Say You're Sorry

by Michael Robotham

  Aiden kept going. Gravel spraying.

  Callum lay on the tarmac with his arms flung wide, blood in his hair, and an innocent trickle coming from the corner of his mouth.

  Tash screamed. She kept screaming, even when she didn’t make a sound. It was like that painting of the melting face screaming. Munch. We studied it in art. That’s what she looked like.

  I grabbed Tash and pulled her away. I pulled her along the road. I left her sitting on the grass and then ran between houses, hammering on doors, screaming at people to call an ambulance.

  Emily was there. I’d almost forgotten about her. She kept wailing that her mum was going to kill her and that her dad would use it as another excuse to get custody.

  Doors opened and people came out onto the street. I don’t remember their faces. I wanted to run. I know it sounds stupid, but I thought if I could run fast enough, I could stay ahead of what had happened. That Callum wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t have to see him tumbling through the air and hear the sound of his body hitting the tarmac.

  He wasn’t dead, but I didn’t know that then. An ambulance took him to hospital and the doctors induced a coma, keeping him alive with machines that kept his heart pumping. But they couldn’t save his legs. The bones had been crushed and one was already partially amputated, so they kept going and finished the job.

  These memories are flooding back to me, filling my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I take a big gulp of air and look at my hands, which are bunched so tightly that my fingernails have left red marks on my skin.

  Muddy light has broken through the gloom outside the window. Another day begins.

  21

  Isaac McBain lives in a shack on the edge of a building yard that smells of mildew and wet wood. Ruiz knocks on the door, but there’s no answer.

  I peer through the dirty front window. In the gloom I see a living room full of indistinct lumps of furniture, a bar fridge and a fifty-inch flat screen. The man has his priorities. Along one wall is a record collection: hundreds of vinyl albums stacked upright on shelves; a lifetime of music, catalogued into genres and filed alphabetically.

  “Can I help you, lads?”

  The voice belongs to a big man with tight curls, who is standing behind a wire fence. Dressed in a Nike sweatshirt, baggy trousers and expensive trainers, he’s holding a bull terrier on a shortened leash. The dog lunges at the fence, all fangs and fury but no bark. The animal’s voice box has been removed or damaged in a fight. The man jerks at the chain, hauling the terrier off its feet.

  “We’re looking for Isaac McBain,” I say.

  “Who told you he was here?”

  “His son.”

  Most of the man’s attention is focused on Ruiz.

  “Are you debt collectors?”

  “No.”

  “You work for the Connolly brothers?”

  “No.”

  This must be Vic McBain. Natasha’s uncle.

  “It’s about Natasha,” I say. “Did Isaac tell you?”

  “Yeah, he told me. What was Natasha doing at Radley Lakes?”

  “We don’t know.”

  There is another long pause. The bull terrier has calmed down.

  “Nice dog,” says Ruiz.

  “He could rip your throat out.”

  “Must be good around the kids.”

  Vic rubs his mouth. “You look like a copper.”

  “Used to be,” says Ruiz. “Now I’m doing a bit of freelance work. Better hours. Fewer rules.”

  “Isaac didn’t turn up for work today. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Any idea where he’d be?” I ask.

  “Drunk by now. Self-medication. Dulls the pain.”

  “Where does he normally drink?”

  “The White Swan in Abingdon.”

  Vic McBain turns away and walks back through the muddy building yard, between the racks of scaffolding pipes and lumber. The dog limps after him, nosing at a metal drum and casually cocking a back leg.

  The White Swan is one of those pubs you won’t find unless you’re a local or a lost traveler. We had to ask twice for directions. The only interior lighting consists of the neon tubes above the bar and the ambient glow from two open doors that are marked oxymoronically as ladies and gents.

  The barmaid has punked blue hair, shaved on one side, and black fingernail polish.

  Ruiz leans fully over the bar, studying the taps. “The sign outside says you have a fine collection of real ales.”

  “So?”

  “You have one hand-pump of Morland’s Original. That’s hardly what I call a selection.”

  She looks at me. “What’s his problem?”

  “He thinks he’s a connoisseur.”

  Isaac McBain is sitting at the far end of the bar beneath a Union Jack flag. Between his forearms he has a pint glass and a whisky chaser centered on matching cardboard coasters. Making his choice, he lifts the shot glass and downs it in a swallow.

  We pull out bar stools on either side. Isaac turns slowly, his eyes swimming in an alcoholic haze.

  “I’m not in a talking mood,” he slurs.

  “Your brother told us you’d be here,” says Ruiz.

  “He called me. Said you were coming.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” I say, making the introductions. My outstretched hand is ignored. Withdrawn.

  Isaac blinks slowly and I get a whiff of the ashy stink coming from his hair. I see a man who is torturing himself with alternative scenarios. What if he hadn’t gone to jail? What if he’d been a better father? Would his daughter still be alive? Could he have protected her?

