Authors: Michael Robotham
Sarah stares directly into the cameras. “If you’re the person holding Piper, if you’re listening to this or watching this, the time has come to let her go. Let her come home.”
Questions come again, shouted from the floor.
“Do you blame the police?”
“Will you consider taking legal action?”
“Have you talked to Natasha McBain’s parents?”
“What makes you so sure Piper is alive?”
Answers become shorter. Yes. No. I don’t know. The media conference is curtailed. Police officers flank the family as they leave through a side door. Phoebe has almost been forgotten. She lowers her head and follows her parents, running to catch up.
The family pauses inside the rear doors of the station, waiting for their car. Phoebe looks up and notices me.
She smiles. “Are you going to find Piper?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Do you think she’ll still like me?”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Mum says that she’s still with us. That’s why we hang up Christmas stockings and set a place at the table and have a cake on her birthday, but that scares me a little because she’s like a ghost. There’s an empty chair and an empty bed, but she’s still here.”
“People cope with loss in different ways.”
Phoebe nods and looks at her parents.
“Is anything the matter?” I ask.
She shrugs. “They just seem different.”
“In what way?”
“They become different when they talk about Piper.”
“They’re just concerned about her.”
Phoebe puts her hands over her face and rubs her forehead with her fingers.
“So I should stop worrying.”
“Yes, stop worrying.”
She notices a stain on the sleeve of her dress and tries to rub it away with her thumb.
“I hear them coming up the stairs at night,” she says. “They brush their teeth and turn off the light, but they don’t talk.”
“What is it you want, Phoebe?”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I want them back.”
M
y gums are bleeding.
Mum always said I’d get scurvy if I didn’t eat my fruit. Now I’m not eating anything—not since yesterday. I’ve decided to go on a hunger strike until he lets me see Tash.
I’m not going to wash. I’m not going up the ladder. I’m not going to let him touch me.
He can beat me. He can hose me down. He can turn off the lights. He can take away my blankets. I’d rather starve or freeze to death than go on without Tash.
The only thing I’ve ever been good at is running. I used to imagine that if I could run fast enough, I could catch a glimpse of my future. I might round a corner or crest a hill and see myself disappearing into the distance. I can’t do that when I’m stuck down here. I can’t glimpse the future. I can’t imagine one.
Lying on my bunk, I remember happy times like the day we went to Tash’s uncle’s place and he let us drive his old station wagon around the paddocks, bouncing over the potholes and squashing the cowpats. We drove with the windows down and the music cranked up, pretending we were cruising along that famous road in the South of France with the clifftops and tunnels—the one where Grace Kelly died. Another tragic princess. I grew up listening to fairy tales where everyone lived happily ever after, but in real life princesses die in car crashes or get divorced or flog diet products.
Tash once told me that most people settle for second best, but maybe there’s a reason for that. Second isn’t so bad. I came second in the nationals. When you come second you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder or worry about inflated expectations.
I had a nightmare that George came back with Emily. He must be watching her. How else would he have her photograph? He said he was watching Tash before he kidnapped us, but I don’t remember seeing him until that night.
Reaching beneath my pillow, I feel for the bamboo satay skewer. I took it from the table the other day when George wasn’t looking. I slipped it under my dirty clothes. Now my fingers slide along the wooden shaft and touch the sharpened point. I have a weapon.
It probably won’t kill him, not unless I stab him through the eye or through the ear. Maybe I could wait until he is sleeping and then do it.
I remember the broken screwdriver. Tash had the same idea. She was going to stab him in the neck. That’s when she came back with bloody thighs and curled up on her bunk. That’s when she gave up hope.
Lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling and try to steady my breathing. Slow it down. Not a hunger strike. I need my strength if I’m going to escape. I’ll eat, but that’s all.
Slipping out of bed, I go to the cupboard and find a can of baked beans. The can opener is blunt and it takes me twenty minutes to peel back the lid. While it’s heating up, I take a spool of masking tape and use my fingernail to lift the sticky end. I carefully wrap a length of tape around the skewer, leaving the sharpened end protruding.
The tape is a handle. I hold it in my fist and make a stabbing motion. I don’t feel very confident. I try again. Then I picture Tash lying on a bunk, curled up in pain. This time I stab easily at the air. I think of Mum and Dad and Phoebe and Ben and the baby sister they had to replace me—all the time stabbing at the air.
I play the scene over and over in my head, imagining how I plant the skewer in his back. How I push him down through the hatch and call him a sadistic prick and he looks up at me, surprised, hurt, scared.
I’ve never done any serious violence to anyone, but I’m going to make an exception for George. I’m going to hurt him. I’m going to pay him back for what he’s done.
E
xplain something to me,” says Grievous, beating out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Why do people always talk about how fast a car can get from naught to sixty? I mean, what’s the big deal about sixty miles an hour? It’s like people think aliens are going to land and only be able to do fifty-nine. They’ll suck out our brains unless we can do naught to sixty in less than ten seconds.”
He pauses, expecting a response.
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I say.
“Revheads don’t have brains,” he adds. “The aliens wouldn’t be interested.”
The holiday traffic has slowed to a crawl, edging between lights and roundabouts.
“Did you always want to be a detective?” I ask.
“Oh, no, sir, I came to it late,” he says, pleased with the question. He pulls a creased photograph from his inner pocket.
