Mrs. McBain looks at him and then at me. “But on the radio they said it was a woman.”
“It was definitely Natasha. I am very sorry for your loss.”
Alice shakes her head. Her eyes show no emotion, no focus. She understands the news, but doesn’t feel it yet.
“Natasha is dead, Mum,” says Hayden.
There is a groan deep in her chest. She puts one fist and then a second over her mouth, pressing them to her lips. She looks at me, wanting confirmation, fearing everything beyond this moment.
Almost as quickly her grief seems to evaporate. She drops her hands and places them in her lap. She’s not angry with Drury. She’s not hurling insults or making accusations or laying blame. Humble and undemanding, she lowers her gaze to the faded carpet.
“Was she raped?” Hayden asks.
“I can’t discuss the nature of her injuries,” says Drury.
“It’s been three years—where has she been?”
“We don’t know.”
Drury turns to Alice.
“I have to ask you some questions. I know it’s difficult. Had you heard anything from Natasha?”
She shakes her head.
“No phone calls? Letters? Emails?”
“No.”
“Did anyone ever call and hang up?”
“No.”
“I need to talk to your husband, Mrs. McBain.”
“He’s not my husband anymore.”
“I still need to talk to him.”
Hayden interrupts. “I’ll give you his address.”
Alice sniffles and twists the sleeve of her cardigan. “How did my baby die?”
“She drowned in a lake. She was caught out in the blizzard.”
“What was she doing out there?”
“We think she may have been trying to get home. Radley Lakes aren’t far from the farmhouse.”
A faint vibration comes off Alice, as though something is spinning inside her at a terrible soundless speed.
“She was coming home?”
“That’s just one theory.” Drury acknowledges me and goes back to Alice. “Did Natasha know a man called Augie Shaw?”
Hayden stiffens. “Is that the bastard who took her?”
“Please just answer the question.”
Hayden gets to his feet, pulling forward and back like a dog jerking against a leash.
“What did he do to her?”
“I know you’re angry, son. That’s understandable in the circumstances, but you have to leave this to us.”
Hayden isn’t listening. “I saw him on the news. He killed them people in our old house. Did he take our Tash? What did he do to her?”
Drury looks at Alice, hoping she might intervene, but she seems to be wrestling with the news, fighting her emotions.
The DCI tries again. “Did Natasha know William and Patricia Heyman?”
Alice shakes her head.
“What about their daughter, Flora?”
“I don’t know.”
Hayden picks up a cushion from the floor and holds it against his chest as he paces. Alice stares at the muted TV as though lip-reading.
She whispers. “You read those stories, don’t you, of people who never give up hope. Who never stop believing that their children are coming home…” She takes a deep breath. “I stopped believing. I gave up on Tash. I should have had more faith.”
“There’s nothing you could have done,” says Drury.
“Do you know how often I just sat holding the phone, willing it to ring? I did it for weeks, months, nearly a year. Until I finally convinced myself that she was dead. I stopped praying. I stopped thinking she was alive. In the darkest part of the darkest night, I abandoned my little girl… and all the time she was alive. She was trying to get home.”
A sob breaks inside her chest. “I want to see her.”
“I don’t think that’s—”
“I want to see my Natasha.”
“You have to understand—she’s been away a long time—she doesn’t look like she once did.”
“I don’t care. She’s my daughter.”
Drury glances at me, wanting me to dissuade Alice, but I’ve seen grief in many forms and this mother knows her mind. It’s not that Alice doesn’t believe Drury or that she’s clinging to some irrational hope that Tash might still be alive. She wants to say sorry. She wants to say goodbye.
The DCI relents. “In the meantime, I’m going to assign a family liaison officer. She’ll keep you informed of developments. For the time being we won’t be releasing any information to the media. We’d prefer, for the sake of the investigation, that nobody knows it was Natasha in the lake. We have to re-interview witnesses and check alibis. I’m sure you understand.”
“For how long?” Hayden asks, treating it like an imposition.
Drury stands to leave. “Just a few days.”
“Before we go,” I interrupt. “I have a few questions for Mrs. McBain.”
Alice blinks at me, as though taken by surprise.
“I wanted to ask you about Natasha.”
“What about her?”
“What was she like? I’ve seen the photographs and read the statements but I want to hear it from you… in your own words.”
Hayden looks at me incredulously. “What difference does it make now? She’s dead!”
Ignoring him, I focus on Alice. “I’m a psychologist. I’m trying to understand what happened. By knowing more about Natasha, I can learn things about the man who took her.”
“You think she’s to blame for this?”
“No.”
Hayden wants to protest but Alice touches his forearm with her fingertips. He swallows his anger, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Meanwhile, Alice begins talking softly, describing Natasha. Instead of physical details, she mentions moments, relationships, loves. Natasha had a dog. She got him as a puppy on her twelfth birthday, a Jack Russell. She called him Basher. They used to go everywhere together.
“Tash even smuggled him to school one day.” Alice smiles. “She could be a terror, but she was a good student, our Tash. Clever. Easily bored. They said she was expelled, but the school would have taken her back. Mrs. Jacobson told me so.”
