Say You're Sorry

by Michael Robotham

  He shakes his head, but I see a question mark ghost across his eyes. He dismisses it and pulls on his gloves.

  “It’s time you met Augie Shaw.”

  Until we went missing

  the worst thing that had ever happened in Bingham was when a German bomber overshot London by eighty miles and dropped its payload on a community hall where people were sheltering. The death toll was never made public—the government wanted to protect morale—but local historians said twenty-one people died.

  The next worst thing was the night that Aiden Foster ran down Callum Loach and crushed both his legs, which had to be amputated above his knees. Now he has these stumps, but mostly he wears prosthetic legs made of skin-colored plastic.

  Tash giggled at the term prosthetic. She thought it sounded like prophylactic, which is a fancy name for a condom. That reminded me of when our PE teacher (Miss Trunchbull) put a condom on a banana in sex-ed class. Tash raised her hand and said, “Why do we need protection from bananas, Miss?”

  I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. Tash got sent to see Mrs. Jacobson, the headmistress (otherwise known as Lady Adolf). Tash had been to see her so often she should have had a frequent offender’s card.

  Going missing made Tash and me popular. Sack loads of mail arrived at our houses: letters, cards, poems and pictures from mums, dads, children, churches and schools. The Prime Minister wrote. So did the Prince of Wales.

  When school started there were TV cameras outside the gates of St. Catherine’s. Most of our friends were interviewed: everyone except for Emily, who was kept away from the cameras. She was the other member of our gang. Emily Martinez. She’s six months older, slightly overweight and she says “Wow!” a lot. I didn’t like her at first because she had this Little Miss Perfect thing going. Then I felt sorry for her because her parents were getting a divorce and fighting over her.

  I never met her father—he was working in America—but her mum was pretty weird, always visiting doctors and therapists. Emily said she was highly strung, but Tash would tip up her hand, making a drinking motion.

  On the first day back at school there were trauma counselors fluttering around the playground like seagulls fighting over chips. They were telling students it was all right to be upset and they should share their feelings. TV cameras were given permission to film the school assembly when Mrs. Jacobson said a special prayer for us, getting a little wobble in her voice as she talked fondly about Tash and me.

  “Would you listen to her,” laughed Tash. “A month ago she couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

  “Now she wants you back.”

  “Sod that.”

  A month after we disappeared, George moved us from the attic room to this place. By then the police had stopped looking and everyone assumed that we’d run away. George no longer talked about ransom demands and money. He had rescued us, he said, like some noble knight in a fairy tale. He was going to protect us from all the temptations and evil in the world.

  You probably think we were stupid to believe his lies. Naive. Gullible. Moronic. Next time you’re drugged and locked in a basement, hungry, thirsty, frightened, then you can judge us. When you have cried as many tears as we did; when you’re huddled beneath a blanket with your mind twisted; when you don’t have the strength to disobey or disbelieve.

  He made us swallow some pills and we woke up in the basement. He cut the ladder so we couldn’t reach the trapdoor, not without his help, and we no longer had a TV or a skylight.

  When we were good he would leave the lights on. If we misbehaved he would turn them off. You have never known darkness like it; so thick I could have suffocated upon it; so deep it felt like a monster breathing in my ears.

  Our lives were managed and manipulated. George decided what we ate and what we wore. He controlled the light and air. There were times when he was kind and we could make fun of him. We could give him shopping lists and tease him into bringing us magazines and extra food.

  “I don’t want you getting fat,” he said, as he rationed the chocolate.

  The magazines were read cover to cover, over and over. There were new faces, new movies, new fashions, but also the familiar. Brad and Angelina. Posh and Becks. Elton and David. The world wasn’t changing so much. Prince William married Kate Middleton. Pippa’s bottom became famous.

  We had no way of knowing if we were close to home. I still don’t. It could be miles away. It could be just past the trees. I know there’s a railway line nearby because I can hear the trains when the wind is blowing in the right direction.

  I miss Tash. I miss being able to reach between our bunks and hold her hand. I miss hearing her voice. I miss watching her sleep.

  George hasn’t come to see me since she ran away and I know he’s going to be angry. That’s why Tash has to come back soon with the police… before George does.

  I’m running out of food and there’s hardly any gas left in the bottle.

  My handwriting is getting messier, because it’s so cold. I can’t feel my fingers, which makes it hard to hold the pencil. When the point gets worn down, I scrape the lead gently across the bricks to sharpen it.

  Writing keeps me sane, but Tash didn’t have anything like that.

  She was getting sicker and sicker. Not eating. Chewing her nails until they bled.

  That’s why she had to get out.

  4

  Augie Shaw is sitting at a table, propped forward on his elbows, staring at himself in the mirror. He can’t see me behind his reflection yet he seems to be gazing directly into my eyes.

  Mirrors have an interesting effect in interview rooms. People struggle to lie when they can see themselves doing it. They become more self-conscious as they try to sound more convincing and truthful.

