Say You're Sorry (45 page)

How are they going to find me now?

I look around, trying to get my bearings. The fog has lifted and below me, through the trees, half a mile from here, there is a plowed field streaked with snow. An electricity pylon rises from the mud and ice, strung with power cables. Power cables lead to places where people live. They thread towns together.

I head down from the ridge, climbing over rocks and weaving between trees. The going is slow because I don’t want to fall. There is wood everywhere, dead limbs and branches scattered over the ground.

A misty rain has started falling. Droplets cling to the shoulders of the overcoat like glass beads sewn onto the wool. My feet have stopped being numb. Now they’re burning and itchy.

The field had seemed nearer. I can’t see it any more. All the trees look the same. I panic for a moment, thinking I’ve lost my bearings and have been walking in circles. But I’m still heading down the slope.

The man called Joe said the police were coming. He sounded nice. He told me to keep moving, to stay warm.

The trees grow thinner. The field is in front of me. I can see the electricity pylon and a line of distant trees that could be a road. Hope flares in my chest. A road will lead to a house or a farm.

There’s a fallen tree. I clamber onto the log and use a branch to balance as I climb the fence. My overcoat is too long. I take it off and throw it over, jumping after it.

Instead of being muddy, the ground is hard. Frozen. The rain is heavier now, hitting my cheeks like grains of sand kicked up by the wind. The sky has grown darker and the temperature is dropping.

Crossing the field, leaping between plowed ruts, I reach the pylon and I stand for a while, wrapped in the overcoat, trying to get my bearings. I look up at the metal spars and beams, the hammered rivets. The electricity cables sweep over my head, descending and then rising to another pylon and then another.

I don’t like being in the open. George could be watching me from the ridge. Veering away from the pylon, I head towards the line of trees and climb another fence to a narrow farm track, dotted with puddles. I can see tire treads in the mud.

Peering into the gloom, I look beyond the curve in the road and can make out the angled roofline of a house or a barn just visible against the sky. I want to run, but the air has become like water and I feel like a greased swimmer, crossing the Channel.

Everything hurts. Walking. Breathing. Swallowing. I follow the road past the bend and come to an old mailbox and then a house in the middle of an overgrown orchard.

I try the gate. The latch is stiff. Rusted in place. Working it back and forth, I scrape my knuckles, but manage to slide it open. The hinges groan in protest. Weeds grow along the path. The nettles sting my legs where my jeans are torn.

I look up at the windows for a sign of life. The house frowns back at me. Rusting bits of machinery are strewn on the porch—the door of a refrigerator, a mangle, something charred with wires sticking out the top.

The front door is boarded up with cheap plywood. I feel like crying. I look back towards the road and wonder if I should keep walking or try to get inside and stay warm. There could be blankets. Maybe I could light a fire.

Hooking my fingers around the plywood, I work it back and forth, pulling nails from the rotten wood. Cursing my useless hands. When the gap is big enough, I crawl through on my hands and knees, sitting for a moment until my eyes adjust to the darkness.

The house is old and smells of mildew and damp. The rooms are empty except for broken ceiling panels and odd bits of discarded furniture. I can’t find any blankets and I don’t have any matches to start a fire.

A red Formica table has been left behind in the kitchen. At the sink I turn on the tap. The handle spins aimlessly. Dry. I’m thirsty.

Through the dirt-streaked window I notice a barn. It has a pitched roof but no walls. Round bales of straw or hay are stacked up to the roof. There must be a farmhouse nearby.

I unbolt the kitchen door and go outside. There’s a water tank with a tap on the side. I turn it on and let the water run for a few seconds. The water is sweet. I can smell it. I scoop it up by the handful, lifting it to my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

R
uiz is standing in the front garden, peering through a window. He cups his hands against the glass, letting his eyes adjust.

“Can you see anything?”

“Something is broken on the kitchen floor,” he says.

“What is it?”

“A vase or maybe a plate.”

“Accidental?”

“Maybe.”

Dale Hadley is waiting in the car. Ruiz walks back to the main door. “Do you know the difference between reasonable suspicion and probable cause?”

“Not really.”

“Reasonable suspicion is where a reasonable person
suspects
that a crime has been committed or is in the process of being committed. Probable cause is when a reasonable person
believes
that a crime is being committed or about to be committed. You see the difference?”

“Sort of.”

“Good. Explain it to me later.”

Pivoting on one foot, he hammers the lock with the heel of his boot. Wood splinters. The door swings open, banging on its hinges. He moves through the open-plan living room, yelling Emily’s name. Broken crockery litters the kitchen floor. Thrown, not dropped.

Ruiz searches downstairs and I take upstairs. Emily’s room is on the right side of the landing. Her bed is unmade and clothes are spilling from drawers. It contrasts starkly with the rest of the house, which is ordered and neat.

The untidiness is probably teenage-induced—I have one of them at home—although Emily didn’t strike me as being as sullen and disorganized as Charlie. Pages have been torn from one of her schoolbooks. A train timetable lies in the wastepaper bin.

Opening the topmost drawer, I see a picture frame resting upside down beneath a folder. It’s a woman’s portrait. Pretty and smiling, she has long hair and familiar eyes: Emily’s mother.

