When the Past Kills Read online

  He looked at the next procedure.

  Check the restraints are secure and padlock the freezer.

  Done.

  Time to wait now. In about an hour the man would wake and the fun could begin.

  Until then, he would read and check what he had to do next one more time.

  There was still work to do and the plan told him exactly when to do it.

  Stick to the plan.

  Chapter 21

  Back at Police HQ, Ridpath took the lift up to MIT’s floor.

  John Gorman had been remarkably restrained in his bollocking. The word incompetent was only used twice and there was only one threat to ring the chief constable. He supposed that was a result. Gorman didn’t know anything about any ‘bloody undertaker and his bloody flyer’.

  Nor had his ex-boss ever seen the perp. The man had gone silent at seeing his beloved dogs jumping out of the white van before finally answering, ‘Never seen him before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Listen, Ridpath, I know how to ID somebody. Spent thirty-three years doing it while you were still sucking your mother’s tit. Is this all you’ve got? Some ropey CCTV footage? What about the car number plate? What about ANPR? What about witnesses?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  ‘Well, work quicker, work smarter, work like a copper not like a navvy.’

  And he was off, the hairdryer in full, blasphemous flow.

  Eventually, Ridpath had managed to escape but not before one last threat. ‘Find out who killed my dogs or I’m going to kill your career. Understand?’

  Ridpath doubted whether Gorman had that sort of power any more, but he didn’t underestimate the man’s connections. Why had Claire Trent given him this case?

  As the lift doors opened on the MIT floor, Harry Makepeace rushed out of the office.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked as he stepped out.

  ‘Some bastard’s gone and desecrated Charlie’s grave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smashed the marble gravestone into little pieces and spray-painted the word “Scum” on the fragments. One of the grave diggers spotted it and called it in. Worst thing is, the place stinks of ammonia.’

  ‘Ammonia?’

  ‘Looks like somebody poured bleach or something like it all over the place. They’re going to have to dig him up.’

  ‘Why would anybody do such a thing?’

  Harry Makepeace shrugged his shoulders. ‘Beats me. There’s some sick fucks out there. Now I have to go and tell his widow.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Dead right. Sometimes I hate being a copper.’ He shook his head and wandered past Ridpath.

  ‘Harry, when did this happen?’

  ‘Must have been the night before last if the grave digger reported it yesterday. Nobody let us know until a sergeant at the local nick recognised Charlie’s name and made the connection.’

  ‘Were any other graves touched?’

  ‘That’s the weird thing. It was only Charlie’s. None of the rest were damaged in any way. The bastard even left a flyer for an undertaker next to the grave.’

  Makepeace wandered off to pick up his coat. Ridpath stood there for a moment.

  It was too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it?

  Emily Parkinson approached him. ‘Was it any help this morning?’

  Ridpath stared at her uncomprehending.

  ‘Going back to John Gorman’s house,’ she added.

  He brushed his hair off his eye to cover his confusion. ‘Not much use. Nobody had seen a white van and the allotment was deserted.’

  ‘The man who killed the dogs must have used a different car when he was casing the scene.’

  ‘Yeah, must have.’

  ‘Speaks of planning and pre-meditation, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s been planning this for a while. It’s not something he did on the spur of the moment.’ She stared at him. ‘Excuse me, Ridpath but you seem to be distracted.’

  ‘Yes, planning. Of course, he planned it. He had to know John Gorman released his dogs every morning. What worries me more is the desecration of Charlie Whitworth’s grave.’

  ‘I heard about it, pretty sick.’

  ‘Charlie used to work for John Gorman at MIT.’

  Her forehead creased. ‘You think the two are linked?’

  ‘I don’t know but you’d better grab your coat.’

  ‘What? Where are we going?’

  ‘To the dead centre of Manchester, where else?’

  ‘But I have training with Paul Turnbull.’

  ‘This is more important. Come on.’

  Chapter 22

  By the time they found somewhere to park next to the lodge at Southern Cemetery, it was nearly lunchtime. A police constable from the local nick was waiting for them.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  Ridpath checked his watch. ‘Actually, it’s afternoon. Never mind, show us where it is.’

  ‘This way, sir.’

  ‘You can nip off for a break afterwards.’

  ‘Can’t, sir. The family will be here soon. I should be around in case they have any questions.’

  Ridpath stared at the young man, he couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. ‘You still on probation?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘It’s Ridpath, Constable?’

  ‘Allchurch, sir, I mean Mr Ridpath.’

  ‘And this is DS Parkinson.’

  Parkinson grunted hello.

  ‘Don’t worry about her, she just looks mean.’

  They walked along a path shaded by trees. On either side, large Victorian monuments to long dead and long forgotten Mancunians lined the way.

  ‘We think whoever did it came over the fence near the bus stop, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I found shoe prints in the earth near the wall. They were still fresh after all the rain we had yesterday, sir.’

  ‘That was diligent of you.’

  ‘A CSI has taken a cast of the shoe and dusted the gravestone, or what remains of it, for prints.’

  ‘Did he get any?’

  ‘No, sir. Clean.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘And it must have been after ten o’clock at night. The security guard did his rounds at that time and the grave was untouched.’

