by M J Lee
‘The one and only. Well, she’s invited me and two other girls to her house to work on our science project after school. We’re doing human lungs.’
‘I’ll need her address and her mum’s number.’
‘Dad—’
‘That’s our deal, Eve. And I want you back by six thirty at the latest.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, agreed or not?’
Eve rolled her eyes. ‘OK, the others will have to go home by then anyway.’
‘Good, you can text me the details later. I don’t want to have to ring Maisie’s mother…’
‘I’d never live it down if you did. My name would be mud, I’d have no rep in the school. I’d be the girl with the deranged dad. A laughing stock. It’s bad enough you’re a copper.’
Ridpath frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She paused, dipping her toast soldier into the liquid yolk of her egg. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but my friends don’t like the police very much.’
‘So even twelve-year-old girls don’t like us. And I thought it was just criminals.’
‘Can I be honest?’
‘Always.’
‘I tell them you work for the coroner.’
‘But you know I’m a detective who’s just seconded to the coroner’s office?’
She nodded.
‘I’m a detective inspector with MIT?’
She nodded again.
He thought for a moment about whether to push this or not. Was she ashamed of him for being a policeman? He glanced at the clock. ‘Shit, is that the time? Come on, young lady, or you’ll be late.’
‘You’re not supposed to swear, Dad.’
‘And you’re not supposed to be late. Get a move on.’
Eve stood up and drained the glass of orange juice, taking a soldier of toast with her to eat in the car.
Outside in the hallway, she was slipping into her school jacket, gripping the toast between her teeth. Already the sleeves were too short for her arms. He would have to buy another one soon.
At the door, she stopped, her hand on the latch. ‘You’re not upset about what I said, are you, Dad?’
‘I could never be upset about anything you tell me, Eve.’
She thought for a moment. ‘What if I said I was going to be back home after midnight?’
Ridpath frowned. ‘That would be an entirely different matter. Six thirty, OK?’
‘OK, Mr Grumpy. Love you, Dad.’
‘Love you too, Miss Ridpath.’
As they walked to the car, his phone rang. ‘Ridpath.’
‘Hi there, this is Sophia. We’ve had a call from the police, they’d like you to attend an incident in Northenden. Apparently, three human hands have been found in an old house.’
‘What about the work-in-progress?’
‘We’ll postpone it till you get here.’
‘OK, text me the address.’ He ended the call.
‘Who was it, Dad?’
‘Nothing, looks like my working week has started early.’
‘Welcome to Tuesdays, Dad.’
Chapter 5
‘Mr and Mrs Ryder are outside, Coroner.’
‘Thank you, Jenny, please show them in.’
A few seconds later, two old people stood in the entrance to Mrs Challinor’s office.
‘Please come in.’ She stood up and placed another chair six feet in front of her desk. The husband, dressed in an old-fashioned Mackintosh, helped his more frail wife to sit down first, before taking off his mask and sitting next to her.
Mrs Challinor took the file from the left-hand side of her desk and began speaking. ‘Good morning, it’s great to see you both again. I have some good news; the Secretary of State for Justice has approved your request for an inquest into your daughter’s disappearance and, if it can be shown she hasn’t been seen for the last eleven years, I will be able to issue a presumption of death certificate which has the same legal standing as a normal death certificate.’
The couple looked at each other and the man touched the back of his wife’s wrinkled hand.
‘Could you explain the certificate again, so we understand it?’
‘A presumption of death occurs when a person is legally declared dead despite the absence of direct proof of the person’s death, such as the finding of remains or a body. Such a declaration is typically made when a person has been missing for an extended period and in the absence of any evidence the person is still alive.’
‘Our daughter, Jane, disappeared in June 2009, and nobody has seen her since.’
‘That’s why the Secretary of State has approved the inquest. Only about ten of these cases come to light each year.’
‘After all these years…’ The wife spoke for the first time, but didn’t finish her sentence. It was as if she was heavily drugged or sedated.
