Where the Truth Lies

by M J Lee

She tried to move her arms but they were too heavy. Why were they so heavy?

  Breathe again.

  She opened her eyes and pushed down on the floor with her arms, raising her body a few inches off the ground.

  ‘Hello there, DS Castle. I wondered when you were going to join us.’

  ‘Water…water.’

  ‘Thirst is one of the unfortunate side effects of the drug you were given.’

  Sarah squinted into the darkness behind the light. A woman’s voice. Where was she?

  From her right, footsteps changing pitch and tone as they went across a concrete floor and onto something softer. A rim of plastic being placed against her lips. Cold, wet liquid flowing into her mouth and throat.

  ‘Not too much, DS Castle – save some for later.’

  She knows my name. How does she know my name? She pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her arms were still heavy. She looked down and saw a large iron manacle attached to her right wrist. A chain led from the manacle to an iron ring on the wall.

  She reached over with her left hand to remove the manacle, but it only moved two inches before jerking to a stop. Her left arm was manacled too.

  ‘You’re probably wondering where you are.’

  She was standing next to something, adjusting it, looking across to a box on her right.

  ‘Good, that’s better,’ she said to herself. ‘You don’t mind if I film you, do you? He likes to watch. And you are going to provide such good viewing.’

  ‘Where…where…?’

  ‘Where are you?

  ‘The location is not important. The situation is. You will have worked out through that drug-addled brain of yours that you are manacled to a wall.’

  ‘How…how did…?’ Sarah was trying to formulate the words but they wouldn’t come out. Why wouldn’t they come out?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘Not really important, but by car, if it helps.’ The woman moved in front of the light, becoming a dark silhouette. ‘I see from your face it doesn’t.’

  ‘Police…will look for…me.’ Finally, she managed to get the words out.

  ‘Probably, but not yet. Anyway, that’s all been taken care of. He doesn’t make mistakes.’

  Sarah’s eyes were getting heavy again. She shook her head, trying to stay awake.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. I put a little more tranquillizer in the water. You should be feeling sleepy again, but don’t worry, you won’t be out long.

  Sarah’s head nodded forward towards her chest.

  Tired, so tired.

  She forced her eyes open one last time, focusing on the floor in front of her. As she drifted off into opioid dreams, she realized the white object flecked with red in front of her was bone.

  Human bone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  After the meeting had finished, he tried Sarah’s phone. Again it went straight to voicemail. Why didn’t she ring him back? Yesterday, everything was so urgent and now it seemed like it didn’t matter. Didn’t she want to know about James Dalbey?

  He decided he would stop by at the Major Incident Team office before he went down to Congleton to see Anthony Chettle. It would mean driving into Manchester and out again, but what the hell, he needed to talk to someone about his meeting with Dalbey. And Sarah was the only person who shared his misgivings about the 2008 investigation.

  He got in the car and started the engine, making his way towards town. First though, he would have to ring Christie’s hospital.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel my appointment this afternoon.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Thomas Ridpath.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ridpath, you’re down to meet Mr Morris at 2.30.’

  ‘I’d like to reschedule, if I may?’ Why were English people always so deferential when talking to bureaucrats? He would never use sentences like ‘if I may?’ in normal conversation. Years of being serfs and servants, he supposed. ‘Something has come up at work’ he added by way of explanation.

  ‘Hmm.’ He had never heard so much disapproval expressed in one sound. It was followed by the clicking of a keyboard. ‘I have another appointment at, let me see, 3.30 p.m. on 5 May.’

  Whispered words in the background. The voice suddenly animated down the end of the phone. ‘You’re in luck, we’ve just had a cancellation for tomorrow at 9 a.m. Can you make it?’

  Ridpath thought for a moment, gallons of blood flowing out of his veins into a vast frothy vat crossed his mind.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, book me in.’

  ‘Good, don’t be late. Thank you for calling Christie’s.’ The cheery sign-off was in contrast to the stern warning. He could understand though. Organizing patient appointments must be like herding cats, only twice as difficult, especially with people like him, desperate not to visit a hospital ever again.

  A barrier appeared in front of the car. He was pulled out of his memories by the face of a security guard at the driver’s side window. How did he get here? It was like the car had driven itself. He would have to concentrate more on what he was doing. Perhaps the drug had side effects. He would have to ask the doctor tomorrow.

  If he went.

  He flashed his ID to the guard and was let through the gate, parking neatly behind Charlie Whitworth’s Vauxhall. He ran up the steps. The same sergeant was on the front desk.

  ‘It’s you again. You’ll be living here soon.’

  A quick ‘I hope so,’ and he was buzzed through.

  Sarah’s desk was empty. All her files were neatly stacked and the computer was switched off.

  Harry Makepeace was walking past.

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’ he asked.

  Harry glanced back at the empty desk and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno, why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘If she was answering her phone, I would.’

  ‘The prodigal son returns. How was the Beast?’ Charlie Whitworth shouted from his open doorway.

  Ridpath strode past Sarah’s empty desk. ‘Fine, boss. James Dalbey is still in Belmarsh and still saying he’s innocent.’

