When the Night Ends, page 25
Back in his car, he found his hands shaking as they rested on the steering wheel. Why had he allowed Lardner to get to him? The man was a psychopath who enjoyed manipulating people. He should never have agreed to meet him.
Lurking at the back of his mind was the feeling Lardner was playing him. Hinting at something darker and deeper than a rushed post-mortem. Was it true, or was it just another one of Lardner’s games? Who had asked Lardner to make sure it was seen as an accident?
It was the findings of the post-mortem that allowed the death to be brushed under the carpet. Just another accident rather than something more sinister.
He decided to ring Chrissy before going back to Stockfield.
‘Hiya, I was hoping you’d ring. Just a minute.’
He heard the sounds of the civilian researcher getting up from her desk and stepping out into somewhere where her voice echoed. Probably the emergency stairwell at Police HQ.
‘Sorry, couldn’t talk, too many people listening. I managed to find Mark Brett for you. He’s been seconded onto a special task force. One of those secret deals nobody is supposed to know about. But you know how coppers gossip…’
‘What is it?’
‘Operation Ventnor. It’s all part of the fallout from the decoding of EncroChat.’
‘EncroChat?’
‘In short, WhatsApp for criminals. It was a totally legal service allowing over fifty thousand users around the world, and nine thousand in the UK, to communicate safe in the knowledge that none of their texts would be uncovered by law enforcement. Until, of course, the whole communication system was busted by the French police.’
‘I remember now, but I thought the raids happened more than a year ago?’
‘Apparently there’s a new investigation into people missed in the original arrests after the investigation. It’s run by the National Crime Agency and they are set up in a separate building with completely different reporting structures and computer systems.’
‘What?’
‘It’s like a force within a force. Now get this…’
‘Don’t tell me… they are investigating links between organised crime groups and the police in the north.’
‘Ridpath, that was going to be my big surprise.’
‘Who’s running it?’
‘A superintendent no less, goes by the name of Ratcliffe.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Not surprising. She comes from the Thames Valley force.’
‘How long have they been operating?’
‘Sorry, my friend didn’t know.’
‘And what’s the link to the death of Ben Holdsworth?’
‘Don’t know that either. But I do know where they are based.’
‘Can you text me the address? Time to pay a visit to Mr Brett.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Ridpath. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Turnbull is saying you assaulted him. He wants to press charges against you. Claire Trent is trying to dissuade him and keep it an internal affair but he seems adamant.’
He hadn’t touched Turnbull, but how to prove it? ‘I’m in trouble, aren’t I, Chrissy?’
‘An understatement, Ridpath. You’re up shit creek without a paddle, or a canoe, and the water’s rising above your head.’
‘That good, huh?’
‘Worse.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Where’s Emily?’
‘At her desk, keeping her head down, trying to avoid the shit flying around.’
‘Could you get her? I’d like to have a chat.’
‘Give me a sec.’
The phone went dead. Ridpath was in worse trouble than he thought. He’d been tempted to laugh off Turnbull’s allegation but a charge of striking a senior officer was serious. He could get jail time for it or, at minimum, he could be dismissed from the force for gross misconduct. What would he do then?
‘Hi there, Ridpath, you’re in big trouble.’
‘Thanks for reminding me, Emily.’ He paused, taking a breath. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’
‘What is it?’
‘I swear I never touched Turnbull. We were together at the post-mortem and had an argument, but then I left and drove to the coroner’s office.’
‘Dr Schofield has confirmed the dispute during the post-mortem but says there was no fight in his presence, simply a “healthy exchange of opinions”, in his words.’
Thank you, Dr Schofield, I owe you a pint or three.
‘But Turnbull says the fight happened outside the mortuary. You ambushed him on the way to his car. Verbally attacked him and then committed an assault.’
‘It’s a lie, Emily.’
‘I believe you, Ridpath, but it’s the word of a senior officer against yours, plus he was assaulted by somebody; you only have to look at his face.’
‘It never happened, Emily, I swear on Eve’s life.’
‘As I said, I believe you, Ridpath.’
The detective stared through the windscreen of his car. Once again, rain was starting to fall. So much rain at the moment, seeping into everything, leaving a damp, muggy smell everywhere.
‘I have favour to ask, Emily. Please say no if you don’t want to do it. I promise I will understand.’
‘What is it, Ridpath?’
‘I need you to check the CCTV outside the mortuary. We left at roughly five p.m. yesterday. If you go quickly it won’t be erased.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone, before she finally responded. ‘If Turnbull finds out, it could be the end of my career. I’ll be writing parking tickets for the next twenty years. Or worse.’
‘I know, Emily. Normally I wouldn’t ask but I’m in trouble, deep trouble.’
More silence.
Finally she spoke. ‘OK, I’ll check them out this evening. But you owe me big time, Ridpath. And Chrissy, you owe her too.’
‘A curry for three in Rusholme?’
‘And the rest.’
‘Thanks, Emily, and sorry for asking.’