Ruiz yells from downstairs. I follow the sound of his voice to the garage. He’s discovered the model railway and is grinning like a schoolboy.

“How cool is this?”

“Don’t you mean nerdish?”

“Come on, didn’t you ever want to be a train driver?”

“No.”

“Let me guess—you grew up wanting to be a psychologist?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You were one sad, sad child.”

My mobile shudders to life. I flip it open.

“We’ve triangulated the signal,” says Drury. “Piper’s call came from a heavily wooded area half a mile north of the conference center, east of the Thames. The margin for error is about two hundred yards because the trees could be skewing the signal. I’m heading there now.” He yells at someone to hold the lift. “Where are you?”

“At the Martinez house.” I glance at Ruiz. “Emily Martinez didn’t turn up for work today and there are broken dishes in the kitchen. You might want to send a forensic team.”

“Where is Phillip Martinez?”

“He’s not here.”

There is a pause. Drury has stopped walking. “What should I know, Professor?”

“Piper said that George had a photograph of Emily in his wallet.”

“And you think Phillip Martinez?”

“I think we’re talking about the same person.”

“Why didn’t Piper say that?”

“I doubt that she’s ever met Phillip Martinez or knows what he looks like. Martinez didn’t move to Abingdon until after the divorce. He fought for custody after his wife’s breakdown.”

“Why would he kidnap Piper and Natasha?”

“He spent two years fighting for custody of Emily. He wasn’t going to let someone take her away. He treats her like a possession. Like he
owns
her.”

“But you said—”

“He matches the profile. He’s a control freak. He has medical training. He was also at the house when Piper turned up on the last night of the festival. He could have overheard her talking to Emily. That’s how he knew they were planning to run away.”

“You said the kidnapping was most likely organized in advance.”

“I said he targeted the girls for a reason. It wasn’t random.”

“What about the letters that were sent to Emily and Aiden Foster?”

“Martinez could have organized it. He expected the letters to be given to the police—to throw you off the trail.”

“But he brought Emily’s letter to the station.”

“It was a fishing exercise. He wanted to find out how much you knew.”

I can hear Drury breathing down the phone. He cups the receiver and yells down the corridor.
“Put out a missing person’s bulletin on Emily Martinez.”

I
t’s dark.

I can keep to the road by feeling the hardness of the dirt beneath my shoes, but I can’t avoid the puddles. The rain has eased, but in the distance I can see shimmerings of lightning above the trees, followed by a dull rumbling.

The phone is still in my pocket. I can feel it with my fingers as I walk. I take it out, turn it over and feel for the catch to the battery compartment. The rear panel slides off and I use my thumbnail to lever the battery from its slot, before putting it back in again and replacing the panel.

I turn the phone on again. The screen lights up.

I call the last number.

“Daddy?”

“Piper! Thank God! We were worried.”

“I dropped the phone. My hands were so cold.”

“Are you OK? Where are you?”

“Are the police coming?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“On a dirt road.”

“Can you see any lights?”

“No. Tell them to hurry.”

“I will.”

“Have they found Tash?”

Daddy doesn’t answer. Joe takes the phone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Your dad needs a minute. He’s a little overwhelmed. I need to ask you some questions.”

“OK.”

“Have you walked very far since we last spoke?”

“It feels like a long way because my feet hurt, but I don’t think it is.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m on a dirt road. I passed an old house and a barn, but nobody lives there.”

“OK, just hold on, I’m going to relay that information to the police.”

I can hear him talking to someone.

“OK, Piper, what else can you see from the road?”

“Nothing now, it’s too dark. Before there was a pylon in a field.”

“Have you seen the river?”

“No.”

“What about a railway line?”

“I used to hear trains when I was in the basement.”

“That’s good information, Piper. One more thing—have you ever met Emily’s father?”

“No.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“No. Why?”

“The man you call George—had you ever seen him before?”

“I don’t think so. He knew stuff about us. He knew we’d given evidence in Aiden Foster’s trial. He knew that Daddy worked in the City and that Tash’s dad had been to prison.”

“Is that all?”

“Uh-huh. I’m getting tired, Joe. My feet hurt. Do you think I could sit down for a while?”

Piper’s body is closing down. Her words are getting slower and thicker. I turn to Ruiz. “Where are they?”

He relays the question to Drury, who’s on the phone. “How close?”

Ruiz gives me the thumbs up. “They know the road. Cars are on their way.”

“Did you hear that, Piper? They’re close. Just a few more minutes.”

“Mmmmm,” she says.

“Keep talking, Piper… are you still there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have a daughter about your age.”

“What’s her name?”

“Charlie.”

“Where does she go to school?”

“Shepparton Park School—it’s on the outskirts of Bath.”

“Does she like it?”

“I think so.”

“I’ve missed so much school. I don’t suppose I’ll ever catch up.”

“Sure you will. Bright girl like you.”

Her teeth are chattering. “I’m getting very tired, Joe. I’m going to close my eyes for a little while.”

“Stay awake, sweetheart. They won’t be long. It’s Christmas tomorrow.”