Say You're Sorry Part 40

"I was with my brother."

"No, you weren't."

He opens the door and strides along the corridor. I try to block his path.

"Listen, Vic, the police are looking at you now. They're going to pick apart your life. They're not going to stop until they find something. Where were you during the blizzard?"

He steps around me and crosses the foyer, reaching the main doors, which slide open automatically. Reporters and photographers have surrounded a car outside. Sarah and Dale Hadley appear from the open doors, quickly flanked by detectives, who shepherd them into the station.

Vic McBain stops and steps back as the couple approach the door. Sarah Hadley looks up and their eyes meet. She looks away. In that moment something pa.s.ses between them-a knowledge that goes beyond the familiar. Pain. Hurt.

Sarah pa.s.ses through the revolving door and takes hold of her husband's hand. There are hairline cracks in the make-up around her lips. McBain watches her, studying her body as she enters the lift and the doors close. Turning, he pushes past the media scrum, head down, his shoulders hunched.

I have seen that look. I have seen it in the mirror. I saw it last night in Drury's eyes when he couldn't comfort Victoria. It diminishes a man when he can't make a woman happy... when he makes her unhappy. The world is no longer rich and colorful. All he can see is the poverty of things.

How did it happen? I wonder. I picture Sarah Hadley standing beside Piper's bed, holding an article of her clothing, as if discovering something new about her daughter. Recalling the best moments. Trying to keep her alive. She clutched at every piece of misinformation and rumor, consulting psychics and fortune-tellers. Vic McBain introduced her to one of his girlfriends who claimed to have the gift. She told Sarah the girls were alive. She gave her comfort. Hope.

Mourning can be lonely. Grief can be shared. Sarah couldn't look at her husband because he reminded her too much of Piper. Vic McBain understood. And then one night they came together, most probably in some out-of-the-way hotel room or a clumsy adolescent-style coupling in the back seat of a car. I don't know who seduced whom. It doesn't matter. Vic McBain had made it possible for Sarah to be herself again-not the campaigning mother or the media spokesperson or the woman locals took pity upon when they saw her pus.h.i.+ng a trolley in the supermarket...

She could escape the whispers and stares, becoming anonymous for a few hours, suspended between fantasy and reality, feeling pleasure instead of loss, or perhaps feeling nothing at all.

For all her campaigning and sacrifice, Sarah Hadley has a streak of self-loathing that is wider than the M25. She married an unattractive man with money, a man who loved her, but she didn't feel the same way about him. She f.u.c.ked her way to the middle rather than the top. She could have accepted that and slept in the bed she made, but then her daughter went missing and she blamed herself, thinking she deserved to be unhappy. She deserved a marriage on life support and sordid s.e.x in a cheap hotel room overlooking a cut-rate carpet warehouse.

Vic McBain has reached the corner and is waiting for the lights to change. I catch up with him.

"I know what you're hiding," I say.

He doesn't answer.

"Just tell me one thing. After that I promise I'll leave you alone. On the night of the blizzard, were you with Sarah Hadley?"

He blinks at me, a strong, silent man, lost for answers.

"I'm not going to tell her husband," I say. "n.o.body else has to know."

He wipes a finger across the corner of each eye.

"She deserves better than me," he says. "She deserves to find her daughter."

33.

Behind the gla.s.s door of the conference room a volley of flashguns are blasting light through the frosted panels. From outside it looks like a gunfight without the noise. Reporters and photographers are crammed into the overheated room, taking up every vantage point.

Dale and Sarah Hadley enter through a side door. The light seems to imprison them. Phoebe is clutching her mother's hand, eyes downcast. The younger children have been left at home, cared for by friends or relatives.

The family are seated at a long table. Camera shutters continue clicking. Once again Piper Hadley has captured the nation's attention. For a second time her fate is being debated across garden fences, in pubs and office canteens. Comparisons are being drawn with other high-profile kidnappings, names like Sabine Dardenne, Elizabeth Smart and Natascha Kampusch; the miraculously returned.

DCI Drury takes a seat beside the Hadleys. He waits for the camera shutters to fall silent.

"The body recovered from Radley Lakes six days ago has been identified using dental records and next of kin of the deceased have been notified. I am now in a position to formally release the name. We are investigating the death of Natasha McBain, aged eighteen, who went missing from the village of Bingham on the weekend of August 30, 2008. The official cause of death is drowning."

