by M J Lee
Ridpath finally shook his head.
Turnbull turned to Claire Trent. ‘I warned you about Ridpath’s imagination, his reliance on “hunches” rather than the hard graft of evidence gathering. Now what do we have? A lot of questions and not a lot of answers. Conspiracy theories rather than concrete facts.’
‘Listen, don’t you get it? There is a serial killer or killers out there. People keep disappearing; Jane Ryder, Joseph Rowlands, Gerald Duffy and now Patricia Patterson. And somehow, they are all linked to Daisy House.’
Claire Trent spoke slowly. ‘The disappearance of people is not proof there is a serial killer in Manchester. Nor is it proof of a conspiracy to cover up something that may or may not have happened in the past. Without evidence linking these people to Daisy House Children’s Home, you have nothing, Ridpath.’
‘People disappear all the time. You haven’t thought this through, lad.’
‘That’s not fair, I—’
‘Life is unfair, Ridpath,’ smirked Turnbull, ‘you’d better get used to it.’
Ridpath ignored him, appealing directly to Claire Trent. ‘I just need another week, boss, I’m sure we could find the link, work out why these people have disappeared and how it relates to the children’s home.’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Just a couple of extra days.’
‘I have made my decision. You have till Monday. Now if you don’t mind, I have a mountain of paperwork to get through.’
Chapter 66
After the Ridpath left, Turnbull stayed in Claire Trent’s office.
‘I don’t think he’s handling this investigation well, boss. He’s out of his depth, can’t hack it.’
‘I don’t agree, Paul, he’s done quite well with limited resources.’
‘You heard him. I asked a few basic questions and his answers were always the same. “I don’t know.” He’s moving too slowly. Plus he’s trying to do two jobs; working for the coroner and working on our case. He even has the gall to try to bundle them together with some spurious talk about matching backpacks, cover-ups and conspiracy theories.’
Claire Trent stared at the figures on her spreadsheet, trying desperately to make them add up to something more than a reduction in her manpower. ‘As I said—’
‘But there’s one thing he said worried me, boss,’ Turnbull interrupted before she finished her sentence.
She lifted her head for the first time. ‘What was it?’
‘What if he’s right?’
‘Right about what?’
‘What if there is a serial killer out there?’
Claire Trent scratched her head. ‘It’s the last thing I need now. A major investigation with major costs.’
‘I totally agree, boss. That’s why I think I should take over.’
‘What?’
‘Take over this investigation. We need a big win right now, and Ridpath is too preoccupied with his hunches and theories, he’s not doing the basics of an investigation. If there is a serial killer out there, the last thing we need is another Shipman or Yorkshire Ripper, with the press latching on to it and crucifying us.’
Claire Trent’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you said this was a no hope case.’
Turnbull coughed. ‘I still think it is, but if there is even the slightest hint that a serial killer is operating in Manchester, we need to investigate.’ A long pause, followed by a dramatic sigh. ‘There is a small chance, an extremely small chance, I could turn it around, make it work for us. Turn it into a win for the department, boss. At the very least, if it does blow up, you can say you put senior personnel on the case.’
Claire Trent shook her head. ‘No, Paul, you have too many other investigations happening at the moment. You’ll spread yourself too thin.’
Turnbull grabbed a chunk of fat around his waist. ‘Hardly any chance of that. I’d like to take over. Ridpath isn’t going to solve it. He’s the one spread too thin.’
‘No, Paul, I need you to work the other cases. South Yorkshire looks good, and you know how keen the acting chief constable is on inter-force cooperation.’
‘Peter can handle it. Our intel is the buy isn’t going to happen for a couple of weeks. Mrs Docherty and Marcus Hayden are still doing the drug-dealers dance, haggling about delivery and cost.’
‘The answer is still no, Paul. We’ve given Ridpath until Monday to solve it, let’s leave him alone to do his work.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘I think you underestimate the resourcefulness of our DI Ridpath.’
‘And I think you overestimate him, boss. He’s not that good.’
‘I’ve made my decision, Paul. I thought you had a golf course to go to?’
‘Not today.’
‘Well, I have a few rounds still to go with these figures before Monday.’
He stood up. ‘I think you’re making the wrong decision, boss. I have a feeling this case is about to blow up in our faces.’
‘I’ll take the risk, Paul.’ She tapped the printout of her spreadsheet. ‘You can help me with these, if you’re so keen to get involved.’
‘Numbers ain’t my strength.’
‘It’s not mine either, but somebody has to do it.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘Rather anybody else but me.’
Claire Trent bent her head down close to the paper, following a column with her pencil.
Turnbull decided to go; he wasn’t going to convince her today. A wee birdie had told him this case was coming together. Ridpath was barking up the wrong tree with his conspiracy theories, but he’d read the files. All it needed was a little shove to take it over the line. That shove had to come from him, not from Mr Arsehole Ridpath. And he knew exactly what to do to give it an extra push.
Chapter 67
Both Emily and Chrissy were waiting for him in the situation room.
‘We have until Monday, no longer.’
