We’ve had five hundred phone calls since six this morning,” says Drury, staring out the car window. “Each one of them has to be logged, categorized and followed up… I’m all in favor of public support, but we’re getting calls from every nutter, do-gooder and pissed-off ratepayer with a grudge against his neighbor.”
“Who broke the news blackout?”
“Hayden McBain took thirty pieces of silver from the Sun.”
“The news would have leaked eventually.”
Drury shakes his head in disgust, silent for a long moment. His job has become a lot harder. People are scared. Parents want reassurance and a quick resolution. The media will be demanding answers. Progress. Daily briefings. Failure will bring blame.
The road out of Bingham is choked with traffic, belching fumes into the frigid air. Drury tells Grievous to use the siren. Motorists pull over and the unmarked police car squeezes past.
Sarah Hadley’s words are still grinding through my mind. Grief has kept her busy for three years, held her upright. The news of Natasha hasn’t restored her belief, it has caused her to doubt.
“I want to ask you about Victor McBain,” I say.
The DCI glances over the seat. “What about him?”
“Nelson Stokes claims that he saw Natasha kissing her uncle in the front seat of his car. It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. He says he told police, but I can’t find any mention of it in his statement.”
Drury seems to be chewing on my question, deciding how much to say.
“We looked at Vic McBain,” he says, speaking to the windscreen. “You know how it works. When a child goes missing or is murdered we look at the family first, then friends. Ninety per cent of the time it’s a fair assumption.”
“Why wasn’t the allegation included in Stokes’s statement?”
“McBain threatened to sue the police if anyone repeated the claim.”
“Were the allegations investigated?”
“Of course.”
“So there’s no truth-”
Drury interrupts. “He gave Natasha some inappropriate gifts.”
“What gifts?”
“Bikinis, booze, condoms.”
“Not the sort of things an uncle gives a niece.”
“I saw Vic McBain three years ago. He would have torn this town apart to find Natasha. He also had an alibi for the morning the girls disappeared.”
“What about the night of the blizzard?”
Drury loses patience. “If you have new information, Professor, let’s hear it, but don’t play twenty questions with me. I don’t have the time.”
“Sarah Hadley said she talked to a medium-some woman who was introduced to her by Vic McBain. This medium claimed that Natasha and Piper were being held somewhere against their will. She used the phrase ‘Beneath the earth but not a part of it.’ ”
“Don’t tell me you believe this psychic shit? Do you know how many mediums and mystics we’ve heard from so far? Dozens of them.”
“This could be different. This medium saw a smokestack or a windmill. The pathologist found traces of heavy metals on Natasha’s clothing. What if Vic McBain fed her some of the details.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something else that bothers me. When the girls were planning to run away, Natasha told Emily that her uncle owed her money. When I asked Emily why, she clammed up and got upset.”
“You think Natasha was blackmailing her uncle?”
“It’s possible.”
“OK, OK, we’ll take another look.” Drury squeezes his nose and blows out his cheeks as though adjusting the pressure in his head. “I’m getting a head cold. My daughter gave it to me. If you ask me, rats got a bum rap for the plague. I blame kids.”
Phillip Martinez is causing a commotion downstairs at the police station, arguing with the desk sergeant, whose blood pressure is glowing in his cheeks. A dozen people are waiting to be seen. Emily hangs back, hands buried in the pockets of a donkey jacket.
Martinez looks relieved to see me. “Professor O’Loughlin, you’ll understand.”
“What will I understand?”
“We have important information. Emily does. There’s something she didn’t tell the police. She received a letter.”
“A letter?”
“From Piper.”
Drury is shaking out his coat and spins around as though struck. He yells at the desk sergeant to let Mr. Martinez and Emily through. A button is pushed. The door unlocks. Father and daughter are ushered quickly upstairs to the DCI’s office.
Emily hasn’t raised her eyes. She doesn’t dress like most girls her age. No clunky shoes, acid-colored skirts or livid lipsticks. Instead, she’s wearing a long skirt and baggy jumper.
I notice a music folder sticking out of her bag.
“What do you play?” I ask.
“The piano.”
“What grade?”
“Six.”
“She’s taking extra lessons during the holidays,” says Mr. Martinez. “Her teacher says she has perfect pitch.”
Emily looks embarrassed, wanting him to be quiet.
Drury enters, apologizing for the delay. I watch Emily sidelong, looking for more signs of inner turmoil.
Mr. Martinez does the talking. “She only told me about the letter this morning. I tried not to touch it. That’s why I put it in a plastic bag. I thought it might have fingerprints, you know, or DNA.”
Drury takes the letter and places it on his desk. The paper is poor quality and almost perished at the creases, but the sentences are still legible, written in fading pencil.
Dear Em,
Please, please don’t tell anybody about this letter-not my parents or the police. You have to promise. This has to be our secret.
Everybody knows we ran away now and hopefully they’ll stop looking soon. We’re living in London, by the way, just like we said. It’s a big house, but I’m not supposed to tell you the address.
Tash is OK. We both miss you. We’re sorry we left you waiting for so long at the railway station, but it’s probably best you stayed. One day when we’re all eighteen we can get a place together.
I guess my mum is happier now. She can concentrate on Phoebe and Ben without me getting in the way. They deserve better than me. I wish I’d been nicer to them.
Until we meet again.
Lots of love,
Piper xxxooo
I recognize the handwriting as Piper’s. The loopy letters and square capitals are penciled hard into the cheap paper, leaving specks of graphite glinting in the furrows.
“When did you get this?” I ask.
Emily brushes her fringe from her eyes. Her father answers for her. “I’ve told her she did the wrong thing. She’s very contrite. It won’t happen again.”
“When exactly did it arrive?”
Once more Mr. Martinez answers. “The envelope has a London postmark. The date is blurred, but it might be October 2008.”
I look at Emily for confirmation. She nods.
“Why didn’t you show it to anyone?”
