When the Evil Waits

by M J Lee

  ‘Not to worry, with some people the memories are harder to access.’ Dr Underwood sounded vaguely disappointed. ‘Now, I’d like you to go to your safe space again. And this time I’d like you to add a butterfly hug. Bring your arms onto their opposite shoulders and tap four or five times slowly, remembering your safe space. How does this feel?’

  ‘Good, my breathing slows and I feel calm and relaxed.’

  ‘Now, repeat this technique often, and the simple tapping of your shoulder will induce the same feelings of calm. It’s a useful coping strategy, particularly in situations when you can’t close your eyes. How do you feel?’

  ‘Good, relaxed.’

  ‘Great. We still have some work to do to elicit your touchstone memories but I think we’ve done enough for today.’ She pulled out her diary. ‘How does this time on Monday suit you for the next session?’

  ‘I’m fine with that. How many more sessions do we have to do? I’m back at work now.’

  ‘I’d like to do at least three more, and that was my agreement with GMP – we continue to monitor you for the first month of your return.’

  She stood up and escorted him to the door. ‘See you on Monday, Thomas, and keep building on what we do here. Remember to use the coping strategies every day.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Underwood.’

  Ridpath stepped out of the office into the blaring traffic of a Manchester rush hour. He did find the sessions useful but he wasn’t going to let the therapist get into his head.

  That was the one space he kept for himself.

  Chapter 21

  Back home that evening, Ridpath was sat in front of the silent TV, eating another cheese and ham sandwich and devouring the case reports Chrissy had given him, making notes as he went along.

  Emily was right. Turnbull had run the case by the book. He had done everything in the correct sequence and at the right time. He had been slow but systematic, following the SIO handbook for a murder investigation to the letter.

  The only errors Ridpath could see were releasing the photofits to the press and perhaps not pushing Jon Morgan harder. But those were easy mistakes to make in the maelstrom of a murder investigation.

  He finished off the sandwich and drank the tea. Suddenly, the desire for the sweet, bitter taste of a glass of whisky came over him. He glanced at the shelf, but the bottle wasn’t sitting in its usual place.

  In the weeks after Polly’s death, he had hit the booze badly, looking at old videos and photos of himself and Polly, wallowing in his grief. He couldn’t remember how much he had drunk, but from the evidence of the empty bottles, he’d made a serious dent in the Scottish whisky industry’s stocks.

  Then one night Polly appeared next to him.

  ‘It doesn’t help, you know.’

  ‘What doesn’t help?’

  ‘Drinking.’

  He glanced down at a near-empty bottle of Laphroaig. ‘But it does. It makes me feel… comfortably numb,’ he slurred. ‘It fills the emptiness. You know, there were nights when I used to wake and just listen to you snoring gently beside me.’

  ‘Snoring? Just what I want to be remembered for.’

  ‘But it was warm and lovely your snoring, a comfort when I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘And now you drink.’

  He held up the glass of whisky as if to make a toast. ‘Now I drink.’

  ‘Your daughter, what does it do for Eve?’

  He stared at the golden liquid glistening like honey in the crystal glass. ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘That’s why you need to stop drinking. Stop it now.’

  ‘But I was to blame for your death, if I hadn’t…’

  ‘You did your job, Ridpath. His mother was manipulated and mad, so she decided to take it out on you when her son died.’

  ‘That’s the point, though, she didn’t take it out on me, but on you.’

  ‘That’s not your fault. You didn’t kill me, the mad woman did and then she killed herself. All this guilt you are feeling, who does it help?’

  Ridpath swirled the whisky around in his glass. ‘Me,’ he finally whispered.

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ she responded immediately, ‘it helps nobody, least of all you. I’m dead and the sooner you come to terms with that, the better.’

  ‘Don’t sugar-coat it, will you?’

  ‘I’m dead, we have no time for dishonesty. Stop the drinking and stop it now. Your daughter needs a father, not a drunk.’

  He sat and listened to her, the whisky fogging his brain. And then he stood up, took the remaining bottle from the cabinet and poured it down the sink, inhaling the sweet intensity and bitter notes of the spirit as it vanished into the drain.

  He hadn’t touched a drop since, not even on the three-month anniversary of Polly’s death, when a cheque had come through the post from the insurance company.

  Her life insurance. A few pounds for a beautiful woman, his wife.

  Getting rid of the alcohol hadn’t helped diminish his sense of guilt, though. Whatever Polly said, he was as responsible for the death of his wife as the woman who had pulled the trigger.

  He had deprived her parents of a daughter.

  He had deprived Eve of a mother.

  He had deprived her of her life.

  Him. Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath.

  Nobody else.

  The television suddenly flashed brightly. In its silent world, some movie star was on a red carpet, cameras exploding with light all around her.

  As he watched the woman parade in her finery, his phone rang. Picking it up, he didn’t recognise the number. ‘DI Ridpath.’

  A male voice at the other end of the line. ‘Inspector Ridpath? It’s Jon Morgan here.’

  In the background of the call, Ridpath could hear the sounds of people speaking and the clinking of glasses.

