by M J Lee
When the Guilty Cry
Cover
Title Page
When the Guilty Cry
THE INQUEST
Chapter 1
SEVEN DAYS EARLIER THE INVESTIGATION
MONDAY/TUESDAY
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
WEDNESDAY
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
THURSDAY
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
FRIDAY
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
SATURDAY
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
SUNDAY
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
MONDAY THE INQUEST
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
TWO WEEKS LATER
Chapter 103
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by M J Lee
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
When the Guilty Cry
THE INQUEST
Chapter 1
Ridpath was worried.
He stared out across the Coroner’s Court, watching everyone take their place. But for some reason, a vague sense of disquiet seemed to permeate his body. He couldn’t put his finger on it; a feeling of unease seemed to be lodged deep in his bones.
He coughed twice into his handkerchief.
Was it the myeloma returning?
He didn’t think so. There were none of the usual symptoms: no weakness, no weight loss, no feeling of nausea.
Just a strong sense that something, somewhere was wrong.
The inquest was about to start and he had no idea where it would lead. Perhaps that was what worried him; being out of control, events happening around him when he could do nothing to alter or stop them.
For a second, a darkness descended on him and he closed his eyes.
Get it together, Ridpath. Focus.
He had already helped Mr Ryder to his seat at the desk facing the coroner. The man’s wife wasn’t there, of course, she was in no condition to make it.
To his right, socially distanced, Greater Manchester Police were represented by their legal counsel, as was Manchester City Council. Both parties were involved, not to ensure the truth would be revealed, but to make certain no blame would be attached to the actions of either organisation.
The other witnesses had arrived in dribs and drabs. Sergeant Dowell, wearing his best uniform, with freshly polished shoes and brushed-back grey hair. He scowled at Ridpath as he walked past him to take his seat close to the witness box. Doreen Hawkins, the charity worker, sat behind him, draped in a one-piece kaftan and encircled by a cloud of expensive perfume. Rose Anstey, Jane’s friend, was sitting next to her, following the requisite separation for indoor social distancing. She didn’t make small talk with the woman next to her; instead, she stared straight ahead as if wishing she were somewhere completely different.
A tall man entered. Ridpath hadn’t seen him before. He glanced at the witness list. Was this the teacher, Mr Roscoe, or was it somebody else? Before he could check the man’s identity, two social workers rushed past. He recognised them from previous hearings. Both of them had a harassed air, as if the world and its problems sat heavy and unsolvable on their shoulders. Following them, his bald head freshly shaven, Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull ambled by. He glanced briefly at Ridpath, nodded once, and took his seat, ready to be called.
The press gallery was occupied too. Three reporters sat with their notebooks open and ready, the recent publicity surrounding the case fuelling the public’s desire to discover more.
In the public gallery, the Covid regulations were being implemented to the letter. Despite the social distancing, every available seat was taken and occupied. Jenny Oldfield, the office manager, had even added a few more close to the door, to cater for the inevitable latecomers, stragglers and busybodies who would attempt to wheedle their way into the inquest.
As Jenny banged the gavel on her table, the door at the back of the court opened and Mrs Challinor entered.
Ridpath moved to take his place standing by the door. Still the feeling of disquiet lingered like a bad smell in a bouquet of fresh flowers. Would he have to take part in this drama after all? He hoped not.
The buzz around the court ceased and Mrs Challinor began speaking.
‘This inquest is now open regarding the disappearance of Jane Ryder in 2009 and the application from the family for a presumption of death certificate from the Coroner’s Service. The inquest has been called by the terms of the Coroners Act 1988, section fifteen and the Presumption of Death Act 2013, both of which allow for such a certificate to be issued if there is no possibility the person involved, in this case, Jane Ryder, is still alive.’ She paused for a moment, looking around the court. ‘We will hear evidence from witnesses to help us decide if Jane Ryder can indeed be presumed dead.’
Mr Ryder, sitting in front of her, sighed audibly, his shoulders hunched, and he rocked back and forth.
‘Throughout these proceedings, the Covid guidelines established by the chief coroner will apply, including the giving of evidence in person and externally by witnesses. The family is represented by Mr James Ryder, parent of the missing girl. Greater Manchester Police is represented by Mr Jonathan Spielman, while Mrs Jennifer Harris represents Manchester City Council.
’
On hearing their names, the legal representatives rose slightly and bowed the heads.
