Waiting for Wednesday fk-3

by Nicci French

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’

  Frieda told him and he nodded in recognition. ‘I’m terrible with names. I do apologize. I remember you very clearly. This is my friend, Gerry. He helps me with my garden, I help him with his and then we have a drink to celebrate. And this woman is a psychiatrist, so be careful what you say.’

  Gerry was a similar age to Dawes, but looked entirely different. He was dressed in checked shorts that reached his knees and a short-sleeved shirt that was also checked, but of a different kind, so that he almost shimmered. His legs and arms were thin, wiry and deeply tanned. He had a small grey moustache that was very slightly uneven.

  ‘You’re neighbours?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Almost,’ said Gerry. ‘We share the same river.’

  ‘Gerry’s a few houses upstream from me,’ said Dawes. ‘He can pollute my stream but I can’t pollute his.’

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ said Gerry.

  ‘We’ve been giving my roses some attention,’ said Dawes. ‘They’ve really started growing and we’re trying to train them. You know, roses round the door. Do you like roses?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Frieda.

  ‘We were about to have some tea,’ said Dawes.

  ‘Were we?’ said Gerry.

  ‘We’re always about to have tea. We’ve either just had it or we’re about to have it, or both. Would you like to join us?’

  ‘Just for a few minutes,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t want to keep you from your work.’

  Dawes stowed his stepladder away – ‘Kids’ll nick anything that moves,’ he said – and they went through the house to the back lawn. Frieda sat on the bench and the two men came out, carrying mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. They laid them out on a small wooden table. Dawes poured the tea and handed a mug to Frieda.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Frieda.

  ‘You’re a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Well, a psychotherapist.’

  ‘Every time you come, I’m doing up the house. I’m digging the garden, I’m making the roses look nice. What you’re thinking is that I have this feeling that if I make my house nice enough my daughter will want to come back to it.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I suppose that’s one of the problems doing your job.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You can never just sit in a garden and have a nice cup of tea and a normal conversation. People think, Well, if I say this, she’ll think that, and if I say that, she’ll think this. It must be difficult for you to stop working.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking anything like that. I really was just drinking the tea and wasn’t thinking about you at all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Dawes. ‘So what were you thinking about?’

  ‘I was thinking about the little river at the bottom of your garden. I was wondering if I could hear it, but I can’t.’

  ‘When there’s been more rain, then you can hear it, even inside the house. Have a biscuit.’

  He pushed the plate across to Frieda, who shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ said Dawes. ‘You look like you need feeding up. What do you think, Gerry?’

  ‘Don’t let him tease you,’ said Gerry. ‘He’s like my old mother. Always wanting everyone to clear their plate.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Frieda thought she could just hear the soft murmur of the stream.

  ‘So what brings you here?’ asked Dawes, eventually. ‘Have you got another day off?’

  ‘I’m not exactly working at the moment. I’m taking some time off.’

  Dawes poured some more tea and milk into her mug. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think you’ve taken time off work because you’re supposed to be resting. And instead you’re chasing around.’

  ‘I’m a bit worried about your daughter,’ said Frieda. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

  The smile faded from Dawes’s face. ‘I’ve been worried about her since she was born. I can remember the first time I saw her: she was lying in a cot next to my wife’s bed in the ward. I looked down at her and she had a little dimple in her chin, like me. Look.’ He touched the end of his chin. ‘And I said to her, or to myself, that I was going to protect her for ever. I was going to make sure that no harm ever came to her. And I failed. I suppose you never can protect a child like that, not once they get older. But I failed as badly as it’s possible to fail.’

  Frieda looked at the two men. Gerry was staring into his tea. Maybe he’d never heard his friend talk so openly and emotionally before.

  ‘The reason I’m here,’ said Frieda, ‘is that I wanted to tell you what I’ve done. I’d hoped I could find your daughter but I haven’t got very far. I’ve heard from someone who knew her slightly.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A girl called Maria. I didn’t even meet her so it’s second-hand. But apparently she mentioned a man called Shane, who was some sort of friend of your daughter. Or, at least, he had some kind of connection with her. I don’t have a second name and I don’t know anything about him. I wondered if the name rang any bells with you.’

  ‘Shane?’ said Dawes. ‘Was he a boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only have the name. He might have been a friend, or some sort of associate. Or it may all be a misunderstanding. This woman was quite vague, I think.’

  Dawes shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But as I told you when we met before, in the last years I didn’t know anything about my daughter’s friends. I think she lived in different worlds. The only names I have are of schoolfriends and she’d lost touch with all of them.’

  ‘Mr Dawes …’

  ‘Please, call me Larry.’

  ‘Larry, I was hoping you could give me the names of her friends. If I talked to them, I might be able to get some information.’

  Dawes glanced at his friend. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re a good person and I’m touched by anyone who cares about my daughter. God knows, most people have already forgotten her. But if you have suspicions, why don’t you go to the police?’

