by M J Lee
How was Daisy House Children’s Home involved?
As ever, when he didn’t understand something, it helped to write it down.
Disappearances:
Jane Ryder June 2009
Andrea Briggs June 2012
Gerald Duffy June 2017
Joe Rowlands June 2018
Patricia Patterson April 2021
One thing immediately shouted out at him. All the disappearances, except the most recent, had happened in June. Was it an anniversary of some sort? Or worse, a celebration?
He then wrote everything to link all the disappearances.
Daisy House
Children’s homes
Social Services
He paused for a moment before adding one more.
The police
But no police report had been made when Andrea Briggs vanished. Had there been earlier reports when she ran away as a teenager? He wrote a note for himself to check.
His phone rang: Emily Parkinson.
‘Hiya, I’ve arranged an interview for eleven a.m. tomorrow with Adam Jones. He’s agreed to see us.’
‘Any reports on his behaviour?’
‘The assistant governor says he’s quiet, keeps himself to himself, hardly communicates with anybody except to respond to orders from prison security.’
Ridpath thought quickly. He could take Eve to her grandparents in the morning. She wouldn’t be too happy, but they’d love to see her. It would probably lead to another round of sulking, but he would have to deal with it somehow. Tomorrow was the last day of the investigation before the inquest – he had to keep pushing, keep moving it forward.
‘Ridpath, earth to Ridpath.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Em, I was miles away.’
‘I was asking if you wanted me to pick you up tomorrow?’
‘Nah, I’ll see you in Strangeways car park at ten thirty.’
‘What about the debrief with the others?’
He’d forgotten about the meeting. ‘We’ll do it afterwards. Say at one p.m.’
‘OK, I’ll let them know. And, Ridpath…’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s coming together, I can feel it.’
‘I wish I could too, Em. I feel we’re missing something. The big part of the picture that brings it all together. It’s like there’s a big hole in the middle of our investigation. Anything from Oliver, Dave or Chrissy?’
‘Not a lot. Oliver is still checking ANPR. You know it’s like looking for a single blade of grass in the middle of a ten-acre field? Chrissy tracked the phone records. The last call Patricia Patterson received was from an unregistered phone on Wednesday morning. She followed Patricia Patterson’s route through the contacts with the mobile towers to an area near junction ten of the M60 in Urmston, before it was switched off.’
‘Did she follow up?’
‘She’s doing that tomorrow morning. Going to see if anybody remembers seeing the car. But the chances are minimal, Ridpath. It’ll be Sunday morning, not a lot of people around.’
‘Worth doing though. And can you ask Oliver to check ANPR cameras in Urmston?’
‘Will do. Dave followed up on Gerald Duffy. Definitely no links to Daisy House. Or at least none he can find.’
Would he have to check the older detective’s work? So far, Daisy House was the only possibility linking all the disappearances. If Gerald Duffy had no connection, was there something else, something they had missed?
‘But why did his hand turn up in a backpack in 2021? We still haven’t answered the most basic question of the inquiry, Emily. And what happened to his body?’
‘I know, I know, but give us a break, Ridpath, we’ve had less than a week.’
A long pause. ‘The inquest starts on Monday morning, and yourself and Chrissy go back to checking stats again.’
‘Surely Claire Trent will give us more time. We’ve come so far.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. She might wash her hands of it and pass the investigation to the Cold Case Unit—’
‘Where it will sit until new DNA or evidence comes in.’
‘Right. So we need to work the case hard. Tomorrow is our last day, let’s make it count.’
‘See you tomorrow, Ridpath. Let’s keep our fingers crossed we can make a breakthrough.’
‘We must be missing something, Emily. I just don’t know what it is… yet.’
SUNDAY
Chapter 81
They were waiting in the interview room at Strangeways Prison, sitting at a Formica desk that had seen better days ten years ago. They had already passed through the security checks, accompanied by a mob of relatives, women and children, all visiting the people in jail.
It was Sunday, the day of rest for most but a day of activity and bustle at the prison.
Luckily, Ridpath and Emily Parkinson had been separated from the crowd and placed in a relatively quiet room. The noise of children crying, adults shouting and prisoners coughing could still be heard from outside, but it wasn’t too loud. At least Ridpath could hear himself think.
A fly buzzed around his head, searching for somewhere to land that wasn’t too grubby.
A door opened and in stepped a tall, gaunt man. Ridpath vaguely recognised him from the photo, but he had aged remarkably in the last eleven years, going from being young and agile to middle-aged and haggard.
‘Adam Jones?’ Ridpath asked.
‘Prisoner 75689, reporting,’ the guard responded.
‘Take a seat,’ Ridpath gestured to the chair in front of him.
The guard nodded and the man slid into the seat opposite the two detectives. He gave off a sour, rancid smell which made Ridpath gag. Washing obviously wasn’t on his list of things to do in the morning.
Emily placed her cigarettes and a lighter on the table in front of her. ‘Help yourself.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘A man inside who doesn’t smoke? You must be making a fortune selling your snout.’
