Every fucker biting, the story refusing to lie down and die.
I gave them one more day without a body before it went inside to Page Two, then a police reconstruction next Friday marking the one week anniversary and a brief return to the Front Page.
Then it was Saturday afternoon sport all the way.
One arm on the wheel, I killed the radio as I flipped through Kathryn’s precise typed A4 on my lap. I pressed record on the Pocket Memo, and began to chant:
“Susan Louise Ridyard. Missing since 20 March 1972, aged ten years old. Last seen outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale, 3.55 PM”
“Extensive police search and nationwide publicity spelling zero, nothing, nowt. George Oldman headed the inquiry, despite being a Lancashire job. Asked for it.”
“Castleford and…?”
“Rochdale.”
Lying bastard.
“Investigation still officially open. Parents solid, two other kids. Parents continue to regularly put up fresh posters across the country. Re-mortgaged house to cover the cost.”
I switched off the tape, smiling a big Fuck You to Barry Cannon, knowing the Ridyards would be right back there and I’d be bringing them nothing new but fresh publicity.
I pulled up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a freshly painted bright red phonebox.
Fifteen minutes later I was reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a quiet part of Rochdale.
It was pissing down.
Mr Ridyard was standing in the doorway.
I got out of the car and said, “Good morning.”
“Nice weather for ducks,” said Mr Ridyard.
We shook hands and he led me through a tiny hall into the dark front room.
Mrs Ridyard was sitting on the sofa wearing slippers, a teenage girl and boy on either side of her. She had her arms round them both.
She glanced at me and whispered, “Go and tidy your rooms,” squeezing them tight before releasing them.
The children left the room looking at the carpet.
“Please sit down,” said Mr Ridyard. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Love?” he said, turning to his wife as he left the room.
Mrs Ridyard was miles away.
I sat down opposite the sofa and said, “Nice house.”
Mrs Ridyard blinked through the gloom, pulling at the skin on her cheeks.
“Looks like a nice area,” I added, the words dying but not quick enough.
Mrs Ridyard sat on the edge of the sofa, staring across the room at a school photograph of a little girl poking out between two Christmas cards on top of the TV. “There was a lovely view before they put them new houses up.”
I looked out of the window, across the road, at the new houses that had spoilt the view and no longer looked so new.
Mr Ridyard came in with the tea on a tray and I took out my notebook. He sat down on the sofa beside his wife and said, “Shall I be mother?”
Mrs Ridyard stopped staring at the photo and turned to the notebook in my hands.
I leant forward in my seat. “As I said on the phone, my editor and I thought that now would be a good…It’d be interesting to do a follow-up piece and…”
“A follow-up piece?” said Mrs Ridyard, still staring at the notebook.
Mr Ridyard handed me a cup of tea. “This is to do with the little girl over in Morley?”
“No. Well, not in so many words.” The pen felt loose and hot in my hand, the notebook cumbersome and conspicuous.
“Is this about Susan?” A tear fell on to Mrs Ridyard’s skirt.
I gathered myself. “I know it must be difficult but we know how much of your time you’ve, er, put into this and…”
Mr Ridyard put down his cup. “Our time?”
“You’ve both done so much to keep Susan in the public’s mind, to keep the investigation alive.”
Alive, fuck.
Neither Mr or Mrs Ridyard spoke.
“And I know you must have felt…”
“Felt?” said Mrs Ridyard.
“Feel.”
“I’m sorry, but you have no idea how we feel.” Mrs Ridyard was shaking her head, her mouth still moving after the words had gone, tears falling fast.
Mr Ridyard looked across the room at me, his eyes full of apologies and shame. “We were doing so much better until this, weren’t we?”
No-one answered him.
I looked out of the window across the road at the new houses with their lights still on at lunchtime.
“She could be home by now,” said Mrs Ridyard softly, rubbing the tears into her skirt.
I stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Ridyard, walking me out to the door. “We were doing so well. Really we were. It’s just brought it all back, this Morley thing.”
At the door I turned and said, “I’m sorry but, reading through the papers and my notes, the police don’t seem to have had any real leads. I was wondering if there was anything more you felt they could have done?”
“Anything more?” said Mr Ridyard, almost smiling.
“Any lead that…”
“They sat in this house for two weeks, George Oldman and his men, using the phone.”
“And there was nothing…”
“A white van, that’s all they bloody went on about.”
“A white van?”
“How, if they could find this white van, they’d find Susan.”
“And they never paid the bill.” Mrs Ridyard, her face red, was standing at the far end of the hall. “Phone almost got cut off.”
At the top of the stairs, I could see the heads of the other two children peering over the banister.
“Thank you,” I said, shaking Mr Ridyard’s hand.
“Thank you, Mr Dunford.”
I got into the Viva thinking, Jesus fucking Christ.
“Merry Christmas,” called Mr Ridyard.
I leant across to my notebook and scrawled two words only: White Van.
I raised a wave to Mr Ridyard standing alone in the doorway, a lid on all my curses.
One thought: Call Kathryn.
“It was a fucking nightmare.” Back in the bright red phonebox, I dropped in another coin, hopping from foot to foot, freezing my balls off. “Anyway, then he says well there was this white van, but I don’t remember reading anything about a white van, do you?”
Kathryn was flicking through her own notes on the other end, agreeing.
“Wasn’t in any of the appeals for information?”
Kathryn said, “No, not that I remember.” I could hear the buzz of the office from her end. I felt too far away. I wanted to be back there.
“Any messages?” I asked, juggling the phone, a notebook, a pen, and a cigarette.
“Just two. Barry and…”
“Barry? Say what it was about? Is he there now?”
“No, no. And a Sergeant Craven…”
“Sergeant who?”
“Craven.”
“Fuck, no idea. Craven? Did he leave a message?”
“No, but he said it was urgent.” Kathryn sounded pissed off.
“If it was that fucking urgent I’d know him. Calls again, ask him to leave a message, will you?” I let the cigarette fall into the pool of water on the floor of the phonebox.
“Where you going now?”
“The pub, where else? Bit of the old local colour. Then I’m coming straight back. Bye.”
I hung up, feeling fucked off.
She was staring at me from across the bar of the Huntsman.
I froze, then picked up my pint and walked towards her, drawn by her eyes, tacked up by the toilets, above a cigarette machine, at the far end of the bar.
Susan Louise Ridyard was smiling big white teeth for her school portrait, though her eyes said her fringe was a little too long, making her appear awkward and sad, like she knew what was coming next.
Above her the biggest word was in red and said: MISSING.
Below her was a summary of her life and last day, both so brief.