When the Past Kills
When the Past Kills
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Four Days Earlier…
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Four Days Later…
Chapter 109
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by M J Lee
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter 1
The scream came from the Coroner’s Office.
Ridpath glanced quickly across to Sophia, before leaping from his chair and running down the short corridor. ‘Mrs Challinor, are you ok?’
‘He’s going to kill him…’
Ridpath shoved the door open.
The coroner was sat at her desk frozen with fear, her hand covering her mouth, staring in horror at her computer monitor.
Ridpath ran to the other side of the desk. On the top left-hand corner of the screen, a timer ticked over remorselessly.
9:01:53.
9:01:54.
An old man was standing on a chair with a noose round his neck. In front of him, another man with his back to the camera was reading from a sheet of paper.
‘You have been charged and found guilty of the crime of negligence in public office. How do you plead?’
The old man on the chair slowly lifted his head. His eyes were glazed as if he didn’t know where he was.
‘It’s Brian…’ said Mrs Challinor.
‘Brian?’
‘The former coroner.’
Sophia had joined them in the room along with the office manager, Jenny Oldfield. ‘What’s going on?’
They both rushed round the desk to look at the screen.
Jenny leant in to take a closer look. ‘What’s Brian doing?’ she whispered.
As if answering her, Brian’s lips moved.
‘Speak up please, for the court.’ The man with his back to the camera ordered.
Brian spoke slightly louder. ‘What do you want?’ The voice was slurred and slow.
‘That is not the correct answer. Guilty or not guilty?’
‘What do you want?’ Brian repeated.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Jenny asked looking across to the coroner.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered without taking her eyes off the screen. ‘I received an email and clicked on the link and this came up on my computer.’
9:02:12.
9:02:13.
9:02:14.
Ridpath glanced at the clock on Mrs Challinor’s wall. Just after nine a.m. This was being screened live.
‘Brian Conway, you have been accused of negligence in the execution of your duties as coroner. Are you sure you don’t want to plead?’
The former coroner mumbled something and shook his head. The noose around his head writhed like a snake.
‘In the absence of a plea, the sentence will be carried out.’
Without waiting any longer, the man stepped forward and kicked the chair on which Brian Conway was standing. For a second, the old coroner was frozen in mid-air, before gravity took hold and his body plummeted down, bouncing twice as it reached the end of the rope, then stopped, the toes of his shoes almost touching the carpet.
Brian Conway’s eyes were bulging from his head as he kicked his feet and struggled to free his hands.
Instantly, Mrs Challinor and Sophia looked away. Jenny continued to stare at the screen as if transfixed.
‘Do something, Ridpath!’ Mrs Challinor shouted.
The man was still kicking his feet. The rope had pulled tight and twisted his neck to one side without breaking it. The tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth and his face grew larger, taking on a blue tone.
9:02:34.
9:02:35.
The coroner slowly looked back at the screen. ‘It’s his home. I recognise the painting on the wall.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Saddleworth somewhere, up on the moors… Do something, Ridpath!’ the coroner screamed.
‘Jenny, do you have his number and address?’
‘I think so…’
‘Get it!’
The office manager ran out of the room.
Ridpath picked up his mobile and dialled 999. The phone rang and rang.
On the screen, Brian Conway was struggling less. His movements becoming slower and smaller, his face turning a bright blue. After a minute, all movement stopped and he hung there, the rope swaying slightly under the weight of his body.
9:03:35.
9:03:36.
9:03:37.
The operator finally answered. ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
‘Police and ambulance. This is Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath. I’m looking at a crime being committed at—’
Jenny ran back into the room, a filing card in her hand.
Ridpath snatched it from her. ‘—At 10 Penfold L
ane, Saddleworth.’
‘What is the nature of the crime?’
‘Murder. It’s murder, code red.’
The call sign produced an instant reaction.
‘Officers have been dispatched to the address and a call out has been sent to the ambulance.’
On the screen, Brian Conway was still, his body hanging loosely from the end of the rope, a dark patch staining the crotch of his trousers, the upended chair lying a few feet away.
