Say You're sorry

49

DS Casey shoulders open the external fire door and points his keys at an unmarked police car. Lights flash and doors unlock.

“The boss’s phone is turned off,” he says, holding a mobile to his ear. “He won’t turn it on until after the operation. It’s procedure. Urgent comms only.”

Casey stares at the screen, pondering whether to leave a message. He wants to cover himself.

“I’ll explain it to DCI Drury,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.

Moments later we pull out of the parking area and accelerate along Marcham Road. The streets are deserted. People are indoors, celebrating Christmas, eating turkey and the trimmings, plum pudding with custard, dozing off in front of the TV before the Queen makes her speech.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” says Casey. “Grievous is one of the lads.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He’s a mate.”

“So you’ve been to his place?”

“No.”

“Have you met his fiancee?”

“Not yet.”

“She’s never come to the pub for a drink or dropped Grievous at the station?”

“No.” Casey falters. “He hasn’t been with us long. Six months maybe.”

“Where was he before that?”

“In uniform… working downstairs.”

The DS swings hard into Drayton Road, past Ock Meadow, heading south, accelerating between intersections.

Facts are shifting in my head, detaching and re-forming into new pictures like the fragments of a montage, creating different realities. The past reshaped, history rewritten, explanations turned upside down.

Thinking out loud, I explain how Grievous was working the night that Piper and Natasha disappeared. The girls must have walked right past him as they headed for the leisure center. He was also working as a court security officer when they gave evidence against Aiden Foster at Oxford Crown Court.

“That could be just a coincidence,” says Casey.

“Remember the farmhouse on the night of the blizzard? Augie Shaw said he saw Natasha on the road. Barefoot. Terrified. There was someone chasing her.”

“The snowman,” says Casey.

“I think it was someone dressed in white overalls, a search and rescue volunteer. Grievous works for OxSAR.”

“A lot of guys work as volunteers.”

“His overalls smell of bleach.”

“Is that the best you have? Phillip Martinez has a motive and no alibi. The guy is a control freak, you said so yourself. He’s got medical training. He could have done that stuff… you know… to Natasha.”

Casey won’t use the words.

“Grievous did two years of nursing before he became a court security officer.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“What about the figurine you found at the abandoned factory?”

“Grievous was with me when I went to see Phillip Martinez. He saw the model railway. He could have picked up the stationmaster and planted it to implicate Martinez.”

“You’re making him sound like a master criminal. He’s a trainee detective constable, for Christ’s sake.”

“Humor me then. We’ll knock on the door, say hello, wish him a Merry Christmas.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll leave. One drink. That’s all.”

The DS isn’t convinced. I’m asking him to distrust a colleague, to break a special bond. Police officers look after each other and cover each other’s backs. They socialize together and take holidays and marry into each other’s families. They’re comrades in arms, outsiders, hated until needed, undertakers to the living.

The raid in North Oxford has unfolded over the two-way radio. Police are going from floor to floor, searching the basement for hidden tunnels and secret rooms.

We’re getting close. Casey pulls over a hundred yards from the address. This is a newer part of Abingdon with two-story semi-detached houses, some with loft conversions and garages. The painted brick facades stand out brightly against the winter trees. Some have Christmas lights strung under the eaves or around the windows.

“So we’re just going to say hello?” says Casey.

“Absolutely.”

“And then we’ll leave?”

“Of course.”

“And you won’t embarrass me by mentioning any of your theories to Grievous?”

“No.”

We walk through the gate and along the path. Casey rings the doorbell. Nobody answers.

“He’s not home.”

“Try again.”

“I should never have let you talk me into this.”

The door opens. Grievous looks perplexed and then smiles broadly. “Is everything all right, lads?”

“Yeah, course,” says Casey. “We were passing and thought we’d drop in.”

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

“And to you.”

He hasn’t fully opened the door.

“Do you have company?” I ask.

“No.”

“Where’s your fiancee?”

“She’s spending Christmas with her folks in Cornwall.”

“Shame, I was hoping to meet her,” says Casey. “You didn’t come to work today.”

“I didn’t finish until late. Slept in. The boss said it was OK to take the day off. My mum’s not well. Could be her last Christmas.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I was just going over there now. She lives around the corner.”

“Surely there’s time for a quick drink,” says Casey, giving him a warm grin. He pushes past Grievous and stands in the hallway, glancing into a darkened front room.

