Later, after Eve had gone to bed, he sat in his armchair, staring into mid-air, a glass of Macallan warming in his hand.
On the table, the case notes lay where he had left them three hours ago. Had he totally cocked up the investigation? Had he led everybody down the garden path?
He imagined Charlie Whittaker sitting opposite him, checking his work.
‘What are your assumptions, Ridpath? Assumptions in a case like this are bastards, they always lead you astray. What have you assumed, which may or may not have been true?’
‘We assumed—’
‘No, no, no, get it right, take responsibility. What have you assumed?’
Charlie was right. What had he assumed? He checked the list he’d made last night and began writing.
He’d assumed the case was linked to Daisy House. Was it? Or was there another reason people were being killed? Why had he made that assumption?
The hands were found there, and the people who were missing were all connected to the children’s home.
But were they?
Ridpath thought for a moment, imagining his answer. They were all connected, except Gerald Duffy. We never found a connection to him.
Right. There might be another reason.
What else had he assumed?
The backpack we found containing the hands belonged to Jane Ryder. What if didn’t? What if it was a knock-off? He’d assumed it was the limited edition. But didn’t the father say he had bought it for Jane, and he didn’t he ID it? He checked the notes. He was sure the backpack belonged to Jane Ryder.
What was his biggest assumption?
He racked his brain for the answer, and then a tiny idea wheedled its way in like a sharp stiletto piercing thin skin.
He’d always assumed Jane Ryder was dead.
Why?
Because it was his frame of reference, his brief when he started the case. She was presumed to be dead. Nobody had seen or heard from her in over eleven years.
But what if she was still alive?
As the ramifications of the question swirled around his mind, his phone beeped. It was a text message from Emily Parkinson.
He replied:
Ridpath put down the phone and took another long swallow of the Macallan, savouring the taste of bitter honey as it slipped down his throat.
He picked up the picture of the Mad Ferret Festival in 2009. What had Adam Jones said? ‘If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell’. Did it all start here?
The key was Jane Ryder and Adam Jones, he was sure of it now.
But was it too late?
Had he been too slow working it all out?
He ran his fingers through his hair. Patricia Patterson was in serious danger. Perhaps she was the person who knew the truth, and that’s why she had vanished. Or she had been vanished.
He had to get Turnbull to focus on her. He had to try one more time.
He dialled the number.
‘DCI Turnbull.’
It was typical of the man to answer with his rank.
‘It’s Ridpath.’
‘I told you to go home and forget about the case.’
‘I am at home, but I can’t forget about the case. I think Patricia Patterson is in serious danger. Somehow she is linked to Adam Jones and Jane Ryder. The case isn’t about the children’s home, it’s about Jones and Ryder.’
‘Another one of your bloody hunches, Ridpath. You’re at home nice and cosy, no doubt having a glass of whisky, while the rest of the team is working hard to clean up your mess.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Listen to this.’ Ridpath could hear the sound of voices and printers. ‘That’s your colleagues still working on a Sunday night.’
‘But you have to find Patricia Patterson, I think she’s involved somehow.’
‘Somehow? I’m supposed to drop everything because you guess she is somehow involved? Go back to your whisky, Ridpath. Patricia Patterson is one of the leads we are following. I have work to do, so goodnight.’
The phone went dead.