by M J Lee
‘What happened after Daniel spoke to the man?’
‘Apparently, he hurried away after Daniel said he would call the police.’
‘Good lad,’ said Chrissy.
‘And the man’s not come forward?’
They both shook their heads. Emily carried on speaking. ‘After the man left, Daniel ran back to his friends and they continued their game.’
‘When did he notice David was missing?’
‘About ten minutes later. He looked up from his game and he couldn’t see his brother anywhere.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He panicked, I think, because he was supposed to be looking after David. He ran straight home to check whether David had got bored and gone home without him…’
‘A seven-year-old walking home on his own?’
‘Listen, he’s a young kid. Anyway, he wasn’t there so he screwed up the courage and told his dad.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About two o’clock. The dad went back to the park with him and they spent an hour looking for the boy, shouting his name and checking everywhere, but couldn’t see him.’
‘When did he call 999?’
‘He didn’t. One of the horsey brigade called it in a few minutes before three p.m. The local plod hesitated, they were short-staffed. Then there was another call a couple of hours later, so they finally got their act together and began searching too. It was escalated when the boy was still missing as the sun went down.’
‘So they had been searching for six hours and found nothing?’
‘That’s right. The search was called off that night, and a proper search of the park with dogs, beaters and members of the public was organised at eight the following morning.’
‘But the boy wasn’t found?’
‘No. The body turned up a day later and a couple of miles away at Chorlton Ees. We interviewed Daniel that afternoon. He sat with the artists and they produced the photofit of the man.’
‘So the next step was to organise a door-to-door canvas of the area around Wythenshawe Park where the boy had disappeared.’
‘Exactly. We were checking anybody and everybody who had been in the park between one and two p.m. on the day of David’s disappearance.’
‘Did anybody report the man?’
‘No, but we got a description of somebody similar hanging around the local school. Year 1 and Year 6 had already returned.’
‘We checked all the local pervs?’
‘Every single one. Plus we’ve canvassed the area twice more since then, with coppers hanging around in a marked tent in the park asking if people saw anything.’
Ridpath thought for a moment. ‘So from the park, we’ve only got this to work with?’ He pointed to the photofit on a whiteboard. It was a pretty good likeness of a man, not as generic as these sometimes were.
‘Dark hair, spectacles, aged twenty-five to thirty, slightly under six feet in height. No scars, no tattoos, wearing a dark green bomber jacket and jeans. The kid’s description was good.’
‘But nobody’s come forward?’
‘Not a whisper.’
‘If he’s out there, he may have changed his appearance,’ added Chrissy, ‘dyed his hair, used contacts, ditched the clothes.’
Ridpath stared at the photofit. Was this the man who had kidnapped David Carsley? The mere fact he hadn’t come forward was significant. There was so much information about the case in the papers, people couldn’t miss it. If they were in the park that day, they would have identified themselves.
‘Right, that’s the abduction. What about the disposal area?’
‘Chorlton Ees, a lot of dog walkers use the spot. He was found at 8.40 a.m. on 23 July.’
‘So the boy was missing for over a day. Where was he?’
‘We don’t know,’ answered Emily. ‘According to Schofield, he hadn’t been in the open for long, a couple of hours at most.’
‘Time of death?’
‘The pathologist was cagey as usual, but Paul Turnbull eventually pinned him down to from two a.m. to six a.m. on the day he was found.’
‘It means he was kept somewhere before he was murdered. I need to talk to Schofield.’
‘You want me to arrange that, Ridpath?’ asked Chrissy.
‘No, I’ll get Sophia to do it. She has a special “arrangement” with our pathologist.’ He formed quotation marks with his fingers. ‘Or at least she did have last time we talked.’ Ridpath realised he hadn’t asked Sophia about her life other than the ongoing problem with her mother. Not that he had any right to know, but he should have at least asked her about what was happening and how she was. In truth, he realised he had become a little self-obsessed in the last six months.
He changed the subject, pointing to another picture that could have been any woman. ‘So how did we get this photofit? This woman hasn’t come forward either?’
‘A witness saw her leaving the area around the time of the discovery of the body, but she hasn’t responded to any of our notices.’
‘Strange. And the dog walker who discovered the body?’
‘Jon Morgan.’
‘We checked him out?’
‘Of course. Normal bloke, lives nearby, walks his dog regularly, married with two kids. A regular Joe, according to the neighbours.’
‘So basically after nearly two weeks, we have nothing.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Whose brilliant idea was it to release the photofits to the press and TV?’
‘Take a guess?’
‘But didn’t Turnbull realise he was going to be swamped with calls?’
‘Over 3000,’ said Chrissy, ‘and we’re still getting them. There was one woman today who was talking about MPs, satanic death rites involving young children and a pizza place on Chester Road. I’ve referred her to the Trafford social workers.’
‘So from over 3000 calls, didn’t we get anything?’
