by M J Lee
The coroner angled her head, encouraging him to say more.
‘Grief isn’t a straight line, one thing leading to another. It’s a series of realisations and obstacles, two steps forwards and one step back.’ He stared straight ahead, remembering the last six months. ‘Often one step forward and three steps back. But we can get to a good place, a safe place, with help.’
‘And that’s where you are now?’
‘I think so. I believe so.’
The coroner nodded her head slowly. ‘Alright, pick up the file from Jenny and check with Sophia on everything we’ve done so far on the case.’
He stood up to leave.
‘But take it easy. It’s still early days. Your Wellness Action Plan says you shouldn’t work long hours and you still need to see your psychiatrist for monitoring twice a week.’
He stood in front of her. ‘Easy is my middle name, Coroner. I’m meeting with her tomorrow.’
He turned to go.
At the door, the coroner spoke again. ‘Ridpath, it’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back, Coroner.’
Chapter 7
Ridpath picked up the Carsley file from Jenny Oldfield and returned to his desk to read it. He already knew a few details of the case from the newspapers. The investigation had even replaced Covid-19 as the hot topic in the newspapers for a few days, before inevitably the press moved on.
David Carsley had gone missing on 21 July, kidnapped from a park. A huge search and rescue operation to find the seven-year-old had been mounted, but despite all the efforts he remained missing. His body was found two days later in Chorlton Ees by a man walking his dog. The police had released two photofits of a woman they would like to interview who had been seen in the area where the body was deposited plus another photofit of a man seen in the park walking an Alsatian when the boy was abducted. Neither had so far come forward.
Immediately, the press had linked the case to that of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, the Moors Murderers. One of their first victims had been kidnapped and murdered around the same date, fifty-seven years previously.
A search had even been arranged on Saddleworth Moor, despite it being over twenty miles from where David had gone missing.
Personally, Ridpath would never have released the photofits so early in the investigation. It merely brought out all the fantasists, conspiracy theorists and nutters to clog up the phone lines. And as for a link to the Moors Murders, it was one of those coincidences that happened to sell a lot of newspapers. Strange, that.
He shook his head and opened the file. There were obviously no details of the police investigation, except for the mobile numbers of the Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Paul Turnbull, and of the Family Liaison Officer, DS Emily Parkinson.
‘Poor Emily, they have her looking after the family,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What was that, Ridpath?’ Sophia returned carrying two coffees. ‘I brought you a latte.’ She put it down on his desk.
‘Nothing, just reading the Carsley file. But thanks for the coffee, exactly what I needed.’
‘No worries, good to have you back.’
‘Good to be back. Mrs Challinor tells me you did well in my absence.’
‘That’s kind of her. Anyway, anything to escape my mum. She was even worse during the lockdown.’
‘Still trying to marry you off?’
‘And then some.’ She did an impression of her mother. ‘“You are twenty-three and you are still not married. What man would want a single old maid?” I always tell her one with brains, intelligence and a six-pack to die for. She then wanders off blaming the schools, my teachers and my father for putting ideas into my head.’
‘Sounds awful.’
‘Nah, it’s worse. At least once a week I have to meet these nerds introduced by the matchmaker – socially distant, of course. If I see one more engineer with a row of pens in his top pocket and his mobile phone in a pouch on his belt, I’ll scream.’
Ridpath checked his mobile. It was in the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘But work’s been OK?’
‘Work has been my lifesaver.’ A short pause. ‘You know I’ve decided to do a Masters in Law?’
‘I didn’t. I thought you wanted to join the police.’
‘I thought about it but realised I loved this job. Helping people, not helping put them away.’ Then she covered her mouth with her hand as she realised what she had said. ‘Sorry, no offence.’
Ridpath held up his hands. ‘None taken. But good news, when do you start?’
‘Mrs Challinor was a great help. It’s only part-time over two years, but I start next month.’
‘And at the end?’
‘I can start to specialise as a coroner.’
