Waiting for Wednesday fk-3

by Nicci French

  She rummaged in her pocket and found the card that the taxi driver had given her. It was probably time to give up, return to London and to her normal life and her work. The impulse brought an immediate feeling of relief. She was just reaching for her phone when a car pulled up at the entrance to the refuge. A man got out. He was tall, slightly stooped, with unkempt hair that was nearly white and a beaked nose. He wore dark trousers and a rumpled jacket, a thin dark tie pulled loose over his shirt. He had a watchful, unsmiling air, and she saw the blare of his pale, hooded eyes. They stared at each other. They were thirty or more yards apart, too far to talk comfortably. Frieda stood back from the fence. She walked a few steps towards him and he walked towards her. The expression on his face didn’t alter: it was as though he was looking not at but through her.

  ‘Do you work here?’ the man asked.

  ‘No. I was trying to find someone, but he’s not here.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You aren’t called Shane, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said the man. ‘I’m not.’ And he walked past Frieda into the yard. Suddenly he stopped and turned. ‘Why do you want him?’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain.’

  The man came back towards her. ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘I’m searching for a girl,’ said Frieda, ‘and I thought that someone called Shane might help me. I was told he was here but they haven’t heard of him.’

  ‘Shane,’ said the man, reflectively. ‘I haven’t heard of him. Still, you may as well come along.’

  Frieda raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone as well.’ He spoke slowly and sombrely.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. You’re a stranger to me, and I don’t know who you’re meeting or why you’re here. I’ve finished and I’m going home.’

  ‘It’ll just take a minute.’ He scrutinized her. ‘My name’s Fearby, by the way. Jim Fearby. I’m a journalist.’

  The sun passed behind a cloud and the landscape in front of them darkened. Frieda had the feeling of being in a dream, where everything made sense but was senseless. ‘I’m Frieda Klein.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She stopped, hearing the words. ‘I’m just someone trying to help someone.’

  ‘Yes. What’s the name of your missing girl?’

  ‘Lila Dawes.’

  ‘Lila Dawes?’ He frowned. ‘No, I haven’t heard of her. But come with me.’

  They walked into the yard where the girl was now sweeping. She was obviously puzzled to see Frieda again.

  ‘I’m looking for a man called Mick Doherty,’ said Fearby.

  ‘He’s over the other side,’ said the girl. ‘Doing the fence.’

  ‘Where?’

  The girl sighed. She led them through the yard to the field and pointed across. They could see signs of someone moving on the far side, right by the main road.

  ‘Is it safe to walk across?’ asked Fearby.

  ‘They don’t bite.’

  A small gate opened into the field. Fearby and Frieda walked across it in silence. Two horses came to them and Fearby glanced at Frieda.

  ‘They think we’ve got food,’ said Frieda.

  ‘What will they do when they find we haven’t?’

  A small ragged horse nuzzled against Frieda. She stroked it between the eyes. How long was it since she had been that close to a horse? Twenty years? Longer? She felt the warmth of its breath on her. Comforting. It smelt sweet, musty, earthy. As they got closer to the far side, they saw a man fastening the fence to a new post, twisting wire with pliers. He looked at them. He was tall, with very long reddish-brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. At first the T-shirt appeared to have long sleeves, but then Frieda saw his arms were covered with a network of tattoos. He had earrings in both ears.

  ‘Are you Mick Doherty?’ asked Fearby.

  The man frowned at them. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re not police. I’m looking for a young girl called Sharon Gibbs. She’s missing. Your name came up as someone who knew her.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘I think you have. You are Mick Doherty?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We just want to find her.’ Frieda heard the ‘we’, but didn’t protest. This odd man spoke wearily but with a tone of authority. ‘However, if we don’t find anything, we’ll have to turn over what we know to the police. I’m sure that’s not a problem, but …’ Fearby paused and waited.

  ‘I’m clean. You’ve got nothing on me.’

  Still Fearby waited.

  ‘I don’t know what you want.’ His eyes slid to Frieda. ‘You’re wasting your time here.’

  ‘Sharon Gibbs.’

  ‘OK. I know her a bit. So what?’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘You say she’s missing?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When did she go missing?’

  ‘Just over three weeks ago.’

  Doherty finished twisting a wire fastening on the fence. ‘I haven’t seen her for months. Maybe more. I’ve been away.’

  ‘You’ve been away.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In prison. Just for a bit. Bloody set up, I was. I went in in January. I got out last week. They let me out and they got me a job. Shovelling fucking dung for fucking donkeys.’

  ‘And have you seen Sharon since getting out?’

  ‘Why would I have? She’s not my girlfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. Just a squirmy little kid.’

  ‘A squirmy little kid who got into the wrong company, Mr Doherty.’ Fearby fastened his unnerving eyes on the man. ‘And whose parents are very anxious about her.’

