Say You're Sorry(123)

The roadblocks have been maintained throughout the night and plans are being prepared for a major ground search at first light using volunteers, dogs, helicopters and heat-sensing radar.

On a whiteboard in the incident room, somebody has written, “Piper Hadley is coming home.” Yesterday’s message. Premature. Out of date. Nobody has the energy to scrub it off.

Drury moves down the corridor as though walking in his sleep. At the coffee machine he presses a button and listens to the machine give an emphysemic cough and hack, spitting out coffee that looks like tar.

He takes a sealed evidence bag from his pocket and studies the tiny manikin of the stationmaster.

“Are you sure it belongs to Martinez?”

“Yes.”

He runs his thumb over the model piece.

“It’s not much of a smoking gun.”

“If you wait for fingerprints or DNA, it could take days. Piper doesn’t have that long.”

The DCI’s face twists. “We’ve issued an arrest warrant for Martinez and circulated details of his vehicle.”

“What about going public?”

“He could have Emily and Piper. It’s too big a risk.”

Drury sips the coffee and almost spits it out. He pours the dregs into the sink, crushing the plastic cup in his fist.

“Are you sleeping with Victoria Naparstek?” he asks.

“What?”

“You heard the question.”

“I don’t think that’s any—”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rocks back on his heels, flexing his fingers against his thighs. “I think you should leave her alone.”

“Why?”

“I’m concerned for her.”

“You care for her?”

“Yes.”

“Does your wife know?”

He smiles tightly. No teeth. “My wife and I have an understanding. I know it sounds like a cliché.”

“You have an open marriage?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“Does your wife see other men?”

“She could.”

As soon as he utters the statement, he’s aware of how self-absorbed and insincere it sounds. Elevating his chin, he presses his lips into thin lines.

“Are you married?” he asks.

“My wife and I are separated.”

“I notice that you still wear a wedding ring. I guess that makes us both hypocrites, but only one of us is a showboat.”

He leaves me then, striding down the corridor like a soldier marching into battle. How can a man with so much ego and self-hatred survive in a job with so few highs and so many lows? I fear for his sanity. I feel for his wife.

Ruiz wakes me just after 4:00 a.m. I’ve fallen asleep on a desk, head resting on my forearms, dribble on the blotter beneath my chin. I sit up, dry-mouthed, thirsty.

“You don’t twitch when you sleep,” he says. “It’s like your Parkinson’s takes the night off.”

My arms and head are moving now, jerking and spasming. It’s a strange dance, self-conscious and nerdish. I take two pills from a childproof bottle and Ruiz gets me a cup of water from the cooler.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Ditto, big man.”

I’m waiting for the medication to take hold. Then I’ll be “on”—as they say in Parkinson’s parlance—as opposed to “off.”

“Where have you been?”

“I took Dale Hadley home. Nice house. Good-looking children. They’re like a Disney family.”

“With a missing daughter.”

“Swings and roundabouts.”

Ruiz has news. Phillip Martinez was picked up two hours ago by a highway patrol car on the M40 near Stokenchurch. He was alone in the car.

“Where is he now?”

“Downstairs. Drury is about to interview him. I thought you’d want to watch.”

I wash my face with cold water. Ruiz waits. Then we take the lift downstairs. Phillip Martinez is sitting alone in the interview suite. He glances at the ceiling like a man who is trapped at the bottom of a deep dark well, who can see a circle of blue sky above him.

Disheveled and tired, he raises his hairless hand, scratching the stubble on his jaw. One side of his face is bruised and swollen, slowly changing color.

DCI Drury and DS Casey enter the room. Martinez leaps to his feet.

“It’s about bloody time.”

“Sit down, please,” says Drury.

“Have you found Emily? Did you talk to her mother?”

“Sit down.”

“That bitch is behind this. She’s been planning it all long.”

Drury points again to the chair. The two men stare at each other and Martinez blinks first, taking a seat. He crosses his legs and his upper foot jiggles up and down.

“For the record,” says the DCI, “we are recording this conversation. Can you confirm, Mr. Martinez, that you have been read your rights?”