‘Brilliant. Good for you.’ He tapped the Carsley file in his hand. ‘What do you know about this?’
‘Not a lot. The man’s a single dad, with two sons… with one son now,’ she corrected herself. ‘I opened the file under instructions from Mrs Challinor late last week.’
Ridpath frowned and began reading. Other than the contact at the police, there was only a home address – 16 Apted Road, Wythenshawe; the name, age and date of birth of the deceased – David Carsley, aged seven, born 9 March 2013; and the details of the other son, Daniel Carsley, aged ten, born 6 November 2009.
‘There’s no mother listed? Why is that?’
Sophia looked over her coffee cup, shaking her head. ‘No name was given to me. I was told he was a single dad.’
‘Right. Mrs Challinor said the family had requested the release of the body. Who made the request?’
Sophia checked her notes. ‘The father, late last Friday. Sorry, I haven’t updated the contact report yet.’
‘No worries. You do it now while I make the call.’
He picked up the phone, dialling the mobile number in the file. It was answered after two rings by a female voice. ‘DS Emily Parkinson, how can I help you?’
‘You’re the FLO on the Carsley Case?’
‘Yes,’ she answered back suspiciously.
‘It’s Ridpath, calling from the Coroner’s Office.’
The voice immediately brightened. ‘Ridpath, you’re back at work?’
‘They couldn’t keep me away. I’d like to speak to Mr Carsley, he’s requested the return of his son’s body for burial. How’s he holding up?’
‘OK… I think. I’ll put him on. Good to hear your voice again.’
A few seconds later, a male voice spoke down the phone. It was quiet and subdued, speaking softly. ‘Michael Carsley.’
‘Mr Carsley, this is Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office. We’re so sorry to hear of the loss of your son.’
As soon as he spoke the words, Ridpath could hear their blandness. Why was sympathy so difficult to express to those in grief? We always relied on platitudes on such occasions, a form of words dictated by the circumstances.
Michael Carsley hadn’t suffered a loss. His son had been murdered. But to say the truth out loud was taboo.
There was no response from the other end of the phone. All Ridpath could hear was breathing. He continued on. ‘I wonder if I could come to see you this afternoon, to arrange some details?’
‘I… I… I don’t know,’ the man mumbled. Was he still drugged after almost two weeks?
‘I’m afraid it’s necessary. The Coroner’s Office is here to help during these trying times.’
‘I… I…’
‘Let me take some of the burden from you.’ Ridpath didn’t know why he said the last words.
‘I suppose it would be OK. There’s so much to do. I didn’t realise there was so much to do.’
‘Shall we say three o’clock?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ Ridpath put down the phone. The man sounded like he was floating at the bottom of a deep, deep sea.
Ridpath knew exactly how that felt.
Chapter 8
It was 2.50 when Rid
path parked the car round the corner from the house in Wythenshawe. He’d driven past a few minutes ago and seen a few socially distanced reporters still lounging around outside. The road in front of the house was cordoned off with a solitary police constable standing guard at the front gate.
He showed his warrant card to the man. ‘DI Ridpath, seconded to the Coroner’s Office. I have an appointment to see Mr Carsley.’
‘I’ll get the FLO, sir.’
Ridpath looked over at the reporters. ‘Been trouble, has there?’
‘Two reporters managed to get into the back garden last week taking pictures, pretending to be council workers. Arseholes. Could you wait here a minute?’
Ridpath stood at the gate as the PC strolled to the front door. He used the time to put on his mask. Mrs Challinor had insisted he understood the protocols for visiting clients before leaving the office.
He hated wearing it. Not because it was uncomfortable but because it made him feel anonymous, kept his face hidden behind some fabric. How was he supposed to create empathy with a client from behind a sky-blue piece of polypropylene?
The house was one of the old type, built immediately after the war when Wythenshawe was created as the biggest council estate in Europe, filled with new residents rehoused from the slums and tenements of Hulme. Most of the council houses had been sold off by Mrs Thatcher under the right-to-buy scheme, including this one.