The man who had kicked the chair was standing, watching, doing nothing.
The operator interrupted. ‘ETA, seventeen minutes, Inspector Ridpath. Are you in any danger?’
9:03:55.
9:03:56.
Ridpath dragged his eyes away from the screen. ‘I’m not there. I’m watching the murder on a computer screen. You need to get there quicker, a man is dying.’
‘The message has been passed to the response vehicle. ETA is still seventeen minutes.’
‘What the…?’ shouted Ridpath.
On screen, the man, still with his back to the camera, picked up the chair, placing it against the far wall. He folded up the charge sheet and placed it in his pocket, then walked towards the door. Before he left the room, he turned back to camera, staring directly at it.
His face looked like a wolf.
9:04:19.
9:04:20.
Four Days Earlier…
Chapter 2
He parked the car near the Stone Mason’s studio on Barlow Moor Road, at the mid-point between the street lights.
There was no point in taking unnecessary risks. Keeping to the shadows was better. Hadn’t he always lived his life that way?
Taking the holdall with the tools out of the boot, he checked the road and the nearby shops, before hurrying across.
Just past a deserted bus stop, he climbed onto a low sandstone wall and swung his leg over the short iron railings guarding the exterior.
He’d chosen this place to enter because it was close to a path leading to his destination. Security was always lax around here. There was no likelihood of anybody escaping or trying to break in. It was, after all, Southern Cemetery.
He jumped down, stepping between the gravestones close to the road, deliberately avoiding his uncle’s on the left, and reached the path. People joked this was the dead centre of Manchester but it would be a sacrilege to walk all over a dead person’s grave, wouldn’t it? You had to respect the dead, they were once like us; living, breathing, laughing and loving.
He had once taken the tour of the cemetery, one of Europe’s biggest. Ten quid to be shown the graves of celebrities; Matt Busby, John Alcock, Tony Wilson and L S Lowry. Of course, he had been back a few times since to make sure he understood the layout, reconnoitring the place so he could navigate his way to the grave easily even in the dark.
Planning was everything.
There was security here and it occasionally patrolled the grounds, but the cemetery was large and the likelihood of meeting one of the guards was minimal. He had austerity to thank for that.
For a second, he stopped, raising his head and breathing deeply to inhale the atmosphere.
He loved visiting here at night: the shadows cast from the Victorian monuments, the scent of freshly turned earth, the way the light from the street lamps filtered through the bare branches of the trees, throwing twisted shapes across the gravestones.
On his left, an owl hooted from the old Lodge, obviously on the lookout for prey.
He had a target of a different sort.
He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes left to finish, time to move.
Scurrying down the path in the dark, he took the left-hand arm of the crossroads. The grave, his destination, was three rows in on the right-hand side.
He glanced over his shoulder, checking the area was clear, before striding across to stand in front of the black marble headstone. He read the words.
Charles Whitworth
Born 30 July 1966
Died 30 April 2019
He found it amusing that this man was born on the day England had last won the World Cup. Had his father cursed him because he missed the game?
He reached down and pulled up the weeds that had begun to grow in profusion at the base of the gravestone, revealing a carved message.
Greater love hath no man
He didn’t remember this man with love. His only image was of a moustachioed face, a body like it had been put through a mangle and breath smelling of rotten food with an edge of whisky.
Not a fond memory.
He wished the man were still alive, it would have been better to have punished him properly. But he wasn’t and he was no longer part of the plan.
Shame.
He took out the hammer and swung it hard against the marble of the gravestone. The shock, as it struck home, reverberated through his arms and echoed round the surrounding trees.
But there was nobody to hear him.
Not here. Not now.
He swung again. This time there was a sharp crack as the marble shattered into four pieces, collapsing over the dark, Manchester earth.
He lifted the hammer once more and brought it down on the largest lump of marble, shattering it into tiny pieces. Again the hammer rose and crunched down.
And again. And again.
He was breathing heavily now, with shards of marble lying at his feet.
He arranged the broken stone into a small cairn, carefully placing a handmade wooden cross upside down, nestled between two of the shards. From his bag, he took out the flyer and placed it under the wooden cross, knowing at least one person would understand his message.