  Augie is up now, pacing, talking to himself using gestures and grimaces as though conducting an internal dialogue. Taller than I imagined, he walks with an odd-legged shuffle, his hair falling over one eye.

  Pausing at the mirror, he leans towards it, arching his eyebrows and lowering them. He has large eyes and a broad forehead, handsome features on most men. His hands are wrapped in white gauze and he’s wearing a blue paper boiler suit.

  “Where are his clothes?” I ask.

  “We’ve taken them for analysis,” says Drury.

  Augie presses his hands together and closes his eyes as if praying.

  “He’s religious,” says Drury. “Goes to a Pentecostal church in town—one of those happy clappy places.”

  “I take it you’re not a believer.”

  “I’m all in favor of redemption. It’s the lemming-like leaps of faith that worry me.”

  Opening the door, I step inside. Augie’s eyes skitter from the walls to the floor, but never to me. There is a smell about him. Sweat. Talcum.

  I take a seat and ask Augie to sit down. He looks at the chair suspiciously and then folds himself down into it, with his knees facing sideways towards the door.

  “My name is Joe. I’m a clinical psychologist. Have you talked to someone like me before?”

  “I see Dr. Victoria.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I’m not suggesting you did.”

  “Why are you staring at me? You think I’ve done something wrong. You’re going to blame me. That’s why you brought me here.”

  “Relax, Augie, I just want to talk.”

  “You’re going to kill me or electrocute me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “They do that in some countries.”

  “We don’t have the death penalty in Britain, Augie.”

  He nods, running his hands down his hair, flattening his fringe.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “My hands hurt.”

  “Do you need painkillers?”

  “The doctor gave me some pills.”

  “How did you burn them?”

  “There was a fire.”

  I don’t ask
him about how it started. Instead, I focus on getting a history. He lives with his mother in Bingham. He was born in the area, left school at sixteen and has since done odd jobs as a laborer or farmhand. The Heymans hired him to cut wood and mow their lawns. He repaired some of their fences.

  “Why did you stop working for them?”

  Augie fidgets, scratching at the gauze on his hands. Minutes pass. I try again.

  “You were sacked. What happened?”

  “Ask Mrs. H.”

  “How can I do that, Augie? Mrs. Heyman is dead. The police think you killed her.”

  “No, no.”

  “That’s why you’re here.”

  He blinks at me. “She’s with God. I’m going to pray for her.”

  “Do you pray a lot?”

  “Every day.”

  “What do you ask God for?”

  “Forgiveness.”

  “Why do you need to be forgiven?”

  “Not for me—for the sinners.”

  “Why were you at the farmhouse?”

  “Mrs. H told me to come.”

  “Did she call you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The phone lines were down, Augie. There was a terrible storm. How did she call you?”

  “She told me to come.”

  “When did she call you?”

  “The day before.”

  He makes it sound so obvious.

  I take him over the details. He borrowed his mother’s car and drove to the farmhouse, almost missing the turn because it was snowing so heavily. He couldn’t drive all the way to the house because of the snow, so he stopped and walked the rest of the way.

  “The house was dark. There was no power. I saw a light in the upstairs window but it was strange, you know, not like a lamp or a candle.” He covers his ears. “I heard her screaming.”

  “Mrs. Heyman?”

  Augie nods. “I bashed down the door. Hurt my shoulder. I went up the stairs, but the flames pushed me back.”

  He starts to hyperventilate as though breathing in smoke and holds his hands against his forehead, hitting his temple.

  “How did you burn your hands?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you hit Mr. Heyman?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Did you start the fire?”

  “No, no.”

  Without warning, he stands and walks to the far side of the room, whispering to himself, arguing.

  “Are you talking to someone, Augie?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Who is it?”

  He crouches and peers past me as though something is creeping up behind me like a pantomime wolf.

  “Tell me about your brother.”

  He hesitates. “Can you see him too?”

  “No. Tell me about him.”

  “Sometimes he steals my memories.”

  “Is that all he does?”

  “He warns me about people.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says they’re trying to poison me.”

  “What people?”

  “It’s in the air.”

  “Why did you really go to the farmhouse, Augie?”

  “To get my wages.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Augie puts his bandaged hands together, as though pleading with me. A flush on the back of his neck spreads to his hairline.

  “God will judge me if I’m lying.”

  “God can’t help you now.”

  “He can. He must.”

  “Why?”

  “Who else is going to stop the devil?”

  Drury’s office is on the second floor. No posters. Minimal furniture. I expect to see commendations and photographs on the walls, but instead he has a whiteboard with timelines, names and photographs—a murder tree as opposed to a family tree.

  Condensation beads the window and tiny splinters of ice seem to be trapped within the glass. The DCI leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, brushing lint from his trousers.

  “So what do you make of him?”

  “He’s delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”

  “You diagnosed that in an hour?”

  “I diagnosed that in five minutes.”

  Drury drains a plastic bottle of water, tossing it towards the bin. “How do I interview him?”

