by Nicci French
From about half past three she was starkly, bleakly awake, staring at the ceiling. At half past four, she got up. She went to the bathroom and ran herself a bath. She lay there and watched the edges of the window blind grow light. She dried herself with the towel that looked like the least used and dressed herself in yesterday’s dirty clothes. When she emerged from the bathroom, Fearby was there pouring coffee into two mugs.
‘I can’t offer you much of a breakfast,’ he said. ‘I can go out at seven and get some bread and eggs.’
‘Coffee will be fine,’ said Frieda. ‘And then we should go.’
Fearby put a notebook, a folder, a little digital recorder into a shoulder bag and within half an hour they were back on the motorway, heading south. For a long time, they drove in silence. Frieda looked out of the window, then at Fearby. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she said.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘At first, for George Conley.’
‘But you got him out,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s something most journalists wouldn’t achieve in their whole career.’
‘It didn’t feel enough. He only got out on a technicality. When he got out and everyone was cheering and celebrating and the media were there, it felt incomplete. I needed to tell the whole story, to show that Conley was innocent.’
‘Is that what Conley himself wants?’
‘I’ve been to see him. He’s a ruined man. I don’t think he’s capable of putting into words what he wants.’
‘Some people who looked at your house would say that you were a ruined man.’
Frieda thought Fearby might flare up at that or say something defensive but he smiled. ‘Would say? People have said it already. Starting with my wife and colleagues. My ex-colleagues.’
‘Is it worth it?’ said Frieda.
‘I’m not asking for thanks. I just need to know. Don’t you agree? When you saw those photographs of the girls, didn’t you want to know what happened to them?’
‘Did it ever occur to you that there may not be any link between the pictures on your wall, except that they’re just poor, sad girls who went missing?’
Fearby glanced at her. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’
‘I’m not on anybody’s side,’ Frieda said, with a frown, and then she relaxed. ‘Sometimes I think I’m not even on my own side. Our brains are constructed so that we find patterns. That’s why we see animal shapes in clouds. But really they’re just clouds.’
‘Is that why you came all the way up to Birmingham? And why we’re driving all the way back to London?’
‘My job is listening to the patterns people make of their lives. Sometimes they’re damaging patterns, or self-serving, or self-punishing, and sometimes they’re just wrong. Do you ever worry what would happen if you discovered that you were wrong?’
‘Maybe life isn’t that complicated. George Conley was convicted of murdering Hazel Barton. But he didn’t do it. Which means someone else did. So, where in London are we going?’
‘I’ll put the address into your satnav.’
‘You’ll like it,’ said Fearby. ‘It’s got the voice of Marilyn Monroe. Well, someone imitating Marilyn Monroe. Of course, that might not appeal to a woman as much a man. I mean the idea of driving around with Marilyn Monroe. In fact, some women might find it quite annoying.’
Frieda punched in the address, and for the next hour and a half, the car was guided down the M1, round the M25, by a voice that didn’t really sound like Marilyn Monroe’s at all. But he was right about the other bit. She did find it annoying.
Lawrence Dawes was at home. Frieda wondered if he ever wasn’t at home. At first he seemed surprised. ‘I thought you’d given up,’ he said.
‘I’ve got news for you,’ said Frieda. ‘We’ve got news for you.’
Dawes invited the two of them through, and once more Frieda found herself sitting at the table in Dawes’s back garden being served tea.
‘We found Shane,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘He was the man your daughter was associated with.’
‘Associated with? What does that mean?’
‘You knew that your daughter was involved with drugs. He was involved with drugs too. In a more professional way.’ Dawes didn’t react, but didn’t seem like a man expecting good news. ‘Shane was just a nickname. His real name is Mick Doherty.’
‘Mick Doherty. Do you think he’s connected with my daughter’s disappearance?’
‘It’s possible. But I don’t know how. It was when I went to see Doherty, out in Essex, that I met Jim. We were both looking for Doherty, but for different reasons.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was investigating the case of a young woman called Sharon Gibbs,’ Fearby said. ‘She had gone missing and I learned that she had known this man, Doherty. When I met Frieda, I discovered that we both wanted to talk to him about different missing women. It seemed an interesting coincidence.’
Dawes looked thoughtful and pained in a way that Frieda had never seen him before. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘You’d never heard of Shane,’ said Frieda. ‘But now that we know his real name – Mick Doherty – do you recognize it?’
Dawes shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t remember ever hearing that name.’
‘What about Sharon Gibbs?’
