“I didn’t win. Trust me on that.”
“You saved your wife and daughter.”
But not my marriage, I want to add, but instead say nothing. Why spoil a good story? Grievous doesn’t have to know that my wife didn’t forgive me; that she blamed me for infecting our family with my “poisonous work” and allowing my daughter to become a target for a sadistic psychopath.
Grievous is still talking. “I don’t know what I’d do if I was confronted by a man like that,” he says, ruminating on the prospect. “I mean, if somebody took my wife and child, I think I’d want to kill him, you know. Not that I’m married—not yet anyway—but it’s a natural reaction. It comes from in here.” He thumps his chest. “They cross a line, people like that. They can’t expect sympathy or understanding. Yeah, I’d pull the trigger.”
I don’t answer.
Grievous glances at me. “I don’t suppose I should say stuff like that—being a detective—but we’re human beings, aren’t we? You hear all those debates about the death penalty, the pros and cons, but when it’s your family it’s different, isn’t it?”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just pleased to be working with you. It’s a privilege, you know.”
There are roadworks, a temporary red light. I glance to my right and watch two schoolboy teams playing rugby, muddy armies interlocked, shoving each other off a ball.
“Tell me about the Bingham Girls.”
Grievous nods, gathering his thoughts.
“They went missing on the last Sunday in August. The Bingham Summer Festival had been the day before and they were still packing up the carnival rides and sideshows.”
“What about suspects?”
“Some of those carnie workers were interviewed. That sort of job attracts drifters and perverts. The task force also looked at a band of travelers who were camping in a farmer’s field on the edge of the village. They raided the camp three days after the girls went missing, but found nothing. A week later, two caravans were gutted by fire and a little girl got burned.”
“Why did people think the girls ran away?”
“They were planning to, according to one of their friends. Emily Martinez was supposed to go with them.”
“What happened?”
“The girls didn’t show up. Police checked the buses and trains that left that Sunday morning. They interviewed drivers and passengers, but nobody saw Piper or Natasha.”
“What do you think happened?”
“They got in the wrong car. Natasha was known to hitchhike. She wasn’t exactly the shy retiring type.”
“Meaning?”
He hesitates, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “There were rumors, you know. Drinking. Drugs. Lipstick parties. You know about those?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“According to some people, Natasha was charging money for blowjobs.”
“What about Piper?”
“She was quieter, a good athlete.”
“You know the families?”
“Not really, just the rumors.” He indicates left and turns. “Hayden McBain is a small time dealer, selling dope and amphetamines—makes more in a week than I do in a month. Every time we arrest him he gives the judge a sob story about his sister going missing. Blah, blah, blah. He walks.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“He was dealing before she went missing.”
A burst of static from the two-way interrupts his train of thought. He turns it down. For a big man, he has a boyish face and soft eyes. He cocks his head each time I ask a question.
“What about Piper’s family?”
“They’ve never stopped talking about her—giving interviews, going on radio, putting up posters, writing to politicians. Every year they hold a candlelight vigil. It’s like the McCanns—you know, Madeleine’s folks—they’re never going to stop looking. They’ve got websites and newsletters and posters. You’ll see. It’s just up ahead.”
Moments later we pass a WELCOME TO BINGHAM sign and arrive in a pretty little village that clings to the banks of the Thames. Painted houses shine brightly in the angled light and smoke swirls from chimneys. A mixture of old and new architecture, the village has three pubs, a pharmacy, café, clothing store, butcher, bakery and two hair salons.
Grievous pulls up at the pedestrian crossing. Signposts on either side are decorated with yellow ribbons along with something else—a photocopied poster covered in plastic. MISSING is printed in bold letters across the top, above a photograph. More writing below: Have you seen Piper?