Alice shakes her head.
“What about their daughter, Flora?”
“I don’t know.”
Hayden picks up a cushion from the floor and holds it against his chest as he paces. Alice stares at the muted TV as though lip-reading.
She whispers. “You read those stories, don’t you, of people who never give up hope. Who never stop believing that their children are coming home…” She takes a deep breath. “I stopped believing. I gave up on Tash. I should have had more faith.”
“There’s nothing you could have done,” says Drury.
“Do you know how often I just sat holding the phone, willing it to ring? I did it for weeks, months, nearly a year. Until I finally convinced myself that she was dead. I stopped praying. I stopped thinking she was alive. In the darkest part of the darkest night, I abandoned my little girl… and all the time she was alive. She was trying to get home.”
A sob breaks inside her chest. “I want to see her.”
“I don’t think that’s-”
“I want to see my Natasha.”
“You have to understand-she’s been away a long time-she doesn’t look like she once did.”
“I don’t care. She’s my daughter.”
Drury glances at me, wanting me to dissuade Alice, but I’ve seen grief in many forms and this mother knows her mind. It’s not that Alice doesn’t believe Drury or that she’s clinging to some irrational hope that Tash might still be alive. She wants to say sorry. She wants to say goodbye.
The DCI relents. “In the meantime, I’m going to assign a family liaison officer. She’ll keep you informed of developments. For the time being we won’t be releasing any information to the media. We’d prefer, for the sake of the investigation, that nobody knows it was Natasha in the lake. We have to re-interview witnesses and check alibis. I’m sure you understand.”
“For how long?” Hayden asks, treating it like an imposition.
Drury stands to leave. “Just a few days.”
“Before we go,” I interrupt. “I have a few questions for Mrs. McBain.”
Alice blinks at me, as though taken by surprise.
“I wanted to ask you about Natasha.”
“What about her?”
“What was she like? I’ve seen the photographs and read the statements but I want to hear it from you… in your own words.”
Hayden looks at me incredulously. “What difference does it make now? She’s dead!”
Ignoring him, I focus on Alice. “I’m a psychologist. I’m trying to understand what happened. By knowing more about Natasha, I can learn things about the man who took her.”
“You think she’s to blame for this?”
“No.”
Hayden wants to protest but Alice touches his forearm with her fingertips. He swallows his anger, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Meanwhile, Alice begins talking softly, describing Natasha. Instead of physical details, she mentions moments, relationships, loves. Natasha had a dog. She got him as a puppy on her twelfth birthday, a Jack Russell. She called him Basher. They used to go everywhere together.
“Tash even smuggled him to school one day.” Alice smiles. “She could be a terror, but she was a good student, our Tash. Clever. Easily bored. They said she was expelled, but the school would have taken her back. Mrs. Jacobson told me so.”
“How did she get on with her father?”
“They had their moments.”
“Moments?”
Alice falters. “You try to set boundaries, you know. Kids try to cross them. Tash wanted to grow up too quick. Couldn’t wait for anything.”
“Did she have boyfriends?”
“She was popular.”
“Did she ever take drugs?”
Her eyes narrow and Hayden answers for her.
“What the fuck does that matter? You can’t come in here and say shit like that. She’s dead! What sort of moron-”
“Mind your language,” says Alice. “There’s no need for swearing. The man is just trying to do his job.”
Hayden falls silent. Seething.
A car pulls up outside the house. I can hear the doof doof bass beat from its sound system, cranked up and shaking the air. Moments later the doorbell rings. There are male voices. Laughter. The letterbox flap opens.
“Hey, Hayden, we know you’re in there.”
“Not now, I’m busy.”
“This is business.”
Hayden almost trips over the coffee table trying to reach the door. Cursing, he tells them to leave; mentions the police; more expletives.
Alice stands slowly and looks at Drury. “I have to go to work now,” she says, almost moving from memory.
She extends her hand. “I want to thank you. A lot of people made promises to us when my Tash went missing. Not many of those promises were kept. I want to thank you for bringing her home.”
In the entrance hall, Drury pulls on his overcoat and stumbles slightly, bracing himself against the wall. His eyes are shining. Tilting his head back, he stares at the ceiling.
“That woman just thanked me for finding her daughter dead.”
“I know.”
“I hate this job.”
As we leave the house, the car is still parked outside, a Vauxhall Cavalier, music blaring, tinted windows at half-mast. Two white youths are leaning on the open doors, hands deep in their pockets, hoodies like cowls.
Drury wanders across the muddy grass. He knows their names. They laugh too loudly at nothing at all, grinning at each other. The balance of power is evident. The big one is in his mid-twenties, older by five years, with a shaved head. His mate is skinny with fairer skin and a nervous twitch that sends his eyes sideways as though he’s constantly looking for reassurance.
Drury returns and slips behind the wheel.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“The local wildlife,” he says. “The tall one is Toby Kroger. He’s a big man on the Blackbird Leys estate, a drug dealer and a pimp. We picked him up two years ago for living off immoral earnings, but the two girls he put on the game refused to give evidence against him.
“The skinny one is Craig Gould. He’s a musician with more talent than he deserves. Plays the saxophone. We arrested him a year ago with a vial of Rohypnol in his pocket. He likes his girlfriends to be comatose.”
Drury starts the engine and puts the car into gear. “I could arrest guys like that every day of the week, but it wouldn’t make any difference. They’re floaters.”
“Floaters?”
“Turds that don’t flush.”
13
Abingdon Police Station never sleeps. Shifts change. Fresh faces replace tired ones. Doors swing open and close behind us. Drury ignores greetings or dismisses them. Reaching the incident room, he throws his coat over a chair and yells to the assembled detectives. A briefing. Fifteen minutes.
I’m to wait in his office. Not touch anything. There is a whiteboard with photographs of the farmhouse and the victims. Natasha McBain’s image has been placed off-center, as though peripheral to the main investigation, yet now she is at the heart of it.
Taking a seat, I glance around the room. A cupboard door is open. There are press clippings stuck on the inside of the door, a bravery citation, photographs of a medal ceremony. Drury is bowing to the Queen. The office door opens before I can read the caption. The DCI is carrying two mugs of tea, presenting one to me like it’s a peace offering.
He takes a seat behind his desk.
“OK, let’s assume you’re right and Natasha was at the farmhouse that night. What happened?”
“She arrived during the blizzard. Wet. Cold. They drew her a bath. Found her fresh clothes. Dried her shoes in front of the fire. William Heyman tried to phone the police, but the switchboard was overwhelmed.”
“And then Augie Shaw showed up?”
“Someone did.”
A church bell is ringing somewhere. Drury scratches the short hair on the back of his neck.
“Half my team worked on the original investigation.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Decisions were made based on the best available evidence. The girls were classed as runaways. When they didn’t turn up after three months the chief constable assigned a smaller task force but the trail had gone cold. Questions are going to be asked. Fingers pointed. This could cost people their careers.”