two open doors that are marked oxymoronically as ladies and gents.
The barmaid has punked blue hair, shaved on one side, and black fingernail polish.
Ruiz leans fully over the bar, studying the taps. “The sign outside says you have a fine collection of real ales.”
“So?”
“You have one hand-pump of Morland’s Original. That’s hardly what I call a selection.”
She looks at me. “What’s his problem?”
“He thinks he’s a connoisseur.”
Isaac McBain is sitting at the far end of the bar beneath a Union Jack flag. Between his forearms he has a pint glass and a whisky chaser centered on matching cardboard coasters. Making his choice, he lifts the shot glass and downs it in a swallow.
We pull out bar stools on either side. Isaac turns slowly, his eyes swimming in an alcoholic haze.
“I’m not in a talking mood,” he slurs.
“Your brother told us you’d be here,” says Ruiz.
“He called me. Said you were coming.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” I say, making the introductions. My outstretched hand is ignored. Withdrawn.
Isaac blinks slowly and I get a whiff of the ashy stink coming from his hair. I see a man who is torturing himself with alternative scenarios. What if he hadn’t gone to jail? What if he’d been a better father? Would his daughter still be alive? Could he have protected her?
These thoughts have haunted him for three years, sweating through his dreams, hooking his heart whenever he turned a corner and caught a glimpse of someone who looked like Natasha.
“They let me see her,” he whispers. “That body didn’t look like Tash, you know. I mean, it did, but it didn’t. She was beautiful, you know.”
He drinks half his beer, his throat moving noiselessly.
“They’re saying she was held prisoner.”
“Yes.”
“Someone kept her alive.”
“Yes.”
“And… and did things to her?”
“Yes.”
His face creases in pain and I can tell that he’s screaming internally.
“I need a cigarette.” He stands and takes his beer through a rear door into a courtyard with a handful of wooden tables and benches. He lights up. White smoke curls around his wrist.
“A lot of folks blamed me,” he says. “Even the police. That’s why they wanted us to do the media conference when the girls went missing. They were studying me, analyzing my words and my body language.”
“That’s pretty standard practice,” says Ruiz. “Look at the families first.”
“Yeah, well, I had everyone looking at me sideways. They leaked the story about me having done time, you know. Lads I used to drink with suddenly didn’t fancy standing at the same bar with me. My local publican told me I should find somewhere else to drink. I finished up at this shitehole.”
The barmaid has come out for cigarette. “I heard that.”
“Fuck off.”
I can see the glint in Isaac’s eyes and know I’m witnessing the other side of him-the wildness that saw him go to prison; the wildness that Tash inherited.
“I pissed them off early-the cops. When Natasha and Piper went missing we organized our own search. We had hundreds of volunteers. Friends. Neighbors. Strangers. Vic did most of the work. We were chomping at the bit, but the police kept telling us to wait. Then I overheard this inspector saying that he didn’t want to compromise the evidence-like he thought the girls were already dead.
“I argued with him. ‘For fuck’s sake-it’s my daughter. We have to find her. It’s not rocket science.’ This guy told me to step away and lower my voice. I didn’t. Then he threatened to have me arrested. It was bullshit.”
We let Isaac talk, venting his anger.
“They still think it’s me, you know. They came and asked me where I was during the blizzard. They were sweating on me, trying to get me rattled, thinking I might confess. As if I’d be scared. I’ve been bounced off prison walls by cons who’d shank you quicker than look at you. The police don’t scare me.”
“Why were you in prison?” says Ruiz.
“Here we go.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Armed robbery. Sentenced to five, I served three. I don’t shy away from it. No point. Small town like this, everyone knows. But tell me something, Mr. Ruiz. How is that piece of information going to help you catch my daughter’s killer? I’m just asking.”
“I don’t mean to offend you. I’m just wondering whether you could have made any enemies; someone who might hold a grudge?”
Isaac blows air out of his mouth. “You’re talking about the Connolly brothers. You don’t have to dance around the subject.”
“You gave evidence against them.”
“I told the truth.”
“Maybe what happened to Natasha was payback.”
“The Connolly brothers don’t take revenge on children.” He crushes the cigarette beneath his heel. “If they wanted to punish someone-they’d punish me.”
“Perhaps they are,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“The Connolly brothers didn’t take Tash and Piper. Payback wasn’t necessary.”
He closes his eyes as though picturing a scene from his past.
“My ex-wife blames me too. She thinks I let Tash down, that I could have done more. But not many people could stop Natasha doing stuff, not when her mind was made up.
“She were only ten when I went inside. When I came out she weren’t a little girl any more. We were strangers, you know. I know she hated school and wanted to get out of this place, but she wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye, you know. That’s why I knew she hadn’t run away.
“Or if she did, she’d have left a letter or sent us a card. She loved her mum. She would have called her to reassure her. All those birthdays, Mother’s Days, Christmases, they came and went… not a word. Nothing. Tash wouldn’t do that.”
He sighs ruefully, turning towards the pub. “Now we know, eh?”
“Can I buy you a drink?” asks Ruiz.
“No, thanks anyway. Only want one thing from you-find out who did this to my Tash.”
22
The door opens hard against a security chain. I see one eye and a fringe of teenage hair.
“Are you Emily Martinez?”
No answer.
“Is your mum home?”
“No.”
“What about your dad?”
She glances past me. “He’ll be here soon.”
“It’s you I came to see, Emily.”
She blinks at me. “I’m not allowed to let strangers inside the house.”
“That’s very wise. Maybe we could just talk here. You could stay in there and I’ll stay out here.”
