When the Evil Waits by M Lee (i want to read a book .txt) 📗

So full of themselves and their own self-importance. Men who obviously enjoyed their jobs and looked down on her like a cockroach that had somehow survived a nuclear attack.

All she was doing was providing a necessary service for the punters who liked a bit of a racy read in their morning Sun with the cornflakes. She could also do the highbrow stuff as well for The Times or Guardian. Slightly less risqué reads for the readers of Staines and Ongar with bigger words, longer sentences and at least an attempt at punctuation.

She had been good once.

Extremely good.

Believing in her vocation to educate mankind and reveal the hidden truths of society… The sort of journalism made famous by Harold Evans, World in Action and Panorama. That was what she grew up on, what she had tried to be when she started.

But they don’t tell you in journalism school about the endless grind of it all. Or the fear of working for psychopaths who also called themselves editors. Or the necessity of toeing the party line on every little peccadillo of the bloody owners.

Her mind was wandering today.

Focus, Molly.

Where are you going with this story?

Was it time to give it up?

She looked at her notes from the other night. The word POLICE printed in block letters. Should she interview Ridpath? Give him his fifteen minutes of fame?

Nah, he’d never say yes, his sort never do. Too prissy, too perfect, too police.

But his boss might. Claire Trent. Talk to the engine driver not her cleaning rag.

She might be up for a one-on-one. The sort of in-depth shallow interview the Guardian specialised in.

What was the PR girl’s name – Sarah whatsherface?

She scrolled through her contacts and found the woman.

‘Hi Sarah, it’s Molly Wright, I have an absolutely fab idea I’d love to run past you if you have a second.’

Sometimes, it was like taking candy from babies.

Chapter 35

Irene Carsley’s flat was number 3 in a large old semi-detached house in Chorlton, not far from where the body of her son had been discovered.

Once, back in Victorian times, this place would have housed the family of a rich merchant or manager of a cotton mill, lavishly decorated and cared for by servants, housekeepers and gardeners.

These days it housed eight flats with paper-thin walls and ‘cosy’ kitchens.

The area had been transformed into flats for students in the Sixties, each large house subdivided and then subdivided again. The local estate agent described them as ‘bijou properties’. It was estate-agent speak for small, cramped and jerry-built.

Ridpath stood in front of a long panel of illuminated doorbells, looking for number 3. He pressed it and almost immediately the security alarm buzzed and a thin reedy voice asked, ‘Who is it?’ in a broad Scottish accent.

‘Hello, Mrs Carsley, it’s Ridpath from the Coroner’s Office, I rang you earlier.’

Without another word, the security alarm buzzed again and Ridpath heard the click of a lock being released. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a dark, dingy hall with stairs leading upwards. On the right, a pile of letters, circulars and discarded junk mail lay on a stained table. There was a strong smell of frying onions and sizzling spices, as if he had stepped into the kitchens of a restaurant on the Curry Mile.

On his right, the number on the door had a broad ‘1’ painted next to a modern timed light switch. He pushed the button and a single light bulb illuminated the stairs. He climbed upwards, getting to the first landing before the bulb went off and he was in darkness again.

He took out his phone and brought up the flashlight. Using this, he found himself standing next to number 3, knocking loudly on the door.

It was opened by a small thin woman with mousy hair in a fringe that almost covered her eyes. ‘Mr Ridpath?’

He showed her his ID. ‘Actually, it’s Detective Inspector Ridpath.’

‘You a copper? I thought you said you were from the Coroner’s Office?’

‘I am employed by Greater Manchester Police but seconded to work at the Coroner’s Office.’

She grunted and undid the security chain, walking away from the door, leaving it open.

Ridpath took that as an invitation to enter.

He pushed open the door and walked into the small, windowless bedsit. On the floor next to the bed, an open suitcase was being used as a wardrobe. Opposite, a two-ring hob sat on a wooden table with a gas bottle on the floor. A sink was doubling as a washbasin and a place for drying clothes. He couldn’t see where the toilet was.

She sat on the bed.

He remained standing – there weren’t any chairs.

‘It’s Mrs Irene Carsley, is that correct?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s Irene McMurdo. I’ve reverted to my maiden name. I prefer to use that.’

‘OK. Can I call you Irene?’

‘You can call me whatever you want.’

Ridpath could see the woman was trying to put on a brave front, but the fact her hands were shaking gave away the shallowness of the pretence.

‘As I said, I’m seconded to the Coroner’s Office…’

‘You’ve come about David?’ she interrupted.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

She brushed back the lanky ring of hair from her eyes. For the first time, Ridpath could see the pain in them as they darted from left to right, red-rimmed and swollen.

‘Who could do that to him? He was such a bonny, wee bairn. Always happy, never cried.’

‘That’s what we will find out, Mrs— I mean Ms McMurdo.’

‘David wouldn’t hurt a thistle. He was such a good little boy.’ Her voice began to break.

Sitting there alone on the bed, Ridpath could sense her loneliness, the terrible isolation, but at this moment, he had a job to do. ‘When was the last time you saw David?’

The eyes stopped moving for a second as she thought. ‘About a week ago. I used to send them a text and meet them in the park. I couldn’t go back to the house, he would have killed me.’

‘Who would have killed you?’

‘Michael, who else? That’s why I left. I couldnae stand it any