Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  Jack nodded agreement. “But first let’s see if we can find out who Phoenix really is.”

  Chapter 16

  While Steve brought Paul up to speed, Jack got on the phone to Swift Estate Agents. “The manor house’s tenant is a Mr Dennis Smith,” the estate agent informed him. “Has Philip Lyons been in contact with you?”

  “The owner of the house. No. Why would he have been?”

  “Because the rent is seven months in arrears. Mr Lyons is starting eviction proceedings.”

  Steve laughed when Jack told him Phoenix’s real name. “Dennis-fucking-Smith. Doesn’t have quite the same ring as Phoenix, does it? Sounds like Dennis’s little fantasy world is about to come crashing down on his head.”

  “Maybe that’s what this is all about,” mused Jack. “They’re desperate for money so they sold a baby.”

  “But our tattooed lady doesn’t play ball so they...” Steve made a gun sign at his head. “Sounds plausible.” He laughed again, grimly amused. “It’s not as if Guru Dickhead hasn’t got sprogs to spare. But how would a bloke like that go about selling a baby? He’d need some heavy contacts.”

  “Phoenix mentioned he’d had previous dealings with the police. Perhaps he’s got a record.”

  As Steve booted up the Toughbook laptop and accessed the PNC database, Jack contacted the nearest police station, which was in Whitehaven, a small port town fifteen or so miles away on the coast. A man with a strong Cumbrian accent came on the line. “This is Police Sergeant Eric Ramsden.”

  Jack told the sergeant who he was and what he needed.

  “Yes, I’ve had several run-ins with Mr Smith,” confirmed Sergeant Ramsden. “There have been complaints about animal welfare and selling food produce from unlicensed roadside stalls. But we’ve never had reason to charge him with anything. To be honest, I think the complaints have more to do with certain people not liking the way Mr Smith and his err... family live than any real concern about criminal offences. You say this woman you’re up here about asked for directions to Leagate Brow.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hawkshead Manor is on Lane Side. Leagate Brow leads to Lane Side. So that makes sense, but still it’s a fair distance further on...”

  The sergeant’s uncertain tone piqued Jack’s interest. “What’s on your mind, Eric?”

  “I can’t see how it could be connected to your case, but Leagate Brow is... Well it’s notorious in these parts. Something terrible happened there. A family of four from Manchester – Marcus and Andrea Ridley and their two young daughters, Tracy and Charlie – were staying at The Rose and Crown Inn in Gosforth.” Eric paused as if sifting through memories he hadn’t thought about in years. “It was erm... July 30th 1998. The Ridleys went for a walk at midday on Low Lonning.”

  “Barbara Boyles mentioned Low Lonning.”

  “It’s popular with hikers. I’ve walked it myself many times. Anyway, the Ridleys had walked northeast for about 150 metres when a masked figure emerged from the trees to the left-hand side of the path.”

  “What type of mask?”

  “A balaclava.”

  Jack thought about the balaclava-wearing figures who’d shot Butterfly. This was getting more interesting by the moment.

  “He – we believe the figure was a ‘he’ – was carrying a shotgun,” continued the sergeant. “He tied up the Ridleys and put bags over their heads. At this point we believe a second man became involved in the incident. He started to remove the older daughter Charlie’s clothes. Marcus was making a lot of noise so the attackers dragged him into the woods. The younger daughter, Tracy, managed to get free. She tried to free her mum and sister, but fled when she heard the attackers returning. She ran to a farmhouse and raised the alarm. I was the first on the scene. Andrea and Charlie had been shot and mutilated. Marcus’s throat had been cut.” Eric’s voice snagged on something that might have been shame. “We never caught the men who did it.”

  “Did you have any suspects?”

  “We interviewed a local guy – Phil Beech. He’s a gamekeeper who looked – still looks after – the woods where the murders took place. He’d been drinking in The Rose and Crown earlier that same day. We also spoke to a pal of his who was being investigated at the time for statutory rape – Dale Sutton. He lives in Seascale.”

  “Two men,” Jack murmured thoughtfully. “What do they look like?”

  “Beech is tall – at least 6’4’’ – and thin.” A note of distaste found its way into the sergeant’s voice. “A real lanky streak of piss, if you’ll excuse the language. Sutton’s of average height and fat. And when I say fat, I mean obese. I’ve got family in Seascale. I see him around occasionally. Grey beard, mean eyes, stomach hanging down to his knees.”

  Jack conjured up a mental image of Butterfly’s attackers – medium height; trim, muscular build. Beech and Sutton weren’t the ones he was after. “Do you think they murdered the Ridleys?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll admit, I can’t stand either of them. I would have liked to see them put away if only to get them off my streets. Tracy Ridley described the man she saw as average height and stocky build, which fitted Sutton’s description back then. But we didn’t have enough to charge them.”

  “Do you have photos of the Ridleys?”

  “Yes. I’ll email them to you along with the case file.”

  Jack thanked Sergeant Ramsden and got off the phone.

