Say You're Sorry Part 13

"A punter doesn't risk his entire stake unless he gets a nod from someone close to the horse, the jockey or the trainer."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"You're a long shot but I've heard some good things."

"Good things?"

"Detective Superintendent Veronica Cray speaks very highly of you. And I'm led to believe she doesn't say nice things about men as a rule."

The chief constable has risen from his chair again and walked to the window, admiring his view.

"h.e.l.l of a mess, this..."

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to answer.

"We need to tread gently. Under normal circ.u.mstances, a teenage girl dying in a blizzard wouldn't create too many issues, but this is very different. This is one of the Bingham Girls."

"Issues?"

"I'll get to that. First I need to ask for your a.s.sistance. I want you to hang around for a few more days. Help us understand what happened to Natasha McBain."

"I have a clinical practice in London."

"We can pay for your services."

"It's not about money."

Fryer places both fists on his desk, propping his body forward.

"The press are going to have a field day. That's why we're not making it public just yet. I've ordered a full media blackout. I don't know how long it's going to hold..."

"What about the girl's family?"

"We'll seek their co-operation."

The silence stretches out. Fryer brings it to a close.

"I have questions, Professor. Do you think Natasha McBain ran away from home and chose the wrong night to come back?"

"No."

"I thought so. Where has she been?"

"I have no idea."

Fryer nods and glances at the folder on his desk.

"There are details that I wish to share with you, but first I need your a.s.surance that you'll keep this information confidential and that you'll agree to help."

"I can't, I'm sorry."

Fryer doesn't seem to hear me. "I want you to review the original investigation. Look for any shortcomings. a.s.sist in the new search..."

"I can recommend a good profiler."

"I'm asking you. You see things that other people miss. In less than a day you uncovered more than two dozen detectives did in a week."

"I've retired."

"A man like you doesn't retire. You answer the call."

He straightens and rocks back on his heels, holding the blunt end of a ballpoint pen against his clean-shaven chin.

"We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I: Vincent Ruiz. I played rugby against Ruiz. It was a long while ago, of course. We both played in the front row. He once landed a punch flush on my jaw and I saw stars for a week. I deserved it. I punched him first.

"If you need help on the review, call in Ruiz. We can employ him as a consultant, put you both on the payroll: a thousand pounds a day. I'm sure he'd appreciate the money..."

The chief constable has done his research. He knows that Ruiz has struggled financially since he retired from the Metropolitan Police. He has an elderly mother in full-time care and shrinking savings.

Fryer pauses. There's something else. Resuming his seat, he opens the folder.

"Elements of this case shock me, Professor. I've been a policeman for thirty years and not many things surprise me anymore."

He pa.s.ses me a photograph of Natasha McBain, naked on a metal bench, her chest sewn together with rough cross-st.i.tches.

"We do some terrible things to people after they die; we cut them open, gut them, st.i.tch them up, but that poor girl suffered more indignities in life than in death."

He adds a second photograph. "At a stretch, I can accept why some s.a.d.i.s.tic p.r.i.c.k might rape a teenage girl. Maybe he's anti-social, or impotent, or just plain too ugly to get laid. And I can almost understand why he might keep her locked up as a plaything and beat her around, getting excited by her fear. But this... this is beyond me."

He adds a final photograph-an extreme close-up of Natasha's groin area with her v.a.g.i.n.a shown in all its anatomical detail. Then I recognize what I'm looking at... what I'm not seeing. Her prepuce and c.l.i.toris are missing.

This is what Dr. Leece saw during the post-mortem. This is what left him speechless.

"Dead people have rights too," says Fryer. "I don't care what you wish had happened in the past. It's not my concern. I sometimes wish I worked less and was nicer to people and could open a homeless shelter for stray cats, but then I realize that I'm not that sort of person, which is why I don't give a rat's a.r.s.e about you being tired or retired. It's bogus, a bad excuse."

The chief constable stabs his index finger at the photographs.

"You're going to help us, Professor, because there's a lot more at stake here than a few bruised reputations and a DCI with his nose out of joint. There were two Bingham Girls. The job is only half done."

12.

Drury hasn't said a word since he emerged from the chief constable's office. With his bloodless fists clenched and a manic gleam in his eyes, he strides towards the lift, slapping his palm against the b.u.t.ton, trying to bruise the wall.

His arguments are stilling ringing in my ears. Delivered at decibels, they had opened doors along the corridor and raised eyebrows. He demanded a bigger task force. More detectives. Greater resources. What he didn't want was a "b.l.o.o.d.y shrink" spouting cliches and telling him the bleeding obvious.

Charlie pretended not to listen. Turning up her iPod, she swung her legs beneath her chair and hummed to herself. Now we're half-running down the corridor, trying to catch up to Drury who is holding open the lift doors like he's Moses parting the Red Sea.

The police car drops us at the hotel where I rebook a room. Charlie has fallen silent, picking at a hangnail, a performance of compressed sullenness. I try to kiss her cheek. She turns her face away.

"I won't be long."

