When the Night Ends, page 28
‘I’m sorry for Eve. I hope she’s handling it.’
‘Normally she does, it’s just at times like this I realise how much she has buried deep inside her and it worries me.’
‘If you need any help, please don’t hesitate to ask, Ridpath. I think the world of Eve and would do anything to assist her. As for Professional Standards, they are out of my jurisdiction, but if you’d like me to recommend a good solicitor…’
‘It won’t be necessary, Mrs Challinor. If they were halfway competent I might need help, but not at the moment.’
‘Be careful, Ridpath. Don’t underestimate them.’
‘I won’t. Now, I presume you’ve read the case summary,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘It’s very good, thank you for your work.’
‘It wasn’t me, Coroner, it’s all Sophia.’
‘She’s doing very well, isn’t she?’
‘She’s indispensable.’
A long exhale of breath. ‘Just so you know, I am being pressured to cut costs. All the councils are suffering at the moment; too many jobs to do and too little money to do them all.’
‘You’re not suggesting we no longer employ Sophia?’
‘Not at all, but we will have to shave costs in other areas to maintain our staffing. Training, external suppliers and so on. The mantra is to do more with less. I keep telling them, the only thing you do with less, is less. Anyway, enough of my issues. I have adjusted the order of the witnesses based on the summary you sent me.’
She passed across a sheet of paper.
Ridpath paused for a moment. ‘Mrs Challinor, can I speak frankly?’
‘Always, Ridpath.’
‘I’m becoming more and more convinced Ben Holdsworth was murdered in his cell in the early hours of February 21. I think he was murdered by a man called Trevor Sinclair posing as a policeman. He—’
‘Ridpath, I will stop you right there. It is not up to you or me to decide the result of an inquest. It is always the decision of the members of the jury. Our job is to find out who died, how they died, when they died and see if their death was due to any negligence on the part of the officers of the law. We simply present the evidence, question the witnesses and attempt to discover the truth for the jury. It is not our job to find out who committed a crime, nor to ask why they committed it. Nobody is ever found guilty or innocent at an inquest, and no criminal or civil liability is determined.’
‘I understand, Coroner, but…’
‘No buts, Ridpath, the policeman in you is speaking. As far as I see, having read the summary, there are two possible verdicts the jury can reach: accidental death or unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. We will present the witnesses, question them to find out the truth and let the jury reach a verdict. That’s how the system works…’
Ridpath was about to argue a verdict of accidental death would be a travesty in this case when his phone rang.
He checked the number. It was Mark Brett.
‘Morning, Ridpath, do you want the good or the bad news first?’
‘The good news.’
‘We’ve found your witness, Garry Abbott.’
‘And the bad news?’
‘He’s dead.’
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Garry Abbott’s body was lying in a blue waste bin in Cotton Field Park, just across from what was now called New Islington Marina. The area had undergone massive regeneration in the last twenty years. Ridpath remembered it as the Cardroom Estate, an old council house area with more problems than most: no schools, no pubs, no parks, no jobs and far too many drugs. Nowadays, it was achingly hip and trendy with a design echoing the canal-side ambience of Amsterdam, or so the developers kept telling people.
Ridpath had signed in at the cordon surrounding the park and was led to where Mark Brett and the local CID were standing.
‘Who found him?’
‘One of the locals on the canal boats. He went to put his rubbish in the bin and saw the body.’
‘What time?’
‘Late last night, around eleven p.m.’
‘And you didn’t let me know?’
‘Listen, Ridpath, we only found out ourselves this morning, when the discovery of the body was flagged on our computers. Rich Holder put two and two together and I called you.’
‘How did he die?’
‘No post-mortem yet but the medical examiner is still here. We’ll ask him.’
Ridpath instantly recognised the small, slight figure of Dr Schofield walking towards them even though his face and body were hidden by an oversized white suit, cap and large face mask.
‘Hello, Ridpath. North Manchester isn’t your patch.’
‘I was looking for the man you just found. His name is Garry Abbott and he was a key witness in a case I’m working on. Can you give me a heads-up on how he died?’
‘Normally I wait for the post-mortem, but as it’s you, I’ll make an exception. As far as I can see, he was tortured viciously and then given a lethal overdose of a drug. My bet is heroin.’ Schofield held up an evidence bag with a bloodstained hypodermic inside. ‘We found this beside the body. It could have been thrown in by some junkie but the man has an injection site inside the crook of his left arm.’
‘Self-administered?’ asked Mark Brett.
‘Not when you have half your fingernails missing and three broken fingers. Somebody else gave him the injection. Forensics are now checking the areas for fingerprints.’
The body was being carefully lifted out of the bin and placed on a gurney. A small crowd had gathered to watch. A morning’s entertainment before they went for their Sunday brunches and avocado toast.
‘I’ll know more after I complete the post-mortem this afternoon.’
‘Could you send me the results?’ asked Ridpath.
‘I’ll check with the North Manchester coroner, but I’m sure it will be OK.’
‘Anything else, Doctor?’ asked Mark Brett, eager to get away.
