Detective Chief Inspector Turnbull spotted Molly Wright in the beer garden of Sinclair’s Oyster Bar.
Not that there was any grass in the garden, rather it was a concrete picnic table area, set between three old pubs; Sinclair’s, the Old Wellington and The Mitre. Two of the pubs were half-timbered and had been transported to this location when Market Street had been developed in the mid-seventies. Turnbull thought it was funny the only buildings Manchester had bothered to save were a couple of pubs.
Molly Wright offered him her cheek to kiss. ‘I ordered a bottle of Rioja to keep us going.’
Turnbull glanced down; the bottle was already half empty. She poured him a glass of a deep, dark red and topped up her own. ‘Bottoms up, pants down,’ she said, raising her glass.
‘Cheers. Long time no see, Molly.’
‘Not since last year, I think it was.’
‘How’s things?’
‘Great, I’m still on the crime beat, but I now have a regular column. You’d be surprised how many crimes of passion were committed during lockdown. Locking people together who don’t get on is always a recipe for trouble.’
‘Like me and my missus. Luckily, I kept working.’
‘Ah, the stories of true love, how I miss them.’
‘You’ve done well for yourself. I read the book. You weren’t very kind.’
She mimed shock. ‘I went easy on you. The Carsley case has become well known since I wrote the book about it. The new Moors Murders, according to the reviews.’
‘Yeah, didn’t help my career prospects.’
‘I could have been tougher. You should have seen what I took out. Arresting the father was not a smart move, Paul.’
‘Had to be done. Anyway, water under the bridge now.’
They both drank large swallows of Rioja, Molly Wright nearly finishing hers.
‘As much as I love seeing your bald head, Paul, I know you didn’t ring me because you were missing my wit and charm.’
He put down his glass. ‘No, Molly, I have something for you.’
She took out her notebook. ‘Something juicy, I hope.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Of course, but attributable to a source?’
‘Yeah, but no mention of Police HQ or MIT.’
‘Agreed. Fire away.’
‘It’s about the hands found in the backpack in Northenden.’
‘I read about it. A juicy little discovery. Probably some medical students playing a prank.’
‘It wasn’t. It seems to be linked to the children’s home, Daisy House.’
‘I’m all ears, child abuse makes good copy.’
‘Nothing much yet, but a little bird tells me the chief suspect, Patricia Patterson, disappeared the day after the hands were discovered.’
‘Really? Haven’t your colleagues found her yet?’
‘They only found out she was missing yesterday.’
‘That seems remiss of them. Who’s the officer in charge?’
‘DI Thomas Ridpath.’
‘Ridpath?’ She chewed the end of her pen. ‘He was the copper I saved from Matthew Oram. The one who did a parallel investigation to yours during the Carsley case. Mauling Molly, they started calling me in the newsroom.’ She paused for a moment, eyeing him up and down. ‘You trying to stick the knife in, get your own back?’
It was his turn to mime innocence. ‘What, me? I was wondering if you were interested in the case. If you don’t want the scoop, I’ll talk to another reporter.’
He stood up to go, but she clamped her hand on his arm.
‘Don’t be so touchy, Paul. I’m all for stabbing people in the back, but I usually prefer to use words, not a knife – much more hurtful. Now sit down and tell Auntie Molly all about it.’