Their shoulders fell. ‘There’s too much to do, Ridpath.’
‘Right, let’s focus. Dave is concentrating on finding more about Duffy, Oliver is on the ANPR. Chrissy, have you arranged a time with the facial recognition people?’
‘I’ve persuaded Tom Gorman to give me a couple of hours in—’ she checked her watch ‘—five minutes.’
‘Good, let’s cross our fingers you get a result. Em, can you follow up on Patricia Patterson? Find out everything you can about her. See if you can get permission to look through her documents. Where has she gone? Has she done a runner because the hands were found, or—’
‘Has she become a victim.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What are you doing, Ridpath?’
‘If I’m honest, I’m picking up my daughter first and taking her home, and afterwards I’m off to the coroner’s office to work with Sophia.’
‘What’s going on there?’
‘I think there’s one angle we may have missed. One lead we haven’t followed up. It may be a long shot but I think I need to check it out.’
‘Want me to come?’ asked Emily.
‘No, you stay on Patricia Patterson, she could be key.’
‘When are we meeting next?’
‘Tomorrow morning at nine a.m. I know it’s Sunday, but I can’t think of a way around it.’
‘No worries,’ they both said at the same time, before Emily carried on, ‘I think we’re both happy to be doing something not involving stats, looking at a laptop or being stuck in here all day long. Dave Connor won’t be happy though.’
‘Neither will my daughter. I’ll take her to her grandparents.’
‘I’d better be off before Tom Gorman decides he has better things to do on a Saturday and starts throwing his toys out of the pram.’
The civilian researcher ran off towards the door.
‘Call me if you find anything?’
‘OK.’
Emily Parkinson and Ridpath were left alone.
‘What are the chances of solving this before Mon
day? Be straight with me.’
‘Not great, Em. We need more time and more bodies to check the leads. Two things we don’t have a lot of at the moment. But we’ll just keep our heads down and keep plugging away. It’s never over till the fat lady sings.’
‘Or the jury says not guilty.’
‘Aye, that as well.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I can’t help feeling we’re missing one piece of the puzzle. If we had it, everything would fall neatly into place.’
‘I know what you mean, Ridpath, but we’re not going to find it standing here. Isn’t your daughter waiting for you to pick her up?’
‘Shit, a grumpy Eve is not worth living with.’
‘You probably deserve everything you get.’
‘And more.’ He picked up his bag, ‘Call me if you get anything.’
‘I’ll call you even if I don’t get anything.’
‘Right.’
‘Say hello to Eve,’ were the last words he heard as he rushed out of the door.
Chapter 68
His daughter was sitting on the steps outside the Chinese Centre on her own.
‘You’re late, Dad.’
‘Sorry, traffic was bad.’
She got into the car, slinging her things onto the back seat roughly.
‘How was your class?’
‘OK, same old.’
‘You learnt some new vocab?’
‘No, we went over the old stuff again and again and again. Apparently, my tones are incorrect and I sound too English.’
‘Not surprising.’
‘Luckily, the others are just as bad, some even worse than me. They sound too Cantonese.’
‘What’s wrong with sounding Cantonese?’
‘When your teacher is from Beijing, apparently it’s a sin worse than murder.’
Ridpath laughed. ‘That’s bad.’
He headed back down the A56 to their home – a journey he seemed to make all the time these days. ‘I have to go back to work this afternoon. You don’t mind, do you? I can ask Mrs Dunwoody if you can go round to her house if you want.’
‘Nah, I’ll be OK. I’ve got lots of homework to keep me occupied.’
‘Sorry.’ He paused for a moment, before deciding to take the plunge. ‘About tomorrow. I don’t think we can go to the cemetery.’
Her mouth opened wide. ‘But you promised. It’s Mum’s time, we need to go, Dad.’
‘I’ll see if I can make it, but there’s so much to do and the inquest opens on Monday morning.’
‘You promised.’
He stared out of the windscreen. A few spots of rain began to fall, splattering the glass.
‘Mum was right.’
She turned her body away from him.
‘What?’
‘She always said you cared more about the job than any of us.’
‘Your mum said nothing of the sort.’
She answered without turning around. ‘I used to listen to your arguments. She was always telling you to care less about the job and care more about us, to spend more time with us.’
‘I do care about you and your mum.’
No answer.
‘You know I do, it’s just I have to work, cases need time and sometimes I can’t decide not to get involved.’
‘Doesn’t your family need time too?’
She sounded exactly the same as Polly, even down to the intonation.
‘Of course they do. Of course you do. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go to London together when we can, now the lockdown’s over.’
He saw her shoulders relax and stiffen again.
‘Another promise?’ she sneered.
He turned into their road and pulled up outside the house. ‘I’ll call you before I come home.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said without looking round. ‘I’ll manage without you.’ Without saying another word, she took her backpack from the back seat and strode up the driveway.
‘Eve…’ he shouted.
She didn’t turn round, opening the front door and slamming it behind her.
He sat in the car, thinking about whether or not to go in and talk with her, try to calm her down. The dashboard clock clicked over to 1.12.
