Say You're sorry - Страница 4

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The Oxford Mail revealed there were 984 registered sex offenders in Oxfordshire. More than three hundred lived within a fifteen-mile radius of Bingham. Who knew there were so many perverts living so close?

One of them was old Mr. Purvis, who has a house opposite the green. He’s a creepy old guy who hangs around the train station telling girls they remind him of his daughter.

Police dug up Mr. Purvis’s garden but they didn’t find anything except the skeleton of his dog Buster. By that time, people had marched on the house, calling him a child killer and a pedo.

The police had to rescue Mr. Purvis, taking him away with a blanket over his head. You could just see his baggy trousers and his brown shoes with one sock hanging down. Somebody pulled the blanket away and he looked like a frightened old man.

Things just got worse after that. Tash’s Uncle Victor drew up a list of people who were new to Bingham-foreigners mainly. Outsiders. He had a mate who was a plumber and they put together a posse of “concerned locals.” Then they drove from house to house, saying someone had reported a gas leak and they had a legal right to enter.

The police arrested Victor, but not without a scuffle. He told the TV cameras the police weren’t doing enough. They should never have closed the local police station, he said. I didn’t know Bingham had ever had a police station.

The same people who were quick to weep were quick to hate… and to criticize. The police were accused of making mistakes. They reacted too slowly or rushed ahead or searched blind alleys or ignored the obvious or kept families in the dark.

When the chorus grew loud enough, the police pushed back. Rumors began circulating. We weren’t the angels we’d been portrayed as being. We were promiscuous. Feral. Delinquent. Tash was a wild child who had been expelled from school. Her father had spent time in prison. My dad had taken obscene bonuses while taxpayers were bailing out his bank.

Almost overnight Bingham went from being a quaint, sleepy village to being the heart of darkness-full of teenage sex, drugs and binge drinking. The same well-wishers and do-gooders who had searched for us and written sympathy cards and donated money were tut-tutting and shaking their heads. The whole town hummed with disapproval and the country followed.

Flowers rotted in their cellophane, balloons sagged to the ground, soft toys grew damp and the handwritten notes began leaking. The gloss began wearing off Bingham like cheap nail polish and underneath was something ugly and rank.

2

Oxford is blanketed by snow, surprised by its own silence. Mounds of dirty ice have been plowed to the sides of the roads or shoveled from driveways and footpaths. The dreaming spires look particularly pensive, shrouded by mist and guarded by gargoyles with beards of ice.

I’ve spent the morning preparing my conference speech, sitting on a sprawling armchair in the lounge of the Randolph Hotel. There is a Morse Bar-named after the fictional detective-with photographs around the walls of the lead characters.

Charlie has been shopping all morning in Cornmarket Street. She’s standing in front of the open fire, warming up.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“How about sushi?”

“I don’t like Japanese.”

“It’s very healthy.”

“Not for whales or for dolphins.”

“We’re not going to eat whale or dolphin.”

“What about the blue fin tuna?”

“So you’re boycotting all things Japanese?”

“Until they stop their so-called scientific whaling program.”

My left arm trembles. My medication is wearing off and an unseen force is tugging at my invisible strings like a fish nibbling on a baited hook.

I can give you chapter and verse about my condition, having read every paper, medical journal, celebrity autobiography and online blog about Parkinson’s. I know the theories, the symptoms, the prognosis and the possible treatments-all of which will delay the progress but cannot cure my condition. I haven’t given up the search. I have given up obsessing over it.

Glancing over Charlie’s shoulder, I see two men in the foyer, shrugging off their overcoats. Beads of moisture spray the marble tiles. They have mud on their shoes and a farmyard smell about them.

The older one is in his forties with a disconcertingly low hairline that seems to be creeping down his forehead to meet his eyebrows. His colleague is younger and taller with the body of an ex-fighter who has slightly gone to seed.

A police badge is flashed.

“We’re looking for Professor O’Loughlin.”