“Nice place, lived here long?”

“A few years.”

We’re led down the hallway to a drab circa -1970 kitchen with wood veneer cabinets, a porcelain sink and a worn linoleum floor. Coats are shrugged off and hung over chairs. Casey takes a seat, spreads his knees, a big man’s pose.

“We should be celebrating,” he says.

“Why?” Grievous asks.

“We arrested Phillip Martinez for kidnapping the Bingham Girls. You missed a big day. Martinez had a second house. They’re searching it now, looking for Piper Hadley. We were just on our way there.”

“North Oxford is the other direction,” says Grievous.

“How did you know it was in North Oxford?” asks Casey.

“You mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There is a moment, a heartbeat of silence, when the two men stare at each other. One is searching for clarity, the other for a way out. There is a tiny twitch in Grievous’s eyes. The “tell.”

“I’ve been caught out,” he says, looking embarrassed. “I have a scanner upstairs. I’ve been listening to the police radio. Even when I’m not working, I can’t leave the job alone.”

Casey laughs with him. “You need to get married, pal.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Grievous, glancing at me. I see nothing in his eyes. “So why are you really here?”

“I’m heading back to London,” I say. “I wanted to thank you for driving me around. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” says Grievous, relaxing. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Professor.”

“You never did learn to call me Joe,” I say, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than expected, studying his face. I release him. “Can I use your toilet, Grievous?”

“Sure, it’s up the stairs, first door on the right.”

I try to make eye contact with Casey but he’s talking to Grievous about kitchen renovations. As I climb to the first floor, I glance quickly over the banister before opening the bathroom door.

I run the tap and open the cabinet. Shaving foam. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Hair gel. No women’s products. Opening the door, I cross the landing to the nearest bedroom. I can hear Casey and Grievous popping cans of lager.

The room has been set up as a gymnasium with a bench and free weights that are stacked on a rack or threaded on a horizontal bar. The only other significant furniture is an old-fashioned roller desk with small wooden drawers. A laptop computer is closed on the slide-away table and the upper shelf has a police scanner blinking out green digital numbers.

I move diagonally across the landing and come to the main bedroom. It has a queen-size bed, unmade, cheap cotton sheets tossed aside. A flat-screen TV is propped on a stand in front of the bay window. DVDs are stacked on either side. Pirated movies. The large mahogany wardrobe has three doors, the center one with a full-length mirror. Two pairs of trainers are lined up beneath the bed. Clothes are folded on a chair. A comb is stuck on a hairbrush.

There are two more rooms. One is made up as a guest room with an old-fashioned bedspread and a dressing table with an oval mirror that pivots up and down. The other room is used for storage.

I go back to the bathroom and flush the toilet.

The only place left is the loft conversion, up a narrow set of stairs. I climb slowly, trying not to make a sound. I glance over the banister. I can’t hear voices any more.

The door is locked. My fingers turn the key. The door opens inwards and my pupils take a moment to adjust to the partial light. The roof slopes down on either side of the room. Against the far wall, beneath a covered skylight, I can see a bed and a bundle of bedclothes.

The room looks empty. I’m about to leave, when I hear a sound.

Crossing the room, I find a girl asleep beneath bedding, whimpering in her dreams, rocking her head from side to side. A nightmare has taken hold and her body jerks in protest. My fingers touch her arm. Her eyes open, but nothing registers.

“Piper?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Can you hear me, Piper?”

Her pupils are dilated. She’s drugged.

“I’m Joe. We talked yesterday.”

Her eyes are closing. She tries to roll over, but her left wrist is attached to the bedhead by a set of silver handcuffs. Police issue. There’s no way to free her without a key or a hacksaw.

I open my mobile and send a text message to DS Casey.

PIPER IS UPSTAIRS. BE CAREFUL.

I call Drury’s number. He’s still not answering. What next? 999. I ask for an ambulance and the police. The operator wants me to stay on the line, but I give my name and hang up.

I stroke hair away from Piper’s eyes. They open.

“You said you were coming to get me yesterday.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let him hurt me.”

“I won’t.”

Her eyes close. She’s breathing deeply. Asleep again. I make my way downstairs, peering over the banister, listening for voices. Instead, I hear silence. I descend again, creeping towards the kitchen.

The room comes into view slowly. I see cans of beer on the table. Two glasses.