You could always tell the difference from the ones still owned by the council by the colours and the shapes of the door. In this case, it was a snazzy art deco number, painted in a non-council-approved share of bright crimson.
Emily Parkinson appeared at the door and shouted down to him. ‘Come in, Ridpath.’
He walked up the path towards her.
‘You’re looking good,’ she said as he approached.
‘You sound surprised.’
Emily Parkinson had worked with Ridpath on the Dalbey case, helping him discover the murderer of the judge. They had come to respect each other despite a rocky start.
‘When did you get back to work?’
Ridpath smiled. ‘First day.’
‘Today?’ she looked incredulous. ‘You don’t make it easy on yourself, do you?’
‘If I wanted an easy life…’
‘I wouldn’t have become a copper.’ She finished the sentence for him.
‘You the Family Liaison?’ he said, stepping inside.
‘Yeah, Turnbull gave me the short end of the straw.’
‘How’s Mr Carsley handling it?’
She made a moue with her mouth. ‘As well as can be expected. He blames himself, of course.’
Ridpath paused a moment before answering. ‘Don’t we all?’
Emily Parkinson covered her momentary embarrassment by pointing back over her shoulder. ‘He’s waiting for you in the living room. The son is upstairs.’
‘And the wife?’
‘She did a runner a few months ago.’
‘Leaving behind two kids?’ Ridpath shook his head. ‘How does a mother leave her kids?’
‘Don’t judge, Ridpath. Not yet. We all make decisions we’re not proud of.’
She opened the living room door. A small, compact man was sitting on the couch in a tidy, if old-fashioned, living room. A television set was on in the corner with the sound turned down. The man was wearing a pair of fluffy rabbit slippers. He rose when Ridpath stepped into the room.
‘Mr Carsley?’ Ridpath immediately stuck out his hand and then withdrew it, remembering he wasn’t supposed to shake hands any more. ‘My name’s Ridpath, from the Coroner’s Office.’ He gestured for the man to sit back down, taking a seat opposite him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, but please understand I’m here to help you in any way I can.’
The man only nodded. Was he still on drugs?
‘I rang the mort—’ Ridpath stopped himself from saying the word. ‘—the place where your son is being kept. They say he can be released. I simply have to get the Senior Investigating Officer of the police…’
‘Mr Turnbull.’ The voice was Scottish, a lowland accent.
‘…to sign off and then we can return him to you.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Who is your undertaker?’ To Ridpath’s ears the words sounded blunt and cold but there was no reaction from Carsley.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘It’s Michael, isn’t it?’
The man nodded slowly.
‘Like I said, I’m here to help, Michael. I can arrange for an undertaker to come to see you.’
‘I don’t know if I can afford one. I got laid off four months ago. No work, they said.’
Ridpath noticed the man’s hands were trembling. ‘Don’t worry, there is help with the costs if you need it.’
‘That’s why I was at home, you see.’
It was as if the man hadn’t heard anything Ridpath had said.
He was staring at a picture on the mantlepiece. Michael Carsley with his two sons, David in a United shirt and Daniel in his City blue. ‘The kids had been stuck inside for so long during the lockdown. That’s why I told them to go out. Go and play in the park, I said.’
There was a long silence.
‘Daniel came back an hour later looking for David, but he wasn’t here. We checked in his bedroom and in the shed out back but he wasn’t there either. Sometimes, he liked to go and sit in the shed all on his own. But he wasn’t there.’
‘So you started looking for him?’
‘We went to the park first, shouting his name. He liked the horses, watching them. I was planning to let him ride one of them for his next birthday. I was going to save for it.’
Ridpath glanced across at Emily Parkinson. ‘Let me contact the undertaker and handle the details of the funeral for you.’
‘Can you do that? There’s nobody else, see. It’s why we moved to Manchester. We were doing OK until the bitch walked out.’ The words were suddenly harsh and strident.
