the vertical blinds, I can see the outer office. Charlie is waiting for me, sitting on a plastic chair, texting on her iPhone. Drury is in the same room, pacing the floor, furious at being excluded from the meeting.
Fryer puts on his glasses.
“He’s a good detective. Hot-headed. Noisy. But he gets results.”
The chief constable takes a seat. The silver buttons on his uniform rattle against the metal edge of his desk.
“Are you a gambling man, Professor?”
“No.”
“But you understand odds?”
“Yes.”
“A true punter might wager a few quid on a long shot just to keep an interest in a race, but he doesn’t bet his house on an outsider without inside information, you understand what I’m saying?”
The answer is no, but I don’t interrupt him.
“A punter doesn’t risk his entire stake unless he gets a nod from someone close to the horse, the jockey or the trainer.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You’re a long shot but I’ve heard some good things.”
“Good things?”
“Detective Superintendent Veronica Cray speaks very highly of you. And I’m led to believe she doesn’t say nice things about men as a rule.”
The chief constable has risen from his chair again and walked to the window, admiring his view.
“Hell of a mess, this…”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer.
“We need to tread gently. Under normal circumstances, a teenage girl dying in a blizzard wouldn’t create too many issues, but this is very different. This is one of the Bingham Girls.”
“Issues?”
“I’ll get to that. First I need to ask for your assistance. I want you to hang around for a few more days. Help us understand what happened to Natasha McBain.”
“I have a clinical practice in London.”
“We can pay for your services.”
“It’s not about money.”
Fryer places both fists on his desk, propping his body forward.
“The press are going to have a field day. That’s why we’re not making it public just yet. I’ve ordered a full media blackout. I don’t know how long it’s going to hold…”
“What about the girl’s family?”
“We’ll seek their co-operation.”
The silence stretches out. Fryer brings it to a close.
“I have questions, Professor. Do you think Natasha McBain ran away from home and chose the wrong night to come back?”
“No.”
“I thought so. Where has she been?”
“I have no idea.”
Fryer nods and glances at the folder on his desk.
“There are details that I wish to share with you, but first I need your assurance that you’ll keep this information confidential and that you’ll agree to help.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Fryer doesn’t seem to hear me. “I want you to review the original investigation. Look for any shortcomings. Assist in the new search…”
“I can recommend a good profiler.”
“I’m asking you. You see things that other people miss. In less than a day you uncovered more than two dozen detectives did in a week.”
“I’ve retired.”
“A man like you doesn’t retire. You answer the call.”
He straightens and rocks back on his heels, holding the blunt end of a ballpoint pen against his clean-shaven chin.
“We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I: Vincent Ruiz. I played rugby against Ruiz. It was a long while ago, of course. We both played in the front row. He once landed a punch flush on my jaw and I saw stars for a week. I deserved it. I punched him first.
“If you need help on the review, call in Ruiz. We can employ him as a consultant, put you both on the payroll: a thousand pounds a day. I’m sure he’d appreciate the money…”
The chief constable has done his research. He knows that Ruiz has struggled financially since he retired from the Metropolitan Police. He has an elderly mother in full-time care and shrinking savings.
Fryer pauses. There’s something else. Resuming his seat, he opens the folder.
“Elements of this case shock me, Professor. I’ve been a
Fryer puts on his glasses.
“He’s a good detective. Hot-headed. Noisy. But he gets results.”
The chief constable takes a seat. The silver buttons on his uniform rattle against the metal edge of his desk.
“Are you a gambling man, Professor?”
“No.”
“But you understand odds?”
“Yes.”
“A true punter might wager a few quid on a long shot just to keep an interest in a race, but he doesn’t bet his house on an outsider without inside information, you understand what I’m saying?”
The answer is no, but I don’t interrupt him.
“A punter doesn’t risk his entire stake unless he gets a nod from someone close to the horse, the jockey or the trainer.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“You’re a long shot but I’ve heard some good things.”
“Good things?”
“Detective Superintendent Veronica Cray speaks very highly of you. And I’m led to believe she doesn’t say nice things about men as a rule.”
The chief constable has risen from his chair again and walked to the window, admiring his view.
“Hell of a mess, this…”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer.
“We need to tread gently. Under normal circumstances, a teenage girl dying in a blizzard wouldn’t create too many issues, but this is very different. This is one of the Bingham Girls.”
“Issues?”
“I’ll get to that. First I need to ask for your assistance. I want you to hang around for a few more days. Help us understand what happened to Natasha McBain.”
“I have a clinical practice in London.”
“We can pay for your services.”
“It’s not about money.”
Fryer places both fists on his desk, propping his body forward.
“The press are going to have a field day. That’s why we’re not making it public just yet. I’ve ordered a full media blackout. I don’t know how long it’s going to hold…”
“What about the girl’s family?”
“We’ll seek their co-operation.”
The silence stretches out. Fryer brings it to a close.
“I have questions, Professor. Do you think Natasha McBain ran away from home and chose the wrong night to come back?”
“No.”
“I thought so. Where has she been?”
“I have no idea.”
Fryer nods and glances at the folder on his desk.
“There are details that I wish to share with you, but first I need your assurance that you’ll keep this information confidential and that you’ll agree to help.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Fryer doesn’t seem to hear me. “I want you to review the original investigation. Look for any shortcomings. Assist in the new search…”
“I can recommend a good profiler.”
“I’m asking you. You see things that other people miss. In less than a day you uncovered more than two dozen detectives did in a week.”
“I’ve retired.”
“A man like you doesn’t retire. You answer the call.”
He straightens and rocks back on his heels, holding the blunt end of a ballpoint pen against his clean-shaven chin.
“We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I: Vincent Ruiz. I played rugby against Ruiz. It was a long while ago, of course. We both played in the front row. He once landed a punch flush on my jaw and I saw stars for a week. I deserved it. I punched him first.
“If you need help on the review, call in Ruiz. We can employ him as a consultant, put you both on the payroll: a thousand pounds a day. I’m sure he’d appreciate the money…”
The chief constable has done his research. He knows that Ruiz has struggled financially since he retired from the Metropolitan Police. He has an elderly mother in full-time care and shrinking savings.
Fryer pauses. There’s something else. Resuming his seat, he opens the folder.
“Elements of this case shock me, Professor. I’ve been a
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