Say You're Sorry (50 page)

“Who?”

“Grievous. That’s how he found Piper.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s been monitoring the police radio messages. That’s how he knew where to find Piper. He heard her location being given over the radio. He got there before anyone else.”

“But how?”

“He knew where she escaped from.”

The penny drops. Casey looks at me in disbelief. “Are we talking about the same person? Trainee Detective Constable Brindle Hughes?”

“I hope I’m wrong. Please, we have to hurry.”

D
S Casey shoulders open the external fire door and points his keys at an unmarked police car. Lights flash and doors unlock.

“The boss’s phone is turned off,” he says, holding a mobile to his ear. “He won’t turn it on until after the operation. It’s procedure. Urgent comms only.”

Casey stares at the screen, pondering whether to leave a message. He wants to cover himself.

“I’ll explain it to DCI Drury,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.

Moments later we pull out of the parking area and accelerate along Marcham Road. The streets are deserted. People are indoors, celebrating Christmas, eating turkey and the trimmings, plum pudding with custard, dozing off in front of the TV before the Queen makes her speech.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” says Casey. “Grievous is one of the lads.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He’s a mate.”

“So you’ve been to his place?”

“No.”

“Have you met his fiancée?”

“Not yet.”

“She’s never come to the pub for a drink or dropped Grievous at the station?”

“No.” Casey falters. “He hasn’t been with us long. Six months maybe.”

“Where was he before that?”

“In uniform… working downstairs.”

The DS swings hard into Drayton Road, past Ock Meadow, heading south, accelerating between intersections.

Facts are shifting in my head, detaching and re-forming into new pictures like the fragments of a montage, creating different realities. The past reshaped, history rewritten, explanations turned upside down.

Thinking out loud, I explain how Grievous was working the night that Piper and Natasha disappeared. The girls must have walked right past him as they headed for the leisure center. He was also working as a court security officer when they gave evidence against Aiden Foster at Oxford Crown Court.

“That could be just a coincidence,” says Casey.

“Remember the farmhouse on the night of the blizzard? Augie Shaw said he saw Natasha on the road. Barefoot. Terrified. There was someone chasing her.”

“The snowman,” says Casey.

“I think it was someone dressed in white overalls, a search and rescue volunteer. Grievous works for OxSAR.”

“A lot of guys work as volunteers.”

“His overalls smell of bleach.”

“Is that the best you have? Phillip Martinez has a motive and no alibi. The guy is a control freak, you said so yourself. He’s got medical training. He could have done that stuff… you know… to Natasha.”

Casey won’t use the words.

“Grievous did two years of nursing before he became a court security officer.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“What about the figurine you found at the abandoned factory?”

“Grievous was with me when I went to see Phillip Martinez. He saw the model railway. He could have picked up the stationmaster and planted it to implicate Martinez.”

“You’re making him sound like a master criminal. He’s a trainee detective constable, for Christ’s sake.”

“Humor me then. We’ll knock on the door, say hello, wish him a Merry Christmas.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll leave. One drink. That’s all.”

The DS isn’t convinced. I’m asking him to distrust a colleague, to break a special bond. Police officers look after each other and cover each other’s backs. They socialize together and take holidays and marry into each other’s families. They’re comrades in arms, outsiders, hated until needed, undertakers to the living.

The raid in North Oxford has unfolded over the two-way radio. Police are going from floor to floor, searching the basement for hidden tunnels and secret rooms.

We’re getting close. Casey pulls over a hundred yards from the address. This is a newer part of Abingdon with two-story semi-detached houses, some with loft conversions and garages. The painted brick facades stand out brightly against the winter trees. Some have Christmas lights strung under the eaves or around the windows.

“So we’re just going to say hello?” says Casey.

“Absolutely.”

“And then we’ll leave?”

“Of course.”

“And you won’t embarrass me by mentioning any of your theories to Grievous?”

“No.”

We walk through the gate and along the path. Casey rings the doorbell. Nobody answers.

“He’s not home.”

“Try again.”

“I should never have let you talk me into this.”

The door opens. Grievous looks perplexed and then smiles broadly. “Is everything all right, lads?”

“Yeah, course,” says Casey. “We were passing and thought we’d drop in.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

“And to you.”

He hasn’t fully opened the door.

“Do you have company?” I ask.

“No.”

“Where’s your fiancée?”

“She’s spending Christmas with her folks in Cornwall.”

“Shame, I was hoping to meet her,” says Casey. “You didn’t come to work today.”

“I didn’t finish until late. Slept in. The boss said it was OK to take the day off. My mum’s not well. Could be her last Christmas.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I was just going over there now. She lives around the corner.”

“Surely there’s time for a quick drink,” says Casey, giving him a warm grin. He pushes past Grievous and stands in the hallway, glancing into a darkened front room.

“Nice place, lived here long?”

“A few years.”

We’re led down the hallway to a drab
circa
-1970 kitchen with wood veneer cabinets, a porcelain sink and a worn linoleum floor. Coats are shrugged off and hung over chairs. Casey takes a seat, spreads his knees, a big man’s pose.

“We should be celebrating,” he says.

“Why?” Grievous asks.

