Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

“Don’t tell me you believe this psychic shit? Do you know how many mediums and mystics we’ve heard from so far? Dozens of them.”

“This could be different. This medium saw a smokestack or a windmill. The pathologist found traces of heavy metals on Natasha’s clothing. What if Vic McBain fed her some of the details.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, but there’s something else that bothers me. When the girls were planning to run away, Natasha told Emily that her uncle owed her money. When I asked Emily why, she clammed up and got upset.”

“You think Natasha was blackmailing her uncle?”

“It’s possible.”

“OK, OK, we’ll take another look.” Drury squeezes his nose and blows out his cheeks as though adjusting the pressure in his head. “I’m getting a head cold. My daughter gave it to me. If you ask me, rats got a bum rap for the plague. I blame kids.”

Phillip Martinez is causing a commotion downstairs at the police station, arguing with the desk sergeant, whose blood pressure is glowing in his cheeks. A dozen people are waiting to be seen. Emily hangs back, hands buried in the pockets of a donkey jacket.

Martinez looks relieved to see me. “Professor O’Loughlin, you’ll understand.”

“What will I understand?”

“We have important information. Emily does. There’s something she didn’t tell the police. She received a letter.”

“A letter?”

“From Piper.”

Drury is shaking out his coat and spins around as though struck. He yells at the desk sergeant to let Mr. Martinez and Emily through. A button is pushed. The door unlocks. Father and daughter are ushered quickly upstairs to the DCI’s office.

Emily hasn’t raised her eyes. She doesn’t dress like most girls her age. No clunky shoes, acid-colored skirts or livid lipsticks. Instead, she’s wearing a long skirt and baggy jumper.

I notice a music folder sticking out of her bag.

“What do you play?” I ask.

“The piano.”

“What grade?”

“Six.”

“She’s taking extra lessons during the holidays,” says Mr. Martinez. “Her teacher says she has perfect pitch.”

Emily looks embarrassed, wanting him to be quiet.

Drury enters, apologizing for the delay. I watch Emily sidelong, looking for more signs of inner turmoil.

Mr. Martinez does the talking. “She only told me about the letter this morning. I tried not to touch it. That’s why I put it in a plastic bag. I thought it might have fingerprints, you know, or DNA.”

Drury takes the letter and places it on his desk. The paper is poor quality and almost perished at the creases, but the sentences are still legible, written in fading pencil.

Dear Em,

Please, please don’t tell anybody about this letter-not my parents or the police. You have to promise. This has to be our secret.

Everybody knows we ran away now and hopefully they’ll stop looking soon. We’re living in London, by the way, just like we said. It’s a big house, but I’m not supposed to tell you the address.

Tash is OK. We both miss you. We’re sorry we left you waiting for so long at the railway station, but it’s probably best you stayed. One day when we’re all eighteen we can get a place together.

I guess my mum is happier now. She can concentrate on Phoebe and Ben without me getting in the way. They deserve better than me. I wish I’d been nicer to them.

Until we meet again.

Lots of love,

Piper xxxooo

I recognize the handwriting as Piper’s. The loopy letters and square capitals are penciled hard into the cheap paper, leaving specks of graphite glinting in the furrows.

“When did you get this?” I ask.

Emily brushes her fringe from her eyes. Her father answers for her. “I’ve told her she did the wrong thing. She’s very contrite. It won’t happen again.”

“When exactly did it arrive?”

Once more Mr. Martinez answers. “The envelope has a London postmark. The date is blurred, but it might be October 2008.”

I look at Emily for confirmation. She nods.

“Why didn’t you show it to anyone?”

“Piper told me not to. She made me promise.”

“That’s no excuse, Emily,” says her father. “You should have told me.”

Drury has picked up the phone, asking forensics to collect the letter and envelope. Tests will be done on the paper and the stamp.

“Does anything about the letter strike you as odd?” I ask Emily. She looks at me blankly.

“How did Piper know that you waited at the railway station? You didn’t see her there. It was never made public that you were there.”

Confusion fills her eyes.

“Who else knew that you were waiting for them at Radley Station?”

“Nobody.”

I look at Phillip Martinez. “Did you know?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you tell anyone, Emily?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“Where did you go afterwards?”

“I tried to call Tash, but she wasn’t answering her phone. I sent her text messages and went to the cafe where she worked on Sundays. I thought she might turn up.”

“Who did you see there?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Think really hard. It’s important.”

“I talked to the manager and the other waitress.”

“Anyone else?”

“Natasha’s uncle was having breakfast at one of the tables. He saw my bag and said it looked heavy. He made a joke about me leaving home.”

“Do you think he knew?”

Emily shrugs. I glance at Drury, gauging his reaction. Something about this bothers me. Teenage girls don’t usually write letters. They send emails or texts or they phone.

Drury is asking Emily if Natasha ever talked about her uncle. She shakes her head more adamantly than necessary.

“How did she get on with him?”

“OK, I guess.” Emily looks at her father. “Can we go? They have the letter.”

The DCI hasn’t finished. “When you planned to run away, what money did you have?”

“Tash had money.”

“Where did she get it from?”

“She had a job.”

“Was she selling drugs for her brother?”

Emily seems to hold her breath, as though the answer can be avoided as long as she doesn’t exhale. She nods. Breathes. “It was just some pills and stuff.”

“Where?”

“Parties. It’s not like she was selling to pre-schoolers.”

Phillip Martinez doesn’t hide his disgust. “Don’t try to defend her. It’s wrong!”

Emily averts her gaze.

Her father stands. “I think she’s said enough.”

Drury pushes back. “She withheld important evidence from a police investigation.”

“She made a mistake.”

“She owed it to their families.”

Emily blinks back tears, looking utterly miserable. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought they were in London.”

Mr. Martinez gets to his feet. “We’re leaving. Come on.” He puts his arm around Emily’s shoulders and she shrinks under his touch. Drury doesn’t try to stop them.

Pausing at the door, Martinez turns to me. “That research study I mentioned. I checked with my colleague. There are still places. I could recommend you.”

“Thank you,” I say, embarrassed that the offer is so public. “I’ll look into it.”

Drury leans forward in his chair, thumbs massaging his temples, a swarm of thoughts crowding together.

“Is it genuine?”

“Yes.”

“So they were in London?”

“Not necessarily.”

I study the letter again, looking at the syntax and sentence structure. I have no doubts about the handwriting, but the language lacks Piper’s customary flourishes, her self-deprecating sense of humor, her fatalism or her swearing.