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.