  ‘Because that’s all I’ve got: suspicions, feelings. I know people in the police and that won’t be enough for them.’

  ‘Yet you’ve come all the way down here twice, just because of your feelings.’

  ‘I know,’ said Frieda. ‘It sounds stupid, but I can’t stop myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dawes. ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘I’d just like some numbers.’

  ‘No. I’ve been through this too often. I spent months looking and worrying and getting false hope. If you get any real information, then just tell the police, or come and see me and I’ll do what I can. But I can’t stir it all up again – I just can’t.’

  Frieda put her mug on the table and stood up. ‘I understand. It’s funny. It should be easy to find a missing person nowadays.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Dawes. ‘But if someone really wants to get lost, then they can stay lost.’

  ‘You’re right. Perhaps I was really coming to see you to say sorry.’

  Dawes seemed puzzled. ‘Sorry? What for?’

  ‘Various things. I tried to look for your daughter and I haven’t succeeded. And I blundered into your personal grief. I’ve got a habit of doing that.’

  ‘Maybe that’s your job, Frieda.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re usually supposed to ask me before I do it.’

  Dawes’s expression turned bleak. ‘You’re just realizing what I realized some time ago. You think you can protect people, care for them, but sometimes they just get away from you.’

  Frieda looked at the two men, sitting there like a comfortable old couple. ‘And I interrupted your work as well,’ she said.

  ‘He needs interrupting,’ said Gerry, with a smile. ‘Otherwise he never stops with his gardening and his building and his mending and his painting.�
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  ‘Thank you for the tea. It’s been nice, sitting in the garden with you both.’

  ‘Are you going to the station?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going that way so I’ll walk with you.’

  Together they left the house. Gerry insisted on carrying Frieda’s bag, though she really didn’t want him to. He strode along beside her, in his mismatching, multicoloured checks, with his lopsided moustache, a woman’s leather bag slung incongruously from his shoulder, and for a few minutes they didn’t speak.

  ‘Do you have a garden?’ asked Gerry, eventually.

  ‘Not really. A bit of a yard.’

  ‘Soil’s the thing – getting your hands dirty. The pleasure of eating your own produce. Do you like broad beans?’

  ‘I do,’ said Frieda.

  ‘From the plant to the pan. Nothing like it. Lawrence gardens so he doesn’t have to brood.’

  ‘About his daughter, you mean?’

  ‘He doted on her.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve stirred up painful memories.’

  ‘No. It’s not as if he ever forgets. He’s always waiting for her, and always wondering where he went wrong. But it’s better to be active. Digging and mending, sowing and picking.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I suppose you do. But don’t go bringing hope into his life if it comes to nothing.’

  ‘I don’t mean to do that.’

  ‘Hope’s the thing that will destroy him. Remember that, and be a bit careful.’

  On the train back, Frieda stared out of the window but saw nothing. She felt an ache of incompletion, of failure and, above all, of tiredness.

  She made one last phone call. Then she would have done everything she could, she told herself, to rescue a girl she’d never met and to whom she had no connection, yet whose story had sunk its hooks into her mind.

  ‘Agnes?’ she said, when the woman answered. ‘This is Frieda Klein.’

  ‘You’ve found something?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I just wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Apparently Lila knew a man called Shane. Does that ring a bell?’

  ‘Shane? No. I don’t think so. I met several of her new friends. Mostly at this grotty pub, the Anchor. They used to hang out there. Maybe there was someone called Shane but I don’t remember him. I don’t remember any of their names.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re not going to find her, are you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Poor Lila. I don’t know why you tried so hard. You tried harder than anyone who knew her. As if your life depended on it.’

  Frieda was painfully struck by those last words. For a moment, she was silent. Then she said, ‘Shall we give it one last try? Together?’

  Perhaps Chloë told you that I rang your house and spoke to her. She said you were OK. But she seemed a bit distracted. There were lots of noises going on in the background. You may not know that I also rang Reuben and he said that you were not OK. That everyone’s worried about you but that no one can really get through to you. What the fuck is going on, Frieda? Or shall I just fly over and hammer at your door until at last you have to answer me? Sandy

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  Agnes, dressed in baggy jogging trousers and a grey hoodie with fraying sleeves, was sitting beside Frieda in a cab. She looked tired. It was raining, and through the dark, wet windows they could see only the glimmering lights of cars and the massed shapes of buildings. Frieda thought of how she could have been in her house now, empty after so many weeks of disruption. She could have been lying in her new bath, or playing chess, or sitting in her study, drawing and thinking and looking out into the wet night.

  ‘Get what?’ she asked mildly.

  ‘I was in bed with a novel and a cup of tea, all cosy. And then you ring up out of the blue and all of a sudden I’m on my way to some dingy little pub full of girls off their heads on who-knows-what and men with tattoos and dead eyes, just because Lila used to hang out there. Why?’

