Say You're Sorry Part 38

"She needs a few more days."

"I did what you asked."

He laughs sarcastically and I stare at him with narrowed eyes. This is a mistake. I am aware of his temper, how easily he could injure me. The sensation creeps along my spine like a spider crawling on bare skin.

Afterwards, he falls asleep next to me, chained to my ankle. I look at his white cheesy body asleep on its back and listen to the wet gurgling in his throat. His right arm hangs down over the side of the mattress and his left hand is touching my thigh.

I do not sleep. I want to be awake. I want to put my hand over his mouth and nose until he stops breathing. I want to drive a knife into his heart. For the moment, I lie still next to him, listening to him gurgle, thinking how fear is different when it's real. I used to love those fairground rides that take you higher and drop you faster, but that was a fear that came wrapped in pleasure. This sort of fear has no upside or happy ending.

He's awake now. Stretching. I force myself to snuggle up against him. His breath smells like sour milk.

He strokes my cheek. "You missed me?"

"You were away so long... I got frightened."

This pleases him.

"Can't I come with you? I won't try to run away."

"That's not possible, my little monkey."

I ask about Tash. Is she close? When can I see her?

His mood suddenly changes. It's like flicking a switch. He slaps my face, knocking my head against the wall. He raises his hand again, showing me his palm, challenging me, daring me.

"Forget about her."

"I'm lonely."

"I'll find you another friend."

"What?"

"Someone to keep you company, eh?"

My mind suddenly stops. Is he suggesting what I think?

"No... who?"

"I can find someone."

"No! No! Please don't!"

He takes a photograph from his wallet. "How about if I bring her?"

My throat closes. It's a picture of Emily. I have seen it before. We were mucking around in a photo booth at Oxford Station, pulling funny faces.

"She's your friend?"

"No!"

"You wrote a letter to her."

"I don't want a friend."

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know a part of me isn't convinced. I want someone to talk to. I don't want to be alone. I push the thoughts away. Horrified. Hating myself.

"I just want to see Tash. n.o.body else," I say.

"That's not possible. She's still being punished."

He takes me back to the trapdoor and kisses me. Then he lowers me down until my feet touch the ladder.

"If you want a friend, I promise I will get you one."

"No. Please let Tash come back."

The trapdoor is closing.

"That I can't promise."

31.

It's been sixteen hours since the fire. I slept through most of them, waking to more snow, which has bleached the pavements and parks, dipping the world in white. The newspapers are full of headlines about mob justice and public lynching.

Ironically, for perhaps the first time in his life, Augie Shaw has become a sympathetic figure, a victim not a villain. The police are to blame according to the Guardian. They took too long to react. The Daily Mail says Augie Shaw should never have been granted bail; the judge was clearly out of touch or deranged.

Putting aside the newspapers, I arrange a dozen photographs around the hotel room, propping them on chairs and the TV cabinet. I take a seat in the middle of the room, directly in front of an image of Natasha and Piper sitting side by side in a cla.s.s photograph, light and dark, blonde and brunette, salt and pepper.

Radiating an odd mixture of vulnerability and sensuality, Natasha has a cla.s.sical beauty. Piper, by comparison, looks almost boyish and angular.

I am beginning to understand this crime. The details have been floating just out of reach, but are now falling into place. The person responsible is no longer a figment. No longer a mystery. No longer a part of my imagining. I can see the world through his eyes; hear what he hears.

He's a collector. He enjoys owning things, rare objects, valuable artifacts, things he's been denied in the past. Some collectors fall in love with great works of art. A few arrange to have them stolen to order, knowing they can never hope to resell such a famous artwork or put it on public display. That doesn't matter. It is about possession not largesse; owning something unattainable and bathing in the brightness of its perfection.

He's an aesthete, who craves control and order in a disordered world. A man of strong discipline, trained to reason and compute, yet he has no moral base. He doesn't believe he is bound by the same rules as other people but is willing to abide by the law because it helps him conceal his desires. Others wouldn't understand what it feels like to "own" something, to have complete control over another human being-life, death, light, darkness, warmth, cold and sustenance.

What causes this yearning? Where does it begin? A powerless childhood, a chaotic past, impossible expectations; it could be any number of things, but along the way he developed a sense of ent.i.tlement or an anger at being denied his right.

Closing my eyes, I try to picture him, not his face, but his mind. There you are! I see you now! You're a clever thief, bold as bra.s.s; you s.n.a.t.c.hed two teenage girls who had known each other since infanthood-same hospital, same primary school, same cla.s.ses. You planned this in advance, first in your fantasies, then adding elements from the real world.

But why choose these girls? Surely a prost.i.tute would have suited your purposes. Easier to acquire, more anonymous than most, prost.i.tutes are always disappearing but they rarely earn headlines or have a nation on alert. Missing schoolgirls aren't forgotten. They're cherished and prayed for and expected home.

