by M J Lee
‘Point taken. Why don’t you call me back, going through our switchboard? That way you can verify my identity.’
‘Number?’
This man had all the grace of an elephant and, for a moment, she wondered if his arse was as big.
‘Number,’ he repeated.
She gave it to him, put down the phone and waited. And waited. And waited.
Just as she was about to call him back, the phone on her desk rang.
‘It seems you are who you say you are, DS Castle.’ No apology. No ‘I’m sorry for doubting your word’. No nothing. The image of an elephant sitting behind a desk at HMP Belmarsh came into her mind again.
‘I’m a busy man, how can I help you?’
She straightened up, trying to banish the image from her mind. ‘I’m enquiring about James Dalbey?’
‘You’ve already said that.’
This man was a pain. ‘And you haven’t answered me yet,’ she said sharply.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Prisoner Dalbey is working in the library as usual. He is a quiet, self-reliant prisoner who gives us no trouble.’
‘You have seen him yourself?’
‘Of course not. But that’s where he always is at this time of the day.’
‘Thank you, Mr Reynolds – that’s all I wanted to know.’
‘Stupid question, if you ask me. A waste of my time.’
‘Just following orders.’
The voice much softer now, almost world-weary. ‘I understand.’
At last, sympathy for a fellow jobsworth. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Reynolds.’
She put the phone down before he could reply, quickly scribbled a note for the boss and left it on his door
She grabbed her jacket and scarf, swallowing the last of her cold coffee. With a bit of luck and no traffic she should be able to get to the lab with plenty of time to spare.
Oh, the joys of being a copper, running on adrenalin and caffeine, while trying to make the world a better place for Joe Public. She recognized she was an idealist but she didn’t care. It was why she’d joined up in the first place from university. All her mates thought she was crazy, but she wanted to make a difference and she wasn’t going to do that by being some product manager for Procter & Gamble.
‘You look like you’re going out.’
It was that fuckwit, Makepeace. ‘I am.’
‘Where to?’
Why was he so nosy all of a sudden? ‘Just out. Got something to do for the guv’nor.’
She stepped around his slow-moving body.
‘When you coming back?
She waved goodbye without looking over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to tell Makepeace where she was going, not in a million years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He was sitting at a table, staring at his mobile phone. ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ said Tony Seagram without looking up.
They were meeting in a Costa Coffee at the bottom of the Media City block. Ridpath had rushed over because it was the only time Tony Seagram was available.
This area was the centre of media operations in the north: a barren windswept desert of concrete and glass towers on the site of the demolished Salford Docks. The place was as bland and characterless as the people in the new buildings. As if to underline the shoddy nature of the place, even the shopping mall nearby, where he had parked, specialized in outlet stores.
Ridpath pulled out a chair and sat down.
Tony Seagram continued to stare at his phone.
‘My name is Tom Ridpath, and I’m—’
‘I know who you are, you told me on the phone. What I want to know is what you are doing to find the body of my sister.’
Ridpath coughed. ‘Yesterday morning, we—’
He looked up at Ridpath for the first time, blue eyes staring from beneath hooded lids. ‘I know all about yesterday morning. What I want to know is what you are doing about it today.’ The voice became angrier, with a stress on the last word.
‘Ridpath licked his lips. This was going to be more difficult than he expected. ‘If you let me finish, Mr Seagram, I was about to explain we are presently looking for the whereabouts of your sister’s body and we are following up various lines of inquiry.’
‘In other words, you haven’t got a clue.’
Ridpath decided to ignore the jibe. ‘I need your help, Mr Seagram. What do you remember of the day of your sister’s funeral?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t go.’
But I was told you organized it…’
‘I did, but at the last minute I couldn’t face the crying faces and the sadness and the hypocrisy. All those idiots mouthing their platitudes over someone who nobody knew.’ He sat up and pointed his finger. ‘Only I knew my sister. Only me. Not those hangers-on. You know what we call them? Media junkies. The women with their handkerchiefs pressed to their faces, tears running down their cheeks, waiting for a press photographer to spot them and take a photo. It’s a circus. Just a fucking circus.’
‘But don’t you work in the same business?’
‘I work in real journalism. Investigative journalism. How dare you compare me to the ambulance chasers of the Sun and the Daily Mail and all the rest of the tabloids. You saw the reports after the Manchester bombing: reporters pretending to be bereavement nurses, tins of biscuits given to hospital staff with two thousand quid inside asking for information. Scum, the lot of them.’
‘I can’t defend their actions—’
‘And you lot tipping them off. You know the first pictures of James Dalbey were from inside the police station? Some copper had taken a picture of the Beast of Manchester and sold it to the Sun. Never mind that he was innocent.’
‘He was guilty, Mr Seagram. He was found with a key to a lock-up where a young woman was manacled to a wall.’
