“Congratulations. You’re father of the year.”
He doesn’t react.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“I drove to London.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I don’t know. It was quite late, nine, maybe ten o’clock. You can ask the landlady at the hostel. She wouldn’t let me see my wife.”
The drive to London takes less than two hours. He had ample time to snatch Piper, clean up the basement and hide her somewhere before driving to the capital.
“How do you explain your stationmaster turning up at the scene?”
He hesitates. “Isn’t it obvious? Somebody planted it there. They’re trying to frame me.”
“Who would do that?”
He shrugs. “It’s happened before. That business with the falsified test results-somebody sabotaged my experiments. I was set up.”
“Why?”
“To discredit me, of course.” He makes it sound so obvious. “Medical research is full of venal people: rivals jealous of my success, trying to steal my funding, scared they might be beaten to a breakthrough that could be worth billions of dollars.”
“You don’t really believe a rival would try to frame you for kidnapping and murder.”
He shrugs dismissively. “This is a waste of time. I had nothing to do with the Bingham Girls. Never met them. I wasn’t living in Abingdon when they went missing.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd, you finding a letter from Piper among Emily’s things?”
“I was searching her room.”
“Why?”
“I was looking for drugs.”
“You think she’s using?”
“Like I said-I’m diligent.”
“You search your daughter’s room; do you read her emails?”
“Yes, as it happens.” He laughs at my surprise. “You don’t agree with my methods?”
“No.”
“When your daughter is sucking on a crack pipe in some filthy council estate, you can come and ask for my advice on parenting.”
“Where is Piper Hadley?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where is Emily?”
“She’s with her mother.”
He holds my gaze defiantly. “I didn’t take those girls. You people can plant whatever evidence you like, but it won’t make me guilty.”
Michael Robotham
(2012) Say You're Sorry
T he key turns in the lock.
The door opens. George is wearing a dressing gown and carrying a tray with a sandwich and a mug of tea. He puts the tray on a table beside my head. I stare at the steam, watching it twist and curl into nothingness.
My left wrist is handcuffed to the metal bedhead. I use the other to pull the bedclothes around me, but I can’t reach the sheet. I must have kicked it off when I was sleeping.
“You should drink something.”
There is a long silence. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. George sits next to me and puts his hand near my leg, telling me to stay calm. His hand slides closer until his fingers brush against my thigh.
“You shouldn’t have run away. I want you to say you’re sorry.”
I don’t answer him.
His hand touches my skin where my pajama top and the trousers meet.
“Did you hear me, Piper?”
“Yes.”
“Say you’re sorry.”
I shake my head.
He strikes on my blind side, the punch sinking deep into my stomach, where he twists his fist under my ribs until I imagine that every organ has been ruptured and the blood and bile are spilling into my chest. I cannot breathe. He waits.
“Say you’re sorry.”
I blink again. The next blow lifts my body off the bed, holding me against the wall, convulsing.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sob, trying to breathe.
I’m sorry you’re a sad sadistic prick. I’m sorry I didn’t stab you through the eye. I’m sorry I didn’t crush your skull with the brick. I’m sorry I can’t scratch your eyes out. I want to scream these things, but none of the words come out. Instead, I crumple to the bed and curl into a ball.
“That’s better,” he says. “Now we can be friends again.” He cradles me, rocking me back and forth, stroking my hair. “Would you like to meet Emily?”
I try to pull away, but he grips me harder.
“You didn’t… you promised me.”
“Why should I keep my promises to you?”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Where is she?”
He smiles. “We’ll save that surprise for another day.”
Pushing himself away from the bed, he goes to the window. “Shall I tell you what it looks like outside?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Christmas-do you want to know what sort of day it is?”
“OK.”
“It’s overcast, but we might get some sun later.”
“Describe something else.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
“I can see a church steeple and a park. Some kid is riding a new bicycle.”
“It must have been a present.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“I don’t watch many movies.”
“What about TV?”
“I like Strictly Come Dancing, but it’s not on over Christmas.”
“Do you watch EastEnders?”
“No.”
He looks genuinely sorry. Reaching into his pocket, he produces two white pills.
“I have to go out for a while. I’ll be back later. These will help you sleep. You shouldn’t have them on an empty stomach.”
“I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“When you’re stronger we’ll start all over again. It will be just like old times.”
48
DS Blake sprints down the corridor, taking the corner so quickly he almost loses control and has to leap an office plant. One of the uppermost leaves rocks to the floor like a dropped sheet of paper.
“We found it, boss,” he says, hammering on Drury’s door. The DCI has been sleeping. Blake continues. “Martinez has another house. It’s in Oxford. He rented it when he moved back from the States. He lived there until he won custody of Emily, but he never relinquished the lease.”
Drury appears, sleep-stung.
Blake is still talking. “The owner of the house died in 2009, but Martinez did a deal with the son to keep the lease going.”
“Why does a man need two houses?” asks Drury.
“Exactly my thoughts, boss.” Blake looks pleased with himself. “The son said something else. His old man had an early-model Land Rover. It was kept in the garage of the rented house.”
“Where is it now?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“So Martinez could have had access? That explains why his Lexus is so bloody clean.”
The DCI is fully awake and moving. “Briefing in fifteen. I want a dozen officers with me. Get me aerial maps of the street and the house. See if the council has a floor plan.”
“It’s Christmas, boss.”
Drury curses. “OK, but get me a child protection officer. I want one with us.”
The mood in the incident room has been completely transformed. Exhausted bodies are energized. Tiredness has been forgotten.
Watching and listening, I realize how much I stand apart from these officers. I am an outsider, a civilian. On top of this I’m a psychologist, a profession they mistrust. They imagine that I’m constantly reading their body language, probing for weaknesses or hidden meanings, like a man with x-ray eyes who can peer into the depths of their souls. Such fears are irrational and baseless, but it doesn’t change the reality. Some people cannot relax around a police officer or a priest or an abortionist; the same is true of a psychologist.
Drury’s mobile rings again. He answers it. Hurried. Irritated. It’s the chief constable.
“Yes, sir, I’m on top of this. We have a good lead on where Piper Hadley might be… North Oxford… That’s right, sir… We can link him to the abandoned factory and to both girls… I understand your concerns, sir, but things are under control… In the next hour… As soon as I know.”
Casey emerges from the lift. His tweed jacket has beads of rain on the shoulders and his wet hair looks even more like a helmet than usual. He has spent all morning in the search area, marshaling volunteers. Most of them now want to go home for Christmas dinner.