  ‘Who discovered it?’

  ‘The same security guard. Did his morning round just before the gates opened at eight a.m. yesterday.’

  ‘Pretty big time window,’ said Parkinson.

  ‘It’s over there, sir.’ The young constable paused for a moment. ‘Was he a good copper, sir?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Charles Whitworth.’

  ‘Charlie, he was the best.’ For a brief moment, Ridpath flashed back to Charlie Whitworth, hitching up his trousers, his bottom lip coming to cover the ends of his moustache and the famously gravelly voice intoning. ‘Evidence, Ridpath, collect the bloody evidence and the crime solves itself.’

  ‘It’s where the small black pile of stones is sir.’

  Ridpath stared where the constable was pointing. ‘It’s a cairn, not a pile of stones. At least it’s an attempt at one.’

  The constable was staring at the shattered gravestone three rows in from the path. ‘Someone must have hated him pretty badly.’

  ‘Not someone, half of Manchester, PC Allchurch. He was good at the job was Charlie.’

  ‘The CSIs have laid down blocks to walk on, sir.’ The constable pointed to a path between the graves.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Having a break in their van.’

  ‘Do me a favour and ask one to come out, will you, and tell him to bring the flyer they found.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  The constable ran off in the direction of a wider road threading its way through the cemetery.

  Ridpath watched him go. ‘Probationers always get the worst jobs.’

  ‘This one’s
not so bad. I had to stand guard over a house fire once when I was on probation, three people burnt to death. The smell… last time I ever had a Sunday roast.’

  Ridpath looked around. He had attended the service for Charlie but not the interment. He couldn’t stand the idea of putting Charlie into the ground. Burying him forever in the black earth.

  As they got closer, the smell of ammonia became stronger, coming from the soil in the grave, suffusing everything around it. It was a smell he always associated with death and hospitals. In this location, it just reminded him of death.

  Parkinson covered her mouth and nose. Ridpath coughed. It was as if the essence of the soil had risen up from the grave to assault his nose and shrivel the back of his throat.

  He put on a pair of plastic gloves he always kept in his pocket and he noticed Parkinson follow suit. She was a quick learner.

  Bending down, he examined the fragments carefully, trying not to breath in.

  ‘The gravestone was trashed pretty well.’

  ‘But why bother to build a cairn?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘He must have used a fairly heavy hammer. Brought it with him, with a can of paint too.’ The word ‘scum’ was stark against the black marble. He stood up and looked around at the nearby burial plots. ‘None of the other graves have been touched. Charlie’s grave was the only one targeted.’

  A CSI came running up from the direction of the van carrying an evidence bag with her.

  ‘Hiya, Helen, good to see you again.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought this was a job for the coroner, Ridpath.’

  ‘It’s not, I’m transitioning back to MIT.’ Emily Parkinson glanced at him. ‘Besides, it’s Charlie and it might be linked to something else. So we’ve left the cold comfort of Police HQ.’

  ‘Mrs Challinor will miss you. She holds you in high regard.’

  ‘Didn’t know you knew each other so well.’

  ‘She’s part of the women’s business group I’m in. Bit of a star is Mrs Challinor.’

  ‘Anyway, Helen, we heard you found a flyer on top of this cairn.’

  ‘More of a pile of stones actually, but someone has arranged them. They didn’t just fall here naturally. We found this pinned under a stone on top.’

  She held up a clear evidence bag for Ridpath to see. ‘Sorry, can’t give it to you, chain of custody and all that.’

  ‘No worries.’ Ridpath bent down to look at it. It was exactly the same as the one found in John Gorman’s shed, except it hadn’t been torn in half. The name of the undertakers was now clear to see.

  The O’Shaughnessy Undertakers. All your funeral needs.

  He glanced across at Emily Parkinson and, in a moment, it came back to him. A shiver went down his spine as he stood there, facing his detective sergeant.

  ‘I think we’ve got a problem, Emily. A big problem.’

  Chapter 23

  It had been over two years since Ridpath had been here but nothing had changed.

  O’Shaughnessy Funeral Directors was still situated in an imposing detached building set back from the road in the suburb of Northenden, a place of terraced streets, old-fashioned chippies, a Jehovah’s Witness temple and local butchers. Old Manchester rather than the glass and tiled facades of the new monstrosities the council was creating.

  There was a sense of community here and not a single artisan cafe or sourdough bakery in sight.

  ‘What are we doing here, Ridpath?’ asked Emily Parkinson.

  ‘Two years ago I investigated the Beast of Manchester case.’

  ‘I heard about it. There was a miscarriage of justice and the real killer, a man called Harold Lardner, was caught and jailed.’

  He pointed to the sign over the entrance. ‘This was the undertaker involved in the burial of one of the victims, Alice Seagram.’ The images came back to him quickly; wandering through the frozen animals hanging from the ceiling at the body farm. Opening the long white freezer. Peeling back the body bag. Seeing her face frozen in time.

  The memories would stay with Ridpath for the rest of his life. The nightmares even longer.

  ‘So you think the flyers are pointing us back to that case?’