DS Casey is sitting in the same chair. His head has rocked forwards and his hand is clutching his throat, trying to stop the blood that is bubbling through his fingers. He groans and his chin lifts, his eyes meeting mine, death within them. Coming soon.

I hold my hand over his throat, my fingers covering his hand, increasing the pressure, but his carotid artery has been severed. He’s bleeding out. Losing consciousness. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I should have stayed with him. Together… maybe…

On the table in front of him a mobile phone, my message on the screen. The last thing he read. A humming refrigerator rattles into stillness. At the same moment, his head rocks forward and his body shudders once before his heart stops, the pump dry. In the sudden quietness, I feel a small ceaseless tremor vibrating inside me, expanding, filling my chest and throat. I look along the hallway. Grievous could be waiting in any one of the rooms.

I could run. I could get outside and wait for the police. But that means leaving Piper.

There is something else on the kitchen table: a small silver key lying next to Casey’s mobile. The key belongs to the set of handcuffs.

I look along the hallway again.

“Can you hear me, Grievous?”

The silence seems to be mocking me.

“We should talk,” I say. “I’m good at listening.”

Still nothing.

Maybe he’s gone. Fled the scene. He’s left me the key. Surely he can’t expect to get away. I wipe my hands on my thighs, pick up the key and move back towards the stairs, stopping at each door to glance inside.

There is a creaking sound above me.

“Grievous?”

Nothing.

From across the street, I hear a burst of laughter and the sound of Christmas crackers being pulled. Cheers. Applause.

I climb to the first landing, moving from room to room. Tiptoeing. Trying not to make a sound. Even before I finish the search, I know where I’ll find him. Mounting the final staircase, I nudge the door with my foot.

Grievous is sitting on the bed with his back to the wall. His arms and legs are wrapped around Piper, hugging her against his chest. She’s a human shield, asleep with her head on his shoulder.

“I thought you’d run away,” he says.

“Ditto,” I reply.

His hair is plastered down one side of his face and his eyes are like dark holes full of shadow and menace. He motions towards the end of the bed. There is a pistol lying on the bedspread, closer to me than to him. Polymer-framed, black as pitch. The ammunition clip has been placed alongside the weapon.

“That’s for you,” he says.

I stare at the gun, trying to make sense of the offer.

“Pick it up. It won’t bite.”

Piper is like a rag doll in his arms, her head slumped to one side, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.

“What did you give her?”

He motions to the empty pill bottle on the table to his left. “Diazepam. She won’t feel a thing.”

“What isn’t she supposed to feel?”

“Dying, of course.”

“You don’t have to kill her.”

“It’s a bit late now. She swallowed the lot. We’re going to die together.”

He raises his left wrist and shows me how they are handcuffed together. His other hand, hidden until now, has a knife pressed flat against her body, the point roughly over her heart.

“There must have been thirty pills in that bottle. I don’t think she’ll survive even if they pump out her stomach. No time to waste, really. If you shoot me, you might save her.”

“I’m not going to shoot you.”

He looks at me sadly and kisses her forehead. “Then we’ll both watch her die.” He twirls her hair with his fingertips. “It’s such a pity. She’s been a dear, dear thing.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re the psychologist, you tell me.”

Stepping closer, I crouch and take the pistol and ammunition clip.

“It slides in and clicks into place,” he says. “Now release the safety.”

I have never fired a gun. I hate them. I know some people who argue they’re just a tool, like a shifting spanner or a ballpoint hammer, but let’s be honest and accept that guns are designed to be lethal weapons. There are a lot of things I haven’t done. I haven’t had a body piercing or jumped out of a plane or tried to tip a cow. All of these things seem preferable at the moment to holding a pistol in both hands, trying not to shake.

“Careful, you might shoot someone,” he says, smiling.

“Let Piper go?”

“Shoot me and you can have her.”

I point the gun at his head.

“That’s the way.”

“I’m not going to shoot you. Nobody has to die.”

He smiles. He smells almost perfumed, as though he’s showered and shaved and doused himself in cologne.

“You weren’t in the service, were you?” he asks.

“Neither were you.”

“I got close.”

“That’s like saying you nearly had sex, Grievous. You either did or you didn’t-anything else is wanking.”

Anger lights up his eyes. I haven’t seen his temper before. He’s learned to hide it well.

