He dropped Sophia off at the Coroner’s Court. He’d offered to take her home but she had refused.
‘I still have to finish the coroner’s notes for Mrs Challinor, plus I’d rather avoid home at the moment.’
‘The mum?’
‘Nah, it’s the sister, she’s visiting with her new baby, born during lockdown. I can’t stand the little asides. “When’s it going to be your turn, Sophia?” or, “She has Sophia’s eyes. It would be lovely to have another baby in the family”.’
‘I didn’t know I was working with Auntie Sophia.’
‘If you want to get home alive, don’t go there, Ridpath.’
He took the not-so-subtle hint.
Afterwards, he stopped off to see Hannah, checking if there had been any more progress.
There hadn’t.
‘I’ve virtually given up on the fingerprints, Ridpath. We can’t get a good enough impression from the female hand to offer any sort of image for IDENT 1.’
‘Did you check the hairbrush from the Ryders against the female hand’s DNA?’
‘We did. Definitely not a match.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ninety-nine point nine nine per cent sure. DNA doesn’t leave much to chance.’
Ridpath’s heart sank. He’d been certain the female hand belonged to Jane Ryder, but he couldn’t argue with science. There was one last throw of the dice.
‘I took this from another family.’ He showed Hannah a picture of Andrea Briggs, taken when she was fourteen. Inside was a lock of her hair.
Hannah examined it closely. ‘It looks good, we should be able to get DNA, but I won’t know until I try.’
‘Great, please rush it, Hannah.’
‘Will do. I presume you want a comparison to the female hand.’
Ridpath nodded. ‘And if she came up on any database, that would be a bonus.’
‘OK, leave it with me.’
He went back to the car and sat behind the wheel. This case had been one long rush to catch up with what was happening. Had he been so busy running around, he’d missed something important?
He hoped not.
He put the car in gear. The final stop of the day was Stretford nick. He wanted to have a chat with Dave and Oliver, chivvy them along. Both seemed to be taking years over simple tasks.
Neither was around when he arrived at the station. According to the duty sergeant, Dave Connor was out chasing some old perv while Oliver Davis was with Traffic working on an ANPR search.
He could have called them, but instead went into the situation room. All the investigation was still on the whiteboards: the pictures of the CLAK backpack; the shots of Jane Ryder at the Mad Ferrets Festival; the hands lying on a sterile table at the morgue; mugshots of Joseph Rowlands and two new shots of Gerald Duffy and Patricia Patterson.
Duffy was bleary-eyed and his hair bedraggled after a night in the cells. The shot must have been taken as he was charged for his DUI. Patricia Patterson was completely the opposite; neat and tidy, wearing a corporate power suit, short hair carefully cut and shaped.
What tied them all together?
Was it just Daisy House Children’s Home, or was there something else, something they had all missed?
He checked his watch.
Shit. 5.40. He needed to go home to check on Eve.
He hated having to leave her alone, but there were some times when he had to work. He was just another single parent, trying to manage work and life and his child on his own. How did the others do it? There must have been so many in the same boat. Luckily, Eve was old enough to be left alone for short periods, and she was mature for her age, Polly had seen to that.
Now he had to make it up to her for the disappointment of not going to the cemetery tomorrow.
It wasn’t going to be so easy, she didn’t forgive mistakes so quickly.
Exactly like her mum.
So like her mum.