They raced down the M60, Claire Trent on the phone to Cheadle station asking them to send a squad car to the hospice urgently.
She put the phone down. ‘What’s our ETA, Henry?’
‘At this speed, about eight minutes, boss,’ the driver answered.
‘The squad car will arrive at roughly the same time. You think she is going to kill them, Ridpath?’
‘Yes, boss. As far as I can work out, she and Adam Jones have been planning this for years, killing the workers and volunteers at the children’s home.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not certain, boss. Revenge? A warped sense of justice? Religious fanaticism? You saw the altar at the farm, it reminded me of something Adam Jones said when we met him in prison. A verse from the Gospel of Matthew: “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.”’
‘What? They’re cutting off people’s hands because of some verse in the Bible?’
‘I think so, boss.’
‘How come we didn’t know? How have they been killing people for all this time without us knowing?’
‘It was a cult, presided over by a charismatic man, Adam Jones. Think of Manson and his followers. I think its members were made up of former residents of children’s homes. People who had suffered abuse in their life.’
The exited the M60 at Cheadle, the houses on either side of the road blurring as the car accelerated in the outside lane, forcing its way through a red light. A sharp left threw Ridpath against the car door.
‘But wasn’t this Adam Jones in prison?’
‘I think he carried on running the group from there and they continued killing people, kidnapping those who had abused them in the past.’
The police car swung sharply left into the driveway of the large house that served as the hospice, sliding to a stop outside the entrance portico.
Ridpath and Claire Trent jumped out and ran through the front door. A nurse on reception stood in front of them, trying to stop them going further.
Ridpath flashed his warrant card. ‘Mrs Ryder, which room?’
The nurse ran behind her desk and checked the list. ‘Room twenty-three.’
‘Which way?’
She pointed down a long corridor. ‘At the bottom on the left, but you can’t—’
He ran down the corridor, hearing Claire Trent’s high heels clacking behind him, the sound echoing off the green walls.
Room 18.
Room 19.
Room 20.
Room 21.
Room 22.
Room 23.
He burst through the door. Mr Ryder was slumped on the floor in the corner, his body at a strange angle. Jane Ryder was holding a hacksaw dripping with blood. She lifted up the wizened right hand of her mother proudly, her blue eyes as cold as ice. ‘You’re too late. I’ve already released her.’ A used hypodermic lay on the bedside table.
Claire Trent brushed past Ridpath, pulling handcuffs from her jacket. ‘Jane Ryder, I am arresting you for the murder of Patricia Patterson and Maureen Ryder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be taken down and may be used as evidence in court against you.’
She grabbed the woman’s hands, twisted them behind her back and snapped the handcuffs around her wrists.
‘Do you wish to say anything?’
‘My name is Barbara Abbott, and I set her free.’