  ‘Hello, Mr Morgan, how can I help you?’

  ‘Sorry for ringing so late, it’s… it’s, erm…’

  ‘What is it, Mr Morgan?’

  ‘I have a confession to make. I wasn’t alone when I discovered the body.’

  ‘Mrs Burgess was with you.’

  ‘How did you know?’ The voice was surprised.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’

  ‘My wife… she wouldn’t understand…’

  ‘She wouldn’t understand you were having an affair?’

  ‘It wasn’t an affair, we were just good friends, Mrs Burgess and I, just good friends, you understand?’

  Ridpath smiled to himself. ‘So she was there when you found the body?’

  A long pause. ‘Correct.’

  ‘Why didn’t you both report it?’

  ‘We… I… thought it would be easier if I did it… alone.’

  ‘How long did you wait?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Before you rang 999?’

  ‘I rang almost immediately. I waited for her to walk out of sight with her dog.’

  So Shirley Burgess was the woman at the scene. Well, that was one part of the mystery solved. ‘You’ll both have to come in to give statements.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s necessary. You signed a false statement and Mrs Burgess didn’t make a report despite multiple attempts by the police to find her. I suggest you ring DCI Turnbull to arrange a time to come in.’

  ‘Not you?’

  Ridpath thought quickly. ‘No, it would be better to talk to the Senior Investigating Officer. It would also be better if the statement was seen to be voluntary, i.e. you came forward because you felt guilty, not because you were discovered.’

  ‘It would be better?’

  ‘Definitely. If you do that, I won’t mention my interview this afternoon with anybody. I’ll keep it quiet.’

  ‘What about my wife?’

  ‘If you make the statement voluntarily, she’s less likely to find out, isn’t she?’

  Another pause. ‘I’ll ring him first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘You do that, and
thank you for coming forward, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘You know, it’s a relief to admit it. You don’t know how much it’s preyed on my mind.’

  ‘It always does, when honest people are dishonest.’

  The phone went silent and Ridpath stared at the empty screen. At least the mysterious woman was known now. He hoped Turnbull went easy on Jon Morgan, but he doubted he would. Jon Morgan wouldn’t be charged with wasting police time, though. Not in the middle of a murder investigation. Even Turnbull wasn’t stupid enough to do that.

  He glanced down and picked up the criminal profiler’s report from where he had put it on the floor. Was there anything in it except the usual psychobabble?

  He opened the folder and began reading.

  Chapter 22

  Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he realised where it all began.

  His mother was responsible, of course. Who else? He never knew his father, neither did she, apparently.

  They were living in Great Clowes Street at the time. In the big house. He didn’t know why they lived there. It was far too big for only the two of them.

  Too old, too draughty and too damp. But mother seemed to like it there. She liked the cold.

  He had asked her one day. ‘Where’s my father?’

  She’d looked up from the television. ‘Don’t ask such stupid questions. You don’t have a father.’

  ‘Everybody has a father.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  He’d stayed silent. He couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time. For some reason, the idea of being born without a father had troubled him even then.

  Later, the teacher at school had asked him where his father was and what he did for a living. He had repeated the answer from his mother.

  Not a good move. The other kids taunted him mercilessly. Even the teacher joined in, laughing about ‘our virgin birth, verging on the ridiculous’. He didn’t know what it meant then and neither did the other kids, but they laughed anyway.

  For the rest of his school life, he was pointed at, laughed at. Ridicule that descended into bullying; his money and pencils stolen. Abuse that continued at the next school and the next and the one after that.

  Always alone, shunned.

  He only tried once again asking his mother, ‘Who is my father?’

  His mother was completing one of her quizzes in the magazine. This one was all about the correct clothes to wear at a dinner party. Mother didn’t like to be disturbed when she was doing her quizzes.

  ‘I’ve told you already, you don’t have a father.’

  She went back to her quiz. He shouldn’t have persisted but for some reason he did.

  ‘But the teacher said everybody has a father, who is mine?’

  She threw the magazine across the room, striding over to grab his hair and wrench him to his feet.

  ‘I’ll show you who your father is!’

  She dragged him across the room to the door of the cellar.

  He remembered screaming, ‘No, Mum, please, no, Mum.’

  She opened the door and pushed him down the stone steps. ‘You’ll find your father down there.’

  He was cold and hungry in the cellar, but he never found his father.

  Instead, he found his friends.

  Real friends.

  Friends who hurt people, especially the teacher in his class and the other boys.

  He liked it when they hurt the boys.

  Chapter 23

  He looked up from the case notes and checked the time.

  Eleven thirty.

  Immediately, a wave of guilt washed over him as he realised he hadn’t FaceTimed Eve that evening. Had she been waiting next to her computer for his call? He got up and checked his laptop. A message was waiting for him.

  Hi Dad, I called you but there was no answer. Where are you? Call me when you get this message. Lots of love. Eve.

  Should he call her now?

  He shook his head. She would be sleeping – her grandmother insisted she went to bed at nine p.m. every night. He would have to call tomorrow morning.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Why hadn’t Polly reminded him?