  ‘That’s not my problem. You’re talking to the wrong person.’

  A thought struck Frieda. ‘Do people call you Shane?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Reddish hair, Irish name.’

  ‘I’m from Chelmsford.’

  ‘But they call you Shane.’

  Doherty gave a faint, sarcastic smile. ‘Sometimes they do. You know. Begorrah.’

  ‘Tell me about Lila Dawes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You knew a girl called Lila Dawes. Also missing.’ She felt Fearby stiffen beside her, as if a current of electricity had passed through him.

  ‘Two missing girls,’ he said softly. ‘And you knew them both.’

  ‘Who says I knew Lila?’

  ‘Lila. Crack addict. Spent time with you, Shane – Mr Doherty – around the time she went missing. Two years ago.’

  ‘You say you’re not the police, so I don’t have to say anything to you. Except …’ He put the wire down. Frieda could see the spittle on his mouth and the broken blood vessels on his skin. He clenched and unclenched his fists so that the tattoos on his arm rippled, and his eyes wandered round her, as if he was trying to see something behind her. ‘Except piss off back to where you came from.’

  ‘Hazel Barton, Roxanne Ingatestone, Daisy Crewe, Philippa Lewis, Maria Horsley, Lila Dawes, Sharon Gibbs.’

  It sounded like a chant, an incantation. Frieda felt the breath go out of her body. She stood absolutely still and quiet. For a moment, it was as if she’d entered a dark tunnel that was leading towards a still darker place.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, old man?’

  ‘Missing girls,’ Fearby said. ‘I’m talking about missing girls.’

  ‘OK. I knew Lila.’ He gave a smirk of recollection. ‘I don’t know where she went.’

  ‘I think you do,’ said Frieda. ‘And if you do, you should tell me, because I’m going to find out.’

  ‘People come and go. She was always more trouble than she was worth.’

  ‘She was just a teenage girl who had the terrible bad luck of meeting you.’

  ‘My heart bleeds. And, yeah, I knew Sh
aron a bit. Not those others.’

  ‘Was this the first time you’d been in prison?’ Fearby asked.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of your questions.’

  ‘Dates, Mr Doherty.’

  Something in his voice made the man’s expression waver for a moment, the sneer replaced by a kind of wariness. ‘Eighteen months ago I was in Maidstone.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘There was a thing with a girl.’

  ‘A thing.’ Fearby repeated the words as if tasting them. ‘What did you get?’

  Doherty just shrugged.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Four months, give or take.’

  Frieda could sense Fearby working something out. His face was ravelled with concentration, deep furrows lining his forehead.

  ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘We’re done.’

  Fearby and Frieda walked back across the field. Two horses followed them; Frieda could hear their hoofs on the dried earth, like a drum.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Fearby said, as they reached his car. She simply nodded. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? Do you live nearby?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘No. How did you get here?’

  ‘I got a taxi from the station.’

  ‘We can find a café.’

  Frieda got in beside him; the seatbelt didn’t work; the car smelt of cigarettes. On the back seat there were several folders. Only when they were seated at a table by the window of a small, dingy café on Denham High Street, with mugs of too-milky tea in front of them untouched, did they exchange another word.

  ‘You begin,’ said Fearby. He put a Dictaphone in front of him, then opened a spiral-bound notebook and took a pen out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making notes. Is that OK?’

  ‘I don’t think so. And turn that off.’

  Fearby looked at her as if he was seeing her properly for the first time. Then a faint smile appeared on his weathered face. He turned off the machine and laid his pen down.

  ‘Tell me why you’re here.’

  So Frieda told her story. At first, she was conscious of its irrationality: just a paranoid instinct in the wake of her own trauma that had led her in a fruitless and inexplicable search for a girl she had never known. She heard herself talking about the tiny vivid anecdote that had sparked off her quest, of the dead-ends, the sad encounters with Lila’s father and with the woman from Josef’s homeland, who had pointed her in the direction of Shane. But bit by bit she realized that Fearby wasn’t responding with incredulity, as if she had gone slightly mad, the way that others had. He nodded in recognition, leaned forward; his eyes seemed to grow brighter and his granite face softer.

  ‘There,’ she said, when she had finished. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds like the same man.’

  ‘You’re going to have to explain.’

  ‘Well. I suppose it all began with George Conley.’

  ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’

  ‘He was found guilty of murdering a girl called Hazel Barton. You’ll probably have heard of him because he was released a few weeks ago, after spending years in the nick for a crime he never committed. Poor sod, he’d almost have been better off staying inside. But that’s a whole other story. Hazel was the first girl, and the only one whose body was found. I believe Conley interrupted the crime, whereas all the others – but I’m getting ahead of myself. And, in fact, Hazel wasn’t really the first – there were others. Vanessa Dale, for a start, and I just didn’t realize that at the time, because Vanessa was the one who got away. I tracked her down, though. I should have done it sooner, when she had a fresher memory, or any memory, but I didn’t know. I didn’t understand for many years what the story was really about, what a long, dark shadow it cast. Back in the day, I was just a hack, with a wife and kids, covering local news. Anyway –’

  ‘Stop,’ said Frieda. Fearby looked up at her, blinking. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

  ‘I’m trying to explain. Listen. It all links up, but you have to follow the connections.’