‘I am so sorry for your loss.’
‘Jane was such a sweet girl…’
The husband patted the back of his wife’s hand again. ‘With this certificate we can wind up our daughter’s affairs?’
‘It’s exactly the same as a death certificate.’
‘You see, she has insurance, and she’s the beneficiary in our will. We don’t have long left so we need to sort this all out before we go.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, why did you wait so long? You could have applied to the High Court after seven years.’
The wife dropped her head. It was the husband who answered in a low voice. ‘We always thought she would come back.’ A long pause. ‘She didn’t tell us she was going, and we’re sure Jane would have let us know if she wanted to leave. But we haven’t heard from her at all, not a letter or a phone call in all these years.’ There was another long pause and his voice became stronger. ‘Last year, during lockdown, when there was just Margaret and myself in the house, we missed her so much.’
There was a long pause. Mrs Challinor was about to explain the inquest procedure but the husband began talking again.
‘Then something happened which helped us decide we had to do something. Jane is never coming back to us, we know now.’
Mrs Challinor wanted to reach across the desk and hug this man, but she didn’t. Instead she asked, ‘What happened?’
The man glanced across at his wife and she nodded, almost imperceptibly. ‘Marjorie has cancer, Mrs Challinor. A particularly virulent form of leukaemia, according to the doctors. We don’t know how long she has left.’
‘I am so sorry, Mrs Ryder, if I’d have known, I would have come to your home with this information.’
‘We don’t like to make a fuss, Mrs Challinor. And it’s good to get out of the house, we were locked up for so long.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘You can a make the inquest happen as quickly as you can.’
The wife spoke, her voice quiet and weak. ‘What will happen during the inquest?’
‘According to the Presumption of Death Act of 2013, the inquest strives to bring any suspicious circumstances to light. I will call on the police and any witnesses who saw your daughter on the day of her disappearance to give evidence. The most important question I will ask is if senior officers believe your daughter is no longer alive.’
‘And then you will declare she is dead?’
Mrs Challinor nodded. ‘And I can issue the certificate.’
‘Immediately?’
Mrs Challinor frowned. ‘As soon as I can.’
‘When will the inquest be held?’
‘It’s just a question of finding a time in the calendar. Usually, these types of inquests take less than a day.’ Mrs Challinor pressed a button on her intercom. ‘Jenny, can you come in, please?’
A minute later the door opened and Jenny entered the room in a waft of Chanel No. 19.
‘This is my office manager, Jenny Oldfield. How quickly can we arrange a presumption of death inquest?’
‘Is a jury involved?’
Mrs Challinor shook her head.
‘A jury won’t be necessary.’
Jenny consulted her diary. ‘You are in court all this week and next week…’ She turned the page. ‘You have the Curran inquest on Thursday and Friday.’
‘So we could do Monday or Tuesday?’
‘We have to give the witnesses notice of the inquest. The very earliest is next Monday, but it is a rush, Coroner, we don’t know if they will be available and Mr Ridpath will need to interview them beforehand. I would advise a later date would be better.’
‘OK,’ Mrs Challinor said doubtfully, ‘we need to move quickly on this one. Give me the earliest possible date, Jenny.’
‘I’ll get on it, Coroner.’
She started to leave.
‘And Jenny, can you get Ridpath to call me? I need to see him as soon as possible.’
‘He’s at the incident in Northenden, but he’ll be back for the work-in-progress.’
Mrs Challinor glanced across at the Ryders sitting quietly opposite her. ‘We need to get moving on this as soon as possible. I’ll speak to him after our meeting.’
Chapter 6
Ridpath arrived at the house in Northenden just as some of the CSIs were packing up to go. He’d already signed the register before being allowed to enter the cordoned area around the crime scene. ‘Hi, Hannah, long time no see.’
‘Hiya, Ridpath, this one of your cases?’
