Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

“I don’t want you getting fat,” he said, as he rationed the chocolate.

The magazines were read cover to cover, over and over. There were new faces, new movies, new fashions, but also the familiar. Brad and Angelina. Posh and Becks. Elton and David. The world wasn’t changing so much. Prince William married Kate Middleton. Pippa’s bottom became famous.

We had no way of knowing if we were close to home. I still don’t. It could be miles away. It could be just past the trees. I know there’s a railway line nearby because I can hear the trains when the wind is blowing in the right direction.

I miss Tash. I miss being able to reach between our bunks and hold her hand. I miss hearing her voice. I miss watching her sleep.

George hasn’t come to see me since she ran away and I know he’s going to be angry. That’s why Tash has to come back soon with the police… before George does.

I’m running out of food and there’s hardly any gas left in the bottle.

My handwriting is getting messier, because it’s so cold. I can’t feel my fingers, which makes it hard to hold the pencil. When the point gets worn down, I scrape the lead gently across the bricks to sharpen it.

Writing keeps me sane, but Tash didn’t have anything like that.

She was getting sicker and sicker. Not eating. Chewing her nails until they bled.

That’s why she had to get out.

Augie Shaw is sitting at a table, propped forward on his elbows, staring at himself in the mirror. He can’t see me behind his reflection yet he seems to be gazing directly into my eyes.

Mirrors have an interesting effect in interview rooms. People struggle to lie when they can see themselves doing it. They become more self-conscious as they try to sound more convincing and truthful.

Augie is up now, pacing, talking to himself using gestures and grimaces as though conducting an internal dialogue. Taller than I imagined, he walks with an odd-legged shuffle, his hair falling over one eye.

Pausing at the mirror, he leans towards it, arching his eyebrows and lowering them. He has large eyes and a broad forehead, handsome features on most men. His hands are wrapped in white gauze and he’s wearing a blue paper boiler suit.

“Where are his clothes?” I ask.

“We’ve taken them for analysis,” says Drury.

Augie presses his hands together and closes his eyes as if praying.

“He’s religious,” says Drury. “Goes to a Pentecostal church in town-one of those happy clappy places.”

“I take it you’re not a believer.”

“I’m all in favor of redemption. It’s the lemming-like leaps of faith that worry me.”

Opening the door, I step inside. Augie’s eyes skitter from the walls to the floor, but never to me. There is a smell about him. Sweat. Talcum.

I take a seat and ask Augie to sit down. He looks at the chair suspiciously and then folds himself down into it, with his knees facing sideways towards the door.

“My name is Joe. I’m a clinical psychologist. Have you talked to someone like me before?”

“I see Dr. Victoria.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m not suggesting you did.”

“Why are you staring at me? You think I’ve done something wrong. You’re going to blame me. That’s why you brought me here.”

“Relax, Augie, I just want to talk.”

“You’re going to kill me or electrocute me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“They do that in some countries.”

“We don’t have the death penalty in Britain, Augie.”

He nods, running his hands down his hair, flattening his fringe.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“My hands hurt.”

“Do you need painkillers?”

“The doctor gave me some pills.”

“How did you burn them?”

“There was a fire.”

I don’t ask him about how it started. Instead, I focus on getting a history. He lives with his mother in Bingham. He was born in the area, left school at sixteen and has since done odd jobs as a laborer or farmhand. The Heymans hired him to cut wood and mow their lawns. He repaired some of their fences.

“Why did you stop working for them?”

Augie fidgets, scratching at the gauze on his hands. Minutes pass. I try again.

“You were sacked. What happened?”

“Ask Mrs. H.”

“How can I do that, Augie? Mrs. Heyman is dead. The police think you killed her.”

“No, no.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

He blinks at me. “She’s with God. I’m going to pray for her.”

“Do you pray a lot?”

“Every day.”

“What do you ask God for?”

“Forgiveness.”

“Why do you need to be forgiven?”

“Not for me-for the sinners.”

“Why were you at the farmhouse?”

“Mrs. H told me to come.”

“Did she call you?”

“Yes.”

“The phone lines were down, Augie. There was a terrible storm. How did she call you?”

“She told me to come.”

“When did she call you?”

“The day before.”

He makes it sound so obvious.

I take him over the details. He borrowed his mother’s car and drove to the farmhouse, almost missing the turn because it was snowing so heavily. He couldn’t drive all the way to the house because of the snow, so he stopped and walked the rest of the way.

“The house was dark. There was no power. I saw a light in the upstairs window but it was strange, you know, not like a lamp or a candle.” He covers his ears. “I heard her screaming.”

“Mrs. Heyman?”

Augie nods. “I bashed down the door. Hurt my shoulder. I went up the stairs, but the flames pushed me back.”

He starts to hyperventilate as though breathing in smoke and holds his hands against his forehead, hitting his temple.

“How did you burn your hands?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you hit Mr. Heyman?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you start the fire?”

“No, no.”

Without warning, he stands and walks to the far side of the room, whispering to himself, arguing.

“Are you talking to someone, Augie?”

He shakes his head.

“Who is it?”

He crouches and peers past me as though something is creeping up behind me like a pantomime wolf.

“Tell me about your brother.”

He hesitates. “Can you see him too?”

“No. Tell me about him.”

“Sometimes he steals my memories.”

“Is that all he does?”

“He warns me about people.”

“What does he say?”

“He says they’re trying to poison me.”

“What people?”

“It’s in the air.”

“Why did you really go to the farmhouse, Augie?”

“To get my wages.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Augie puts his bandaged hands together, as though pleading with me. A flush on the back of his neck spreads to his hairline.

“God will judge me if I’m lying.”

“God can’t help you now.”

“He can. He must.”

“Why?”

“Who else is going to stop the devil?”

Drury’s office is on the second floor. No posters. Minimal furniture. I expect to see commendations and photographs on the walls, but instead he has a whiteboard with timelines, names and photographs-a murder tree as opposed to a family tree.

Condensation beads the window and tiny splinters of ice seem to be trapped within the glass. The DCI leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, brushing lint from his trousers.

“So what do you make of him?”

“He’s delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”

“You diagnosed that in an hour?”

“I diagnosed that in five minutes.”

Drury drains a plastic bottle of water, tossing it towards the bin. “How do I interview him?”