The man looked down his nose at Emily. ‘I don’t sell it, I give it away.’
‘More fool you.’
‘Nor do I smoke weed, spice or any of the myriad other narcotics that serve to keep men subdued and in their place.’
‘What do you do with your time? You still have six years to go.’
‘I read and I study and I prepare.’
‘For what?’
The man laughed ironically. ‘For the day I get out, what else? Now I’m sure you detectives haven’t come all the way here to enquire after my health or my reading habits?’
Ridpath decided to come straight to the point. He placed the picture taken at the Mad Ferret Festival in front of Adam Jones. ‘Is this you?’
The squinted at it. ‘Could be.’
‘Could be, or is?’
‘Could be. When was this taken?’
‘In 2009, the same day this girl disappeared.’ He pointed to Jane Ryder. ‘Do you recognise her?’
The man shook his head.
‘She’s standing right next to you.’
‘A lot of girls stood right next to me. It’s not a crime… yet.’
‘What about these photos?’ He placed the other shots on the desk. ‘Here, she seems to be talking with you. Here, she’s dancing in front of you. You two seem to know each other.’
‘I meet a lot of girls at festivals.’
‘You don’t remember this one? Her name was Jane Ryder, and she was sixteen years old.’
‘The perfect age.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Young enough to have the energy to enjoy the world. Not old enough to have been tainted by it.’
‘For God’s sake, she was sixteen years old and after this picture she was never seen again. You were the last person to see her alive,’ shouted Emily.
The man sat back in his seat. ‘You don’t know that. This picture shows me probably talking to her, but I don’t remember meeting her. Sorry.’
It was obvious Jon
es wasn’t sorry in the slightest.
‘Do you remember this backpack?’ Ridpath tapped the bottom of the picture.
The man stared at it. ‘No. There were thousands of backpacks strewn over Platt Fields that day. I can’t even remember what my own looked like, never mind Jane’s.’
‘I didn’t tell you it was Jane’s backpack.’
The man looked at the picture again and without missing a beat answered, ‘I presumed it was Jane’s backpack. It is right next to her legs, after all.’
Silence descended on the room. The fly continued buzzing until the sound suddenly stopped and a small black body thudded down into the centre of the table. Its legs kicked twice and it was still.
‘Remind me again, why are you in prison?’
‘I was sentenced to ten years for the abduction and detention of a woman.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘More of a girl, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No, she was a woman who broke the rules.’
‘What rules?’
The man stayed silent.
‘What rules?’ repeated Ridpath.
‘Our rules. God’s rules.’
‘We read through your file. You were part of a commune on a farm in Carrington, south-east of Manchester.’
‘It isn’t a commune.’
‘What is it?’
‘A group of like-minded people who lived together and shared everything in common.’
‘A commune.’
He laughed again. ‘You have some strangely old-fashioned ideas, Detective. We aren’t some hippies, turning on and dropping out. We run a business, we are part of the world.’
‘What business?’
‘We are a farm; pigs, sheep, chickens. We breed them and sell them on to be fattened up by other farms. We are a registered business.’
‘But you have rules?’
‘All societies have rules.’
‘But they don’t kidnap people and hold them against their will.’
‘Don’t they?’ He looked all around him at the prison walls. ‘Where the hell are we, detectives? Disneyland?’
‘Did you kidnap other girls and hold them against their will?’
‘No.’
‘Just this girl.’
‘Just this girl.’
‘Did you kidnap Jane Ryder?’
Another knowing smile. ‘No.’
‘You think it’s funny, a sixteen-year-old going missing?’ Emily Parkinson slammed her fist down on the table.
The man cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘Such a strong reaction, Detective. Have you ever been in care? I think you have. Were you abused?’ He sat forward, focusing on Emily. ‘Did they take advantage of you? I think they would, your feistiness would have appealed to them. A spirit to break, to destroy, to devour.’
Emily stayed quiet, a red flush rising from her neck and covering her face.
‘We ask the questions, not you, Mr Jones.’
‘Is this how you get your own back? Being a policewoman? Righting wrongs, standing up for those who are weak and unprivileged?’
‘We don’t have to listen to this psychological mumbo-jumbo, Ridpath. Do you have anything else you’d like to ask him?’
Before Ridpath could answer, the man looked down at the photographs. ‘I do remember her now. Jane, was that her name? I think she called herself something else when I met her. Now what was it?’
He mimed thinking by tapping his forehead with a long, elegant index finger.
‘It’ll come to me soon, I’m sure.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘She called herself Barbara, that was it. A nice name, Barbara, don’t you think? It comes from the Greek originally, I think, the feminine form of the Greek word barbaros, meaning “strange” or “foreign”.’
‘You saw her at the festival?’ asked Ridpath.
‘It’s what I said.’
‘The surname she used?’
Again he mimed thinking. ‘Sorry, can’t remember. Perhaps it will come to me.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Abbott, that was her surname. Barbara Abbott.’ He picked up the photo of the two of them. ‘When I spoke to her at the festival, she was so full of life and joy, said she was going to London to make her name. But they all say that, don’t they? Some of them actually believe it. Anyway, detectives, you’ve taken up far too much of my time. I have my service at eleven p.m. and I don’t want to miss it.’