‘It was a set-up. James wouldn’t hurt a butterfly. He was a gentle soul.’ For the first time, a trace of humanity appeared on Tony Seagram’s face.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘He jabbed himself in his chest. ‘Because I introduced him to my family and my sister. He loved my sister, would never harm a hair on her head.’
‘It still doesn’t change the evidence. He was found with the key to the lock-up. Your sister’s DNA was all over his clothes, a hammer with her DNA on it was found in the van he was driving and the blood of at least four other victims was found at the lock-up.’
‘Look, evidence can be faked. James was with us when my sister died.’
‘Not according to the second post-mortem.’
‘The one the police arranged when the timings from the first didn’t fit their theory? And what happened to the bodies of the other women The Beast was supposed to have murdered?’
‘They were never found. We conducted extensive searches but Dalbey never told us.’
A pause as Tony Seagram stared directly at Ridpath. ‘What rank are you, Mr Coroner’s Officer?’
Ridpath was taken aback by the sudden change in direction of the conversation. ‘Detective Inspector,’ he said quietly.
‘In the Greater Manchester force?’
Ridpath nodded.
Tony Seagram pushed back his chair. ‘Time’s up, Detective Inspector Ridpath. Five minutes are gone.’ He leant forward on the table, his face just a foot from Ridpath’s. ‘Let me tell you this. I’m not giving up until James Dalbey is out of jail and somebody from Manchester Police is sitting in his cell. Do I make myself clear, Detective Inspector? And I’ve got a great narrative. Brother of victim wants killer released. Imagine the power of that tabloid headline.’
‘It seems, Mr Seagram, that although you hate the press, you’re not above using it to achieve your goals.’
‘I don’t hate the press. I hate the police.’
And with that parting message, he turned and left the café.
‘Join the queue,’ said Ridpath to his departing back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
She was waiting for Ridpath in the lobby when he arrived carrying two paper cups of coffee.
‘I got you a latte – hope it’s what you drink.’
She took the coffee. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’
‘I needed it. Just had a meeting with Tony Seagram. Spent ten minutes fighting with myself over whether to have a cigarette. The cigarette nearly won. Decided a latte might be the lesser of two evils. Although having tasted it, I’m not so sure.’
‘Giving up fags, one of the hardest things to do.’
‘You used to smoke?’
She shook her head. ‘Never got the taste for them. Had one when I was 15 in the school bike sheds and was as sick as a dog. Never touched them again.’
‘Lucky you. Satan’s coffin nails.’
‘Talking of coffins… Protheroe will call us up in a minute, he’s just getting his ducks in a row.’
As if hearing his name, Protheroe appeared in front of them. ‘You can come through now.’ He beckoned with his index finger as if they were guilty children who had been caught stealing apples.
They walked through a quiet and expensively decorated office. Workstations with the latest computers, chairs that actually worked and a carpet free of coffee stains.
This was one of those companies newly set up by private investors to profit from the outsourcing of police services. Never mind the loss of expertise and experience of an internal forensics lab as well as the benefit of quality control. In the new orthodoxy, even the investigation of murder should be governed by market forces.
Beyond the office, they were shown into a spacious, well- lab. This was the other side of the coin. In the expectation of large profits, the labs were kitted out with the latest equipment; each time it was used another bill went to Her Majesty’s Government.
The coffin stood in an isolation area behind a glass wall.
‘Right, let’s get started, shall we? Do you want the top line or the full bells and whistles?’
‘Top line will be enough.’
‘Thought so – the science bits can be a bit overwhelming even for those who have done a course in forensics for a couple of weeks at university.’ He looked archly at DS Castle over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. ‘The top line is: no fingerprints on the inside of the coffin. No fingerprints on the breeze blocks. No presence of any epithelial cells on the lining or the pillow of the coffin. No presence of blood anywhere. No trace of any hair or any DNA. And the soil on your brogues? Manchester’s finest, great for the roses.’
‘So what you’re telling us is…you found nothing?’
‘Exactly.’
Sarah Castle coughed before she spoke. ‘The body was never in the coffin?’
‘Exactly. This coffin is as pristine as the day it was made.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Nada. Zilch. Not a sausage. Bugger all, if you’ll excuse my French.’
‘Any maker’s mark on the breeze blocks?’
‘None that I could see. Common or garden building materials.’
‘So what happened to the body?’
‘That’s for you to find out, detectives. I’m not in a position to speculate, nor am I paid to do so.’ He held up a thick index finger. ‘I will tell you one thing though. Alice Seagram’s body never lay in this coffin.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ridpath had succumbed to the lure of the cigarette. As he lit his first Marlboro of the day and inhaled, he felt the smoke surge down into his lungs. Acrid, bitter smoke tinged with shame and regret.
He immediately stubbed it out against the side of a white plastic planter and threw it into the damp soil where it lay next to a dirty crisp packet and thousands of other beige tips.
‘What are we going to do next?’
Sarah Castle was standing next to him. He noticed the ‘we’ in the question. ‘Buggered if I know.’