  These thoughts have haunted him for three years, sweating through his dreams, hooking his heart whenever he turned a corner and caught a glimpse of someone who looked like Natasha.

  “They let me see her,” he whispers. “That body didn’t look like Tash, you know. I mean, it did, but it didn’t. She was beautiful, you know.”

  He drinks half his beer, his throat moving noiselessly.

  “They’re saying she was held prisoner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone kept her alive.”

  “Yes.”

  “And… and did things to her?”

  “Yes.”

  His face creases in pain and I can tell that he’s screaming internally.

  “I need a cigarette.” He stands and takes his beer through a rear door into a courtyard with a handful of wooden tables and benches. He lights up. White smoke curls around his wrist.

  “A lot of folks blamed me,” he says. “Even the police. That’s why they wanted us to do the media conference when the girls went missing. They were studying me, analyzing my words and my body language.”

  “That’s pretty standard practice,” says Ruiz. “Look at the families first.”

  “Yeah, well, I had everyone looking at me sideways. They leaked the story about me having done time, you know. Lads I used to drink with suddenly didn’t fancy standing at the same bar with me. My local publican told me I should find somewhere else to drink. I finished up at this shitehole.”

  The barmaid has come out for cigarette. “I heard that.”

  “Fuck off.”

  I can see the glint in Isaac’s eyes and know I’m witnessing the other side of him—the wildness that saw him go to prison; the wildness that Tash inherited.

  “I pissed them off early—the cops. When Natasha and Piper went missing we organized our own search. We had hundreds of volunteers. Friends. Neighbors. Strangers. Vic did most of the work. We were chomping at the bit, but the police kept telling us to wait. Then I overheard this inspector saying that he didn’t want to compromise the evidence—like he thought the girls were already dead.

  “I argued with him. ‘For fuck’s sake—it’s my daughter. We have to find her. It’s not rocket science.’ This guy told me to step away and lower my voice. I didn’t. Then he threatened to have me arrested. It was bullshit.”

  We let Isaac talk, venting his anger.


  “They still think it’s me, you know. They came and asked me where I was during the blizzard. They were sweating on me, trying to get me rattled, thinking I might confess. As if I’d be scared. I’ve been bounced off prison walls by cons who’d shank you quicker than look at you. The police don’t scare me.”

  “Why were you in prison?” says Ruiz.

  “Here we go.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Armed robbery. Sentenced to five, I served three. I don’t shy away from it. No point. Small town like this, everyone knows. But tell me something, Mr. Ruiz. How is that piece of information going to help you catch my daughter’s killer? I’m just asking.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you. I’m just wondering whether you could have made any enemies; someone who might hold a grudge?”

  Isaac blows air out of his mouth. “You’re talking about the Connolly brothers. You don’t have to dance around the subject.”

  “You gave evidence against them.”

  “I told the truth.”

  “Maybe what happened to Natasha was payback.”

  “The Connolly brothers don’t take revenge on children.” He crushes the cigarette beneath his heel. “If they wanted to punish someone—they’d punish me.”

  “Perhaps they are,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “The Connolly brothers didn’t take Tash and Piper. Payback wasn’t necessary.”

  He closes his eyes as though picturing a scene from his past.

  “My ex-wife blames me too. She thinks I let Tash down, that I could have done more. But not many people could stop Natasha doing stuff, not when her mind was made up.

  “She were only ten when I went inside. When I came out she weren’t a little girl any more. We were strangers, you know. I know she hated school and wanted to get out of this place, but she wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye, you know. That’s why I knew she hadn’t run away.

  “Or if she did, she’d have left a letter or sent us a card. She loved her mum. She would have called her to reassure her. All those birthdays, Mother’s Days, Christmases, they came and went… not a word. Nothing. Tash wouldn’t do that.”

  He sighs ruefully, turning towards the pub. “Now we know, eh?”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asks Ruiz.

  “No, thanks anyway. Only want one thing from you—find out who did this to my Tash.”

  22

  The door opens hard against a security chain. I see one eye and a fringe of teenage hair.

  “Are you Emily Martinez?”

  No answer.

  “Is your mum home?”

  “No.”

  “What about your dad?”

  She glances past me. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “It’s you I came to see, Emily.”

  She blinks at me. “I’m not allowed to let strangers inside the house.”

  “That’s very wise. Maybe we could just talk here. You could stay in there and I’ll stay out here.”

  She pushes back her fringe and I can see both her eyes and the braces on her teeth.

  “You weren’t at school today.”

  “I wasn’t feeling very well.”

  “I talked to Miss McCrudden. She said you miss quite a lot of school.”

  Emily shrugs. She has a small neat nose, but carries weight beneath her chin.

  At that moment a Black Lexus pulls into the driveway and a middle-aged man gets out, flipping the keys back and forth over his knuckles. Early-forties, tall and fine-featured, he looks like he’s just stepped off a movie set, dressed in sharply pressed khakis and a business shirt. His curly hair is tipped with blond.

