“Is that what she told you?”
“She just confirmed it.”
“But Wesley Shaw is dead.”
“He was alive when the girls went missing. He could have kidnapped them; set the whole thing up. Augie just inherited them. Like father like son.”
At the far end of the corridor, a door opens and Victoria Naparstek appears. Tall, pale, purposeful, her face enameled with anger. She confronts Drury, stopping inches from his face.
“I warned you.”
He raises his hands, but Victoria knocks them away.
“I told you what would happen.”
“Let’s take this somewhere else. Take a deep breath. Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.”
He’s gentler with her than I expect. “Somebody messed up. I’m sorry.”
“Have you told his mother that? No. That might mean a lawsuit. Compensation. Instead, you’re going to close ranks. Collude. Get your stories straight.”
“This isn’t the time or the place.”
He’s whispering to her, trying to lead her away; holding her arm, talking like they’re old friends. She shudders at his touch. Disappoints him.
“Don’t patronize me,” she says. “Never, ever patronize me.”
Then she leaves, storming down the corridor. The police officer on guard follows her progress, his eyes glued to her posterior.
“What are you looking at, Constable?” barks Drury. “Keep your eyes to the front.”
19
St. Catherine’s School is set amid trees and boot-churned sporting fields on the northern outskirts of Abingdon, a mile from an old RAF base, which was decommissioned in the nineties.
A lone student is sitting in the administration office. Sulking. She swings her legs beneath a vinyl chair, awaiting judgment for some indiscretion. Dressed in a gray skirt, white blouse and v-neck burgundy jumper, she looks up as we enter in a flurry of cold air. The door closes. She looks down again.
A school secretary is seated behind sliding glass. Grievous flashes his warrant card and asks for the headmistress. The secretary misdials the number twice. All thumbs. Perhaps an unpaid parking ticket is preying on her mind.
The headmistress, Mrs. Jacobson, is a big woman in a beige dress. Her dyed hair is brushed back and fastened with a comb. “Come, come,” she says, herding us like pre-schoolers into her office, her shoes echoing on the parquet floor.
“This is about Piper and Natasha, isn’t it? Is there news?”
“There have been some developments in the case,” says the young detective. “The details are confidential for operational reasons.”
“Of course, I understand. Sit down. Coffee? Tea? Help yourself to biscuits. Such a terrible business—it took our girls a long time to recover. Some of them needed counseling, but we’re a very stoic bunch here at St. Catherine’s.”
A spare seat is found for Ruiz, who hasn’t said a word since we arrived. Grievous picks up a chocolate biscuit, which crumbles when he takes a bite. He makes a little sound and tries to catch the falling crumbs. Mrs. Jacobson walks to the side table and comes back with a plate and a paper napkin, silently admonishing him. She settles again behind her desk.
“Darling Piper, I can’t imagine why she’d run away. Her father is such a generous man. And her mother is so beautiful and charming.”
“Not like the McBains?” asks Ruiz.
The headmistress flinches. “Excuse me?”
“Natasha’s father served a five-year stretch for armed robbery. Surely you know that.”
“We don’t discriminate at St. Catherine’s.”
“Neither do we,” says Ruiz.
There is a look between them. Nothing warm.
“We were hoping to talk to some of the teachers who taught Piper and Natasha,” I say. “And to look at their student files.”
“I’m afraid the files are confidential, but most of their teachers are still with us. We don’t have a big turnover of staff.”
“What about caretakers?” asks Ruiz.
The headmistress hesitates. “If you’re referring to Mr. Stokes, he’s no longer working at St. Catherine’s.”
“He was sacked.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“He took inappropriate photographs of the girls.”
“An unfortunate incident. We did all the proper checks.”
“Where is Mr. Stokes now?”
She stares at Ruiz icily. “We haven’t kept in touch.”
They hold each other’s gaze for a moment and then Mrs. Jacobson looks at her small gold wristwatch. “It’s lunchtime. You’ll find most of the teachers in the staff common room.”