum to find out when the full service will be up and running again. The chief coroner has insisted we catch up with any backlog of cases that may have built up. I am in discussions with our local authority regarding resources to enable us to do that. As ever, money is tight…’
‘Is there is no extra funding from the government?’ asked Helen.
‘Coroners’ Courts still come under the local authority so the answer is negative, Helen. The chief coroner warns that we must not exhaust our staff or put them under undue pressure. He is wary of a second wave of Covid-19 occurring. Training, even residential tra
ining, remains compulsory. Now Ridpath has returned we will arrange for you to attend more courses, Sophia, particularly in coronial law.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Challinor, I’m looking forward to them.’
‘Any more questions?’
Everybody, including Ridpath, shook their heads.
‘Right. I will continue to work with our local resilience forum to let you know if there are any more changes. As of now, the ruling applies as it did from the beginning of the pandemic.’ She picked up the chief coroner’s guidance and read it out loud. ‘A death is typically considered to be unnatural if it has not resulted entirely from a naturally occurring disease running its natural course, where nothing else is implicated. Covid-19 is an acceptable natural cause of death and is still a notifiable disease under the Health Protection Regulations 2010.’
‘Are there any occasions when a Covid-19 death is considered unnatural?’ asked Helen Moore.
‘As ever, the chief coroner has left it up to each individual coroner to decide. For example, it may be considered unnatural if the virus was contracted in the workplace setting by frontline NHS staff, public transport employees, care home workers, or emergency service personnel…’
‘Including police officers?’
‘Yes, Ridpath, including the police. However, the investigation should focus on the circumstances of the particular death. It should not, the chief coroner emphasises, be a forum for addressing concerns about high-level government policy. I will be seeking further guidance on this.’
‘And what about meetings with a family?’
‘My own thoughts are we should carry on, keeping social distance and wearing masks, of course. I would dread to think we would break the details of a loved one’s death over Zoom.’
The coroner ran her fingers through her tight grey curls. Ridpath thought she looked tired, extremely tired.
‘Try to do what you can remotely, but we must always remember our duty to those who have died and the bereaved. Some things have to be done in person. What do you think, Ridpath?’
Mrs Challinor was deliberately trying to involve him.
‘I agree, Coroner. It’s difficult enough losing a loved one…’ The rest of his sentence trailed away to be followed by silence.
‘Good, let’s go through the work in progress, shall we? Jenny, can you start?’
Jenny Oldfield hadn’t changed in Ridpath’s absence. She was wearing a bright orange bubble skirt with matching make-up. ‘Coroner, you have an inquest on the Sullivan case on Thursday.’
‘The man who fell from the factory roof?’
‘Yes, Coroner. I’ve reconfigured the courtroom so everyone keeps socially distant, there will be hand sanitiser available, we’ll check temperatures on entry to the court, plus people will be asked to wear masks when they are not speaking.’
‘Is that all necessary?’ It was the new coroner, Helen Moore.
‘Yes, is the short answer.’
Ridpath recognised the steel in Mrs Challinor’s voice. She was making it absolutely clear who was in charge. He had missed her.
‘If that’s clear, we’ll move on. Jenny?’
‘Last week, we had 127 reported deaths in Manchester, only two of which were classified as Covid-related. That brings the total number of deaths from the virus in Greater Manchester to 2140 by the end of July. But cases are rising again, leading to the new rules.’
The stark numbers quietened everybody.
‘I have put the reports on your desk, Mrs Challinor. There is one case I should highlight. The murder of David Carsley.’
‘The boy found near the Mersey? The one in all the newspapers?’ asked Helen.
‘The family have been asking if the police will release the body for burial.’
‘Can you follow up, Sophia?’ asked Mrs Challinor. ‘Check if the post-mortem has been completed.’
‘I’d like to take that case.’ Ridpath found himself speaking.
‘Are you sure? We agreed you would only work in the office on your first two weeks back. This case will involve liaising with a family who have lost a child in frightening circumstances.’ Mrs Challinor was looking at him over the top of her glasses, waiting for his answer.
‘I’d still like to do it, Coroner.’
‘Let’s talk about it separately.’ She looked at the other people around the table. ‘Meanwhile, shall we continue with our work in progress?’
The rest of the cases were handled in the next thirty minutes. Inquests to be held, families to be contacted, details and data to be sent to London.
‘Good, if we’re all finished, I’d like to remind everyone, despite the effects of the pandemic, the job of the Coroner’s Office does not change. We are here as an advocate for the dead to safeguard the living.’