  ‘Why are you going?’

  ‘No. I know why I’m going. Lila was my mate. If there’s some chance I can find her, I have to. But why are you going? Why do you even care?’

  Frieda was tired of asking herself the same question. She closed her eyes and pressed her cool fingertips against her hot, aching eyeballs. She could see Ted Lennox’s white face, like a petal on dark water, and Chloë’s fierce, accusing gaze.

  ‘Anyway, here we are,’ said Agnes, with a sigh. ‘I certainly never thought I’d set foot in this place again.’

  Frieda told the cab driver to wait for them, and they both stepped out into the rain. They could hear the beat of music coming from the Anchor, and there was a huddle of smokers around the door. The tips of their cigarettes glowed and a miasma of smoke hung around them.

  ‘Let’s get this over with. You want me to look for anyone I think I might have seen hanging out with Lila.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Because we need to find someone called Shane.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think you’re quite right in the head?’

  They shouldered their way through the smokers and into the pub, if that was what it was. Frieda rarely went to pubs: she hated the smell of beer and the jangling music, the lights of the jukebox. Now she felt dozens of eyes on them as they entered: it didn’t feel like a place where outsiders came casually for a pint. It was a dark room that stretched back out of view, where crowds of people, mostly men, were sitting at tables or standing at the bar and in corners. A few women straggled on the outskirts of the groups; Frieda saw their short skirts and cold white thighs, their shoes with dagger heels and their makeup; she heard their high, frantic laughter. The long dim room was hot and smelt stale. A man stumbled and almost fell in front of them, short and squat with spittle shining on his cheek, the drink he was holding splashing on to the floor.

  ‘Should we buy drinks?’ asked Agnes.

  ‘No.’

  Together they inched their way through the crowd, Agnes peering from face to face, her eyes flickering, a frown of concentration on her face.

  ‘Well?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe him.’

  She hunched her shoulder towards a small table at the end of a room. A woman was sitting on the man’s lap and they were kissing and unabashedly feeling each other, and beside them another man was watching them impassively, as if they were animals in a zoo. He was rail-thin, with peroxide blond hair, pale skin and a line of tiny red spots running like stitches along his forehead.

  ‘Right.’

  Frieda stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked at her. His pupils were enormous, giving him an otherworldly appearance.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ she asked.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Shane.’

  ‘Shane.’ It wasn’t a question, just an echo. ‘Shane who?’

  The pair beside him stopped kissing and disentangled themselves. The woman leaned forward and took a swig from the glass on the table. Her face was empty of expression.

  ‘Shane who knew Lila Dawes.’

  ‘I dunno about any Lila.’

  ‘But you know Shane?’

  ‘I knew a Shane once, but I haven’t seen him. He doesn’t come here any more.’

  ‘He went to prison,’ the woman beside him said, in a flat voice. She was buttoning her blouse – wrongly, Frieda saw. The man whose lap she was sitting on tried to pull her back into him but she pushed him away.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Do you know Lila?’ added Agnes, eagerly, almost imploringly.

  ‘Was she one of the girls who hung around with Shane?’

  ‘Why did Shane go to prison?’

  ‘I think he hit someone,’ the blonde said. ‘With a
bottle.’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘I don’t know. You could ask Stevie. He knows Shane.’

  ‘Where can I find Stevie?’

  ‘Right behind you,’ said a voice. Frieda and Agnes turned to find a thick-set man with a shaved head and an oddly soft, girlish face behind them. ‘What do you want with Shane?’

  ‘Just to find him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He knew my friend,’ said Agnes, whose voice trembled slightly. Frieda put a hand on her arm in reassurance.

  ‘Which friend was that?’

  ‘Lila. Lila Dawes.’

  ‘Lila? Shane had so many friends.’

  ‘Was he a pimp?’ asked Frieda, her voice cool and clear in the over-heated room.

  ‘You should be careful what you call people,’ said Stevie.

  ‘Is he still in prison?’

  ‘No, he only did a couple of months. Good behaviour.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find him now?’

  Stevie smiled, not at Frieda but at the blond man sitting at the table. ‘You know what our Shane’s doing now? He’s working at a horse sanctuary in Essex. He’s feeding ponies whose owners haven’t treated them right. Lucky ponies.’

  ‘Where in Essex?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? Got a horse you don’t want?’

  ‘I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Somewhere by a big road.’

  ‘Which big road?’

  ‘The A12. It’s got a stupid name. Daisy. Or Sunflower.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Sunflower.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Frieda.

  ‘And fuck you, too.’

  Jim Fearby was nearly at the end of his list: Sharon Gibbs was from the south of London, nineteen years old, and last seen approximately one month ago. Her parents hadn’t reported her missing immediately – according to the police report he had in front of him, she was something of a drifter; perhaps one of those who go intentionally missing. Even in the bureaucratic language, Fearby sensed indifference, hopelessness. She looked like another dead end.