  ‘But you’re not making any connections.’

  He sat back, rattled his teaspoon in his cooling tea. ‘I’ve lived with it too long, I guess.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that the girls whose names you gave Doherty are all connected, and that Lila Dawes may be too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  Fearby stood up abruptly. ‘I can’t tell you. I need to show you.’

  ‘Show me?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all written down. I’ve got maps and charts and files. Everything’s there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At my house. Will you come and have a look?’

  Frieda paused. ‘All right,’ she said at last.

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where do you live? London?’

  ‘London? No. Birmingham.’

  ‘Birmingham!’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

  Frieda thought of her house waiting for her, of her friends who didn’t know where she was, of her cat whose bowl would be empty. She thought of Ted, Judith and Dora – but she couldn’t resist the strangeness of the encounter, the pull of this strange old man. She would call Sasha, and tell her to hold the fort.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not a problem.’

  FORTY-NINE

  In the warmth of the car, Frieda felt herself sliding towards sleep. She had had several nights of insomnia, worse than usual, tormented in between by scraping, violent dreams, and was ragged and scorched-eyed with tiredness. But she struggled against sleeping in front of Fearby, this shabby bird of prey; she couldn’t let herself be defenceless in front of him. Yet it was no good, she couldn’t stay awake. Even as she let herself go at last, her eyes closing and her body softening, she was thinking how odd it was that she should trust someone she didn’t know at all.

  Fearby turned off the M25 and on to the M1. This was a road he knew; it seemed fitting they should be driving it together. He slid some Irish folk music into the CD player, turned the volume down so it was only just audible, and glanced at her. He couldn’t make her out. She must be in her mid- to late-thirties – from a distance, she looked younger, with her slim upright body and her supple movement, but up close her face was gaunt; there were hollows under her eyes and a strained, almost haunted expression on her pale face. He hadn’t asked her what she did. Frieda Klein: it sounded German, Jewish. He looked at her hands, lying half folded in her lap, and saw they were ringless, with unvarnished nails cut short. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery or makeup. Even in sleep, her face was stern and troubled.

  Nevertheless – and his heart lifted – he had a companion, a fellow-traveller, at least for a while. He was so used to working alone that it had become hard to tell where the outside world blurred with his private obsessions. She would be able to tell him: she had a good, clear gaze, and whatever motives she had for her own particular quest, he had felt her cool shrewdness. He smiled to himself: she didn’t like being ordered around.

  She murmured something and threw up one hand. Her eyes clicked open and, in a moment, she was sitting up straight, pushing her hair off her hot face.

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘I never fall asleep.’

  ‘You must have needed it.’

  Then she sat back once more and gazed out of the windscreen at the cars streaming past in the opposite direction.

  ‘Is this Birmingham?’

  ‘I don’t actually live in the city. I live in a village, or small town, really, a few miles away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why don’t you live in the city?’

  ‘It’s where I lived with my wife and kids. When my wife left, I never got around to moving.’

  ‘Not from choice, then?’

  ‘Probably not. Don’t you like the
countryside?’

  ‘People should think about where they live, make a deliberate choice.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fearby. ‘I’m passive. And you’ve made a choice, I take it.’

  ‘I live in the middle of London.’

  ‘Because you want to?’

  ‘It’s somewhere I can be quiet and hidden. Life can carry on outside.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I feel about my little house. It’s invisible to me. I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a place to go. I’m an ex-journalist. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a psychotherapist.’

  Fearby looked bemused. ‘Now that I wouldn’t have guessed.’

  He didn’t seem to understand just how wretched he had let his house become. There was a gravelled drive almost entirely grown over with ground elder, dandelions and tufts of grass. The windowsills were rotting and the panes were filthy. He might have cleared away the dirt, but a general air of neglect lay over everything. In the kitchen, piles of yellowing newspapers were stacked on the table, which clearly wasn’t used for eating at. When Fearby opened the fridge door to look for milk that wasn’t there, Frieda saw that, apart from beer cans, it was quite empty. It was a house for a man who lived alone and wasn’t expecting company.

  ‘No tea, then,’ he said. ‘How about whisky?’

  ‘I don’t drink in the day.’

  ‘Today is different.’

  He poured them both a couple of fingers into cloudy tumblers and handed one to Frieda.

  ‘To our missing girls,’ he said, chinking his glass against hers.