  He mounts the stairs two at a time. Smiles. Open as a sunny day.

  “This looks like good timing. We weren’t expecting visitors.”

  He shakes my hand. Emily unhooks the chain and opens the door. Mr. Martinez hands her his briefcase and coat.

  “I’m sorry, I should have called ahead,” I explain. “I’m assisting the police in an investigation.”

  “Is this about Natasha and Piper?”

  “What makes you assume that?”

  He looks at Emily. “What else would it be?”

  “I was hoping to talk to Emily.”

  “Oh, I see, well, Em’s been off school today. She had one of her dizzy spells this morning.” He puts an arm around her shoulders. “Are you feeling better, honey?”

  She nods.

  He continues, “She’s already given the police three statements.”

  “Yes, but I’m looking at these things differently. It won’t take long.”

  Mr. Martinez glances at Emily. “What do you think?”

  She nods.

  “Right, let’s get inside. It’s cold out here. Put the kettle on, Em?”

  The lounge is a long narrow room with high ceilings and expensive furniture and paintings. The armchairs have the carved wooden legs of animals, as if they lead secret lives when everyone else is asleep.

  Emily has gone to the kitchen. Phillip Martinez lights the gas fire and fluffs up cushions on the sofa. He has a smooth, almost feminine face with pale, barely existent eyebrows.

  “This whole thing has been a terrible business—young girls running away. Not knowing what happened. It makes you wonder…”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What does it make you wonder about?”

  “Their families.” He makes it sound so obvious. “If things at home had been fine, they wouldn’t have run away.”

  “What if they were kidnapped?”

  “Well, that changes everything.” He studies me for a moment. My left arm trembles.

  “What stage?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your Parkinson’s—what stage?”

  “One.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight years.”

  “It’s slow—you’re lucky.”

  “That’s how I try to look at it.”

  “It’s not really my field.”

  “Your field?”

  “I’m a research scientist. I work at the Biomedical Sciences Department at the university. We do a lot of gene therapy research into things like diabetes, Alzheimer’s and muscular dystrophy. Parkinson’s is one area. Some of my colleagues are doing some important research. You should come and have a look. I could organize a tour.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s one of the reasons Emily is quite wary of strangers.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We use animals in our testing. Chimps mainly. There were problems during construction of the lab. Protests. Fire-bombings. Threats.”

  “Were you threatened?”

  “My last car had acid poured over it and you should see some of the letters I received. I’ve taught Emily to be vigilant.”

  “I hope I didn’t frighten her.”

  “Oh, she’s fine. Highly strung. A bit like her mother.”

  Emily reappears. She’s carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. Mr. Martinez takes it from her.

  “I’m going to leave you two alone. I have emails to answer. I’ll just be upstairs.” He turns to Emily. “Honey, if you know something that could help, you tell him.”

  Emily nods and listens to her father climbing the stairs, following his progress, picturing him moving steadily through the house. Higher. Further away. Satisfied, she smoothes her dress over her thighs and sits on the edge of the sofa, toying with one sleeve of her jumper. Cautious and tense, she has a defeated expectancy about her, as though at any moment she expects to be admonished.

  I’ve read her statements. Emily’s story hasn’t changed. But I know from experience how perceptions alter over time. I start gently, asking her about Piper and Natasha; how they met, what they did together.

  She chews the skin around her thumbnail and occasionally nods and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to talk to me and I don’t have the cod
es to unlock her defenses—the mysterious combination of trust and shared experience that causes a teenage girl to prattle non-stop to her friends, but stop immediately when an adult walks into the room. If I knew the numbers, I could talk to my own teenage daughter.

  “Do you have secrets, Emily?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You understand what secrets are?”

  She nods nervously.

  “We all have them. Secret hiding places, secret crushes, secret regrets. We have faces that we don’t show other people, only our friends.”

  Emily is staring at me with the dull frowning air of an amnesiac.

  I try again. “Why did you want to run away?”

  She shrugs.

  “You must have had a reason. I know Natasha had some problems at school—what about you?”

  “No.”

  “At home then?”

  She hesitates and glances at the stairs, worried that her father might be listening.

  “My mum had been sick. She had a breakdown.”

  “Where is your mum now?”

  “She lives in a hostel in London. She’s getting better.”

  “That’s good.”

  Emily tugs at the hem of her tartan skirt. She hasn’t touched her tea.

  “Whose idea was it to run away?”

  “Tash’s.”

  “Where were you going to go?”

  Her shoulders rise and fall.

  “You must have imagined a new life.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t like this one?”

  Again she looks at the stairs. “It was just talk at first. I didn’t think we’d actually do it—not for real. It was exciting… something different… but then…”

  “Then what?”

  “Tash got serious.”

  “Why?”

  “It was after the night Aiden Foster ran down Callum Loach. We made a sort of pact because things were so shitty at school and at home.”

  “Why were things bad at home?”

  Emily raises her eyes to the ceiling.