by M J Lee
It had been three months and nine days since they had last touched. Three months and nine days in which he had plunged deep into the lows of drunkenness, depression, self-doubt and self-hate.
He’d always remember that first touch until the day he died. It was the beginning of his rehabilitation, of his return to what passed for normality.
It was almost as if Eve gave him a reason to come back to the world.
To come back to her.
To come back for her.
He brought out his laptop and FaceTimed his daughter. Her image popped up immediately as if she had been waiting for his call.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Hi, Eve, how are you?’ He asked the same thing every time. He tried to work out a different question but the same one always popped into his head.
‘Good, Paw Paw and Ah Kung took me to Trafford Centre today. I was so glad to get out of the house. We went to Yang Sing and they had chickens’ feet. Yeuch! Paw Paw spat the little bones out on the saucer. Gross.’
‘I like chickens’ feet.’
‘You always were weird, Dad. How was your first day back?’
‘Good. The place hasn’t changed. Mrs Challinor sends her love.’
‘Say hi from me. She was great after mum…’ The voice trailed off.
Ridpath quickly sought a question to fill the silence. ‘How are your grandparents?’
Eve smiled. ‘They’re OK, but soooo traditional. You know Paw Paw wouldn’t let me go outside into the garden yesterday after I had washed my hair. Said I would catch a cold. I tried to explain to her the common cold is a virus, not something you get from washing your hair, but she wasn’t having it. My Chinese wasn’t good enough anyway.’
‘You have to be patient, Eve, there are a lot of Chinese traditions I never understood but it was easier just to accept.’
‘Like?’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘Like your mum not washing her hair for the first month after you were born. Apparently, you would be washing away good luck and the health of your child.’
‘That’s silly, Dad.’
‘But you have to remember it comes from a culture where many children died in their first month of life. All these traditions and beliefs were there to protect the baby and its mother.’
Ridpath remembered something Polly had told them after they first met. ‘I always love the Chinese character for “good”. It’s a combination of the characters for a “mother” and “child”.’
‘Still, it’s so annoy-ing.’ Eve had developed that teenage habit of lengthening and stressing words. ‘Maisie says her mum is worse with the superstitious stuff and she’s Irish.’
Ridpath’s mother had been from the same stock. As Irish and as Catholic as they came. In his case, the religion gene seemed to be totally absent. He wondered why that was.
‘Dad,’ Eve interrupted his thoughts, ‘when can I come back and live with you?’
So that was where this was all leading.
‘We’ve talked about this, Eve, it’s best for you to stay with your grandparents at the moment. I’m on my own here and it’s a service apartment, and what with me going back to work and everything, I’m not sure I could look after you too.’
‘I don’t need much looking after, Dad, I’m pretty independent.’
‘I know that…’
‘And besides, I miss your mash. If I have to eat another bowl of rice, I’ll…’ Eve searched for a response, ‘…I’ll die.’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘Sorry, Dad, didn’t mean that.’
It seemed like people, even his daughter, were treading on eggshells around him, avoiding using the word ‘death’. Pretty bloody difficult when you worked in a Coroner’s Office.
‘It’s all right, Eve. Your mum is dead and we have to come to terms with that.’
‘You have to come to terms with it, Dad.’
She was right. It was his problem, not hers. Had he accepted Polly was dead? The police psychiatrist thought he had, but he’d always been good at dissembling. For most coppers, it came with the territory. And why did he still see and hear her?
‘I know, dear. Give me time… please.’
‘I want us to be together again, to be a family even if it’s just you and me.’
‘I’m working on it, Eve, I promise.’
A muffled voice behind his daughter speaking in Cantonese. ‘I have to go now, Dad, time to eat more bloody rice.’
‘Don’t swear, Eve, it’s not very nice. See you tomorrow night, same time?’
‘Same time. I love you, Dad.’
‘I love you too, Eve…’
Chapter 10
He waited for his mother to fall asleep before he placed the underpants with their delightful Chip and Dale characters into the special drawer beneath his bed. His fingers trailed over the other objects lying there.
A St Christopher’s cross.
A sock from the boy in Liverpool.
A beanie from the runner who got away.
A tennis ball from the one he met beside the canal.
A shame about him. Such a waste. He’d read the newspaper reports about how he’d died accidentally. Only he knew the truth, of course. It had been so easy to hold his head under the water, watching his feet kick and struggle, fighting to hang onto life. Rolling the dead body into the dark water and walking away without looking back.
Too easy.
Each time his fingers touched an object they trembled slightly, memories of these beautiful times filling his body. Sweet memories.
He closed the drawer slowly, reluctantly.
A querulous voice from the other room.
She should be asleep already. ‘Coming, Mother,’ he shouted.
He mustn’t indulge himself now, save the pleasure of his trophies for later.
Time for her medicine. She liked taking her medicine. It helped her to sleep.
He wondered what she dreamt about. The men she had brought home? Or the times she hadn’t returned at all? Or the ones who thought he was part of the deal too?
He would have to begin increasing the dosage soon.
