What the dead want, p.18
What the Dead Want, page 18
Chapter FORTY-SIX
Ridpath was on his way to the mortuary in Emily’s car when he received the message:
Mum is awake.
It took him a few moments to work it out. Who was Mum? Then it hit him. He typed back:
Mrs Challinor? She’s come out of the coma?
The doctors have examined her. She’s a bit confused and agitated but otherwise seems ok.
Great news, after so long.
The doctors say she needs rest and recuperation but she’s already asked about you.
Should I visit her or give it a few days?
Come as soon as you can, I’ll be spending the night here.
Will visit early tomorrow morning before work.
Great.
Ridpath stopped typing and smiled broadly.
‘You look happy, you just won a million quid on the lottery?’ asked Emily.
‘Nah, much better. Mrs Challinor has come out of her coma.’
‘That’s brilliant news. I always said she was a fighter that woman.’
It was brilliant, thought Ridpath. He had so much to tell her about the last eight months, so much to update.
They parked up and strode over to the mortuary. Inside, Ridpath’s mood was instantly depressed by the sterile stench of the place.
‘Come in, come in.’ The doctor greeted them in his high voice. ‘We are extremely excited by this discovery, aren’t we, Niamh?’
‘We are indeed, John. Even the normally taciturn Ridpath may be excited.’ She looked up from the body of Andrew Golding still lying on the stainless steel table, in exactly the same position Ridpath had left it five hours ago. ‘But you seem to be smiling Ridpath, first time I’ve ever seen you so happy, it suits you.’
‘Mrs Challinor has come out of her coma, Dr Schofield, isn’t it good news?’
Ridpath could see the doctor’s eyes shining with pleasure above his face mask.
‘It is, we’ve been waiting for so long for her to rejoin the land of the living.’
Ridpath thought it was an interesting choice of words for a man who spent his days surrounded by the dead.
‘And who have you brought with you to our office?’
‘This is DS Emily Parkinson, my number two on the case. Emily meet our pathologists, Professor Niamh O’Casey and you already know Dr Schofield.’
‘Nice to see you both.’
The two women eyed each other like two prize fighters from across the vast expanse of a boxing ring.
Ridpath rubbed his gloved hands. ‘Now we have the introductions over, what do you have for us?’
‘Well, this could be the second good news of the day. We had nearly completed the post-mortem when Niamh decided to check the epiglottis.’
‘I wanted to see if it too had been damaged during the manual strangulation. I looked inside the boy’s mouth and to my surprise found this tucked between one of his pre-molars and his cheek.’ She held up a small red and orange gel cap.
‘Are you saying he was drugged?’
‘We think he probably was, but this is far more important.’
‘Why?’
Dr Schofield took over. ‘You see if the boy had been given the gel cap before he was dead, his body heat and saliva would have dissolved it.’
‘And it would have been impossible to have given it to him after he was frozen because the jaw would have been unable to open.’
‘But you know, Niamh, the body could have been unfrozen, the gel cap placed in the boy’s mouth and then refrozen again.’
‘Interesting John, but we found no evidence the body had been slowly frozen twice. The cell damage of such an act would have been catastrophic. No, I think our only conclusion is the gel cap was placed in the mouth after the body was unfrozen but before it was dumped beside the road in Withington.’
It was as if Ridpath and Emily Parkinson weren’t there.
‘Yes, I must agree, Niamh, it’s the only logical conclusion.’
‘But why does it matter when the gel cap was placed in the mouth? You said he was probably drugged.’
‘Oh, but it does matter, DS Parkinson, it matters very much. You see you are making some obvious assumptions about our little gel cap.’
He held it up between his index finger and his thumb.
Ridpath thought for a long time. What assumption had they made about a gel cap? And then it hit him like a double decker bus. ‘We’re assuming the gel cap contains drugs.’
Dr Schofield turned to his colleague. ‘I told you he was good, Niamh.’
She tapped her hands together in quiet applause.
‘So what does it contain?’
Dr Schofield placed the gel cap on a small white tray, pulling the two halves apart with a small pair of tweezers, talking as he did. ‘When we opened our little friend, we discovered this.’
Inside the gel cap, was a small roll of onion paper. Using the tweezers and the blade of a scalpel, the doctor unrolled it and gestured for them to join him.
Looking over his shoulder, they could see it contained a single stark word in black, capital letters.
TRACE
‘I haven’t a clue what it means. Is it a child’s game? Does it mean the killer is leaving something behind on his victim, teasing us about Locard’s theory about forensics?’
‘Every contact leaves a trace.’
‘Exactly DS Parkinson.’
Ridpath had been quiet, staring at the single five-letter word on the paper. A word which had sent a stab of fear down his spine.
‘It’s not either of those possibilities,’ he finally said. ‘I know exactly what this new discovery means. And it’s not good news. Not good at all.’
A silence hung over the examination punctuated only by the sound of the air conditioning.
Finally, Emily asked, ‘What do you mean, Ridpath? I don’t understand.’
Ridpath closed his eyes briefly. An image of frozen corpses lying in a freezer flashed through his mind. ‘TRACE is the facility near Preston run by the University of Lancashire. It is the nearest thing the UK has to a body farm.’