Emily posted to another whiteboard. ‘We’ve responded to every single one of them, checking them all out. Other than the two people in the photofits, there are only three other sightings we haven’t been able to explain. One: a man was seen walking an Alsatian in Wythenshawe park thirty minutes before the disappearance of the boy. He hadn’t come forward either. Two: a white car was seen in the area of the park with a young man and a boy sitting in the front. The boy wasn’t wearing his seatbelt; that’s why the witness noticed it.’
‘Any description?’
‘Nothing clear. A white car, no numberplate and a man and a boy.’
‘Could be anybody. Go on…’
‘Number three: a dark van was seen reversing down the lane into Chorlton Ees at 5 a.m. on the morning of the discovery of the body. I say “seen”, it was more like heard. The witness was getting up and the noise of the engine made her go to the window to check. She just caught a glimpse of a dark van.’
‘That’s it?’
Emily cocked her head. ‘That’s it.’
‘No wonder Claire Trent is scared. After two weeks, there’s nothing else?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about HOLMES 2? Anything?’
HOLMES 2 was the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, used to coordinate the investigation of major incidents such as serial murders and high-value frauds.
‘Turnbull has been using it to consolidate all the information from members of public, enquiry officers and the house-to-house enquiries.’
‘Has it given us links to any other crimes?’
‘Not a lot,’ answered Chrissy. ‘There was the stabbing to death of a young boy in Liverpool six weeks ago, where the body was also dumped in a park. The Scousers have already got a suspect, plus the MO is completely different. There’s no DNA evidence linking the crimes.’
‘It’s a bit of a coincidence that we have two child murders in the space of six weeks in two cities less than thirty miles apart?’
‘But the deaths are so different, Ridpath. After talk
ing with Merseyside, Turnbull ruled out any connection between the two crimes,’ said Emily Parkinson.
Ridpath scratched his ear, staring at the boards and pictures on the walls around him.
‘We’re stuffed. No wonder Turnbull wants to interview Carsley again. According to Claire Trent, he thinks the father may have been involved in his son’s murder.’
‘What?’ Emily’s mouth dropped open and then her features twisted in something that resembled both scorn and disbelief. ‘That’s a crazy idea.’
‘You don’t think he could have done it?’
‘Not a cat in hell’s chance. Listen, I’ve spent two weeks with the man, I’d know if he topped his own son. Nobody, I don’t care how good an actor they are, can keep up the pretence for that long.’
Ridpath breathed out. ‘Well, if that’s true, we not only have to solve this case. We may also have to clear an innocent man.’
Chapter 17
At the end of the meeting, they decided on a plan of action.
Ridpath would bring himself up to speed on the case. ‘I’ll also visit the man who discovered the body.’
‘Jon Morgan.’
‘Him.’
‘You want his number?’
‘No thanks. I think an unannounced visit would be better. No point in spooking him unnecessarily.’
Emily would check the 3000 phone calls to see if anything had been missed, while Chrissy would trawl through the police database looking for similar crimes or MOs going back ten years. She was also going to check the Sexual Offenders Register to see if anybody had moved into the area and somehow been forgotten.
Ridpath went to the Coroner’s Office without bothering to have lunch – the idea of eating never occurred to him. Sophia was sitting at her desk, nibbling a samosa.
‘Are you still in touch with Jonathan Schofield?’
She raised her eyebrow. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing meant. I wanted to talk to him about the post-mortem of the Carsley boy.’
‘Why don’t you just ring him?’
‘I… I…’ Ridpath stammered.
‘But if you are asking are we a couple? The answer is no. We had a few dates but it sort of fizzled out. Clear enough for you?’
‘What I meant was…’
‘If it’s an office enquiry, shouldn’t you be using official channels, not me?’
Ridpath held his hands up. This was obviously a touchy subject. ‘You’re right. Sorry, Sophia, I didn’t mean to pry into your private life.’
‘Everybody seems to be doing it at the moment, why not you?’ Then a sigh. ‘Sorry, Ridpath, but I’ve had my female cousin who’s getting married next week, her mum, my mum, and even the bloody caterer asking if I am going to be bringing somebody to the wedding? And that’s only today. I’ll ring him if you want.’
‘No worries, you’re right, better make it official, I’ll do it.’
He made the call himself as he should have done in the beginning. Schofield was as busy as ever but could see him early tomorrow morning.
As he finished, he heard Mrs Challinor calling him from her office. ‘Are you back, Ridpath?’
He walked in.
‘Claire Trent spoke to you?’
‘She did.’
‘If you don’t want to investigate the case, let me know and I’ll have a word with her. I’m worried you’re taking on too much too quickly.’
At that moment, Ridpath realised he hadn’t thought of Polly once that morning. He hadn’t even seen her. Perhaps Claire Trent was right. What he needed to do was get back into work and stop moping around.
‘No, it’s fine, Mrs Challinor, if I felt I couldn’t handle it, I would have said no.’
‘OK, but let me know immediately if it gets too much for you. I’ll have none of this macho male rubbish, keeping it all in and hiding emotions. That sort of thinking should have gone out with the Flintstones, but unfortunately, it’s still with us.’
‘I’m fine, Coroner. I’ll let you know immediately if I feel I can’t cope with it.’
