“Mr. Stokes?”
He turns his head slowly. “Do I know you?”
I hand him a business card. He reads it carefully, taking a moment to decide if I’m an inconvenience or an opportunity. I’ve seen his police file, which is depressing reading. Arrested twice in his early twenties for accepting stolen goods, he pleaded guilty and was given the benefit. Before that he was studying engineering at university but lost his place for cheating in his first year exams. Odd jobs since then; married; divorced; one failed business. He worked at St. Catherine’s as a caretaker/groundsman for two years before being fired.
According to the police file, a handful of senior students at St. Catherine’s complained about Stokes taking photographs of them. It emerged that some of the girls had opted to do a quick change at the back of the sports hall after gym instead of going to the locker room upstairs. Stokes had used a digital camera to record them. Pictures of Natasha were found among the images.
The caretaker spent two days in custody and was interviewed for eight hours, but he had an alibi for the Sunday morning that the girls disappeared.
Propping his broom in the barrow, Stokes takes a seat at a bus stop and lights his cigarette.
“I was hoping we could talk about the Bingham Girls.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“I’ve been asked to review the case.”
“Nothing to do with me.”
“You knew the girls.”
“Found them, have they? The bodies.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Stands to reason.” He blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Missing all this time—they must be dead.”
He raises his eyes and glances across the street where a group of girls are chatting outside a Starbucks. I notice the heat in his eyes and his unwashed smell.
“I know about the photographs.”
“I never touched those girls. Not a hair.”
“You took pictures.”
He flicks ash. “That’s all. Why you bringing this up again? Did one of those little bitches make a complaint? Wants to sue. She can go ahead. Got no money. Can sue me for the barrow.” He laughs and nods to his brooms.
Stokes isn’t a practiced deceiver. If you’re going to lie, you show your hands, let people see you’re unarmed. And you lean forward a little to reinforce your convictions, without breaking eye contact.
“Where were you on the night of the blizzard?” I ask.
“Saturday? I would have been washing my hair.”
“Is that your alibi?”
“Why would I need one?” He smiles at me sadly, a bitter taste in his mouth. “It’s the uncle they should be looking at. I told the police. I told them what I saw.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them about that girl and her uncle, Vic McBain.”
“What about them?”
“I saw them together. He was dropping Natasha at school one day and the two of them were in the front seat of his car. She was sitting on his lap and they were kissing. Not just any kiss. Not a peck on the cheek. Open-mouthed. You know what I’m saying? At first I thought it was one of the senior girls and her boyfriend, but then Natasha got out and I saw the bloke she’d been kissing. She went skipping off to class like it was right as rain.”
“You’re sure it was Vic McBain?”
“Yeah. I talked to Natasha. She said she knew about my taking pictures and that if I told anyone she’d tell the police that I touched her. That’s a lie. I never laid a finger on any of them girls.”
“And you told the police this?”
“Yeah, I told them.”
“Who did you tell?”
“A detective; I don’t know his name.”
I’ve read the files. There were no allegations of an improper relationship between Vic McBain and his niece.
Stokes squeezes his cigarette until the paper and ash disintegrate. He sweeps them into a dustpan on a stick.
“She could be a real bitch that McBain girl, so full of herself, strutting around like she was on a catwalk. A prick-tease at fourteen, a runaway at fifteen, that girl was nothing but trouble. Maybe she got what she deserved.”
“What did she deserve?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns away and lifts a hard-bristled broom from the barrow.
“I got work to do.”
24
A pint of Guinness is resting between Ruiz’s elbows and he’s studying the bubbles as they settle into a creamy head. We’re not drinking in the Morse Bar. He chose a pub around the corner, where the prices are cheaper and happy hour twice as long.
“I’ve got nothing against TV detectives,” he explains. “They’re all equally full of shit. You take Columbo.”