When the Guilty Cry

by M J Lee

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘It would be good to have you there, Sophia.’

  ‘Your car or mine?’

  Chapter 71

  ‘Is this the best you have?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  Tom Gorman, the lead technician in the Digital Services Division of GMP, raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, we may get a hit or we may not. But first I have to check whether we have permission to use this photograph.’

  ‘The photographer sent it to us allowing all uses.’

  ‘Great, make sure you send me the paperwork.’

  ‘Covering your arse?’

  ‘Always. First thing they teach you in GMP. Now, let me scan it in and we’ll log on to the PND to do a search comparison.’

  He loaded the photograph into a machine, which immediately began producing a startling array of clicks and whirrs.

  ‘Thank God it isn’t video footage.’

  ‘Why? Does it take too long to load?’

  Tom laughed. ‘Nah, it’s easier. Just it’s a bit of a grey area for us.’

  ‘Grey area?’

  ‘We were caught in 2018 using live facial recognition technology to look at all the people who visited the Trafford Centre over a period of six months.’

  ‘What? How many people?’

  ‘Well, a rough guess is about thirty million people visit the centre each year…’

  ‘So we will have captured fifteen million people?’

  ‘Yeah, roughly.’

  ‘And they hadn’t committed any crime?’

  ‘Not that we know of. Then again, we don’t know if this guy has, until we run him through the database.’ He pointed to the man’s face slowly appearing on a screen as it was scanned in.

  ‘It’s been stopped now, hasn’t it? Live facial recognition screening, I mean.’

  ‘Well, officially GMP doesn’t use it, but we do have access to the national database, which includes images from other times when it was used. Twenty-five million pictures on it now,’ he said proudly, ‘even though the High Court declared it unlawful to retain images of people arrested or questioned but who were never charged. Theresa May, remember her? When she was home secretary she required us to delete images from the database, but only on application from unconvicted persons.’

  ‘But how do I know I’m on the database?’

  ‘You don’t. You can only apply to have your image deleted if you are on the database, but nobody knows whether their face has been captured or not. It’s such a great catch-22, only Theresa May could have come up with it. You’re probably on it.’

  ‘Me? What about you?’

  ‘Of course I am. Where do you think they store our staff photos?’

  ‘Some of these people have not committed any crime?’

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘It’s a bit like the Tom Cruise movie. What was it called?’

  ‘You mean Minority Report?’

  ‘A great sci-fi movie.’

  ‘Not so sci-fi any more. The Met introduced live video facial recognition in early 2020. And where the Met leads, the rest of us follow. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. The technology was developed by the Japanese and can compare about three hundred images a second, eighteen thousand faces a minute.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Facial images are only the first in the new wave of biometrics. You know, the police are already experimenting with voice-recognition technology and others such as iris, gait and vein analysis are commercially available.’

  ‘You mean we could identify somebody by the way he walks?’

  Tom Gorman stopped pressing the keys on his computer for a second. His arm shot straight up in the air and he began singing Stayin’ Alive.

  ‘The Bee Gees will be turning over in their graves. I’d stick to the day job if I were you.’

  He returned to the keyboard and tapped on a few keys. ‘Right, we’re set, connected to the PND. Now we just let the algorithms go to work and see if we get a match.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘How long’s a piece of string? Fancy a coffee while this is working? I could murder a cheese toastie.’

  Chapter 72

  Emily knocked on the door of Patricia Patterson’s house. Her partner answered the door almost immediately, her expression visibly saddening when she saw it was Emily.

  ‘It’s me again. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sorry, thought it was her and she’d forgotten her key.’

  The partner left the door open and walked away. Emily took it as a hint she should enter, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Still no news, Cherie?’ It was an attempt at breaking the ice with this woman. As soon as the words left Emily’s mouth, she realised how weak they were.

  The partner didn’t bother to answer.

  Emily followed her into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was in the machine. ‘Would you like a cup?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘Too much makes my head go all woozy.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m following up on the visit yesterday. You’ve still had no contact with Patricia?’

  ‘Pat. She preferred to be called Pat. And the answer is no.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but she couldn’t have found another partner?’

  ‘And go away without saying anything? Not Pat’s style. We’ve been together for eight years. If she wanted to leave, she would have made a dramatic exit, telling me exactly what was wrong. She wasn’t afraid of a bit of confrontation.’ A pause as she stared off into mid-air. ‘It’s one of the things I love about her. She takes no bullshit from anybody.’

  ‘Does she have any enemies? People who don’t like her?’

  Cherie laughed. ‘Half the bloody council and most of her colleagues hate her guts. But not enough to kidnap her.’

  ‘Any strange letters or phone calls in the last month or so? Anything standing out as different?’

  Cherie thought for a long time. ‘We had been receiving some phone calls recently. You know the type, silence on the end of the phone. We thought it was just some kid playing around or a neighbour who didn’t like the idea of two women living together happily.’

