Ridpath grabbed a sausage sandwich from the canteen and went up to the MIT floor. He tried to avoid the place these days, except for the weekly meetings. Each time he went, there were fewer and fewer people he knew. Turnbull was gradually replacing all the detectives with his new hires. And the DCI had made it pretty obvious Ridpath was persona non grata, one of the old mob, not one of the new blue-eyed boys.
Emily Parkinson was still there, though. She was far too valuable to Turnbull to get the chop or be re-assigned.
‘Hi, Em, how’s it going?’
She looked up from her computer. ‘Hiya, Ridpath. Same shit, different day.’
‘That good?’
‘Claire Trent has me collating statistics to show how cost effective the department’s recent investigations have been. It’s all part of the PMA programme.’
‘PMA?’
‘Protect my arse. They are all jockeying for position while waiting for the new chief to come aboard. I don’t catch criminals any more, I catch numbers.’
‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘The weekly meeting was moved forward to this afternoon.’
‘Nobody told me.’
‘Are you on Turnbull’s shit list again?’
‘When was I ever on his good list? Speak of the devil.’
DCI Paul Turnbull was staring across at them as he walked from his office to the meeting room.
‘You’d better go, Ridpath, leave me in the happy embrace of my numbers.’
‘See you later, Em.’ He stopped, looking across at another empty desk. ‘Where’s Chrissy?’
‘She was here earlier, probably waiting for you in the meeting room.’
Ridpath nodded and strode over to the open door. The other detectives were already seated behind the desks, with Turnbull and Claire Trent vying for position at the head of the table. He sat down in the nearest empty chair, placing his sandwich in front of him and taking out his notebook.
‘Right, let’s get started. We’re going to have a short briefing today because Claire has another meeting with the acting chief this afternoon. Where are we on the South Yorkshire drugs case, Peter?’
Peter Swift, one of Turnbull’s new hires, opened his notebook. ‘In a good position, boss, we’ve had surveillance on Mrs Docherty since the beginning of the month. On Friday, she met Marcus Holden in a motorway services on the M62.’
‘The Moss Side supplier?’ asked one of the detectives, Ridpath didn’t know his name.
‘The one and same. We think they are arranging to work together.’
‘Manchester supplying South Yorkshire with heroin and crack?’ asked Claire Trent.
‘And in return we get free bags of coal and a set of knives and forks,’ joked Turnbull.
Claire Trent didn’t smile. ‘What are the next steps, Peter?’
‘We’re still keeping them both under surveillance and we’re up on their phones. Both South Yorkshire and ourselves want to catch them when they make the deal.’
‘What? We think they are going to be stupid enough to pass cash and drugs to each other at a meet?’ asked Claire Trent.
‘That’s about it,’ said Peter. ‘And, yes, we think it will be soon.’
‘Anything from the National Crime Agency?’
‘Nothing, boss.’
‘Watch the hours on this, Peter. Your overtime is going through the roof.’
‘We’ve got them on twenty-four-hour surveillance, boss. Nothing I can do about the overtime.’
‘I said watch your hours, am I clear? Use South Yorks resources as much as you can.’ The detective superintendent spoke sharply, making certain all the detectives understood her priorities.
The rest of the meeting continued on in the same way. It was obvious to Ridpath the team was stretched, with too few people chasing too many jobs in too short a time.
‘Ridpath. Earth to Ridpath…’
He zoned back into the meeting. Had Turnbull been taking lessons from his daughter?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your report.’
‘All is running smoothly at the coroner’s office. Only a hundred and fifty-five deaths in Manchester last week, with three being ascribed to Covid. In total, one thousand and thirty-six people have died from the disease in the city. Of the recent deaths, I’m following up on six of them, but there’s nothing overtly suspicious I need to report. I also have one missing person case from eleven years ago. The family has asked the coroner to hold a presumption of death inquest.’
‘Why?’
‘No communication or sightings for over eleven years. Perhaps they are seeking closure.’
‘Or they’re trying to claim on insurance,’ snarled Turnbull.
Ridpath ignored him. ‘In the absence of a body, the coroner needs to seek the home secretary’s permission to hold an inquest and grant a presumption of death certificate. So I’ll need your help going through the police files, Chrissy.’
The civilian researcher was wearing a new Manchester City scarf proclaiming them League Champions 2021 even though the league hadn’t officially finished playing yet.
‘No problem, Ridpath.’
‘Chrissy is busy at the moment,’ said Turnbull.
‘She can still find the time to help Ridpath, Paul. We need to work with the coroner at the moment.’ Claire Trent stared at her chief inspector.
Turnbull stayed silent.
‘Right, that’s sorted. Anybody with anything else? Worries? Concerns? Information?’
The detectives collectively shook their heads.
‘Good.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s difficult at the moment. We’re understaffed, under resourced and under pressure. Going into special measures was the worst that could have happened at the present time. But do understand the action by the Inspectorate of Constabulary had nothing to do with your work or that of your teams. It was a systemic failure, not a failure of police work. Understand?’
Another collective nod.
‘Be careful out there. Ridpath, you can stay behind.’