  “Right now he’s locked into damage control. He’s strong physically but not psychologically. Keep the sessions short with plenty of breaks. Don’t hammer certain points—let him reveal the story in his own way. If he gets upset, let him retreat. Treat him like a victim not a perpetrator.”

  “Will he confess?”

  “He’s saying he didn’t do it.”

  “But that’s bullshit, right?”

  “He’s hiding something but I don’t know what that is.”

  Fierceness fills the detective’s eyes and he looks at me with a mixture of impatience and irritation. He gets up, walks round the desk, his body humming with tension.

  “It was the worst blizzard in a century yet this kid drives a mile through the storm. I think he went there for revenge. He was obsessed with the daughter. He was angry about being sacked. We can put him at the scene. He had the motive and the opportunity.”

  “Whoever did this didn’t panic. They tried to destroy any evidence with bleach and fire. This is organized thinking. Higher intellect. That doesn’t sound like Augie Shaw.”

  “How did his hands get burned?”

  “He tried to save her.”

  “He fled the scene.”

  “He panicked.”

  The DCI has heard enough. “This is bullshit! Augie Shaw murdered the husband and then raped the wife. He wanted revenge. He killed those poor people and I’m going to prove it.” Drury opens the door. “Thanks for your help, Professor. I’ll have a car drop you back to your hotel.”

  I pick up my jacket and look at my shoes. A line of mud has dried on the leather uppers above the sole.

  “Didn’t something about the scene strike you as odd?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Heymans weren’t drinkers. The only alcohol they had in the house was that bottle of Scotch. It was sitting on the mantelpiece, freshly opened.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t open a twenty-year-old single malt for a man you’ve just sacked.”

  “It was cold. The power was out. Maybe the Heymans wanted a tipple.”

  “There were three mugs. Only one of them smelled of Scotch.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “There was a blanket on the floor in front of the fire. Somebody was sitting near the hearth, getting warm. Drying her shoes. Ballet flats. Size six. Mother and daughter are both size eight.”

  Drury is listening now. We’re walking down the corridor towards the lifts.

  “A dress in the laundry tub was two sizes too small for Mrs. Heyman.”

  “Maybe her daughter—”

  “Is a size 12. I looked in her wardrobe.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”

  “Somebody ran a bath upstairs. There was an extra towel. The bathroom window was broken.”

  “You’re ignoring the obvious and fixating on an extra towel and a dress size.”

  “What about the missing dog?”

  “It ran away from the fire. Died in the blizzard.”

  There is a long pause: an uncomfortable silence. Drury presses the lift button impatiently. A small vein on his forehead is beating out a tattoo.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” I ask.

  He smiles wryly. “That’s a benefit of reaching my rank. I don’t have to like people.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve said something to upset you.”

  “Upset me, no. I think you like disagreeing with people, Professor, because it makes you feel superior or smarter than everybody else. But contrary to what you might think, I’m not some dim-witted plod who doesn’t read books and thin
ks Joan of Arc was Noah’s wife.”

  It’s a good line. It reminds me of something a friend of mine might have said: Vincent Ruiz, a former detective inspector with a flair for the telling phrase.

  “Do you know how many murders I’ve investigated?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “How many bodies I’ve seen?”

  “No.”

  “Stabbed, shot, strangled, drowned, poisoned, electrocuted; tossed off cliffs, shoved in barrels, cut up in bathtubs, wrapped in carpets, burned in cars and fed to pigs. You think you understand people, Professor, but I’ve seen what they can do. I understand more about human behavior than you ever will.”

  The lift has arrived. The doors open.

  “What is your wife’s name?” I ask.

  The DCI pauses. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I was just thinking that you should change that shirt before you go home. You’ve been wearing it since yesterday, which means you didn’t go home last night. You were with another woman, at her place. Lipstick—left side of the collar, below your ear. You didn’t have a spare shirt so you wore this one again and sprayed it with her deodorant.

  “I also noticed the box of chocolates in your office—expensive, Belgian—for your wife. You must like this mistress a lot, but you don’t want the affair to wreck your marriage. Good luck with that…”

  Drury hasn’t moved a muscle.

  “Dead bodies don’t interest me, DCI. I deal with the living.”

  There is a difference between

  a runaway girl and a missing one. Runaways are like spare change lost down a crack in the sofa. You might find it eventually, but it’s not like winning the lottery.

  We slipped through the cracks, disappeared from the headlines. Out of sight, out of mind. George said that nobody cared except him. He was our guardian now. He would look after us.

  I wanted to believe him. There were times when I looked forward to hearing him moving boxes and uncovering the trapdoor. Tash always hated him. She knew him better than I did. She knew more about men… what they wanted, what they did.

  We were an odd couple, but that didn’t stop Tash and me from being friends. I walked like a pigeon. She walked like a model. I wore shorts and trainers. She mini-skirts and platform shoes. I was into running. She thought sport was a waste of time.