Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

I knock on the open door. “You’re making a mistake. Augie Shaw didn’t kidnap the Bingham Girls.”

Fryer’s face reddens. “And you know that for certain?”

“It was someone older, more experienced. Someone with knowledge of the case.”

“What knowledge?”

“Police didn’t publicize the fact that Emily Martinez waited for the girls on Sunday morning. Whoever took the girls knew this, which means it had to be someone close to the families or close to the investigation.”

Fryer waves his gloves dismissively. “That’s a big call from someone who’s only been here for a few days. This case has been the subject of two police investigations and a judicial inquiry.”

“If you close the file you’re giving up on Piper Hadley.”

“I’ve kept an open mind on this, Professor, but there isn’t one piece of credible evidence to suggest that Piper is still alive. If she escaped with Natasha McBain, we’d have found her by now. If she didn’t, the question is why? My guess is that she’s dead. She died three years ago or sometime between now and then.”

“You don’t know that.”

“In all fairness, Professor, neither do you.” His voice softens. “You’re the sort of poker player who doubles down because you’re losing badly and you think that’s the way to catch up. It’s not. You double down when you’re winning, not losing. Trust me. Walk away.”

The chief constable turns to Drury. “What’s your plan of action?”

“I’ve organized a media conference with the Hadleys. In the meantime we’re doing another search of the area, checking alibis and re-interviewing witnesses. If nothing comes up, I’ll scale the investigation down for Christmas and prepare a file for the coroner.”

Fryer nods approvingly. “Covering the spread. Wise move.”

Ruiz joins me in the lift and we ride down together in silence. My medication is wearing off. I can feel the other “man” waking inside me, ready to dance like a drunk.

“They don’t believe Piper is alive,” I say.

“Maybe they’re right.”

“She deserves more.”

The doors slide open. My right leg stops swinging and I pitch forward. Ruiz catches me. I straighten and pull back my shoulders, trying to pretend that nothing has happened. I can see our reflections in the large pane of glass beside the door-a man with a limp and another with a twitching arm. Both proud. Both damaged.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You should go back to London. Where are you spending Christmas?”

“Claire has invited me to her place. I’m worried Miranda might be there.”

Claire is Ruiz’s daughter. Miranda is his most recent ex-wife, the one he’s still sleeping with.

“I thought you two were tearing up the sheets,” I say.

“I’m not complaining about the sex but she wants me to have feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“I told her that I have three of them.”

“Three?”

“I’m hungry, horny and tired-in that order.”

“How did that go down?”

“Not so well.”

We’ve reached the main doors. I remember to ask him something. “That mate of yours-the computer geek.”

“Capable Jones.”

“Are you still in touch?”

“I own his soul. What do you need?”

“Can you ask him to access aerial maps and photographs of Oxfordshire. I’m interested in factories, past and present, that manufactured pesticides, plastics or synthetic rubber, that sort of thing. The forensic report showed traces of heavy metals and chlorinated hydrocarbons beneath Natasha’s fingernails.”

“What’s the search area?”

“Four or five miles from the farmhouse.” He gives me a look. “You think I’m clutching at straws.”

“Atheists aren’t supposed to ask for miracles.”

Downstairs in the charge room Victor McBain is being released after ten hours in custody. Dressed in a blue paper boiler suit, he signs the release form and is handed his clothes and personal possessions, sealed in plastic.

“I hope you washed and pressed them,” he says.

“No, but we checked for traces of accelerant,” says DS Casey, unmoved by the sarcasm.

Opening one of the plastic bags, McBain pats his trouser pockets and pulls out his cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. In one motion, he flicks the lighter open and strikes the wheel with his thumb. Holding up the flame, he smiles at the detective before flipping it shut again.

“Where can I get changed?”

Casey points him down the corridor. McBain recognizes me as he passes, blinking with gin-pale eyes.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

I hold his gaze. He pushes past me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Been there, done that.”

“I’m not the police. We’re not being taped. I’m just trying to understand a few things. Why did you give your niece condoms?”

McBain looks at me for a long time, his nostrils flaring and his lips curled back as though he’s talking to someone who is completely deaf or stupid.

“She asked me for them.”

“Why?”

“Her parents wouldn’t buy them.”

“You don’t think it’s slightly odd-a man your age buying condoms for a teenage girl?”

“She was having sex. I wanted her to be safe.”

“Who was she having sex with?”

“Her boyfriend, I assume.”

“You assume?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nelson Stokes saw you kissing your niece in the front seat of your car when you dropped her at school.”

“Who the fuck is Nelson Stokes?”

“The school caretaker.”

“She gave me a peck on the cheek.”

“And you slipped her the tongue.”

McBain screws up his face. “You’re a sick bastard! You repeat that in public and I’ll sue you for slander.”

“Were you having sex with your niece?”

“Get out of here! You have no right to come in here saying stuff like that.”

McBain is pulling on his trousers, cinching the belt. He pushes his arms into a T-shirt before looping it over his head.

“On the night before she disappeared, Natasha came to see you. She asked you for money. Was she blackmailing you?”

“No.”

“So she didn’t come and see you?”

“No.”

“Why would Emily lie about something like that?”

“Sometimes Tash did some work for me, filing and stuff.”

“Did you see Tash on the night of the Bingham festival?”

“Yeah, I saw her.” He crouches to lace his boots. “I don’t know what the big deal is. Tash didn’t go missing until Sunday morning.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Alice McBain made a mistake. She didn’t see the girls that morning, she heard Natasha’s radio.”

The realization dawns on him. His mouth opens and closes.

“What time on Saturday night did you talk to Natasha? Maybe you were the last person to see her.”

He doesn’t speak now. His mind is weighing up the possibilities.

“You don’t have an alibi for that night, do you? Just like you don’t have an alibi for the night of the blizzard.”

“I was with my brother.”

“No, you weren’t.”

He opens the door and strides along the corridor. I try to block his path.

“Listen, Vic, the police are looking at you now. They’re going to pick apart your life. They’re not going to stop until they find something. Where were you during the blizzard?”

He steps around me and crosses the foyer, reaching the main doors, which slide open automatically. Reporters and photographers have surrounded a car outside. Sarah and Dale Hadley appear from the open doors, quickly flanked by detectives, who shepherd them into the station.

Vic McBain stops and steps back as the couple approach the door. Sarah Hadley looks up and their eyes meet. She looks away. In that moment something passes between them-a knowledge that goes beyond the familiar. Pain. Hurt.