Read Online Say You're Sorry by Michael Robotham - Free Book Online Page A

hair was to make me less attractive. She was protecting me. Keeping me safe.

6
     
    T he snow is thawing but occasional flurries still descend like flakes of dandruff from an old man’s scalp. Patches of grass have emerged in the parks and verges, giving dogs somewhere to shit upon.
    Poking out my tongue, I taste the falling crystals. Two dozen reporters are waiting in a queue inside Oxford Crown Court, surrendering mobile phones and cameras. Nobody recognizes me as I pass through the screening.
    I still don’t know why I’m here. Maybe I’m a sucker for a pretty face or a kind gesture or a body I’d like to hold myself against.
    Victoria Naparstek is close to me now, sitting in the upper gallery, which has been opened to take the overspill of reporters. Beneath us, the courtroom is a mixture of the new and the old: the vaulted ceilings and coat of arms, as well as microphones and digital recording equipment.
    I whisper to Victoria, “So what you’re saying is that Augie had a crush on Patricia Heyman?”
    “Yes.”
    “She’s old enough to be his—”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Were they sleeping together?”
    “Not according to Augie, but I think she was fond of him.”
    “Fond?”
    “Yes, fond. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
    Augie Shaw appears from below, emerging into a square enclosure of bulletproof glass. People crane their heads to catch a glimpse, wanting to put a face to the crime: see the monster not the man.
    He sits, handcuffed, between two court security officers. Turning his head, he gazes into the public gallery, searching for someone. His eyes rest on a small woman in the front row with ragged hair and a sharp nose. His mother, not yet fifty, dressed in a flimsy denim jacket and black jeans.
    Augie waves. She smiles anxiously, scared for what’s coming.
    The prosecutor begins. “Your worship, this is a particularly gruesome double homicide. A husband had his skull crushed and a wife and mother was set on fire while still alive. A quick resolution is obviously welcome, but not a rushed one, which is why detectives need extra time. They wish to make further inquiries and put more questions to the suspect.”
    The defense counsel, a young duty solicitor called Reddrop, stumbles over his own name as he introduces himself.
    “Your worship, my client has been co-operating fully with the police and has agreed to make himself available for further questioning. Mr. Shaw is a local lad, who lives with his mother and has no criminal record. He does, however, have a history of mental health problems stemming from his childhood. His psychiatrist is here today. She believes his mental state will deteriorate in prison. He is claustrophobic and frightened of authority figures.”
    Judge Eccles clears his throat. “Medication, Mr. Reddrop.”
    “Yes, your worship, but his psychiatrist Dr. Naparstek assures me that he’s not a threat and he can abide by reporting restrictions…”
    The prosecutor hasn’t bothered to sit down.
    “Until two weeks ago the defendant worked as a farm laborer and odd-jobber for the Heymans. He was sacked for inappropriate conduct concerning items of clothing that went missing from the house—underwear belonging to the Heymans’ teenage daughter. She is frightened for her safety and doesn’t want Mr. Shaw released.”
    “Was the theft reported?”
    “No.”
    Mr. Reddrop interrupts. “These allegations are denied by my client. He informs me that he went to the Heymans’ house that night to collect his wages and stumbled upon a crime in progress. He burned his hands trying to save the couple.”
    “He fled the scene,” says the prosecutor.
    “He went for help but suffered some sort of blackout.”
    “How convenient.”
    Judge Eccles interrupts both men and tells them to sit down. He scribbles a note to himself and rocks back in his chair, producing a thin whistling noise from his nose like a badly played flute.
    “I’m going to grant the police request.