He had worked with Hannah before on a few investigations. She was an excellent crime scene manager; meticulous, thorough and, best of all for a detective, quick. Haloed by her Tyvek suit with its mask and cap, her face looked tired and careworn.
‘The coroner asked me to look into it. Who’s the SIO?’
‘Dave Connor, but his boss is lurking around somewhere too.’
He remembered Dave Connor from his time in MIT. A good detective, dogged and determined, but not the sharpest tool in the shed.
‘The boss is helping, is he?’ Ridpath formed quotation marks with his fingers.
‘Like a brewer at an AA meeting.’
Ridpath laughed. ‘That helpful. Give me the lowdown.’
‘Three hands from three different people, found in a backpack on Monday night or Tuesday morning by a film crew. It was hidden in a room at the back of the house in a wooden compartment, We searched the rest of the house but found nothing of interest except some graffiti and a few needles and burnt spoons.’
‘From the local druggies?’
‘Probably. Apparently, the house has been unused since it closed in 2006 and has gradually fallen into disrepair.’
‘Have the hands been there long?’
‘I dunno, Ridpath, you’ll have to ask the pathologist, Dr Schofield. But they weren’t skeletal, they still had flesh on them. The woman who found the backpack said she didn’t notice it in the morning when she did the recce.’
‘Right. Did you find the rest of the bodies?’
‘No bodies anywhere in the house, nor any signs of blood or violence. A herd of uniforms from Stretford are just assembling to perform a search through the grounds now it’s light enough. I think the hands were cut off somewhere else, placed in a bag and then transported here.’
‘Why?’
She smiled. ‘I just collect the evidence, Ridpath, I don’t try to interpret it. Your job, remember?’ Tiredness was making Hannah a little snappy. ‘Speak of the devil…’
A small rotund detective was approaching them, his hands in his pockets. ‘Ridpath, good to see you again.’ He looked around and surprise crossed his face. ‘Where’s the rest of the MIT mob?’
‘Dunno, Dave, I’m here from the coroner’s office.’
The little man’s eyes screwed up. ‘That’s right, you were transferred across there a couple of years ago. I remember hearing about it.’
‘Seconded, Dave, not transferred.’
‘That’s what they all say. Anyway, my boss, Chief Inspector Holloway, is not going to be a happy bunny. He thought he was getting the full support of MIT, not one man from the coroner’s office. No disrespect meant, Ridpath.’
‘None taken, Dave. When does the search of the grounds start?’
‘As soon as we can get all the plods and CSOs organised. A couple of years from now, at this rate.’
‘Right…’
‘I presume you are from MIT?’
The man who spoke was wearing a chief inspector’s uniform and walked as though a broom handle had been inserted painfully into one of his orifices. His shoes and buttons were polished and shiny, glistening in the early sun of what looked like a beautiful Manchester day.
‘Detective Inspector Thomas Ridpath, sir, from the coroner’s office.’
‘Where’s the rest of your unit?’
‘I am the unit, sir. I’m the coroner’s officer for East Manchester.’
‘What? MIT was supposed to send me help. I was promised full support.’
‘I know nothing about more people. The coroner has asked me to attend as the representative of her office as this could be a possible murder. I am seconded from MIT to her, but I haven’t heard anything from them.’
‘This just isn’t good enough. I have two CID self-isolating after positive Covid tests, another on a series of burglaries and one more following a fraud. Dave Connor is the only senior man who is free.’ He glanced disdainfully at the round detective as if to say ‘this is what I have to work with’.
Ridpath stayed silent. Then his phone rang loudly.
Holloway frowned as Ridpath reached into his pocket to check the caller ID. Jenny Oldfield.
‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you,’ sniffed Holloway.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Ridpath, declining the call.
‘This is most unsatisfactory. I’m getting on to the ACC and Claire Trent. It’s unsupportable.’
He turned and walked away, bringing out his mobile phone.