  ‘Did you report the calls to the police?’

  ‘No. They weren’t that sort of call. And what would your lot do?’

  Emily scratched her head. ‘Probably put at number two hundred and fifty-one on the list of things to action for the local station.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the honesty.’

  ‘There’s enough other stuff for us to get involved in, minor levels of harassment inevitably get ignored until they escalate.’

  ‘You think this one has escalated?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  Cherie nodded her head.

  ‘We don’t know. In fact, we’re still trying to work out why she vanished. Have you called her mobile again?’

  ‘It goes to voicemail. No response since the morning she left.’

  ‘Right.’ Emily stood tall; it was time to get to the real reason she had returned to the house. ‘It would help us in our search for Patricia if we knew more about her. Does she have any files or personal documents we could check?’

  ‘There’s her desk. It’s what she uses when she’s working from home.’

  ‘Could I have a look through it?’

  Cherie shrugged her shoulders. ‘If it helps.’

  ‘It might do.’

  Cherie led Emily Parkinson upstairs to a small bedroom converted into an office. ‘She liked working in here. Anything to avoid going into the office.’

  Emily checked the drawers. Three were full of official files on cases she was working. Most seemed to deal with disability and care packages.

  ‘She worked a lot on care packages for old people for the council. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories she told me. Old women with severe rheumatoid arthritis being passed as fit for work
by the bastards at the DWP. I often heard her shouting down the phone at them. As I say, she took no bullshit, especially not from those corpses.’

  Emily tried the final drawer. It was locked.

  Cherie stepped forward and lifted up the lamp. Underneath was a small key. ‘She never knew I’d twigged where she hid it.’

  Emily opened the drawer. Inside was more personal stuff. Pictures of Patricia Patterson as a young woman, a copy of driving licence with her photo on it, a 2021 diary with short notes, mainly work related. Emily read the diary quickly. On the day she disappeared, there was just a single word in block capitals: MEET. 11 a.m.

  Meet who? Meet where?

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  Cherie shook her head. ‘She never said anything about meeting anybody. When she left on Wednesday morning, she just said she was going to the office.’

  Emily had a thought. ‘Were there any phone calls on Tuesday night, quite late?’

  Cherie shook her head again. ‘But there was one on Wednesday morning as I made breakfast. At first she said she wasn’t going to bother going to the office. After the phone call, she said she was going in. I thought it must have been something urgent.’

  Emily made a note to check with Patricia Patterson’s workplace. Had they called her that morning?

  She carried on searching through the drawer. Beneath the usual biros, paperclips, old Post-its and erasers she found a yellowing CV folded in two.

  She glanced through it and immediately the hackles on her neck rose. Keeping her voice in control, she asked, ‘Is this Patricia’s CV?’

  Cherie looked at it. ‘Her name’s at the top and that’s the university where she did her CQSW, so I think so. See the last job, it’s where she worked before.’

  ‘Right,’ said Emily, ‘would you mind if I took it?’

  ‘No, I’m sure there’s lots printed out somewhere.’

  Emily checked out the room. ‘I don’t see any computer?’

  ‘Patricia took her laptop with her when she left on Wednesday morning.’

  ‘And you’re sure she took her phone with her?’

  ‘Couldn’t do without it. Pat without her phone was like a car without an engine. Pretty damn useless. Her whole life was contained inside. For God’s sake, she used to sleep with it.’

  Chapter 73

  At the same time as Emily was knocking on Patricia Patterson’s door in Bury, Ridpath and Sophia were standing outside 245 Havistock Road in Sale.

  The house looked exactly the same as the Ryders’, except a new extension had been added to the side, expanding the kitchen and creating a larger bedroom above.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Not overly confident. People usually add extensions when they buy a house, not after they’ve lived there a long time.’

  They knocked on the door. A young voice shouted from the inside, ‘I’ll get it.’

  An eleven-year-old opened the door. Ridpath showed him his warrant card. ‘Can I speak with your dad?’

  ‘Dad, it’s the police… again.’

  He walked away from door, leaving Ridpath and Sophia standing there. Eventually, a man in his thirties wearing a brown cardigan and slacks ran down the stairs. ‘It’s about time you lot came, he’s been playing his music at three a.m. again.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Him next door. Woke the bloody kids and the wife. I’m not having it any more, either you lot sort it out or I will.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr…?’

  ‘Trevor. Keith Trevor. I called the station this morning. Spoke to a Sergeant Kerrigan.’

  ‘Mr Trevor, we haven’t come about the noise next door. My name is Detective Inspector Ridpath, and this Sophia Rahman.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘We’re here about a family with the surname Brooks or Briggs who lived here in 2009.’

  ‘You haven’t come about the noise?’

  ‘Sorry, not our department. We’re looking for this family because they may be able to help us find a girl who went missing in 2009.’ Ridpath didn’t want to mention the hands at the moment.

  ‘Dorothy, do you remember the Brooks or the Briggs, used to live here?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  A woman came to the door wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I thought they were here about the noise.’