‘One other thing. The man is missing at least four teeth.’
‘That’s normal, isn’t it?’ said Brett.
‘You misunderstand, Detective, the wounds on the gums are still fresh. This man has had his teeth removed recently. In the last day or so, I would think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my body is waiting.’
The gurney had been placed in a mortuary van with the driver and his assistant patiently waiting for the signal they could leave.
As Schofield left them, Mark Brett turned to Ridpath. ‘Somebody didn’t like Garry Abbott very much.’
Ridpath ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘It’s the fourth person who has died in this case. First it was Ben Holdsworth, then the detention officer, Lucas Harvey. The custody sergeant supposedly killed himself last week and now this man, the key witness in the case. Without his testimony, I have nothing, just a bunch of coincidences, anomalies and far too many dead people.’
‘We’re checking the local traffic cameras to see if we can find out how Garry Abbott was dumped here. We might get lucky and get a hit.’
‘And pigs might fly.’
Ridpath remembered the lip-reader’s submission from yesterday. He opened his folder. ‘In the interests of transparency, we asked a lip-reader to work out what PC 2568, your Trevor Sinclair, said to Lucas Harvey in the station.’
Ridpath handed Brett the transcript. After reading it, he whistled. ‘Is this what I think it is?’
‘The footage was taken just before the murder. He seems to be asking to go into a cell. But we don’t know if it’s Ben Holdsworth’s.’
‘It has to be. Why else would he be talking to Lucas Harvey?’
‘But it’s not proof. A clever barrister would argue he wants to check the cells out, but not necessarily Ben Holdsworth’s cell. And that is if they accept the lip-reader’s testimony at all. It’s not an exact science.’
‘I’m intrigued by the line, “It’s all sorted… unintelligible… will handle it.” What do you think he means?’
‘I wish I knew. If, as you say, Sinclair is a hired gun, is he talking about someone higher up in the food chain?’
‘Someone in an OCG? It would make sense. Ben Holdsworth was desperate to tell me something. What are you going to do next?’
Ridpath’s shoulders slumped. ‘In the absence of any witness, I’m going to take my boss’s advice and let the jury decide whether this was an accident or an unlawful killing. The inquest starts tomorrow and I can’t prove Ben Holdsworth was murdered, even though I know he was.’
‘If it’s any consolation, my boss approved us letting you know about Garry Abbott. We’re actively looking for Trevor Sinclair as we speak. Don’t know if we’ll find him but, with your work, we reckon we’ve got a chance. He could be vital in cracking our case too.’
‘I think he’s murdered at least three people – probably four.’
Mark Brett nodded towards the blue rubbish bin, now being fussed over by a team of CSOs. ‘You think he did Garry Abbott?’
‘Certain of it, but I can’t prove anything.’
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Emily Parkinson finally received the footage from the car park company at four o’clock in the afternoon. She stayed in to wait for it, ringing their office three times without getting an answer. She worried the girl had cold feet or had rung one of her bosses to check. But apparently, that wasn’t the problem. It was simply that the server was down so she’d sent it from home.
Before downloading the footage from the three cameras, Emily logged into her police email and deleted the message. The last thing she needed was Turnbull snooping around.
She opened the first camera and played the footage. The car park was very busy, with a regular flow of cars in and out as people visited relatives at the hospital. Just after five o’clock, she recognised Turnbull’s bald head as it bobbed its way through the parked vehicles to his car. He was just about to open the door when he turned round to talk to somebody.
Emily couldn’t see who; the person was standing right at the edge of the camera’s field. After a couple of minutes of conversation, the person suddenly walked up to Turnbull and punched him in the face.
To Turnbull’s credit, he didn’t fight back, simply standing there until the second blow knocked him back onto the bonnet of the car. The person then helped him to stand up on his feet and Turnbull wandered off towards the A&E entrance of the hospital, blood streaming down his face.
Why hadn’t Turnbull fought back? And why had the assailant helped him to his feet?
Emily rewound the footage. The camera’s quality wasn’t very good, either that or the lens hadn’t been cleaned in a million years. She could make out a face but couldn’t see who it was.
Was it Ridpath?
The size and height were about right, but the build wasn’t. This man seemed stockier, beefier than Ridpath.
She played the footage from the other two cameras. One was completely useless. It was focused at number-plate level to catch drivers who had overstayed or not paid the correct fee. All Emily could see were legs.
The last camera was better, but not by much. The footage showed the fight, but it was totally out of focus. Why have a CCTV system if you don’t maintain it properly?
She sat back in her chair and tapped the desk. Was it Ridpath in the footage? She really didn’t know.
Somebody had definitely attacked Turnbull as he went back to get his car. But who? And what had they spent two minutes talking about before the attack?
She needed clearer pictures, and she knew exactly who could get them from even the worst images. Len Gorman.
She grimaced. He’d asked her for a date a couple of times and, on each occasion, she had found a good reason to say no. But if he was going to do a favour for her, she could hardly refuse him again.