‘No, I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything to me. I can’t help you. I wish I could.’ He looked in turn at Frieda and Fearby. ‘I must seem like a bad father to you. You know, I always thought of myself as the sort of man who would move heaven and earth to find his daughter, if anyone had tried to harm her. But it wasn’t like a five-year-old girl going missing. It was more like someone growing up, moving away and wanting to lead their own life. Bit by bit, she disappeared. Some days I think of her all the time and it hurts. It hurts here.’ He pressed his hand to his heart. ‘Others, I just get on with things. Gardening, mending. It stops me thinking, but perhaps I shouldn’t stop thinking because that’s a way of not caring so much.’ He paused. ‘This man, what’s his name?’
‘Doherty,’ said Fearby.
‘You think he’s connected with Lila’s disappearance?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Fearby, then glanced at Frieda.
‘There’s some kind of link,’ said Frieda. ‘But he can’t be responsible for both. Doherty was in prison when Sharon Gibbs disappeared. I can’t make it out. Jim’s been looking at some girls who’ve gone missing and Sharon Gibbs fits with that pattern. But the case of your daughter seems different. Yet she seems connected to them through Doherty. Somehow he’s the hinge to all of this, but I don’t know why.’
‘Why is she different?’ asked Dawes.
Frieda stood up. ‘I’ll take the tea things in and wash up and Jim can tell you what he’s been up to. Maybe something will ring a bell with you. Otherwise, we’ve got through one brick wall only to run up against another.’
Dawes started to protest but Frieda ignored him. She picked up the patterned plastic tray that he had leaned against the leg of the table and put the mugs, the milk jug and the sugar bowl on to it. Then she walked into the house and turned right into the little kitchen. The window above the sink looked out on to the garden and Frieda watched the two men as she did the washing-up. She could see them talking but couldn’t hear anything that was being said. Dawes was probably the sort of man who was more comfortable saying things to another man. They got up from the table and walked down the garden away from the house. She saw Dawes gesturing towards various plants and at the end of the garden where the little river flowed. The Wandle, shallow and clear, t
rickling its way towards the Thames.
There were four other mugs in the sink and some dirty plates and glasses on the Formica worktop. Frieda washed those as well, then rinsed and stacked them on the draining-board. She looked around the kitchen, wondering if men reacted to absence differently from women. The contrast with Fearby’s house was sharp. Here, it was tidy, clean and well organized where Fearby’s house was dirty and neglected. But there was something they had in common. Frieda thought that a woman would perhaps have turned the home into some sort of shrine to the missing person but Fearby and Dawes were the opposite. Their very different spaces were both like highly organized ways of keeping all those terrible thoughts and feelings of loss at bay. Fearby had filled his house with other missing faces. And this house? It seemed like a house where a man lived alone and had always lived alone. Even doing the washing-up, she felt like a female intruder.
She wiped her hands on a tea-towel, neatly hanging on its own hook, then stepped outside to join the men. They turned at the same moment and gave a smile of recognition, as though in the few minutes she had been away, they had bonded.
‘We’ve been comparing notes,’ said Fearby.
‘It feels like we’ve been doing the same sort of godforsaken work,’ said Dawes.
‘But you were a salesman, not a journalist,’ said Frieda.
Dawes smiled. ‘Still too much time on the road.’
‘I suppose you got out just in time?’ said Fearby.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do offices have photocopiers any more?’
‘They certainly do,’ said Dawes.
‘I thought they’d gone paperless.’
‘That’s a myth. They use more than ever. No, Copycon are going strong. At least, my pension still arrives every month.’ He smiled but then seemed to correct himself. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Tell me something, do you think my daughter is alive?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Frieda, softly.
‘It’s the not knowing that’s hard,’ said Dawes.
‘I’m sorry. I keep coming around and stirring up old feelings and it’s not as if I’ve got much to report.’
‘No,’ said Dawes. ‘I’m grateful anyone’s trying to do anything for my daughter. You’re welcome here whenever you want to come.’
After a few more exchanges, Frieda and Fearby were back out on the street.
‘Poor man,’ said Frieda.
‘You came back out just in time, though. Dawes was just explaining in unnecessary detail how he and his neighbour were building a new wall.’
Frieda smiled. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, pointing. And there was Gerry, walking down the road, clasping two enormous bags of compost that almost obscured him. Frieda saw that one bag was leaking, leaving a thick brown trail in his wake.
‘Hello, Gerry.’
He stopped, put the bags down, wiped a grimy hand across his forehead. His moustache was still uneven. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he said. ‘Not to seem unfriendly, but why are you here again?’
‘We came to ask Lawrence a couple of questions.’
‘I hope you had good reason.’
‘I thought so, but –’
‘You mean well, I can see that. But he’s had enough pain. You leave him be now.’ He bent to lift up his bags again and stumbled away, his trail of soil behind him.
