When the Night Ends, page 5
‘Where is he now? Mr Holdsworth, I mean.’
‘He passed away twenty years ago. Came out of the pub one night and walked straight across the road into a ten-ton lorry. Best thing ever happened to me.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘Ben missed him though. All boys miss their father, don’t they?’
‘Did Ben ever get into trouble with the police when he was younger?’
‘Of course, they all do round here, can’t be helped. They closed the playgrounds so the kids can only play with the police. You just get used to them coming around.’
‘He was arrested twice?’ Ridpath left the question open, hoping the old woman would give him some details.
She gave nothing away. ‘Something like that.’
‘Can you remember why?’
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘This and that and a bit of the other. They like nicking people, gives them something to do, otherwise they wouldn’t have a job, would they? The police only stopped coming round when he went down south.’
‘Oh?’
‘Left for a couple of years. Met his fancy woman down there and had a couple of kids. He came back with her about six months before he died. Right snotty bitch, she were, stuck-up cow. Threw him out of the place they were renting and then ran back down to the south. Didn’t like Manchester. I suppose I can’t blame her, being a southerner and all.’
The old woman obviously didn’t like her daughter-in-law. ‘Where was he in the south?’
‘London, I think, or somewhere round there.’
‘And he came back with his wife about six months before the incident at the police station?’
The long-distance stare from the woman returned.
‘Mrs Holdsworth?’
‘Didn’t last long though, within a month he was back here living with me and she’d gone home. Good riddance to bad rubbish is all I can say.’
Ridpath decided to change the subject. ‘The night he was taken to Redbury station, he was arrested for possession. Do you know anything about it?’
She shook her head. ‘All I know is he rang me in the middle of the night to say he’d been nicked.’
‘He called you?’
‘From the station. I called later and they told me he’d been taken to hospital. Most calls I’ve ever made on that thing.’
She pointed towards the hall, where an old-fashioned phone sat on its own on the table.
‘How did they get the number?’
‘I dunno. When they said it was the police, I thought Ben had given it to them. He was inside again for something or other.’
‘Did they pick him up often?’ This was Sophia asking the question. She received a nod from Ridpath.
‘Used to, but I hadn’t seen them since he came back. That was why I was surprised to get the call.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘I rang the hospital and they told me he had already died.’ She stared into the fire glowing in its grate. ‘I rushed over there and saw his poor body lying in casualty.’ Another long pause as she relived the time. ‘I think I was the only person who cared about him in the whole world.’
‘And so you went to identify your son?’
‘Not that day, three days later. Mr Davies picked me up and took me to the mortuary. I’d never been in one of the places before. Don’t want to go again.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘Suppose I will though. It’s where everybody ends up, isn’t it? Our final destination…’ Her voice trailed off before continuing, ‘The poor wee boy was cremated two weeks later at Southern Cemetery. Do you know what it’s like watching the body of someone you love go through those doors and into the fire?’
Ridpath did know what it was like. He coughed and changed the subject. ‘As I said earlier, the inquest will take place on November 8. We’ll get in touch with Mr Davies and let him know all about it.’
‘He’s very good, is Mr Davies, he’s been a real help to me.’
Ridpath stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Holdsworth, and once again I am deeply sorry for the loss of your son.’ He took his card out of his wallet. ‘If there is anything you need to ask, please don’t hesitate to call me. Ms Rahman will liaise with your solicitor on the times and dates.’
He walked towards the door and then stopped as if remembering something. ‘Just a thought, Mrs Holdsworth. Did anybody contact Ben before he was arrested by the police?’
The old woman shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I don’t know. He would sometimes get these calls and rush upstairs to take them. I never heard what he was talking about. I learnt long ago from his dad not to poke my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.’
Chapter Nine
A sharp rap on the door was followed by Detective Sergeant Alan Butcher popping his head around. ‘You wanted to see me, boss?’
Detective Chief Inspector Paul Turnbull raised his glistening bald head from the rows of overtime costs. ‘Yeah, come in, Alan. Just give me a minute while I finish these.’
His finger traced the numbers across the page, his lips moving as he mouthed the sums spent on each investigation.
‘You going through the numbers, boss?’ said Butcher, taking a seat.
Turnbull held his finger up for quiet and continued scanning the costs. They were high, too high. Anybody looking at these would see they were spending far over budget.
Finally he finished and raised his head to look at his subordinate.
‘You wanted to see me, boss,’ the young detective reminded him.
Turnbull stayed silent. He loved moments like this, when he imagined what was going through his subordinate’s head. Silence was the perfect weapon. Letting the tension build as he watched Butcher’s face parade through an arc of emotions: anticipation, concern, worry, terror. Right now, the man was probably imagining he was going to get a bollocking for some real or imagined error.
Sometimes, silence worked so well they admitted to a cock-up he knew nothing about. This time, however, the detective sergeant simply said, ‘Boss?’
‘How are we for this afternoon, Alan?’
‘The weekly meeting? Fine, boss.’
‘No screw-ups? No surprises? No unforeseen developments?’
