Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

My arms and head are moving now, jerking and spasming. It’s a strange dance, self-conscious and nerdish. I take two pills from a childproof bottle and Ruiz gets me a cup of water from the cooler.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Ditto, big man.”

I’m waiting for the medication to take hold. Then I’ll be “on”-as they say in Parkinson’s parlance-as opposed to “off.”

“Where have you been?”

“I took Dale Hadley home. Nice house. Good-looking children. They’re like a Disney family.”

“With a missing daughter.”

“Swings and roundabouts.”

Ruiz has news. Phillip Martinez was picked up two hours ago by a highway patrol car on the M40 near Stokenchurch. He was alone in the car.

“Where is he now?”

“Downstairs. Drury is about to interview him. I thought you’d want to watch.”

I wash my face with cold water. Ruiz waits. Then we take the lift downstairs. Phillip Martinez is sitting alone in the interview suite. He glances at the ceiling like a man who is trapped at the bottom of a deep dark well, who can see a circle of blue sky above him.

Disheveled and tired, he raises his hairless hand, scratching the stubble on his jaw. One side of his face is bruised and swollen, slowly changing color.

DCI Drury and DS Casey enter the room. Martinez leaps to his feet.

“It’s about bloody time.”

“Sit down, please,” says Drury.

“Have you found Emily? Did you talk to her mother?”

“Sit down.”

“That bitch is behind this. She’s been planning it all long.”

Drury points again to the chair. The two men stare at each other and Martinez blinks first, taking a seat. He crosses his legs and his upper foot jiggles up and down.

“For the record,” says the DCI, “we are recording this conversation. Can you confirm, Mr. Martinez, that you have been read your rights?”

“Yes.”

“You have also been given the opportunity to have a lawyer present, but you have declined.”

“Yes.”

“Where were you between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon?”

“I was looking for my daughter. She ran away.”

“Why?”

“We had an argument.”

“How did you get the bruises and scratches on your face?”

Martinez touches his cheek. “She was upset. She threw a few things.”

“What was this argument about?”

Martinez sighs. “Emily wanted to spend Christmas with her mother. I told her that she could go to London on Boxing Day but not before. She wouldn’t listen.”

“She hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hit her?”

“No. I mean… I tried to stop her hurting herself. She was out of control. Hysterical.”

“Did you hit her?”

“Is that what she said? She’s exaggerating. She’s a typical teenager. Headstrong. Ungrateful. Melodramatic.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Eight-fifteen yesterday morning.”

“Why didn’t you report her missing?”

“I didn’t know she’d run away until later. I thought she’d gone to work. When she didn’t come home at midday I started to worry.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went looking for her. I called her friends. I found a train timetable in her room. That’s when I realized that she’d gone to London. Her mother lives at a hostel in Ealing. I drove there but Amanda wouldn’t see me and the staff threatened to call the police.”

“You didn’t see Emily?”

“They were hiding her.”

Drury pauses. With deliberate slowness, he places a sealed evidence bag in front of Martinez.

“Is this your wallet?”

“Yes.”

“There is a photograph in the inside sleeve of a young woman.”

“Emily. So what?”

Drury places a second plastic bag on the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

“That’s one of my pieces: the stationmaster. I have a model railway. Where did you get it?”

“You’re sure it belongs to you?”

“Positive. I commissioned it from Aiden Campbell, a famous model maker. I supplied him with a photograph. How did you get it?”

“It was found at an abandoned factory where we believe Piper Hadley and Natasha McBain were imprisoned for three years.”

Martinez blinks at Drury incredulously, his eyebrows raised, his palms open. He’s unsure if he’s missing something.

“You must be joking.”

Drury doesn’t respond.

Martinez wags his finger in the air. “Oh, no, you’re not suggesting-”

“I’m asking for an explanation.”

Martinez frowns, his features bunching together in the center of his face. “This is ridiculous. Somebody is winding you up.”

Martinez turns to the mirror, as though aware that someone is watching him. Or maybe he’s looking at his own reflection, needing confirmation that this is really happening to him.

Watching from behind the one-way mirror, I look for signs of stress and deception. There nothing disjointed or improvised or put together in haste.

“He’s good,” says Ruiz.

“Yes, he is.”

“Is he telling the truth?”

“About Emily… possibly.” I saw the train timetable in her room.

“I should check on the ex-wife. I could drive to London.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

I hug the big man and wish him Merry Christmas again.

“What are you going to do?” he asks.

“I’ll hang around a bit longer.”

“What about Julianne and the girls?”

“I’ll call them.”

Ruiz leaves and I turn back to the interview. Drury has placed a photograph on the table in front of Phillip Martinez.

“Recognize this place?”

“No.”

“Take a closer look.”

“What is it?”

“It’s where you kept Piper and Natasha. You tried to clean up, but didn’t do a very good job. One skin cell is all it takes to get a DNA profile. We’re dismantling the pipes and vacuuming the floors. The same thing is happening downstairs. We’re taking your car apart. We’re going to find the evidence. We’re going to link you to this.”

“This is completely ridiculous. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself. Tell us where Piper is. Tell us what you did to Emily.”

Martinez tries to stand. DS Casey matches his movements. He’s bigger. Stronger. More intimidating.

“I won custody of my daughter. She belongs to me. Why aren’t you looking for her?”

“Answer my question, Mr. Martinez.”

“I don’t have to listen to you.”

“But you do have to sit down.”

The scientist retakes his seat. Shocked. Angry.

This man is either telling the truth or he’s an expert liar, practiced to the point of being pathologically good. Drury has done everything right-pushing for details, looking for the minutiae that so often trip up a suspect because lying is harder to sustain than the truth. But Phillip Martinez is even more remarkable. His answers sound so credible. He doesn’t embellish or avoid eye contact. There are no gaps or clumsy repetitions. He is genuinely concerned about Emily-asking about her constantly, accusing his ex-wife of orchestrating her disappearance.

On the night of the Bingham festival he had a phone call from a doctor saying that his ex-wife had been admitted to Littlemore Hospital in Oxford suffering from auditory hallucinations. He called Emily and met her at the house and that’s where he spent the night. He didn’t see Piper arrive. He didn’t know Emily was planning to run away.

It’s the same story when he’s questioned about the blizzard. He and Emily ate dinner and watched TV until the power went out. Then they played a game of Scrabble by candlelight before going to bed.

It’s a bravura performance of a wronged man. Misunderstood. Angry. Frustrated. Prickly.