“That’s me there,” he says. “Second from the left.”
Still warm from his body, the image shows a group of teenagers in combat gear, resting on their haunches, weapons propped between their knees.
“You were an army cadet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you join the army?”
“Failed the medical.” He points to the scar above his left ear. “I had a tumor. Benign. But it was pressing on part of my inner ear. I was deaf in that ear until I was twenty-one. People thought I was slow. Stupid, you know.”
“That’s why you turn your head to one side.”
“Pardon?”
“I noticed it when I first met you. You cock your head a little when you’re listening to people.”
“Force of habit.” He laughs, putting the photograph away. “When I couldn’t join the army, I worked as a nurse and then became a court security officer. That’s where I saw police officers giving evidence at criminal trials and I thought, Yeah, I could do that. I guess I wanted a challenge… to make a difference. Does that sound like a cliché?”
I shake my head.
Phillip Martinez’s car is parked out front of the house, but nobody is answering the doorbell. The curtains are drawn. Lights off. I’m about to give up when I hear a tooting sound coming from the garage. I knock on the large double doors. A latch lifts and the right door opens a few inches.
Mr. Martinez takes a moment to recognize me.
He apologizes. “Were you knocking? I’m very sorry. I get so caught up.” A bell jangles behind him. He opens the door wider. “My hobby,” he explains. “It’s rather embarrassing… a grown man playing with trains.”
A model railway fills the entire floor space of the garage, twisting back and forth on different levels. There are mountains, rivers, roads, underpasses, tunnels, stations, hoardings, signposts, rolling stock, engines and carriages. The attention to detail is astonishing, right down to the tiny figures of people and animals; animate yet immobile, inhabiting a recreated world.
He has fashioned entire towns with factories, warehouses, railway yards, shops, post offices, restaurants and cinemas. Pedestrians are caught in mid-stride on crossings. Cars wait for the lights to change. Town hall clocks are poised, ready to strike the hour.
Along one wall I see his workbench. It is lined with off-cuts and panels of balsa wood, along with electric fittings, wires and racks of steel train tracks. Tiny pots of paint are arranged according to colors. A magnifying glass on a retractable arm bends above the bench, with a bright light behind it.
The detective constable has followed me inside and is studying the workmanship.
Even the cast-offs in the dustbin look perfect, yet some small defect or flaw must have consigned them to the scrapheap.
Mr. Martinez adjusts a figure that has fallen over on a platform—a stationmaster wearing a uniform and holding a flag.
“Only three tracks are running today,” he explains. “There are normally five. Would you like a tour?”
“Please.”
He takes me to the control panel and flicks several switches, setting more engines in motion. Boom gates open and close. Trains pause at level crossings. Whistles sound. Bells peal. The movement and sound seem to bring the models to life and I can almost imagine the little manikins moving.
“How long has this taken you?”
“A couple of years.”
“Is it finished?”
“I keep changing my mind and rebuilding things.”
“A work in progress?”
“A Sisyphean task.”
Grievous has picked up a dining carriage. “Hey, there are little people in here. You can see the food on their plates.”
“Please don’t touch,” says Mr. Martinez. “Some of the pieces are very delicate.”
The detective constable sets down the carriage, wiping a smudge of oil from his fingertips.
On the wall of the garage I notice a photograph of Emily. The image has been folded in the frame, concealing the other person in the shot.
“I was hoping to speak to Emily.”
“She’s at work today. She has a part-time job in Abingdon.”
“Can I ask you a question? Why did Emily want to run away?”
Mr. Martinez doesn’t react. He flicks more switches. Another train is set in motion. “It was during the divorce. They were difficult days.”
“Emily’s mother lives in London.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t share custody?”
Mr. Martinez pauses, squeezing his temple between this thumb and forefinger. “My wife attempted suicide a few years ago. It had been on the cards. Amanda had problems with alcohol and drug dependency, painkillers in the main. She stopped acting like a responsible adult, which is why I sued for custody.”
“She fought the case?”
“Yes, but common sense prevailed.”
“When did she attempt suicide, before or afterwards?”
His smile is long forgotten. “I don’t feel comfortable with a question like that.”
“I’m sorry. It came out the wrong way.”
“I doubt that, Professor. You don’t strike me as someone who speaks without thinking.”
“You have a slight American accent,” I say, changing the subject.
“I worked there for seven years. Amanda never really settled and her drinking got worse. I came home one day and she and Emily had packed up and come back to England.”
“You followed them.”
“Not immediately. My work was too important.”
“That must have been hard, being away from Emily.”
“I tried to get back and see her when I could. Amanda wouldn’t let Emily fly on her own to the States. In the end I sacrificed everything to come back—my research project, my funding.”
The trains are still circling, their lights flashing and whistles sounding.
“I did that for Emily because I could see what was happening. Amanda’s drinking had got worse. She went to AA for a while, but kept falling off the wagon. She had always been flighty and highly strung, but she’d become positively destructive. Popping pills. Blacking out. Twice Emily couldn’t wake her up and had to call an ambulance. That’s why I fought for Emily and I didn’t give up until I’d won her back.”
“You make her sound like a prize.”
He gives me the flattest of looks. “All children are gifts.”
“Your daughter wanted to run away.”