  ‘An innocent man, James Dalbey, was imprisoned for ten years for the murder. Guess who the two lead detectives were on the case.’

  ‘John Gorman and Charlie Whitworth.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Is this James Dalbey linked to the attacks on the dogs and the grave?’

  He opened the car door and stepped out. ‘Let’s go and find out.’

  They stepped into the reception area, styled to look like any modern office with blonde woods, muted pastel colours and comfortable armchairs. Somewhere a medley of Beatles hits was playing softly. Ridpath could just hear the first chords of ‘Let it be.’

  There was one incongruous exception to the modern office design. A coffin complete with open top, and a mannequin reposing inside, along the left-hand wall.

  A pretty girl sat behind the desk. ‘How may I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘We’d like to see Padraig Daly?’

  Before the girl could pick up the phone, a large florid man wearing a golf sweater and checked trousers stepped out from behind a hidden door. ‘Well, if it isn’t Inspector Ridpath. And how could I be helping the Inspector and his good wife on such a fine February day as this?’

  The voice was Irish and the man behind it looked the polar opposite of the traditional image of an undertaker. He was bright, friendly and loud. But behind the back slapping and the bonhomie, Ridpath knew there was a lot more going on with this man. Some of it not altogether on the straight and narrow.

  ‘Looking for something, Mr Ridpath? We have a special on the Everlasting Repose line at the moment. It’s got everything you’d need for a comfortable interment; a cushioned mattress, Chinese silk lining in thirty-three different colours, a matching linen head pillow, all in an American cedar casket guaranteed for 100 years. Money back if you’re not happy. There’s even a panic button.’

  ‘Panic button?’ asked DS Parkinson.

  ‘You’d be surprised at the number of people who have a morbid fear of being buried alive. For an additional payment spread over five years, this panic button gives them and their relatives the peace of mind they seek.’

  ‘Where does the panic button link to?’

  ‘My office. Between you and me, I haven’t heard a peep so far from any of the clients who’ve used this service.’ He leant in close, lowering his voice. ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to do if I ever heard an alarm go off.’

  ‘Mr Daly,’ Ridpath interrupted, ‘this isn’t my wife, it’s Detective Sergeant Parkinson.’

  ‘So I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit.’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘What a shame, Inspector, I would have done you a wonderful deal. You’d better come through to the conference room, we can talk there.’

  They followed the undertaker as he led them down a short corridor to a large, airy conference room complex with flat screen TV, designed in the same style as the reception, but without the open coffin.

  ‘Since I last saw you, we’ve expanded to Wakefield, Leeds and even back home to Dublin. Business has been good and the publicity from the case helped us immensely.’ He pointed to the seats on the opposite side of the fake walnut centre table. ‘As my old da used to say “There’s a good living in dying.” Now what is it you wanted to see me about?’

  Ridpath pulled out his phone and pulled up the picture of the flyer. ‘Is this one of yours?’

  Daly took one look at the image and shook his head. ‘Definitely not, Inspector,’ he said with distaste. ‘It has our name on it but we wouldn’t produce something so lacking in finesse. Our customers expect a quality service from us and that extends from our flyers to our embalming. And we would never describe ourself as an undertaker. We are funeral directors and proud of it. This is what our brochure looks like.’ He leant
back and opened a drawer, pulling out a glossy, magazine-like book with full colour pictures and images of happy families. ‘We offer a lifestyle not a death, Inspector.’ He looked at the phone again. The avuncular man about town disappeared and the angry businessman took his place. ‘This looks like something from a morgue. Who produced it, Inspector? I’ve a mind to sue them. That piece of rubbish could affect my brand and my business if people saw it.’

  ‘We found one in an allotment and the other in a cemetery.’

  ‘There’s more than one? Jaysus, I will sue. Are they after destroying my business?’

  ‘I don’t believe you are the direct target, Mr Daly.’

  ‘Who is then?’

  ‘We’re not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Well, that’s no use to me. There could be thousands of these around town.’

  ‘We don’t believe there are, Mr Daly. But you confirm these flyers were not produced by your company?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead doing something so awful.’

  Ridpath stood up. ‘Thank you, you’ve been a great help.’ He passed over his card and began to walk towards the door. ‘Call me if you find any more of these.’

  ‘That’s it? You’re not going to investigate these bloody flyers? Why even the telephone number’s wrong on them.’

  Ridpath stopped in his tracks and slowly turned back. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The telephone number’s wrong. It’s not even bloody close.’

  ‘Call it, Emily,’ ordered Ridpath.

  The detective sergeant pulled out her phone and dialled the number on the flyer, putting the phone on speaker as the ringtone trilled. Finally, there was a squeak and an answering machine cut in and a voice intoned. ‘This is James Dalbey. It’s time for the past to come alive.’

  There was a long beep and silence.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Emily Parkinson.

  Another shiver went down Ridpath’s spine. He hadn’t heard that voice in a long time.

  Chapter 24

  ‘We have a problem, boss.’

  Ridpath was standing in front of Claire Trent’s desk, next to him sat Paul Turnbull in the only chair.

  Her eyes drifted away from the computer and up to him. ‘I’ve told you before to bring me solutions not problems.’