Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

Aiden Foster wasn’t on trial. It was Tash. Every word she spoke was skewed and stretched, giving it a different meaning. She grew angry. She swore. The judge told her to mind her language. The barrister smiled at the jury.

Before the misery ended, Tash was like a poor defenseless animal and the cross-examination was like a blood sport. Nobody felt sorry for her except me.

People shouted as she left the old stone courthouse. They hurled abuse and spat at her, Aiden’s friends and Callum’s friends, united against a common enemy. They blamed Tash for everything that had happened.

Izzy Cruikshank tried to slap her, but a security guard pushed her away. Tash didn’t react. Instead, she kept walking as though nothing was wrong.

Later that night, she knocked on my window.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

“When?”

“Soon as.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

They say when you’re young you cry tears of pain and when you’re older you cry tears of joy. That’s why I want to grow up.

Ruiz is waiting for me in the hotel lounge, having commandeered a table and armchair big enough to make him look small. He’s spent the morning reading up on the original investigation, looking for patterns or disparate details.

“Eight thousand interviews, three thousand statements, more than a million hours of police work,” he says. “I could spend the next ten years reading this stuff and miss the bloody obvious.”

“Does anything jump out at you?” I ask, picking up a folder.

“The silence,” he says. “The girls disappeared on Sunday morning sometime after 7:40 when Alice McBain left for work. Nobody saw them on the footpath into Bingham or crossing the fields or waiting at the train station. That strikes me as odd.”

“Someone could have picked them up before they walked very far.”

“Which means it had to be someone they knew. Girls that age don’t get into a stranger’s car.”

“Maybe they were overpowered.”

“It would take more than one kidnapper.”

“You don’t often see that.”

Ruiz is hungry. We go looking for a cafe that does an all-day breakfast.

The sun is out and pigeons are fighting over crumbs on the pavement, beating their wings in a desperate dance. The waitress has a dreamy stare, loose hair escaping from a clip. Ruiz orders a full English with mushrooms, cooked tomato and baked beans.

“Wholegrain toast,” he tells her. “My doctor wants me to eat healthier.”

She doesn’t smile. Ruiz polishes his knife and fork with a paper napkin.

“I did come across one detail-Augie Shaw must have known Natasha McBain.”

“Why?”

“When the Heymans moved into the farmhouse, Augie was already mowing the lawns. He worked for the McBains.”

“What about his old man?”

“I can’t find a link, but Drury has a dozen officers looking for one.”

“I still don’t think Augie Shaw kidnapped those girls.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re thinking nice thoughts because your new girlfriend is his therapist.” A small smile tugs at Ruiz’s lips. “How was your date last night?”

“None of your business.”

“That sounds promising.”

He grins and jiggles a tea bag in boiling water.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I too can flirt. I chatted up a very nice middle-aged divorcee in the front office of the County Court.”

“The reason being?”

“I got a peek at the court transcripts for Aiden Foster’s trial. The jury found him guilty of GBH with intent and the judge gave him seven years with a non-parole of four.”

“Where is he now?”

“Her Majesty’s Prison, Bullingdon.”

“What about Callum Loach?”

“He still lives locally.”

Ruiz reaches into his jacket pocket.

“I took the opportunity to peruse copies of the local rag at the library. Came up with this.”

He hands me a pile of photocopied stories from the Oxford Mail, most of them concerning the trial. One clipping has a photograph of Natasha at the courthouse, being escorted through an angry crowd. The shutter has captured the moment when she flinches under the abuse and a faceless security guard pushes someone aside.

“They blamed her for what happened,” says Ruiz, whose afternoon breakfast has arrived. He eats like a condemned man, with his elbows either side of his plate.

In the meantime, I read the articles. The last of them reports that Callum Loach has been selected in the British Paralympic Team. A photo shows him sitting in his wheelchair nursing a basketball.

Ruiz pushes his plate away. Belching quietly. “Being crippled is a powerful sort of motive… so is being sent to prison. I doubt if Aiden Foster shed many tears when Natasha McBain went missing.”

“Maybe we should ask him,” I reply.

“I’m way ahead of you.” Ruiz pulls a ten quid note from his wallet and slides it under the teapot. “I booked us a visit. Visiting hours end at 4:30.”

HMP Bullingdon is eighteen miles north-east of Oxford on the southern outskirts of Bicester. A category C training prison, it houses inmates who fall somewhere between serial killers (high security) and disgraced Cabinet ministers (open prison).

Wives and girlfriends have already started to gather at the visitors’ center. Some of them have children, who fidget and fight, wanting to be somewhere else. Once inside we are searched, ID’d and have our belongings confiscated and put into lockers. Gifts are vetted in advance. Anyone wearing clothes too similar to prison garb is asked to change.

The formalities over, we are escorted to a large annex, which has fixed tables and chairs. Visitors must stay outside until the prisoners are brought from their cells. Dockets are presented and the doors opened. Visitors and prisoners are kept apart. Knees cannot touch or lips meet. Hands can be held and children lifted over the divide. Some kids are fine. Others are howling. Some don’t leave the safety of their mothers’ skirts, peeking out at the stranger sitting opposite.

Aiden Foster is twenty-three now, but looks younger. His pale blond hair is gelled into peaks like a seismic chart and he sits with his legs splayed as though he has weights hanging from his testicles. He’s a boy playing a man, trying to survive in a place where men who look like boys get turned into women.

He gazes around the room, expecting to see someone else. Then his forehead creases. Mentally, the floor seems to tilt up and away from him.

He slouches loosely, rocking slightly. I notice the bruises on his neck and the shadows beneath his eyes. He has done it hard. Parole is coming.

Ruiz pulls a paper bag from his pocket. Inside are two packets of cigarettes and chewing gum. Aiden peers into the bag as though examining his school lunch. He stacks the cigarettes on the table with the gum on top.

I introduce myself and Ruiz does the same. Aiden doesn’t react. He’s trying to give the impression of being completely at ease. A small silver crucifix swings on a chain around his neck.

“We want to talk to you about Natasha McBain,” I say.

“Has she turned up dead?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Why else would you be here?” He smiles.

“You don’t seem very upset, Aiden.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m crying on the inside.”

Again he smiles. Ruiz folds his arms, unimpressed. He’s met a lot of smart-mouthed punk kids and has never lost his desire to punch them.

Certain people don’t seem to match their voices and Aiden Foster is one of them. His tone is pitched too high, but he tries to roughen it up by adopting a growl. I’ve read his police file and the trial transcripts of his evidence. I know his type. He’s a bully when he can be and a victim when it suits him. I knew somebody like him once, a lad called Martin Payne who made my life a misery at boarding school. Martin joined the army when he graduated. He fought in Bosnia and Kuwait, winning the Queen’s Gallantry Medal. Despite these heroics, I always considered Martin to be most at risk of being struck by a random thought. As it happened, I was right. After drinking fourteen pints he bet a friend that he could jump between two platforms on the London Underground-a leap that would have made Bob Beamon proud. Martin landed six feet short and perished on the live rail. Undone by idiocy.