Ridpath was worried.
He stared out across the Coroner’s Court, watching everyone take their place. But for some reason, a vague sense of disquiet seemed to permeate his body. He couldn’t put his finger on it; a feeling of unease seemed to be lodged deep in his bones.
He coughed twice into his handkerchief.
Was it the myeloma returning?
He didn’t think so. There were none of the usual symptoms: no weakness, no weight loss, no feeling of nausea.
Just a strong sense that something, somewhere was wrong.
The inquest was about to start and he had no idea where it would lead. Perhaps that was what worried him; being out of control, events happening around him when he could do nothing to alter or stop them.
For a second, a darkness descended on him and he closed his eyes.
Get it together, Ridpath. Focus.
He had already helped Mr Ryder to his seat at the desk facing the coroner. The man’s wife wasn’t there, of course, she was in no condition to make it.
To his right, socially distanced, Greater Manchester Police were represented by their legal counsel, as was Manchester City Council. Both parties were involved, not to ensure the truth would be revealed, but to make certain no blame would be attached to the actions of either organisation.
The other witnesses had arrived in dribs and drabs. Sergeant Dowell, wearing his best uniform, with freshly polished shoes and brushed-back grey hair. He scowled at Ridpath as he walked past him to take his seat close to the witness box. Doreen Hawkins, the charity worker, sat behind him, draped in a one-piece kaftan and encircled by a cloud of expensive perfume. Rose Anstey, Jane’s friend, was sitting next to her, following the requisite separation for indoor social distancing. She didn’t make small talk with the woman next to her; instead, she stared straight ahead as if wishing she were somewhere completely different.
A tall man entered. Ridpath hadn’t seen him before. He glanced at the witness list. Was this the teacher, Mr Roscoe, or was it somebody else? Before he could check the man’s identity, two social workers rushed past. He recognised them from previous hearings. Both of them had a harassed air, as if the world and its problems sat heavy and unsolvable on their shoulders. Following them, his bald head freshly shaven, Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull ambled by. He glanced briefly at Ridpath, nodded once, and took his seat, ready to be called.
The press gallery was occupied too. Three reporters sat with their notebooks open and ready, the recent publicity surrounding the case fuelling the public’s desire to discover more.
In the public gallery, the Covid regulations were being implemented to the letter. Despite the social distancing, every available seat was taken and occupied. Jenny Oldfield, the office manager, had even added a few more close to the door, to cater for the inevitable latecomers, stragglers and busybodies who would attempt to wheedle their way into the inquest.
As Jenny banged the gavel on her table, the door at the back of the court opened and Mrs Challinor entered.
Ridpath moved to take his place standing by the door. Still the feeling of disquiet lingered like a bad smell in a bouquet of fresh flowers. Would he have to take part in this drama after all? He hoped not.
The buzz around the court ceased and Mrs Challinor began speaking.
‘This inquest is now open regarding the disappearance of Jane Ryder in 2009 and the application from the family for a presumption of death certificate from the Coroner’s Service. The inquest has been called by the terms of the Coroners Act 1988, section fifteen and the Presumption of Death Act 2013, both of which allow for such a certificate to be issued if there is no possibility the person involved, in this case, Jane Ryder, is still alive.’ She paused for a moment, looking around the court. ‘We will hear evidence from witnesses to help us decide if Jane Ryder can indeed be presumed dead.’
Mr Ryder, sitting in front of her, sighed audibly, his shoulders hunched, and he rocked back and forth.
‘Throughout these proceedings, the Covid guidelines established by the chief coroner will apply, including the giving of evidence in person and externally by witnesses. The family is represented by Mr James Ryder, parent of the missing girl. Greater Manchester Police is represented by Mr Jonathan Spielman, while Mrs Jennifer Harris represents Manchester City Council.’
On hearing their names, the legal representatives rose slightly and bowed the heads.
‘A reminder for everyone. This is an inquest, not a court of law. Our job… my job… is to discover the truth, not to apportion blame or to discover who may, or may not, have abducted or murdered Jane Ryder.’
Another audible sigh from Mr Ryder.
Mrs Challinor carried on. ‘We have one focus and one focus only. It is simply to ascertain to the best of our abilities whether this young girl, sixteen as she was in 2009, is still alive.’
At the back of the court in the public gallery, somebody had risen from their chair. From where he was standing, Ridpath couldn’t see who it was.
Mrs Challinor raised her head and stared at the person. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
Ridpath craned his neck forward, looking for the person who had stood up, hearing a short response.
‘No, but I think I can help you.’