  ‘Don’t they all? I need a word.’ Charlie pointed to his office.

  They both went in and sat down. Charlie cradled his hands in front of his face. ‘John Gorman’s not happy…’

  What had Ridpath done now?

  ‘… That woman, Margaret Challinor, requesting the case files, and now she seems to have broadened her inquiry.’

  Ridpath frowned, ‘Broadened her inquiry?’

  ‘She’s looking into the whole case against the Beast, not just the post-mortem on Alice Seagram.’

  ‘Inevitable, boss, once the body went missing.’

  The DCI’s fist came crashing down on the table. ‘You were supposed to keep us informed. Instead, you’re traipsing off to interview probably the worst serial killer who ever walked the streets of Manchester.’

  ‘That’s unfair, boss.’

  ‘That’s unfair, boss,’ Whitworth mimicked him. ‘I’ll tell you what’s unfair, Ridpath. When the deputy chief constable decides you’re still unfit for duty and John Gorman doesn’t say a word to defend you. That’s unfair. When you’re looking for new job and John Gorman won’t give you a character reference. That’s unfair. When a copper doesn’t stand up for his mates. That’s unfair. Really unfair.’

  ‘Charlie, I—’

  ‘Don’t “Charlie” me. We want to know every move she makes from now on. If she farts, we want to hear about it. Understood?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘If you want our support, earn it. Clear?’ The DCI’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here anyway?’

  Ridpath thought about making something up, but decided against it. Now was not the time to tell porkies to Charlie, but the complete truth was out of the question. ‘I came to see Sarah – she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘And why should you two be ringing each other?’

  ‘She said she would che
ck up on the breeze blocks found in the coffin.’

  Charlie Whitworth laughed. ‘Getting her to do your work, were you?’

  ‘She was helping out. But she’s not at her desk, nor is she answering her phone.’

  ‘Probably at home taking a sickie. Time of the month and all that. Harry!’ he shouted, Makepeace’s head appeared around the door almost immediately.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Where’s DS Castle?’

  ‘Search me, boss.’

  ‘She’s part of your team, Harry, you’re supposed to know.’

  ‘I’ll send someone round to her place. She’s probably taking a sickie.’

  ‘You do that. And Harry, give her a bollocking while you’re at it. She keeps her phone on no matter how sick she is. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Harry ran back into the office.

  Charlie Whitworth stood up. ‘Remember, we want to know everything.’

  It was time for Ridpath to get out of there and go and see the former coroner’s officer, Anthony Chettle.

  ‘Of course, Charlie, you’ll know everything from now on.’ It was the only way he was going to get out of the office alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  It was a relief to get out of the station and head down to Congleton on the A34. He found himself gripping the steering wheel tightly. The meeting with Charlie Whitworth had done nothing for his stress levels. He was now becoming the meat in the bloody sandwich caught between Charlie Whitworth and Margaret Challinor.

  A knackered, chewed and bloody piece of meat.

  To make matters worse, he now believed an innocent man had spent the last ten years in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. And the body of one of his supposed victims had gone missing.

  What the bloody hell was he supposed to do?

  He put on Bowie in the car stereo and let himself relax to the beat of ‘The Jean Genie’, remembering his youth waving his arms to the music of the Thin White Duke. When everybody else was listening to the dreary music of the Smiths, Stone Roses or the Mondays, he had discovered early Bowie. Like Northern Soul, it was music out of its time, but for him, it was the only sound that made sense of his feelings.

  As he drove down the A34, negotiating an obstacle course of roundabouts, roadworks, slow-moving lorries and congenital idiots who had somehow been given a driving licence, he considered his position.

  Charlie Whitworth and John Gorman were not enemies he could bear to have if he still wanted to survive in the police. They controlled his future as a detective. Any chances of promotion or career development were down to them and their recommendations. In cop shows, you often saw people moving forces, but it rarely happened. Usually, a copper stayed with one force for life. Piss off somebody above you in the pecking order and they would remember.

  For the rest of your career.

  What did he owe to Margaret Challinor?

  Nothing.

  She was merely his temporary employer while he was seconded to the Coroner’s Office. A job, as she said, lasting three months at most, while she found somebody with medical experience.

  Mick Ronson’s guitar solo and Mickey Woodmansey’s drumming increased in tempo. Ridpath increased the volume. ‘The Jean Genie’ filled the car as he sang along with Bowie, receiving stares from other motorists.

  Sod them.

  He knew one thing. He was never going to report on her to his bosses. The honest side of him, the man he knew was still there, deep down beneath the bluster and the mateship, was never going to be a stoolie. He wasn’t a Harry Makepeace, so scared of losing his job he would do anything and everything to butter up his boss.

  He would never become a spy for them against Margaret Challinor, however they threatened, cajoled or bribed him.

  The situation had to be managed. He didn’t know how yet, but manage it he would.

  He was a detective, not a grass.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  PC Deborah Howard had lucked out again. Her sergeant had received an instruction from the MIT to go and check up on one of their detectives who wasn’t answering her phone.

  ‘You’re shitting me, Dave. You want me to go round and wake up some poor bloody detective who’s probably slept in after a long night, simply because she’s not answering her phone?’

