The main doors of the church are shut, but I find a smaller door at the side of the south transept. Dr. Leece’s wife told me that I’d find him here. Stepping inside, I let my eyes adjust before searching along the high-backed pews, looking for movement or a silhouetted head.
From somewhere above me, an organ strikes up in a blast of music that vibrates the air and shakes dust from the beams. Following the sound, I climb the stairs to the choir loft. John Leece is sitting with his back to me at an organ keyboard, facing a wall of pipes and plugs. Working his feet and hands, he produces deep resonant chords that fill every corner of the church.
As the final notes fade, he folds the sheet music. I clear my throat and he turns, blinking, his eyes floating behind thick lenses.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says.
“I was enjoying the music.”
“I play here every Sunday,” he says, packing away his things.
“That piece didn’t sound very religious.”
He glances at me guiltily.
“I’m sure God won’t mind me rocking it up occasionally. How did you find me?”
“Your wife.”
Dr. Leece looks at his hands, closing his eyes for a second.
“You’ve come to ask me about the post-mortem?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a Christian, Professor?”
“I’m not really anything.”
“I was an altar boy. I even thought about becoming a priest, but I became a doctor instead.”
The pathologist is staring at his hands, turning them over as though studying them for the first time.
“I have done more than four hundred post-mortems, but nothing like the one yesterday. Every body presents a new challenge. It’s like reading a road map of broken bones, scars and diseases, but you expect there to be certainties; things you know are true.”
There is a chair in the corner. I pull it closer. With barely any inflection in his voice, he relates the details of the post-mortem, describing the various tests and measurements, screening for drugs and analysis of stomach contents.
“She was chronically underweight, physically stunted, with anemia, Vitamin D and iron deficiencies, skin lesions and sores.”
“Best guess?”
“She was imprisoned away from the natural light.”
“For how long?”
“Months rather than weeks.”
“Years?”
“Quite possibly. There were twin lateral scratches on both her hips, suggesting she may have squeezed out of somewhere narrow.”
“The bathroom window at the farmhouse?”
“No, somewhere else.” Dr. Leece opens his hands. “She cut her forearm on the bathroom window. The lateral scratches were made earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“A few hours.”
He unrolls his sleeves and buttons the cuffs.
“Ever heard of Locard’s Exchange Principle?”
“No.”
“It’s a theory developed by Edmond Locard in the nineteenth century. It states that whenever someone comes into contact with another object or person, there is a minute exchange of particles. I found several fibers in Natasha McBain’s hair and beneath her fingernails-synthetic material, a dark color, totally different to her clothing.”
“When you examined Augie Shaw’s clothes-did you find similar traces?”
Dr. Leece shakes his head. “Her dress was heavily soiled. I’ve done an early analysis. The dirt is a conglomerate of things-plants, animal matter, microscopic particles of glass, paint, cement and machine oil…”
“An industrial site?”
“There were also traces of creosote and chlorinated hydrocarbons. Creosote has been used to treat railway sleepers and chlorinated hydrocarbons can create all sorts of things: pesticides, plastic, synthetic rubber, you name it. I’ve sent the samples to a lab in Switzerland that specializes in identifying contaminants. It may give us an idea of the industrial process.”
“What about her stomach contents?”
“She hadn’t eaten in her last twelve hours. There were traces of vegetable matter and meat, but I won’t have a definitive answer until tomorrow.”
He pauses for a moment, gazing past me at a stained glass window showing the apostles at the last supper.
“She was circumcised,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“The procedure was poorly executed but required some medical knowledge. She could have died of infection.” The pathologist lowers his forehead, faltering. “Why was it done at all?”
I don’t answer him.
“How far could she have walked in a blizzard in those clothes and shoes?”
“Not more than an hour or two.”
I make the calculation: four to seven miles, depending upon the terrain.
“Natasha was wearing an ankle bracelet,” says Leece. “A silver chain, not expensive. I went back over the old case files-there was a list of the clothes they might have taken with them. Jewelry was mentioned.”
“Did Natasha have an ankle bracelet?”
“No… Piper Hadley had one.”
The church grows even quieter, as though someone has turned the volume down, muffling our voices. Piper Hadley has rarely been mentioned in the investigation, yet she’s like a jagged hole at the center of every scenario. A silent victim.
Outside, I breathe in the cold air, smelling wood smoke and chestnuts roasting over charcoal. I buy a bag from a man on the corner, peeling off the blackened skins and tasting Christmas. People pass me on the wet pavements, hunched and hurrying, carrying bags full of Christmas presents and groceries. They have no idea how the world has changed since yesterday.
A ridge of lead-colored cloud is burning like magnesium along the edge of the horizon, silhouetting the rooftops, making the dark seem darker. Stillness gathering.
I once thought of studying meteorology to learn how it works, the flow of things, air currents, wind, clouds, circling the earth. I thought the planet might be easier to understand than the mind.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I wait for Mr. Parkinson to fall into step inside me. Together we walk back to the hotel, going over the details again. One girl escaped. One remains elusive.
These are urgent times and I’m a weary man.
16
There’s a note from Charlie written on hotel stationery.
Gone to a party. Won’t be late. Cxx
A party? No mention of where, when, who she’s with. What constitutes “late”? It’s only six o’clock. She’s allowed to have a social life. She’s sensible and mature for her age, but looking seventeen doesn’t change the fact that she’s only fifteen. Two years is a lot when you’re that age. Fifteen is more Britney than Barbie. Fifteen scares the hell out of me.
I try her mobile. She’s not answering. Maybe she’s ignoring me on purpose because I wouldn’t let her go to London on her own.
Four sealed boxes have been delivered in my absence-statements from the original investigation, along with timelines and phone wheels. Drury has written a note: “Knock yourself out.”
I pick up the first of the transcripts.
It’s dated Monday, September 1, 2008. Sarah Hadley, Piper’s mother, told police that she’d woken just after seven on Sunday morning and thought Piper had already gone to her riding lesson because she wasn’t in her room.
At nine o’clock she phoned the riding school and one of the instructors, Mrs. Clayton, told her that Piper hadn’t shown up. Piper’s mobile had been confiscated when she was grounded for an earlier indiscretion so there was no way for Mrs. Hadley to call her.
“I was angry at first,” she told police. “It was obvious Piper had snuck out of her room and stayed all night with that McBain girl, who is nothing but trouble. We told Piper she couldn’t go to the funfair, but she disobeyed us and went out anyway.
“Piper has a blind spot when it comes to Natasha McBain. I don’t like pointing the finger at particular people, but that girl is bad news. We tried to tell Piper, but what can you tell a teenager, eh? They never listen.”
I carry on reading statements, periodically glancing at the digital clock between the beds. At midnight Charlie still isn’t back. If I call Julianne she’ll panic. Blame me. I try Charlie’s number again, leaving another message, trying to take the strident tone out of my voice.