Authors: Michael Robotham
I don’t bother pointing out the flaw in Ruiz’s logic.
“I should be made Minister for Health,” he adds. “I could sort out the problem with waiting lists straight away.”
“How so?”
“I’d stop people at the door of Accident and Emergency and quiz them on how they got injured. Food poisoning or a dog bite or a broken arm, they’ll have to wait fifteen minutes. But if they arrive with self-inflicted slashes or a Hoover nozzle stuck up their arse, it’ll be six hours.”
“Are you sure you don’t read the
Daily Mail
?”
“I’m being harsh but fair. There are too many idiots using up our health budget.”
Drury has finished his conversation. He opens his palms, looking like a Mafia godfather. “Where have you been?”
“I had to take my daughter home.”
“Tell Grievous next time. He’s been running around like a lost puppy.”
I introduce him to Ruiz and the two of them size each other up with a handshake. Drury seems less aggressive today. Perhaps he hasn’t met his normal quota of fools.
“If it weren’t for Piper Hadley I’d be wishing that boy dead,” says Drury, talking about Augie Shaw. “Sign of a guilty man, a suicide attempt.”
“Or a desperate one,” I say.
The DCI pushes spare change into a machine and makes his choice. A bottle of water drops into the tray. He cracks the top and drinks noisily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks at me. “You still think Augie Shaw couldn’t have kidnapped Natasha McBain and Piper Hadley?”
“He hasn’t the intellect or the experience.”
“Maybe you’re right, Professor, but while you’ve been playing happy families, we were checking the registered sex offenders living in the area and running a full background check on suicide boy in there. A very interesting name came up—his old man Wesley Shaw once faced eight counts of child rape but managed to plea-bargain it down to one count of attempted unlawful penetration of a minor. And you know where he was on the night the Bingham Girls disappeared? He was working on the rides at the fairground.”
“Where is he now?”
“He died eighteen months ago. Ran a red light and got pancaked by a bus in Stoughton Street.”
Drury tosses the empty plastic bottle into a metal bin.
“Wesley George Shaw. He also had a few aliases: WG Buford, David William Burford, George Westman. Born in 1960, the son of an aircraft mechanic stationed at RAF Abingdon working on fighter planes. First arrest at age twenty-four: attempted rape. Charges dropped. Second arrest: curb-crawling and engaging the services of an underage prostitute. You see where I’m going, Professor? Wesley Shaw’s name came up in the first investigation, but his old lady gave him an alibi. She lied for him.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“She just confirmed it.”
“But Wesley Shaw is dead.”
“He was alive when the girls went missing. He could have kidnapped them; set the whole thing up. Augie just inherited them. Like father like son.”
At the far end of the corridor, a door opens and Victoria Naparstek appears. Tall, pale, purposeful, her face enameled with anger. She confronts Drury, stopping inches from his face.
“I warned you.”
He raises his hands, but Victoria knocks them away.
“I told you what would happen.”
“Let’s take this somewhere else. Take a deep breath. Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.”
He’s gentler with her than I expect. “Somebody messed up. I’m sorry.”
“Have you told his mother that? No. That might mean a lawsuit. Compensation. Instead, you’re going to close ranks. Collude. Get your stories straight.”
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
He’s whispering to her, trying to lead her away; holding her arm, talking like they’re old friends. She shudders at his touch. Disappoints him.
“Don’t patronize me,” she says. “Never, ever patronize me.”
Then she leaves, storming down the corridor. The police officer on guard follows her progress, his eyes glued to her posterior.
“What are you looking at, Constable?” barks Drury. “Keep your eyes to the front.”
S
t. Catherine’s School is set amid trees and boot-churned sporting fields on the northern outskirts of Abingdon, a mile from an old RAF base, which was decommissioned in the nineties.
A lone student is sitting in the administration office. Sulking. She swings her legs beneath a vinyl chair, awaiting judgment for some indiscretion. Dressed in a gray skirt, white blouse and v-neck burgundy jumper, she looks up as we enter in a flurry of cold air. The door closes. She looks down again.
A school secretary is seated behind sliding glass. Grievous flashes his warrant card and asks for the headmistress. The secretary misdials the number twice. All thumbs. Perhaps an unpaid parking ticket is preying on her mind.
The headmistress, Mrs. Jacobson, is a big woman in a beige dress. Her dyed hair is brushed back and fastened with a comb. “Come, come,” she says, herding us like pre-schoolers into her office, her shoes echoing on the parquet floor.
“This is about Piper and Natasha, isn’t it? Is there news?”
“There have been some developments in the case,” says the young detective. “The details are confidential for operational reasons.”
“Of course, I understand. Sit down. Coffee? Tea? Help yourself to biscuits. Such a terrible business—it took our girls a long time to recover. Some of them needed counseling, but we’re a very stoic bunch here at St. Catherine’s.”
A spare seat is found for Ruiz, who hasn’t said a word since we arrived. Grievous picks up a chocolate biscuit, which crumbles when he takes a bite. He makes a little sound and tries to catch the falling crumbs. Mrs. Jacobson walks to the side table and comes back with a plate and a paper napkin, silently admonishing him. She settles again behind her desk.
“Darling Piper, I can’t imagine why she’d run away. Her father is such a generous man. And her mother is so beautiful and charming.”
“Not like the McBains?” asks Ruiz.
The headmistress flinches. “Excuse me?”
“Natasha’s father served a five-year stretch for armed robbery. Surely you know that.”
