by M J Lee
The interview with Claire Trent had been particularly successful. It had been an easy sell to one of the editors. An in-depth look at the woman in charge of the search for David Carsley’s killer. The fact it was a woman was the key selling point – they wouldn’t have been interested in another bloated, middle-aged man.
She thought at one time she’d over-egged the pudding with her effusive compliments about the woman and her job. But the editor had been happy with the angle while GMP’s PR person, Sarah something-or-other, had rung her to say how pleased they were and could they just change the photo.
She pretended to try and then rang back saying the newspaper was looking for a better shot.
Vanity, vanity, thy name is woman.
That evening, she rang her source in MIT. He could give her little information except that Michael Carsley was in Wythenshawe nick being questioned. Was he the guilty man Claire Trent had hinted at?
If he was, this case could be explosive. She could hear the ker-ching of a till ringing up ever larger numbers.
After a moment’s thought, she planned her line of attack. The interview she had arranged the next morning with Irene Carsley would be the first step. The woman had been reluctant at first but a guaranteed payment of £1000 had convinced her. This money had come out of Molly Wright’s own pocket, something she resented immensely.
‘You have to be in it to win it,’ she said out loud, walking to the kitchen for another bottle of wine.
If Michael Carsley was charged then an interview with the wife would be gold dust for any tabloid. Molly saw the headlines now.
WIFE OF KILLER REVEALS HER LIVING NIGHTMARE by Molly Wright.
MY LIFE OF TERROR: IRENE CARSLEY TELLS THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH by Molly Wright.
And for the Sun, I SLEPT WITH A KILLER.
If she could get family photos of the Carsleys, particularly of Michael and his son, that would be the icing on the cake.
She opened the bottle and poured herself an extra-large glass. She also needed single pictures of the surviving son, Daniel Carsley. She knew he’d been taken into care, but didn’t know which home he was in.
Never mind, she would find out. She always found out.
Life was finally looking pretty good for Molly Wright. She could ride this story all the way to a columnist gig with one of the tabloids. Or, if it went as well as she thought, a broadsheet might come knocking at her door.
And then it hit her.
A book.
An exposé of the dark heart of a marriage in modern Britain. An evil unleashed on a child. A shocking tale to thrill the quiet suburbs.
It could be her Norman Mailer moment. Or even her Truman Capote In Cold Blood.
She drank the glass of Rioja and poured one more.
This could be good, extremely good.
Chapter 50
Ridpath ended his call with Eve and spent the next three hours watching television. He couldn’t remember which programmes he watched, just that there was a series of flickering pictures in front of him.
The news came on. More Covid horror stories, followed by the local news. There were tighter lockdowns in Oldham and Blackburn, but nothing about David Carsley. The PR people were obviously keeping a lid on the case, but not for long. Once it leaked out Michael Carsley was being questioned regarding the murder of his son, all hell would let loose. Journalists and television cameras would be camping out in front of the police station in Wythenshawe, waiting like hungry vultures for their story.
He wouldn’t put it past them to doorstep the children’s home where they were keeping Daniel. The poor lad would be under immense pressure, having lost his brother and blaming himself, and now hearing his father was the man responsible.
And what about the mother, Irene? Had anybody told her? Hopefully, they wouldn’t know where she lived. Should he ring her?
Another voice answered him.
‘You’re off the case, Ridpath, remember. You’ve been told to go home.’ Polly had returned and was sitting opposite him.
‘What am I supposed to do, Poll? You always said don’t get too emotionally involved.’
‘Well, it’s too late. You are involved whether you like it or not.’
His mobile phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw Emily’s name.
‘Are you going to answer it?’
‘It’s Emily. She’s going to rant and rave, criticising me for giving up the case.’
‘She’d be right, wouldn’t she? Answer your phone.’
Wearily, Ridpath picked up his mobile. ‘Emily, it’s past midnight. What do you want? If you’re going to give me an earful, then don’t bother, I’m too old and too tired.’
‘We’ve got something, Ridpath. I’m in the CCTV suite with Phil Reynolds…’
‘What are you doing there so late?’
She carried on speaking, ignoring his question. ‘We were going through the footage I found from the convenience store ATM. We’ve got pictures of what looks like David Carsley getting into a white car.’
‘What?’ Ridpath sat up straight. ‘It’s him on tape?’
‘Actually on hard disk, but I’m pretty certain it’s him, the clothes and the description match. The CCTV images aren’t great. Phil is trying to clean them up as we speak. There’s one problem, though…’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘The pictures are from one hour earlier. Twelve thirty.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘The pictures show David Carsley getting into a white car at twelve thirty.’
Chapter 51
Mother was snoring.
He watched her from the corner of the room. The television was still on, the pictures flickering but the sound down.
She liked to watch television before she slept. It soothed her, calmed her, she said.
She never knew the feeling wasn’t coming from the box in the corner but from the Valium he mixed in with her supper, adding a soupçon of diazepam as a little treat.
He enjoyed going out occasionally after work. Mother, of course, never left the house. Being in lockdown meant little to her; life carried on as normal or what passed as normality for her.
