by M J Lee
‘Oh, I’m accusing him of far worse, Ms Hardisty. I’m accusing him of murder.’
‘But this is far out of your remit, Coroner.’
‘My remit, Ms Hardisty, is to uncover the truth about unexplained deaths in East Manchester.’
‘But this inquest is into the death of Alice Seagram in 2008.’
The coroner opened the file in front of her. ‘If you check your order of inquests for my court this morning, you will find the next one is into the death of Irene Hungerford. We have simply reached that case far earlier than expected. And as Mr Downey is down as a witness for the case, it seems expedient to use his evidence now if it helps the court to find out the truth regarding the investigation into Alice Seagram.’
The barrister glanced back to David Merchant who was scribbling furiously in his notebook.
‘This is most irregular, Mrs Challinor – the coroner’s role is to ascertain the facts behind a death, not to ascribe guilt or innocence—’
‘Do not tell me my job, Ms Hardisty. In my court, the Act of 2009 gives me a wide range of latitude on how I exercise my powers.’
‘But…but—’
‘Please sit down, Ms Hardisty.’ The coroner turned back to Patrick Downey. ‘You have made a serious allegation against a senior pathologist who claims he has never met you before.’
In the witness box, Patrick Downey stretched to his full height. ‘This is not an allegation,’ he said forcefully.
‘You can prove it?’ asked the coroner.
‘I can’ He opened the folder he had carried into the court and produced four photographs, passing them to Jenny Oldfield. She placed the pictures under a scanner next to the coroner.
‘These are time- and date stamped images taken from CCTV of Dr Lardner delivering the body to the facility two weeks ago.’
The images suddenly appeared on the three video monitors in the court. A man, clearly Harold Lardner, at the wheel of a car waiting for a security barrier to lift. A second shot of the car moving forward under the barrier. A third shot from above of the pathologist signing a book in the TRACE administration building, his head down. Finally a clear shot of Harold Lardner leaving the facility, accompanied by Patrick Downey.
‘I have given the security film taken by CCTV to the coroner’s officer, Detective Inspector Ridpath.’
The jury all turned as one to stare at Ridpath standing by the door, only turning back when Margaret Challinor began speaking again.
‘And you can confirm that the man in these pictures is Harold Lardner?’
The pathologist jumped out of his seat. ‘It’s all lies – pictures can be doctored, Lesley Taylor was the killer. The police found her body at the workshop in Poynton. She killed herself.’
‘There were two other security guards on duty that day. They can confirm that the person who brought the body of Irene Hungerford to TRACE was Dr Lardner, can they not, Mr Downey?’ Margaret Challinor’s voice was calm.
‘They can, Coroner.'
Both Charlie Whitworth and Ridpath stared at Harold Lardner.
A sneer spread across the man’s face as he slowly scanned the court. ‘You microbes. You small, insignificant people living your small even more insignificant lives.’ He pointed directly at Mrs Challinor. ‘How dare you or anyone of your sex judge me? My wife died, why should any of you live?’
Both Charlie Whitworth and Ridpath moved at the same time as Lardner jumped towards the coroner. Ridpath brought him down while Charlie wrenched his arms behind his back and fastened a pair of handcuffs on him.
‘You’re nicked,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘We never told you how Lesley Taylor died.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Two weeks later
‘Are you ready to go to Leeds, Ridpath?’
He adjusted his position in the seat in front of the coroner, trying to get comfortable in the bentwood chair. ‘As ready as I will ever be to go to Yorkshire.’
‘You don’t like Leeds?’
‘Well, it’s full of Yorkshiremen, what more can I say?’
Margaret Challinor smiled. ‘You’ll enjoy the coroner’s officer course, most people do.’
‘Aye, well, at least it’ll be change of scenery from here and headquarters.’
The coroner brushed a lock of grey hair off her forehead. ‘How are they treating you?’
‘Frostily. They weren’t too chuffed I didn’t tell them what I found in TRACE.’
‘But we weren’t certain who was involved until we saw the pictures.’
‘Still, loyalty means a lot to John Gorman.’
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Oh, he’ll be quietly allowed to retire early with a full pension. The force doesn’t wash its dirty linen in public.’
‘But he committed no crime…’
‘Other than arresting the wrong man and allowing a serial killer to commit at least three other murders. Greater Manchester Police can deal with stupidity and incompetence, but failure is a different set of handcuffs. The victims are quietly retired and then forgotten.’
‘And DCI Whitworth?’
‘Charlie? He’s angling for Gorman’s job, but I don’t think he’ll get it. Charlie’s a survivor, always has been.’
‘Has he forgiven you yet?’
‘Well, he’s moved from calling me dickhead to tosspot, so I guess we’re progressing.’ Ridpath scratched his head. ‘And he did get the collar.’
‘Lardner confessed everything to DCI Whitworth back in the station?’
‘And added four other women we knew nothing about. He’d been killing ever since his wife died. Experiments, he called them. Poor women.’
‘He was nothing but a cold-blooded killer. There is never any excuse, any justification for what he did.’ Margaret Challinor was slowly clenching and unclenching her fist. ‘He set up two people to take the fall for his killings. It was premeditated. Whenever he felt the police were getting close, he found someone to take the blame.’
‘James Dalbey and Lesley Taylor. But what I don’t understand is, why place some of the bodies in a cold store?’