‘He’s right,’ said Frieda, soberly.
Fearby unlocked his car. ‘Can I drop you home?’
‘There’s a station round the corner. I can walk and take the train back. It’s easier for both of us.’
‘Tired of me already?’
‘I’m thinking of your trip back. Look, Jim, I’m sorry for dragging you all the way down here. It didn’t amount to much.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve driven across the country for way less than this. And been glad to get it.’ He got into his car. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Aren’t you baffled by the way these girls can just disappear?’
‘Not baffled,’ he said. ‘Tormented.’
He closed the door but opened it again.
‘What?’ asked Frieda.
‘How will I get in touch? I don’t have your phone number, your email, your address.’
They swapped numbers and he nodded to her. ‘We’ll speak soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not over.’
FIFTY
Frieda walked to the station slowly. The day was grey but hot, almost oppressive, and she felt grimy in the clothes she’d worn yesterday. She allowed herself to think of her bath – Josef’s gift to her – waiting in her clean, shaded house, empty at last of all people.
She turned on her mobile and at once messages pinged on to the screen: missed calls, voicemail, texts. Reuben had called six times, Josef even more. Jack had written her a very long text full of abbreviations she couldn’t understand. Sasha had left two texts. Judith Lennox had phoned. There were also several missed calls from Karlsson. When she rang voicemail she heard his voice, grave and anxious, asking her to get in touch as soon as she got his message. She stared down at her phone, almost hearing a clamour of voices insisting she get in touch, scolding her and pleading with her and, worst of all, being in a state of distress about her. She didn’t have the time for any of that now, or the energy or the will. Later.
When she eventually reached her house, letters lay on the doormat and, as she stooped to pick them up, she saw that a couple had been pushed through the letterbox rather than posted.
One was from Reuben; she recognized his writing at once. ‘Where the fuck are you, Frieda?’ he wrote. ‘Ring me NOW.’ He didn’t bother to sign it. The other was from Karlsson, and was more formal: ‘Dear Frieda, I couldn’t get you on your phone so came round on the off-chance. I really would like to see you – as your friend and as someone who is worried about you.’
Frieda grimaced and pushed both notes into her bag. She walked into her house. It felt cool and sheltered, almost like she was walking into a church. It had been so long since she had spent time there alone, gathering her thoughts, sitting in her study-garret, looking out over the lights of London, at the centre of the city but not trapped in its feverish rush, its mess and cruelty. She went from room to room, trying to feel at home again, waiting for a sense of calm to return to her. She felt that she had passed through a storm and her mind was still full of the faces she had dreamed about last night, or lain awake thinking of. All those lost girls.
The flap rattled and the tortoiseshell cat padded across to her and rubbed its body against her leg, purring. She scratched its chin and put some more food into its bowl, though Josef had obviously come in to feed it. She went upstairs, into her gleaming new bathroom, put in the plug and turned on the taps. She saw her reflection briefly in the mirror: hair damp on her forehead, face pale and tense. Sometimes she was a stranger to herself. She turned the taps off and pulled out the plug. She wouldn’t use the bath today. She stepped under the shower instead, washed her hair, scrubbed her body, clipped her nails, but it was no use. A thought hissed in her head. Abruptly, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom. The window was slightly open and the thin curtains flapped in the breeze. She could hear voices outside, and the hum of traffic.
Her mobile buzzed in her pocket and she fished it out, meaning to turn it off at once because she wasn’t ready to deal with the world yet. But it was Karlsson, so she answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Frieda. Thank God. Where are you?’
&nbs
p; ‘At home. I’ve just come in.’
‘You’ve got to get over here now.’
‘Is it the Lennox case?’
‘No.’ His voice was grim. ‘I’ll tell you when you come.’
‘But –’
‘For once in your life, don’t ask questions.’
Karlsson met her outside. He was pacing up and down the pavement, openly smoking a cigarette. Not a good sign.
‘What is it?’
‘I wanted to get to you before bloody Crawford.’
The commissioner? What on earth –’
‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’
‘What?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was in Birmingham. Why?’
‘Do you have witnesses to that?’
‘Yes. But I don’t understand –’
‘What about your friend, Dr McGill?’
‘Reuben? I have no idea. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s going on.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘Hal Bradshaw’s house burned down last night. Someone set it on fire.’
‘What? I don’t know what to say. Was anyone inside?’
‘He was at some conference. His wife and daughter were there, but they got out.’
‘I didn’t know he had a family.’
‘Or you wouldn’t have done it?’ said Karlsson, with a faint smile.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It surprised me as well. I mean that someone would marry him, not that someone would burn his house down.’