Bloody Ridpath. She hoped he realised the sacrifices she was making for him.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
After leaving Mark Brett, Ridpath had gone back to Stockfield to let the coroner know what had happened and check if she needed anything else.
She held up the case summary they had prepared. ‘This is all I need. The rest is up to me to ensure each witness presents his testimony truthfully and directly. I am confident they will reach the correct conclusion. Never underestimate the common sense of the great British public.’
He had stayed quiet through her words of advice, suddenly feeling immensely tired. She seemed to recognise it immediately.
‘You’ve done enough. Go home, and I’ll see you at the inquest tomorrow.’
‘You might need something, Mrs Challinor.’
‘If I do, I’m sure Sophia will be able to find it for me. I will call you if she can’t.’
He received the same message from Sophia when he saw her, but delivered rather more bluntly.
‘You look terrible, why don’t you go home and go to bed.’
He finally listened and went to pick up Eve, going to a McDonald’s drive thru on the way back to pick up dinner. She was the third person to reiterate the message.
‘You look awful, Dad, when was the last time you slept properly?’
He couldn’t remember. Time, and the case, seemed to have blended together into one giant, amorphous mass.
They’d eaten in near silence. Eve had gone upstairs and was doing her homework. Ridpath found himself sitting in front of the TV, not really watching or listening, his mind going over the case again and again.
He felt nothing but an abject sense of failure. At least two people had died while he had been investigating, and he hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent their deaths.
He hadn’t even found the concrete evidence to prove that a crime, not an accident, had led to the death of Ben Holdsworth.
He remembered the words of Maureen Holdsworth about her son, spoken in what felt like the far-distant reaches of time but was actually less than a week ago. ‘I think I was the only person who cared about him in the whole world.’
A deep sense of failure and tiredness gripped his body. He’d let her down too.
Slowly, he climbed to his feet and switched off the light.
He would spend the whole night lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of all the mistakes he had made.
November 8, 2021
Chapter Ninety
The following morning on the dot of 9.30, Mrs Challinor walked from her room and entered the court.
Ridpath saw everybody rise as she entered. All the witnesses they had invited had turned up. Chris Carter, the PC who had arrested Ben Holdsworth, was in full uniform, as was Bob French. Dr Bourke was sitting next to John Schofield, both of them no doubt talking shop. Terry Rodgers was on the front row, looking very glum and staring angrily at Ridpath. Apparently, according to Jenny, the coroner had decided he wouldn’t be called until this afternoon.
Behind him sat the DUI from that night, Neil Mallender, looking positively the worse for wear. Ridpath felt sorry for him; he had obviously fallen off the wagon since they last met. Next to him was Steven Fellows, the head of the security firm, nervously tapping his foot on the chair in front. Of everybody here, he had the most to lose.
Mrs Maureen Holdsworth was at the front on the family table, close to the coroner. Next to her, Ronald Davies, the solicitor, was whispering in her ear, probably explaining what was going to happen. Opposite him, a bank of barristers and solicitors representing the police, the IOPC and the CPS, had been arrayed across two tables, both of which were heavy with legal texts.
Missing of course were three other witnesses who were no longer alive: Lucas Harvey, Tony Saunders and Garry Abbott. The people who actually knew what had happened on that cold, wet February night.
‘Please sit,’ shouted Jenny.
Ridpath closed the doors and stood in front of them, his arms behind his back.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today we will begin the inquest into the death of Mr Ben Holdsworth at Redbury Police Station in the early hours of February 21, 2018. You may have read some articles on this case in the past. I want you to immediately disregard them. It is up to this inquest and you the jury to decide what happened on the day, nobody else. To put it simply, your job over the next couple of days is to come to a conclusion about when and how Mr Holdsworth died. It is not our job to assign blame; we are not a court of law. However, if, after listening to the witnesses, you should wish to give a more detailed narrative verdict, I will advise you beforehand of the possibilities in front of you.’
Ridpath glanced at the jury members; all of them seemed to be nodding along with Mrs Challinor, listening intently to her words.
‘Over the next few days, we will listen to witnesses describing what happened from their viewpoint. They will be questioned by myself, Mr Davies, the solicitor for the family and Mr Hargreaves, the barrister for the police. But please remember, unlike the Courts of Justice, the coronial system is not adversarial. It’s our task is to discover the truth, not ascribe guilt or innocence.’
She scanned the room, finally looking at Davies and Mrs Holdsworth, before saying, ‘Jenny, can you call our first witness please.’
‘Will PC 4396, Mr Christopher Carter, please come to the witness stand and take the oath?’
Ridpath saw the barrister for the police visibly wince as the policeman’s name was read out in open court. The burly policeman took his seat in the witness box and began reading the oath. ‘I swear…’
As he did, Ridpath’s phone began ringing. In his hurry to take Eve to school this morning, he’d forgotten to switch it off. Mrs Challinor stared at him.
He checked the screen. It was Mark Brett. What did he want this time?
Ridpath backed out through the doors into the reception area. ‘What do you want? We’ve just begun the inquest.’
‘I’m going to do you a favour, Ridpath.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve found him.’ Brett’s voice was excited.
