‘How is he?’
‘Ridpath? I’ve heard he’s going back to work soon. Of course, we contacted him to tell his story. It would have sold well, but he’s not interested, just wants to get on with his job.’
‘Strange. And the other detective, Emily whatsherface?’
‘She’s fine too. Both are receiving commendations for their work on the case, but it was you who saved their lives. You must emphasise that aspect in the book. Please, no modesty, you are a hero.’
Actually, she was a heroine, but didn’t say the words. ‘Who’s going to play me in the film? Somebody glamorous, I hope.’
‘They are talking to Scarlett Johansson and Anne Hathaway.’
‘They’re both American. I was hoping for somebody younger.’
‘It’s still early days, I’m sure they’ll find somebody… suitable.’
‘I want to make sure I am portrayed correctly. The story is important to me.’
‘As it is to us. Talking of the book, when do you think the first draft will be ready?’
‘Soon,’ she answered, without giving a date.
‘The earlier the better. We should strike while the iron is hot.’
Molly Wright loved the way agents always spoke in clichés whilst admonishing their writers for using them. The truth was, she was finding the book hard to write, not usually a problem for her.
As if reading her mind, he said, ‘We could find you a ghost if you need some help getting the words down on paper.’
A ghostwriter. Why didn’t she think of that? It would take all the pressure off her. All she had to do was tell the story and let somebody else do the work of turning it into words on paper. She raised her glass. ‘I think that’s an extremely good idea, when can we find somebody?’
On the other side of Manchester, the Carsleys were faring less well. Daniel was languishing in a police station, having been arrested for shoplifting at Primark. He was waiting for the social worker from his children’s home to arrive before the police gave him a caution about his future behaviour.
Irene Carsley, nee McMurdo, was sitting in her bedsit staring at the four walls, having been forced to self-isolate. The scars on her arms showed evidence of self-harming but, as she never left her bedsit, nobody was aware of her mental condition. Her son, David, had been buried a week ago on Wednesday. She hadn’t attended the funeral.
Michael Carsley was still in his living room, staring at the glowing TV in the corner. He had switched off his mobile phone. The only calls he received were either from reporters promising him a small fortune for telling his story, or from well-wishers saying he should be hung, drawn and quartered for what he did to his son. ‘Despite what the police say, I know you were involved in his death,’ was the usual refrain on the calls.
He was too numb to respond any more.
On 20 August 2020, Jon Morgan finally left his wife, the family home and his dog, and went to live with Shirley Burgess in a rented apartment in Whalley Range.
They had both decided that living for love was more important than living a lie.
They still strolled together every morning beside the Mersey and were thinking of getting a pair of Jack Russells to accompany them on their walks.
Matthew Oram was remanded under Section 35 of the Mental Health Act 1983 to Ashworth High-Security Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation. He is considering pleading not guilty to the murder of David Carsley, Alan McCarthy, Steven Protheroe and Peter McDonald, according to Section 2 of the Trial of Lunatics Act 1883.
He still hears the voices telling him to kill.
Margaret Challinor was packing up for the day after an inquest on a death at a building site. The jury had still to decide on a verdict of negligence or accidental death.
On her way home, she had promised to get the children pizza. Her daughter had moved back in with her after Ben’s abduction. The boy seemed to be recovering well from his ordeal; there were no apparent after-effects. To be on the safe side, Mrs Challinor had asked a specialist in paediatric mental health to sit down for a few sessions with the boy.
Her daughter, on the other hand, was taking a lot longer to recover. The sense of guilt at what had happened appeared to be overwhelming the young mother. She couldn’t sleep at night and constantly felt anxious. She was starting counselling next week after being persuaded she needed help by Mrs Challinor.
For the first time in many a year, the coroner was finally able to give her daughter the love, care and attention she deserved. She was glad her daughter had returned home but wished it could have occurred under better circumstances.
She vowed she would never allow them to become estranged again.
Eve had reached a stile leading to a path beside the river. Ridpath helped her over it.
‘I like writing, Dad. You know, I think I’d like to be a reporter when I grow up.’
Ridpath kept quiet – it was far too early to pour cold water on her dreams. ‘You’ll have to study hard. When do you start the new school?’
‘In September, if the virus lets me.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
She thought for a moment, twisting her hair around her index finger. ‘What’s going to happen to the man?’
Ridpath felt the back of his neck. ‘The one who attacked me? He’s in hospital now. The Crown Prosecution Service are deciding whether to charge him.’
‘He killed four children.’
‘At least four children, but he may not be well enough to stand trial. He hears voices.’
‘Do you ever hear voices, Dad?’
He looked at his daughter. Did she know about Polly? Since the day he fought with Matthew Oram, he hadn’t seen Polly. It was almost as if she decided she didn’t need to be around, once he no longer needed her. ‘Not any more, Eve.’
‘Good, I’m glad. When can I move back in with you?’
A pause as he climbed over the stile.
‘I’ve talked