‘None I know, boss.’
‘“None you know”? Not good enough, Alan. Today has to go as smooth as a baby’s bottom, understand. Claire Trent is away and I’m in charge. Everybody is watching and the new chief constable is looking for results. Our new mantra is to investigate and solve crime, quickly.’
‘Got it, boss.’
‘So?’
‘So, what?’
‘How are we this afternoon?’
‘All sorted, boss.’
‘Better, because we may have an observer with us.’
‘Who?’
Turnbull touched the side of his nose, suggesting he had information that was only on a need-to-know basis, and Alan didn’t need to know. A whisper from the sixth floor. ‘So have you remembered the six Ps?’
Paul Turnbull had been doing one of those personal management development courses online and was now equipped with a whole new series of acronyms and idioms to bewitch and bedevil his subordinates.
‘Six Ps?’
‘Proper Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. So are you?’
‘Am I what?’
Butcher was a good copper, but not the sharpest knife in the box. However, like a good bloodhound, he was loyal and, for Turnbull, loyalty counted for a lot.
‘Ready. For. The. Meeting.’ He enunciated every word slowly, making sure Butcher understood.
‘Of course, boss. Everything is tied up neatly.’
‘Make sure nobody mentions the amount of overtime we are burning through.’
‘Twenty-four-hour surveillance costs money, boss.’
‘I know, just make sure nobody talks about it at the meeting.’
Butcher frowned. ‘OK, boss, whatever you say.’
‘How are we on the Rochdale case? Ready to charge him yet?’
‘Not yet, boss. He’s still denying stabbing his girlfriend and then setting light to the body. No forensics tie him in to the scene.’
‘What about his phone records? Have we tracked his movements on the day she died through his phone?’
‘Still waiting on the techs, boss.’
‘Still waiting!’ Turnbull roared. ‘We’ve got a suspect in custody and we’re still waiting? Kick them up the arse and get them moving, Alan. I want him charged, remanded and the decision to charge approved by CPS before Claire Trent gets back from her course. This is my collar and I want to make sure the new chief sees it was me and me alone.’
Butcher sat back in his chair. The blast from Turnbull had unnerved him. His boss’s bad breath even more so. ‘I’ll make it happen, boss, trust me.’
Turnbull seemed to be appeased by his answer, so Butcher decided to press on. ‘There’s a bit of a rumour going around Claire Trent may be moving on to bigger and better things, boss. One of the new chief super jobs at a division is what people are saying.’
‘Rumours are rumours, Alan. You just do your job,’ replied Turnbull, careful not to discount the rumour with a denial. If the lads in MIT thought he could be their new boss, it would help focus their minds on their jobs. ‘I want results over the next couple of weeks. Everything signed, sealed, delivered and tied up neatly like one of the Great Train Robbers’ mail bags. Understand? We’re about results now. Old-fashioned coppering is back in style – we stick the baddies in jail and throw away the key.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
Butcher looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
‘A pat on the back? The Queen’s Police Medal? A bloody raise? Get out there and do your job.’
The detective sergeant jumped up out of the chair. ‘Right, boss.’
As he opened the door to leave, Turnbull raised his voice. ‘One more thing, before I forget.’
Butcher stopped, holding his breath. He’d nearly escaped without a bollocking. Had Turnbull found out about the missing binoculars?
‘Ridpath. Have you heard anything from him?’
He breathed out. ‘Nothing, boss, but I know he’s coming in for this afternoon’s meeting.’
‘A little bird tells me he’s going to be investigating Tony Saunders and the team at Redbury.’
‘What? I thought they’ve been cleared by Professional Standards and the IOPC.’
‘Apparently, it’s not good enough for our coroner. She wants an independent investigation.’
‘The lads won’t be happy, boss; Tony Saunders trained a lot of them. He’s well liked.’
‘Shame to see a good copper like him spending his life doing data entry because we’ve got a shit computer system.’
Butcher shook his head. ‘He should be back running a station, not being investigated… again.’
‘Just thought I’d let you know, Alan.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up, boss.’
‘Now get back to work. I want those telephone records before this afternoon’s meeting.’
‘Right, boss.’
Butcher closed the door. Turnbull smiled to himself. Knowing his subordinate’s predilection for gossip, the news about Ridpath would be around the department within five minutes.
He’d hated Ridpath from the moment he’d set eyes on him. Too cocky, too self-assured and too smart for his own good. Even worse, Ridpath wasn’t loyal to anybody. Hadn’t he dobbed in the former head of MIT?
Couldn’t have disloyal members of a team; they were like a cancer that needed cutting out before they infected everybody else. Investigating another copper was the last straw. How can you turn on your own kind?
It just showed how disloyal Ridpath was.
To him. To the team. To the force.
Investigating a good copper like Saunders wasn’t going to make Ridpath a popular bunny with the rest of MIT. It was just the opening he needed to get rid of the man before Claire Trent returned.
DCI Paul Turnbull smiled and rubbed his bald head.
While the cat is away, the mice will play.