“We arrested Phillip Martinez for kidnapping the Bingham Girls. You missed a big day. Martinez had a second house. They’re searching it now, looking for Piper Hadley. We were just on our way there.”

“North Oxford is the other direction,” says Grievous.

“How did you know it was in North Oxford?” asks Casey.

“You mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There is a moment, a heartbeat of silence, when the two men stare at each other. One is searching for clarity, the other for a way out. There is a tiny twitch in Grievous’s eyes. The “tell.”

“I’ve been caught out,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I have a scanner upstairs. I’ve been listening to the police radio. Even when I’m not working, I can’t leave the job alone.”

Casey laughs with him. “You need to get married, pal.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Grievous, glancing at me. I see nothing in his eyes. “So why are you really here?”

“I’m heading back to London,” I say. “I wanted to thank you for driving me around. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” says Grievous, relaxing. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Professor.”

“You never did learn to call me Joe,” I say, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than expected, studying his face. I release him. “Can I use your toilet, Grievous?”

“Sure, it’s up the stairs, first door on the right.”

I try to make eye contact with Casey but he’s talking to Grievous about kitchen renovations. As I climb to the first floor, I glance quickly over the banister before opening the bathroom door.

I run the tap and open the cabinet. Shaving foam. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Hair gel. No women’s products. Opening the door, I cross the landing to the nearest bedroom. I can hear Casey and Grievous popping cans of lager.

The room has been set up as a gymnasium with a bench and free weights that are stacked on a rack or threaded on a horizontal bar. The only other significant furniture is an old-fashioned roller desk with small wooden drawers. A laptop computer is closed on the slide-away table and the upper shelf has a police scanner blinking out green digital numbers.

I move diagonally across the landing and come to the main bedroom. It has a queen-size bed, unmade, cheap cotton sheets tossed aside. A flat-screen TV is propped on a stand in front of the bay window. DVDs are stacked on either side. Pirated movies. The large mahogany wardrobe has three doors, the center one with a full-length mirror. Two pairs of trainers are lined up beneath the bed. Clothes are folded on a chair. A comb is stuck on a hairbrush.

There are two more rooms. One is made up as a guest room with an old-fashioned bedspread and a dressing table with an oval mirror that pivots up and down. The other room is used for storage.

I go back to the bathroom and flush the toilet.

The only place left is the loft conversion, up a narrow set of stairs. I climb slowly, trying not to make a sound. I glance over the banister. I can’t hear voices any more.

The door is locked. My fingers turn the key. The door opens inwards and my pupils take a moment to adjust to the partial light. The roof slopes down on either side of the room. Against the far wall, beneath a covered skylight, I can see a bed and a bundle of bedclothes.

The room looks empty. I’m about to leave, when I hear a sound.

Crossing the room, I find a girl asleep beneath bedding, whimpering in her dreams, rocking her head from side to side. A nightmare has taken hold and her body jerks in protest. My fingers touch her arm. Her eyes open, but nothing registers.

“Piper?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Can you hear me, Piper?”

Her pupils are dilated. She’s drugged.

“I’m Joe. We talked yesterday.”

Her eyes are closing. She tries to roll over, but her left wrist is attached to the bedhead by a set of silver handcuffs. Police issue. There’s no way to free her without a key or a hacksaw.

I open my mobile and send a text message to DS Casey.

PIPER IS UPSTAIRS. BE CAREFUL
.

I call Drury’s number. He’s still not answering. What next? 999. I ask for an ambulance and the police. The operator wants me to stay on the line, but I give my name and hang up.

I stroke hair away from Piper’s eyes. They open.

“You said you were coming to get me yesterday.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let him hurt me.”

“I won’t.”

Her eyes close. She’s breathing deeply. Asleep again. I make my way downstairs, peering over the banister, listening for voices. Instead, I hear silence. I descend again, creeping towards the kitchen.

The room comes into view slowly. I see cans of beer on the table. Two glasses.

DS Casey is sitting in the same chair. His head has rocked forwards and his hand is clutching his throat, trying to stop the blood that is bubbling through his fingers. He groans and his chin lifts, his eyes meeting mine, death within them. Coming soon.

I hold my hand over his throat, my fingers covering his hand, increasing the pressure, but his carotid artery has been severed. He’s bleeding out. Losing consciousness. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I should have stayed with him. Together… maybe…

On the table in front of him a mobile phone, my message on the screen. The last thing he read. A humming refrigerator rattles into stillness. At the same moment, his head rocks forward and his body shudders once before his heart stops, the pump dry. In the sudden quietness, I feel a small ceaseless tremor vibrating inside me, expanding, filling my chest and throat. I look along the hallway. Grievous could be waiting in any one of the rooms.

I could run. I could get outside and wait for the police. But that means leaving Piper.

There is something else on the kitchen table: a small silver key lying next to Casey’s mobile. The key belongs to the set of handcuffs.

I look along the hallway again.

“Can you hear me, Grievous?”

The silence seems to be mocking me.

“We should talk,” I say. “I’m good at listening.”

Still nothing.

Maybe he’s gone. Fled the scene. He’s left me the key. Surely he can’t expect to get away. I wipe my hands on my thighs, pick up the key and move back towards the stairs, stopping at each door to glance inside.