  ‘Not their department, apparently.’

  ‘Well, he’s the police, isn’t he? Can’t he do something about it?’

  ‘I’ll call Sergeant Kerrigan if you want? Make sure he sends somebody this afternoon. You rang Sale Police Station?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ve been here before. Doesn’t have much effect though.’

  Sophia stepped forward. ‘If I were you I’d apply for a noise abatement order through the local council. My mum had the same problem with her neighbours. It’s a statutory nuisance and if someone breaks an abatement order about noise from their home they can be fined up to £5,000. Far more effective than some poor copper knocking on their door.’

  ‘Through the local council?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d record him the next time he does it. The local council has to act.’

  ‘OK,’ said the woman. ‘You were asking about the Brooks?’

  Ridpath nodded.

  ‘I think they were the owners of the house before. Some letters still come here with their name on. But I’m not sure when they lived here. There’s been two owners in the last three years.’

  Ridpath sighed. ‘OK, thanks for your help.’ He turned to go.

  The boy’s voice came from the hall. ‘You’re looking for Mr Brooks? He helps out in the local food bank where I volunteer. He said he used to live in our house.’

  Ridpath stopped and turned back, asking tentatively, ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Yeah, they didn’t move far, just to the bungalows at the end of the street. Number 387.’

  Chapter 74

  Ridpath and Sophia walked down the road, finding the bungalow tucked into a small enclave at the end. The front garden was neatly manicured with a parked Hyundai SUV in the driveway.

  Ridpath put his hand on the bonnet. ‘Still warm, somebody has recently come back.’

  They rang the bell and stepped away. Inside the yapping of a small dog could be heard, followed by, ‘Shut up, Percy, it’s only somebody at the door.’

  A figure appeared, distorted by the frosted glass. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Is this Mr Brooks?’

  ‘It is, who is it?’

  ‘It’s the police, Mr Brooks. Could you open the door so we can have a chat?’

  ‘How do I know it’s the police? I’ve heard about these scams. Old folk open the door and suddenly they are being sold conservatories, or worse.’

  ‘I’ll post my warrant card through the letterbox. You take a look at it.’

  Ridpath opened the flap and dropped his warrant card in, receiving an answer almost immediately. ‘Looks right enough.’

  The door opened. A man stood in the hallway, his hand clutched to the collar of a small dog of indeterminate breed that was desperately lunging forward, its teeth bared.

  ‘Don’t worry about her, she’s just being friendly.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘If we could come in for a minute and have a chat…’

  ‘Can’t let you in. The dog, she’s—’

  ‘Too friendly?’

  ‘Summat like that.’

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ridpath, and this is my assistant, Sophia Rahman. We’re investigating the disappearance of Jane Ryder in 2009.’

  ‘You’re still checking on her after so long? Perhaps I should have reported the disappearance of Andrea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Andrea Briggs, our foster child.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Brooks, Andrea has disappeared?’

  The little dog lunged again and the man struggled to hold her back by the collar. ‘Just a minute, I’ll put her in with the wife.’


  He dragged the dog reluctantly down the hallway, opened a door and popped it into a room. Instantly, Ridpath could hear scratching and yelping as the dog desperately tried to get out.

  ‘She’ll give up soon enough. The wife’ll calm her down.’

  ‘You were saying your foster daughter disappeared, Mr Brooks?’ Sophia asked the question gently.

  ‘Haven’t heard from her since 2012. Said she was leaving one day and never came back.’

  Ridpath glanced back at Sophia, who was taking notes. ‘No letters, phone calls or emails?’

  ‘Nothing. Vanished into thin air. We were expecting it though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, she’d been acting strangely for a long time, ever since Jane disappeared three years earlier. If I’m honest, Mr Ridpath, we were glad to see her go. We had other kids to look after and she was being disruptive.’

  ‘Did you report it to the police?’

  ‘No, what was the point? She was seventeen and could do what she wanted.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard from her since?’

  ‘No.’ The dog’s noises subsided and they heard a woman’s voice gently chastising it. ‘By the end, well, she didn’t like us, and the missus and I didn’t like her much either. You don’t have much choice with the foster kids. Some you take to, others you don’t. Bit like people.’

  ‘How long did she live with you?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘She was already quite old, eleven, I think, when she came to us after the home she was in closed.’

  Ridpath knew the answer to his next question but asked it anyway. ‘Which home was that?’

  ‘Daisy House, the one in Northenden.’

  Everything leads back to the same place, thought Ridpath, like a homing beacon.

  Sophia asked another question while he was thinking about the last answer. ‘Did you report her disappearance to anybody?’

  ‘Of course, we had to, didn’t we?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her social worker. She had to know, didn’t she?’

  Again, Ridpath knew the answer to the next question before he asked it. ‘What was the name of the social worker?’

  ‘Patricia Patterson. She looked after all the kids from the home.’