Then he took out the red can of paint, opened the lid and painted one word on the shards of shattered gravestone.
SCUM
The paint dribbled down the cairn looking like blood from a fresh cut. Exactly the impression he wanted to give.
Finally, he reached into his holdall for the four-litre bottle of bleach, twisting the cap and pouring the contents all over the small patch of earth that would remain forever Charlie Whitworth.
The stench of ammonia rose from the sodden earth. Now the bastard would have to be dug up and reburied somewhere else.
‘You’re going to become one of the walking dead, Charlie,’ he said out loud. He laughed, hearing the sound of his voice being swallowed up by the night.
None of the corpses joined in his laughter.
He packed the tools he’d used into the holdall and carefully retraced his steps back to the main road.
On the pathway between the graves, he took a glance backwards. The cairn of black stone was reflecting the light of the moon towards him, the red words still shining wetly, like tears of blood.
Would they make the connection?
Probably not.
But after the next one, he would make sure they did.
After all, they had to know who it was, didn’t they?
And so it would begin.
Chapter 3
Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath had burnt the toast for the second time.
‘Shit… shit,’ he said pulling out the charred edges from the toaster and tossing them towards the sink. A heavy aroma of burnt bread lingered in the kitchen. He opened one of the windows to let some fresh air in.
It was one of those lovely Manchester mornings in February – blue skies, a hoar frost stinging the lawn, the naked branches of the trees reaching up to soak-in the unexpected sun and a fresh, cold zip to sting the nostrils. By midday, it would be raining no doubt, with a wind howling directly from Iceland. But he’d enjoy this for now.
He took the last two pieces of Warburtons and put them in the toaster. The scrambled eggs were done, sitting forlornly in the pan waiting for a slice of non-burnt toast to sit on.
It wasn’t like him. Normally, he was a half-way decent cook, able to follow a Jamie Oliver recipe and produce food looking vaguely like the picture in the cook book.
He liked making breakfast for his wi
fe and daughter. Firstly, because neither of them were particularly active in the morning. Zombie was the word that most accurately described his wife, with comatose probably being a more useful description for Eve.
A few cups of strong coffee would bring his wife back to life while food seemed to do the trick for his daughter. And anyway, breakfast was the most important meal of the day, wasn’t it?
While the toast browned, he took the blister pack down from its place in the cupboard and pressed out a single tablet of Revlimid.
One a day keeps the cancer away, his doctor had joked. Now he would be taking these pills for the rest of his life but at least it was better than the fear and the chemo.
The myeloma had been in remission for two years, three months and six days. He’d fallen ill at work, collapsing during a major investigation. His GP had sent him to the cancer hospital, Christie’s, almost straight away and, within two weeks, he had commenced his treatment.
For six months it had been touch and go, but finally, after what seemed like years of daytime TV, he was pronounced as being in remission. Now just one tablet a day kept him that way.
He placed the pill on his tongue and washed it down with the last dregs of his coffee. For a second, he flashed back to his first holy communion, the priest placing the wafer on his tongue and his seven-year-old self closing his mouth reverently, desperately trying not to bite into the unleavened bread. Hadn’t his mother said if you bit into it you went straight to hell with all the other heathens?
‘Is something burning?’ his wife, Polly, shouted down from upstairs.
He glanced across at the toaster. A thin trail of smoke was rising from the open grills. He lunged across and pressed the levers. The toast shot up and was the perfect shade of brown.
‘It’s nothing, dear, making scrambled eggs,’ he shouted back as he placed the toast on plates and covered it with the cooked and now crusted eggs.
Upstairs, there were some mumbled shouts followed by the loud slamming of a bathroom door.
It meant Eve was awake and even better, she was up.
He put the plates on the table on hearing his wife’s footsteps clatter down the stairs. As the door opened he handed her the coffee.
She sat down at the table and stared at the food. ‘Do I have to?’
‘You’re supposed to set a good example for Eve.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve already had mine,’ he lied.
The kitchen door opened and Eve stumbled in, sitting down next to her mum.