When the Night Ends, page 26
‘I know you busted them eighteen months ago…’
‘So far in Operation Ventnor in the UK, we’ve arrested 1384 suspects, charged 260 criminals with offences, seized 75 million quid, 165 firearms, 5.6 tons of Class A drugs and 8.7 tons of cannabis. But…’
‘There’s always a but.’
‘…But we didn’t bust all of them. At least fifteen of our targets, and probably more, did a runner the night before we went in. They were all over the north-west, not within any particular force’s area.’
‘Tipped off?’
‘Definitely. Your work on the Ronald Barnes case was another red light.’
‘The copper involved with people trafficking? But he was just a bad apple.’
‘Was he? Too many coincidences for us, too may leaks. So Ventnor was set up to see if we could find the OCG moles.’
‘Right, I get it. Sounds like something out of Line of Duty.’
‘It’s worse. What puzzled us was the thugs who were on their toes came from not just one of the criminal gangs, but from all of them. What the EncroChat bust revealed was that all the OCGs were working together. The Albanians, the Chinese, the Kashmiris, the Irish and the Manchester gangs in Moss Side, Cheetham Hill and Salford were in it. The closest analogy is the 1950s mafia when the five New York families all formed the crime commission.’
‘That’s big. But where does Ben Holdsworth come in? He was just some petty drug dealer working the Orchard Estate.’
‘Ben Holdsworth was working the estate, and he was working for us. He was trying to infiltrate the crime groups to discover how EncroChat operated in Manchester.’
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Ridpath was done for.
He had him exactly where he deserved to be.
Isolated. Suspended. An object of hate.
He couldn’t survive this. Even Claire Trent, his biggest supporter, had finally turned on him.
He’d played it wonderfully, even if he did say so himself. Righteous outrage at being assaulted, followed by being convinced, as a huge favour, to keep it an internal matter rather than press criminal charges.
In the subterranean light of the Gas Lamp, he finished off his pint and considered ordering another. He should have stayed at home, continued the pretence of being injured, but the temptation to celebrate was too great.
Professional Standards were on Ridpath’s case, determined that, after the Tony Saunders affair, the man shouldn’t be a member of this or any other police force any more.
The charges were going to be gross misconduct, which, after an investigation and professional tribunal, would lead to instant dismissal with all loss of pension rights.
Ridpath would have to resign first if he wanted to keep his money.
He ordered another pint and a whisky chaser, ignoring the boisterous set of women on a hen party on the other table.
Ridpath was going to be an ex-copper, and he had delivered the kick in the teeth.
The whisky arrived and he raised his glass. ‘Good luck, Mr Ridpath, enjoy your new life,’ he said out loud.
Now, the next one on his list was Claire Trent. Time to get rid of her too. Hadn’t she indulged Ridpath, given him too much freedom, allowed him to become a law unto himself?
She was as guilty as Ridpath was. All he had to do now was make sure the powers that be could see the truth.
He was going to run MIT, not her.
It was his destiny, his calling, his promotion.
All he had to do was play the game properly. And Paul Turnbull knew how to do that. It was as if his whole life had been building towards this moment.
He saw Alan Butcher come down the stairs and raised his hand to let the detective know where he was. The man walked straight across to him, taking a quick glance at the hen party on his right.
‘How are you feeling, boss?’
‘Fine, Alan.’
‘No hard feelings?’
‘None at all. I enjoyed every second of it.’ He finished the rest of the whisky in one swallow. ‘It’s your round,’ he said, ‘make mine a double.’
It was time to celebrate.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘What?’
‘Holdsworth was working for us as a confidential informant.’
‘He was your CI?’
‘Holdsworth had some troubles in Manchester and came to Guildford, where I was working at the time. He soon popped up on our radar and it was relatively easy to turn him and send him back to Manchester to report on the gangs and their activities, particularly who was using EncroChat.’
‘He was selling smack on the estates,’ said Ridpath incredulously.
Mark Brett shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Needs must. He had to prove his credentials to the gangs. On the morning before his arrest, he rang me to say he was onto something big. I had to go down to London so I arranged a meet for when I came back.’
‘But he never turned up…’
‘Because he was already dead.’
‘What did he find out?’
‘I dunno, he wouldn’t tell me over the phone. Said it had to be in person.’
‘Meanwhile, he’s arrested and dies in custody at Redbury nick.’
‘I was away two nights. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Neither do I. Afterwards, a custody officer died and, since you started your little investigation, Saunders, the custody sergeant, has apparently jumped to his death.’
‘More coincidences?’ And then it suddenly hit Ridpath. ‘Was that why the investigations into Holdsworth’s death were so…’ he searched for the word, ‘…superficial?’
‘You may think that but I couldn’t possibly say.’
Ridpath reached into his bag and pulled out the photos of PC 2568. ‘Do you know this man?’
Brett shook his head. ‘Never seen him before.’
‘He was in the station the night of Holdsworth’s death, but the inspector had never heard of him and the number belongs to a retired copper.’
Brett stroked his chin. ‘Give me a second.’ He pressed the intercom. ‘Rich, can you come in for a minute?’
