Again I worried that she might not come back. I didn’t want to be alone.
This time she returned with treats-chocolate and soap and magazines. A part of me was jealous. Her hair was shiny and clean. Her legs were shaved… and under her arms. She smelled like a Body Shop and she wasn’t hungry. We were always hungry.
I lay on the bunk that night and watched the shadows move across the wall beneath the window. Jealous. She was his favorite. He gave her nice things.
“What happens up there?” I asked her.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
Then she curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t have nightmares, not like me. Sometimes she slept so quietly I got frightened that she was dead and would tiptoe over to her bunk and put my face close to her face, listening; or I’d blow gently in her ear until she snuffled and rolled over.
Then I’d be sure.
9
The hospital cafeteria is an echoing space full of scraping chairs and easy-wipe tables. It’s mid-afternoon and already dark outside. The lunchtime meals are warmed over in the trays: lasagna and baked vegetables and dried-out roast.
John Leece slumps in a chair, staring at the window as though looking at something that he can’t quite bring into focus.
“I’ve never really understood what people see in alcohol, but sometimes I wish I was a drinker,” he says. “It seems to bring people comfort. My father wouldn’t touch the stuff, but my mother has the occasional sherry or lager shandy.”
“What did you see in there?”
“I can’t comment until I talk to the police.”
“OK, we won’t talk about the post-mortem. I’ll ask you general questions.”
He nods.
“How long would a person survive outside without shelter in a blizzard like the one on Saturday?”
“A matter of hours.”
“The bruises and cuts…”
“She was wandering around in a blizzard. She could have bumped into trees and fallen into ditches.”
“Nobody has reported her missing.”
“Maybe she’s not a local.”
“They haven’t found a vehicle.”
Dr. Leece presses his thumbs into his eye sockets. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m grateful that I don’t have to understand human behavior.”
Augie Shaw saw a woman standing barefoot in the middle of the road. It has to be the same one. She didn’t take her shoes off next to the pond. She wasn’t wearing any to begin with. Why run off? Why was she outside in a blizzard? Who was she running from?
“Did you notice anything else unusual about the scene?” I ask.
“We found a dog.”
“What?”
“It was frozen with her. Maybe the dog went in after her or she was trying to rescue it. Once she hit the water, the cold overwhelmed her and she didn’t have the strength to drag herself out.”
“Was it a black and white Jack Russell?”
The pathologist stares at me. “How could you possibly know that?”
“One went missing from the farmhouse. Small, black and white, I figured it was probably a Jack Russell.”
“The Heymans’ dog?”
“Yes.”
“Why would it be with the girl?”
It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself and I keep coming back to something that Grievous told me at the farmhouse.
“Do you keep the dental records of missing persons?”
“Of course.”
“Can you look up a file for me?”
“Certainly. Who?”
“It’s a girl who went missing a few years ago. Natasha McBain.”
Dr. Leece’s eyes bobble behind his glasses. “She was one of the Bingham Girls.”
“Her family used to live at the farmhouse, but they moved out after Natasha went missing.”
The pathologist’s mouth opens; a question half formed on his lips.
“So the dog?”
“What if they left it behind?”
10
Charlie is waiting for me at the hotel suite, sprawled out on one of the twin beds as though bored with life. I kiss her forehead. She looks past me at the TV. Silent. Righteous.
The room is dully corporate, decorated in navy blues, with a high ceiling and an ornate plaster rosette above the hanging light.
“Sorry I’m late. I got held up.”
“All day?”
“I left you a message.”
“Who was that woman you were talking to?”
“Pardon?”
“Outside the college after your lecture: you were talking to her.”
“She’s an old acquaintance.”
“Did you go to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“She’s very good looking.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Dad. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Act like you’re stupid.”
Even without looking at her reflection in the mirror I know she’s scowling at me.
“Her name is Victoria Naparstek. She’s a psychiatrist. She wanted to discuss one of her patients.”
“Augie Shaw.”
“How could you know that?”
“He was just on the news. He’s being questioned about those murders at the farm. Did he do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“He looks like a psycho.”
“We don’t call them psychos.”
“They said he burned that woman alive.”
“Allegedly. And you shouldn’t think about stuff like that.”
“What am I supposed to think about?”
“Celibacy.”
She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, hands in her lap, treating a grown-up subject like true confessions at a teenage sleepover.
My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“How did your talk go?”
“They didn’t fall asleep.”
“That’s always a good sign. I haven’t heard from Charlie all day. Is she all right?”
“She’s here now. I’ll put her on.”
Charlie takes the phone and walks to the far side of the room. I can only hear her side of the conversation.
“Yesterday… It’s OK… I went shopping… No, I didn’t buy anything… Didn’t like the colors… I saw some boots but they didn’t have my size… Pretty lame… He snores… I know… Yeah… I will… OK.”
My daughter doesn’t mention the murder investigation because she knows that Julianne doesn’t like me working for the police. These are old arguments. Lost battles. The war continues.
Charlie hands me the phone and goes to the bathroom, closing the door.
“Have you talked to her about Jacob?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t leave it too long.”
“I’m waiting for the right time.”
She makes a thoughtful sound or maybe it’s a doubtful sound.
Our phone conversations are often like this, revolving around domestic issues: the girls, schools, excursions and mutual friends. Julianne is the bright, cheerful one-happier now that she’s not with me.
She’s working as a translator for the Home Office. I don’t know if she’s dating anyone. For a while she went out with a lawyer called Marcus Bryant. I had to Google him because Julianne was so guarded and Charlie refused to be my spy. I typed in his name. Started reading. Stopped. His four-year stint with the International War Crimes Tribunal had me worried, along with his pro bono work for Amnesty International. I had visions of him donating a kidney to save his little sister and rescuing kittens from burning buildings.
Charlie is still in the bathroom. I can hear her whispering to someone on her mobile.
Julianne is still on the line. “… Emma was going to call you but she’s asleep now. She’s a snowflake in her ballet recital. She wants you to come. I told her you wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“When is it?”
“When school goes back.”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“It’s not a promise.”
After she hangs up I take Charlie out for dinner. We walk along Magdalen Street past the Martyrs’ Memorial, where three bishops were burned at the stake for heresy in 1555: Protestants who offended a Catholic queen. Charlie knows the whole story.