There is another volley of flashguns.

"We have reason to believe that Natasha was kept imprisoned somewhere prior to her death. Her former home, a farmhouse outside Bingham, was the scene of a double homicide on Sat.u.r.day evening. We are now certain that Natasha was at the farmhouse at some point that evening. We don't know if she played a role in the deaths of William Heyman and his wife Patricia, but it appears that she fled from the farmhouse before the fire started and fell through a frozen lake, succ.u.mbing to the cold.

"As I'm sure everyone is aware-Natasha McBain didn't disappear on her own. Another teenage girl also went missing that day: Piper Hadley, then aged fifteen. On behalf of the families I want to appeal for public help in both these cases.

"Someone knows what happened to Piper. Somebody knows where she and Natasha were held. Perhaps you've seen the girls or you've seen someone acting suspiciously. It could be a friend or a neighbor or a loved one who has a secret life, a bas.e.m.e.nt or a lock-up that you're not allowed to visit. Someone who keeps strange hours."

Drury pauses.

"I have more than eighty officers and volunteers searching the surrounding farmland. We're using helicopters, tracker dogs and ground-penetrating radar. The search will continue until we have ruled out every possibility."

A reporter yells from the floor, "Has there been any contact?"

"No."

"Do you have any proof that Piper is alive?"

"No."

"So she could be dead?"

Sarah Hadley confronts the questioner with steel in her voice. "Our daughter is alive."

Drury puts a hand on her shoulder. Sarah falls silent.

"The chief constable has ordered a review of the original investigation in light of the new information. In particular, we are seeking witnesses who may have seen Piper Hadley and Natasha McBain on the evening of Sat.u.r.day, August 30, 2008. That was the last night of the Bingham Summer Festival." Drury looks directly at the TV cameras. "Did you see the girls? Did you talk to them? Did you see them getting into a car? Please ignore past information that has been made public. Whatever you may have heard or read, don't a.s.sume the police know everything about the last movements of Piper and Natasha."

Drury takes a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolds it on the table.

"I'm going to take the unusual step today of releasing details of a psychological profile drawn up by Professor Joseph O'Loughlin-a clinical psychologist who has been a.s.sisting our investigation. I'm not going to release the full profile for operational reasons, but I will give certain details, which I hope will trigger memories or encourage witnesses to come forward.

"According to Professor O'Loughlin, the suspect we are looking for is likely to be aged between thirty-five and fifty-five, of above average intelligence, with a detailed knowledge of the area. This wasn't a random kidnapping-he chose Piper and Natasha for a reason. He may well know them.

"He is likely to live alone or in a domestic arrangement where n.o.body questions his movements or unexplained absences. He has an isolated house or a secret room or bas.e.m.e.nt where he was holding Natasha McBain. He brought her food, water, clothing... someone must have seen him come and go.

"He was out in the blizzard last Sat.u.r.day night. Perhaps you saw him. He may have smelled of smoke or had stained clothing. Please come forward if you have any information."

Again the questions start and Drury raises his hand, calling for quiet.

"Please, I will leave time for questions. For the moment, can we let Mr. and Mrs. Hadley speak?"

He pushes the microphone along the table. Dale Hadley leans forward.

"First of all, I want... I mean, we want... we want to thank the public for its support and kindness. We also want to offer our condolences to Natasha's family and say how sorry we are that she didn't make it home. I know they never gave up hope." He takes Sarah's hand. "Neither have we. That's why we're appealing for your help. Whoever did this has torn my family apart. So if you do know something, if you suspect someone, if you have seen or heard something suspicious, please pick up the phone."

The flashguns are firing, revealing every tic and tremor, pain measured in micro-expressions. Sarah takes the microphone. There is something cold and brittle about her, like ice forming into crystals. The search is what sustains her. It is the sinew that holds her together. Everything else might crumble, but not her desire to find Piper. She will not rest. She will not sleep. She has to know the truth.

I have experienced that sense of certainty. When Gideon Tyler kidnapped Charlie. When he knocked her from her pushbike and chained her to a sink with masking tape wrapped around her head and a breathing tube in her mouth. When these things happened, I remember how my throat tightened and my bowels liquefied and panic carved through my soft organs. But I knew one thing for certain. I would never stop looking until I found her.

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."

My 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 squas.h.i.+ng 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.a.d.i.s.tic p.r.i.c.k 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.