by Nicci French
‘What were you saying?’ said Frieda.
‘I wanted to ask you if you’d reported any concerns to the authorities.’
Frieda was distracted by the sound of clinking from the kitchen. Reuben reappeared with a can of beer.
‘No,’ said Frieda. ‘I didn’t.’
Reuben mouthed something at her, then took a large gulp of beer from the can.
‘From what we’ve been informed,’ continued Jilly Freeman, ‘this experiment was designed to present various therapists with a patient who was a clear, present danger to the community. The patient was a psychopath and it was your duty – in fact, it was your legal responsibility – to report him to the police. Could you comment on that?’
‘But he wasn’t a psychopath,’ said Frieda.
‘Is it her?’ said Reuben. ‘Is it fucking her?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Frieda hissed.
‘What?’ said Jilly Freeman.
‘I’m not talking to you.’ Frieda angrily waved Reuben away. ‘You’ve said yourself that he wasn’t a psychopath. There was no need to report him. I may have had some concerns about this particular man, but I wouldn’t discuss that with anyone but him.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jilly Freeman, ‘but this experiment was to test how therapists respond when they are confronted with a patient who shows the classic signs, established by research over the years, of being a psychopath. The public will want to know whether they are being protected.’
‘I’m going to talk to you for one more minute,’ said Frieda, ‘and then I’m putting the phone down. You’ve told me that he wasn’t actually a psychopath. He was just saying psychopathic things.’
‘Don’t psychopaths say psychopathic things? What else do you have to go on, apart from what patients say to you?’
‘And second, as I said to Seamus Dunne himself, psychopaths don’t ask for help. He was talking about lack of empathy but he wasn’t displaying it. That’s my answer.’
‘And you trusted yourself to ignore the classic signs of a psychopath?’
‘Your minute’s up,’ said Frieda, and ended the call.
She looked at Reuben. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘I just saw Josef driving away.’
‘He’s working on my bathroom.’
‘I guess that’s why I can’t track him down.’ His expression hardened. ‘It was her, wasn’t it? It was that journalist, what’s her name?’
‘It was a woman called Jilly Freeman,’ said Frieda.
‘That’s it, that’s the one.’
‘How do you know?’
Reuben emptied his glass. ‘Because they’ve done it to me as well,’ he said. ‘They’ve fucked me the way they’ve fucked you. Jilly rang me up and broke the news to me, and in the middle of our conversation she mentioned your name as well. I tried to ring you but there was no answer.’
‘I’ve been out,’ said Frieda.
‘I thought I’d better come straight round. Jesus, I need a cigarette. Can we go outside?’
He fetched another can of beer from the kitchen, then opened the door and stepped outside on to the street. Frieda followed him. He handed her the beer while he lit his cigarette. He took a succession of deep drags on it. ‘This young man,’ said Reuben. ‘He said he wanted to talk to me. He’d heard such good things about me. He was worried about himself. He’d been cruel to animals as a child, he had fantasies of hurting women. Blah blah, you know the rest.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I said I’d see him for a bit. And then Ms Jilly rings me up and tells me that I’m going to be on the front page for letting a psychopath loose on the streets.’
‘What did you say to her?’
He took another deep drag on his cigarette. ‘I should have said what you said. That sounded good. I lost it. I just shouted at her and slammed the phone down.’ He jabbed a finger at Frieda. ‘We’re going to sue them. That fucker Hal Bradshaw and that fucking journalist and her paper. We’re going to take them down.’
‘What for?’ said Frieda.
Reuben banged his fist against the wall of the house. ‘For deception,’ he said. ‘And violating our privacy. And for libel.’
‘We’re not going to sue them,’ said Frieda.
‘I was going to say that it’s all right for you,’ said Reuben. ‘But you’re in a state of distress. You’re recovering from injury. They can’t do this to us.’
Frieda put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We should just leave it,’ she said.
Reuben turned to Frieda and something in his look alarmed her, fierce and defeated at the same time. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I should just shrug it off. Ten years ago I would have laughed it off. I would almost have welcomed it. But I feel I’ve had it. That journalist. I’ll show her fantasies about hurting women.’
People had been gathering since midday, but there had been minor delays, the last spasms of a clogged bureaucratic system that had kept George Conley in prison for months after it had become clear he would have to be released. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when he eventually emerged from Haston Prison into watery sunlight, clutching one plastic bag and wearing an overcoat that was too tight and much too thick for a spring day. There were beads of sweat on his pale, fleshy face.
Most of the people waiting for him were journalists and photographers. His local MP was there as well, although Fearby knew how little he had done for Conley, only joining the campaign when it was clear it would be successful. A small group from a revolutionary organization had come with banners proclaiming the bigotry of the police force in general. But there were no relatives waiting for Conley. His mother had died while he was in prison and his sister hadn’t been to see him since he was arrested. She had told Fearby that she was glad she was married and had taken the name of her husband, because his name made her feel sick. She wanted nothing to do with him. And there were no friends either: he had always been a lonely figure in the small town where he had lived, someone who stood on the edge, looking in baffled wistfulness at life going on. After he was arrested, neighbours said that they had always known he was odd, creepy. It hadn’t surprised them at all. Apart from Fearby, he had had no visitors in prison until the last few weeks.