“Should I call you Gerald or George?”

“Call me what you like.”

“Piper and Natasha called you George. It suits you.” I take a step closer. “I’m going to undo the handcuffs.”

He shows me the knife again. “I can flick my wrist and reach her heart before you take another step. How good a doctor are you? Can you patch a broken heart?”

I step back and find a straight-backed chair. I straddle it, resting my outstretched forearms on the top spar. I can hold the gun steadier now.

“This crime of mine,” says Grievous. “Kidnapping the girls, raping them-in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t mean very much. A thousand years from now nobody is going to care about the Bingham Girls or what I did to them. Not in a hundred years. Let’s face it, Professor, men have been penetrating women since our species began. It’s how we survive. So what if we don’t say please beforehand and thank you afterwards. It doesn’t alter the act. We penetrate. We procreate.”

“That’s an interesting philosophy, George. Your mother would be very proud.”

“Leave my mother out of it.”

“Is that who you’re trying to punish?”

“Oh, dear me, how disappointing,” he sighs. “Is that the best you can do-Freudian hostility, a mummy fixation? Please. I expected more.”

“You don’t have a fiancee, Grievous. She’s another fiction. That’s your problem, isn’t it? You can’t find anyone to love. It’s always been that way, ever since puberty when all those hormones were playing havoc with your thinking. You wanted a girlfriend, but you had a problem. You were deaf in one ear and couldn’t quite tune into what people were saying. Nobody knew about the brain tumor slowly growing, benign.

“You refused to wear a hearing aid or to sit up front in class. You didn’t want anyone to know, particularly the girls. You wanted to be one of the cool group sitting up the back, passing notes to each other.

“Do you know, Grievous, there is a correlation between deafness and paranoid thinking? If you can’t hear particularly well, it’s easy to think people might be talking about you, laughing and joking at your expense, putting you down. Isn’t that true?”

He doesn’t answer me, but seems to be pressing the knife tighter against Piper’s chest.

“Even the teachers thought you were slow and stupid, even your family. And every time someone laughed or behaved a little differently, you were sure they were making fun of you, whispering behind your back, sharing a private joke.

“You wanted a girlfriend, you were desperate for one, but girls rejected your pathetic attempts to woo them. I’m not criticizing you or being patronizing. It wasn’t your fault. You adored those girls. You would have treated them like goddesses. Showered them with love. Written them poetry. Sung them love songs. But they didn’t choose you, did they? They chose the arm-candy, the boys who made them look good and gave them status, the ones they swooned over.

“You fantasized about those unattainable girls. You pictured them as you worked out in weight rooms, shedding those pounds. You starved yourself. And then one day they discovered the tumor in your head and the surgeons cut it out and suddenly you could hear. You were whole. Nothing would stop you now.”

I pause, watching him, sensing how close I am to the truth. He has a lock of Piper’s hair in his mouth.

“So what happened?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Let me guess. You asked one of the unattainable girls to go out with you and she said yes. She was nice. Friendly. Pretty. She didn’t tease you. She didn’t call you names. She didn’t make fun of your hearing problems. You were over the moon. You walked on air. You had never been happier in your entire life.

“It’s not that you wanted to have sex with this girl-not straight away-you wanted to talk, to romance her, to show her what you had to offer. But then you froze. You got tongue-tied. Being able to hear didn’t make any difference because you’d grown up being nervous and slow. You didn’t know how to relax and just be yourself. Instead of being a new man, you were the same old Gerald-the slow Gerald, the paranoid Gerald.

“Did she laugh at your first crude attempt to kiss her? Or was the whole date a joke? Maybe her pretty friends put her up to it. Is that why you chose Natasha? She reminded you of those girls who laughed at you. She was provocative, flirtatious, vain, out of your league…”

His eyes flash open, full of hatred. Violence. “You think I cared about that slut?”

“I think that answers my question.”

“She got what she deserved.”

“That’s why you mutilated Natasha. It was hatred, not love. Your desire had become twisted. Corrupted. Violent. It demanded you step aside. It negated the rights of others. It cleansed. It poisoned. It dictated your beliefs. You must have dragged that hatred around with you for years. It was gnawing away inside you while you watched other lads get the pretty girls, walking them home, getting invited inside, despoiling those sweet young bodies and then boasting about it afterwards.”

“Keep talking, Professor, it’s her time you’re wasting.”

