by M J Lee
DCI Turnbull was standing at the front of the room, brushing away a non-existent hair from the shoulder of his jacket.
‘I’ve been asked to get involved with this investigation as it seems to have spiralled out of control.’
Dave Connor was about to speak, but Turnbull silenced him by raising his hand.
‘Now, I’m not blaming any of you, nor am I blaming the detectives from Stretford.’ A quick nod to Holloway, who was sitting at the back of the room. ‘They have performed in an exemplary manner throughout this investigation. However, it has now been decided this case requires the involvement of more senior minds.’ Once again, the hand stroked the shoulder. ‘It is now apparent to me there are strong links between the hands discovered in the backpack in Daisy House Children’s Home, the disappearance of a number of people and last week’s disappearance of a social worker in Manchester.’
‘You only know because of our work,’ said Emily under her breath.
‘What was that, DS Parkinson? If you have anything to say to this meeting, please make sure we all hear it?’
‘Nothing, sir, clearing my throat.’
He carried on speaking. ‘This morning’s newspaper report has created a – I think the technical term is shitstorm – amongst the top brass. They have realised there may have been a serial killer hiding in plain sight for at least the last eleven years. Now, I read the case files this morning.’
Emily leant into Ridpath, whispering, ‘He can’t have read them all so quickly.’
‘It seems to me there is a direct link between Daisy House Children’s Home and these disappearances. Alan, get on to Manchester Children’s Services, I want a complete list of everybody who went to Daisy House or who worked there since 1980.’
Ridpath put his hand up. ‘You’ll need a warrant, sir. I don’t think Manchester Social Services will give the list to us without one, data protection laws. Chrissy did get a list of people who worked there from Operation Pharaoh.’
Turnbull ignored him. ‘Alan, if you have a problem, get the director to call me, I’ve met him socially. I’m sure we can sort it out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, Ridpath and Parkinson, you went to Strangeways this morning. Anything from Jones?’
‘Not a lot, but—’
‘I could have told you, Ridpath,’ Turnbull interrupted, ‘a bit of a wild goose chase if you ask me.’
‘I think he knows more than he’s telling us, sir,’ said Emily Parkinson.
‘Possibly, DS Parkinson, but we have far too many other leads to follow without us obsessing about one man. DC Davis, anything from ANPR on Patricia Patterson’s car?’
‘Nothing so far, sir. We had one sighting on the M60 exiting on junction ten. We’re checking footage from cameras in Urmston as we speak. There aren’t many cameras in that neck of the woods.’
‘And her phone, Chrissy?’
‘Last call was at her home early in the morning. Then we lose the signal, also near junction ten in Urmston. The phone may have been switched off.’
‘Right, are we sure she hasn’t done a runner? Had enough of her relationship and taken off?’
‘She left without any clothes, passport still at home and her partner says they had a great, loving relationship,’ said Emily.
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’ Before Emily could respond, Turnbull had turned towards Oliver Davis. ‘Right, lad, write these on the board. I’ve heard you have the best handwriting around here. At least you can do joined-up words, not like most of this lot.’
Oliver Davis jumped up.
‘Four priorities. One: checking Daisy House Children’s Home. Alan, you’re in charge, the rest of the MIT team can assist. There’s going to be a lot of names to go through. Be prepared for long nights. Have any other people gone missing from the home? Two: check HOLMES. Chrissy, you’re on this. I want to know if there have been any other crimes like this anywhere in the UK.’
‘I already did it, gaffer. HOLMES didn’t come up with anything.’
‘Check again. There must have been something we missed.’
Chrissy sighed. ‘Will do, boss.’
‘Three: searching the area around Daisy House. We must have missed something. I want the place gone through with a fine-tooth comb. Tony, you’re leading. Emily, you can help. Finally, what happened to the bodies? Why haven’t they been found? Dave, I want you to lead this.’
‘But I—’
‘Check all sources, Dave, leave no stone unturned.’
‘Yes, gaffer.’
‘That’s all. This investigation has been given priority one by the acting chief constable, so we have to get a result. Understood?’
A mumbled chorus of ‘Yes, boss,’ from the detectives.
‘What about me?’
‘You, Ridpath? I thought you worked for the coroner. Don’t you have an inquest tomorrow?’
‘On Jane Ryder, one of our victims in this case. She’s also linked to the case.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The backpack. She was seen carrying it in a photo taken in 2009. It’s the same one that contained the hands.’
‘That’s it? That’s your link?’
‘And the connection to Daisy House. She was one of the residents, and the backpack was found there.’
Turnbull shook his head. ‘Listen, people, let’s not get sidetracked by young girls who disappeared in 2009. We have one focus and one focus only in this investigation: the hands in the backpack discovered last Tuesday morning. Everything else is a waste of time.’
‘What about Patricia Patterson?’
Turnbull bit his bottom lip. ‘Her disappearance may or may not be linked to the other people vanishing and the mystery of the hands. But we’re not sure yet. Alan, you keep looking for her, but make sure she hasn’t just done a runner from her relationship.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Alan Butcher loudly.
