by Nicci French
“Lucky for me, then,” said Erin Brack.
NINETEEN
Frieda didn’t look through any of the things they had collected at once. There was so much. She and Josef carried everything upstairs to her garret study and left it for later. The following day, she saw four patients and went to a meeting at the Warehouse. When she returned home it was late afternoon and already nearly dark.
She took off her coat and scarf and hung them on the hook in the hall, unlaced her boots, bent to stroke the cat. The answering machine was blinking in the hall, but she didn’t listen to it immediately. She went into the kitchen where she fed the cat and put the kettle on. Only when she had a mug of tea in her hand did she listen to the messages. There were five, and three were from Erin Brack.
In the first, she breathed heavily for several seconds before saying, in a conspiratorial whisper, “Frieda? Frieda? It’s me.” There was a long pause, as if she was waiting for Frieda to pick up. “Frieda? Just calling about our mutual friend.” The second began halfway through a sentence already – “I just thought I should say . . .” and ended with the sound of something being dropped and a muffled shout. “Sorry about that,” she said in the third. “I was just saying, you should look at the boy’s geography teacher. That’s all. I’m naming no names, but geography teacher! OK?”
Geography teacher. Which geography teacher? But not now. She finished her tea, then went upstairs to her study. The garbage bags full of clothes had been pushed into the corner with the suitcase, and the boxes were on her desk. She lifted out sheaves of papers, notebooks and bills. Later, she knew she would have to go through everything properly, but for now she was looking for things from Rory’s school. She found his maths graph book, a third full, and a blue soft-backed notebook with stories in it, in messy blue biro with lots of crossings-out. Again, it was only half full. Even the last story hadn’t been completed. She put it to one side, trying not to think of the photograph of Rory in his bed, his head, his skull. A bit further through the box, she came across a report from the previous term, just two printed green pages stapled together. The section for geography was toward the bottom of the first page: “Rory has worked hard this term, and he has understood the concept of sustainability very well. His diagrams can be careless.” She looked at the name: Guy Fiske.
There were not many people called Guy Fiske on Google, and when she added “geography teacher’ and “UK’ there was only one. In 2013, Guy Fiske, sixty-one, had been convicted of historic child abuse and been given a ten-year sentence. Frieda read through the multiple accounts of his offenses against the students who had been under his care and her mood grew increasingly grim; her heart felt heavy. For more than two decades he had abused minors, one apparently as young as eleven, the others between thirteen and fifteen. They were all boys. Five of them, now grown men, had given evidence against him. There was a photograph of Fiske, sandy-haired, with a high forehead and a small chin, innocuous-looking—but, then, what is a pedophile supposed to look like?
Frieda noticed that one of the men—Jem Green, twenty-seven, a local-radio DJ—had waived his right to anonymity. There was a clip of him standing outside Preston Crown Court, a burly man, with dark hair slicked back and a close-shaved beard, who spoke very calmly about the events leading up to trial. He said he had decided to go public to encourage others who had been through similar experiences to come forward and speak out. “This is a good day in my life,” he said. He gave a slight grimace, a downward turn of his mouth, as if to control his emotions. “I feel something has at last been laid to rest.”
That had been a year ago. If Jem Green was now twenty-eight, it was almost certain he had been at school at the same time as Rory, who would have been twenty-six if he were still alive. In fact, he must have been there at the same time as Hannah as well. Frieda followed the links. With three clicks, she had his email address at work. She sat for a long time in her garret study before she wrote him a short, careful message. Then she called Yvette. She didn’t seem happy to hear from Frieda.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Just say what you have to say.”
“I need to find out where a man called Guy Fiske is in prison and I need to see him as soon as possible.”
“Is that all?”
“Is it straightforward?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“If it’s a problem, just say it’s a problem.”
“Obviously it’s a problem. What’s it about?”
“He was Rory’s geography teacher. He’s serving a ten-year sentence for child abuse.”
There was a long pause.
“I hate these cases.”
“I know.”
“So you’re wondering if Rory was abused.”
“Yes.”
“Why? I mean, why does it make any difference, apart from being horribly distressing? A kid who might have been abused by his teacher and who was then killed by his sister. Where does it get you?”
“It clearly has to be followed up.”
“OK. I’ll arrange it.” The hostility seemed to have gone out of her and she just sounded subdued.
“I appreciate it, Yvette.”
Frieda had a long bath, then made herself a Greek salad and poured a glass of red wine. She sat at the kitchen table with the cat at her feet and the rain dashing itself against the windows, but she couldn’t settle. At last, just before eleven o’clock, she pulled on her walking boots and her coat and left her house. She walked on deserted side-streets, avoiding the thoroughfares that were always busy until she crossed City Road and came to Bunhill Fields Burial Ground. It had once been a Saxon burial ground, a refuse tip, a dumping ground for bones from the charnel house and for animal bones from Smithfield, a plague pit, and then become the unhallowed site for religious outsiders and nonconformists. John Bunyan lay here, and Blake. All those restless lives now old bones under the damp earth.