"What about London?"

"Maybe tomorrow."

"I can go by myself."

"Your mother wouldn't like that."

Drury is waiting downstairs, the engine running.

The lift doors slide closed. I stare at my reflection in the polished steel wondering how I finished up back here-involved in another investigation. Whatever skill I have, whatever ability to understand human behavior and motives, it has turned into a curse.

People teem with their own information. It leaks from their pores, spouts from their mouths, reveals itself in every mannerism, tic and twitch. Whether they are shy, materialistic, body conscious, vain, fluent in cliche, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with aphorisms and tabloid axioms, they reveal themselves in thousands of different ways.

And almost unconsciously I pick up these signals, reading their body language and registering the cues. I used to want to know why things happened. Why would a couple murder young women and bury them in their bas.e.m.e.nt? Why does a teenage boy spray a schoolyard with bullets? Why would a schoolgirl give birth to a baby in a toilet block and dump the newborn in a rubbish bin? Not anymore. I don't want to be able to see inside people's heads. It's like knowing too much. It's like living too long or witnessing too many events; experiencing things to the point of fatigue.

People are complicated, cruel, brave, damaged and p.r.o.ne to outrageous acts of brutality and kindness. I know the causes. I know the effects. I have been there and back again and bought the souvenirs. It's not that I don't care anymore. I've done my bit. Someone else should shoulder the burden.

DS Casey opens the rear door for me. Drury is riding up front. We're not going to the police station. Instead, we drive to Abingdon, the tires crunching on gritted tarmac and splas.h.i.+ng through puddles of slush. Few cars. Fewer people.

Twenty minutes pa.s.s. We pull up outside a red brick and tile bungalow with pebble dash on the facade. Drury stares through the windscreen and finally speaks.

"Someone removed her c.l.i.toral hood and c.l.i.toris. That's a religious thing, right? Some Muslim communities do it to young girls. Sew them up..."

"It wasn't religious."

"What sort of sick-"

"It was punishment. Payback."

"Someone hated this girl?"

"Or what she represented."

"She was eighteen-what did she represent?"

"Women, youthfulness, beauty, s.e.x..."

"It's a s.e.x crime?"

"Yes."

He blows air from his cheeks and shakes his head.

"I'm not happy about this, Professor, but I don't have a choice. Next time you have a theory or uncover something-you tell me first, understand?"

"Yes."

"I want a full psychological profile. I want to know where Natasha has been and why she came back. Did she run away or was she abducted? Where was she held? Why was she mutilated?"

"I'm a psychologist, not a psychic."

"And you're not a detective-remember that."

The DCI steps out of the car and signals me to follow. He rings the doorbell. We wait. I can hear a TV playing. Footsteps. The door opens. A young man blinks at us. There are tattoos on his forearms and neck. He's wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt that says, POKER-YOU KNOW SHE LIKES IT, and he's holding something out of sight, behind the edge of the door.

Drury flashes his badge. "h.e.l.lo, Hayden, is your mother home?"

"She's getting ready for work."

"This won't take long."

For a moment they stare at each other before Hayden turns his head and yells up the stairs.

"Mum. Coppers."

A loud noise, something dropped. An exclamation. Then a tentative answer: "Won't be a minute."

Hayden slips whatever he's holding into the waistband of his jeans and covers it with his T-s.h.i.+rt. A burst of canned laughter escapes from a TV. He opens the door, inviting us in.

A skinny white girl is sitting on the sofa looking drugged in the watery half-light. She's sitting in an armchair, smoking, her arm bent and her head tilted sideways to let the smoke escape from her lips. Hayden's girlfriend. She looks about twenty-seven but could be seventeen.

Hayden tells her to go home. She blows a fringe from her eyes and ignores him.

"I said p.i.s.s off!"

This time she grabs her coat and sneers at him, slamming the door on her way out.

Hayden takes her seat in the armchair and picks up a TV magazine, turning the pages, not reading.

The sitting room is cluttered and claustrophobic, smelling of old shoes and cigarettes. There are Christmas cards on the mantelpiece next to a sad-looking Christmas tree. Fake green branches are draped in strips of tinsel and weighed down by cheap ornaments. The crowning angel is too heavy, bending the uppermost branch like a catapult.

Quiet footsteps on the stairs signal Alice McBain's arrival. She's wearing dark trousers, a green-hemmed blouse and a cardigan. A nametag with a supermarket logo is pinned to the pocket. Late-forties, maybe younger, she's a small woman with short straight hair and the slightly dazed, disbelieving air of a refugee or some other figure beaten down by life without ever comprehending why.

"We're here to talk about Natasha," Drury says.

Alice raises a hand to her mouth. Uncertainty s.h.i.+mmers in her eyes; not fear or hope, but something that swings wildly between the two extremes. Missing children create a silence around themselves, a vacuum that is filled with every shade of hope and despair.

Drury has taken a seat opposite Alice, their knees almost touching. She tries to speak, but can't summon a sound. This is the moment when all that sadness and dreadful wondering come to a climax.