‘We still have lots of questions to ask, Mr Jones.’
‘But I have no more answers to give, DI Ridpath.’ He stood up and gestured to be taken back to his cell.
‘We can help you, put in a good word for you, if you help us.’
He turned back. ‘You disappoint me, Detective. Here was I thinking you were smarter than to use such an obvious tactic with me. I think we have spoken enough.’ Another little smile. ‘My lips are sealed.’
‘If we investigate and find you were involved in the disappearance and possible murder of Jane Ryder, you will never get out of this prison alive, Jones, I’ll make sure of it.’
A long sigh. ‘I assure you, DI Ridpath, Barbara was very much alive and kicking when I saw her.’
‘Can you prove it?’
He nodded his head. ‘I can.’
‘How?’
He waved his fingers in front of his face. ‘It’s for me to know and you to find out, DI Ridpath. Goodbye. But I will leave you with one parting thought from the Gospel of Matthew. “If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell”.’
With those last words, he stepped through the door and vanished down the corridor, followed closely by the burly guard.
Chapter 82
‘That arsehole was playing with us, Ridpath.’
They were in his car, driving to Stretford nick. Emily had taken the tram into Strangeways that morning rather than drive.
‘He knows far more than he’s telling us.’
‘What did he say just before we left? “If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better you lose one of your members than your whole body go into hell”. Was he telling us he committed the killings and put the hands in the backpack?’
‘But both Joseph Rowlands and Gerald Duffy were killed after he was jailed.’ Ridpath tapped the steering wheel. ‘Can you find out more about his arrest? Who was the female victim, and how was he caught?’
‘Already did it. Her name was Sian Carter, she ran away from home six months earlier. She’d been imprisoned on the farm but escaped one day, begging for help from a passer-by who called the police. Jones admitted doing it, pleading guilty to all charges.’
‘None of the other residents were involved?’
‘According to Jones, they knew nothing about it, but get this…’
‘What?’
‘Sian Carter withdrew her complaint, didn’t want to press charges.’
‘But CPS went ahead to charge him anyway?’
‘It was felt the offence was so serious they had to charge him. Plus, they had a full confession witnessed by the man’s solicitor.’
‘He could have retracted, claiming undue pressure.’
‘That’s the weird bit. He didn’t retract. He pled guilty and was sentenced.’
‘Strange. See if you can find out more.’ Ridpath stopped at a red light. ‘Why do I keep feeling we’re missing something? Every time we make an advance in this case, it seems to reveal more things we don’t know, like one of those bloody Russian dolls.’
‘Matryoshkas.’
‘What?’
‘Matryoshkas. It’s what the dolls are called. My foster mum used to collect them. For her, they represented the idea of a long line of women, each one giving birth to the next generation.’
‘Whatever. For me, it’s a long line of secrets, each one helping to hide the truth from us.’
> ‘Eventually we’ll get to the first doll.’
‘Eventually may be too late.’
They pulled up outside Stretford station. ‘How are you going to handle this?’
The newspaper with its article written by Molly Wright was lying between them, its headline shouting like a drunk on a Saturday night. THE HANDS CASE. MORE MISTAKES BY GMP? Ridpath had noticed a copy on the guard’s table as they were leaving Strangeways. The guard had been happy to get rid of it.
‘Like I always do. With a six-foot pole, wearing a hazmat suit and three pairs of gloves.’
‘It might not be enough.’ She picked up the paper. ‘You realise we are being thrown under the bus. What does it say here… “A source within Greater Manchester Police has revealed that due to the inefficiencies in the initial investigation by some officers, GMP will need more senior involvement in the case moving forward. The discovery of the hands in the backpack may indicate a much larger and more detailed investigation is needed than had previously been planned. There may even be the possible involvement of an unknown serial killer in Manchester. It is believed the recent disappearance of a social worker, Ms Patricia Patterson, could also be linked to the case. ‘We may have a serial killer on the loose,’ said the source, ‘one that is preying on vulnerable woman linked to the Daisy House Children’s Home’.”’
Ridpath frowned. ‘Holloway will be furious. He was hoping this would go away quietly. Looks like somebody planted this story.’
‘Who? Claire Trent, Turnbull, or was it Holloway himself? A great way to get more resource if it was him.’
‘Listen, Em, we’ll let the higher-ups play their games. We need to concentrate on solving this case. Nothing else matters. Clear?’
‘As mud, Ridpath.’
‘Come on. Let’s go and find out what the others have dug up. We’re close, Em, I know we’re close.’
Chapter 83
‘I thought I’d say a few words before we start.’
Ridpath and Emily Parkinson had walked in two minutes earlier, surprised to see the incident room full of detectives, many called in from their weekend off to attend the briefing at one p.m. Dave Connor and Oliver Davis were off to one side, sitting next to their boss, Chief Inspector Holloway.