‘I don’t know. Trophies? A reminder of what he had done. Souvenirs of his intelligence and power over the police and the rest of us. He’s not talking any more so we’ll never know.’
A shiver ran down Ridpath’s spine. ‘Sarah Castle rang me when I was visiting Dalbey. She said she had discovered something about the murders. I wonder if…’
‘…if she guessed it was Lardner? We’ll never know.’ She closed the file on her desk.
‘What about the man from the Ministry of Justice?’
‘David Merchant?’
‘That’s him, Mr Charming.’
‘He compiled a report for the minister and the chief coroner. I have to go to London next Wednesday to explain my conduct of the inquest.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not sure. I think I’ll be rapped over the knuckles and told to get in my box. It means they’ll be watching my every move for the next couple of years.’
‘The law is an ass.’
‘But you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant taking animals like Lardner off the streets. And you, Ridpath? What you are doing?’
Ridpath thought immediately of Polly and Eve. ‘It’s half-term so I’m finally meeting up with my wife and daughter.
‘You're still separated?’
‘It’ll take time. I have to build up their trust again.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘We’re going to watch Girls vs Gangsters 2. I don’t even know there was a first film. Anyway, I’m being educated on female empowerment. But I don’t care, I’m just happy to be with them.’
‘While I’m glad your wife has decided to take you out of the Neanderthal era, I was actually asking what are you going to do about my offer?’
Ridpath blushed. How stupid could he be? ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t thought about it yet. I just want to do the job for three months and then decide.’ He realized immediately
his answer sounded terribly offhand and ungrateful. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Challinor, I don’t mean any offence, It’s just…I’ve always been a copper. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I—’
She held up her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Ridpath. We’ll decide after the three months is up.’ She pulled across three files from her in tray. ‘Now, while you’re on the course, I suggest you read these files. They are ongoing investigations and we’re miles behind, letting the families down with the slow progress on their case.’
He reached forward and took the files. ‘I’m grateful, Mrs Challinor.’
‘I’m sure you are, Ridpath. But your gratitude is the least of my concerns at the moment. These families however…’ She pointed to the files.
He stood up. ‘I’ll get on to it straight away before I leave.’
As he was leaving her room, Mrs Challinor called him back. ‘I would go and see Girls and Gangsters 2 before you start though. You might learn something about women.’
Ridpath looked at the clock above her head. It said 5.15. Shit, late again. He rushed out of the door. ‘Bye, Mrs Challinor,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
He was going to meet his wife and daughter. They were the most important people in his life.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing.
From now on, he would try to let them know that every hour of every day.
The phone call had come in from Christie’s that morning. The results were good; he was still in remission. Another bonus hour, another day, another month, he could spend with his family, watching Eve grow tall and strong and independent.
If she took him back, he wouldn’t made any false promises to Polly this time – he knew himself too well when the momentum of a case swept him away – but he had promised himself to look after his health and attend the hospital appointments. It was the least he could do.
As he rushed to grab his coat and jacket, he remembered her words when they had talked on the phone.
‘You’re an idiot, Ridpath. But you’re mine and Eve’s idiot. The only one we’ve got.’
For the moment, he’d take that and work on getting them both back to where they belonged.
Home.
It was where his heart was.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
At the same time as Ridpath was rushing out of the Coroner’s Office in Stockfield, another man, smaller and more slightly built, was leaving prison.
‘Here are your possessions, Dalbey. Please check and sign for them.’
He opened the wallet. Inside were seven pounds and a few coins. He picked up the watch next to it and slipped it over his wrist. A watch that continually lost time, but Dalbey had always kept it as it was the only thing he still had from his father.
He signed the form in front of him. The officer checked the signature and pressed a button beneath the desk. The door slid back on unoiled castors, making a loud noise of metal against metal.
All it needed was a little oil – some care and attention and it would work perfectly.
He looked at the officer, ready to tell him, but the man was already writing something on the form, no longer aware of his presence.
The long corridor with another door at the end stretched in front of him. He stepped forward, one step at a time, towards the door. Behind him, the gate scratched and squealed itself shut.
Why didn’t they use some oil?
He could do it for them; he wouldn’t mind.
On his left, another prison officer behind a glass screen waved at Dalbey. Saying goodbye? Wishing him all the best? Or just glad there was one less prisoner to worry about?
Dalbey didn’t know, and he didn’t care anymore.
The door opened in front of him, silently this time. He stepped over the threshold and breathed in the diesel-scented air of freedom.
He glanced back at HMP Belmarsh, his home for the last ten years. The home of books, men, rancid smells, continuous noise and his own private hell.
The people who put him inside for such a long time were going to pay. He had spent a long time planning his revenge.
Ten years.
Now the time was ripe to pay them back.
He pulled up the collar of his jacket and buried his face to protect himself from the cold wind.
The old James Dalbey had been murdered in prison just as effectively as if someone had thrown a noose around his head and pulled the lever to the release the trapdoor.
The old James Dalbey had trusted people.
The old James Dalbey had loved his mother.
The old James Dalbey had tried to be a good man.
They would pay for the death of the old James Dalbey.
All of them.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled over to the bus stop where they had told him he could catch transport into town.
Ten years was a long time to plan revenge.
Ten years to savour it on his tongue.
Ten years to ensure all the details were correct.
Ten years.
Ten long years.
Time to make them pay.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © M. J. Lee, 2018
The moral right of M. J. Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788633161
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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