The rain pulsed down as Frieda walked through the cramped headstones, jammed together and leaning in different directions, like a toppling forest, a crumbling city. In the distance was the sound of traffic; here it was silent, except for the patter of rain in the trees above her and a rustle in the bushes. She stopped by a large stone, looming toward her in the darkness. She was wet and cold and thoughts swarmed through her. Images. Rory lying in his Lord of the Rings pajamas with his caved-in skull. Hannah, with her bruised face and dark, glittering eyes. In the corner of her vision she saw a shape: a fox winding its way through the headstones, low to the ground and quite silent. She watched it go, then turned.
Back at home, she rubbed her hair dry and pulled on a dressing-gown. She still wasn’t tired, and went upstairs to her study. It felt like the whole world was asleep but her. There were new messages in her inbox and she saw that one was from Jem Green. She clicked on it. Hi Frieda. Always happy to talk. Give me a call. He had included his mobile number. She looked at the time his message was sent and saw it was at 02.27, just a few minutes ago, so she picked up the phone.
“Jem here.” There was an echo on the phone; his voice boomed.
“It’s Frieda Klein. Is this a bad time?”
“That was quick. Not bad at all. I’m a night owl. You must be too.”
“Sometimes.”
“So, what do you want?”
“Are you comfortable talking about your past?”
“I went through all of that years ago. Just tell me what you’re after.”
“I don’t know how you can help. Perhaps you can’t. I need to find out what I can about the Dochertys, Rory and Hannah.”
“Oh, yes, that. I remember them.”
“You were at school with them both?”
“Am I to assume that you think Fiske might have targeted Rory? Or Hannah?”
“It’s something to consider.”
“Why? I mean, what’s this for?”
“We want to make sure that Hannah’s conviction is sound.”
“Are you fucking ser
ious?”
“I’m looking at the case. That’s all.”
“And what’s Fiske got to do with it?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Rory and Hannah Docherty.” There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Frieda imagined him somewhere, settling back in his chair, listening to the rain outside. “I was two years above Rory, and three below Hannah, so I didn’t really know them. She was quite famous in the school—I mean, famous before she became famous. She was good at sport and kept getting prizes. And then she was famous because she was such a public mess.”
“Mess?”
“She went from being the good student to being the really bad one. I remember she turned up at assembly once out of her head.”
“Drunk?”
“Whatever. It wasn’t just self-destructive, it was like she had to display it. But I’m pretty sure Fiske didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her. As far as I know, it was only boys he went for.”
“And Rory?”
“I don’t know. He was the kind of kid he might have picked on.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Quiet. Anxious. Afterwards, people said he’d been bullied.”
“After he’d been killed?”
“That’s right. Fiske targeted boys who wouldn’t make a fuss.”
“You don’t fit that.”
“I did then, believe me. What you’re hearing is my new self, the one I’ve been working on for years. How am I doing?”
“You have to tell me that: how are you doing?”
“Mostly I’m fine but sometimes I think I’ll always be that scared, humiliated little boy hiding behind the bold exterior I’ve made for myself.”
“I hope you’ve had help.”
“I have. But the best thing I did for myself was to give up the booze, and to give evidence against him.”
“It was brave.”
“It stopped me feeling so ashamed. What went on at that school, it was terrible. Nobody daring to say anything. I hope Rory Docherty wasn’t one of the victims. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”
“Nothing about any of it was fair.”
Guy Fiske sat opposite Frieda. He laid his hands on the table; they were smooth and pink and the nails were neatly cut. He was small, with sparse gray hair and a pouched face. His eyes were brown and sad. His air was polite and apologetic.
“Nobody visits me,” he said.
“I’m here to ask you about a boy who was your pupil from 1999 to 2001, when he was in years seven, eight and nine.
“I would like to be of help,” said Guy Fiske, cautiously. He blinked several times; his eyes were red-rimmed. “I don’t know if I can remember that far back.”
“I think you’ll remember this particular boy. Rory Docherty.”
“Oh, Rory! Poor Rory. That was a terrible, terrible thing.”
“We’re re-examining the Docherty case. There may have been some irregularities.” Frieda heard her vague, glib words slip from her.
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“You want to know if . . .” He stopped. His brown eyes stared at her. Frieda waited. “With Rory,” he said. “Rory Docherty. He had reddish hair.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think prison is for?” he asked. “I mean, what’s it doing?”
“Could we perhaps stay with Rory Docherty?”
“Is it just for punishment? Or do you think people can be redeemed?”
“Did you assault Rory in any way?”
“Because even nice, liberal people who believe you go to prison and serve your time—atone, that’s the word—even they draw the line at people like me. No redemption for me. It’s not very Christian, is it?”
“Mr. Fiske . . .”
