When the Guilty Cry

by M J Lee

  ‘I can tell you straight away with the level of formaldehyde, this embalming fluid was used for preservation, not presentation.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Lots. As funeral directors, we’re looking to make the client as natural as possible, so we use our machines to inject the fluid into the arteries in a closed circulatory system. Afterwards, some embalmers drain the fluid and others, like me, leave it in the client. I think it gives a better, more natural look.’

  ‘So what happens when you are simply preserving the… object?’

  ‘You inject it in multiple sites to saturate the tissues. Generally used by researchers or medical professionals. It’s the old organs in jars from movies like Frankenstein. These days I don’t even use formaldehyde, too dangerous, there’s lots of new embalming fluids without formaldehyde. Ah, here it is. Twenty-two per cent formaldehyde, forty-three per cent methanol and eight per cent glutaraldehyde. Your embalming fluid is American, they’re always a little behind the times. A company in Virginia, sells mainly online.’ He frowned. ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They closed down a long time ago.’

  ‘When?’

  He scanned the web page. ‘It says here they ceased trading in 2009.’

  Chapter 42

  Patricia Patterson was shivering when she woke up.

  It wasn’t from the cold, if anything the room was quite warm, even though she was only wearing shirtsleeves. It was pitch dark and Bible black. So dark she couldn’t see her hands even though she knew they were lying only three inches away from her face.

  What time was it? How long has she slept?

  A paralysing fear gripped her body, making even the slightest movement impossible. She tried to lift her head and immediately let it fall back heavily against the rough mattress.

  She knew where she was and it scared her.

  Were they going to do to her what they had done to the others?

  She began to scream.

  Again and again and again.

  She didn’t want to die.

  Not like the others.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Hi, Sophia, what have you got for me?’ After finishing with Padraig Daly, Ridpath had driven straight back to the coroner’s office.

  ‘I went through the missing person file you sent me for Jane Ryder.’

  ‘And? What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a bit weak, isn’t it? No follow-up with the friend, Rose Gray, and I noticed there was a referral to Social Services, but again, no report. Are you sure you sent me everything?’

  ‘It’s all there is in the file. I forgot to ask Chrissy if she’d found more documents when I saw her this morning, but I’m sure she would have told me if she’d dug them up.’

  Sophia checked her notes. ‘I googled Rose Gray. Of course, there were over two and a half million results.’

  ‘Not helpful.’

  ‘Not at all. So I checked the missing person file and her address was give as 24 Earlington Road, Sale. I cross-checked the name on the electoral register for 2009 and found a family with the surname Gray living at the address. It was a Mr and Mrs Alfred Gray.’

  ‘Great, Sophia, we need to go round there.’

  ‘I already checked it out, Ridpath.’

  ‘I thought you might. And?’

  ‘And… they aren’t living there anymore.’

  ‘Not surprising, it was nearly twelve years ago. Well done, at least we know she existed. Why didn’t the police check with her? The parents certainly did.’

  ‘I’m not finished yet. I guessed Rose may have married in the meantime and perhaps changed her last name. So I went to the registrar of marriages and found three Rose Grays had married in England in the period between 2009 and 2020.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me you found her, aren’t you?’

  ‘I rang all three possibilities and found the girl we were looking for living in…’

  ‘Manchester?’

  ‘Right first time. One of the new developments on Palatine Road. She’s now known as Rose Anstey and she works for ITV at Salford Quays. I’ve arranged for you to see her tomorrow during her lunch break. I hope it was the right time for you?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘There’s more. I went to see Mr Roscoe, Jane’s old teacher, this morning at the school. He basically said she was the perfect student: bright, attentive, hard working and punctual. She was expected to go straight into the sixth form, studying History and English. He seemed genuinely devastated she disappeared.’

  ‘Did you check up on him?’

  ‘Of course. The school secretary had nothing but praise, said he doted on his pupils. Perhaps a little too much.’

  ‘Interesting, worth following up. It wouldn’t be the first time a teacher had a relationship with a young female pupil.’

  ‘I can ask around.’

  ‘Do it. You asked him to make himself available for the inquest?’

  ‘He wasn’t too chuffed, neither was the school secretary. They were complaining about having to arrange a substitute teacher.’

  ‘It’s a hard life,’ said Ridpath, without any sympathy. ‘How about the other friend, Andrea Briggs? She’s not mentioned in the misper report.’

  ‘Perhaps the police didn’t talk to her? Anyway, nothing so far. Couldn’t find any Briggs listed in the electoral register and I forgot to ask the school.’

  ‘No worries, keep looking. Have I ever told you, you’re a bloody marvel, Sophia.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you are.’

  An awkward silence stretched between the two of them for a second before Ridpath pointed over his shoulder. ‘I’d better be off. Time to see a copper about a missing girl.’

  ‘Take care, Ridpath.’

  ‘Will do, but it’ll be easier to take the car.’ He blushed. ‘Sorry, one of my daughter’s jokes.’

  ‘The old ones are still the best.’

  Chapter 44

  Emily left the car up in the multi-storey car park off Tib Street and crossed Oldham Road to Afflecks.