‘No worry, Ridpath, but a bit of me would like it to be true.’
‘What?’
‘I wish you had punched Turnbull.’
Chapter Seventy-Four
After the phone call to Emily, Ridpath said a small prayer in thanks for friends. Polly’s death had reminded him how precious they were, and during his PTSD counselling he had been frequently reminded of the meaning of gratitude.
It was never more important than today.
He sat back in the car, listening to the rain beat down on the roof. When would it stop bloody raining? It seemed as if the drizzle had lasted for a year and day. He imagined meeting a Mr Noah soon at B&Q buying up all the spare four-by-twos. No doubt he would live in Ark Avenue next to Sale Water Park.
Focus, Ridpath, concentrate.
Where to next?
He had planned on visiting Redbury nick again and having a chat with Bob French, showing him the picture taken from the screenshot. This man was key. What was he doing in the station and who the hell was he?
Or he could go and confront DI Mark Brett. His phone had already buzzed with a message from Chrissy. The address was Nexus House, in the centre of Manchester. What about doing both today? After all, he didn’t have much time left and Professional Standards could make life difficult for him at any moment.
He slapped his forehead. Dinner with Eve. He’d promised to take her to Nando’s this evening.
Shit.
He picked up his phone and messaged her.
Sorry, Eve, will be back a bit late this evening.
Her answer came almost immediately:
But you promised we were going to Nando’s…
The text was followed by a long line of angry emojis. Ridpath had never got the hang of using these things. Wasn’t English easier? He’d watched his daughter and her friends communicate entirely without words.
Sorry, I’ll try my best. Perhaps a late dinner?
Better late than never.
The reply was instant again, if a little curt. This time there were no emojis.
He put the car in gear and decided to go to Redbury, reasoning it was on his way back to Manchester and it would be easier to park in the city centre later on a Saturday.
Bob French shouldn’t take long anyway. He just needed to verify if PC 2568 was employed at the station.
Chapter Seventy-Five
‘Never seen him before.’
‘He’s never been stationed here?’
Inspector French looked at the image of PC 2568 again. ‘Was this taken at our rear door?’
‘On the night of Ben Holdsworth’s death. He entered the station at 4.20 a.m.’
A deep frown creased the forehead of the uniformed officer. ‘Impossible, we change the code weekly at six a.m. on Wednesdays, and it’s only emailed to serving officers on the intranet. It’s not widely distributed. We don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry coming in.’
‘So you’ve never seen him before?’
‘Not at this nick, and I’ve been here six years. He should be easy to track, there’s his number.’
‘The number belongs to somebody who retired in 2017.’
‘What?’
‘The man lives in Guernsey now.’
‘So who is this copper?’
‘I think it’s a better question to ask if he was a copper at all.’
Bob French leant forward. ‘But if he entered the station at 4.20, it means he was here before the death of Holdsworth.’
‘Correct.’ Ridpath handed over the other photo of PC 2568 talking to Lucas Harvey, the custody detention officer. ‘They obviously knew each other.’
The uniformed inspector’s forehead creased again. ‘But what’s he doing there? Regs say he shouldn’t be anywhere near there. When was this taken?’
‘The time code is at the top. 5.55.’
‘But Holdsworth was reported as lying on the floor of the cell just over half an hour later.’
‘And the report was made by Lucas Harvey.’
French stared across the table for a long time. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Ridpath?’
What was he trying to say? For a brief moment, it all coalesced in Ridpath’s mind in a series of images. He’d have to check the timings, but he thought it made sense.
‘What if, and this is only my suspicion, Bob, I don’t have any evidence yet. What if Ben Holdsworth didn’t die from a brain haemorrhage but instead was injected with an overdose of heroin?’
‘I’ve been through those reports a thousand times. The post-mortem findings were clear. Death was caused by a haemorrhage from a fall in the cell. None of the custody team reported Holdsworth was on drugs and he was body searched before he was placed in his cell. All the standard procedures were followed to the letter.’
‘I think you are misunderstanding me, Bob. I said what if he were injected with an overdose?’
The penny dropped. ‘You mean, he was murdered? By whom?’
Ridpath tapped the photo. ‘My best suspect is him.’
French picked up the photo again. ‘But that means somebody managed to get inside my nick and kill a detainee. I can’t believe it, Ridpath.’
‘It also means somebody must have colluded with him.’ He picked up the second screenshot. ‘They obviously knew each other.’
‘This can’t be true, Ridpath, you’ve totally lost the plot. No wonder Professional Standards were asking me about you.’
‘When?’
‘Earlier this afternoon.’
They were moving quickly. ‘What did they ask?’
‘Just had you been here. What questions were you asking people.’
‘Are you going to report this conversation, Bob?’
‘You know I have to.’
Ridpath nodded. He definitely had to interview Brett quickly.
‘Are you all right? I heard you suffered from PTSD after Polly died. Is this case getting to you?’
‘What? Why do say that?’