I glance at Piper. Her breathing has grown ragged. The sedatives are being absorbed into her bloodstream.

“Why is it so important that I kill you?” I ask.

“It’s over for me. There’s nowhere else to go.”

“Give me Piper and I’ll leave you the gun.”

He shakes his head. “I want you to pull the trigger.”

“Why?”

He smiles. “It’s like I told you that first day I drove you to Bingham-killers and kidnappers know when they cross a line. They can’t expect sympathy or understanding. Gideon Tyler took your wife and child. He did terrible things to them, but you said you wouldn’t have pulled the trigger to stop him.”

“I lied.”

“Show me. Shoot me now. Prove you can do it, Professor. Learn how it feels.”

“I don’t want to know how it feels.”

He runs his finger along Piper’s cheek. “Maybe if she were your daughter, you’d think differently. Perhaps Piper doesn’t mean enough to you.”

“That’s not true.”

He smiles. “You think you can read people, Professor. You pick apart their motives and peer inside their heads, but I wonder if you ever look at yourself. I think you’re a coward. I’m going to make you brave.”

“I live with a disease that makes me brave.”

“It gives you an excuse.” He spits the words. “You couldn’t stop the man who kidnapped your wife and daughter and now you’re balking at this. You’re making excuses. Stop me. She’s dying. Just do it!”

He lifts Piper’s eyelids. Her pupils have rolled back into her head and white foam is leaking from one corner of her mouth. Every minute gives the pills longer to dissolve in her stomach and enter her bloodstream. Five minutes after ingestion she has a 90 per cent chance of survival. By sixty minutes it falls to less than 15 per cent.

The pistol has grown hot in my hands. I stare along the barrel with a mixture of loathing and awe.

“Let her go.”

“Shoot me. It’s not difficult. You walk over here. Point the gun at my head and pull the trigger. Don’t go trying to miss. I don’t want to be left a vegetable. And don’t try shooting me in the leg or shoulder. This knife is very sharp. It won’t take much to slice into her chest.”

The pistol is growing heavier. I look at Piper and imagine her heartbeat slowing and her organs failing. In the next breath I can picture Charlie lying on a filthy mattress, chained to a radiator with masking tape wrapped around her head, breathing through a hose. I would have pulled a trigger a dozen times over to save her and Julianne. I would have emptied the magazine and reloaded. I would have done anything… given anything… if only…

“If I hear sirens, I will kill her, Professor. You’re running out of time.” He is rocking Piper in his arms. “Pull the trigger. People take lives all the time. You might even enjoy it. It could be cathartic. I mean, you’re separated, your wife left you, you’re riddled with disease, so much for ‘in sickness and in health.’ ”

“That’s not why she left me.”

“You must really hate her.”

“No.”

“Liar!”

I scream at him then. Aiming the gun at his head. Stepping closer.

“PUT DOWN THE KNIFE!”

“No.”

“LET HER GO!”

“Shoot me.”

“NO!”

“Tick tock, tick tock.”

“LET HER GO!”

“Pull the trigger.”

“SHE’S DYING!”

Grievous begins screaming back at me. “SAVE HER! JUST DO IT! PULL THE TRIGGER! DO IT. SHOOT ME! PULL THE FUCKING TRIG-”

The gun recoils and a noise seems to detonate directly inside my head. Echoing. Drawn out. Groaning like a turntable on the wrong speed. I stare at the gun and smell the cordite.

My finger is still on the trigger. I’m locked in place as though turned to stone, while the Earth has turned ten thousand revolutions. Nothing stirs or shifts until Piper slides sideways, her hair plastered to the back of her head, slick with blood.

For a moment I think I must have shot her. Somehow the bullet must have ricocheted off the wall. I put my hand over the back of her head and discover the blood isn’t hers.

Grievous is staring at me with his lips peeled back and mouth open, his last sentence cut short. The entry wound in his forehead is smaller than a five pence piece, while the exit wound has sprayed blood and brain matter across the painted wall.

Fumbling with the key, I remove the handcuffs and reach under Piper, lifting her easily and carrying her to the door and down two flights of stairs.

Adrenalin is still surging through me like the bass beat at a rock concert. Setting her down in the hallway near the front door, I put my ear to her mouth and nose and my hand on her lower chest. She’s breathing, but her eyes are fixed. Dilated. I turn her on her side, putting her in the recovery position.