The door opened seconds later. ‘You wanted to see me, boss?’ The accent was definitely from London.
‘DS Rich Holder, meet DI Ridpath.’
They both shook hands.
Brett held up the pictures of PC 2568. ‘Do you mind?’
Ridpath shrugged his shoulders.
‘Can you run these pictures through the National Crime Database? See if we can find a match.’
‘Not great quality, boss, taken from CCTV? Never the easiest things to match.’
‘Give it a go, Rich, we might get lucky.’
‘Sure, boss.’
As Rich left, Brett asked, ‘Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Ridpath? Any more CCTV? Or perhaps you would like to assault me?’ It was said with a smile, but the eyes weren’t laughing.
‘I didn’t assault anybody.’
‘It’s not what DCI Turnbull is saying.’
‘He’s wrong.’
‘From what I’ve heard, he seems a bit of a tosser.’
Ridpath didn’t answer.
‘Right, I’ve told you as much as I know. Now it’s your turn. Other than the pictures of matey, what else do you have?’
Should he reveal everything to this man? Someone who only last night was warning him off outside his house?
Ridpath decided he had nothing to lose.
‘I believe Ben Holdsworth was murdered in Redbury station in the early hours of February 21, probably by the man you are now checking on the database.’
‘Proof?’
‘I don’t believe he died from subdural haematoma at all. That was just an excuse concocted by the pathologist at the time, Lardner. I thought at first it might have been a cover-up, but it wasn’t. Lardner was doing a favour for somebody.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So how did Holdsworth really die?’
‘I believe he was injected with a massive overdose of heroin. It’s there in the toxicology report if anybody cared to read it. Saunders was also injected in the same place before he died too. My bet is the toxicology report will show he also had massive amounts of diamorphine in his body. And I’d make one further bet – if we exhumed Lucas Harvey’s body, we would find the same high levels of opiates.’
Mark Brett thought about this for a long time before asking, ‘PC 2568, or somebody impersonating him, was in the station that night?’
‘CCTV was off a full hour before Holdsworth died. 2568 is caught on camera, near the cells, talking to the custody officer, and nobody noticed him after Holdsworth’s death was discovered.’
‘So he had opportunity. Motive?’
‘You’ve just given it to me. Holdsworth had information on the OCGs and was about to give it you. He had to be silenced. He’s on record as asking for you the night he was detained.’
‘I know. I didn’t answer my phone.’
‘Sometime that evening, PC 2568, whoever he is, disabled the CCTV, went into Holdsworth’s cell, aided by the custody officer, and injected him with heroin. They probably waited fifteen minutes or so, giving PC 2568 time to get away before raising the alarm.’
‘Where does Saunders fit in?’
‘I don’t know yet. Perhaps after Harvey died he worked it out. Or maybe Harvey told him. Or perhaps he wasn’t involved at all. Whatever it was, when I started asking questions, he became a liability.’
‘It’s all very tenuous, Ridpath…’
There was a tap on the door and Rich Holder popped his head around. ‘We’ve had a hit on the picture, boss, I’ve sent the file to your laptop.’
Brett swivelled around and entered his password, accessing his mail.
Ridpath craned round to see the screen. A man’s mugshot appeared with a long list of offences.
‘Well, that is interesting, Ridpath.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ve hit the jackpot.’
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Emily Parkinson was standing outside the mortuary on the Boulevard near Manchester Royal Infirmary. It always struck her as incongruous that a few steps away from where most forensic examinations were carried out, there was a children’s nursery.
Across the road was the car park in front of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Wasn’t this where Turnbull said he’d been assaulted by Ridpath?
She’d agreed to do this as a favour for her friend, but regretted it now. If Turnbull found out, he would make her life even more miserable than it already was.
What if he blocked her request for a transfer?
What if made it impossible for her to ever leave MIT, just kept her there indefinitely doing the most menial jobs?
And if Claire Trent was promoted, he would probably take over. Her life would become a living hell. Perhaps she could switch to another force. Go back home to Preston and join the Lancashire Constabulary; they were probably looking for experienced detectives.
She walked across the road. The area was covered by multiple CCTV cameras. One of them must have captured the assault. For a second a feeling of déjà vu stopped her dead in her tracks. Hadn’t she spent days checking CCTV for Ridpath during the killing of the kids in Chorlton Ees too?
She was tempted to just walk away, forget about it all. Leave Ridpath to sort out his own problems. After all, it had nothing to do with her. Why should she get involved in a fight between two grown men?
But something made her stop. Ridpath had always been straight with her. He’d always taken her side, even though sometimes it had been difficult to do. Now he was in trouble, shouldn’t she help him out? She’d promised she would.
‘Bloody hell, Ridpath, you’re always getting me in trouble,’ she said out loud.
Taking out her phone, she took a picture of the car park company’s address and telephone number. She rang the number and it went to an answering machine.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Emily Parkinson. I’m contacting you regarding an assault that occurred in one of your car parks. Please call me back.’
She’d contact them tomorrow if they didn’t return her call and ask to see the CCTV footage.
A promise was a promise.