  He looked around, expecting to see her shaking her head in the corner, waiting to tell him off. But she wasn’t there.

  And then he realised, where was she? She hadn’t spoken to him since he started the case. He hoped she wasn’t angry with him for working late again.

  Gathering up his notes, he put them in order, ready to brief Emily and Chrissy tomorrow. As he did, the photos of the crime scenes slipped out from the case file. He picked them up and looked at them again.

  A wide shot of the location in Chorlton Ees.

  A body stretched out on the ground.

  A close-up of David Carsley’s face, the noose around his neck just visible.

  For a moment, an image of his own daughter flashed into his mind, replacing that of David Carsley in the photograph.

  He closed his eyes tightly. There were some kinds of evil men in this world who had to be caught and sentenced. A child-killer was one of those.

  In that moment, he vowed he would put this bastard away, whatever happened. Eve and thousands of other children deserved that from him.

  He placed the photographs back carefully in the case file and picked up his own notes. On top was the page with the five main questions he needed to answer.

  Who was the man Daniel Carsley had seen in the playground?

  Who was the woman at Chorlton Ees?

  Did the white car/dark van have anything to do with the kidnapping?

  What happened in the day between David’s disappearance and the discovery of his body?

  Was a couple or a single man involved?

  Who had kidnapped and murdered David Carsley?

  That was six questions, but he was too tired to care. He had written a series of action steps to be discussed with his two conspirators tomorrow morning. From there, they would plan their investigation. At least now he was up to speed.

  He reached for his pen and scored through the second question. At least one issue had been removed, but so many others still remained. ‘There, now it’s five,’ he said out loud.

  Would the killer strike again? According to the criminal profiler, it was more than likely.

  One last time, he checked through all the questions and sighed. They were not so different from the ones he had seen written up on the whiteboard in the Situation Room at Police HQ.

  He had less than three days left to report back to Claire Trent.

  How was he going to make a difference? How was he going to stop this man?

  On the Third Day

  Thursday, August 6

  Chapter 24

  The following morning, Ridpath was up early. For once, he had slept well and couldn’t remember any of his dreams, nor had he awoken in the middle of the night with the sweats.

  After a quick breakfast, he drove into the centre of Manchester, parking close to the mortuary. As he stood outside, looking up at the nondescript building, the desperate craving for a cigarette flooded his body.

  He dismissed it immediately and pushed his way through the entrance doors. In the lobby, the usual smell lingered in every corner, a mixture of carbolic soap, disinfectant and cleanliness.

  Dr Schofield was already waiting for him, kitted out in his protective gear: face mask, surgical overalls, bloodied apron and cap.

  ‘Ah, Ridpath, great, you’re on time. I’ve just finished a job.’ He held up his blue plastic gloves stained with dark blood and assorted gore. ‘Give me a second and I’ll clean up. My assistant has already moved the body from the fridge for us.’

  The voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky, a consequence of the doctor suffering from hypogonadism. He had explained everything when they had first met two years ago – it was an explanation he was used to making.

  Ridpath stood in the hallway, staring at the white tiled walls and desperately trying not to breathe in. H
e wished he had that cigarette now – at least his lungs would be full of comforting tobacco smoke rather than the disinfected air of the mortuary.

  He was also glad Dr Schofield had not said how happy he was to have him back at work. In fact, it was almost as if the doctor was unaware he had ever been away.

  Dr Schofield returned dressed in exactly the same way but his apron was now clean and he was wearing a fresh pair of blue gloves. ‘You’re not suited up yet?’

  ‘Was I supposed to?’

  ‘You know the rules.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘I’ve a pathology class for the interns at eight thirty, they’ve missed so much of their coursework because of the lockdown. We’d better get a move on.’

  Ridpath followed him into the changing room and quickly donned protective overalls and a cap while Schofield went on into the mortuary itself. It wasn’t dissimilar to the gear used at a murder scene by the CSI team. Ridpath finished it off by tucking his hair under his cap and going through the same door as the pathologist.

  At the far end, Dr Schofield was standing in front of a stainless steel table. On it lay a tiny body covered up to the shoulders by a white sheet.

  David Carsley.

  ‘Come on in, Ridpath. I’ve dug out my notes for this client. I presume you’ve already read them.’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘I’d like you to take me through the major points of the post-mortem.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were on the case. I thought the SIO was DCI Turnbull?’

  ‘It is. I’ve been asked to review the investigation.’

  ‘Checking if there were any mistakes, including mine.’

  Ridpath didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, no matter, you won’t find any in my work.’ He turned to face the boy, placing his notes on a small table next to the body. ‘I remember this case. Who could forget working on the body of a child?’

  ‘You were the medical examiner?’

  ‘Yes, called out at 9.15 a.m. on 23 July to a place near the Mersey. I certified the boy was dead at 10.05 a.m., and he was transported back to the mortuary an hour later after having been released by the crime scene manager. I took an internal temperature at the scene and another when it arrived here.’