Ridpath went over the missing person reports again, checking to see if he had overlooked anything. On his right, the pictures of Jane Ryder at the music festival were leaning against a glass of Macallan.
What had happened to her?
He picked up the whisky, the golden liquid swirling around like molten honey, and swallowed, feeling the bite on the back of his tongue.
Eve was in bed, the TV was off and silence reigned supreme. He’d picked his daughter up from the neighbours at 7.30 p.m.
‘Hi, Dad, you’re late again.’
‘Sorry.’ He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. She was getting taller. ‘Has Eve been any trouble, Mrs Dunwoody?’
‘Please call me Angela. None at all. It’s always a delight to have Eve over.’
‘Hello, I’m standing here. Please talk about me behind my back or not at all.’
They both laughed.
Angela pushed a strand of hair off her face and behind her ear. ‘I’m just sitting down to spag bol and a glass of wine. If you’ve nothing better to do, perhaps you’d like to join me.’
Ridpath shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’d love to, but I have some work to follow up after I put Eve to bed. Another day, maybe.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘If you two are done arranging your date, perhaps I can go home. It was gym today and I need a bath.’
‘Can you pick Eve up again tomorrow?’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll come for her at the same time. I’ll call if I’m going to be late.’
‘OK, see you.’
‘Bye, Jessica. I think we have maths homework tomorrow.’
‘Great, Eve, can you show me what trinomial equations are?’
‘Don’t worry, they’re easy.’
‘Trinomial equations, piece of cake, Jessica,’ said Ridpath, hoping nobody would ask him to explain.
‘Sure, Dad, last time I looked you had trouble with long division.’
‘I’ll have you know, daughter, I have O-level maths. I don’t know how, but I managed to scrape a pass.’
‘There was probably a question on trinomial equations. Anyway, bye, Jessica, bye, Mrs Dunwoody. Thanks for the spag bol.’
They walked back to the house.
‘You’ve already eaten?’
‘Yeah, but Mum’s spag bol was ten times better than Mrs Dunwoody’s.’
‘Your mum’s was legendary. As was her duck a la banana.’
Eve’s hand snaked into his. He loved it when she did this. It was like she was three all over again and they were walking along a crowded street.
‘Be careful, Dad, I think she’s trying to get into your Y-fronts.’
‘Eve, how can you say that? Mrs Dunwoody is a wonderful person who picks you up from school when your dad is too busy.’
‘Only an observation. Methinks the man doth protest too much.’
‘It was a lady, and it’s from Hamlet.’
Eve went silent for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t mind, you know.’
‘Wouldn’t mind what?’
‘If you hooked up again. I mean, you’re still a catch and you’re still young, well young-ish. Maisie Wells thinks you’re a bit of a hunk.’
He stopped and turned towards her. ‘Look, Eve, promise you won’t talk like this any more. I loved your mum, and the thought of getting involved with somebody else, it’s… impossible.’
‘Ok, Dad, just letting you know.’
He pulled out his key and opened the door. ‘You go run your bath and I’ll make you a nice hot cup of cocoa.’
Replaying the conversation in his head, he couldn’t imagine talking with his mum in the same way after his dad had died. But kids were different these days. More open and more questioning, but still naive in so many ways.
He picked up the Macallan, hearing the ice rattle against the side of the glass, before taking a small sip. Its sweet bitterness nibbled at his throat, dragging him back to the present.
They had finally started to make some progress on the case today, but there were still so many questions that still needed answering. He felt constantly rushed and out of control, like the Titanic steaming across an icy sea, the passengers dancing the night away, not knowing what lay ahead.
He hoped and prayed there wasn’t a bloody enormous iceberg waiting out there for him.
The questions flooded into his brain. How did Jane Ryder’s backpack end up hidden in Daisy House Children’s Home?
Was the female hand hers?
And what linked her to Joseph Rowlands, if there was any link at all?
He wasn’t happy continuing with the inquest, but he could understand Mrs Challinor’s reasons. At least now she would allow him to request a postponement until he had investigated the case properly.
He took another sip of Macallan.
He remembered what Charlie Whitworth had taught him on his first day on the job.
‘All our jobs are about people, Ridpath, their hopes and dreams, their petty jealousies and hidden desires, their love and their hatred. It’s always about people, not victims, perps or suspects. People, like you and me.’
The hands in the backpack weren’t objects. They were three people who had lost their lives, and their killer had removed the hands with a hacksaw.
Was it the man in the photo?
He didn’t know, but he wouldn’t stop until he found out.