Diana McKerrow, Conley’s solicitor, stood near the gates holding a bottle of sparkling wine in readiness. She spoke to the press on behalf of her client, reading from a piece of paper that she pulled out of her jacket pocket: words about the scandal of the police investigation, the lost years that Conley would never recover, the faith of a few good souls who had never ceased to believe in his innocence. She didn’t mention Fearby by name, and Fearby himself stood apart from the small crowd. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. After so many years of working towards this moment, it felt thin and dreary. One overweight man shuffling anxiously out of the gates, wincing as the cameras flashed.
The journalists surged forward. Microphones were held out to him.
‘How does it feel to be free?’
‘Are you going to sue?’
‘What are your plans now, Mr Conley?’
‘Where will you go?’
‘What’s the first thing you’ll do?’
‘Are you angry?’
‘What have you missed?’
‘Can you tell us your thoughts about the police?’
Fearby was certain that some of them had chequebooks ready. They wanted his story now. All these years he’d been vilified and then forgotten; now he was a hero – except he didn’t fit the role of hero. His replies came out in mumbles, half-sentences: ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘What d’you mean?’ He glanced from side to side anxiously. Diana McKerrow put one arm under his elbow. His MP arranged himself on the other side, smiling for the cameras.
Fearby knew that they would all soon forget about Conley again. He would be left in peace, in his little room in a house full of other misfits and loners, passive and defeated. He felt a pang of simultaneous g
uilt followed at once by resentment: was he going to have to be Conley’s only friend even now? Visit him and take him out for a drink, try to find him an occupation? Was this his reward for freeing him into the world?
He inched his way through the crush and touched Conley on the arm. ‘Hello, George,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Hello,’ said Conley. He smelt unwashed; his skin had a grey prison-pallor and his hair was thinning.
‘You’re going to be busy for the rest of the day. I just wanted to say hello and give you my phone number. When you want, give me a call and I’ll come and see you.’ He forced enthusiasm into his voice. ‘We can have a meal, go for a drink, a walk.’ He hesitated. ‘You might find all this attention hard, but it’ll die down soon. You’ll need to think about what you’re going to do next.’
‘Next?’
‘I’ll come and see you.’
Conley stared at him, his lower lip hanging loose. He was like a small, fat child, thought Fearby. It didn’t feel like a happy ending.
Later, at the press conference, the officer in charge of the investigation read out a statement. He wished to be candid about the fact that mistakes had been made. George Conley’s confession to the murder of Hazel Barton had been obtained – here he coughed, grimaced – without following the proper procedures.
‘You mean illegally,’ someone shouted from the back.
Steps had been taken, the officer continued. Reprimands delivered. Procedures tightened. The same mistakes would not be made again.
‘What about Mr Conley?’ asked a young woman in the front row.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He’s been in prison since 2005.’
‘And we’re sorry for the mistakes that were made.’
‘Has anyone been fired?’ called a voice.
The inspector’s face tightened. ‘As I say, we have looked very carefully at the way the investigation was conducted. Individual officers have been reprimanded. But it would not be in anyone’s interest to make a scapegoat out of …’
Fearby thought that the message was very clear. The police believed that Conley was the killer but had got off on a technicality. What was more, they were making sure that everyone else in the room understood that. He felt anger rise in him.
‘Excuse me,’ he called out, in a loud voice. ‘I have a question for you.’
Heads turned. There he was, Jim Fearby, the one who’d been obsessed with the case for years. A journalist who’d been around for decades, one of the old breed who got hold of a story and wouldn’t let go. He was in his sixties now, stooped and silver-haired. He looked a bit like a bird of prey, with his beaked nose and pale eyes, wind-blown and weather-blasted.
‘Mr Fearby,’ said the inspector, smiling with no warmth. ‘Yes?’
‘Now that George Conley has been released, an innocent man …’ he paused to let the words fill the room ‘… can you tell us what steps you will be taking to find out the real perpetrator? After all, a young woman was brutally murdered.’
The inspector coughed again, a hard and hacking sound to give him time to prepare his answer. ‘At present, there are no new leads,’ he said eventually.
‘At present?’
‘As I said. Any more questions?’
Fearby drove home through the gathering dusk. Conley’s last prison, unlike his previous ones, had been quite close to where he lived – in a small town just outside Birmingham. When Sandra had left him, he’d thought he would perhaps go somewhere different – the Lake District, perhaps, or even further north, where cold, clean winds blew off the hills. He could begin again. But in the end he’d stayed, surrounded by his files, his books, his pictures, his DVDs of old films. It didn’t matter so much where he lived; it was just a place to sleep, to think.
He went into his study and gazed at the piles of notebooks and folders that were filled with the evidence of his obsession: police reports, legal reports, letters sent and received, petitions … He poured himself a large slug of gin because he’d run out of whisky and added water because he’d run out of tonic. What sailors used to drink, he thought – a sad, solitary drink to get you through the hours. He must have fallen asleep in his chair, because when the phone rang it felt at first like part of a dream.