Ridpath took out his notebook. ‘Do you have an address for your wife, Michael?’
‘I gave it to the police.’ The man spat the words out.
‘I’ve got it, Ridpath.’
‘I have to let her know all the details, Michael. She’s part of your son’s family.’
‘She’s not,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘not any more. Not since the day she walked out.’ The man was becoming agitated. ‘Not any more,’ he repeated.
Emily glanced across at Ridpath and he took the hint, putting his notebook away and standing up. ‘I’ll organise everything and let you know. I’ll also keep Emily informed.’
‘Emily?’ the man said.
‘DS Parkinson.’ He pointed at the policewoman.
She walked Ridpath to the front door. ‘Is he OK?’
‘That’s why I’m still here. He’s on twenty-four-hour watch. The doctor has seen him this morning again but he’s finding it difficult to take it all in.’
‘How’s the investigation?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Turnbull’s running it and he’s all over the place. Word is Claire Trent is not a happy bunny.’
Detective Superintendent Claire Trent was the head of the Major Investigation Team and Ridpath’s direct superior at Greater Manchester Police.
‘I’m seeing her tomorrow at the weekly meeting.’
‘Be careful, she’s biting the heads off frogs at the moment.’
They both heard a noise from the top of the stairs. A young boy was standing there in his pyjamas, holding a bright red car. ‘I’m all alone,’ he said.
Emily Parkinson laughed as she climbed up the stairs. ‘Don’t worry, Dan, Auntie Em is here. You want to play Xbox with me?’
She ushered the boy back into his bedroom, looking back down at Ridpath, her mouth pursed, shaking her head.
The detective let himself out. Something wasn’t right in this house. All his copper’s instincts were telling him, something wasn’t right.
> Chapter 9
That evening, back at the service apartment, Ridpath made himself a cheese and ham sandwich and sat down in front of the television.
He’d already called Padraig Daly, an undertaker he’d worked with before. ‘It’s the Carsley case, Padraig, so you’ll have to be discreet.’
‘The murdered child? Discretion it is, Inspector. I’ll put my best man on it – who happens to be a woman.’
‘I think it’s probably better if it’s a man, Padraig.’ Ridpath wasn’t sure why he said that, but Michael Carsley’s reaction to any mention of his wife made him think it was a better option at the moment.
‘No worries, I’ll make the best man, a man.’
‘And one other thing, Padraig, the family is broke.’
‘I wondered why you were calling. I’ll do him a special deal even if the government is picking up the tab.’ There was a slight pause at the end of the phone. When the funeral director spoke again, his usual jocular tone had vanished and something quieter had emerged. ‘Nobody should go through the pain of losing a child, Mr Ridpath. I’ll make certain he’s well taken care of.’
‘Thank you, Padraig.’
Ridpath took a bite out of the limp sandwich, flicking across a few channels until he found something that wouldn’t tax his brain. He’d found staring at the box a great comfort in the days after Polly’s death. The noise, the chatter, the general brain-dead inanity of the programmes were exactly what he needed to stop the voices in his head.
‘It’s time to call her.’
He checked his watch. ‘I’ll do it in five minutes, after I’ve finished my sandwich.’
‘You have to eat better. A cheese and ham sandwich isn’t good enough.’
He could hear Polly’s voice but he couldn’t see her.
‘OK, OK, I’ll do it now.’
For an instant he remembered the first time he had met Eve after the lockdown restrictions had been eased. In many ways, he was glad of the lockdown. At least, it meant Eve hadn’t seen him at his worst and his lowest.
She only saw him when he was ready to return.
It was 4 July. Independence Day for him.
He had gone to a cafe in Longford Park and waited. The grandparents finally brought her to see him at three p.m. For a moment, they stood there looking at each other, then she ran the six yards to him, wrapping her arms around his thin waist and squealing with the delight that only an eleven-year-old can squeal.
