People laughed, but the barrister had forgotten how. He just showed his sharper teeth.
After the judge dismissed me, I got to sit in the courtroom and listen. Tash walked in like a movie star. When she got to the witness box she removed her sunglasses and tugged down her dress as she crossed her legs.
Aiden Foster’s barrister couldn’t wait to get to his feet. Right through Tash’s statement, he pulled faces and fidgeted, showing his frustration. When it was time for the cross-examination, he smirked and smarmed and slimed his way across the courtroom.
Every question seemed to have a double meaning. Whenever Tash tried to answer both possibilities, he would tell her, “Just yes or no, Miss McBain.”
After a while she got confused, saying yes when she meant to say no. Once he found the slightest flaw, he wouldn’t let it go. He would twist this big invisible knife inside her, occasionally glancing at the jury to make sure they were listening.
Aiden Foster wasn’t on trial. It was Tash. Every word she spoke was skewed and stretched, giving it a different meaning. She grew angry. She swore. The judge told her to mind her language. The barrister smiled at the jury.
Before the misery ended, Tash was like a poor defenseless animal and the cross-examination was like a blood sport. Nobody felt sorry for her except me.
People shouted as she left the old stone courthouse. They hurled abuse and spat at her, Aiden’s friends and Callum’s friends, united against a common enemy. They blamed Tash for everything that had happened.
Izzy Cruikshank tried to slap her, but a security guard pushed her away. Tash didn’t react. Instead, she kept walking as though nothing was wrong.
Later that night, she knocked on my window.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“When?”
“Soon as.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
They say when you’re young you cry tears of pain and when you’re older you cry tears of joy. That’s why I want to grow up.
27
Ruiz is waiting for me in the hotel lounge, having commandeered a table and armchair big enough to make him look small. He’s spent the morning reading up on the original investigation, looking for patterns or disparate details.
“Eight thousand interviews, three thousand statements, more than a million hours of police work,” he says. “I could spend the next ten years reading this stuff and miss the bloody obvious.”
“Does anything jump out at you?” I ask, picking up a folder.
“The silence,” he says. “The girls disappeared on Sunday morning sometime after 7:40 when Alice McBain left for work. Nobody saw them on the footpath into Bingham or crossing the fields or waiting at the train station. That strikes me as odd.”
“Someone could have picked them up before they walked very far.”
“Which means it had to be someone they knew. Girls that age don’t get into a stranger’s car.”
“Maybe they were overpowered.”
“It would take more than one kidnapper.”
“You don’t often see that.”
Ruiz is hungry. We go looking for a café that does an all-day breakfast.
The sun is out and pigeons are fighting over crumbs on the pavement, beating their wings in a desperate dance. The waitress has a dreamy stare, loose hair escaping from a clip. Ruiz orders a full English with mushrooms, cooked tomato and baked beans.
“Wholegrain toast,” he tells her. “My doctor wants me to eat healthier.”
She doesn’t smile. Ruiz polishes his knife and fork with a paper napkin.
“I did come across one detail—Augie Shaw must have known Natasha McBain.”
“Why?”
“When the Heymans moved into the farmhouse, Augie was already mowing the lawns. He worked for the McBains.”
“What about his old man?”
“I can’t find a link, but Drury has a dozen officers looking for one.”
“I still don’t think Augie Shaw kidnapped those girls.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re thinking nice thoughts because your new girlfriend is his therapist.” A small smile tugs at Ruiz’s lips. “How was your date last night?”
“None of your business.”
“That sounds promising.”
He grins and jiggles a tea bag in boiling water.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I too can flirt. I chatted up a very nice middle-aged divorcée in the front office of the County Court.”
“The reason being?”
“I got a peek at the court transcripts for Aiden Foster’s trial. The jury found him guilty of GBH with intent and the judge gave him seven years with a non-parole of four.”
“Where is he now?”