Marked

FOUR

Doyle hates this. Hates being the bearer of the worst news possible. He particularly hates it when the recipient of his devastating message is a woman, and a breakable-looking one at that. What he dreads most is that they will go to pieces in front of him, because he never knows what to do. He’s relieved that, in this case, the husband is here too — someone to step in when the emotional waves get rough. It doesn’t always play out that way, of course. Sometimes it’s the man who falls apart and the woman who provides the comfort. For some reason he has yet to analyze, Doyle can cope better with that. Men he understands, women he doesn’t. That’s all there is to it, he thinks. Sue me.

The house is beautiful. Quiet. There is a peacefulness here. He imagines it to be one of those houses that would never be on the market for very long. You would walk into it and it would feel right and you would instantly want to buy it.

The decor and furniture are modern and tasteful. No dark colors anywhere. Doyle feels a little embarrassed at the rivulets of rainwater that are dripping from his leather jacket and onto the oatmeal carpet. A distance of only a few yards from the car to the house, and he feels like he’s just climbed out of a swimming pool.

There’s one thing out of place here. So out of place it hits you as soon as you walk in. It’s the chair by the window. Doesn’t belong there at all. But Doyle understands the reason.

He nods toward the occupant of that chair. Doesn’t smile. This is not a time for smiling. Wouldn’t want to send out the wrong message. What you have to do in these situations is be officious. It may sound cruel, but the message has to be clear and unambiguous. You can’t tell someone their daughter is dead with a stupid grin on your face.

The woman looks to be just shy of forty. She is good-looking, and is probably stunning when she tries. Today she hasn’t tried. Her long blond hair is tied loosely at the back. She wears no makeup. She is dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and blue leggings. Today is a ‘throw it on and leave it be’ day.

Her husband is of a similar age, but of a different disposition. He is clean-cut, has precisely preened hair and smells of aftershave. He wears a Diesel T-shirt and well-pressed jeans. He appears to Doyle like someone who is obsessed with looking after himself. Hitting the gym, eating all the right foods, not smoking or drinking — all that annoying healthy stuff.

‘Come in,’ says Mr Hamlyn. ‘Please.’ He turns to his wife. ‘Hon, these guys are from the Police Department. The Eighth Precinct?’ He looks to Doyle for confirmation of this, and Doyle nods.

Doyle hears the shakiness in the man’s voice. Sees the uncertainty in the woman’s eyes.

Doyle looks down at his clothes. ‘We got kinda wet out there. I wouldn’t want to ruin your furniture. .’

‘No, it’s okay. Please. Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? Tea?’

Doyle sees LeBlanc’s eyes light up, and quickly interjects. ‘No. Nothing. Thank you.’ He looks across the room. ‘Mrs Hamlyn? Perhaps if you came over here, next to your husband? We need to speak with both of you.’

Nicole Hamlyn gets up from her chair like it’s a supreme effort. She stares warily at her visitors as she approaches. Steve takes her arm and helps her to lower herself to the sofa, as though she’s an elderly grandmother.

Doyle starts walking to the vacated chair. ‘You mind if I bring this across?’

Mr Hamlyn shakes his head, and Doyle restores the chair to its rightful place for what must be the first time in days. As he does so, he sees that Mrs Hamlyn is watching him. He hopes that she doesn’t regard the moving of her chair as some kind of disrespectful act.

The two detectives take their seats opposite the Hamlyns.

‘Mrs Hamlyn, as I was just telling your husband, my name is Detective Callum Doyle, and this is Detective Tommy LeBlanc.’

‘Are you from Missing Persons?’ she asks. Her voice is quiet but clear.

‘No. No, we’re not from Missing Persons.’

‘Because all the detectives we’ve met so far have been from Missing Persons. And so I thought maybe you were from there too. I thought maybe you were more senior detectives from there. Because, well, it’s been a while now, and so the case should be given more urgency, don’t you think? Something more needs to be done.’

‘Mrs Hamlyn, we’re not from Missing Persons. We’re precinct detectives. From the Eighth Precinct, which covers the East Village and the Lower East Side.’

She flinches. Something has hit home. She crosses her arms, then lifts a hand and tugs at a strand of her hair.

‘I. . I don’t understand. The East Village? Why would you be involved in this? Why would you-’

‘Mrs Hamlyn, there’s no easy way to tell you this. We believe we’ve found your daughter, and I’m afraid to say she’s not alive.’

There’s a silence then. Doyle rides it out, gives the words time to sink in and percolate into their consciousness. Lets the fact of what he has just said become established in their minds.

Steve Hamlyn rubs his hand up and down his thigh. Up and down, up and down. He starts to shake and his eyes glisten. To his left, Nicole’s face contorts into a mask of intense anguish.

Mr Hamlyn finds some words. ‘You’re saying our daughter is dead? Megan is dead?’

‘Yes. I am. I’m sorry.’

Nicole emits a high-pitched keening noise that is barely recognizable as a long, drawn-out ‘Noooo.’ Her husband puts his hand on hers, but he still stares with incredulity at the police officers who have dared to invade his house and present him with this story.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks. ‘I mean, could there be a mistake?’

‘There’s no mistake. The Medical Examiner ran tests. We’re as sure as we can be that it’s your daughter.’

‘As sure as you can be? But not a hundred percent, right? Maybe if I could. . The body you’ve found. If I could. .’

‘Steve, no.’

