‘Work has been my lifesaver.’ A short pause. ‘You know I’ve decided to do a Masters in Law?’
‘I didn’t. I thought you wanted to join the police.’
‘I thought about it but realised I loved this job. Helping people, not helping put them away.’ Then she covered her mouth with her hand as she realised what she had said. ‘Sorry, no offence.’
Ridpath held up his hands. ‘None taken. But good news, when do you start?’
‘Mrs Challinor was a great help. It’s only part-time over two years, but I start next month.’
‘And at the end?’
‘I can start to specialise as a coroner.’
‘Brilliant. Good for you.’ He tapped the Carsley file in his hand. ‘What do you know about this?’
‘Not a lot. The man’s a single dad, with two sons… with one son now,’ she corrected herself. ‘I opened the file under instructions from Mrs Challinor late last week.’
Ridpath frowned and began reading. Other than the contact at the police, there was only a home address – 16 Apted Road, Wythenshawe; the name, age and date of birth of the deceased – David Carsley, aged seven, born 9 March 2013; and the details of the other son, Daniel Carsley, aged ten, born 6 November 2009.
‘There’s no mother listed? Why is that?’
Sophia looked over her coffee cup, shaking her head. ‘No name was given to me. I was told he was a single dad.’
‘Right. Mrs Challinor said the family had requested the release of the body. Who made the request?’
Sophia checked her notes. ‘The father, late last Friday. Sorry, I haven’t updated the contact report yet.’
‘No worries. You do it now while I make the call.’
He picked up the phone, dialling the mobile number in the file. It was answered after two rings by a female voice. ‘DS Emily Parkinson, how can I help you?’
‘You’re the FLO on the Carsley Case?’
‘Yes,’ she answered back suspiciously.
‘It’s Ridpath, calling from the Coroner’s Office.’
The voice immediately brightened. ‘Ridpath, you’re back at work?’
‘They couldn’t keep me away. I’d like to speak to Mr Carsley, he’s requested the return of his son’s body for burial. How’s he holding up?’
‘OK… I think. I’ll put him on. Good to hear your voice again.’
A few seconds later, a male voice spoke down the phone. It was quiet and subdued, speaking softly. ‘Michael Carsley.’
‘Mr Carsley, this is Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office. We’re so sorry to hear of the loss of your son.’
As soon as he spoke the words, Ridpath could hear their blandness. Why was sympathy so difficult to express to those in grief? We always relied on platitudes on such occasions, a form of words dictated by the circumstances.
Michael Carsley hadn’t suffered a loss. His son had been murdered. But to say the truth out loud was taboo.
There was no response from the other end of the phone. All Ridpath could hear was breathing. He continued on. ‘I wonder if I could come to see you this afternoon, to arrange some details?’
‘I… I… I don’t know,’ the man mumbled. Was he still drugged after almost two weeks?
‘I’m afraid it’s necessary. The Coroner’s Office is here to help during these trying times.’
‘I… I…’
‘Let me take some of the burden from you.’ Ridpath didn’t know why he said the last words.
‘I suppose it would be OK. There’s so much to do. I didn’t realise there was so much to do.’
‘Shall we say three o’clock?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll see you then.’ Ridpath put down the phone. The man sounded like he was floating at the bottom of a deep, deep sea.
Ridpath knew exactly how that felt.
Chapter 8
It was 2.50 when Ridpath parked the car round the corner from the house in Wythenshawe. He’d driven past a few minutes ago and seen a few socially distanced reporters still lounging around outside. The road in front of the house was cordoned off with a solitary police constable standing guard at the front gate.
He showed his warrant card to the man. ‘DI Ridpath, seconded to the Coroner’s Office. I have an appointment to see Mr Carsley.’
‘I’ll get the FLO, sir.’
Ridpath looked over at the reporters. ‘Been trouble, has there?’
‘Two reporters managed to get into the back garden last week taking pictures, pretending to be council workers. Arseholes. Could you wait here a minute?’
Ridpath stood at the gate as the PC strolled to the front door. He used the time to put on his mask. Mrs Challinor had insisted he understood the protocols for visiting clients before leaving the office.
He hated wearing it. Not because it was uncomfortable but because it made him feel anonymous, kept his face hidden behind some fabric. How was he supposed to create empathy with a client from behind a sky-blue piece of polypropylene?
The house was one of the old type, built immediately after the war when Wythenshawe was created as the biggest council estate in Europe, filled with new residents rehoused from the slums and tenements of Hulme. Most of the council houses had been sold off by Mrs Thatcher under the right-to-buy scheme, including this one.
You could always tell the difference from the ones still owned by the council by the colours and the shapes of the door. In this case, it was a snazzy art deco number, painted in a non-council-approved share of bright crimson.
Emily Parkinson appeared at the door and shouted down to him. ‘Come in, Ridpath.’
He walked up the path towards her.
‘You’re looking good,’ she said as he approached.
‘You sound surprised.’
Emily Parkinson had worked with Ridpath on the Dalbey case, helping him discover the murderer of the judge. They had come to respect each other despite a rocky start.
‘When did you get back to work?’
Ridpath smiled. ‘First day.’
‘Today?’ she looked incredulous. ‘You don’t make it easy on yourself, do you?’
‘If I wanted an easy life…’
‘I wouldn’t have become a copper.’ She finished the sentence for him.
‘You the Family Liaison?’ he said, stepping inside.
‘Yeah, Turnbull gave me the short end of the straw.’
‘How’s Mr Carsley handling it?’
She made a moue with her mouth. ‘As well as can be