‘And I made it clear to Claire that if I feel your work as a coroner’s officer suffers, I will pull you off the case. Understand?’
‘Completely, Coroner.’
‘When is your next session with Dr Underwood?’
Did Mrs Challinor know everything about him?
‘This afternoon, after I interview the man who discovered the young boy’s body. The EMDR therapy is useful and I don’t mind seeing her.’
‘You are open and tell her everything?’
Ridpath crossed his fingers behind his back, a strategy his mother had taught him when he told a white lie. Even though that was thirty years ago, he still did it. ‘I tell her everything that occurs to me.’
He hoped Mrs Challinor didn’t call him out on all the weasel words in his last sentence. She seemed to be about to before thinking better of it.
‘I’ve had a terse note from the SIO on the Carsley case…’
‘Paul Turnbull.’
‘That’s the man. It reads, “The pathologist has completed his investigations, you can release the body of David Carsley to the family.”’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. A personable fellow, is he?’
‘Life and soul of the party.’
‘Has the pathologist signed off too?’
‘I’m seeing Dr Schofield tomorrow morning. I’ll get him to do it then.’
‘Does Mr Carsley have an undertaker?’
‘I’ve arranged for Padraig Daly to see him.’
‘Good, stay on top of this one, Ridpath. This man has been through enough without this office adding to his woes.’
‘Will do, Coroner. Anything else?’
She shook her head.
He turned to leave.
‘But do call me if it all gets too much, Ridpath, I’ll always be here for you.’
‘Thank you, Coroner, I’m sure I can handle it.’
As he closed the door, he wondered if he should have told her about Polly.
Was it strange that she still talked to him or was this perfectly normal?
Chapter 18
Molly Wright had a problem.
She was sitting in the cafe nursing her Americano – although it was lunchtime she couldn’t face food. Coffee was her drink of choice, her fuel which kept her going all through the day and long into the night. Sometimes, she drank ten cups a day. She knew this probably wasn’t great for her body, and time as the health reporter for the Mirror had more than confirmed this. But she couldn’t stop drinking now. Her addiction was complete, even down to the inability to sleep at night. Just another one of the curses faced by reporters.
At the moment, though, it wasn’t her health that was a worry, but her future.
The Carsley story was fading fast.
She’d done her best to keep it in the public eye, even paying a photographer to climb over the back fence to get pictures of the man and his son. The police had spotted him sharpish, and he’d been taken off and put in the cells for a few hours to cool down.
She still had to pay him, even though he hadn’t taken any pictures. It was one more expense in an investigation that was starting to cost more than it made. As a stringer, she wasn’t on expenses any more, only making money when she could sell a story.
At the beginning, it had been lucrative. She’d congratulated herself on making the link to the Moors Murderers. The tabloids had lapped it up, paying for a team to go up to Saddleworth Moor with a couple of spades and a gardening fork. The pictures even made it into the broadsheets.
Her fingers hovered over the keys of her MacBook Air. She was compiling a list of possible interviews to keep the story going and the nationals interested.
Unfortunately, Michael Carsley was no Kate McCann. For a start, he wasn’t middle class, photogenic or articulate. In fact, he was exactly the opposite – poor, fat and quiet to the point of being comatose. The police had been successful
at keeping him bottled up in his home. Even her source in MIT gave her little new intel these days.
She typed MICHAEL CARSLEY? in block letters anyway.
What about the wife? The one who had run out on her kids. There must be a reason why she left, mustn’t there?
Molly searched for the standard tropes the newspapers used on such occasions. Battered housewife? Independent woman? Victim of a system that didn’t care?
She shook her head. It had all been done before. She had to find something different to get the nationals interested – that was where the money was. Something with a news element?
She typed IRENE CARSLEY NEWS? in her list.
Anything else?
She’d already approached David’s teachers, there was nothing left to mine there except more banalities.
Lovely boy.
A real charmer.
Worked hard.
Popular with all his classmates.
It all sounded like the stuff they’d write in a school report. The only one missing was ‘Must do better’ and that probably applied to her rather than the boy.
Next she wrote POLICE in capitals. She couldn’t interview her source, that would give the game away. Better stay clear of him.
What about the SIO? She’d met Turnbull at the police briefings and took an instant dislike to him. She typed in his name anyway. PAUL TURNBULL.
Maybe an attack piece along the lines of ‘Two weeks and still no suspect’. She added the idea next to his name. A definite possibility but maybe not yet. She’d save that for when there was nothing left.
What about the head of MIT, Claire Trent? One of the rising stars of GMP, perhaps she would give an interview. A woman talking to another woman about the loss of a child. Something emotional, making the investigation personal, even for a seasoned detective.
The Guardian or the Independent might take a punt on a trope like that. Not for the front page but for the inside or a supplement. Almost an opinion piece. What it’s like to be a woman in a man’s world as the subtext. She thought it funny that even for the more liberal papers she had to write in tropes, something instantly recognisable that she could pitch to a tired editor.
She typed in CLAIRE TRENT? adding the name to her list on the screen.