“Guy. Call me Guy. Or can’t you bring yourself to call a pedophile by his first name? You probably wouldn’t want to shake my hand, would you?” He sat back in his chair and looked away from her at last and Frieda found she was relieved to be released from his soft brown gaze. “You want to know what happened with Rory?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing. But why would I tell you anyway? That’s what you’re thinking. Why should you believe me?”
“And why should I?”
“What have I got to lose?”
“I don’t know. It can be very hard to acknowledge even to oneself the things one’s done. The mind refuses.”
“I never touched him,” he said slowly, and Frieda couldn’t stop herself wondering if he was imagining touching him. Or remembering. “I don’t understand why you’re even asking. What does it matter now? He’s dead.”
“It still matters.”
“Do you believe me?”
“It’s not that simple. Did you ever teach Hannah?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s not something you would forget. I’d know if I’d taught a girl who murdered her entire family.”
Frieda thought they were done but he spoke again.
“He seemed young for his age. He was a bit of a mummy’s boy—and I always thought his mother was more than she seemed at first glance.”
“Deborah Docherty? Why?”
“Still waters run deep.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Rory adored her.”
“She was his mother.”
“Adored her.”
“You make that sound sinister.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’ve got a visitor.”
Hannah Docherty opened her eyes at the voice and turned her head. Her neck hurt. Her throat. Her head was making a faint humming sound. There was a shape in front of her; she squinted in the harsh light.
“You’ve got a visitor.” The voice was loud, grating against her ears. “It’s like buses, isn’t it? No one comes to see you for years and years, and then several arrive at once. Why all this interest?”
Hannah allowed herself to be led down the corridor, down the stairs. One foot in front of the other, and her body was unsteady, tipping from side to side. The strip-lights flickered; windows passed her—brief frames of wet greenness and, in the distance, a wood with bare branches. Grass. Trees. Sky. Rain. She used to like rain. Soft and clean, washing the world. Once upon a time.
Someone bumped heavily against her, sending her staggering. She heard a snicker of laughter, curling into the air.
“Oi,” said the orderly, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Watch your step, matey.” He steered her round to the left. “We’re going in here. Sit down, will you? Are you going to behave nicely?”
Then there was the sound of a door opening, closing, footsteps and a violent scrape of a chair being pulled back. And there was a man sitting in the chair opposite her. His forearms were on the table and he was leaning forward. His face stretched and grimaced; his mouth made strange shapes. He was saying her name.
“Hannah,” he said. “Hannah, do you remember me?”
Hannah stared at him. He came in and out of focus. He lifted a hand and let it fall. He was talking too quickly: his words ran into each other and she could make no sense of the stream of sound.
“Hannah,” he repeated. “It’s Tom. Tom Morell. Do you remember me? You lived in that house with me. Before. I’m sorry I haven’t come before.”
Hannah didn’t answer. Her expression was dazed.
“I was scared,” he said. “That’s the truth of it. But I haven’t forgotten about you. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about everything. So sorry.”
There was water on his cheek. Raining outside, raining inside. She put out a finger to touch it.
“Careful now,” said a voice from behind her.
“Can you understand what I’m saying? Hannah? Can you hear? Do you remember?”
Remember? His words bounced inside her skull. His face worked. She closed her eyes. Remember.
INTERLUDE FIVE
The
next time Hal Bradshaw meets Mary Hoyle it feels like they’re old friends, slipping into their usual intimacy. By contrast, the two nurses look bored and resentful and tense. One sits close by her, constantly observant.
“So, what do you make of me?” Hoyle asks.
“I was hoping we could work together. People are fascinated by you. I thought you and I might be able to collaborate on a book.”
“I could do that.”
“Really? That would be terrific.”
“After I get out.”
“I was hoping we could do it straight away. It could be helpful to your case.”
“It could be helpful. Or it could be unhelpful. You never know.” There is a new firmness in her tone, but then her expression relaxes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve talked to Dr. Styles. She says you’re making excellent progress.”
There is a pause.
“But?” says Hoyle.
“People have strong feelings about you, both outside and inside. I mean . . .” Bradshaw hesitates. He isn’t quite sure how to put this. “Killing those children. And recording it. You know.”
“I feel like I’m not the person who did that. Obviously I was found unfit to plead. But in my sessions with Dr. Styles I’ve taken responsibility for what was done.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Bradshaw. “But there are naysayers. For example, you mentioned this young woman, Hannah Docherty.”
“Did I? I don’t remember that.”
“She was recently involved in a violent incident.”
“I’m in solitary. I don’t hear about things like that.”
There is a snorting sound from behind her. It comes from the burly nurse sitting by the wall.
“What’s that?” asks Bradshaw.
“You hear things,” says the nurse.
“Someone told me,” says Bradshaw, “there was a feeling that this Hannah Docherty had made an enemy of you in some way. That you were out to get her.”
“Why would I have an enemy?” says Mary Hoyle.
“It’s about respect,” says the nurse. “And disrespect.”