  ‘That’s the length of it, aye.’

  ‘Don’t I have better things to do? Like catch criminals? Or look into the set of burglaries on Cromwell Road? Or even check out the parks to see if any of the youngsters are smoking dope?’

  Her sergeant scratched his nose. ‘Aye, you probably do. But as everybody else is out and you’re the only one still in the station, it looks like it’s you.’

  ‘Can’t Jim Stannish handle it?’

  ‘Jim’s got a domestic over on Washway Road. And you may have forgotten, PC Howard, but I arrange what people do and don’t do in this nick, not a probationary police constable.’

  The reminder of her status shut Deborah up for a moment. ‘Can’t I just finish this report on the burglaries?’

  ‘No, the MIT want her checked out now. Here’s her name and address. It’s only 15 minutes away. You’ll be back before your tea goes cold.’

  Deborah stared at the fresh cup of tea she had just brewed sitting next to her computer.

  He picked it up off her table. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll look after this for you.’ He began drinking it. ‘Not a bad drop – you make a fine cuppa. You got any sugar?’

  She handed him a sachet she had taken from McDonald’s.

  ‘Now, off you pop. You can make some fresh when you come back.’

  Deborah stood up, putting on her police overcoat. ‘It’s bloody freezing out there.’

  Her sergeant checked his phone. ‘Actually, it’s a balmy eight degrees with a wind chill of two degrees.’

  ‘Another Manchester spring?’

  ‘Aye, and don’t forget to put your sunscreen on before you go out.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha!’ She went out the back door and climbed into the squad car. Her oppo, Harris, was on sick leave today. ‘Everybody’s bloody sick today, including me,’ she said to no one in particular as she turned the key in the ignition, hearing the starter motor fight against the cold, before eventually turning over.

  She drove to the address, hoping the heater would warm the car before she got there. But it wasn’t working. She turned it off after sitting in a blast of cold air for two minutes.

  She double-parked the car, nipping out to knock on the door. The house was tiny but well kept: newly painted door, fresh blinds and the garden neat and tidy with roses growing in pots.

  She knocked again.

  No answer.

  She didn’t know why but the place felt empty. She’d probably already left for work. Those bloody idiots in the MIT wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow. They even lost their own bloody coppers now. Lord save us if they have to investigate anything.

  A tired woman in a housecoat with her hair in curlers stepped out from a door across the street. ‘Are you the police?’ she shouted.

  Deborah was tempted to answer, ‘No, I always go around wearing a stab vest and driving a blue and yellow checked car with “Police” written down the side.’ Instead, she adopted her dealing-with-the-public face. ‘Yes, madam, just looking for Detective Sergeant… ’ she checked the name on the piece of paper, ‘DS Castle.’

  ‘Well, she’s not here. Are you coming because I rang this morning?’

  Deborah Carr scratched her head. She walked over to the woman, ‘You called this morning?’

  ‘I thought about ringing for a long time, then went to bed, but it kept nagging at me and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early and rang you lot.’

  ‘Sorry, who did you ring?’

  ‘The sergeant at the police station. He came round to the community centre six months ago and gave us a lovely talk – called “Policing in the Community”, it was. Well, I laughed, we called it “Policing in the Commun
ity Centre”. Our little joke, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. Can we start again? Your name is…?’

  ‘Norah Finch. Mrs Norah Finch.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Finch, you called us this morning?’

  The woman folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘I did, spoke to the sergeant myself. It was around 5 a.m.’

  Deborah Carr closed her eyes. Start again. ‘Why did you call us?’

  ‘Well, I was just about to go to bed last night at 11.30 when I heard Sarah’s car pull up into its usual place.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘The policewoman who lives at number 23.’

  ‘DS Castle?’

  ‘Yes, Sarah. Anyway, I saw her park her car then another car pulled up next to it.

  ‘Another car?’

  ‘A BMW 320 diesel, white.’

  ‘You know your cars.’

  ‘Used to work in a second-hand dealership, didn’t I? Bunch of shysters. You know one team—’

  ‘So the BMW pulled up,’ interrupted PC Howard, ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Well I watched them talking for a few seconds then Sarah leant into the car. It looked like they were kissing.’

  ‘Who was kissing?’

  ‘Sarah and the woman in the car.’

  ‘There was a woman in the car?’

  ‘I was pretty certain it was a woman, because the light went on, and she had long hair.’ The woman leant closer. ‘Sarah is that way inclined, you know. Not that I care myself. Nothing to do with me what the lesbians get up to in the privacy of their own homes, is it?’

  ‘But they were kissing on the street?’

  ‘I thought they were kissing but then the woman in the car started banging Sarah’s head on the side of the car door. Quite hard it was too. And you could hear the bumps against the metal.’

  Deborah Carr took out her notebook. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The woman in the car got out of the passenger side. I could see quite clearly she was a woman now. She went round to the driver’s side and moved Sarah to the back seat.’

  ‘Let me get this right. Sarah…I mean, DS Castle was unconscious?’

  ‘It looked like it to me.’

  ‘So you rang the police?’