Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

Sarah passes through the revolving door and takes hold of her husband’s hand. There are hairline cracks in the make-up around her lips. McBain watches her, studying her body as she enters the lift and the doors close. Turning, he pushes past the media scrum, head down, his shoulders hunched.

I have seen that look. I have seen it in the mirror. I saw it last night in Drury’s eyes when he couldn’t comfort Victoria. It diminishes a man when he can’t make a woman happy… when he makes her unhappy. The world is no longer rich and colorful. All he can see is the poverty of things.

How did it happen? I wonder. I picture Sarah Hadley standing beside Piper’s bed, holding an article of her clothing, as if discovering something new about her daughter. Recalling the best moments. Trying to keep her alive. She clutched at every piece of misinformation and rumor, consulting psychics and fortune-tellers. Vic McBain introduced her to one of his girlfriends who claimed to have the gift. She told Sarah the girls were alive. She gave her comfort. Hope.

Mourning can be lonely. Grief can be shared. Sarah couldn’t look at her husband because he reminded her too much of Piper. Vic McBain understood. And then one night they came together, most probably in some out-of-the-way hotel room or a clumsy adolescent-style coupling in the back seat of a car. I don’t know who seduced whom. It doesn’t matter. Vic McBain had made it possible for Sarah to be herself again-not the campaigning mother or the media spokesperson or the woman locals took pity upon when they saw her pushing a trolley in the supermarket…

She could escape the whispers and stares, becoming anonymous for a few hours, suspended between fantasy and reality, feeling pleasure instead of loss, or perhaps feeling nothing at all.

For all her campaigning and sacrifice, Sarah Hadley has a streak of self-loathing that is wider than the M25. She married an unattractive man with money, a man who loved her, but she didn’t feel the same way about him. She fucked her way to the middle rather than the top. She could have accepted that and slept in the bed she made, but then her daughter went missing and she blamed herself, thinking she deserved to be unhappy. She deserved a marriage on life support and sordid sex in a cheap hotel room overlooking a cut-rate carpet warehouse.

Vic McBain has reached the corner and is waiting for the lights to change. I catch up with him.

“I know what you’re hiding,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

“Just tell me one thing. After that I promise I’ll leave you alone. On the night of the blizzard, were you with Sarah Hadley?”

He blinks at me, a strong, silent man, lost for answers.

“I’m not going to tell her husband,” I say. “Nobody else has to know.”

He wipes a finger across the corner of each eye.

“She deserves better than me,” he says. “She deserves to find her daughter.”

Behind the glass door of the conference room a volley of flashguns are blasting light through the frosted panels. From outside it looks like a gunfight without the noise. Reporters and photographers are crammed into the overheated room, taking up every vantage point.

Dale and Sarah Hadley enter through a side door. The light seems to imprison them. Phoebe is clutching her mother’s hand, eyes downcast. The younger children have been left at home, cared for by friends or relatives.

The family are seated at a long table. Camera shutters continue clicking. Once again Piper Hadley has captured the nation’s attention. For a second time her fate is being debated across garden fences, in pubs and office canteens. Comparisons are being drawn with other high-profile kidnappings, names like Sabine Dardenne, Elizabeth Smart and Natascha Kampusch; the miraculously returned.

DCI Drury takes a seat beside the Hadleys. He waits for the camera shutters to fall silent.

“The body recovered from Radley Lakes six days ago has been identified using dental records and next of kin of the deceased have been notified. I am now in a position to formally release the name. We are investigating the death of Natasha McBain, aged eighteen, who went missing from the village of Bingham on the weekend of August 30, 2008. The official cause of death is drowning.”

There is another volley of flashguns.

“We have reason to believe that Natasha was kept imprisoned somewhere prior to her death. Her former home, a farmhouse outside Bingham, was the scene of a double homicide on Saturday evening. We are now certain that Natasha was at the farmhouse at some point that evening. We don’t know if she played a role in the deaths of William Heyman and his wife Patricia, but it appears that she fled from the farmhouse before the fire started and fell through a frozen lake, succumbing to the cold.

“As I’m sure everyone is aware-Natasha McBain didn’t disappear on her own. Another teenage girl also went missing that day: Piper Hadley, then aged fifteen. On behalf of the families I want to appeal for public help in both these cases.

“Someone knows what happened to Piper. Somebody knows where she and Natasha were held. Perhaps you’ve seen the girls or you’ve seen someone acting suspiciously. It could be a friend or a neighbor or a loved one who has a secret life, a basement or a lock-up that you’re not allowed to visit. Someone who keeps strange hours.”

Drury pauses.

“I have more than eighty officers and volunteers searching the surrounding farmland. We’re using helicopters, tracker dogs and ground-penetrating radar. The search will continue until we have ruled out every possibility.”

A reporter yells from the floor, “Has there been any contact?”

“No.”

“Do you have any proof that Piper is alive?”

“No.”

“So she could be dead?”

Sarah Hadley confronts the questioner with steel in her voice. “Our daughter is alive.”

Drury puts a hand on her shoulder. Sarah falls silent.

“The chief constable has ordered a review of the original investigation in light of the new information. In particular, we are seeking witnesses who may have seen Piper Hadley and Natasha McBain on the evening of Saturday, August 30, 2008. That was the last night of the Bingham Summer Festival.” Drury looks directly at the TV cameras. “Did you see the girls? Did you talk to them? Did you see them getting into a car? Please ignore past information that has been made public. Whatever you may have heard or read, don’t assume the police know everything about the last movements of Piper and Natasha.”

Drury takes a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolds it on the table.

“I’m going to take the unusual step today of releasing details of a psychological profile drawn up by Professor Joseph O’Loughlin-a clinical psychologist who has been assisting our investigation. I’m not going to release the full profile for operational reasons, but I will give certain details, which I hope will trigger memories or encourage witnesses to come forward.

“According to Professor O’Loughlin, the suspect we are looking for is likely to be aged between thirty-five and fifty-five, of above average intelligence, with a detailed knowledge of the area. This wasn’t a random kidnapping-he chose Piper and Natasha for a reason. He may well know them.

“He is likely to live alone or in a domestic arrangement where nobody questions his movements or unexplained absences. He has an isolated house or a secret room or basement where he was holding Natasha McBain. He brought her food, water, clothing… someone must have seen him come and go.

“He was out in the blizzard last Saturday night. Perhaps you saw him. He may have smelled of smoke or had stained clothing. Please come forward if you have any information.”