‘You still haven’t told me what you want me to do.’
The other detectives stopped what they were doing and raised their heads to stare at this challenge to Turnbull’s authority.
‘I thought I made it clear, Ridpath. I want you to do your job with the coroner. You have an inquest tomorrow, concentrate on it. I will be there to represent the police.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. I will be there. We need to get to work.’ He looked all around him, forcing the other detectives to look away, finally stopping at Ridpath. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ chorused the detectives.
Chapter 84
There was nothing left for Ridpath to do. Turnbull had made it clear his presence was no longer required. He picked up his papers and notebooks and drove to the coroner’s office in Stockfield. At least there he was wanted.
‘Hiya, Ridpath, good to see you.’
‘At least somebody thinks so.’
‘One of those days?’
‘One of those millennia, Sophia.’
‘Good job I bought you a latte.’
‘Does it have a double shot of arsenic?’
‘Not today, they’d run out. I asked for the special beans instead. And the coroner wants to see you.’
‘Is that good or bad? I don’t think I can handle another disappointment.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Sorry, don’t know.’
He knocked on the coroner’s door.
‘Come.’
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Come in and sit down. I’d like to go over tomorrow’s inquest with you.’ She held up a pink file. ‘Sophia has passed me the case notes. They seem to be comprehensive.’
Ridpath had read them last night. ‘They are, Mrs Challinor. They summarise the main points of the investigation and the evidence each witness will give.’
‘There are no indications Jane Ryder is still alive?’
‘None so far. On the contrary, everything points to her being killed sometime on or around June 12, 2009. But…
’
‘That sounds ominous, Ridpath.’
‘But, I’m not sure. We have found no indications of death. The female hand in the backpack tested negative for her DNA.’
‘So there is still no evidence she is alive?’
‘If you mean there is no documentary evidence, like driving licences, sightings, entries on electoral registers, you are correct. But I don’t need to point out that the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. We have no positive proof Jane Ryder is dead.’
‘That’s where I come in, Ridpath. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that coroners’ inquests could conclude an individual had been unlawfully killed by applying the civil standard of proof. That is the balance of probabilities, rather than the traditional criminal standard of proof: beyond a reasonable doubt. As ever the law is an ass, but in Jane Ryder’s case, it allows me to conclude, on the balance of probabilities, that she is no longer alive. I will then be able to issue a presumption of death certificate to the Ryders.’
‘But the police enquiries aren’t finished yet.’
‘I received a phone call from Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull this morning. Apparently the police investigation into the death of Jane Ryder has been closed.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
‘He said he didn’t believe it was linked to the hands case, but—’
‘Well, now he has closed it completely, allowing me to issue a narrative verdict on her death.’
‘But he can’t do that.’
‘He just did.’ Mrs Challinor closed her eyes briefly and began speaking again. ‘Look, Ridpath, on the balance of probabilities, I believe she is dead. And in the absence of evidence to the contrary from any witness, I will be issuing a presumption of death certificate tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t completed my investigation yet. I thought you were going to postpone the verdict until I had.’
‘MIT has decided your investigation is over. I can’t keep the Ryders waiting any longer.’
Ridpath stood up. ‘I think you are wrong, Coroner.’
‘Right or wrong, I have to make a decision, it’s my job.’
He leant forward, pleading with the coroner. ‘Please give me more time.’
‘I’m sorry, I wish I could. Mr Ryder told me his wife was given the last rites by her priest last night. You know what that means?’
‘I was brought up a Catholic, Mrs Challinor.’
‘She could die at any time, Ridpath. We need to give her closure.’
‘I still think you are wrong, Mrs Challinor. We can’t presume death, we have to prove it.’
The coroner took her pen and began writing in the margins of her file. ‘You’ve done enough, Ridpath. It’s time for me to hold an inquest and make a decision.’
Chapter 85
The house was silent when Ridpath arrived home. There was no greeting from Polly or Eve. Nothing but the creak of the joists in the ceiling to welcome him.
He went into Eve’s room. Homework was scattered across her desk, clothes strewn across the floor and her bed was still unmade.
Automatically, he smoothed down the sheets, tucking them beneath the mattress, fluffing up the duvet before laying it over the bed. A dent in the pillow revealed where she had laid her head last night, a stray black hair still lying there.
She was at the grandparents. Should he bring her home and cook for her? Or should he work on the case, picking her up later?
What was the point of going through his notes once more? Turnbull had already decided the disappearance of Jane Ryder wasn’t linked to the discovery of the hands. Maybe he was right. There might be more versions of the backpack out there. Perhaps some backstreet entrepreneur in Cheetham Hill had produced thousands of knock-offs of the limited edition to make a quick buck. They were doing it for Nike, Adidas and Supreme, why not for CLAK?
