“I’ll explain it to DCI Drury,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.
Moments later we pull out of the parking area and accelerate along Marcham Road. The streets are deserted. People are indoors, celebrating Christmas, eating turkey and the trimmings, plum pudding with custard, dozing off in front of the TV before the Queen makes her speech.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” says Casey. “Grievous is one of the lads.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s a mate.”
“So you’ve been to his place?”
“No.”
“Have you met his fiancee?”
“Not yet.”
“She’s never come to the pub for a drink or dropped Grievous at the station?”
“No.” Casey falters. “He hasn’t been with us long. Six months maybe.”
“Where was he before that?”
“In uniform… working downstairs.”
The DS swings hard into Drayton Road, past Ock Meadow, heading south, accelerating between intersections.
Facts are shifting in my head, detaching and re-forming into new pictures like the fragments of a montage, creating different realities. The past reshaped, history rewritten, explanations turned upside down.
Thinking out loud, I explain how Grievous was working the night that Piper and Natasha disappeared. The girls must have walked right past him as they headed for the leisure center. He was also working as a court security officer when they gave evidence against Aiden Foster at Oxford Crown Court.
“That could be just a coincidence,” says Casey.
“Remember the farmhouse on the night of the blizzard? Augie Shaw said he saw Natasha on the road. Barefoot. Terrified. There was someone chasing her.”
“The snowman,” says Casey.
“I think it was someone dressed in white overalls, a search and rescue volunteer. Grievous works for OxSAR.”
“A lot of guys work as volunteers.”
“His overalls smell of bleach.”
“Is that the best you have? Phillip Martinez has a motive and no alibi. The guy is a control freak, you said so yourself. He’s got medical training. He could have done that stuff… you know… to Natasha.”
Casey won’t use the words.
“Grievous did two years of nursing before he became a court security officer.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me.”
“What about the figurine you found at the abandoned factory?”
“Grievous was with me when I went to see Phillip Martinez. He saw the model railway. He could have picked up the stationmaster and planted it to implicate Martinez.”
“You’re making him sound like a master criminal. He’s a trainee detective constable, for Christ’s sake.”
“Humor me then. We’ll knock on the door, say hello, wish him a Merry Christmas.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll leave. One drink. That’s all.”
The DS isn’t convinced. I’m asking him to distrust a colleague, to break a special bond. Police officers look after each other and cover each other’s backs. They socialize together and take holidays and marry into each other’s families. They’re comrades in arms, outsiders, hated until needed, undertakers to the living.
The raid in North Oxford has unfolded over the two-way radio. Police are going from floor to floor, searching the basement for hidden tunnels and secret rooms.
We’re getting close. Casey pulls over a hundred yards from the address. This is a newer part of Abingdon with two-story semi-detached houses, some with loft conversions and garages. The painted brick facades stand out brightly against the winter trees. Some have Christmas lights strung under the eaves or around the windows.
“So we’re just going to say hello?” says Casey.
“Absolutely.”
“And then we’ll leave?”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t embarrass me by mentioning any of your theories to Grievous?”
“No.”
We walk through the gate and along the path. Casey rings the doorbell. Nobody answers.
“He’s not home.”
“Try again.”
“I should never have let you talk me into this.”
The door opens. Grievous looks perplexed and then smiles broadly. “Is everything all right, lads?”
“Yeah, course,” says Casey. “We were passing and thought we’d drop in.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
“And to you.”
He hasn’t fully opened the door.
“Do you have company?” I ask.
“No.”
“Where’s your fiancee?”
“She’s spending Christmas with her folks in Cornwall.”
“Shame, I was hoping to meet her,” says Casey. “You didn’t come to work today.”
“I didn’t finish until late. Slept in. The boss said it was OK to take the day off. My mum’s not well. Could be her last Christmas.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I was just going over there now. She lives around the corner.”
“Surely there’s time for a quick drink,” says Casey, giving him a warm grin. He pushes past Grievous and stands in the hallway, glancing into a darkened front room.
“Nice place, lived here long?”
“A few years.”
We’re led down the hallway to a drab circa -1970 kitchen with wood veneer cabinets, a porcelain sink and a worn linoleum floor. Coats are shrugged off and hung over chairs. Casey takes a seat, spreads his knees, a big man’s pose.
“We should be celebrating,” he says.
“Why?” Grievous asks.
“We arrested Phillip Martinez for kidnapping the Bingham Girls. You missed a big day. Martinez had a second house. They’re searching it now, looking for Piper Hadley. We were just on our way there.”
“North Oxford is the other direction,” says Grievous.
“How did you know it was in North Oxford?” asks Casey.
“You mentioned it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
There is a moment, a heartbeat of silence, when the two men stare at each other. One is searching for clarity, the other for a way out. There is a tiny twitch in Grievous’s eyes. The “tell.”
“I’ve been caught out,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I have a scanner upstairs. I’ve been listening to the police radio. Even when I’m not working, I can’t leave the job alone.”
Casey laughs with him. “You need to get married, pal.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” says Grievous, glancing at me. I see nothing in his eyes. “So why are you really here?”
“I’m heading back to London,” I say. “I wanted to thank you for driving me around. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”