  “That sounded like an interesting conversation,” said Steve. His eyebrows lifted as Jack recounted the grim tale of the triple murder. “This shit just got deeper. And it gets deeper still Listen to this. Our Dennis isn’t quite what he makes himself out to be. He’s done time. A two year stretch in Strangeways from 2003 to 2005 for dealing Class As. He was picked up in a nightclub sting in Manchester city centre with a bagful of cocaine and MDMA. Even more interestingly, he did fourteen months in HMP Liverpool from 2000 to 2001 for burglary and aggravated car taking. The dickhead broke into a house in Wavertree – that’s on the south side of Liverpool – and made off with the usual crap and a VW Golf. Only thing was, he crashed the car and put two people in hospital. It made me think about that Audi that was stolen in Allerton in 2015. I know there’s a fifteen-year gap between the crimes, but still...”

  Steve let his words hang meaningfully. Jack thought about PC Andrew Finch being shot point blank in the face. Could Dennis Smith have pulled the trigger? To all appearances, PC Finch’s shooting had been unprovoked. His killer had merely been illegally parked. PC Finch hadn’t run a check on the Audi’s number plates. He hadn’t known they were stolen. All he’d intended to do was tell the driver to move their car. Of course, the driver couldn’t have known that. But instead of waiting to find out why PC Finch had approached them, they shot him before he could get a word out. Imagine what it took to aim a gun at a stranger – policeman or otherwise – and end their life for no good reason. The pathology of it was terrifying.

  Dennis’s crimes were serious, but not violent. Nothing in his past suggested he’d been building up to such a catastrophic outburst of aggression. But then again, there was also nothing to suggest that shortly after his release in 2005 Dennis would relocate to Cumbria and start up his own little cult. Dennis was a character of extremes with a loathing for society. Maybe he’d killed PC Finch in some sort of insane attempt to provoke the apocalypse he was preparing for.

  Jack’s phone pinged as an email came through from Sergeant Ramsden. Jack looked at a photo of Tracy Ridley. She’d been eleven when it was taken. Wavy reddish-brown hair tumbled down over her narrow shoulders. There was a spray of freckles on her soft-round cheeks and button nose. Her cupid’s bow lips and brown eyes were smiling into the camera. Had this girl grown into Butterfly? Her hair and eye colour roughly matched Butterfly’s. As for the rest of her face... Jack swiped back and forth between photos of Tracy and Butterfly. It was difficult to tell. Butterfly’s face was currently a mass of swelling, bruising, scratches and bandages. The tattoo didn’t hel
p either.

  “What do you reckon?” Jack asked.

  “I suppose they could be the same person,” Steve replied uncertainly. “I’d better get back on to the DCI.”

  Jack got out of the car and stared through the manor house gates. He couldn’t see the children, but he could feel their eyes on him. He thought about Tracy – the fear that must have gripped her, the agony of leaving her family behind to die, the grief and loneliness afterwards. Was that why Butterfly had formed a connection with him? Was she instinctively drawn to the loss in his voice?

  Steve spoke to him from the driver side window. “The DCI wants us to stay put.”

  Jack’s thoughts turned to Naomi. He’d hoped to be back in Manchester in time to put her to bed. “For how long?”

  Steve shrugged. “I’m starving. How about we head back to Gosforth?” He jerked his thumb towards the manor house. “These whackos aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You go. I’ll stay.”

  “Suit yourself. Do you want me to bring you something back? How about a Cumbrian sausage? I know how much you like a nice bit of sausage.”

  Jack smiled crookedly at the typically inappropriate remark. The smile faded as Steve drove away. He wondered if he was right about Butterfly’s baby. Perhaps it had been sold to a couple who would love it like their own. He hoped to god that was the case because the other possibilities didn’t bear thinking about.

  Chapter 17

  As the afternoon wore away, dark clouds gathered above the desolate peaks of Wasdale. The sun made a brief appearance, casting cold shadows. Jack watched the entrance to Hawkshead Manor while Steve snoozed off a pub lunch on the backseat. Apart from the occasional glimpse of a bird or squirrel, there had been no movement beyond the gates. A deep stillness had settled over the manor house’s grounds.

  A skim through the Ridley murders case file revealed some interesting details about Tracy. She’d grown up in Prestwich on the north side of Manchester, only four or five miles from where Butterfly had been shot. Was that where Butterfly had been heading when she was rammed off the motorway? Did she still have relatives or friends in the area? If so, not only would they be able to identify her, maybe the sight of them would bring her memory back.

  The question was – if his suspicions were correct, why hadn’t any of them responded to the police’s appeal for help?

  Steve’s phone rang. He woozily groped for it and put the receiver to his ear. “Yes, sir... No, nothing. All quiet... Right... OK, sir.” He proffered the phone to Jack. “The DCI wants to talk to you.”

  His voice carefully business-like, Jack said, “Hello, sir.”

  “I need you at North Manchester General ASAP,” Paul said with an exasperated breath. “It seems you’ve made quite the impression on the victim. I sent DI Crawley over there to try and find out if she’s Tracy Ridley, but she’s refusing to speak to anyone other than you.”