And Mrs Challinor had come to the conclusion Jane was dead too. The absence of evidence she was alive wasn’t proof she was dead, but it was circumstantial. How often had he gone to the CPS or a judge with circumstantial evidence a crime had been committed?
But something didn’t feel right.
He’d had the feeling for the last couple of days. He kept trying to explain it to Emily but he couldn’t put it into words. It was like having an itch you knew was there but didn’t know where to scratch.
In his rushing around from meeting to meeting, had he missed something important in the mountain of clues and evidence? Something he should have spotted a long time ago?
Sod it.
He would have to scratch the itch by going through his notes one more time. Perhaps he would find out what was troubling him.
‘Sorry, Eve, just one more day. I promise I’ll be the sort of dad you want me to be.’ He spoke out loud as if trying to convince himself, bear witness on his own behalf.
He glanced at the clock.
He would have to pick her up at eight p.m. from her grandparents.
Only three hours from now.
Three hours to scratch the itch.
Chapter 86
Death when it came for Patricia Patterson was unexpected.
She thought they would come in the middle of the night and kill her in the same way they had killed the others: stunned with a taser first and then strangled from behind.
She’d never taken part in any killing, but she had seen the bodies afterwards.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
But who would kill her now Adam was in jail?
She didn’t know.
They gave her a special meal, as they had given the others. Roast pork, apple sauce and all the trimmings. It was part of the ritual; eating the bodies of those who were about to eat you.
As with the others, hunger made sure she ate the food. They hadn’t fed her for a couple of days.
She didn’t taste the rat poison stirred into the apple sauce, but its effects began about twenty minutes after she finished the meal. Her muscles began to spasm, she had seizures, her breathing became difficult and more laboured, and eventually her heart stopped.
They came in when she was dead.
‘Poor Patricia, she was such an angry soul.’
‘It was God’s work. I will remove the hand later. We’ll get rid of the body in the usual way.’
‘I liked her.’
‘We have nearly finished our work, only a few more left to go. Adam has told me what to do.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
Then they all went about their separate jobs, ignoring the body lying cold and dead in its small cell.
Patricia Patterson would not see or hug Cherie again.
Chapter 87
He’d been through everything: all the documents from Chrissy, all the interviews, all the case notes, files, memos, research, telephone tracking and the house-to-house reports.
Nothing stood out.
Nothing.
He took the only option left open to him. He took a break, going to pick up Eve.
She still wasn’t talking to him.
‘How were your grandad and grandma?’
Silence.
‘If you’re hungry, I’ll heat up some lasagne from the freezer?’
Silence.
‘Do you have PE at school tomorrow?’
Silence. Followed by a long sigh.
‘I’ve booked us on a trip to Korea tomorrow to see Blackpink live.’
A slow turn, a stare and a roll of the eyes, but still silence.
There is nobody who can roll their eyes like a disappointed teenager. Ridpath decided he probably would have preferred to be interviewing a career criminal who had the words No Comment taped to his forehead rather than endure this any longer.
He tried honesty.
‘Look, I’m sorry I let you down today, but I had to go to Strangeways to interview a prisoner and I couldn’t take you to your mum’s grave. We can go next Sunday if you like.’
Another slow turn. ‘If you are go
ing to apologise, don’t justify your behaviour by using “but” as a qualification.’
At last she was talking. It was a start.
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said.
‘You have to decide which you put first, Dad, me or the job?’
God, she sounded like her mother. ‘Can’t I put both things first, but at different times?’ As soon as he said it, he knew the words sounded idiotic. He tried a different tack. ‘It’s not a question of putting either first, Eve, it’s a question of making a living. I need to work in order to earn the money for your upkeep, pay the mortgage, buy Blackpink posters.’
If you can’t understand what’s going on, reframe the question. Charlie Whittaker’s words came back to him. Option number five when you are stuck in any investigation.
Also true when you are dealing with an angry teenage daughter. But as he drove down the A56, it struck him that perhaps he needed to do the same with the hands case. Had they been asking the wrong questions?
‘It’s a question of balance, Dad, you need to get it in your life. You can’t keep throwing yourself into these investigations, forgetting me, your health and everything else.’
His daughter’s voice brought him back. It was a great question, and even better reframing than his own. Why did he do that? Was it the job? Was it his own nature? Was it the nature of the job?
Just ten seconds ago he had been thinking about work rather than his daughter.
‘You’re right, Eve. Let’s go home and I’ll heat up some lasagne. Let’s chat, you, me and some béchamel sauce.’
For the first time, she smiled. ‘I’d like that, Dad.’
‘Good, it’s a deal.’ He reached across and tried to form the promise handshake with his thumb and little finger, but changed it into Spock’s live long and prosper sign at the last minute.
‘You’re such a dork, Dad.’
He thought that meant she’d forgiven him.
Chapter 88
Later, after Eve had gone to bed, he sat in his armchair, staring into mid-air, a glass of Macallan warming in his hand.
On the table, the case notes lay where he had left them three hours ago. Had he totally cocked up the investigation? Had he led everybody down the garden path?
