1983

‘Let me just double-check for you,’ she says and walks over to a large metal filing cabinet.

Fuck.

You turn away. You look down the corridor.

A man is stood at the end of the corridor in the shape of a cross, his pyjama-bottoms around his ankles.

You hate hospitals -

Hate the institutional smell of boiling cabbages and rags, the institutional walls of heavy green and magnolia cream, the institutional floors covered with stained carpet and linoleum -

Hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one alive.

The nurse comes back with a file. She is nodding to herself. She says: ‘Yes, Mr Whitehead left us on New Year’s Eve, 1980.’

‘Doesn’t say what he died of, does it?’

‘No, no, no,’ she smiles. ‘His son came and took him home.’

‘His son?’

She nods again. She taps the file: ‘What it says here.’

You strain to read the upside-down writing: ‘Is there an address?’

She pulls the file back: ‘I’m not sure I should -’

‘It’s good news,’ you smile. ‘Stands to inherit a small fortune.’

‘Well then,’ she laughs. ‘Flat 6, 6 Portland Square, Leeds.’

‘Thank you very much,’ you wink.

‘Be sure to tell him how you found him,’ she giggles.

You wink again. You open the doors. You walk back down the steps and across the sharp, pointed gravel.

The woman on the lawn is chasing her tail.

You hate hospitals because nobody you knew ever came out of one -

Nobody but Jack.

Tuesday 31 May 1983 -

The first spits of another rain.

Crawling along the M62 towards Rochdale, the fields black and brown, the sky black and grey:

‘She wraps herself in the Union Jack and exploits the sacrifices of our soldiers, sailors and airmen in the Falkland Islands for purely party advantage – and hopes to get away with it.’

You switch off the radio. You glance in the mirrors. You pull over on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a smashed-up phonebox -

You pray that it works.

D-9 .

Fifteen minutes later you are reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a silent part of Rochdale.

It is pissing down now, the houses across the road with their lights already on.

Mr Ridyard is standing in the doorway.

You get out of the car. You say: ‘Afternoon.’

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he says.

You nod. You shake his hand. You follow him into a small hall and through into their front room.

‘The wife’s having her lie-down,’ he whispers. ‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with just me.’

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘It’s very good of you to see me.’

‘Sit down,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘I’ll make us a quick brew.’

You stand back up when he leaves the room. You walk over to have a closer look at the two framed photographs on top of the television -

One is of three children dressed in their school uniforms; the other of just the youngest child sat on her own:

Susan Louise Ridyard.

Mr Ridyard comes back in with the tea: ‘Here we are.’

You put the photograph back down in its place. You go back over to the sofa.

Mr Ridyard sits down in the chair opposite you: ‘Sugar, Mr Piggott?’

‘Three please.’

He hands you your tea: ‘There you go.’

You take a sip. You watch him pick up his cup -

He looks at it. He doesn’t drink.

You watch him put it back down -

He looks up at you. He tries to smile. He says: ‘We drink too much.’

You say again: ‘I really do appreciate you seeing me. I realise it must be very upsetting for you.’

Mr Ridyard nods. He whispers: ‘What is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’

‘As I said on phone, I’m a solicitor and I have two clients who seem to have an interest or a link, should I say, with your daughter.’

‘With Susan?’

You nod.

‘Who are your clients?’

‘One is a lady called Mrs Ashworth. Her son, James, was arrested by the police in connection with this recent disappearance of a little girl in Morley. Hazel Atkins?’

Mr Ridyard nods.

‘Well, as you may already know from the news, James Ashworth hung himself while he was in police custody.’

‘Hung himself?’

‘Supposedly.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ says Mr Ridyard. ‘Were you his solicitor as well?’

‘Supposedly,’ you say again. ‘But he died before I actually had a chance to speak with him.’

‘But what has he to do with Susan?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure he has anything at all to do with Susan,’ you stammer. ‘That’s half of why I’m here.’

‘And the other half?’

You glance back over at the photograph on top of the television. You say quietly: ‘Michael Myshkin.’

Mr Ridyard swallows. He scratches his neck. He says: ‘What about him?’

‘I’m representing Michael Myshkin in his appeal against his conviction,’ you say and then pause -

Waiting to see if Mr Ridyard is going to say anything -

‘I see,’ is all he says, with a slight glance at the ceiling.

‘Michael Myshkin was never actually formally charged in connection with your daughter’s disappearance, was he?’

Mr Ridyard shakes his head: ‘But he did confess to the police.’

‘And then retract it?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘And then he retracted it.’

‘And the police never sought to press charges, did they?’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head again. ‘But they did close the inquiry.’

‘So they obviously thought he did it?’

He nods.

‘They sat you down and told you that?’

He nods again.

‘When did they tell you?’

‘1975,’ he says. ‘When they closed the inquiry.’

‘And you?’ you ask him. ‘Do you think Michael Myshkin had something to do with the disappearance of your