Say You're Sorry(131)

“Where’s your fiancée?”

“She’s spending Christmas with her folks in Cornwall.”

“Shame, I was hoping to meet her,” says Casey. “You didn’t come to work today.”

“I didn’t finish until late. Slept in. The boss said it was OK to take the day off. My mum’s not well. Could be her last Christmas.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I was just going over there now. She lives around the corner.”

“Surely there’s time for a quick drink,” says Casey, giving him a warm grin. He pushes past Grievous and stands in the hallway, glancing into a darkened front room.

“Nice place, lived here long?”

“A few years.”

We’re led down the hallway to a drab circa-1970 kitchen with wood veneer cabinets, a porcelain sink and a worn linoleum floor. Coats are shrugged off and hung over chairs. Casey takes a seat, spreads his knees, a big man’s pose.

“We should be celebrating,” he says.

“Why?” Grievous asks.

“We arrested Phillip Martinez for kidnapping the Bingham Girls. You missed a big day. Martinez had a second house. They’re searching it now, looking for Piper Hadley. We were just on our way there.”

“North Oxford is the other direction,” says Grievous.

“How did you know it was in North Oxford?” asks Casey.

“You mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There is a moment, a heartbeat of silence, when the two men stare at each other. One is searching for clarity, the other for a way out. There is a tiny twitch in Grievous’s eyes. The “tell.”

“I’ve been caught out,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I have a scanner upstairs. I’ve been listening to the police radio. Even when I’m not working, I can’t leave the job alone.”

Casey laughs with him. “You need to get married, pal.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Grievous, glancing at me. I see nothing in his eyes. “So why are you really here?”

“I’m heading back to London,” I say. “I wanted to thank you for driving me around. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” says Grievous, relaxing. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Professor.”

“You never did learn to call me Joe,” I say, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than expected, studying his face. I release him. “Can I use your toilet, Grievous?”

“Sure, it’s up the stairs, first door on the right.”

I try to make eye contact with Casey but he’s talking to Grievous about kitchen renovations. As I climb to the first floor, I glance quickly over the banister before opening the bathroom door.

I run the tap and open the cabinet. Shaving foam. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Hair gel. No women’s products. Opening the door, I cross the landing to the nearest bedroom. I can hear Casey and Grievous popping cans of lager.

The room has been set up as a gymnasium with a bench and free weights that are stacked on a rack or threaded on a horizontal bar. The only other significant furniture is an old-fashioned roller desk with small wooden drawers. A laptop computer is closed on the slide-away table and the upper shelf has a police scanner blinking out green digital numbers.

I move diagonally across the landing and come to the main bedroom. It has a queen-size bed, unmade, cheap cotton sheets tossed aside. A flat-screen TV is propped on a stand in front of the bay window. DVDs are stacked on either side. Pirated movies. The large mahogany wardrobe has three doors, the center one with a full-length mirror. Two pairs of trainers are lined up beneath the bed. Clothes are folded on a chair. A comb is stuck on a hairbrush.

There are two more rooms. One is made up as a guest room with an old-fashioned bedspread and a dressing table with an oval mirror that pivots up and down. The other room is used for storage.

I go back to the bathroom and flush the toilet.

The only place left is the loft conversion, up a narrow set of stairs. I climb slowly, trying not to make a sound. I glance over the banister. I can’t hear voices any more.

The door is locked. My fingers turn the key. The door opens inwards and my pupils take a moment to adjust to the partial light. The roof slopes down on either side of the room. Against the far wall, beneath a covered skylight, I can see a bed and a bundle of bedclothes.

The room looks empty. I’m about to leave, when I hear a sound.

Crossing the room, I find a girl asleep beneath bedding, whimpering in her dreams, rocking her head from side to side. A nightmare has taken hold and her body jerks in protest. My fingers touch her arm. Her eyes open, but nothing registers.