Even if it showed Ridpath was guilty.
Chapter Eighty
Ridpath leant across the desk to look at Brett’s screen. PC 2568’s face was displayed prominently in the right-hand corner of what was obviously a police intelligence file.
‘This is Trevor Sinclair. Ex-British Army, ex-2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment. Served in Northern Ireland, Iraq, various outposts of the British Empire and finally in Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Since leaving the army, our Trevor has been employed by the Albanians as one of their hitmen. Not the type of man you’d want to meet in a dark alley on an even darker night.’
‘Nor in the custody cells of Redbury nick. Anything else on him?’
‘Last seen living in Wales, close to the Brecon Beacons. That’s all we have.’
Ridpath sat back down. ‘Isn’t it strange, the Albanians employing an ex-British soldier to do their dirty work? I thought they’d use one of their own.’
‘Equal opportunity employers, are our Albanians. And besides, if someone infiltrated the nick to kill Ben Holdsworth, it would be difficult to do if he didn’t speak any English.’
Ridpath didn’t speak for a moment, trying to get it all clear in his mind. ‘But the question remains, how did he get a police uniform, and how did he know what the code was for the rear entry of Redbury nick?’
‘You’re jumping ahead of yourself. You still haven’t proved he killed Ben Holdsworth. All you have is he was in the nick at the same time as the man who died. No proof, no evidence, Ridpath.’
‘And conveniently the two possible witnesses, Lucas Harvey and Tony Saunders, are both dead too.’
Brett shook his head. ‘It’s all circumstantial, wouldn’t stand up in a court of law.’
‘Or an inquest.’ Ridpath thought hard. ‘There’s one other possible witness: the man in the cell next door to Holdsworth. Nobody interviewed him and I’ve been trying to find him for the last week with no luck.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Garry Abbott.’
Brett returned to his computer and tapped a few keys. In seconds an image of the man appeared. It was the rap sheet it had taken Ridpath ages to uncover. ‘This him?’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
Brett stared at his screen. ‘No, but it won’t take Rich long to find him.’
Ridpath expected him to call in the officer as he had done before, but Brett just sat there, his arms folded across his chest.
‘I need your help to find him.’
‘You’ve done your work, Ridpath, leave the rest to us.’
‘What? I’ve done all the legwork and now you’re going carve me out just like that? What about the inquest?’
‘Bugger the inquest. We’re almost ready to take down an organised crime group who’ve infiltrated the police and all you can worry about is some inquest on a two-bit hustler-cum-drug dealer.’
‘A man who was working for you.’
‘A man who was informing for us to save his own skin. Do you think I’d risk the operation for him?’
‘So that’s why you did nothing when he died. Ben Holdsworth was expendable?’
‘Don’t be so bloody naive, Ridpath. You’ve been a copper for how long? Fourteen years? And you still think scum like Ben Holdsworth deserve a fair shake. He took a chance and it didn’t work out.’
‘What about his family?’
‘What about his family? He was a nothing, they’re better off without him.’
Throughout this conversation, Brett’s voice had been getting louder. Then he closed his eyes for a second and when he spoke, the voice was softer, more emollient. ‘Go home, Ridpath, you’ve done a good job. We now have Trevor Sinclair in the frame for three possible murders. Leave it to us, we’ll make sure he’s off the streets and charged. Just as soon as we have finished our investigation. That’s what we’re here to do. I’ve spent the last three years of my life working on this – don’t screw it up now. We’re this close to putting the lot of them away for a long, long, time.’
‘Ben Holdsworth, Lucas Harvey and Tony Saunders were all murdered by this man and you’re asking me to trust you’ll get round to arresting him just as soon as you’re ready?’
‘No, I’m asking you to trust that we will assemble the evidence to put him away for a long time.’ Brett stared at him. ‘You know I can’t let you jeopardise this investigation?’
‘Then don’t. Work with me here. Help me find Garry Abbott. I think you’ve forgotten a policeman, Tony Saunders, was murdered.’
‘A, we don’t know that yet. And B, Saunders may have been a bent copper.’
‘But he was still a copper. We should be looking to prove he was killed and find his killer. We need to find out what Garry Abbott knows.’
Brett didn’t answer.
‘Look at it this way. If he was working for the Albanians as you say, then couldn’t you add a charge of conspiracy to murder to their rap sheet?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘So help me find Abbott.’
Brett stared into mid-air, past Ridpath’s head. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he finally said. ‘In the meantime, go home. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred quid and most importantly, do not involve yourself with my case. We’ve worked so hard; don’t screw it up now.’
‘When can I expect an answer?’
‘I need to talk to my gaffer.’
‘When?’ Ridpath persisted.
‘Tomorrow at the latest. But don’t get your hopes up, I don’t think she’ll go for it.’
Ridpath stood up. ‘I won’t.’
Brett held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your work, and sorry for visiting you at home. The gaffer’s idea, not mine.’
Ridpath glanced at the screen. PC 2568’s face was still there, staring out like a gargoyle on an old building. ‘Find him and we can put Trevor Sinclair behind bars for a long, long time.’