This from Nicole. She grasps her husband’s hand tightly and utters the words in a small quiet breath through her tears. And in that instant Doyle knows that she has skipped a chapter beyond the text he has given them so far.

‘But what if they’re wrong, Nicole? Don’t you think we should at least-’

‘Stop it!’

‘Hon-’

‘NO! Please. Stop it. She’s dead, Steve. Can’t you hear what they’re saying to you?’

She turns to Doyle then, and the look in her eyes is one of heartbreaking comprehension. ‘The news. This morning. The East Village. It was her, wasn’t it?’

Doyle says nothing, because he doesn’t need to and because he can’t. It would be a slap to the face.

She stands up then, and her courteous announcement seems almost surreal: ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m going to be sick.’

She runs out of the room, her hand to her mouth. From somewhere else in the house come retching noises followed by the sound of running water.

Steve stands up, unsure whether to go to her or to stay and satisfy his burning need to understand what’s happening to his family.

‘The news? What’s she talking about? What news?’

‘Mr Hamlyn,’ says Doyle, ‘could you sit down, please?’ He waits for the man to sit, then says, ‘The police undertook a large-scale search of the East Village last night-’

And that’s all he has to say. Because now Steve gets it too. His brain finally allows the connection it has probably been vetoing all along.

‘Oh God, no! Not that. Not to Megan. Please tell me that wasn’t her.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Doyle.

The roar of anguish that the man lets out then is primeval. It chills Doyle to the bone and he feels the goosebumps break out on his skin. He experiences a sense of loss himself that seems profound but is mere fallout. How more unbearable must that feeling be at its source?

An age passes while the detectives allow the man his release. Doyle can almost feel the discomfort radiating from LeBlanc.

When Hamlyn speaks again, his words seem as misplaced as those of his wife. ‘Thank you,’ he says, his words coming out as a squeak through the emotion.

Doyle says nothing in return. Out of the corner of his eye he sees LeBlanc looking at him, willing him to take him the hell out of here. Doyle waits, because he must.

Hamlyn clears his throat to bring his voice down an octave, then continues: ‘For being straight with us. For being honest. I want you to know we appreciate it.’

‘Mr Hamlyn,’ says Doyle, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time, especially at this moment. But there’s one thing I need to ask you about.’

Hamlyn wipes his eyes and sniffs deeply. ‘What is it?’

‘Megan’s body. .’ He uses the word body, even though there wasn’t much of one. ‘. . It had a tattoo.’

He sees the puzzlement on Hamlyn’s face then, and he rushes out his next words before bafflement becomes doubt becomes hope.

‘It was done recently. In the past few days.’

‘A tattoo? What kind of tattoo?’

‘A picture of an angel. At the base of her spine.’

Hamlyn bows his head and pushes his hand through his hair. ‘Aw, Jeez.’

‘Does it mean something to you?’

He raises his head again. ‘Yeah. Kind of. She wanted a tattoo. For years she’s wanted one. We told her she couldn’t have one. She was sixteen, for Chrissake. I don’t think it’s even legal at sixteen, is it? But even if it was, I didn’t want her to have it. I wouldn’t want her to have it even if she was twenty. I told her: Those things don’t come off. You’re stuck with them for ever. But still she kept banging on about getting a damned tattoo.’

‘Far as you know, though, she didn’t have it done before she disappeared?’

Hamlyn strains against his helplessness. ‘No. I don’t think so. At that age. . I mean she was practically a woman, you know? I wouldn’t see. .’ He pauses as a thought strikes him. ‘Wait. She went swimming with Nicole. On Friday. The day before she went missing. They always get changed together. There’s no way she could have hidden it.’ He pursues his own chain of thought, then looks hard at Doyle. ‘You think, whoever gave her that tattoo, maybe he. .’

‘I don’t know. It’s too early. But it’s something for us to look into.’

Hamlyn starts rubbing his hands together. His leg shakes. The crying is on its way again.

Doyle stands up. Motions LeBlanc to do the same. He is only too eager to comply.

‘We’ll leave you alone now, Mr Hamlyn. We may need to come back and ask you some more questions, but right now I think you and your wife need some time together.’

Hamlyn gets up. ‘Sure,’ he says, but he finds it difficult to turn his tear-stained face to the cops. It’s a man thing, not wanting to appear weak. Doyle knows that when they’ve gone, he will bawl like a baby. And that’s okay.

Then, at the door, Hamlyn grabs Doyle by the arm. This time he looks Doyle straight in the eye, because this time it’s about what he regards as the appropriate male response.

‘Promise me,’ he says. ‘Promise me that you’ll get this bastard.’

Doyle nods. ‘We’ll get him.’

‘And. . if there’s any chance. . I mean, if I can be there when you do. .’

The sentence is left unfinished, but the message is up there in neon. Doyle doesn’t know what to say. He’d like nothing more than to grab up this sicko and hand him straight over to Hamlyn and anyone he wants to invite to a revenge party. But he knows it’s not going to happen. All he can do is give a hint of a nod, meaning nothing more than the request has been noted.

And then the detectives leave. On the way out, Doyle hears sobbing coming from upstairs. When the door closes behind them, LeBlanc makes a dash through the rain. Doyle takes his time. He ambles down the driveway, through the tidy front yard with its manicured patch of lawn, out onto the street with its perfect line of trees. And all the way there, while the rain batters down on him, he thinks about his promise to Hamlyn.

He will not allow the killer of this young girl to walk free.

Not this time.