There was silence between them. Not the comfortable silence of old friends but the uncomfortable knowledge neither of them knew what to say.
He made conversation. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Investigation?’
‘Into the murder of the girl with the swan tattoo?’
She stared at him. ‘I forgot you were at the briefing. Not good. Still haven’t discovered her identity. The post-mortem is tomorrow.’
‘They’re slow.’
‘Backed up, according to the pathologist. The boss is pulling his hair out.’
‘He didn’t have much to begin with.’
‘He’s got less now.’
‘Where are you parked?’
‘Down the road on the right.’
‘Same place as me.’
They began walking down the main road to their cars. Traffic hurried past. At a pub opposite, young drinkers, some no older than 15, were spilling out of the doors to enjoy the late evening sunlight.
It was Sarah who spoke first. ‘I followed up on the breeze blocks. They’re a pattern called Cloverleaf. Not manufactured any more, popular in the sixties and seventies, retro according to Google.’
‘Could we track them down?’
‘Impossible, I think. They’re available on eBay and other sites. But whoever put them in the coffin may have just found them lying around, left over from some building or stored away somewhere. As Protheroe said, common or garden back then, just a lot rarer now.
Something flashed into his mind again for a split second. What was it? He tried to force it to come back but it wouldn’t.
Sarah Castle interrupted his thoughts. ‘I could check eBay if you want? See if anybody bought a job lot back in 2008?’
‘Do it, but it’s a long shot. As you say, whoever placed them in the coffin could just have had them hanging around. It looks like he cleaned them before using them anyway.’
Silence again. They walked on.
Ridpath wanted to light another cigarette, just so he would have something to do with his hands as he thought about the problem. But he didn’t; one bout of guilt and shame was enough for today. ‘Let’s think this through. We have a missing body: Alice Seagram. Protheroe was clear it had never been inside the coffin. Either the undertaker removed it or it never got to him in the first place.’
‘But why have a funeral then? If the body had never reached him, surely he would have informed the family and the mortuary? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Somebody put those breeze blocks inside to imitate the weight of Alice Seagram. Somebody wanted the pall-bearers to think there was a body inside.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question.’
‘After the post-mortem, the body would have been stitched back together and placed in the mortuary. When it was released it for burial, the undertaker’s men would have taken it to a laying-out parlour and prepared it according to the family’s wishes. You know, washed, dressed in her favourite clothes, made as presentable as possible, and then sealed into the coffin for eternity.’
‘Sounds like you know all about it.’
She thrust her hands into the jacket pockets. ‘I’ve buried my mum and dad in the last year. Sick of funerals.’
Ridpath was tempted to ask about the details but stopped himself in case he heard the dreaded word: cancer. He changed the subject quickly. ‘Let’s come at this from a different angle. Why?’
She frowned. ‘Why what?’
‘Why was the body stolen? Why would anybody want to steal a murder victim’s body? And what happened to the bodies of the other victims of the Beast?’
Again, silence as they walked on.
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she finally said.
‘Unless…somebody was trying to stop us doing what we’re doing now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The only reason we’ve discovered the body of Alice Seagram is missing is because the high court ordered the inquest to be reopened…
‘So?’
He held
up his hand. ‘And the only reason they reopened the case was problems with the evidence against James Dalbey.’
‘And because the family has been pushing for the case to be reopened,’ she interjected.
Could they be involved? From his meeting with the mother and father he doubted it. But Tony Seagram was a different kettle of arrogance. ‘Could you check on the son for me?’
‘I suppose so. What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. Who he is. What he does. His background. The works.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I need to go back to the beginning on this case. Interview the pathologist, Harold Lardner, see what he remembers. I’ll check out the mortuary. Perhaps they’ll know who the attendant was back in 2008 or, if I’m really lucky, he’s still working there.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I also have a favour I need to ask you.’
‘Go on,’ she said doubtfully.
‘I need to see the files for the original police investigation.’
‘Just ask Charlie Whitworth. I’m sure he’ll release them to you.’
‘And there’s the problem. I don’t want Charlie to know I have them.’
‘Why?’
He liked the bluntness of this woman. ‘Because the coroner wants to see them.’
‘Get her to ask through the usual channels.’
‘She’s done that already.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Ah,’ she said pointedly, ‘she wants to see all the files, not just the ones Charlie wants her to see.’ A beat. ‘What’s in it for me?’
He did like this woman. ‘The eternal gratitude of the coroner.’
‘I’ll survive without it.’
He thought again. ‘The knowledge it would help the coroner discover the truth.’
‘Laudable, but not motivating enough.’
‘Having me check out your theory that the MO of the latest murder and those of James Dalbey were similar.’ He could see her eyes flashing back to her moment of humiliation in the squad room. She began to blush again.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she finally said.
They walked past a newsagent’s. Outside on a stand, a handwritten poster for the Manchester Evening News in big bold, black letters loudly proclaimed:
