When the Guilty Cry

by M J Lee

  ‘They could investigate ancient diseases and evaluate how DNA has changed or been modified.’

  The doctor stared at him. ‘You surprise me, Ridpath.’

  ‘My daughter has been doing DNA in biology. I have to keep up.’

  ‘Congratulations to your daughter. Anyway, new techniques have been developed using a three-step enzymatic digestion protocol. This procedure can then be integrated into traditional phenol and chloroform extraction, a modified manual DNA IQ or automated DNA IQ/Te-Shake-based extraction in order to recover DNA for downstream applications.’

  ‘What? Could you repeat that?’ asked Davis.

  ‘It means we can get the DNA,’ answered Ridpath.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s a “but”, is there?’

  ‘In science, there’s always a “but”, DI Ridpath.’ A slight pause. ‘But brain, heart or liver tissue have generally been used. We can obtain DNA from bones or bone marrow, but I don’t know if the embalming process has deteriorated the quality of these bones.’

  ‘How will you know?’

  ‘By trying to extract DNA. I’ve already rung the lab and warned them of the issue. At the moment, they are frantically ringing up their pals at the University of Manchester to check the process. A couple of years ago they extracted DNA from two mummies that were thought to be brothers. They found they had the same mother but different fathers.’

  ‘So it is possible?’

  ‘It might be possible.’

  ‘And what about fingerprints?’

  ‘We’ve already taken them…’

  ‘There’s another “but”, isn’t there?’

  ‘Fingerprints decay on corpses; skin slips and shrinks. And what most people don’t know is fingerprints themselves change slightly as people age. In this case, we would normally use thanatopractical fingerprinting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fluid is extracted from other parts of a body’s remains and used to restore tenseness and volume to the fingers in order to plump them for printing.’

  ‘But we don’t have other parts of the body.’

  ‘Precisely. We hope the embalming process has prevented the decay so we can get prints, or we could use silicone putty to obtain a casting capturing the detail of the ridges.’

  ‘Again, we won’t know until the lab reports back?’

  ‘Right. One final matter. We have taken scrapings from beneath the fingernails on all three hands. We’ve sent them to the lab, but again…’

  ‘Not my favourite word, “but”…’ said Ridpath.

  Dr O’Casey ignored him. ‘But, again, if the hands have been in embalming fluid, any material we discover may have been compromised.’

  Dr Schofield checked his watch. ‘There’s nothing else from us, Ridpath. From now on, it’s a waiting game, until we get the tests back. We’ll send our topline report tomorrow, following up with the lab reports as and when they come in.’

  ‘Can you ring me as soon as you find out anything?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘One last question. Do we know how these people died?’

  ‘Without the bodies, it’s difficult to tell. Toxicology might help, but I doubt it. There’s only so much science can do, Ridpath. I’m afraid the rest is up to you now.’

  ‘Isn’t it always?’

  Dr Schofield stopped for a moment. ‘One more thought has occurred to me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If the hands were all severed using the same type of hacksaw, it suggests—’

  ‘The same killer in each case,’ interrupted Ridpath. ‘Doctor, I think we are thinking along the same lines. Are we looking for a serial killer?’

  Chapter 18

  ‘You want one?’

  Ridpath’s hand hovered over the open pack of Trebor mints. He hated these things, but anything to rid his mouth and sinuses of the taste and smell of the mortuary.

  They were standing outside on the street after the post-mortem, the sun thinking about going down over Manchester and the rush-hour traffic honking with impatience.

  ‘Right, Oliver, you need to let Dave Connor know what happened in there.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘We have a couple of leads you need to follow up. I want you to check with local hospitals, universities, funeral homes and labs. See if any human hands have gone missing recently. The fact that they were placed in embalming liquid suggests they may have been stolen, perhaps as a prank.’

  ‘Right, sir. It could be a lot of places to check.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it needs to be done. We can’t launch a major police investigation if these hands have been sitting in some university lab and have been stolen by somebody with a bizarre sense of humour. We won’t know until you check. And it’s Ridpath, not sir, not Tom, not boss. Just Ridpath.’

  ‘Yes, sir… I mean Ridpath.’

  ‘Second, ring up Hannah and find out how she’s getting on with the backpack. It’s our one piece of tangible evidence. Hopefully it will have a nice juicy fingerprint somewhere, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Follow up also on the DNA and fingerprint analysis of the hands. We need to work out who these people were.’

  Davis stopped scribbling for a moment. ‘If we have three hands, it must mean there are three bodies out there somewhere?’

  ‘Good question. Check up on reports of body parts found in the last twenty years using HOLMES 2. Particularly any bodies missing hands. And, finally, we need to know who underwent hand surgery in the last twenty years. Start with the Greater Manchester area first.’

  ‘Right.’ He sighed loudly. ‘It’s a lot for me to do, Ridpath.’

  ‘And Dave Connor isn’t much help?’

  ‘I’m not criticising Dave, but he’s a bit slow. Half his time seems to be spent handling Chief Inspector Holloway.’

  ‘It’s the way of the world, Oliver. You need to do the running around.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Ridpath?’

  ‘A couple of things. I want to know more about the place the hands were discovered—’

  ‘Daisy House, the children’s home?’

  ‘I want to know why it was referenced in Operation Pharaoh.’

  ‘Right,’

  ‘Plus I have a misper to look into for the coroner.’

  ‘Misper?’

  ‘Missing person. What are they teaching you in the academy these days, Oliver?’

  ‘Not a lot, according to Chief Inspector Holloway.’

  ‘Ignore him. There’s always idiots like him in the force, continually finding fault with others because it’s easier than helping them. Let’s meet up at Stretford nick tomorrow at eleven a.m. to check progress? I have to meet a family in the morning.’

  Davis glanced down Oxford Road. ‘Fancy a pint? I’m sure there’s a pub round here.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t. The daughter is waiting for me at home. You married?’

  ‘Nah, got a steady girlfriend though. A PC in Wythenshawe.’

  ‘At least she understands the life.’

  ‘But trying to co-ordinate shifts is a bastard.’

  ‘Right, I’d better be off, otherwise I’ll suffer the wrath of a twelve-year-old. Frankly, I’d rather have my nadgers strangled in vice.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Do as much as you can before we meet. If necessary, I’ll go back to Claire Trent and ask for more resource.’

  ‘The head of MIT?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Bit of a dragon lady. Gave a speech at the academy about policing in the modern world. Scared the shit out of all of us. Apparently computers are going to be more important than coppers in the future.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Somebody has to actually take down the villains and I’ve yet to see a laptop chase after and collar a thug running away through a Salford housing estate.’

  Davis looked at the list he had written down in his notebook and frowne
d. ‘Holloway also wants a report on the post-mortem on his desk at nine a.m. too.’

  ‘Welcome to the world of coppering, Oliver. Nobody said it was going to be easy.’

  ‘Nobody said it was going to be this hard either.’

  Ridpath patted him on the shoulder. ‘See you at eleven tomorrow. Do what you can before then.’

  Oliver Davis nodded. ‘One more thing. What you said to the pathologist about this being a serial killer. Were you serious?’

  Ridpath shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Oliver, I just don’t know. Maybe it’s something worse.’

  ‘What’s worse than a serial killer?’

  ‘Two serial killers. But then again, it could be a medical student with an incredibly warped sense of humour.’

  ‘How will we know?’

  ‘We do the work, Oliver. We just do the work.’

  Chapter 19

  Patricia Patterson slumped down in the armchair, kicking off her shoes.

  ‘Tired, love?’

  ‘Knackered. Do you know what it’s like dealing with the council? First, they haven’t any money to do anything. Second, what money they did have has been spent during the pandemic. And third, people don’t stop getting old and disabled just because some bloody virus decides it wants to screw around with the world.’

  Her partner, Cherie Morgan, passed her a well-filled glass of white wine.

  ‘Exactly what I needed.’ She took a large swallow. ‘And I had another fight with the DWP. You know the bastards have stopped Isobel Lloyd’s benefits because she missed an appointment? The poor woman can’t walk to the end of the road, yet they expect her to hop on a bus and travel five miles into the centre of town for an interview. I made them reconsider the decision and I’ll take the bastards to the tribunal if they don’t reinstate her benefits immediately. Bastards.’

  Cherie sat down next to her. ‘Keep fighting, Pat.’

  ‘I will, but it’s so bloody draining. What’s for tea?’

  ‘Lamb curry. I used the leftovers from the weekend.’

  ‘Smells great. Kids with their dad?’

  Cherie nodded. ‘It’s their week with him. I hope he woke them up in time for school.’

  ‘You missing them already?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s what we agreed. He’s not a bad father, just a shit husband. It means we have a week to ourselves for a change. What do you fancy doing?’

  ‘Anything, as long as it’s far away from the council and the DWP.’

  ‘How about going to Holcombe Top in Ramsbottom? We haven’t been out for ages. We’d have to sit outside, but anything to get out of the bloody house.’

  ‘Yeah, lovely, you want to make a reservation?’

  As Pat finished speaking her phone buzzed with a new message.

  Cherie sighed. ‘That bloody phone. One day, I’ll chuck it down the toilet where it belongs. Anyway, I’ll get the curry, you relax.’ She rose and walked to the kitchen.

  Pat glanced at the message.

  We need to meet.

  The social worker’s face went an ashen white.

  ‘Who is it?’ Cherie shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘Nowt, just work.’

  Pat glanced at the text again.

  We need to meet.

  She’d been expecting this message for a long time.

  Chapter 20

  Ridpath stared at his computer, the words blurring. He read the Ryder files and the search history Sophia had sent him. There were no documents relating to Jane Ryder after 2009.

  He had been at it since nine o’clock, ever since Eve had gone to bed.

  She’d come back exactly on time at 6.30, carrying her heavy school bag and complaining about her friends. ‘You know they just don’t get it. Blackpink is so much cooler than BTS, but they prefer the boys.’

  ‘I seem to remember you liked BTS too.’

  ‘That was years ago, Dad, when I was still a kid.’

  He stood up, stretched and climbed the stairs to check her light was off. He opened the door a couple of inches, peering round to see her fast asleep, the night light gently illuminating her features.

  He always loved watching his daughter sleep, her face peaceful and calm, her arms wrapped around a rabbit her mother had given her after she was born.

  At her back lay a stuffed dog he’d bought her for Christmas. A tough time for both of them, when Polly’s absence was felt the most. He did his best to inject some joy, dressing up as Santa Claus on Christmas morning and cooking what almost resembled a Christmas lunch complete with overcooked sprouts, dry turkey, burnt roast potatoes and oily gravy. Desert was much better. He could hardly go wrong with microwaved mince tarts and custard from Marks and Sparks.

  For Christmas he gave her three new BTS posters, a voucher for H&M, a new pair of cool trainers (at least he thought they were cool), the latest album from Blackpink and another shopping voucher for Claire’s. He knew the vouchers were pretty weak, but at least she could get something she really wanted.

  She’d done her best to be excited, getting him a new Christmas jumper and a Montblanc pen for his notebook with money she had saved from her allowance. After lunch and the Queen’s Speech, they had played Monopoly as they always did on Christmas Day, but the third player was missing.

  Polly.

  Her absence a massive gap in both their lives.

  It was on Boxing Day that Eve spoke to him, her face dark and brooding.

  ‘Dad, you know what I’m most afraid of?’

  ‘Spiders? Heights? Homework?’ he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘I’m most afraid of forgetting Mum. What she looked like, what she smelt like and even what it felt like to hug her.’

  So that morning, they had created a memory box together using an old vanity case. She chose what she put inside: her mum’s lucky green jumper she always wore when Ofsted inspected the school. A bottle of her perfume, half used and still redolent of Polly. A bright red lipstick, the end shaped by Polly’s lips. Her whistle from school when she prowled around the playground, watching over her charges. A drawing Eve had made of her mum when she was five – a child’s drawing, but the likenesses still there. And, finally, a picture of all three of them, taken when they had visited London in the year before Polly’s death.

  ‘It’s like she’ll be with us forever now,’ said Eve, placing the box next to her bed, ‘it’s the best Christmas present ever, Dad.’

  Afterwards, both of them decided to visit her grave at Stretford Cemetery. In front of the headstone, Eve arranged the flowers, and without any sense of embarrassment, told her mum of the time they had both had since she had died. Of the lockdowns and Covid and living with her grandparents and the new house and her new school.

  Her mum didn’t reply, but Ridpath knew she was listening.

  Somewhere.

  Afterwards, he had taken Eve to stay with her grandparents for the New Year and he was left alone.

  Not really alone, though. He still had his memories to keep him warm at night when the temperature dropped and frost rimed the garden.

  It was all he had left now.

  Memories.

  He shook his head, closed the door and went back downstairs to his waiting computer.

  He opened the history of Daisy House he had found on a blog. Dave Connor had most of the details correct, from its construction to its final closure as a children’s home in 2006. He’d correlated this information with the details of Operation Pharaoh. The police operation had been clinical in its examination of Daisy House, indicating the place had witnessed widespread abuse with physical, mental and sexual torture of the young inmates. Jimmy Saville had been a regular visitor, even shooting one of his Jim’ll Fix It programmes there. A predator lurking amongst the most vulnerable in society.

  Some of the children had received compensation, up to £15,000, from Manchester Council, but nothing could compensate for a childhood lost. Many had gone straight from the children’s home to a life of crime. Others
had become dependent on drink or drugs, using narcotics to forget the anger of the past. Yet more had simply bottled up their abuse, hiding it deep within their souls like an incubus ready and waiting to hatch.

  He remembered a quote he had read somewhere: ‘Every childhood lasts a lifetime.’ Such simple words, but with such a profound meaning. Would Eve’s childhood trauma affect her in later years?

  He would do whatever it took to make sure it didn’t.

  The clock above the mantle chimed. It was midnight already, where had the time gone? He shivered, the room was getting cold. He’d set the central heating timer to go off at eleven p.m.; no sense in wasting money heating an empty room.

  He switched off his laptop. It was time to climb the stairs to bed. For a nanosecond, he thought about pouring a glass of Macallan to help him sleep, but decided against it. The brain had to be clear for tomorrow’s meeting with the Ryders.

  In the middle of the room, he stopped and listened to the joists creaking as if a ghost walked across the ceiling. However, his rational mind knew it was only them cooling and contracting.

  His rational mind also told him he was going to spend another night alone.

  That was harder to bear, much harder.

  WEDNESDAY

  Chapter 21

  The following morning, Ridpath dropped Eve off at school and continued on to the Ryders’ home.

  Sophia was waiting for him outside the semi-detached house in Sale; classic English 1930s suburbia complete with carefully tended gardens beginning to show the signs of spring.

  ‘I checked with the DVLA, the electoral register and the registrar of births, marriages and deaths and there is no record of any Jane Ryder applying for a driving licence, registering for an election or getting married, giving birth or dying. Not a sausage. It’s as if she never existed, Ridpath.’

  ‘Great, Sophia. I still haven’t received any misper files from Chrissy. I’ll follow up with her when I’m at HQ later.’

  ‘Misper?’

  ‘Sorry, police jargon. Missing person. But let’s not use it with these people. OK?’