There was a new film on at the cinema in Parrs Wood that evening. He liked going to the movies. Sitting there in the dark was like sitting in the cellar when he was young with his imaginary friends. Except now they were up on the screen, not in his head.
He’d taken the tram, sitting in one of the seats, checking out the other passengers while they studiously avoided looking at him.
A young boy had come aboard. At first, he couldn’t believe his luck. The boy was perfect; the big eyes he liked topped by a shock of blond hair. For a second, he imagined combing the hair, parting it so a curl reached down over the forehead, highlighting the eyes. He would wait until the boy alighted then follow him, seizing the right moment to pounce.
He didn’t have his car so he couldn’t take this one home to play. He would have to enjoy him on the street. It wasn’t as satisfying as taking his time at home, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, as his mum always said.
He wasn’t a beggar and he always chose.
Then an adult swayed into the compartment from another carriage and smiled at the boy, going over to sit next to him. He listened to their chat. The man was a neighbour, just his luck.
The boy was spoilt now, though, blemished by knowing the other man.
They stayed on the tram when he stepped off at the stop for the cinema. As he exited, he looked back, catching the boy’s eyes. The innocence was there for all to see.
What a shame. He would have loved to own that innocence.
He walked to the cinema where his imaginary friends had come to him in the dark.
‘You must hunt again.’
‘Time to enjoy yourself. The prey is out there. Waiting.’
‘Time to hurt.’
They all had Northern voices, the strong accents of Yorkshire with their long, rounded
vowels, encouraging him to act, to be another Sutcliffe.
He knew then, he would act soon. All he needed was the right opportunity. He never planned these things, they just happened.
Seize the day.
Seize the child.
Like the boy with the United shirt. Now, that was a bit too close to home but he couldn’t resist the opportunity.
Another one would happen soon, he was sure of it.
The voices told him it would and they were always right.
On the Fifth Day
Saturday, August 9
Chapter 52
They’d arranged to meet at a cafe close to Police HQ at eight a.m. that morning. Emily Parkinson had sent the footage to Ridpath after Reynolds had finished cleaning it up.
Ridpath watched it again and again and again.
Every time the door of the car opened, Ridpath leant forward, trying to see the interior. But it was dark and the man’s face was constantly in shadow.
Did David Carsley know the man in the car and that’s why he got in?
Was it the same man as in the park?
Or was it only a chance encounter?
From the footage, it could be any of these three things.
‘What are we going to do, Ridpath?’ asked Chrissy. She had also seen the footage.
‘Only one thing we can do,’ said Emily. ‘We need to show this to Turnbull straight away.’
Ridpath spoke for the first time. ‘Emily’s right, but there’s no point showing it to him. I need to get it to Claire Trent.’
‘But she took you off the case yesterday, she’s not going to be happy.’
‘Her happiness is the least of our concerns. I’m supposed to present my report this morning at nine a.m.’ He paused, thinking of the next steps and not looking forward to the meeting.
‘What time do they have to charge Michael Carsley?’
Ridpath answered. ‘The twenty-four hours are up at four p.m. today. If he doesn’t confess, Turnbull will probably apply for an extension. In a case like this, a superintendent, Claire Trent, can authorise another twelve hours, but if they want longer they would have to find a friendly magistrate.’
‘Not hard in the murder of a child.’
‘More time to put the screws on…’
‘Is there anything else on the ATM footage, Emily?’
‘I’ve been through it from eleven a.m. to two p.m. and this is the only useful image. I sent you the footage from the tram. A similar car was in the area where the body was deposited at 6.23 on 23 July.’
‘Can we narrow down the make and model of the car?’
‘Not at the moment. Phil Reynolds reckons it’s a Hyundai i20 or a Vauxhall Corsa.’
‘Can you go back and check the rest of the footage from the ATM? See if we can narrow it down?’
‘Will do. It means buttering up Reynolds once more, but I think he’ll do it.’
‘And Chrissy, can you get on to DVLA in Swansea and check how many Hyundai i20s and Vauxhall Corsas are registered in the Greater Manchester area?’
‘It could be a lot…’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s the only real lead we have.’
‘One thing is still bothering me. Both Michael and Daniel Carsley said the boys left the house at one p.m. But here we have footage showing David Carsley getting into a car thirty minutes earlier. Were they both lying?’ asked Chrissy. ‘Or did they get the time wrong?’
‘Daniel Carsley remembered they left when the news was starting…’
‘It doesn’t make sense. Why lie about the time?’ asked Emily.
‘What about Daniel’s mobile phone? We could get the time from the data on the mobile towers.’
Emily Parkinson shook her head. ‘The techies are backed up on a county lines case. They don’t know when they are going to get to our phone.’
Ridpath slammed his fist on the desk, causing the waitress behind the counter to stare at him. ‘It’s not good enough, Emily, we need that information.’
‘I know but…’
‘There’s one other way of checking,’ said Christie.
They both looked at her. She had a smile across her face, as if Manchester City had just scored five against Liverpool.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Ridpath.