It would help put her to sleep forever.
And then he wouldn’t have to wait any more.
Chapter 11
It all seemed to be happening in slow motion.
The bubbles rising to the top of the pan as the water reached boiling point.
The sound of muffled voices from the living room.
The rip of the packet of har gau as he opened it.
The ring of the doorbell echoing again and again and again.
Polly’s voice as she ran to open the door – ‘I’ll get it’ – sounding muddied and indistinct.
Leaning over the dim sum to look out of the kitchen window, feeling the heat of the steam rising from the pan onto his face.
A woman at the door.
An old woman at the door.
An old woman he knew.
The slow formation of questions in his mind. Were they expecting visitors that evening? What was she doing here? Was she supposed to come to his house? Had they arranged a meeting?
Mrs Seagram should have been at home mourning the death of her son, not standing outside his front door.
What did she want?
Hearing Polly’s footsteps in the hall, the latch turning, the slight creak as the draft excluder he had installed last winter gave way and the door began to open.
And then it hit him with all the force of a pile driver.
He shouted. His voice echoing around his head again and again and again.
‘Don’t open…’
‘Don’t open…’
‘Don’t open…’
‘Don’t open…’
He tried running towards the hall, but his legs were held fast to the kitchen floor, as if running through a lake of glue.
Then the sound of two gunshots, one after another in quick succession.
And he woke up, sitting upright i
n the bed, his body and the sheets drenched with sweat. His breathing heavy, as if he had been chasing some nutter through the streets of Manchester for miles.
‘You have to tell her, you know.’
Polly was sitting at the end of his bed.
‘Tell who?’
‘Don’t use your copper’s tricks on me, Ridpath. It’s Polly, remember? Tell your psychiatrist. The one who wears the cheap clothes from Primark. Mrs Underpriced…’
‘It’s Underwood. Doctor Underwood.’
‘Whatever. Tell her.’
It was the Polly from when they had first met twelve years ago, in her dad’s Chinese restaurant. Her hair dyed green, the make-up showing traces of the goth phase she was going through.
‘Not yet.’
‘She has to know. You can’t spend every night like this.’
‘But if I tell her, she’ll put me back on sick leave.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be working.’
‘With you gone, it’s all I have.’
‘You still have Eve and you still have me. Tell her.’
‘I will… soon.’
‘Tell her today.’
He didn’t answer. There was no point, Polly always had the last word.
And besides, he knew she was right.
On the Second Day
Wednesday, August 5
Chapter 12
The following morning, Ridpath was up early. The day had a perfect clarity to it, with a few fibres of clouds drifting across the sky and the birds harmonising in the trees like an avian barbershop quartet.
He’d noticed fewer contrails in the skies above Manchester recently – fewer puffy, straight lines like chalk on a blue blackboard, a small black dot at the front. People weren’t flying any more, the skies quiet and untroubled. Even the air seemed clearer, or was that his imagination?
He felt tired, the routine of shaving, washing his face and brushing his teeth taking far longer than normal. He put on his suit and was out only a little late to drive to Police HQ on Northampton Road.
He switched on the radio and listened to the news. It was a non-stop litany of screw-ups and mistakes; PPE nightmares, pensioners having to pay for their TV licences, chaos in care homes, and one quango even saying they should close pubs to open up schools, which was as likely to happen as a squadron of pigs taking off from Manchester Airport.
Nothing about the Carsley case. Most of the nationwide news reporters had moved on to bigger and better things, leaving only a few intrepid and persistent local stringers to carry on.
The only time he really listened was when they reported on the lenient sentencing of the killers of a young copper, Andrew Harper. ‘Should throw away the key,’ he muttered before switching off the news and putting on a Bowie CD.
The strident chords of ‘Jean Genie’ filled the car and he found himself singing along with the music. He’d recently found out that Mick Ronson had once been a parkie in Hull. Something to remember for the next pub quiz.
At HQ, he parked up and entered the building, going through the now expected rigmarole of hand sanitisation, temperature checking and social distancing.
Up to the fifth floor where the usual MIT detectives were assembling in the Situation Room. Well, not the usual crowd; there were fewer coppers than normal and they were all spread out around the room rather than being clumped together.
Ridpath waved to Emily Parkinson sitting in the far corner. She didn’t wave back.
Chrissy Wright, the department’s civilian researcher, popped up next to him. Her right leg was in a cast and a bandage on her right arm, but her Manchester City scarf was still around her neck. ‘Welcome back, Ridpath, great to see you again.’
‘What happened, Chrissy? Looks like you were in the wars?’
‘Knocked over crossing the street. My head was in the investigation, not on what I was doing. First day back myself.’
DCI Paul Turnbull grunted as he passed Ridpath, clapping his hands loudly. ‘Get to your seats. I don’t want to waste too much time on this meeting, we’ve got a bloody killer to catch.’
The boss, Detective Superintendent Claire Trent, joined him at the front, carefully maintaining her social distance from Turnbull. Ridpath couldn’t work out whether this was because of the virus or something else.