  She remembered her old stomping ground so well. Every couple of months, she would hop on the train with her mum from Preston to Manchester early on a Saturday morning. It was a day out for the girls, away from their dad, away from everything.

  One of their first stops was Afflecks, to pick up some new clothes and accessories to impress the other girls at her school. Lunch was always in Yang Sing and afterwards they wandered around Primark, Market Street and the Arndale, checking out the shop windows and trying on as many outfits as they could.

  Lovely days, a time she would remember for the rest of her life.

  She stood outside the old building for a moment, looking up at the yellow and pink painted sandstone. It had been spruced up a bit since she used to come here. In fact, the whole area had been tarted up and rebranded as the Northern Quarter. Gone were the dingy old pubs and textile importers and exporters, replaced by fashionably distressed cafes serving artisan espressos and homemade biscotti, sleek bars with a range of obscure cocktails, and incredibly expensive restaurants where the cute and trendy could waste their hard-earned money looking cool and collected.

  Afflecks was still the same though. Next to the entrance, the painted wall still held the delicious description of what waited inside: Afflecks. The eclectic arcade of the geekily hip and the lovingly handmade and the skilfully pierced lip, not to mention our treasures and trinkets and tokens, so come in, dear friend, we’re unique and we’re open.

  She smiled to herself and walked through the entrance beneath a riot of fading Christmas decorations. Inside, it still looked the same. Sure, the names above the shops may have changed, but the atmosphere was still there; more a market than a shopping mall, selling everything and anything for the young boy or girl on a visit to the big city.

  She remembered she had her first piercing here. Only her left ear, the nose was to come much later. After an age of gent
le and not so gentle persuasion, her mum had finally agreed. Thirteen-year-old Emily had climbed the stairs to the shop on the third floor, sat down in the chair and waited in expectation for the sharp pain of a piercing. Instead there was a slight click, a dab of rough-smelling alcohol and the words, ‘That’ll be six ninety-nine, love.’

  Touching her ear, she could feel the slight indentation of the piercing. She didn’t wear earrings on the job, though, they weren’t safe. What if some nutter grabbed hold of one and ripped it away during a struggle?

  She given up a lot to be a police officer. Perhaps she should have listened to her parents and stayed as a management trainee. But she knew she would have hated every second. She loved her job, despite the Turnbulls of the world and the long hours and the shifts and the bloody sexism that still ran through the police like letters in a stick of Blackpool rock, even though they swore it didn’t.

  She was a bloody good copper and now was the time to prove it.

  She climbed the stairs, past the posters and stickers on the walls, past the fashion shops, the nail bars, the emo stores, the anime cafe, a display cupboard of skull merchandise, a tarot reader, a shop selling old cassettes and all the rest.

  It was like she’d been transported back to being a fourteen-year-old girl who’d found her own private heaven. Bagsy was still on the second floor, close to a record shop, a crystal henge and the store’s resident poet.

  Inside and outside, the shop was festooned with backpacks and bags; checkered, skate, cute and cool, emo, goth, skulls and punk designs looked down on Emily. She even recognised a skull backpack she had bought for school, only to be told it was ‘inappropriate’.

  Luckily, before she could buy it again, the manager appeared. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m DS Emily Parkinson, I rang earlier.’ She flashed her warrant card.

  ‘About the CLAK backpack?’

  ‘That’s it. You still sell them?’

  ‘One of our popular skater brands. Not as big as when Avril Lavigne was singing, but still going strong.’

  ‘Did you sell them in 2009?’

  ‘A long way back. I’m pretty sure we did.’

  ‘And you worked here when they did?’

  ‘Since it opened in 2004, love. This is my life.’ She pointed to all the bags and backpacks on the wall.

  Emily pumped her fist. Sometimes the god of detectives smiled down on her. ‘You’re the owner?’

  ‘I am, love. Opened it years ago and the only time we ever closed was last year.’

  ‘Can you remember this backpack?’

  Emily showed her the picture taken by Hannah Palmer at the lab.

  ‘Sorry, we’ve sold so many over the years.’

  Emily frowned. It looked like a wasted journey. 2009 was too long ago.

  ‘But we’ve still got some of the inventory ledgers from back then – you can take a look if you want. I’m afraid I write everything down, a bit old school. I don’t trust computers, never did.’

  Emily smiled. It looked like she would be spending a lot longer here than she thought. Hopefully she would resist the temptation of the backpacks. ‘Thanks, that would be great,’ she finally answered, following the woman into the storeroom.

  Chapter 45

  After Ridpath left, Sophia thought about going out for another coffee, but realised she’d already drunk two that day. If she went for a third, she would be up all night staring at the walls, trying to make sheep jump over stupid fences, or even worse, wasting her time on Twitter reading the latest gossip.

  ‘Time to do some work,’ she said out loud.

  The office was quiet.

  The coroner’s door was closed as she was preparing for her inquest. Helen Moore was somewhere in Derbyshire being a locum coroner, while Jenny was in the courtroom making sure the Covid protocols were being followed to the letter.

