It was something that Brady had never before witnessed in all his years as a copper.
He looked back down at the photograph.
There was no denying it. Melissa Ryecroft had the same body type as the murder victim.
Brady thought of her father sitting waiting for him downstairs.
How could he tell him that the murder victim had had all her teeth removed? As a consequence, this ruled out the option of using Melissa Ryecroft’s dental records as a form of ID, which given the circumstances would have been preferable.
Instead he would need Melissa Ryecroft’s parents to ID what was left of the body.
He picked up the notes in the file that accompanied the photograph. He needed to make sure he knew everything there was to know about the missing girl before interviewing her parents.
Brady made his way to the interview room.
He knocked on the interview door before walking in.
Kodovesky gave him a surprised look, reminding Brady that his face was a mess.
‘Go on, take a coffee break. Conrad will be here in a minute,’ suggested Brady.
The young DC looked like she needed some fresh air. He couldn’t blame her. The air in the small room was stale and claustrophobic.
Brady stretched his hand out towards Brian Ryecroft first, then Michelle Ryecroft and finally, their eleven- year-old daughter, Lucy.
‘DI Jack Brady,’ he introduced, aware that the cuts and bruises on his face weren’t exactly the best look for a Detective Inspector.
Brian Ryecroft nodded at him. He was too lost in grief and anguish to pay much attention to Brady’s run-in with a brick wall.
Brady realised that Melissa Ryecroft was very much her father’s daughter. They had the same handsome, perfectly shaped face. Strong, but with precise symmetry. They were both dark: dark hair, eyes and skin with a slight tanned hue to it. They had a look about them which spoke of Italian ancestry.
Ryecroft’s jowly jaw was locked and his full lips were downturned. His receding black hair was peppered with silver strands. More silver than black, thought Brady. What would have been a neat, orderly haircut was now all over the place from where he had obviously dragged a nervous hand repeatedly through it. His brown, heavily bagged eyes were filled with pained acceptance. A pragmatic, cold reality had kicked in. His daughter had been gone since Thursday morning; it was now Saturday afternoon after 4:13pm.
The time jarred with Brady. He was running over. Things were starting to get away from him. If he wasn’t careful he would lose the plot.
It was clear to Brady that this was a man in his mid to late fifties who loved his daughters. Spoiled them, as much as he spoiled his forty-something wife.
Ryecroft had his own business in construction. A self-made man who had made good. Brady imagined the women in his life played him like a fiddle. Not one of them would be wanting for anything. Which explained why his missing sixteen-year-old daughter attended a private school in Tynemouth, sporting her fake breasts amongst other material possessions.
‘I … I …’ Ryecroft broke down. Tears streamed down his jowly, lined face as he dropped his head, unable to look at Brady.
A knock at the door broke the awkward moment.
Conrad walked in.
‘Sir,’ he greeted when he saw Brady sitting across the table from the Ryecrofts.
Tactfully pretending not to pick up on Ryecroft’s breakdown, Conrad placed a steaming black coffee in front of him.
‘Two sugars, sir,’ Conrad said.
He turned to Michelle Ryecroft, whose red-rimmed blue eyes watched Conrad for a sign. Any sign of hope from the outside world, instead of the hell that she was living in the interview room.
‘White tea, two sweeteners,’ Conrad said. His steel-grey eyes were filled with sympathy, his voice filled with professionalism. Finally, he placed the chilled can of Coke Zero down in front of Lucy Ryecroft. He shot her a warm, gentle smile before pulling a chair out and sitting down beside his boss.
Lucy Ryecroft uttered a weak, ‘Thanks.’
Her eyes weren’t only the same colour blue as her mother. They were also just as red-rimmed and puffy from crying. Her pubescent skin was patchy with red blotches and trails of black smudged mascara. Her blonde highlighted hair had been scraped back into an aggressive, angry ponytail.
It looked to Brady’s eye as if she was trying her hardest to get back to being a kid again. No GHD straighteners had been used that morning. Nor had foundation with eyeliner and lipgloss. Instead, she was wearing a baggy Hollister t-shirt, her scrawny arms covered in bruises and nail indentations where she had gripped them so hard that she’d broken the skin.
The painful, troubled adult world was now too dangerous and dark for her to want to cross over into. After all, her older sister who had tried to grow up too fast, too hard, had disappeared.
And the one unspoken question, the elephant in the room, was whether the headless girl washed up on the beach was Melissa Ryecroft.
Brady swallowed hard.
He had some painful questions to ask.
First, one had to be directed at the person who held herself responsible for Melissa’s disappearance: her younger sister.
‘Lucy?’ Brady gently began.
She dragged her red, bloodshot eyes up to Brady’s. They shone with a mixture of fear and self-loathing.
‘I’ve got to say that from what I’ve read of your statement, you’ve really been a great help. But …’ Brady paused, gauging her reaction.
The girl looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.
‘You say that Melissa got on a train to London, early Thursday evening. Yes?’
Lucy nodded.
It didn’t go unmissed by Brady that she had bitten her bottom lip hard, causing blood to trickle out.
‘Here,’ Brady offered as he handed her a tissue from the box beside him.
She didn’t understand.
‘Your lip,’ Brady gently said.
‘Oh … thanks,’ she mumbled as she tasted the blood.
‘What I don’t understand is, if she had left on the 5:30pm train to King’s Cross, why update her Facebook page shortly beforehand, saying the exact opposite?’
Lucy looked at Brady, startled.
She obviously hadn’t realised that the first thing Brady got Harvey to do when the Ryecrofts had reported her as missing was check out her Facebook page. And to see whether she blogged or used Twitter.
‘Did she get on the train or was she met by someone?’
Tears started to flow down the young girl’s face.
She looked nervously from her mother and then to her father’s anguished face.
‘She made me promise not to tell,’ whispered Lucy.
It was barely loud enough for Brady to hear.
He noticed the Ryecrofts tense at their daughter’s admission.
‘Oh my God … Lucy? What? What didn’t you tell us?’ questioned Michelle Ryecroft, her voice shaking.
Brian Ryecroft’s eyes flashed with a sudden anger.
Brady looked at them, wishing they weren’t in on the interview. But Lucy Ryecroft was a minor; he had no choice. He could have a social worker here with her, but her parents had refused. Wanting to be present. Not wanting to let another child disappear from their sight.
‘She … she was flying down to London.’
Brady nodded.
He already suspected that was the case. He had just had a look at her Facebook page.
