Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

“Not like the McBains?” asks Ruiz.

The headmistress flinches. “Excuse me?”

“Natasha’s father served a five-year stretch for armed robbery. Surely you know that.”

“We don’t discriminate at St. Catherine’s.”

“Neither do we,” says Ruiz.

There is a look between them. Nothing warm.

“We were hoping to talk to some of the teachers who taught Piper and Natasha,” I say. “And to look at their student files.”

“I’m afraid the files are confidential, but most of their teachers are still with us. We don’t have a big turnover of staff.”

“What about caretakers?” asks Ruiz.

The headmistress hesitates. “If you’re referring to Mr. Stokes, he’s no longer working at St. Catherine’s.”

“He was sacked.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“He took inappropriate photographs of the girls.”

“An unfortunate incident. We did all the proper checks.”

“Where is Mr. Stokes now?”

She stares at Ruiz icily. “We haven’t kept in touch.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment and then Mrs. Jacobson looks at her small gold wristwatch. “It’s lunchtime. You’ll find most of the teachers in the staff common room.”

The schoolgirl in the waiting room is instructed to escort us. Her name is Monica and she walks with a pigeon-toed gait and sloping shoulders. We climb the stairs and follow a corridor past classrooms and science labs.

I fall into step beside Ruiz. He’s limping more today; the legacy of an old bullet wound. He’s too proud to use a walking stick. Vain.

“Why did you give her such a hard time?”

“She reminded me of my old physics teacher.”

“Is that all?”

“You didn’t meet my physics teacher.”

Monica knocks on the door of the common room and asks for Miss McCrudden. The English teacher is in her mid-thirties, wearing dark trousers and a blouse with a coffee stain. Her fingers are spotted with blue marker pen.

Most of the tables are taken by groups of teachers eating sandwiches or reheated soup. We take a seat in the corner.

Miss McCrudden looks at me nervously.

“This isn’t an official interview. Nobody is taking notes. I’m a psychologist working with the police. I’m trying to learn whatever I can about Piper and Natasha.”

She makes a clucking sound deep in her throat. “Such lovely girls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pardon?”

“You answered automatically and said they were lovely girls.”

“They were.”

“How were they lovely?”

“They were very friendly.”

“Did they have a lot of friends?”

She hesitates. “Some.”

“Not a lot then?”

“Are you trying to disagree with me?”

“I’m trying to get to the truth.”

The teacher eyes me accusingly. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yes. You see, Miss McCrudden-”

“Call me Kirsty.”

“Kirsty. By most accounts Natasha McBain was a bit of a tearaway. Always getting into trouble.”

“She was high-spirited.”

“There you go again-making excuses for her. Apologizing. Trying to soften the edges; airbrushing the truth.”

She gives me a hard stare and starts again. “Natasha could be difficult. Hard to control.”

“In what way?”

“She didn’t respect authority. I don’t think St. Catherine’s was the place for her.”

I wait for something more. She sighs. “I shouldn’t really talk-I was a complete nightmare at school. Not as bad as Natasha, mind you, but my parents were always being summoned to explain or apologize.

“Some girls are suffocated by a place like this-the discipline and routine. We talk a lot about pastoral care and not leaving a girl behind, but let’s face it, we want students who make us look good, who aren’t management problems, who do well in their exams…”

“Natasha didn’t fit.”

“She was a brilliant student. A complete natural, the sort who wins awards and gets scholarships without even trying.” The teacher lowers her voice. “But she was also restless, preoccupied, often crude. When she wasn’t terrorizing teachers, she was flirting with them-male and female.”

“Did she flirt with you?”

Kirsty smiles knowingly. “Natasha enjoyed being provocative, but there’s a difference between physical maturity and emotional maturity. She made a lot of bad decisions.”

“What about Piper?”

“Completely different. A born storyteller. One of the best creative writers I’ve ever taught. She daydreamed. Often I’d catch her staring into space, or studying the ground as though it were a river she couldn’t cross. And she had a way of touching things, tapping them lightly with her fingertips, as though playing a secret game.”

“Academically?”

“She struggled.”

“Is she the sort of girl to run away?”

Kirsty doesn’t answer immediately. She turns to the window, watching girls outside in the playground.

“Natasha was one of those rare creatures who truly didn’t seem to care what people thought. Compliment her or criticize her and her reaction didn’t change. Piper was more self-conscious. I think there was some hero worship involved.”

“How did Natasha react?”

“She loved being adored. Piper was like her faithful retainer.”

“Why didn’t they have many friends?”

“They had issues.”

“Such as?”

The teacher falters slightly. “I think a lot changed after the accident.”

“What accident?”

“There was a fight between two local lads. One of them drove a car into the other. Left him disabled. The driver was arrested and charged with attempted murder.”

“What does that have to do with Natasha?”

“It was her boyfriend. They were fighting over her.”

“When was this?”

“About four months before the girls disappeared. You should really talk to Emily Martinez.”

“Is she here today?”

“I don’t know. She misses a lot of school.”

Ruiz has pulled an old notebook from his pocket and is jotting down details. It’s not that he needs reminding-he won’t forget-but old habits are hard to break.

Kirsty turns to Grievous. “Has there been some news?”

He doesn’t answer, but the knowledge still reaches her. Fear thickens her vowels.

“Are they dead?”

“I can’t comment,” he says.

She looks at me. “Oh dear, you’ve made me do a terrible thing.”

“You’ve told me the truth.”

A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors outside; girls in motion, laughter, musical voices and sentences that end with upward inflections. The English teacher has to go. She stands and brushes the front of her trousers. She touches the corner of one eye, then her hair.

“We all have reasons to run away,” she says, before turning. “Most of us find the strength to stay.”

Ruiz turns off the ignition and we sit in silence, watching the empty street. A Network Rail sign indicates the entrance to Radley Station and beneath it is an information board with a poster for a visiting circus.

Beyond a bus stop is the Bowyer Arms, a chain pub with pale washed walls. Ruiz fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a tin of boiled sweets. He chooses one and sucks on it thoughtfully.

“Explain to me why we’re here?”

“This is where they were supposed to meet,” I say. “According to Emily’s statement, they were going to rendezvous here at ten o’clock on Sunday morning, but they didn’t show up.”

I take out a copy of the original missing persons report. Alice McBain told police she last saw the girls at just before 8:00 a.m. on Sunday August 31. Piper had slept over at Natasha’s house after the Bingham Summer Festival. Alice knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed. Natasha had a waitressing shift at a cafe in Abingdon at ten that morning, but failed to show.