  Ridpath’s absence only emphasised the emptiness. Somehow, he filled it whenever he was there. Sophia hadn’t seen him much recently. Yesterday at the Ryders was the longest she’d spent with him in the last week. He always seemed to be rushing here and there, never really spending long enough in any one place to get anything finished. She was beginning to worry about him. A diet of soggy sandwiches, pasties and coffee was not good for his health.

  ‘Not your job to worry about me,’ she said, mimicking his voice. ‘Just do the bloody work.’ She mock-saluted. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Ridpath.’

  She wrote out a to-do list.

  Ring school re Andrea Briggs

  Check up on the teacher

  Festivals. Which one did Jane Ryder go to?

  Picking up the phone, she dialled the number for the school secretary.

  ‘Hi there, this is Sophia Rahman from the coroner’s office again. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you could tell me about one of the pupils who attended school at the same time as Jane Ryder. Her name was Andrea Briggs.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember anybody of that name. Hang on, here’s Mr Roscoe, perhaps he’ll know her.’

  A male voice came on the line. ‘You’re asking about an Andrea Briggs?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I vaguely remember her. Tall for her age, left school when she was sixteen. Younger than Jane Ryder though.’

  ‘Younger? They were supposed to be friends.’

  ‘At least a couple of years younger. I can’t remember if they spent time together though. If I’m honest, I can’t remember much about Andrea Briggs, she was a quiet girl.’

  Sophia glanced at the second item on her list. She decided to take the plunge and ask her question. ‘Do you get close to the pupils, Mr Roscoe?’

  ‘Some of them. It can’t be helped. It’s easier working with some rather than others.’

  ‘Do you find getting close to the female pupils can lead to problems?’

  The voice changed. Sophia could detect a note of wariness. ‘What are you insinuating, Miss Rahman?’

  She laughed to put him at ease. ‘Nothing at all, Mr Roscoe. I just remember when I was at school we always had crushes on the teachers.’

  ‘I don’t know what kind of school you went to, Miss Rahman, but I can assure you nothing of that sort ever happens in any establishment where I work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Well, that went well. Defensive much?’ she said to the phone.

  She wrote a quick note to herself to investigate further, but how do you find out about a teacher? She tried the ratemyteacher site, but there was nothing on it about Mr Roscoe. A google of the school’s name simply revealed it was well regarded in the community and it had a Good rating from Ofsted, with a particular commendation for the school’s management.

  Perhaps another visit to the school might be necessary to get the info she needed direct from the horse’s mouth or, in this case, direct from the pupils. She’d check with Ridpath first though, just in case that wasn’t the right way to go about the job.

  She glanced down at the last item on her list. Festivals. The obvious place to start was with the nearest event: Mad Ferret in Platt Fields. What a great name. She had once asked to go to Glastonbury for the weekend but her mum had been firm.

  ‘Good Muslim girls don’t go out on their own, and they certainly don’t go to music festivals with half-naked men and women dancing. What if you were seen? I’d never hold my head high in the community again.’

  She had been tempted to say that if she were seen, it would mean somebody else had gone too. But she kept her mouth shut. Sometimes it was better to beat a strategic retreat rather than face the forces of Mum head-on.

  Later, she had found ways to get around her mother’s rules. There were always ways.

  She googled the Mad Ferret Festival. 2009 was one of the last years before it changed into Parklife, moved to Heaton Park and became massive, attracting over 160,000 people from all over the world. In 2009, though, it was still small and frequented mainly by students. A cou
ple of laid-back days in Platt Fields rather than a crowded extravaganza.

  Glancing down the responses, she noticed one interesting hit: a picture in the Evening News of a forest of heads and in the background a stage with a band playing. The photograph was taken by a man called Gary Trueman.

  She googled his name and had twenty-seven major hits, mostly on photography websites. But one stood out. It was captioned ‘Mad Ferret 2009’, and was stored on the Wayback site. She clicked it, stared at the landing page for twenty seconds and whispered, ‘Shit.’

  Chapter 46

  Ridpath showed his warrant card to the copper on duty at Longsight Police Station. ‘DI Ridpath, here to see Sergeant Dowell.’

  The copper waved him in and he parked in the only remaining visitor’s bay.

  Longsight was one of those places where streets and streets of Victorian back-to-back housing had been knocked down in the 1970s in the race for regeneration.

  Unfortunately the government cuts had come in and for a long while the place had been a wasteland of fly tipping, ugly advertising hoardings and brick-strewn, half-abandoned building sites. The regeneration had finally occurred and acres of brick houses had been built, each as ugly as the one next to it.

  In the middle of this morass of modernisation, the police had knocked down a beautiful old Victorian school and replaced it with this monstrosity. Longsight Police Station. From the outside, it looked like a Travelodge designed by Dr Frankenstein.

  The inside was not much better, with stained walls, sticky carpets and a sour smell oozing from the walls.

  Ridpath met Colin Dowell in one of the interview rooms before the man went on duty. The young police constable of the missing person form had been replaced by a dour, moon-faced sergeant, fond of a Holland’s pie or three. He was still buttoning up his uniform over an expansive stomach when he entered the interview room.

  ‘DI Ridpath. I’m duty sergeant today and Terry will go apeshit if I’m late.’