You chose Piper and Natasha because they meant something to you, or represented someone. Possession and owners.h.i.+p, that's how it began, but later the motive changed. Perhaps the l.u.s.ter wore off. You grew bored, or the girls weren't as compliant as you wished. The reality was never going to match up to your fantasies.

That's when you discovered another form of control. Punishment. Inflicting pain. Look what you did to Tash. What more intimate example is there of punis.h.i.+ng a woman than to deny her something that makes her a woman? You removed her c.l.i.toris. You denied her s.e.xual gratification. She might still be a s.e.x object, but would never enjoy s.e.x in the same way.

You expected to be horrified... to feel guilt or remorse, but it didn't happen. Instead, it was the purest of joys because you had never known anything so intimate or invasive or final. It was the most inspiring and fulfilling moment of your life.

Now you've lost one of your possessions. Tash managed to escape and almost get home. She would have unmasked you and destroyed your elaborate secret life.

You'll be chastened. You'll go to ground for a while. If Piper is still alive she is alone, more vulnerable than ever. The closer we get to you, the greater danger she'll face. You'll protect yourself by removing all trace of her.

Taking a notebook, I begin jotting down bullet points.

Mid-thirties to late fifties.

Above average intelligence.

He will live alone or with an ageing relative or a subservient wife-some form of domestic arrangement where n.o.body will question his movements or unexplained absences.

Tertiary qualifications or training that requires discipline and accuracy.

Knowledge of the area. (The girls disappeared quickly.) Knowledge of the victims. (He chose them for a reason.) He doesn't see himself as a monster. He deserves this. This is his reward.

In the beginning he focused on interaction with the girls, but he has become a s.a.d.i.s.t.

He craves order in a disordered world, but is constantly being disappointed because nothing and n.o.body matches up to his high expectations.

He is forensically aware. Careful. Practiced.

The cab drops me at Abingdon Police Station. DCI Drury is in the CCTV control room. He hasn't been home. Rings of perspiration stain his armpits and his body odor follows him like a noxious cloud. Hayden McBain and his uncle are being held in separate cells. Left to sweat or to cool off.

The control room has six TV screens and a console that looks like something from an episode of Star Trek. Attention is focused on one screen: forty-four seconds of grainy black and white footage showing a man siphoning petrol from a parked car. He's wearing a hooded sweats.h.i.+rt and a baseball cap.

The spiky-haired operator adjusts the controls. "The camera is only four blocks away from the house."

"I can't see his face," says Drury.

"There aren't enough pixels. Pull it up any further, you lose quality."

"Can you try?"

The operator adjusts the brightness and contrast.

Drury turns to me. "Is that Hayden McBain?"

"Could be anyone."

"Christ, what a mess!"

Drury's team has gathered upstairs for a briefing. Sleep-stung, nursing cups of takeaway coffee, many of them I now recognize, although I don't know their names. A female DS introduces herself. Karen Middleton. She has wide-apart eyes and too much make-up.

Grievous is cleaning the whiteboard and making sure the marker pens have matching lids. He has taken a s.h.i.+ne to Ruiz and the two of them have matching extra-large cups of coffee.

Ruiz raises his cup to Drury. "Morning, Columbo."

"You're not as funny as you look."

Ruiz grins. "Day's still early. Wait till the caffeine kicks in. I'm a certified barrel of laughs."

Drury enters the circle of detectives, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. The symbolism isn't missed or necessary. Around him, detectives are perched on the edge of desks and sitting backwards on chairs.

"You all know what happened last night," says Drury. "We now have another death to investigate."

"You must be joking," mutters one of the sergeants.

The DCI turns his head slowly. "You see me laughing, DS?"

"No, boss."

"A man was killed last night. A crime was committed."

"Yes, boss."

"That crime has to be investigated. If you don't want to do your job, you can f.u.c.k off now."

"Yes, boss."

The briefing continues with Drury breaking the task force into teams. A dozen detectives will investigate the riot and the fire. The rest are to review the original investigation into the Bingham Girls, based on a new timeline.

"We now believe the girls may have disappeared on Sat.u.r.day night instead of Sunday morning. That means rechecking alibis, interviewing suspects and studying photographs for the Bingham Summer Festival.

"I want the new time frame run through the computer database. Let's see what HOLMES2 comes up with. Where did they go on Sat.u.r.day night? Who did they talk to? Who saw them?"

Chief Constable Fryer appears in the incident room, wearing his full dress uniform, peeling off leather gloves, a big man, full of confidence, on a mission.

Detectives find their feet. Fryer only has eyes for Drury.

"Your office. Now!"

The chief constable notices Ruiz and pauses. "Vincent?"

"Thomas."

"You've grown fat."

"No fatter than you."

The two men stare at each other.