‘Nobody’s ever asked the other kids.’
‘What?’
‘The other kids in the park. Nobody asked them what time they played basketball.’
Ridpath and Emily stared at each other.
‘Can you get the addresses, Chrissy? I’ll go to see them this afternoon.’
‘You forgot – you’re off the case, Ridpath.’
‘Not any more.’
Emily stared at the footage on her laptop. ‘This clears Michael Carsley, doesn’t it? I mean, he doesn’t own a car. Turnbull isn’t going to be a happy bunny.’
Chapter 53
‘You’re off the Carsley case, Ridpath, I thought I made that clear yesterday. So you can leave your report and I’ll read it when I have time.’
‘You did, boss, but something’s come up and you need to see it.’
‘If this is another attempt to undermine Paul Turnbull’s investigation then I’m not interested.’
Ridpath was about to say that it was Claire Trent who had briefed him to investigate the case – if anybody was undermining the DCI’s investigation, it was her. But he didn’t, instead biting down on his tongue and saying, ‘It’s still important you see this footage, boss.’
She waved him into her office. He placed his laptop on her desk. ‘What you’re about to see are images taken from the camera of an ATM located on a road close to the park.’
He played the footage, seeing David Carsley again in his United shirt, the white car stopping, both talking for a moment before the boy entered the car and it drove off.
‘Play it again,’ Claire Trent ordered.
Ridpath replayed the footage.
‘Is this David Carsley?’
‘We think so, boss.’
‘You think so or you know so?’
‘The clothing matches the description given by his father and his brother, later found beside the body. The video isn’t so clear on his face but I’m certain this is David Carsley.’
‘But the timecode on the video says twelve thirty. David Carsley didn’t leave the house with his brother until one p.m.’
‘I know, boss, I don’t understand it either. But Turnbull needs to see this.’
‘You haven’t shown him yet?’
‘I thought it best to show you first as you asked me to check the investigation.’
‘Where did the footage come from?’
‘An ATM mounted on the outside wall of a convenience store.’
‘How did we miss it?’
‘I don’t know, boss, but there’s more.’ Ridpath clicked on the next clip. ‘This is taken from the front cab of a tram going into the city centre at 6.23 on the morning the body was found.’
He played the footage.
‘It looks like the same white car.’
‘That’s what we thought, boss. We’re trying to narrow down the make and model.’
‘Where was this footage taken?’
‘South of the river, close to the Sale Water Park tram stop. There’s a pub with a car park at the end of the road, next to the river.’
‘Jackson’s Boat.’
‘You know it?’
She nodded.
‘It’s on the opposite side of the river to where the body was found at Chorlton Ees, but there’s a bridge next to the pub and it’s only a five-minute walk along a quiet riverside path to the place where the body was dumped.’
Claire Trent’s eyes widened. ‘But the boundary of our search was the river…’
‘Exactly, boss.’
‘Have you checked CCTV in the pub’s car park?’
‘It’s not working.’
‘Just our luck.’ She thought for a moment before leaning forward and depressing
the button on her intercom. ‘Angie, can you ask Paul Turnbull to come and see me?’
Chapter 54
‘You’ve got to be shittin’ me.’
Turnbull was not happy, the deep blue vein in his bald head was throbbing. Ridpath could almost feel how angry his blood was.
‘I am not “shitting” you, DCI Turnbull. I asked DI Ridpath to take a look at the investigation, see if there was anything we’d missed.’
‘You got him to check up on me?’
Claire Trent was silent for a while, staring down at her blotter, before looking up again, the steely determination in her eyes noticed by Molly Wright plainly evident. ‘Your investigation had stalled, DCI Turnbull…’
‘I had—’
She held up her hand to stop him speaking. ‘I wanted someone who hadn’t been involved to look at it with a fresh pair of eyes. DI Ridpath had been away…’
‘On sick leave,’ Turnbull sneered.
‘Yes, on sick leave. He was coming fresh to the investigation and has turned up two interesting pieces of evidence which you missed.’
‘That…’ he said, pointing to the laptop, ‘a fuzzy video with a child who may or may not be David Carsley getting into a car. A video which I’d like to remind you has a timecode thirty minutes before our victim left his house. How do you explain that, DI Ridpath?’
Ridpath hesitated before finally saying, ‘I can’t.’
‘Because if this is David Carsley, which I doubt, it means both Michael Carsley and Daniel Carsley are lying about the time the boys left the house. Why would they both lie? Tell me that, Ridpath?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And as for the same white car being seen in the vicinity of the place where the body was dumped, it could be any white car. Somebody could have gone for an early morning jog or they could have been dogging in the pub car park. That area is miles away across the river.’
‘It’s not miles away, it’s a five-minute walk.’
‘You still have to cross the river. Why do that when you can park on the street like all the other walkers?’
‘Because the man knows the area. He knows the dog walkers in Chorlton Ees park on the street and he’s aware it’s only a five-minute walk from Jackson’s Boat to our dump site. It’s also no coincidence that Sale Water Park and Wythenshawe Park are on the same tram line.’