“How did she get on with her father?”
“They had their moments.”
“Moments?”
Alice falters. “You try to set boundaries, you know. Kids try to cross them. Tash wanted to grow up too quick. Couldn’t wait for anything.”
“Did she have boyfriends?”
“She was popular.”
“Did she ever take drugs?”
Her eyes narrow and Hayden answers for her.
“What the fuck does that matter? You can’t come in here and say shit like that. She’s dead! What sort of moron—”
“Mind your language,” says Alice. “There’s no need for swearing. The man is just trying to do his job.”
Hayden falls silent. Seething.
A car pulls up outside the house. I can hear the doof doof bass beat from its sound system, cranked up and shaking the air. Moments later the doorbell rings. There are male voices. Laughter. The letterbox flap opens.
“Hey, Hayden, we know you’re in there.”
“Not now, I’m busy.”
“This is business.”
Hayden almost trips over the coffee table trying to reach the door. Cursing, he tells them to leave; mentions the police; more expletives.
Alice stands slowly and looks at Drury. “I have to go to work now,” she says, almost moving from memory.
She extends her hand. “I want to thank you. A lot of people made promises to us when my Tash went missing. Not many of those promises were kept. I want to thank you for bringing her home.”
In the entrance hall, Drury pulls on his overcoat and stumbles slightly, bracing himself against the wall. His eyes are shining. Tilting his head back, he stares at the ceiling.
“That woman just thanked me for finding her daughter dead.”
“I know.”
“I hate this job.”
As we leave the house, the car is still parked outside, a Vauxhall Cavalier, music blaring, tinted windows at half-mast. Two white youths are leaning on the open doors, hands deep in their pockets, hoodies like cowls.
Drury wanders across the muddy grass. He knows their names. They laugh too loudly at nothing at all, grinning at each other. The balance of power is evident. The big one is in his mid-twenties, older by five years, with a shaved head. His mate is skinny with fairer skin and a nervous twitch that sends his eyes sideways as though he’s constantly looking for reassurance.
Drury returns and slips behind the wheel.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“The local wildlife,” he says. “The tall one is Toby Kroger. He’s a big man on the Blackbird Leys estate, a drug dealer and a pimp. We picked him up two years ago for living off immoral earnings, but the two girls he put on the game refused to give evidence against him.
“The skinny one is Craig Gould. He’s a musician with more talent than he deserves. Plays the saxophone. We arrested him a year ago with a vial of Rohypnol in his pocket. He likes his girlfriends to be comatose.”
Drury starts the engine and puts the car into gear. “I could arrest guys like that every day of the week, but it wouldn’t make any difference. They’re floaters.”
“Floaters?”
“Turds that don’t flush.”
13
Abingdon Police Station never sleeps. Shifts change. Fresh faces replace tired ones. Doors swing open and close behind us. Drury ignores greetings or dismisses them. Reaching the incident room, he throws his coat over a chair and yells to the assembled detectives. A briefing. Fifteen minutes.
I’m to wait in his office. Not touch anything. There is a whiteboard with photographs of the farmhouse and the victims. Natasha McBain’s image has been placed off-center, as though peripheral to the main investigation, yet now she is at the heart of it.
Taking a seat, I glance around the room. A cupboard door is open. There are press clippings stuck on the inside of the door, a bravery citation, photographs of a medal ceremony. Drury is bowing to the Queen. The office door opens before I can read the caption. The DCI is carrying two mugs of tea, presenting one to me like it’s a peace offering.
He takes a seat behind his desk.
“OK, let’s assume you’re right and Natasha was at the farmhouse that night. What happened?”
“She arrived during the blizzard. Wet. Cold. They drew her a bath. Found her fresh clothes. Dried her shoes in front of the fire. William Heyman tried to phone the police, but the switchboard was overwhelmed.”
“And then Augie Shaw showed up?”
“Someone did.”
A church bell is ringing somewhere. Drury scratches the short hair on the back of his neck.
“Half my team worked on the original investigation.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Decisions were made based on the best available evidence. The girls were classed as runaways. When they didn’t turn up after three months the chief constable assigned a smaller task force but the trail had gone cold. Questions are going to be asked. Fingers pointed. This could cost people their careers.”
“Is that your priority?”
The DCI bristles, opening his mouth and closing it again, his lips like thin lines.
“I’m not here to judge anyone,” I say. “I’m reviewing the evidence not the investigation.”
Drury grunts, unconvinced.
The landscape has changed since the girls went missing. The science has improved. Offenders will have grown complacent. People will have forgotten their motive for lying. Lovers give alibis but ex-lovers take them back. I could make these arguments, but I doubt if Drury will listen. He’s protecting his patch and the reputations of his colleagues.
“I’ll probably regret this, Professor, but I’m going to give you full access. Don’t turn this into a witch hunt. What do you need?”
“I want to visit the farmhouse again.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll need the files from the original investigation,” I say. “Statements. Timelines. Phone wheels.”
