“You heard the question.”
“I don’t think that’s any-”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He rocks back on his heels, flexing his fingers against his thighs. “I think you should leave her alone.”
“Why?”
“I’m concerned for her.”
“You care for her?”
“Yes.”
“Does your wife know?”
He smiles tightly. No teeth. “My wife and I have an understanding. I know it sounds like a cliche.”
“You have an open marriage?”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Does your wife see other men?”
“She could.”
As soon as he utters the statement, he’s aware of how self-absorbed and insincere it sounds. Elevating his chin, he presses his lips into thin lines.
“Are you married?” he asks.
“My wife and I are separated.”
“I notice that you still wear a wedding ring. I guess that makes us both hypocrites, but only one of us is a showboat.”
He leaves me then, striding down the corridor like a soldier marching into battle. How can a man with so much ego and self-hatred survive in a job with so few highs and so many lows? I fear for his sanity. I feel for his wife.
Ruiz wakes me just after 4:00 a.m. I’ve fallen asleep on a desk, head resting on my forearms, dribble on the blotter beneath my chin. I sit up, dry-mouthed, thirsty.
“You don’t twitch when you sleep,” he says. “It’s like your Parkinson’s takes the night off.”
My arms and head are moving now, jerking and spasming. It’s a strange dance, self-conscious and nerdish. I take two pills from a childproof bottle and Ruiz gets me a cup of water from the cooler.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
“Ditto, big man.”
I’m waiting for the medication to take hold. Then I’ll be “on”-as they say in Parkinson’s parlance-as opposed to “off.”
“Where have you been?”
“I took Dale Hadley home. Nice house. Good-looking children. They’re like a Disney family.”
“With a missing daughter.”
“Swings and roundabouts.”
Ruiz has news. Phillip Martinez was picked up two hours ago by a highway patrol car on the M40 near Stokenchurch. He was alone in the car.
“Where is he now?”
“Downstairs. Drury is about to interview him. I thought you’d want to watch.”
I wash my face with cold water. Ruiz waits. Then we take the lift downstairs. Phillip Martinez is sitting alone in the interview suite. He glances at the ceiling like a man who is trapped at the bottom of a deep dark well, who can see a circle of blue sky above him.
Disheveled and tired, he raises his hairless hand, scratching the stubble on his jaw. One side of his face is bruised and swollen, slowly changing color.
DCI Drury and DS Casey enter the room. Martinez leaps to his feet.
“It’s about bloody time.”
“Sit down, please,” says Drury.
“Have you found Emily? Did you talk to her mother?”
“Sit down.”
“That bitch is behind this. She’s been planning it all long.”
Drury points again to the chair. The two men stare at each other and Martinez blinks first, taking a seat. He crosses his legs and his upper foot jiggles up and down.
“For the record,” says the DCI, “we are recording this conversation. Can you confirm, Mr. Martinez, that you have been read your rights?”
“Yes.”
“You have also been given the opportunity to have a lawyer present, but you have declined.”
“Yes.”
“Where were you between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon?”
“I was looking for my daughter. She ran away.”
“Why?”
“We had an argument.”
“How did you get the bruises and scratches on your face?”
Martinez touches his cheek. “She was upset. She threw a few things.”
“What was this argument about?”
Martinez sighs. “Emily wanted to spend Christmas with her mother. I told her that she could go to London on Boxing Day but not before. She wouldn’t listen.”
“She hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit her?”
“No. I mean… I tried to stop her hurting herself. She was out of control. Hysterical.”
“Did you hit her?”
“Is that what she said? She’s exaggerating. She’s a typical teenager. Headstrong. Ungrateful. Melodramatic.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Eight-fifteen yesterday morning.”
“Why didn’t you report her missing?”
“I didn’t know she’d run away until later. I thought she’d gone to work. When she didn’t come home at midday I started to worry.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went looking for her. I called her friends. I found a train timetable in her room. That’s when I realized that she’d gone to London. Her mother lives at a hostel in Ealing. I drove there but Amanda wouldn’t see me and the staff threatened to call the police.”
“You didn’t see Emily?”
“They were hiding her.”
Drury pauses. With deliberate slowness, he places a sealed evidence bag in front of Martinez.
“Is this your wallet?”
“Yes.”
“There is a photograph in the inside sleeve of a young woman.”
“Emily. So what?”
Drury places a second plastic bag on the table.
“Do you recognize this?”
“That’s one of my pieces: the stationmaster. I have a model railway. Where did you get it?”
“You’re sure it belongs to you?”
“Positive. I commissioned it from Aiden Campbell, a famous model maker. I supplied him with a photograph. How did you get it?”
“It was found at an abandoned factory where we believe Piper Hadley and Natasha McBain were imprisoned for three years.”
Martinez blinks at Drury incredulously, his eyebrows raised, his palms open. He’s unsure if he’s missing