‘A reminder for everyone. This is an inquest, not a court of law. Our job… my job… is to discover the truth, not to apportion blame or to discover who may, or may not, have abducted or murdered Jane Ryder.’
Another audible sigh from Mr Ryder.
Mrs Challinor carried on. ‘We have one focus and one focus only. It is simply to ascertain to the best of our abilities whether this young girl, sixteen as she was in 2009, is still alive.’
At the back of the court in the public gallery, somebody had risen from their chair. From where he was standing, Ridpath couldn’t see who it was.
Mrs Challinor raised her head and stared at the person. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
Ridpath craned his neck forward, looking for the person who had stood up, hearing a short response.
‘No, but I think I can help you.’
SEVEN DAYS EARLIER
THE INVESTIGATION
MONDAY/TUESDAY
Chapter 2
‘Are you sure you’ve brought all the equipment from the van?’
‘Just get on with it, Ian, it’s bloody cold.’
‘Batteries charged, infrared camera ready, Kira?’
The woman nodded her head, eyes glancing upwards in disapproval.
Behind his head the dark shadows of an old Victorian house loomed, its slate roof glistening in the light of the full moon. In the distance, a dog fox barked his ownership of this abandoned land, receiving no answer from any rival. Nearby, a mouse scurried through the once manicured lawns, now overgrown and forgotten, while the wind rustled through the spring leaves of an old oak tree planted years before, when the house was first built.
The man coughed twice, clearing his throat, bringing his mike up to his mouth.
‘Rolling,’ said the woman. A red light blinked brightly on top of her camera.
‘Welcome to another episode of Ghost Hunters UK. My name is Ian Rodgers. It’s just after midnight and we’re in Manchester, outside an abandoned children’s home, Daisy House, a pretty name for a place where dark deeds were done.’
The man whispered rather than announced, his voice adding to the drama.
‘From the 1950s, this place was used to house orphans and children abandoned by their families. It was closed in 2006. Visitors to the home have reported strange sounds of children crying. Others have heard the sound of laughter. One even reported hearing a children’s nursery rhyme whispered in her ear by a young voice.’
He took a deep, dramatic pause. ‘Tonight, we’re going inside with the latest scientific equipment to check out the reports. Because we are… Ghost Hunters UK.’
The man stepped aside and the woman holding the camera rushed forward, tilting left and right, getting angles on the broken windows, graffiti-splattered walls, the sharp edges of mould-covered stone, finishing with shots of the full moon stabbed by the stark blackness of the tall chimney.
The sound recordist, a chubby, bearded man, switched off his digital recorder. ‘Cue eerie music, title cards and promo clips. You forgot to ask them to subscribe to the YouTube channel, Ian.’
‘Shit, you want me to do it again?’
‘Nah, it’s too bloody late and too cold and you’ll only balls it up again. We can VO it at the end.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. You try working in these conditions. Look at this.’ Ian Rodgers breathed out, revealing a fog of cold air coming from his mouth. ‘Even in bloody spring it’s freezing.’
‘Brilliant, could you do it again inside?’ said the camerawoman. ‘Be great for atmosphere.’
‘You got the shots, Kira?’ The female producer, who so far had remained silent, chivvied people along.
The camerawoman nodded.
‘Right, grab the gear and let’s get moving. We have three more hours of filming to finish tonight. This is a thirty-minute segment, so we need lots of stuff.’
‘You’re sure we have permission to film, Pamela?’
‘For a paranormal investigator, you are such a wuss, Ian. I did the recce inside this morning, we’ll be OK. Let’s get moving.’ She picked up a steel case and moved towards the door of the old house, pushing it open with her foot. It swivelled open halfway, with the hinge on the bottom half coming away from the jamb. ‘We’ll film you entering on the way out, so you can do some nice dramatic irony pieces to camera, Ian, once we know what happens inside. Oh, and people, be careful in here…’
‘What? There may be ghosts?’ joked the sound recordist.
‘Don’t be stupid, it’s the local junkies, they sometimes use this place as a shooting gallery. Don’t pick up any needles and watch where you tread.’
‘Now she tells us.’
The producer switched on her torch and they followed her through the half-open door, their feet rustling against the dried leaves that littered the hall. ‘The old kitchen is straight ahead. We’ll start in there filming the setup, before going into the dining room. Afterwards, it’s upstairs to the former dormitories to shoot the final scenes.’
Ian Rodgers shivered. ‘I don’t know about you, but this place gives me the creeps.’
