“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.
There is a creaking sound above me.
“Grievous?”
Nothing.
From across the street, I hear a burst of laughter and the sound of Christmas crackers being pulled. Cheers. Applause.
I climb to the first landing, moving from room to room. Tiptoeing. Trying not to make a sound. Even before I finish the search, I know where I’ll find him. Mounting the final staircase, I nudge the door with my foot.
Grievous is sitting on the bed with his back to the wall. His arms and legs are wrapped around Piper, hugging her against his chest. She’s a human shield, asleep with her head on his shoulder.
“I thought you’d run away,” he says.
“Ditto,” I reply.
His hair is plastered down one side of his face and his eyes are like dark holes full of shadow and menace. He motions towards the end of the bed. There is a pistol lying on the bedspread, closer to me than to him. Polymer-framed, black as pitch. The ammunition clip has been placed alongside the weapon.
“That’s for you,” he says.
I stare at the gun, trying to make sense of the offer.
“Pick it up. It won’t bite.”
Piper is like a rag doll in his arms, her head slumped to one side, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.
“What did you give her?”
He motions to the empty pill bottle on the table to his left. “Diazepam. She won’t feel a thing.”
“What isn’t she supposed to feel?”
“Dying, of course.”
“You don’t have to kill her.”
“It’s a bit late now. She swallowed the lot. We’re going to die together.”
He raises his left wrist and shows me how they are handcuffed together. His other hand, hidden until now, has a knife pressed flat against her body, the point roughly over her heart.
“There must have been thirty pills in that bottle. I don’t think she’ll survive even if they pump out her stomach. No time to waste, really. If you shoot me, you might save her.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
He looks at me sadly and kisses her forehead. “Then we’ll both watch her die.” He twirls her hair with his fingertips. “It’s such a pity. She’s been a dear, dear thing.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’re the psychologist, you tell me.”
Stepping closer, I crouch and take the pistol and ammunition clip.
“It slides in and clicks into place,” he says. “Now release the safety.”
I have never fired a gun. I hate them. I know some people who argue they’re just a tool, like a shifting spanner or a ballpoint hammer, but let’s be honest and accept that guns are designed to be lethal weapons. There are a lot of things I haven’t done. I haven’t had a body piercing or jumped out of a plane or tried to tip a cow. All of these things seem preferable at the moment to holding a pistol in both hands, trying not to shake.
“Careful, you might shoot someone,” he says, smiling.
“Let Piper go?”
“Shoot me and you can have her.”
I point the gun at his head.
“That’s the way.”
“I’m not going to shoot you. Nobody has to die.”
He smiles. He smells almost perfumed, as though he’s showered and shaved and doused himself in cologne.
“You weren’t in the service, were you?” he asks.
“Neither were you.”
“I got close.”
“That’s like saying you nearly had sex, Grievous. You either did or you didn’t—anything else is wanking.”
Anger lights up his eyes. I haven’t seen his temper before. He’s learned to hide it well.
“Should I call you Gerald or George?”
“Call me what you like.”
“Piper and Natasha called you George. It suits you.” I take a step closer. “I’m going to undo the handcuffs.”
He shows me the knife again. “I can flick my wrist and reach her heart before you take another step. How good a doctor are you? Can you patch a broken heart?”
I step back and find a straight-backed chair. I straddle it, resting my outstretched forearms on the top spar. I can hold th
e gun steadier now.
“This crime of mine,” says Grievous. “Kidnapping the girls, raping them—in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t mean very much. A thousand years from now nobody is going to care about the Bingham Girls or what I did to them. Not in a hundred years. Let’s face it, Professor, men have been penetrating women since our species began. It’s how we survive. So what if we don’t say please beforehand and thank you afterwards. It doesn’t alter the act. We penetrate. We procreate.”
“That’s an interesting philosophy, George. Your mother would be very proud.”
“Leave my mother out of it.”
“Is that who you’re trying to punish?”
“Oh, dear me, how disappointing,” he sighs. “Is that the best you can do—Freudian hostility, a mummy fixation? Please. I expected more.”
“You don’t have a fiancée, Grievous. She’s another fiction. That’s your problem, isn’t it? You can’t find anyone to love. It’s always been that way, ever since puberty when all those hormones were playing havoc with your thinking. You wanted a girlfriend, but you had a problem. You were deaf in one ear and couldn’t quite tune into what people were saying. Nobody knew about the brain tumor slowly growing, benign.
“You refused to wear a hearing aid or to sit up front in class. You didn’t want anyone to know, particularly the girls. You wanted to be one of the cool group sitting up the back, passing notes to each other.
“Do you know, Grievous, there is a correlation between deafness and paranoid thinking? If you can’t hear particularly well, it’s easy to think people might be talking about you, laughing and joking at your expense, putting you down. Isn’t that true?”
He doesn’t answer me, but seems to be pressing the knife tighter against Piper’s chest.
“Even the teachers thought you were slow and stupid, even your family. And every time someone laughed or behaved a little differently, you were sure they were making fun of you, whispering behind your back, sharing a private joke.
“You wanted a girlfriend, you were desperate for one, but girls rejected your pathetic attempts to woo them. I’m not criticizing you or being patronizing. It wasn’t your fault. You adored those girls. You would have treated them like goddesses. Showered them with love. Written them poetry. Sung them love songs. But they didn’t choose you, did they? They chose the arm-candy, the boys who made them look good and gave them status, the ones they swooned over.
(2012) Say You're Sorry Page 36