‘Hello, nice to have you here, welcome to the investigation.’ Ridpath mimicked the chief inspector’s voice.
‘He’s not great at welcomes, is Holloway. Not great at anything, actually,’ whispered Dave Connor.
‘Right, I’m off to check in the evidence bags back at the lab. Who are you going to appoint as pathologist, Ridpath?’ Hannah Palmer picked up her evidence tray.
‘You’re sure this is a crime scene, Dave?’
‘Three human hands in a backpack? We have to look into it, Ridpath.’
‘And the medical examiner was John Schofield?’
Both Hannah Palmer and Dave Connor nodded.
‘I’ll call him and let him know he’s to proceed with the post-mortem.’
‘I already had a phone call from him. We’re booked in at five p.m.,’ said Hannah.
‘He’s moving quickly.’
‘You know what he’s like. Told me he was looking forward to this one.’
‘Only he could look forward to a post-mortem. Before you go, Hannah, could I take a quick shufti at the backpack?’
‘Sure, Ridpath.’ She pulled out the clear bag from the evidence tray.
Inside, Ridpath could see a small green backpack, with white and red stripes. It was conventional in design, with a big ‘CLAK’ logo in red on the side. It was covered in a fine white powder. ‘Any fingerprints?’
‘None we could find. But we’ve just done a quick check. We’ll go through it properly under lab conditions.’
‘When can I get a report, Hannah?’ asked Dave Connor.
‘I’m knackered, Dave.’
‘But you know the first week is key to cases like this. Once it gets stuck, it will just go on the back burner.’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘As soon as I can, when? Tomorrow?’
‘Don’t push. I’ll try my best.’
‘But—’
Ridpath stopped Dave Connor from speaking by putting his hand on his wrist. ‘Thanks, Hannah, you’re a star. Whenever you can will be great.’
She picked up her evidence tray and walked slowly back to the CSI van, tiredness evide
nt in every step.
‘Is that how you butter up the CSIs, Ridpath? “You’re a star”?’
‘A word of advice, Dave. The sooner you get some forensics to work with the better, and you don’t get the reports by nagging tired CSIs. Otherwise this investigation is going to be quickly dumped over to the cold-case unit.’
‘I know, I know, but I’ve been here since two a.m. My brain isn’t working.’
‘You’ve no support?’
‘You heard Holloway, we’re short-staffed.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘I could do with some help, Ridpath, I haven’t done one of these investigations for a long time. The most we usually deal with is vandalism or burglary. And Holloway’s on my back…’
Ridpath went to put his arm around his colleague’s shoulders, then remembered the bloody Covid restrictions and stopped, simply saying, ‘You’re made from tough Salford stuff, Dave, you can handle it. Now, do you want to walk me through the scene so I can help with some pointers?’
‘You’re a star, Ridpath.’
‘That’s my line, remember?’
Chapter 7
‘This place was built in 1886 by Liverpool firm Owen and Livingstone for the cotton merchant Elijah Cartwright. He’d made his fortune selling Lancashire calico to the Indian market, buying opium there for China and then bringing back tea to England. Clever man, was Mr Cartwright. He called it Daisy House, after his eldest daughter.’
Ridpath raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounds like you ate an encyclopaedia for lunch, Dave.’
‘Googled it when I was waiting for the CSIs to complete their work. You know how slow they can be sometimes. It’s like watching sloths on downers.’
As they entered the hallway of the house, they were joined by a young detective whom Dave Connor didn’t bother to introduce. In the cold light of day, the house looked more derelict than threatening. Flock patterned wallpaper peeled from the walls and a dark, mahogany staircase led upwards to the next floor. Lighter patches on the walls revealed where pictures had once hung.
‘Anyway, the place was used as a convalescent home for injured soldiers during the Second World War and then bought by Manchester Council in 1949, turned into a children’s home in 1952 and finally closed in 2006. Before you ask, Ridpath, it was one of the places investigated by Operation Pharaoh in 2012.’