Say You're Sorry(5)
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going to lunch.”
The suspense is killing her. She announces loudly, “Are you looking for my father?”
The men turn.
“He’s right here,” she says.
“Professor O’Loughlin?” asks the older man.
I look at Charlie, showing my disappointment.
“Yes,” I answer.
“We’ve come to collect you, sir. I’m DS Casey. This is my colleague Trainee Detective Constable Brindle Hughes.”
“People call me Grievous,” says the younger man, smiling awkwardly.
“We were going out,” I say, pointing to the revolving door.
Casey answers, “Our guv wants to see you, sir. He says it’s important.”
“Who’s your guv?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Drury.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He knows you.”
There is a pause. My attitude to detectives is similar to my views on priests—they do important jobs but they make me nervous. It’s not the confessional nature of their work—I have nothing to feel guilty about—it is more a sense of having done my share. I want to put a sign up saying, “I’ve given.”
“Tell your boss that I’m very sorry, but I’m unavailable. I’m looking after my daughter.”
“I don’t mind,” says Charlie, getting interested.
Casey lowers his voice. “A husband and wife are dead.”
“I can give you the names of other profilers—”
“The guv doesn’t want anyone else.”
Charlie tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, Dad, you should help them.”
“I promised you lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“What about the shopping.”
“I don’t have any money, which means I’d have to guilt you into buying me something. I’d prefer to save up my guilt points for something I really want.”
“Guilt points?”
“You heard me.”
The detectives seem to find this conversation amusing. Charlie grins at them. She’s bored. She wants some excitement. But this isn’t the sort of adventure anyone wants. Two people are dead. It’s tragic. It’s pointless. It’s the sort of work I try to avoid.
Charlie won’t let it go. “I won’t tell Mum,” she says. “Please can we go?”
“You have to stay here.”
“No, that’s not fair. Let me come.”
Casey interrupts. “We’re only going to the station, sir.”
A police car is parked outside. Charlie slides into the back seat alongside me.
We drive in silence through the near-empty streets. Oxford looks like a ghost city trapped in a snow dome. Charlie leans forward, straining at the seat belt.
“Is this about the body in the ice?”
“How do you know about that?” asks Casey.
“We saw it from the train.”
“Different case, miss,” says Grievous. “Not one for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of motorists were stranded by the blizzard. Most likely she wandered away from her car and fell into the lake.”
Charlie shivers at the thought. “Do they know who she was?”
“Not yet.”
“Hasn’t anybody reported her missing?”
“They will.”
St. Aldates Police Station has an iron and glass canopy over the front entrance, which has collected a foot of snow. A council worker perched on a ladder is using a shovel to break up the frozen white wave, which explodes into fragments on the paving stones below.
Instead of parking at the station, the detectives carry on for another hundred yards and turn right before pulling up outside a Chinese restaurant where denuded ducks are hanging in the window.
“Why are we here?”
“Guv has invited you to lunch.”
Upstairs in a private dining room, a dozen detectives are seated around a large circular banqueting table. The food carousel is laden with steaming plates of pork, seafood, noodles and vegetables.
The man in charge has a napkin tucked into his shirt and is opening a crab claw with a silver pincer. He sucks out the flesh and picks up another claw. Even seated, he gives the impression of being large. Mid-forties. Fast-tracked through the ranks. He has a shock of dark hair and razor burns on his face. I notice his wedding ring and his unironed shirt. He hasn’t been home for a couple of days, but has managed to shower and shave.
Beyond the circular table, a series of whiteboards have been set up to display photographs and a timeline of events. The victims’ names are written across the top. The restaurant has become an incident room.