Chapter Ten
Driving to Police HQ, Ridpath thought about the interview with Ben Holdsworth’s mother.
The old lady had been a strange mixture of sharpness and distraction, as if she was in the room but not there at the same time. He needed to check up on the solicitor, though. Why had he contacted Mrs Holdsworth so quickly, and more importantly, who was paying his fees?
He made a mental note to ask Sophia to go through the newspapers and read up on the protests and demonstrations outside the station. Who had organised them?
He stopped at a crossroads, the red light shining weakly through the rain sheeting against his windscreen. People with their umbrellas held almost horizontal against the wind crossed in front of his car like figures from a Lowry painting, while a couple of feral kids leant against a wall not even wearing coats or anoraks.
His mind drifted back to his own bout with cancer, almost five years ago now. Eighteen months of hell for himself and Polly: chemo followed by a long bout in hospital and an even longer bout at home with nothing to keep him company during the day except the inane chatter of Bargain Hunt or Homes Under the Hammer.
At least his cancer seemed to be in full remission now. The doctors had even pushed his check-ups back to once every three months, but he wondered if it was due to his recovery or simply because they were so backed up during the pandemic. Luckily, it seemed to be under control now. Like every other key worker, Ridpath had his jabs and the bit of paper to prove it. But if he never had to go into a hospital for the rest of this life, he would be more than happy. Hospitals scared him; they were full of sick people. Full of people like he had once been, hoping against hope for a recovery but fearful it would never come. He never knew why his cancer, Bert, as Polly used to call it, had chosen him. None of the doctors had an answer. It was just there, trying to kill him in the sneakiest way possible.
But he had beaten it.
These days he just took one tablet of Revlimid every morning, saying a prayer to the NHS as he did so. Each tab cost over £160 but for him it was free except for prescription charges. A life to live free and watch his daughter grow up.
The lights turned green on Oldham Road. He put the car into gear. Why was he feeling so unsettled?
Was it because with the latest case he would have to investigate his colleagues?
No copper liked investigating other coppers. It broke the bonds of the camaraderie, the mateship, built up after years of grinding away on the beat or working cases.
He could have said no; perhaps he should have done. But Mrs Challinor had asked, and it was part of being a coroner’s officer. There was a statutory duty to investigate all deaths in custody or in contact with the officers of the law.
His examination of the case documents had left him feeling slightly uneasy. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but it was all too perfect, too wrapped up. A detainee dying after a fall in the cell – a convenient solution.
It was almost as if he wasn’t reading between the lines properly, wasn’t understanding what wasn’t being stated.
Sometimes, reading official documents, it was important to see what they were avoiding as well as what was being said. The ability to lie by omission had been honed for countless years by every bureaucracy. You had to be adept at seeing what wasn’t there, as well as what was.
Then he smiled to himself as the words of Charlie Whitworth, his old boss, came back to him. ‘Don’t overthink it, Ridpath. Remember Occam’s razor.’
‘The most obvious answer is usually the right one, Charlie.’
‘Right first time, Ridpath. So when a wife dies…’
‘It’s usually the husband who did it.’
‘We might make a copper out of you yet.’
Perhaps he was overthinking it. The pictures showed the man falling and hitting his head. The fall had caused a bleed on the brain and he had died later in hospital.
QED.
After all, wasn’t it what both the IOPC and Professional Standards had concluded? And the science of the post-mortem backed the conclusion.
CPS and the Ministry of Justice were satisfied, and so was everybody else.
Except the family, of course.
An image of the old woman’s brown-spotted hand with its paper-thin skin shaking as she poured the tea flashed into his mind.
She needed to know the truth, even if he had to tell her it was all just an unfortunate accident.
He turned into the car park beside the HQ and switched off his motor.
He wasn’t looking forward to this investigation.
Not like him.
Not at all like him.
Chapter Eleven
Ridpath walked into the weekly meeting and immediately noticed a chill in the air. People weren’t looking him in the eye. In fact, exactly the opposite.
Even the two people he liked most in MIT – Chrissy Wright, the civilian researcher, and Detective Sergeant Emily Parkinson – both avoided greeting him.
As soon as he looked in their direction, they deliberately glanced away as if finding something fascinating in the grey skies louring over Manchester on that cold November afternoon.
He placed his coffee down on the table next to two detectives he didn’t know. They took one look at him and then stood up, moving to seats on the opposite side of the room.
Only Harry Makepeace approached and sat down next to him. ‘How’s it hanging, Ridpath?’
‘Same old, same old, Harry. How’ve you been?’
‘Not bad, just got back from Leeds five minutes ago and rushed up to this meeting. Haven’t even had time to get something to eat. It’s steak and kidney pud in the canteen today too.’
‘What you been working on?’
Harry touched the side of his nose. ‘Liaising with the National Crime Agency for the last two weeks in Yorkshire; God, they’re slow, it’s like working with treacle.’
At the front of the room, Detective Chief Inspective Paul Turnbull banged on the desk. ‘Right, you lot, let’s be having you. I want this meeting over and done with in thirty minutes. No longer, right?’
