Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

The paramedics have flushed out my eyes and checked my lungs. Victoria Naparstek has waited for me, sitting in silence in a police car, lost in her own thoughts.

DCI Drury steps over the hoses and shakes water from the shoulders of his coat, pausing to study the house. The front two or three rooms have been completely gutted but the main structure is intact.

Avoiding a fountain of spray, he finds the senior fire officer, who is uncoupling the harness and lifting his tank onto the back of a truck. The fire chief has thick sideburns that make him look like the circus ringmaster. He takes off his helmet and wipes soot from his forehead, smudging it into a dark stain beneath his fringe.

“There’s a body in the upstairs bathroom. Young. Male. Tag on his ankle.”

Drury grimaces as though acid reflux is scalding his esophagus. He swallows and turns away, striding back towards the police lines. Ignoring the spray, oblivious to it, he yells instructions to DS Casey.

“Get these people away from here. Call SOCO. Secure the scene.”

“We don’t have the personnel,” says Casey.

“Wake them up.”

Drury notices me. One eyebrow arches. “What happened to you?”

“I was inside. Grievous and Ruiz pulled me out.”

“What were you doing here?”

“She called me.”

He turns his head and recognizes Victoria Naparstek. Something softens in his eyes and he draws forward, crouching beside the open car door, talking to her softly. Ash smudges her right cheek. He reaches to wipe it away. She pushes his hand away. Trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We should have had more officers… nobody expected this.”

Victoria looks hard into his eyes, testing his honesty.

“Who started the fire?” asks Drury.

“I don’t know.”

“Did it start inside or outside?”

“Something was thrown through the window. They wanted to kill him.”

Shakily, Drury stands, stiff-kneed, joints creaking like armor. He stares at the house for a moment and then turns to Casey.

“Get a warrant.”

“Who are we arresting?”

“Hayden and Victor McBain.”

Victoria Naparstek lets me drive her home. We stop halfway because she wants to be sick. The fresh air makes her feel better. We walk in silence along the river, the mist shrouding the far bank where canal boats are groaning against their lines.

Her shoulder brushes mine. I can still see the smudge of ash on her right cheek. Drury had tried to wipe it away. It was a gesture of intimacy, accompanied by something vague and bright in his eyes, a painful rapture.

I should have seen it earlier. The clues. Drury had looked like a married man in the midst of an affair. Victoria acted like a woman trying to escape from one. I understand now why she wouldn’t go to the DCI’s house. She didn’t want to see his wife and children. That’s why she reacted so angrily towards him at the police station and again at the hospital. She expected more from the DCI because she had given so much of herself.

I am not surprised. I don’t disapprove. Who am I to judge? Had I asked for honesty? No. The truth is an overrated quality. Lies make a dull world more interesting. They take things in unexpected directions. They add complications and layers of texture.

Victoria tugs the collar of her coat more tightly around her.

“How did you and Drury meet?” I ask.

She is silent for a long time. “I did a psychiatric report for a defendant and gave evidence at the trial. It was Stephen’s case. He won. He took me for a drink afterwards. One thing led to another.”

Another silence, longer this time.

“Are you in love with him?”

“No.”

“Is he in love with you?”

“He says he is.”

“And now you feel trapped.”

She looks up at me and back at the river. “Pretty much.”

The wind is buffeting her, pushing her coat against her body and shaking her hair. We’ve reached a turn in the path. There is a pub ahead with closed shutters and Christmas lights blinking around the door. I push against her and kiss her clumsily, my hand slipping inside her coat to find her breast.

Her mouth tastes of smoke and something yeasty and exciting. It’s the sort of kiss I would have taken for granted a few years ago-deep and unhurried-but now it feels like a rare gift. Pushing me away gently, Victoria looks past my shoulder and I have a sensation that she can see someone behind me, watching us from the shadows. It’s that same impression that I often get with her; that she’s dreamily preoccupied or looking for something other than me.

“We had sex,” she says. “It wasn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“There was always a conflict of interest. You are evaluating one of my patients. It could be misconstrued…”

“The sex?”

“Yes.”

“I know it wasn’t earth-moving. Nobody is going to write poetry about it or paint a mural, but I’d be happy to do it again.”

She laughs. “You’re a wonderful man, Joe. Far better than you give yourself credit for.”

“And?”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

I feel like saying, I’m the one with the disease.

We each exhale, our breath condensing and combining in a single cloud.

Behind her, I notice a deserted bus stop and I remember Natasha and Piper. They were supposed to meet Emily that Sunday morning, but disappeared somewhere between Natasha’s house and Radley Station, a distance of half a mile, mostly along the edge of fields and on footpaths.

I try to picture the scene again, but I can’t get a fix on the girls. I have been to their houses, I have learned about their personalities, but I cannot picture them making that journey.

Almost in the same breath, I taste something different in my mouth.

“They were never there,” I say out loud.

“What?”

“The girls were never there.”

“Are you all right?”

“No. There’s someone I need to see.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

We walk quickly back to the car. Reversing and doing a U-turn, I head towards Abingdon, following the white lines, floating over humps. The hedgerows turn to tarnished silver in the headlights and the countryside rushes to meet us. Twenty minutes later we pull up outside the familiar pebble-creted house. There are three police cars parked on the street. The doors are open. Lights flashing. Two detectives escort Hayden McBain from the house. He is handcuffed and smiling, his teeth bleached white by the spotlights.

Alice McBain is yelling at them. “Get your hands off my boy! He’s done nothing wrong!” Her eyes are smeared and splintery with tears.

Drury steps in front of her. “Bag his clothes. Search the house.”

Elsewhere in the street, porch lights have blinked on and curtains are twitching.

DS Casey is standing at the open car door. He pushes at the top of Hayden’s head. The door closes. Locks.

Crossing the lawn, emerging through a gap in the hedge, I feel as though I’m stepping onto a brightly lit stage. Mrs. McBain doesn’t recognize me at first. She tries to step around me.

“Did you see the girls that morning?” I ask her. It sounds like an accusation.

Alice flashes me a look and goes back to worrying about Hayden, who is being driven away.

I try again. “You said you talked to Piper and Natasha on that Sunday morning. You knocked on Natasha’s door and told them to get out of bed.”

“So what?”

“Did you see them?”

“Of course I did,” she says, less sure this time.

“Did you open the bedroom door?”

Alice frowns, trying to remember.

“How do you know they were in the bedroom?”