‘Is that Jim Fearby?’
‘Who is it?’
‘I saw you at the press conference. Are you still writing about the case?’
‘What’s it matter?’ Fearby still felt only half awake.
‘I want to meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘You know a pub called the Philip Sidney?’
‘No.’
‘You can find it. I’ll be there at five tomorrow evening.’
I tried to call you. When we see each other, I’m going to give you a short lesson in how to use your mobile! (Mainly, leave it turned on and have it with you.) Now it’s probably too late to try again. You’ll be asleep. Or perhaps you’ll be stalking the streets of London with that frown on your face. Speak soon and until then, take care of your dear self. S xxxxx
THIRTEEN
Karlsson sat opposite Billy Hunt. ‘You must be the world’s worst burglar,’ he said.
‘So you saw I was telling the truth?’
‘Busy Bees,’ said Karlsson. ‘Apart from the fact that it’s a nursery school that is being built for little children, and that stealing from them doesn’t seem right, what the hell did you expect to get from them? Stuffed toys?’
‘There was building work going on,’ said Hunt. ‘I thought there might be some tools around.’
‘But there weren’t.’
‘No. I didn’t find anything.’
‘On the bright side,’ said Karlsson, ‘it was a building site, which meant there were plenty of CCTV cameras and I saw the best images I’ve ever seen. You could have used some of them for your passport photo.’
‘I told you I was there.’
‘But, as we know, you were also at the murder scene. You need to tell us about that.’
Hunt bit the side of his thumb. ‘If I tell you everything, will you drop the burglary charge?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Karlsson. ‘I’m not even sure we’re dropping the murder charge. Just tell us everything and stop messing me about.’
Hunt thought.
‘I needed some cash,’ he said. ‘I owed someone. Look, I’ve told you all this before.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘I ended up on Margaretting Street. I rang on a few doorbells, and when someone answered, I asked if Steve was in and then said I must have the wrong address. I got to that house. There was no answer. I got in.’
‘How?’
‘I picked half a brick off a skip and smashed the window next to the front door. Then I opened it.’
‘Weren’t you surprised it wasn’t double-locked?’ said Karlsson. ‘Or locked on a chain?’
‘If it had been double-locked, I wouldn’t have been able to get in.’
‘But if it isn’t double-locked,’ said Karlsson, ‘that suggests someone is at home.’
‘But I’d already tried the doorbell.’
‘Forget it. Go on, then.’
‘I went in. Took some stuff from the kitchen. Then I went into the other room and … you know.’
‘What?’
‘She was lying there.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hunt. ‘I was in shock.’
‘Why didn’t you call an ambulance?’
Hunt shook his head. ‘The alarm was going off. I just got out.’
‘Except you took the cog.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Although it had been used as the murder weapon and was covered with her blood.’
‘I had a couple of plastic shopping bags from the kitchen.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ said Karlsson.
‘Because I was being a burglar,’ said Hunt. ‘I mean, I’m not a burglar but at that moment I w
as in the middle of taking things. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I got out. Ran away.’
‘And then?’
‘I had this stuff to sell. I told you, I needed cash.’
‘So you sold all the silver?’
‘Right.’
‘Except the cog?’
‘It needed, you know …’
‘The blood cleaning off it?’
‘I felt bad about it,’ said Hunt. ‘Seeing her there. What was I meant to do?’
Karlsson stood up. ‘I don’t know, Billy. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
FOURTEEN
‘Frieda?’
‘Hello, Chloë.’ Frieda walked through to the living room with the phone and eased her sore body into the armchair by the hearth where in the winter she lit a fire every day. Now that it was spring and the weather was balmy, the sky a delicate washed blue, it stood empty. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I need to see you.’
‘Before Friday?’ Friday was the day that Frieda taught her chemistry, which Chloë loathed with a scowling intensity.
‘Now.’
‘Why?’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
It was nearly six o’clock. Frieda thought of the pot of tea, the slice of quiche she’d bought from Number 9 for her supper, the quiet evening in the dimly lit cocoon of her house that she’d planned, sitting in her study with her soft-leaded pencils and her thick-grained paper, the answering machine turned on and no demands on her, then the softness of her pillows and the sealing darkness. Maybe no dreams, just oblivion. She could say no.
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘I’m not at home. I’m in a café near the Roundhouse. You can’t miss it. It’s got this giant upside-down aeroplane hanging outside and it’s an alternative art gallery as well.’
‘Hang on, Chloë –’
‘Thanks, Frieda!’ Chloë interrupted enthusiastically, then ended the call before Frieda could change her mind.
The café was named, for no obvious reason, Joe’s Malt House, and there was indeed a large upside-down plane nose-diving down its outside wall. Frieda pushed open the door and went into a long, dark room, cluttered with tables and mismatched chairs, the walls hung with paintings she could barely make out in the gloom. People were sitting at tables and milling about at the bar that cut across the middle of the room. Music played, throbbing and insistent; the air was thick with the smell of beer, coffee and incense.