“You’re talking about more than three thousand statements.”
“I’ll get some help.”
Drury swallows something spiky and hard. “Tell Grievous what you need.”
“I also want to re-interview some of the original witnesses. Talk to the families, filter out some of the biases.”
“You think they lied?”
“People edit out the negatives when they lose someone they love. You heard Alice McBain talk about her daughter. I need to learn everything I can about Natasha and Piper. What sort of girls were they? Were they streetwise, or naive, aggressive or compliant, introverts or extroverts? Did they have boyfriends or ex-boyfriends? Were they sexually promiscuous?”
“You’re suggesting these girls were somehow complicit?”
“I’m saying that some women—even young ones—draw attention to themselves. Some are sexually provocative, deliberately or unwittingly. Others are more self-effacing. I need to know Natasha and Piper as though they were sitting opposite me. By knowing them, I can learn why they were chosen—”
“You think they were chosen?”
“Yes.”
Drury breathes deeply, loosening his shoulders, staring at me.
“I’ve met people like you before, Professor. You study crime scenes and photographs, thinking you can commune with the killer; trying to understand the whys and the wherefores. Me? I don’t care about knowing the bastard. I just want to catch him.”
Two dozen detectives are gathered in a rough circle, sitting on desks and chairs. They share the same kind of intimacy as soldiers and emergency workers—friendships forged in the heat of battle or during long shifts doing dirty and dangerous work. Not elitist or self-anointed, just tight.
Drury calls for their attention.
“Listen up, lads. Some of you may have heard a rumor about the unidentified white female whose body was found after the blizzard. We now have a positive ID. Her name was Natasha McBain.”
The air pressure in the room has suddenly changed, as though someone has opened a distant door letting a cold wind blow through the corridors.
“I am now going to confirm something else,” continues Drury. “The rumors stop now! Nobody—and I repeat, nobody—talks to the media. I’m declaring a total news blackout on this case. Whatever you get asked, the answer is ‘no comment.’ I don’t care if it’s your wife asking the question, you say nothing. Is that understood?”
Nobody interrupts.
“I want to know where Natasha McBain has been for the last three years. Go back over the files. Names. Dates. Places. I want a full list of suspects from the first investigation. Where are they now? What have they been doing?
“We’re going to search the crime scenes again—the farmhouse and the lakes. Uniformed officers and civilian volunteers are being bused in within the hour. The dog squad will try to pick up the scent using Natasha’s clothes. Nobody mentions her name. As far as anyone is concerned we’re still dealing with an unidentified white female.”
A voice from the back: “What about Augie Shaw?”
“He’s going nowhere. Find out if he knew Natasha McBain or Piper Hadley.”
“And the Heymans?”
“Victims in one crime, suspects in another—it’s not the first time.” The DCI looks at Casey. “What about the prints at the farmhouse?”
“We pulled sixty decent samples from the house and have eliminated all but fourteen of them.”
“Augie Shaw?”
“A palm print in the kitchen.”
“Anything upstairs.”
“There’s a partial on the bedroom door.”
“Find out who else has been in the house in the past month. Tradesmen. Friends. Family. What about the semen stains?”
“DNA results will
take another two days. The daughter says her parents had separate bedrooms and weren’t sleeping together.”
“Kids don’t know everything. Maybe they were loved up behind her back.”
Another detective speaks. “There were traces of diluted blood on the broken bathroom window and in the kitchen sink. We’ll have to wait for the results.”
Drury looks at another detective. “What about the family finances?”
“A mortgage. Manageable.”
“Good.” Drury slaps a folder against his thigh. “At the behest of the chief constable, we are to welcome back Professor O’Loughlin. He is to be afforded every reasonable assistance but don’t get carried away with his theories. We’re going to solve this case through good, solid detective work, by knocking on doors and interviewing witnesses.”
Point made, Drury doesn’t look at me.
“I’m splitting the task force. DS Casey will continue to run the investigation into the double murder at the farmhouse. I’ll be in charge of the Natasha McBain investigation, but overseeing both.”
He rattles off names, assigning detectives their new roles.
“Let’s do this,” he says, turning and leaving quickly, only letting his mask slip when he reaches the corridor. I see the glaze of uncertainty dulling his eyes like Vaseline smeared on a lens.
Sometimes I wonder why detectives do this work. What pleasure is there in it? Even the satisfaction of solving a case just means another one is waiting. There is never a cessation of hostilities or a negotiated truce, never ultimate victory.
Eventually, the eternal nature of the struggle wears them down—the circle of cause and effect, crime and punishment, guilt and innocence, victims and perpetrators. You don’t stop feeling—you just wish you could.
I was born on Mother’s Day and
Mum used to say I was the best Mother’s Day present in the world. She said things like that when other people could hear her, but never when it was just me listening.
We didn’t talk. We competed. We argued. We loved each other. But we hated each other too.
My mother was the world champion at making smiley comments about my hair or my weight or my bra size, slicing and dicing my self-confidence. And she was never happier than when dancing through the tulip fields of the bleeding obvious.
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