The young receptionist is ringing my room. Charlie nudges me. “They’re asking for you.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We’re going to lunch.”

The suspense is killing her. She announces loudly, “Are you looking for my father?”

The men turn.

“He’s right here,” she says.

“Professor O’Loughlin?” asks the older man.

I look at Charlie, showing my disappointment.

“Yes,” I answer.

“We’ve come to collect you, sir. I’m DS Casey. This is my colleague Trainee Detective Constable Brindle Hughes.”

“People call me Grievous,” says the younger man, smiling awkwardly.

“We were going out,” I say, pointing to the revolving door.

Casey answers, “Our guv wants to see you, sir. He says it’s important.”

“Who’s your guv?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Drury.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He knows you.”

There is a pause. My attitude to detectives is similar to my views on priests-they do important jobs but they make me nervous. It’s not the confessional nature of their work-I have nothing to feel guilty about-it is more a sense of having done my share. I want to put a sign up saying, “I’ve given.”

“Tell your boss that I’m very sorry, but I’m unavailable. I’m looking after my daughter.”

“I don’t mind,” says Charlie, getting interested.

Casey lowers his voice. “A husband and wife are dead.”

“I can give you the names of other profilers-”

“The guv doesn’t want anyone else.”

Charlie tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, Dad, you should help them.”

“I promised you lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“What about the shopping.”

“I don’t have any money, which means I’d have to guilt you into buying me something. I’d prefer to save up my guilt points for something I really want.”

“Guilt points?”

“You heard me.”

The detectives seem to find this conversation amusing. Charlie grins at them. She’s bored. She wants some excitement. But this isn’t the sort of adventure anyone wants. Two people are dead. It’s tragic. It’s pointless. It’s the sort of work I try to avoid.

Charlie won’t let it go. “I won’t tell Mum,” she says. “Please can we go?”

“You have to stay here.”

“No, that’s not fair. Let me come.”

Casey interrupts. “We’re only going to the station, sir.”

A police car is parked outside. Charlie slides into the back seat alongside me.

We drive in silence through the near-empty streets. Oxford looks like a ghost city trapped in a snow dome. Charlie leans forward, straining at the seat belt.

“Is this about the body in the ice?”

“How do you know about that?” asks Casey.

“We saw it from the train.”

“Different case, miss,” says Grievous. “Not one for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of motorists were stranded by the blizzard. Most likely she wandered away from her car and fell into the lake.”

Charlie shivers at the thought. “Do they know who she was?”

“Not yet.”

“Hasn’t anybody reported her missing?”

“They will.”

St. Aldates Police Station has an iron and glass canopy over the front entrance, which has collected a foot of snow. A council worker perched on a ladder is using a shovel to break up the frozen white wave, which explodes into fragments on the paving stones below.

Instead of parking at the station, the detectives carry on for another hundred yards and turn right before pulling up outside a Chinese restaurant where denuded ducks are hanging in the window.

“Why are we here?”

“Guv has invited you to lunch.”

Upstairs in a private dining room, a dozen detectives are seated around a large circular banqueting table. The food carousel is laden with steaming plates of pork, seafood, noodles and vegetables.

The man in charge has a napkin tucked into his shirt and is opening a crab claw with a silver pincer. He sucks out the flesh and picks up another claw. Even seated, he gives the impression of being large. Mid-forties. Fast-tracked through the ranks. He has a shock of dark hair and razor burns on his face. I notice his wedding ring and his unironed shirt. He hasn’t been home for a couple of days, but has managed to shower and shave.

Beyond the circular table, a series of whiteboards have been set up to display photographs and a timeline of events. The victims’ names are written across the top. The restaurant has become an incident room.

DCI Drury tugs his napkin from his collar and tosses it onto the table. It’s a signal. Waiters converge and carry away the leftovers. Pushing back from the table, Drury rises with all the grace and coordination of a deck chair.