On the monitor, his eyes had a glassy, opaque stare, the lens of each eye like an opal glistening in the dark walls of a cave. The film had a green tinge to it from shooting in low light, which gave it a veneer of authenticity.
‘Every place we shoot gives you the creeps, Ian,’ replied the producer, ‘it’s what makes you so believable. Over two hundred and fifty thousand viewers now and counting…’
‘Does that mean I get a raise on the next job…?’
‘In your dreams.’
They walked slowly forward, the producer pushing open another door to reveal the kitchen. ‘We’ll set the lights up here, Kira.’
An old table stood in the centre, with two bent and battered institutional chairs lying next to it at an angle, as if the people sitting there had just risen from their supper.
‘Ian, you’ll do the first piece to camera, giving the history of the place and the rumours about it. You know the script?’
He nodded. ‘What I don’t know, I’ll ad-lib.’
Once again, the producer rolled her eyes. ‘Try to stick to the script, Ian.’
Behind her, Kira bustled around setting up a soft light directed at one corner of the room. ‘Pam, you want the look we created in the pub in Knutsford last week?’
‘Yeah, same again. Blair Witch Project meets Bambi.’
‘No problem. We’re set.’ The woman hoisted the camera onto her shoulder.
‘Ian?’
‘Ready, when you are.’
‘Right. Rolling…’
‘We’re now inside the children’s home. Listen…’ He paused, his eyes flashing left and right. ‘Do you hear anything? The sound of a child sobbing, perhaps? This place used to be the home of a wealthy merchant, then it was a temporary hospital for wounded soldiers during the Second World War. In the 1950s, it became a home for orphans. It was supposed to be a place of safety and refuge for these children. Instead, it became a house of horror…’
‘Cut. Great, Ian, and thanks for sticking to the script. Kira, move round and shoot him from the right and below. You continue speaking the intro, Ian.’
The camerawoman moved round, squatting down with the camera pointing upwards. On the monitor, the shot had a green glow with no other colours visible.
‘Ready, Kira?’
‘Rolling,’ said the bearded soundman.
‘Action,’ whispered the producer.
‘A house of horror. Because here children were abused, physically, emotionally and sexually, by the same adults who were supposed to protect them, their pain increased and multiplied by the betrayal of their hopes and dreams. It is this pain that we believe remains in this place, giving rise to the sightings of ghosts and the audible echoes of past trauma.’ His eyes widened and his head swivelled round. ‘What’s that no
ise?’ he shouted, his voice rising in fear.
‘Cut, cut. Ian, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to do that until we’re upstairs in the dormitory. If you do it now, there will be no build-up of tension through the sequence.’
‘But… but… I heard a noise. Didn’t you hear it?’
The producer shook her head, looking around at the others. ‘Didn’t hear anything, Ian.’
‘It came from over there.’
He pointed to a door in the far corner.
‘It was probably a mouse.’
‘Great, so now we’re going to die of rabies.’
‘You can’t get rabies from mice. You get salmonella, leptospirosis and tularemia,’ said the bearded soundman.
‘Thanks for putting my mind at ease. I’ll sleep comfortably tonight. I’m sure I heard a noise coming from over there.’
The producer scratched her head. ‘Can we continue? Or we won’t get done tonight.’ She checked the script.
Ian took two deep breaths, trying to calm himself. ‘Can we check it out anyway, for my peace of mind?’
‘Listen, this is entertainment, not real. We shoot these things for the punters because it gives them cheap thrills. In the two years doing it have we ever seen a ghost?’
Ian shook his head and blinked twice, begging. ‘Please?’
For the third time the producer rolled her eyes. ‘If it keeps you happy, but I checked it this morning.’ She stomped over to the door and wrenched it open. The camerawoman followed her, the red light blinking on top of the camera.
‘See, it’s only a corridor leading to our next location. We may as well go there now.’
‘Only if you go first.’
‘You are such a wuss, Ian.’
The soundman made the noise of a chicken and flapped his arms.
‘It’s all right for you. Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘Not a sausage, mate, and this picks up everything.’ He pointed to his boom mike.
‘Come on.’ The producer was standing at the now open door. They followed her down a short, dark passage with a dogleg turn after four metres. At the end, a heavy wooden door blocked the passage.
‘You’re going to go in there, Ian, and speak the next part of the script. We’ll give you a hand-held camera to film yourself. Remember to keep the lens pointed at your face. We’ll watch the take on a monitor out here.’
