Authors: Michael Robotham
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 entitlement 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 brass; you snatched two teenage girls who had known each other since infanthood—same hospital, same primary school, same classes. You planned this in advance, first in your fantasies, then adding elements from the real world.
But why choose these girls? Surely a prostitute would have suited your purposes. Easier to acquire, more anonymous than most, prostitutes 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 ownership, that’s how it began, but later the motive changed. Perhaps the luster 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 punishing a woman than to deny her something that makes her a woman? You removed her clitoris. You denied her sexual gratification. She might still be a sex object, but would never enjoy sex 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.
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 sweatshirt 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 shine 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 fuck 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 Saturday 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 Saturday 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.
“We should have a beer,” says Fryer, turning and striding towards Drury’s office. He slams the door with such force it bounces open again, allowing everyone to hear his contained fury.
“What in fuck’s name were you thinking arresting Hayden McBain? Have you heard the radio? They’re crucifying us. They’re saying we arrested the grieving brother of a murder victim—a teenage girl we took three years to find. Do you see how it looks?”
The DCI tries to hold his ground. “With all due respect, sir, we can’t let a mob rule the streets. Augie Shaw is dead. Someone threw a petrol bomb through his front window.”
“Someone? You don’t know who?”
“McBain and his uncle incited the riot. We have witnesses. He doesn’t have the right to take the law into his own hands.”
“Don’t tell me about his rights, Detective.” Fryer drops his voice. “Did Augie Shaw have an opportunity to escape from the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So he was complicit in his own death.”
“He didn’t start the fire.”
“I accept that, DCI, but answer me this: do you believe Augie Shaw killed the Heymans?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he kidnap Natasha McBain?”
“Quite possibly, sir.”
“Augie Shaw could be the answer to your prayers, Stephen. Wrap this up. Close the file on the Heymans and let the coroner decide what happened to Natasha McBain.”
I knock on the open door. “You’re making a mistake. Augie Shaw didn’t kidnap the Bingham Girls.”
Fryer’s face reddens. “And you know that for certain?”
“It was someone older, more experienced. Someone with knowledge of the case.”
“What knowledge?”
“Police didn’t publicize the fact that Emily Martinez waited for the girls on Sunday morning. Whoever took the girls knew this, which means it had to be someone close to the families or close to the investigation.”
Fryer waves his gloves dismissively. “That’s a big call from someone who’s only been here for a few days. This case has been the subject of two police investigations and a judicial inquiry.”
“If you close the file you’re giving up on Piper Hadley.”
“I’ve kept an open mind on this, Professor, but there isn’t one piece of credible evidence to suggest that Piper is still alive. If she escaped with Natasha McBain, we’d have found her by now. If she didn’t, the question is why? My guess is that she’s dead. She died three years ago or sometime between now and then.”
“You don’t know that.”
“In all fairness, Professor, neither do you.” His voice softens. “You’re the sort of poker player who doubles down because you’re losing badly and you think that’s the way to catch up. It’s not. You double down when you’re winning, not losing. Trust me. Walk away.”
The chief constable turns to Drury. “What’s your plan of action?”
“I’ve organized a media conference with the Hadleys. In the meantime we’re doing another search of the area, checking alibis and re-interviewing witnesses. If nothing comes up, I’ll scale the investigation down for Christmas and prepare a file for the coroner.”
Fryer nods approvingly. “Covering the spread. Wise move.”
R
uiz joins me in the lift and we ride down together in silence. My medication is wearing off. I can feel the other “man” waking inside me, ready to dance like a drunk.
“They don’t believe Piper is alive,” I say.
“Maybe they’re right.”
“She deserves more.”
The doors slide open. My right leg stops swinging and I pitch forward. Ruiz catches me. I straighten and pull back my shoulders, trying to pretend that nothing has happened. I can see our reflections in the large pane of glass beside the door—a man with a limp and another with a twitching arm. Both proud. Both damaged.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You should go back to London. Where are you spending Christmas?”
“Claire has invited me to her place. I’m worried Miranda might be there.”
Claire is Ruiz’s daughter. Miranda is his most recent ex-wife, the one he’s still sleeping with.
“I thought you two were tearing up the sheets,” I say.
“I’m not complaining about the sex but she wants me to have feelings.”
“Feelings?”
“I told her that I have three of them.”
“Three?”
“I’m hungry, horny and tired—in that order.”
“How did that go down?”
“Not so well.”
We’ve reached the main doors. I remember to ask him something. “That mate of yours—the computer geek.”
“Capable Jones.”
“Are you still in touch?”
“I own his soul. What do you need?”
“Can you ask him to access aerial maps and photographs of Oxfordshire. I’m interested in factories, past and present, that manufactured pesticides, plastics or synthetic rubber, that sort of thing. The forensic report showed traces of heavy metals and chlorinated hydrocarbons beneath Natasha’s fingernails.”
“What’s the search area?”
“Four or five miles from the farmhouse.” He gives me a look. “You think I’m clutching at straws.”
“Atheists aren’t supposed to ask for miracles.”
Downstairs in the charge room Victor McBain is being released after ten hours in custody. Dressed in a blue paper boiler suit, he signs the release form and is handed his clothes and personal possessions, sealed in plastic.