  A little flutter rose from Jack’s stomach. It made him feel all at once strangely privileged and uneasy to know Butterfly had attached so strongly to him. “I’ll set off right away. Do we know anything else about Tracy?”

  “Not much. No one on the databases fits her particulars.”

  “Could be because she’s been living off-grid at Hawkshead Manor and other places like it.”

  “We have managed to track down Tracy’s only living relative. After the murders, Tracy was brought up by her grandparents, William and Shirley Ridley. William died in 2002. Shirley’s now living at the Golden Years care home in Rochdale. DC Clarke’s on her way there. But I don’t hold out much hope of Shirley identifying the victim even if she is her granddaughter. Shirley has Alzheimer’s.”

  Jack’s forehead creased. Tracy was seemingly all alone in the world. If Butterfly and she were one and the same, it didn’t take a great leap to see how she could have been seduced by Phoenix’s radical worldview. She must have yearned for a sense of belonging. “What about Dennis Smith?”

  “As far as we can tell, he was involved in low level gang activity until his second prison stretch. We’re putting together a list of criminal associates, people he’s served time with and suchlike. He’s got plenty of family in Greater Manchester and Merseyside. We’ve contacted several of them. They claim they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in years.”

  There was an awkward little silence.

  “Anything else?” asked Paul.

  “No, sir.”

  Jack was relieved to get off the phone. Every conversation with Paul was a tightrope act. One false step could send him plummeting into the same old pit of anger and resentment. “We’re heading back to Manchester,” he informed Steve.

  “Not me,” said Steve. “I’m staying put. Sergeant Ramsden’s on his way over from Whitehaven to keep me company.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a chance to properly sample the local beer after all,” pointed out Jack.

  Steve got out of the car, grinning sleazily. “Tell your sister I’m thinking about her.”

  Jack flicked him the Vs and accelerated away.

  Chapter 18

  Jack was almost at the hospital when Paul phoned to confirm that Shirley Ridley was indeed in no fit state to identify anyone. She hadn’t recognised either Butterfly or the eleven-year-old Tracy. Nor was she in possession of any recent photos of Tracy. Tracy had never visited Shirley. The nurses at the home hadn’t even been aware that Shirley had a granddaughter. According to them, it was only in rare moments of lucidity that Shirley remembered her own name. Paul was arranging for DNA testing to determine whether Tracy and Shirley were related. But Shirley’s inability to give consent meant a court order was required.

  Jack was struck by the strange synchronicity between Butterfly and Shirley’s memory loss. Perhaps it was a mercy for both of them.

  Another flutter rose from his stomach as he headed up to ICU. What was it? Nerves? He couldn’t tell, but he realised that he wanted to feel Butterfly’s hand on his again and find out if that shivery electric sensation had been a one off or something else – something he hadn’t felt since Rebecca. He reprimanded himself for the unprofessional thought. As with Paul, he needed to keep his mind solely on the job.

  “How’s she doing?” Jack asked the nurse who escorted him to Butterfly.

  “A lot better than any of us expected,” replied the nurse. “She keeps asking for you. Every time she wakes up it’s, Where’s Jack? Can I see Jack?”

  Jack’s anticipation spread like wings as, with a nod at the armed officer on the door, he entered Butterfly’s room. Her eyes were closed. Her pallor hadn’t improved. The nurse stooped over her and said, “Butterfly.” As an aside to Jack, she told him what he already knew, “That’s what we call her.”

  Butterfly’s eyelids parted. She looked blankly at the nurse. A flicker of something – relief or perhaps simply recognition – came into her eyes as she saw Jack. She mouthed his name, her voice just barely there.

  He smiled at her. “Hello again.”

  “I...” Butterfly drew in a breath and found some strength for her voice. “I didn’t know if you were real.”

  “I’m real.” Jack seated himself at her bedside.

  Butterfly reached for his hand as if to check he was telling the truth.

  “Please don’t touch the patient,” cautioned the nurse. “It’s important to minimise the risk of infections.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Jack drew his hand away from Butterfly’s. He thought he glimpsed a glint of disappointment in her eyes, but maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “I’ve been trying to find out who you are.”

  “And have you?” There was no hopefulness in Butterfly’s voice, just a sort of numb curiosity.

  “Possibly. Have you heard of a place called Gosforth?”

  “No.”

  “What about Hawkshead Manor?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to The Lake District?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know.”

  Jack brought up the photo of Dennis Smith and his family that Steve had taken. “Tell me if you recognise anyone in this photo.”

  Butterfly looked at it and gave a slight shake of her head.

  Jack zoomed in on Dennis. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He swiped through the photos of Hawkshead Manor. Each one met with the same negative response. Finally he came to the photo of Tracy. Butterfly stared at it for a long moment. Her lips quivered as if she wanted to say something. Instead, she shook her head and closed her eyes as if exhausted by the effort of trying to remember.

  Jack felt a tug of disappointment. He’d thought for a second that the photo had sparked Butterfly’s memory.