Shit. He had told Sophia he would be in at one p.m.
Shit.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Shit.
Putting the car in gear, he headed off to the Coroner’s Court. He would have to make it up to Eve later.
Chapter 69
Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull spotted Molly Wright in the beer garden of Sinclair’s Oyster Bar.
Not that there was any grass in the garden, rather it was a concrete picnic table area, set between three old pubs; Sinclair’s, the Old Wellington and The Mitre. Two of the pubs were half-timbered and had been transported to this location when Market Street had been developed in the mid-seventies. Turnbull thought it was funny the only buildings Manchester had bothered to save were a couple of pubs.
Molly Wright offered him her cheek to kiss. ‘I ordered a bottle of Rioja to keep us going.’
Turnbull glanced down; the bottle was already half empty. She poured him a glass of a deep, dark red and topped up her own. ‘Bottoms up, pants down,’ she said, raising her glass.
‘Cheers. Long time no see, Molly.’
‘Not since last year, I think it was.’
‘How’s things?’
‘Great, I’m still on the crime beat, but I now have a regular column. You’d be surprised how many crimes of passion were committed during lockdown. Locking people together who don’t get on is always a recipe for trouble.’
‘Like me and my missus. Luckily, I kept working.’
‘Ah, the stories of true love, how I miss them.’
‘You’ve done well for yourself. I read the book. You weren’t very kind.’
She mimed shock. ‘I went easy on you. The Carsley case has become well known since I wrote the book about it. The new Moors Murders, according to the reviews.’
‘Yeah, didn’t help my career prospects.’
‘I could have been tougher. You should have seen what I took out. Arresting the father was not a smart move, Paul.’
‘Had to be done. Anyway, water under the bridge now.’
The both drank large swallows of Rioja, Molly Wright nearly finishing hers.
‘As much as a love seeing your bald head, Paul, I know you didn’t ring me because you were missing my wit and charm.’
He put down his glass. ‘No, Molly, I have something for you.’
She took out her notebook. ‘Something juicy, I hope.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Of course, but attributable to a source?’
‘Yeah, but no mention of Police HQ or MIT.’
‘Agreed. Fire away.’
‘It’s about the hands found in the backpack in Northenden.’
‘I read about it. A juicy little discovery. Probably some medical students playing a prank.’
‘It wasn’t. It seems to be linked to the children’s home, Daisy House.’
‘I’m all ears, child abuse makes good copy.’
‘Nothing much yet, but a little bird tells me the chief suspect, Patricia Patterson, disappeared the day after the hands were discovered.’
‘Really? Haven’t your colleagues found her yet?’
‘They only found out she was missing yesterday.’
‘That seems remiss of them. Who’s the officer in charge?’
‘DI Thomas Ridpath.’
‘Ridpath?’ She chewed the end of her pen. ‘He was the copper I saved from Matthew Oram. The one who did a parallel investigation to yours during the Carsley case. Mauling Molly, they started calling me in the newsroom.’ She paused for a moment, eyeing him up and down. ‘You trying to stick the knife in, get your own back?’
It was his turn to mime innocence. ‘What, me? I was wondering if you were interested in the case. If you don’t want the scoop, I’ll talk to
another reporter.’
He stood up to go, but she clamped her hand on his arm.
‘Don’t be so touchy, Paul. I’m all for stabbing people in the back, but I usually prefer to use words, not a knife – much more hurtful. Now sit down and tell Auntie Molly all about it.’
Chapter 70
Sophia was already at her desk when Ridpath arrived at the coroner’s office. ‘How was your morning?’
‘Busy, too much work and too little time. Dealing with Turnbull always sets my teeth on edge.’
‘He’s the bald-headed one, right?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Struck me as a bit of a wanker the one time I met him.’
‘I love it when you are rude, Sophia, so unlike you.’
‘Wash my mouth out with soap.’
‘Did you check Andrea Briggs again, like I asked?’
‘Yep, still nothing. She stayed at school for a while until she was sixteen and after that, I can’t find anything on her. Nothing on the electoral register, no driving licence applications. Nada.’
Ridpath took off his jacket, setting it across the back of his chair, before sitting down opposite her. ‘Do you have an address for her?’
She checked through her notes. ‘Here it is, the school had it so it’s at least ten years out of date. She was living with her parents, Tom and Elizabeth, at 245 Havistock Road, Sale. I guess it’s not far from the Ryders.’ She continued reading her notes. ‘That’s strange, I’ve just noticed their surname. It’s Brooks, not Briggs. Why did they have a different surname?’
‘Did you call them?’
‘Yes, but there was no answer.’
Ridpath put his jacket back on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Time to check out the address.’
‘But they were living there nearly ten years ago. They’ve probably moved, or passed away.’
‘They might still be there, and I have to check it out. I thought about it last night and it’s the piece of the case that’s been worrying me like a head full of nits. What happened to the other friend, Andrea Briggs?’
‘Do you ever sleep?’
‘Not on a case. I’m off to the house in Sale.’