‘I’ve been there and worked there. But they only use animal parts in their scientific work not human cadavers,’ said Niamh O’Casey.
‘It was where Harold Lardner kept his victims. Hidden in plain sight. We discovered them by chance.’
Emily Parkinson was silent for a long time before saying, ‘But I thought Lardner was only convicted on one count of murder.’
‘True. But we tied Lardner to at least five other murders of women. However, the Crown Prosecution Service decided, in its infinite wisdom, only one count would generate a failsafe conviction. In their opinion the evidence wasn’t strong enough to convict him of the other murders and they didn’t want to “confuse” the jury.’
‘So Lardner killed more women, concealing their bodies at TRACE?’
‘That’s about it. He was far too clever to leave forensic evidence on the bodies tying him to the murders.’
‘Yet here we are having discovered a piece of paper linking this murder with Lardner. And one of the few people who would recognise the clue happens also to be the Senior Investigating Officer looking into the case.’
‘It would point to two conclusions, Dr O’Casey.’
‘Which are?’
‘Either Lardner is active again, coordinating the murders from his cell in Ashworth High Security Hospital—’
‘The whole point of having such strict security for people like Lardner is they are continually watched by a team of professional prison officers, psychiatrists and security staff. It would be extremely hard, if not impossible, to arrange a murder four years ago, for the body to be kept frozen and now left by a road in Manchester.’
‘Everything you said is true, doctor.’
‘Plus, you said yourself Ridpath, Lardner didn’t kill men or boys, he focused on women.’
‘Also true, Emily. But we do have a murder which seems to link back to the MO of Harold Lardner, unless…’ Ridpath stopped speaking, staring into mid-air.
‘Earth to Ridpath. Come in Planet Ridpath.’
He snapped out of his thoughts. ‘Unless, we have option two: a copycat. A killer who is trying to replicate the murders of the Beast of Manchester. And wants to show his adulation by leaving clues behind on his victims.’
‘You said victims, Ridpath,’ Dr O’Casey’s voice cut through the hum of the equipment, ‘but we only have one victim. This boy.’
‘I’m sure he has killed already. We just haven’t found the other victims yet. But maybe, doctor, he’s telling us where they are with your small piece of paper.’
‘You think they are at TRACE?’
‘It’s the first place I would look, wouldn’t you?’
‘There is one other possibility, a third option you have overlooked, Ridpath,’ said Niamh O’Casey.
‘What’s that?’
‘Lardner is operating from Ashworth, directing the copycat to commit crimes on his behalf.’
Ridpath stayed silent for a long time before saying, ‘You’re right, Niamh, that is a third possibility. He did use stooges before to do his bidding. One even killed herself rather than be arrested by us.’ He stopped again, lost in thought before suddenly saying, ‘I need to talk to Steve Carruthers.’
Ridpath strode down to the other end of the post-mortem facility, calling his boss. The overpowering pickle-like smell of formaldehyde hung around the area like rotting kimchi.
Carruthers answered after four rings. Ridpath explained the situation to him and requested Police Tactical Unit support plus a team of search officers.
‘What exactly are we looking for, Ridpath?’
‘I’m not certain, sir, but I suspect we will find more bodies.’
‘I’ll have to contact Lancashire Police, it’s in their area.’
‘Try Detective Superintendent Hollis. We’ve worked with him before and he knows the case.’
‘Will do, what time do you want to go in, Ridpath?’
‘As soon as we get the team together, boss, let’s say ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘Not earlier?’
‘Those bodies aren’t going anywhere and it will take a long time to put a team together. I also want the manager of the facility to be there.’
‘Right, consider it done. I’ll message you the details as soon as I have them.’
Ridpath switched off his phone and walked back to where the three others were gathered around the body of Andy Golding.
‘It’s on, tomorrow at ten.’
‘Can I go with you?’ asked Niamh O’Casey. ‘If you discover bodies, you are going to need a pathologist on site. At least I know the case.’
‘I’m not sure, Dr O’Casey. Lancashire will want their own pathologist and coroner involved.’
‘But that would take time. And, I should remind you, if there is another Beast of Manchester out there, time is the one commodity you don’t have.’
Chapter FORTY-SEVEN
After explaining the latest discoveries on a conference call with the rest of the team, Ridpath decided to head home.
The call had been short. Chrissy was to continue tracking the van using ANPR and Helen and her team were to contact possible van owners first in Greater Manchester and then expand the search to the rest of the North. It was going to be a painstaking and detailed operation.
‘I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.’
‘Why Helen?’
‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘You’ll have a team to support you. It’s important, Helen, we need to find the van and tie it to the death of Andy Golding.’
She finally acquiesced. Ridpath thought she was in love with the exciting, derring-do aspects of policing, not realising it was the hard grind of detailed evidence recovery which led to breakthroughs.
‘And Chrissy, can you organise a warrant to search the SunnySide Residential Care Home and its files? West Didsbury were called to the home on the day Andy disappeared. I am still convinced the place has something to do with his disappearance.’