Where are the paramedics? I call 999 again, yelling at the operator, telling them to hurry. The sedative has been in Piper’s system for nearly thirty minutes.

I have to act now. Gastric lavage. Pump her stomach. I remember my medical training-three years of studying to be a doctor, doing my filial duty because God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting wanted me to carry on the family tradition.

I rip open kitchen cupboards and grab a container of salt and run the hot tap until the water is warm. Mixing the water and salt in a clean plastic container, I create a saline solution. Next I need a tube: something about the width of my pinkie and three feet long.

Beneath the sink is a water filter with a flexible blue plastic pipe. I tear it away from the fittings and cut off the ends, hoping it’s long enough. Crouching next to Piper, I turn her head to one side and lubricate the end of the tube with soap, before inserting it through her nose, pushing it gently until it reaches the pharynx. I feel the slight resistance and turn the tube 180 degrees. It continues sliding towards her stomach.

I put my head on her chest and blow a puff of air through the tube, listening for the telltale bubbles from the fluid in her stomach. Holding the plastic container of saline solution above her head, I punch a hole through the base and insert the tube, letting about 300 ml of the warm fluid flow into her stomach.

Then I suction, letting the mixture of saline and her stomach contents flow out onto the floor. Repeating the process, I keep going until the liquid runs clearer. My mobile has been ringing. I’ve been too busy to answer it.

Drury’s name appears on screen.

“What’s happened in there? Neighbors reported a gunshot.”

“Where are the paramedics?”

“Outside. They’re waiting for the all clear.”

“It’s clear. Tell them to hurry.”

“Where’s Grievous?”

“Dead.”

“Casey?”

“I’m sorry.”

Moments later the door jerks open and the DCI’s eyes meet mine. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet, like a modern-day warrior. In the dim light the scar on his cheek looks like a birthmark.

A dozen police officers surge into the house. Behind them I see two ambulances, their lights beating with color, sirens muted. Four paramedics follow. Two of them crouch beside Piper. The younger one has a farm girl face.

“What did she take?”

“Diazepam.”

“How much?”

“Unknown.”

“How long has she been unconscious?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe longer.” I point to the tube. “I’ve done a nasotracheal intubation and a gastric lavage. She needs activated charcoal to absorb the rest.”

“We can take it from here, sir.”

Drury appears at the top of the stairs. Ashen-faced. Tortured by what he’s witnessed. Two colleagues are dead. A kidnapped girl is alive. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

On the night we were taken,

I left Tash at the church while I went to Emily’s house and told her that we were running away. In the winter Reverend Trevor leaves the small door open at the side of St. Mark’s of a Saturday night so that parishioners who arrive early on Sunday morning don’t have to wait in the cold for the curate to unlock the door. I left Tash lying on a pew, curled up like a kitten.

It was well after midnight when I got back. The funfair had closed down and the rides were being dismantled or folded up like Transformer toys. Scaffolding pipes were loaded onto trucks and canvas tents rolled into tubes.

Tash wasn’t where I left her. I thought she must have found somewhere warmer in the choir stalls or under the baptismal font. It was scary walking through the darkened church, but I couldn’t risk turning on the lights, so I lit one of the prayer candles and tried not to spill hot wax on my hands.

I walked towards the main doors and that’s when I saw George. He was sitting straight-backed in a pew. Tash was asleep with her head on his thigh.

George held a finger to his lips, not wanting to wake her.

“Hello, Piper,” he whispered.

“How do you know who I am?”

“You’re the runner,” he said, stroking Tash’s hair. “She’s sleeping. She told me what happened. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“We have to go to the police station. We have to tell them what happened.”

“Tash didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“I made her change her mind.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’ve come to help.”

He was wearing black combat trousers and dark boots laced to his shins. A dark shirt was visible beneath his waterproof jacket. I thought he looked like someone official-like a soldier or a police officer-except for his jacket, which was old and stained.

Sliding Tash’s head from his lap, he sat her up, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“My car is outside,” he said. “Here, help me lift her.”

I reached down and took Tash’s arm, but that’s when his hand slipped over my mouth and nose, stopping me in mid-breath, squeezing. His other arm wrapped around my chest, pinning my arms and lifting my feet from the ground. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t run.

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered. “Sleep now, Princess. You’ll be home soon.”