‘It’s just… you seem overwrought. Professional Standards were worried about your mental health. Attacking a senior officer, going round making accusations. And now you’re in my office suggesting Holdsworth was murdered.’ A long pause. ‘I’m worried about you, Ridpath. As a friend, I suggest you go home and spend time with your daughter. She needs you now.’
Ridpath stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Bob. Perhaps you could show those pictures to your team. One of them might recognise him. After all, he was in your station on the night somebody died in one of your cells.’
Chapter Seventy-Six
Professional Standards were moving quickly, far more quickly than he’d ever known them move before. He had to stay ahead of them, just for a few days more. He knew he was close to an answer now, he just needed time.
Ridpath drove as quickly as he could to Nexus House in the centre of Manchester, just off Deansgate. The building was one of those modern brick and glass nightmares shoehorned among the elegant Victorian and Edwardian properties lining the rest of the street.
It stood out like a criminal in an ID line-up with an ‘I did it’ sign above his head.
Luckily Ridpath found parking in front of the building, feeding the meter with all the change he had. It bought him fifteen minutes of time. It would have been cheaper buying gold bars.
The lobby of the building was empty. Ridpath checked the listing of tenants. The only space with no name next to it was on the fourth floor. He checked the address Chrissy had sent him. Fourth floor it was.
He took the lift up and entered a smaller lobby blocked by a security door. Above a keypad a small notice said, ‘Please press for entry.’
He jabbed the button, aware the single eye of a security camera was watching him. The intercom squawked.
‘Who is it?’
‘DI Ridpath to see DI Mark Brett.’
The only answer was a loud buzz as the glass door unlocked.
Mark Brett appeared in the corridor. It was the same man who had been waiting outside his home last night.
‘Ridpath, I see you’ve found me. I was wondering how long it would take you. Why don’t you come this way?’
He followed Brett down a short corridor to another coded security entrance. Brett swiped a card and entered a code. The entrance opened out into a large open-plan room. A dozen people were sitting behind computers. Every one of them looked up as he entered. They obviously did not receive many visitors.
Brett spread his arms. ‘Welcome to Operation Ventnor, not that we publicise it much. I think you’re the first local officer we’ve ever had here. Let’s have a chat in my office.’
The office was small but neat, with a row of files on the table behind a desk. The only other furniture was a couple of cheap chairs, a laptop and a lockable filing cabinet.
Brett noticed him looking at the cabinet. ‘You can’t be too safe. Our rule is all files need to be locked away securely every evening.’
Up until now, Ridpath hadn’t said a word. ‘Security is tight. What are you afraid of?’
‘Everything and everybody. Why don’t you take a seat and we can chat.’
Ridpath pulled out the chair and sat down.
‘Right, what can I do for you?’
Brett’s attitude was completely different from the previous evening outside Ridpath’s house. Now he seemed affable, almost welcoming.
‘You warned me off the case.’
‘Well, that worked out well, didn’t it? I told my boss it wasn’t going to work, but he wanted me to try anyway. I know if somebody had warned me off it would only have piqued my interest even more.’
The accent was southern and educated, not London, though, more Home Counties.
‘Your boss, Ratcliffe?’
‘Somebody has been talking out of turn. Ventnor is supposed to be secret.’
‘There are no secrets in Manchester. It’s a village pretending to be a city.’
‘Somebody told me that and I didn’t think it was true… until today.’
‘You’re investigating the EncroChat communications and their links to organised crime?’
‘Our official brief, yes.’
‘And your unofficial one?’
Brett sat forward. ‘What I’m about to tell you is confidential. You must promise not to repeat it outside these walls.’
‘I can’t agree. If the information impacts on the case, I am duty bound to reveal it to the coroner.’
‘Ah yes, your other role as coroner’s officer. Any conflict of interest?’
‘Not until recently, when I started looking into the death of Ben Holdsworth.’
Brett stared into mid-air for a long time as if making a decision. ‘Our other brief is to investigate links between north-west police forces and organised crime groups.’
‘Links?’
‘There have been some low-level prosecutions but nothing major so far. We want to find out how far police teams may have been penetrated by the OCGs.’
‘And what have you found?’
‘I can’t divulge anything. Suffice to say, the investigation is ongoing, but there have been indications OCGs have penetrated senior ranks.’
Ridpath stayed silent.
Brett ran his fingers through his blond hair and exhaled. ‘Look, the NCA has been investigating EncroChat since 2016. It was a secure mobile phone system providing command and control for organised crime groups across the world. We think there were about sixty thousand subscribers each paying about fifteen hundred quid every six months to chat with each other, order drugs, have video conferences, send encrypted messages, and arrange the auto-destruction of data.’
‘I thought you managed to break the codes?’
‘We didn’t, the French did. They found the main server and placed malware in it.’
‘You managed to read all their messages?’
‘More than that, we could see all the data sent by the world’s drug dealers, people traffickers, prostitution gangs and loan sharks. They didn’t even use any code. It was like having an inside person in every leading organised crime group in the country.’