She paused for a moment. ‘Ridpath, could you stay behind? I’d like a few words.’
Chapter 6
When everybody had gone, there was silence between the two of them before Mrs Challinor took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, brushing her curly grey hair away from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ he answered immediately.
‘Good. It’s great to have you back, we missed you. It’s been strange here during the pandemic, but we’ve managed as best we can.’
‘I missed being here, Coroner. How was Sophia in my absence?’
‘Brilliant. She handled her workload extremely well despite Covid and all the rest of the crap we threw at her. She’s become an indispensable member of our staff.’
‘I knew she could do it.’
Again the silence. Mrs Challinor glanced at the pictures on her desk of her daughter and seven-year-old grandson before speaking again. ‘How’s Eve bearing up?’
‘Well, I think. She’s with her grandparents at the moment, but we talk most nights on FaceTime. She starts her new school next month.’
‘That’s good.’ Another silence. ‘I spoke with Claire Trent, she told me about your counselling and was good enough to share your Wellness Action Plan and the psychiatric assessment.’
‘I’ve been cleared as fit to return to work, Mrs Challinor.’
‘I know. The psychiatrist was most complimentary about your progress.’ She picked up the folder in front of her. ‘“Thomas has come a long way since we started the EMDR treatment and is fully aware of the strategies he should implement to cope with his loss.”’
Ridpath laughed. ‘She kept calling me Thomas. I tried to stop her but…’
‘You may have fooled her, Ridpath, but I know you well. How are you really feeling?’ Mrs Challinor was as direct as ever – nothing had changed with the coroner.
Ridpath thought for a moment. Should he tell her he still saw Polly every morning? That he still talked to her? That she was there with them right now, listening to the conversation?
‘I’m fine, Margaret, honestly. I need to get back to work. I can’t stand staying at home all day with nothing but Paul bloody Martin and re-runs of Flog It! for company. Work is what I’m good at.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You can get addicted to grief, wallow in it, but there comes a time when you can’t do that any more, you have to return to the world.’
‘I know, Ridpath, that’s why I wanted you back. But I’m not going to be the cause of another breakdown.’
‘You weren’t the cause of the last one, Coroner. My wife was murdered in front of me and I could do nothing to stop it.’
Ridpath’s voice rose at the end of the sentence. He calmed himself by focusing on his breathing and taking three deep breaths, a technique given to him by his EMDR therapist, and continued speaking. ‘I know I’m not to blame. The person who did it, James Dalbey, is to blame. He arranged for Mrs Seagram to go to my house and shoot Polly. It was his final revenge.’
‘Where is Dalbey now?’
‘Still in a coma at Manchester Metropolitan Infirmary. Last I heard, the doctors were deciding whether to shut off the life support systems. They s
hould have done it six months ago, saved the bed for somebody who was ill.’
Another long silence.
‘And the myeloma?’
Ridpath had been diagnosed with multiple myeloma – bone cancer – three years ago. He had spent nine months off work while he went through chemotherapy. Luckily, he had been pronounced free of the disease, but his boss at the Major Investigation Team, Charlie Whitworth, decided to second him to work with the coroner.
‘Still in remission. The doctors were initially worried the additional stress of Polly’s death might lead to a recurrence of the disease. Apparently, that didn’t happen, but during the Individual Stress Risk Assessment they found I was suffering from PTSD.’
‘So you went into therapy?’
Ridpath flashed back to his days immediately following Polly’s death, hidden in a fog of alcohol and grief. ‘Not immediately, because of the lockdown, but eventually I saw an EMDR psychiatrist suggested by Greater Manchester Police.’
‘Are you sure you’re ready to come back to work?’
‘The psychiatrist thinks I am. Occupational Health have signed off too.’ He pointed to the folder. ‘You’ve got all the documentation in front of you, Mrs Challinor.’
She glanced down at the folder. ‘These are just bits of paper, Ridpath.’
‘It’s all we have. Bits of paper, I mean.’
She frowned and then sat forward. ‘You really want to take on the Carsley case?’
‘If there’s one thing I understand now better than before, it’s grief. I’ve had six months of it.’ He stopped speaking and his eyes glazed over as if staring off into the far distance. ‘Grief seems to be slowly coming to terms with the idea that Polly isn’t here any more. Long hours of numbness followed by sharp bursts of extreme pain. If I can help this family to cope, then I’ll have done something useful.’
‘That’s why you want to handle the case?’
He nodded. ‘One thing I learnt is the Seven Stages of Grief isn’t just words. It’s a process… a lonely process.’