“We don’t discriminate at St. Catherine’s.”
“Neither do we,” says Ruiz.
There is a look between them. Nothing warm.
“We were hoping to talk to some of the teachers who taught Piper and Natasha,” I say. “And to look at their student files.”
“I’m afraid the files are confidential, but most of their teachers are still with us. We don’t have a big turnover of staff.”
“What about caretakers?” asks Ruiz.
The headmistress hesitates. “If you’re referring to Mr. Stokes, he’s no longer working at St. Catherine’s.”
“He was sacked.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“He took inappropriate photographs of the girls.”
“An unfortunate incident. We did all the proper checks.”
“Where is Mr. Stokes now?”
She stares at Ruiz icily. “We haven’t kept in touch.”
They hold each other’s gaze for a moment and then Mrs. Jacobson looks at her small gold wristwatch. “It’s lunchtime. You’ll find most of the teachers in the staff common room.”
The schoolgirl in the waiting room is instructed to escort us. Her name is Monica and she walks with a pigeon-toed gait and sloping shoulders. We climb the stairs and follow a corridor past classrooms and science labs.
I fall into step beside Ruiz. He’s limping more today; the legacy of an old bullet wound. He’s too proud to use a walking stick. Vain.
“Why did you give her such a hard time?”
“She reminded me of my old physics teacher.”
“Is that all?”
“You didn’t meet my physics teacher.”
Monica knocks on the door of the common room and asks for Miss McCrudden. The English teacher is in her mid-thirties, wearing dark trousers and a blouse with a coffee stain. Her fingers are spotted with blue marker pen.
Most of the tables are taken by groups of teachers eating sandwiches or reheated soup. We take a seat in the corner.
Miss McCrudden looks at me nervously.
“This isn’t an official interview. Nobody is taking notes. I’m a psychologist working with the police. I’m trying to learn whatever I can about Piper and Natasha.”
She makes a clucking sound deep in her throat. “Such lovely girls.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pardon?”
“You answered automatically and said they were lovely girls.”
“They were.”
“How were they lovely?”
“They were very friendly.”
“Did they have a lot of friends?”
She hesitates. “Some.”
“Not a lot then?”
“Are you
trying
to disagree with me?”
“I’m
trying
to get to the truth.”
The teacher eyes me accusingly. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Yes. You see, Miss McCrudden—”
“Call me Kirsty.”
“Kirsty. By most accounts Natasha McBain was a bit of a tearaway. Always getting into trouble.”
“She was high-spirited.”
“There you go again—making excuses for her. Apologizing. Trying to soften the edges; airbrushing the truth.”
She gives me a hard stare and starts again. “Natasha could be difficult. Hard to control.”
“In what way?”
“She didn’t respect authority. I don’t think St. Catherine’s was the place for her.”
I wait for something more. She sighs. “I shouldn’t really talk—I was a complete nightmare at school. Not as bad as Natasha, mind you, but my parents were always being summoned to explain or apologize.
“Some girls are suffocated by a place like this—the discipline and routine. We talk a lot about pastoral care and not leaving a girl behind, but let’s face it, we want students who make us look good, who aren’t management problems, who do well in their exams…”
“Natasha didn’t fit.”
“She was a brilliant student. A complete natural, the sort who wins awards and gets scholarships without even trying.” The teacher lowers her voice. “But she was also restless, preoccupied, often crude. When she wasn’t terrorizing teachers, she was flirting with them—male and female.”
“Did she flirt with you?”
Kirsty smiles knowingly. “Natasha enjoyed being provocative, but there’s a difference between physical maturity and emotional maturity. She made a lot of bad decisions.”
“What about Piper?”
“Completely different. A born storyteller. One of the best creative writers I’ve ever taught. She daydreamed. Often I’d catch her staring into space, or studying the ground as though it were a river she couldn’t cross. And she had a way of touching things, tapping them lightly with her fingertips, as though playing a secret game.”
“Academically?”
“She struggled.”
“Is she the sort of girl to run away?”
Kirsty doesn’t answer immediately. She turns to the window, watching girls outside in the playground.
“Natasha was one of those rare creatures who truly didn’t seem to care what people thought. Compliment her or criticize her and her reaction didn’t change. Piper was more self-conscious. I think there was some hero worship involved.”
“How did Natasha react?”
“She loved being adored. Piper was like her faithful retainer.”
“Why didn’t they have many friends?”
“They had issues.”
“Such as?”
The teacher falters slightly. “I think a lot changed after the accident.”
“What accident?”
“There was a fight between two local lads. One of them drove a car into the other. Left him disabled. The driver was arrested and charged with attempted murder.”
“What does that have to do with Natasha?”
“It was her boyfriend. They were fighting over her.”
“When was this?”
“About four months before the girls disappeared. You should really talk to Emily Martinez.”
“Is she here today?”
“I don’t know. She misses a lot of school.”
Ruiz has pulled an old notebook from his pocket and is jotting down details. It’s not that he needs reminding—he won’t forget—but old habits are hard to break.
Kirsty turns to Grievous. “Has there been some news?”
He doesn’t answer, but the knowledge still reaches her. Fear thickens her vowels.
“Are they dead?”
“I can’t comment,” he says.
She looks at me. “Oh dear, you’ve made me do a terrible thing.”
“You’ve told me the truth.”
A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors outside; girls in motion, laughter, musical voices and sentences that end with upward inflections. The English teacher has to go. She stands and brushes the front of her trousers. She touches the corner of one eye, then her hair.