‘Any reason, Ridpath?’
‘You could use a series of unexplained deaths in the last year.’
‘Isn’t that the coroner’s territory?’
‘Probably, but he’s not doing his job so we’ll have to do it for him.’
‘Right, I’m on it, Ridpath, I’ll find a friendly magistrate to sign it.’
‘Finally, Em, you’re with me on the raid at TRACE tomorrow. And did you organise the visit to see Harold Lardner?’
‘You still want to go, Ridpath?’
‘Now more than ever.’
She checked her notebook. ‘Right, it’s arranged for four p.m. tomorrow but the deputy governor is insisting on a meeting before we see Lardner.’
‘Why?’
‘He wouldn’t say, but he won’t let us meet Lardner unless we see him first.’
‘Confirm it, Emily. We need to see him.’
‘Right people, we are getting close, I feel it in my water. Let’s keep pushing now, and we can nail this case.’
He wished he could have used better speech to inspire the team but the words hadn’t come to him.
After the meeting was finished, it was ten fifteen before he arrived home.
As he put his key in the door, he shouted, ‘Eve!’
There was no reply.
He looked around the hall, glancing upstairs. ‘Eve!’ he shouted again.
Still no answer.
Then the door to the kitchen flew open. ‘Surprise.’
The table was set and a steaming bowl of lasagne stood in the centre along with a large salad and two place settings.
‘I thought you’d be hungry when you got home.’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered, a sandwich would have done.’
Her face fell.
‘But thank you, it’s a lovely surprise.’
A broad smile. ‘It’s the last frozen lasagne though, you’re going to have to make some more.’
The lasagne was Polly’s recipe. Once a month, Ridpath made a whole batch, keeping them in the freezer until they were needed.
‘We’ll do it at the weekend. I’ll organise a delivery from Ocado for the stuff and we’ll be ready.’ He made a mental note to do it later.
‘Promise?’
He held out his hand with the thumb and forefinger extended. A strange teenage ritual she had taught him. ‘Promise.’
He took off his jacket and sat down.
‘Sorry about the salad. It’s a recipe from TikTok. We didn’t have any mustard so I used lemon juice and oil. I hope it’s not too sour?’
‘I’m amazed we had any salad ingredients in the fridge.’
‘We didn’t, I walked to the local Tesco Express. Couldn’t get any wine though.’
He was about to reprimand her for not staying in the house as he had instructed, when he realised this was not the time or the place.
‘Well let’s get stuck in, I’m starving.’
‘So am I, the pho didn’t really fill me up.’
‘Fur never does.’ He began eating, the lasagne was good, even if he had made it himself. ‘What did you do waiting for me?’
‘The usual; finished my homework and watched a bit of telly. Digging for Britain. Alice Roberts is so cool.’
‘So you’re thinking about becoming an archaeologist?’ He spoke with his mouth full of cheese sauce and salad.
‘She’s not an archaeologist, she’s an osteologist. She specialises in anatomy and has a medical degree.’
Ridpath’s mind flashed back to the body of Andy Golding lying on the stainless steel table.
‘I’m thinking of doing a medical degree and specialising in pathology.’
Ridpath said nothing. He couldn’t imagine his beautiful daughter being surrounded by dead bodies for the rest of her life, having the single-minded focus of Niamh O’Casey.
‘But it may be just a phase. I might go back to wanting to be an MP next week.’
The wonderful freedom of the young. At that age, they had lots of choices. His job was to help her realise her ambitions.
‘I have some good news. Mrs Challinor has come out of her coma.’
‘Great, can I go and visit her?’
‘Probably not yet. Let her recover for a few more days.’
‘Perhaps on Sunday? I’d love to see her again.’
‘I’ll check when I see her tomorrow morning. Now the not so good news…’
‘You mean the bad news, Dad.’
‘I’m going to be busy tomorrow, I have to go up to Preston.’ She didn’t need to know he was going to a body farm. ‘So I may not be back early and won’t be able to pick you up from school. I’ll call Maisie’s mum and ask her to look after you till I’m free.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, Dad. I can look after myself now. I’d prefer to come home on my own and do my homework here. I can let myself in and, after my visit to Tesco, we’ve even got some food.’
Ridpath thought for a long time.
‘I did it this evening, Dad, and I was okay. Trust me.’
He nodded agreement. ‘But you must come straight home, do not pass Go and do not collect 200 quid.’
‘Fat chance.’
He changed his tone. ‘I am serious. I might be late. Just come home, lock all the doors and stay inside. No more visits to Tesco.’
‘Not even if I need something?’
‘Not even if you need something.’ He held up his finger. ‘Plus, I have to leave tomorrow morning at six, it will be too early to take you to school or the tram station…’
‘I can walk and I’ll get up early to see you off.’
‘I’d prefer you went to Maisie’s and her mum took you. I’ll make breakfast and leave it out for you. Agreed?’
He held out his little finger with the index extended.
She did the same. ‘I’ll get up before you go, but it’s agreed.’
He changed the subject. ‘You and Maisie not getting on?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘We’re okay, it’s just she can be a bit much sometimes. Everything is such a drama…’