The DCI began the meeting. ‘Right, we have a lot to get through and even more to do.’
Claire Trent coughed and Turnbull stopped speaking. ‘I’d like to say a few words if I can, Paul.’
‘Of course, boss.’ He stepped back a pace, allowing Claire Trent to come forward.
‘A couple of announcements. We are incredibly busy at the moment, with more investigations than we can deal with and some people off sick. Manchester was placed in lockdown on 31 July. The chief constable will be issuing instructions, as he did in March, on how we are to police this new situation. Despite the new regulations, we’re not going to let the ball drop in any of our investigations. There will be no sloppiness in any of our work. Whether it’s the killer of the child found on Chorlton Ees or the stabbing in Rochdale or the post office robberies, we will follow up on every lead, gathering evidence as we always do. We will have one focus: apprehending the men who perpetrated these crimes. Do you understand me?’
A chorused reply of ‘Yes, boss’ and ‘Right, guvnor.’
‘I would also like to welcome back two people to the MIT fold. First, I notice we have DI Thomas Ridpath who has been certified fit for duty again.’
All eyes were on him. Everyone knew what had happened to Polly.
‘Welcome back, Ridpath. He will be returning to his old role of coroner’s officer liaising with MIT. He will be reporting directly to me.’
A wary glance from Turnbull to his boss. It was obviously news to him.
Claire Trent continued on. ‘Plus we have Chrissy back after her failed wrestling match with a two-ton truck. Good to see you again, Chrissy.’
The researcher pointed to her leg. ‘If I hear any jokes from you lot about Hopalong Chrissy, you’ll get a wallop from this.’ She held up her walking stick.
Somebody from the back said quietly, ‘Truck 1, Chrissy O.’
Laughter from the assembled coppers and civilian officers which Turnbull quickly killed by raising his hands. ‘Settle down, people, let’s get started. Harry, where are we on the post office robberies?’
DI Harry Makepeace stood up. He was one of the few surviving members of the old MIT under John Gorman and Charlie Whitworth. Somehow he had managed to keep going by being a diligent copper and just getting on with the work.
‘We got a lead to a gang from Liverpool, boss. We’re liaising with the Scousers to follow up. The last robbery was two weeks ago, but following their MO, we should be due another one soon.’
‘Anything from your confidential informants?’ asked Claire Trent.
‘Not a squeak, guvnor, that’s why we think they’re not from our manor.’
‘Right, keep going, Harry. If you need any help talking to Liverpool, let me know. I made quite a few friends in Merseyside when I was with Cheshire police,’ said Turnbull.
Ridpath laughed to himself. Turnbull was still going on about his time in his previous force, as if the cases in a small county operation could ever compare to working in Manchester.
‘Right, it’s me up next on the Carsley case. We’re following up leads and we have the criminal profiler coming in to deliver his ideas in person this afternoon. His final report is on your desk and we’ve booked your time, guvnor.’
Claire Trent hardly acknowledged the words, staring straight ahead.
‘The photofits we released to the newspapers led to over 3000 leads, some of which are proving extremely useful at narrowing down our suspects. HOLMES 2 has given us a couple of links but nothing substantive. Plus we’ve shaken down the pervs on the Sex Offenders list within a fifty-mile radius, going through their alibis as we speak.’
Claire Trent nodded and spoke softly. ‘The newspapers
are all over this case. Luckily the nationals have backed off, finding another bone to gnaw on, but the local papers are still on it like a dog in heat.’
A male voice from the back. ‘I thought it was a bitch in heat, guvnor.’
A few laughs but Claire Trent kept her jaw clenched. ‘If you are referring to Molly Wright, then you are correct, John, she is all over this. But she’s only doing her job. Somebody here, however, is not doing theirs.’ She slowly scanned the assembled officers. ‘Somebody has been feeding her information about the case. If I find out who it was, they won’t be in MIT for long – they won’t even be in the police any more. And if I had my way, they would be sharing a cell with a gang of spice dealers in Strangeways. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Understand I am under pressure from everybody to clear this case up. The mayor, the police and crime commissioner, the chief constable and Ms Wright have all called me this morning and it’s only…’ she checked the time, ‘…nine twenty. But none of that matters. What is far more important is that a young boy has been murdered on our patch. His killer is still at large and could strike again. In fact, according to the initial report from the criminal profiler, he will definitely kill again.’
A silence descended on the room. Claire Trent let it lie there like a shroud until she finally broke the tension, saying, ‘Anything from the Coroner’s Office, Ridpath?’
‘My first day back was yesterday, so I’m still getting up to speed, but everything seems to be working well, nothing to report. Mrs Challinor has been liaising with the police through the local resilience forum.’
‘Recent Covid cases?’
‘Only two deaths in the last week, guvnor, but cases are apparently rising, particularly in Blackburn, Rochdale and Oldham. Greater Manchester declared a major incident on Sunday.’
‘At least the Coroner’s Office are operating efficiently.’
Was that a sly dig at Turnbull? Before he could check the room’s reaction, Claire Trent spoke again.
